Lou remained firm, but he was fading. Each of those four-hundred-and-twenty minutes was taking a toll on his muscles and joints, as well as on his spirit. The only redeeming feature of the grueling interrogation was that the two agents—especially Tim Vaill—also seemed to be wearing down.

Lou’s primary advantage, he decided, was years on the graveyard shift, immersed in the sort of pressure that only an inner-city ER could bring. Throughout the grilling, he kept to his story, more or less improvised on the fly. He was doing research on his best friend’s situation, for which he felt partially responsible. He wanted to validate something he had read, and so reconnected with Drs. Scupman and Banks, whom he had met several weeks before on a tour of their facility at the CDC. Vicki Banks had suggested meeting for a drink a couple of days later at the Blue Ox Tavern, and that was when the men in shades had shown up.

Because of the dire situation with his best friend, Lou had considered an alcoholic drink, but ultimately had ended up with a Diet Coke.

Keep it consistent. Keep it simple.

More than once during the interrogation, Lou had asked to make a phone call. Each time his request was denied. Fortunately, he had been granted a couple of bathroom breaks.

His rights, simply put, were that he had the right to be kept in this room for as long as his captors were not satisfied with his responses.

Whose law was that again?

Once, when Lou’s eyes closed and his head began lolling to one side, Chuck McCall got him a protein bar, a plastic bottle of Gatorade, and a cup of coffee from a vending machine. Other than those brief men’s room breaks, he remained imprisoned in a space not much bigger than the examining rooms at Eisenhower Memorial.

No rights … no freedom … no letup … no way out …

As they were entering the eighth hour, Vaill whispered something to McCall. Moments later, in the first real letup in their grueling routine, the younger agent rose and left the room.

“Let me guess,” Lou said. “You guys are union, and he’s going back to the hotel, right?”

“Not funny. You think we like doing this?”

“You don’t really want me to answer that.”

Lou’s voice was weaker than he had expected. A gulp of his Gatorade made no difference.

“He’s getting something to show you.”

“Do you mind if I stand? My legs are going numb again.”

“Just back away from the chair and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Illegally held prisoner makes daring escape using child’s desk chair as weapon. I like it.”

“A smart aleck to the end.”

Not smart-ass, Lou noted. Significant? He also sensed that Vaill’s demeanor and expression might have softened a bit.