Pier Pressure by Dorothy Francis Page A

me of a Gestapo movie. Then a glance at my watch told me it was only a bit after nine o’clock. Maybe detective teams drew round-the-clock detail—our tax dollars at work.
    What did one wear to the police station on a Sunday night? Now I bit on my tongue to quiet my chattering teeth, and I eased into my workday outfit—a khaki jumpsuit. They looked professional; I looked professional. When I returned to the living room, both detectives rose as if on signal.
    They led the way out the front door, and I followed, pausing only long enough to lock the house again. Nobody spoke until we reached the gray Ford parked in front of the house.
    “You’ll ride in the passenger seat, please,” Detective Curry said. Detective Winslow opened the car door for me, waited until I seated myself, then closed the door and crawled into the back seat behind me. Did they think I might try to escape if they let me ride in the back seat alone?
    Detective Curry drove to Truman Avenue and then headed toward the newly opened police headquarters near the fire station. Tonight artificial light cast a pink glow on the tall pillars at the entrance of the building. I gave only a glance at what appeared to be a small fountain with a brass plaque mounted on a pedestal. Who cared what the words on the plaque said!
    Once we entered a small foyer inside the station, I glanced casually at the white benches against the wall next to the elevator. Tonight the benches were empty, but the lingering smell of stale cigarette smoke snapped me back to the problem at hand. The questioning. What more could they ask me? I had told them all I knew early this morning.
    Detective Curry punched the elevator button and we slowly ascended to the offices above. I followed him, almost unseeing, into a large room, still light and bright with newly applied paint.
    “Have you ever been fingerprinted?” Detective Curry asked.
    “No.” The one word seemed to be a complete answer to me.
    “You’ve never been booked before?”
    “No. Never.”
    “Do you mind if we take your fingerprints now?”
    “No.” The word came more slowly this time. Did I really have the right to protest? What would my protest tell them? I stuck to my reply—no, I didn’t mind. At least not very much. What would it hurt to have a record of my prints at the police station?
    Detective Winslow led me to a counter to wait while she slipped behind it and readied the fingerprinting equipment. White paper form with a blank square for eight fingers, two thumbs. Ink pad. She wrote my name and the date at the top of the form, then one by one, she pressed each of my fingers onto the ink pad and transferred a print onto the white page. After that she allowed me to clean my fingers on a bit of damp tissue.
    “Do you mind if we take your picture?” Detective Curry asked.
    “No.” Was politeness dictating that he avoid calling the picture a mug shot?
    Again, Detective Winslow did the job, positioning me against a plain backdrop, face to camera, then silhouette to camera. I tried not to imagine my photo hanging on a post office wall. After the fingerprinting and the photo sessions I followed Detective Curry into a small office barely large enough for his desk and chair, a four-drawer steel file cabinet, and a straight-backed chair for me. Detective Winslow stood guard at the doorway.
    “Your name, please,” Detective Curry asked.
    I answered that question and several others that he’d already asked that morning. Then he cut to new material.
    “Do you own a gun, Miss Moreno?”
    “Yes, I do.” I knew almost immediately I should have called a lawyer. Police have a way of making you say things you never intended to say, and they frequently lie to suspects. I’ve seen enough episodes of NYPD Blue and Law and Order to know that. I’d say lying is basic to police interrogations. I couldn’t trust these detectives, but I didn’t know what lawyer to call. If I phoned Beau, he’d suggest Hubble & Hubbleand