Sitting there with his dirty hat still on, Kolcicki typed with expert ease. The detective's typing efficiency was the last straw for Matt, completed his fright and terror—increased it. And he knew he was trapped, that the confession would stand up in court. Kolcicki was good, he'd make him write a logical confession.
Matt shut his eyes. Shame, reason, everything fled. He was too frightened to care about anything except to be free of Kolcicki's animal eyes and iron fists.
Kolcicki said coldly, his stubby fingers resting on the typewriter keys, “Start talking. And talk right, or I'll really work you over. I ain't even got a sweat up, yet, bastard!”
His voice a whine, a lifeless whisper, Matt Anthony began dictating another mystery, another fiction story.
