When MacArthur returned to the police station, Detective Bob Varnes was waiting for him by his desk.
"I visited all twelve jewelers in the area," Varnes began to tell his partner. "I showed all of them the brooch, and it looks like we got lucky. Three of them sold this particular kind, and they gave me their customer records. One of them I had to threaten with a visit from the Immigration and Naturalization service about hiring illegal aliens, and another one caved in when I mentioned a possible on-site audit by the IRS. I wish I actually had that many connections."
MacArthur hoped that this would give him a break in the case. "Look up a purchase about four months ago by someone named John Turner."
After two minutes of scanning over the records, Varnes found what he was looking for. "John Turner, lives here in town over in an apartment on Third Street."
"It's getting late, he'll be home from work by now. Let's go pay him a visit."
The two detectives drove through the heart of the downtown city until they eventually pulled into the driveway of a quaint, three-floor complex of apartment buildings. Upon entering the foyer, they discovered that there was an unbreakable, though clear, security door that could only be opened by entering a code on the keypad or by buzzing one of the residents over an intercom unit that was set up. Without hesistating, MacArthur rang the superintendent of the building, identifying himself as a police detective. Within a minute, a short, stubby man smoking a cigar waddled out of a side door, saw MacArthur holding his badge, and immediately allowed the two men in.
"We're here to talk to John Turner." stated Varnes.
"What, is he in trouble, or something?" asked the landlord.
"If you'll just excuse us..." Varnes and MacArthur simply walked past him to a nearby elevator. The apartment number from the jewelry record was 311. They were soon on the third floor, making their way to the appropriate room. MacArthur knocked on the door. It opened a crack; they could see a pair of eyes staring at them from behind a chain which prevented the door from opening any further.
MacArthur reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a badge. "We're with the police, sir."
Before he even finished that sentence, the man behind the door slammed it shut and began running to a window in his apartment. MacArthur flew down a nearby set of emergency stairs as Varnes began trying to kick in the door. On his fourth try, he met with success as the door swung open, with the chain dangling uselessly. Bob saw the shadow of the fleeing man rapidly approach a window. When he arrived there, he saw the man, who had just been promoted to suspect, almost flying down the stairs of the fire escape. Varnes followed in hot pursuit. He was halfway down to the first landing when the suspect got to street level and began running. Glancing over his shoulder, the man saw Varnes turning to leap off the first landing; he had barely turned back around to continue his escape when he ran into MacArthur, who had gone out the front door to trap him.
"Okay, friend," MacArthur angrily said, slamming the man into the wall of the apartment building. He quickly handcuffed him, and frisked him. The man grunted as MacArthur found a handgun tucked into the back of his jeans.
"Look what we found here, Bob." he said, waving the weapon to his partner.
MacArthur slid the gun in his own pocket, and began reading the suspect his Miranda Rights. "I'm taking you in. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present with you during questioning.. If you can not afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court. Do you understand?"
Now that the man was mirandized, anything he told them was admissible in court. The detectives rode back to the police station with their suspect in the back seat.
Night had fallen by the time the detectives arrived back at the police station with their newest arrest, John Turner. Because of the late hour, the county jail would not accept him. He'd have to wait until the morning, when a public defender would be assigned to him and a bail hearing would be immediately held. It would be unconstitutional for the detectives to hold him any longer without taking those steps.
Upon entering the police station, Turner was formally booked. Arrest records were filled out, and he was fingerprinted three times: once for local police records, once for the state police records, and once for F.B.I. records. His personal information was entered into a crime computer that police officers in the future would be able to access, and he was photographed from the front, side, and at an angle.
Turner was forced to spend the evening in one of the four small jail cells at the police station. Metal bars surrounded him. The only things in his cell were a small metal toilet facing the back wall, and a thin bed protruding from the wall with two blankets folded neatly at the far end, and a pillow.
"We'll have a guard at the end of the hallway to make sure you don't try anything rash. If you're a really good boy, you get an egg sandwich and black coffee for breakfast tomorrow morning." The detective pushed him in the cell and slammed the door. The sound of metal sliding on metal was eerie; it climaxed with the door locking into place. Noise resounded as the door was secured. Turner was alone in the dark prison cell, waiting for morning.
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The graphical bars, as well as the brooch picture, are taken with permission from the CD-ROM accompanying Que Corporation's book Using HTML by Tom Savola.
The picture of the city, as well as the music, is taken with permission from the Americana CD-ROM.
The picture of the jail cell was taken by Detective Sergeant Stephen Wilde for the purposes of this project.