Slumped in a straight-back chair, right forearm in a cast, left hand cuffed to a metal ring in the scuffed metal table, the suspect flexed the fingers of both hands. He presented a blank mask of a face, though shifting eyes betrayed anxiety. Given Granger’s hippie hair, this was not likely the “Butch” his mother had called out to, though of course it might be a childhood nickname. The suspect had been given painkillers at the ER, but nothing narcotic—FBI orders. That meant Granger’s forearm would be throbbing like Reeder’s shoulder had that day he had taken a bullet for a president he despised. Maybe he’d used excessive force with Granger—or what used to be considered such, before law enforcement had been granted so damn much latitude. He almost felt pity for the perp—almost. This was, after all, an armed robber, a three-time loser circling the drain on the tavern holdups alone—a small-time stickup artist with the face that went with it: eyes crowding a frequently broken nose (boxing background or just bar fights?), his teeth crooked and yellowed from smoking and lack of care.
