The English Professor spun a web so convincing the policemen couldn’t help but pull out their handcuffs.

“Book him boys” Captain Crestwood commanded, and Clyde was led with hands behind his back to the police station, where he was set up in a small interview room.

Clyde held his baseball cap between his knees, counting to five between each stage of breathing. Twinges of gray filled his periphery.

"As I've said, officer, the similarity between the novella and the real events is simple. The novella is based on the murder of Courtney and Wilson Danvers, dramatized from the publicized account. Frankly, it is astonishing that my recounting of it should feel so genuine that I should be called in for questioning. It's almost a compliment, really." A faint smile danced on Clyde's lips, and the officer grimaced.

Yet the policeman continued again, baring down hard as he must on any suspect. Picking apart every aspect of the story, every little bit and piece, every nook and cranny, every apple and every orange, with oddly specific and seemingly meaningless questions.

The old lout clearly believed Clyde, thus Clyde relaxed, and allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair, largely droning out the bleating police captain, who was continuing to scrutinize Clyde's books.

Clyde gave occasional curt utterances, having already made his said, leaving the old, stupid oaf to do his routine police work. After a time he closed his eyes, leaving the old brute to ask his routine questions, to speculate and speak sentences that end with an upward inflection as if they were a question, though no question was spoken.

Police Captain Ashton Crestwood closely monitored the snakelike individual before him, buying none of his casual charm. The copy of Clyde Donavan's most popular book, Morning to Dawn, autographed by Clyde in front of Officer Wood, lay in the trash bin, its personalized message unread.

Captain Crestwood inwardly laughed at Clyde's gusto, the childlike way he leaned back in the seat and lazily closed his eyes. He had already decided the man must be guilty, long before he had met him personally. The evidence was damning, frankly, yet even more important matters were taking precedence.

An easy and quick win was needed.

The town was just coming off the tail end of a vicious streak of robberies, a few of which unfortunately turned poorly, resulting in fatalities and injuries. The police were of no help.

In one instance, an officer responding to a robbery in a particularly nasty part of town shamed the two folks for being so stupid to respond to an inquiry to buy their phone over craigslist. The phone was stolen, and the cop took the opportunity to shame the buyer for their stupidity.

The man gave hard glances around the neighborhood, at the little boys and girls playing on the old playground, at the groups of children with no toys to play with yet the strongest sense of neighborhood bond.

"Do you see where you are?"

The kids didn't know how to respond, and one of them tried to think of the city's name. The cop interrupted.

"No, look around you. Look at this place, does this look like where you live?" The cop gave them a hard stare.

The two teenage kids, with their recently lost phones, took in the scene of the rundown, crappy apartments. One of them noticed a little black boy, maybe six years old, soaking in every word the big police officer said, his face screwed up in sadness.

So after many incidents much like that one, with as much usefulness to the community as that one, the good Police Captain Ashton Crestwood wanted an easy dub.

Thus, Clyde was slapped behind bars, pending further evidence, as his house was ripped bar by bar, shred by shred, while the cops sprinkle cocaine, limbs, blood, whatever evidence is required.

It was not long before Clyde saw that blessed chair, and then his lord. Chief Crestwood received a moderate bonus.