Fulson led his prisioner to the interrogration room, a conference room really, and sat him down. He unlocked the handcuffs, walked to the other end of the table.

“Want a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

Fulson slid his pack of Marlboro and an ashtray down the table. Zach lit one up and inhaled deeply. Then let out a smoke cover that clouded the room. Fulson turned on a fan.

“For the record, what’s your name?”

“Is this being recorded?”

“No.”

“Zach Taylor. Do you want anything else off my license?”

“No. Look, I’ll ask the questions. That’s my job. it’s your job to answer them.”

“OK, Officer Fulson. It’s your show.”

“Where are you going?”

“Boston.”

“What for?”

“Well…”