"This wise guy can't use sign language or nothing?" Sandon, Cal's partner, said in disgust. The mime was placing his palms in the air progressively higher, which communicated nothing of any obvious value.
Cal sighed, looking down at the high-tech surveillance equipment lying on the table. Equipment the police department could never have afforded. "So, what's the deal then? You some kind of spook, or are you just a pervert?"
He gestured to the pile of tapes. "Look, we got you, son. You've recorded that lady do it with her john every night for the past month. We got all the tapes but the last one. Where'd you put it, huh?"
Jim entered the interrogation room and motioned to Cal. Cal stood with a little effort, and exited. "We got an ID," Jim said in a low voice.
"Name's Francois Dimanche. Left home at age 16 and joined some cult, called the Societie de Parler Jamais, or something like that. Seriously hardcore stuff, boss. If someone like him is in the States, something pretty far out is happening, you know?"
Cal looked back through the one-way glass. Francois was now juggling the tapes, still maintaining his utterly blank expression. Sandon was trying to stop him, with little success.
"Alright, let's try something else," said Cal. "We'll give him the chance to call his lawyer. Then he'll have to talk - or else he'll be screw