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WE WERE TAKING no chances with Kevin Doyle. After the paramedics cleared all of us to leave the scene, we raced directly back to our office with our suspect. Because our squad is housed in an office building, we weren’t supposed to bring handcuffed prisoners up the elevators. Which made things a little tricky because there was no way we were going to take the handcuffs off a guy like Doyle. Not after the way he’d knocked Trilling around.

We simply draped a windbreaker over his wrists. It looked like he was carrying a jacket behind him. He didn’t seem to mind. Doyle seemed to have resigned himself to the situation, but he was smart and hadn’t really said anything. He answered our basic questions with yes or no but hadn’t offered anything else. We got him settled in the conference room, handcuffing his left wrist to a rolling desk chair and queuing up our recording equipment. Trilling added an extra shackle on his ankle, connected to the heavy, wooden chair at the end of the table. We also made sure someone was sitting with him every second.

After I read him his rights and offered him some food, I figured it was time to get down to business. Walter Jackson was furiously working on Doyle’s background. I had no doubt that Walter would find some detail we could use in the interview. We just needed to give him a little time. Doyle hadn’t asked for an attorney yet, so we were free to keep maneuvering and asking ques-tions.

We tried a couple of friendly questions but got nowhere. I decided it was time to start swinging a little harder. I looked directly at Doyle and said, “Looks like you’ve killed a lot of retired cops.”

That seemed to hit home a little bit. Doyle looked down at the faux-oak conference table.

I kept up the pressure. “I would’ve thought someone with your background would understand service and duty. It’s not like you’re some crazy kid thinking you’re fighting fascism by killing cops. You know what it means to sacrifice. You’re a veteran, for Christ’s sake.”

Doyle nodded his head slowly. But still didn’t say anything.

“We found your thumbprint on Roger Dzoriack’s kitchen faucet. That’s how we were able to identify you. Can you explain why you were in a retired NYPD detective’s apartment just before he supposedly committed suicide?”

Doyle shook his head. But the revelation obviously shook him. He seemed a little more agitated. His left index finger started tapping on the chair where he was handcuffed. When he looked up, he was biting his lower lip.

I said, “You can’t explain away your print in his apartment. You’re a smart guy. You gotta realize you’re all done. The only question is, are you prepared to spend the rest of your life in prison, or will you tell us why you killed these cops? Was it personal? Or did someone hire you?” I didn’t bring up the dead drug dealers yet. I still wanted to appeal to his sense of duty.

Again, Doyle didn’t say anything. But I could sense that he was obviously conflicted. I glanced over at Trilling, hoping he had something to add. He looked like he wanted to speak, so I nodded.

Trilling engaged Doyle directly. “I was in the Army too. I ended up in the Rangers. In one of the last combat deployments. What about you? I haven’t had a chance to read your file com-pletely.”

I was surprised to finally hear Doyle’s scratchy and tired voice. “I mustered out at Fort Bragg. I was a Green Beret.”

Trilling said, “No shit. You’ve fallen a long way.”

Doyle hung his head again and mumbled, “I know.”