9
Toronto 1961
Birdie and I and Callaway sat in an interview room, waiting. Such happy places, these rooms. I smoked quietly thinking about all the times I’d spent in this room or others like it. Pleasant memories. A curt knock and a constable popped his head in.
“They’re here,” he said.
“Send in the father first,” Callaway replied. “Remember, one at a time.”
“Yes, sir.”
On the table sat a large contraption with reels, levers and tape threaded through. I looked at it. “Modern science,” Callaway explained. “We record the interviews now on these tapes. No more stenos. Much more accurate.”
“Except when the tapes need to be transcribed, Inspector,” Birdie said.
“No one asked you.” Callaway gave Birdie a sour look.
“Nice to see progress, even here,” I said.
Callaway glared at me. Anot
