When the man didn't comply, Nick reached out with his left hand and grabbed the back of the man's neck, reached down with his right, grasped his pants legs, shoved forward with his left hand and pulled with his right. He stood quickly and kicked the man's legs apart, grabbed his arms and hands and slammed them against the wall over his head. It all happened quicker than two finger snaps.
He frisked the guy quickly and efficiently: First the pistol; a .357 short-barrel Colt in a shoulder rig; then his wallet and a small leather case similar to Swinburne's.
Very interesting.
The man started to turn and Nick cuffed him sharply on the back of the head.
"Stand still, please." Akoichi was very polite, probably would continue to be right up until he removed the man's head from his shoulders.
Swinburne looked at his I.D. "FBI; right, thought so."
Swinburne carried a long-duration recorder with a lapel mike for scene-of-the-crime.
"Make note for the record. Detained at the scene one Morris J. Petulski, FBI I.D. number 414-618, California license number E045139," Swinburne read all the personal data aloud.
"Found at crime scene going through file cabinet drawers in one of the offices. The victim is still on the premises. As will be noted in this recording and per witnesses, subject would not identify himself when asked repeatedly. Sergeant Akoichi detained subject for questioning."
"Danny, take pictures of everything in his wallet; take a picture of him, too. These assholes have a way of disappearing. Nick, take a thorough written inventory. Call FBI main office in Washington, D.C. See if they know this man, he might be an impostor. Be sure to take the names of everyone you talk to."
"Wait," he started to turn away from the wall, "umpphh," he grunted as Nick shoved him back against the wall.
"Will you please listen, some very important people sent me here. You're in a lot of trouble, Swinburne."
"That's the third time you've failed to address me properly. Don't they teach you boys any interdepartmental etiquette back there in Feeble-land? Make note the alleged agent threatened an officer of the law with influence of superiors during the performance of his duties. Make note also this is interference in the investigation of a capital crime, to wit, murder most foul."
"Will you please listen, Lieutenant Swinburne, this is all wrong." He was getting desperate.
"All right, Mister Petulski, turn around, keep still and make sure I can see your hands."
When he had faced the Lieutenant, Swinburne went on. "Now, Mister Petulski, you tell me exactly what you're doing here; who sent you, what brief you were given, why you were rifling those cabinets, the works, sport. You give me any bullshit story and I'm going to cuff you and send you to the station. Are we communicating yet, Mister Petulski?"
"Yeah, yeah. Christ, whatever happened to cooperation? We're on the same side, you know." He saw something in Swinburne's eyes and shut up quick.
"Don't give me any of that 'we're on the same side' bullshit; you assholes from foolish-but-ignorant aren't on anyone's side but your own. Talk to me, dipshit, before I have the Sergeant squeeze that pimple you call a head!" Swinburne snarled.
"Okay, okay, take it easy. I was told by the Head of the Los Angeles Office to get on out here on the double..."
What's this all about? Is this an FBI thing; if so, how come they don't have eight or ten of their people here, grabbing all the glory and screwing things up?
"The name of your Chief, please?" Swinburne asked.
"Special Agent David McCoy: Anyway, he said he got word from Washington that we should stay apprised of everything going on here," the FBI agent said.
"Did he say who called from Washington?" Swinburne asked.
"Yeah, it was someone named, Williamson."
"You're doing fine. Now tell me why you were going through the files here. Were you ordered to do that?" Swinburne asked.
He hesitated just a second too long. "No, nothing like that, just curious, you know, standing around doing nothing. Idle hands, devil's workshop..." Petulski laughed nervously.
"Uh huh, sure, sport. Well, you go outside to the reception area. There's a State Police officer there. You report to him. We'll have another little chat later. If there's anything your superiors want to know, tell them to go through channels. I don't like free-lancers sticking their grubby fingers in my operations."
The sergeant came back. "The Bureau identifies him as one of theirs, assigned as an agent to the L.A. Office. Something really smells here, sir."
"Too right! It'll have to wait, though. Moran, are you ready?" Swinburne asked.
"Yes, sir. I sure like working with you, Ed. You know how to stir the pot," Moran said.
"Okay, show me this incredible hulk," Swinburne told him.
They went through another set of metal-capped swinging doors into a larger room like a hospital ward. There were about a dozen hospital beds there, none of them occupied. Toward the end of the room, one of the men from forensics was dusting a doorway, muttering. Something about all murderers being assholes, and why couldn't they do their business during the day like normal people.
Standing to one side was a huge man with shoulders like a rhino and the marks of a permanent scowl on his face.
"That's him, Lieutenant," Moran said.
Swinburne walked over to him and stuck his I.D. in front of his eyes.
"Read it if you can."
"Big deal, you kissed a lot of ass, made lieutenant." He had a high nasal voice.
"Make note of hostility on first contact." Swinburne spoke into the lapel mike so the man would know what he was doing.
"State your name, please?"
"Barber, Joseph Barber," he sneered.
What is it today? Swinburne thought, everybody hates being up at this hour? I can understand that; so do I, for Christ's sake. I'm not making a big deal. Lighten up world, the days hardly begun.
"Note, possible obstruction of justice. Mr. Barber, Mr. Moran is the authorized police photographer. On my orders he is to take pictures of the crime scene and all surrounding areas. Why have you prevented him from doing that?"
"This is a hospital, a psyche...ateric hospital: Lots of nuts wandering around here. Wouldn't want him to get hurt, would I?" Barber said.
If this guy was worried about Moran or anyone else, Swinburne didn't see it.
Great, yesterday I couldn't spell Psychiatrist. Today I are one.
"If that were true it would be very commendable, Mr. Barber. However, something tells me letting these so-called nuts walk around isn't a problem, unless you count yourself among them. You escort Mr. Moran wherever he wants to go. You be sure to assist him to get any and all pictures he wants. This is a homicide, as in murder. Got it? You wouldn't want to impede us
