Matt gasped, “I... have... a bad... heart... you're... killing me.”
Kolcicki said his favorite four letter word again, almost spit it out. Through a jumble of thoughts flashing in his mind Matt thought: This dirty sonofabitch is treating me like a punk. If I can only get to my feet, clout him with a good right... but then he'll take out his blackjack and beat me to death. Lord, is this the end? Am I such a coward? Is this real? Is this stupid cop too smart for me? There mast be a way out of...
“I'm waiting, why did you kill her?”
“I demand the—” Matt saw Kolcicki draw back his pudgy fist again and Matt cried out, “I'll tell you! I'll tell you exactly what happened! I lied to the police. But it was an accident! I never touched her. We were in the pines and she wanted to know what I had in a box I was carrying. She tripped and fell against a rock. I'll show you the rock. I realized after what I'd said... about killing her... how things would look. I tried to make it look more like an accident. I took the body out into the bay in the boat. I'll show you the skin-diving outfit I used. I'll show you everything. That's the truth! I swear it!”
Kolcicki said the four letter word again and it hit Matt like a whip lash. The detective punched Matt squarely over the heart Matt went tumbling over and over into a welcome darkness. He thought he had escaped and it was a maddening shock to come to seconds later, find himself face down on his desk, hearing the dull voice saying, “Keep talking but give me the truth. You clever bastards with your fancy words. So you was skin-diving? What did you do, swim out underwater and take her by surprise?”
Mart's head was spinning so he suddenly wished his pounding heart would explode, take him out of this nightmare. But his heart began to beat normally, although the rest of his stomach and side were afire with pain. “I told you, I didn't—”
“Don't give me this accident jive unless you want another taste of my fist.”
“But it was a... a...”
Kolcicki punched him on the shoulder this time. Matt mumbled, “I really have a bad heart and—”
“Bastard, who you think you're stalling? Now the truth!”
Matt sat up. “Damn you, I am telling you the truth! It all happened the way I said. You see Fran had the fishing tackle in her hands, couldn't break her fall, so... her head struck first and—”
As the fist started for him Matt drew back hard against his chair and screamed—although hardly any sound came from his lips. There was a low thud of Kolcicki's fist smacking Mart's stomach. Matt collapsed in his chair, gasping for breath. He was sure of only one thing: he couldn't take another blow.
As Kolcicki stood up, Matt heard himself cry in a distant voice, “Don't! Don't hit me! All right, all right! Please don't hit me again. I'll say what you—you want. Tell me what to say, but don't hit me.” His words died in a whisper.
Kolcicki pulled Matt erect in the chair, grunted, “I ain't even started on your kidneys yet. I'll have you pissing blood for weeks.”
“Tell me what to say?”
“You know what to say. Just make it good. Good. You understand, bastard? None of your fancy crap. You ready?”
Hands pressed to his aching body, Matt nodded dumbly.
The detective glanced about, saw the typewriter on its little metal table. He carried it over to his chair, took a piece of clean paper from Matt's desk, inserted it in the machine. He said, “Now you start talking. If you talk right, you'll sign this. If you don't, I'll bust every rib in your goddam body. Now talk—and not too damn fast, either.”
Kolcicki began typing. Even in his daze, the opening sentence of a confession suddenly appeared very clearly in Matt's mind: I, Matt Anthony, voluntarily do....
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.