“You mean the case they keep talkin’ about on the news? The one with the priest who’s about to get executed? I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that.”

Coletti lifted the bag so the suspect could see the note. “So, you’re saying you didn’t write this?”

The man ignored him.

“You don’t know anything about the contents of the note you dropped off at the Old City Art Gallery this afternoon? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Again, the man refused to respond.

In a flash, Coletti was at the side of the gurney, grabbing the suspect’s face with one hand and forcing the man to look at him. “There’s a reason nobody likes me,” he whispered, as an odd sort of madness played in his eyes.

The two cops in the cubicle moved to subdue him, but Coletti raised his other hand, signaling for them to stop.

“Why did you write the note?” he said, peeling his lips back from his teeth as his hand slid from the suspect’s face to his throat.

The man looked up at him defiantly, but as his windpipe began to close, defiance was replaced by fear.

“I’ve got two cops outside who’ll keep the doctors out, and two cops in here who’ll help me finish the job,” Coletti said, his tone low and threatening. “It’s not about wanting to answer me. It’s about wanting to live.”

Coletti held on for a few minutes longer, gripping the suspect’s throat with all the rage that had been building up since the morning. He looked into the man’s face and saw echoes of his own nightmare. He looked into that face and saw reflections of the past. He looked, and before the anger could consume his sensibilities, he released his hold.

When Coletti let go, the suspect took a ragged, desperate breath. With his chest heaving and his face shaking, he reached up unsteadily to grab at his throat and convince himself that he was still alive.

Coletti moved in until his face was just inches from the suspect’s. “Why did you write this confession!” he shouted angrily.

“I…didn’t…write it,” the suspect said, gasping for air between each word.

“Then who did?”

The suspect took another deep breath and closed his eyes against the throbbing pain that moved between his head and his windpipe. Coletti took out his note pad and waited.

“I met him under the overpass down by Sixth Street last night,” the suspect said slowly. “Buncha guys sleep down there near the expressway ramp.”

“What did he look like?” Coletti said, his pen poised above his note pad.

“He came at night, when everybody was asleep. It was kinda hard to see, but he was skinny and white with a real rough voice.”

“So he said something to you?”