said a fuming James Tietz, his arms folded across his chest as he sat ramrod straight in his chair in the police interrogation room. Peter watched through one-way glass in a setup similar to the side-by-side treatment and observation rooms at the Pearce. But this was a different universe, with its uncomfortable-looking chairs, stark walls with chipped paint, and flickering fluorescent lights. Tietz sat across from MacRae and a woman police officer whom MacRae had introduced to Peter as Jean Mulberry. The compact, wiry man was sputtering indignation. “Who told you to pick me up? Harassment, that’s what it is.” His face was pitted with what must have once been a raging case of adolescent acne, and he wore a crisp white dress shirt, cuffs rolled. “I know my rights. Am I under arrest?” “No, but that can be arranged if you’d rather not answer our questions, which I know you’re eager to do because you’re a law-abiding citizen, aren’t you?” MacRae said. Tietz looked back and forth from MacRae to his partner.
