I know seven languages, Bennington thought, with maybe knowing some of them only well enough to swear in, but right now I don't know the words to answer this man.
Bennington looked at the face reflected in the mirror in Chief Scott's private bathroom. The face was gray and lined with fatigue, needed a shave and the bristle of the beard was more white than brown.
His throat was raw from too much smoking, from answering too many questions, and a long, long day was still ahead.
Judkins was in jail, and glad to be in a solitary cell because he was handwriting a full confession. The knowledge of what Clarens had done during his few hours of freedom had scared the hypno-tech into almost incoherent co-operation.
The chief of Harrisburg's police was showing less signs of wear than anyone else. Scott was exulting in his position as supervisor of the city search for Giles, glorying in his position as relayer of the details of the state search for the errant politician.
Bennington opened the door into Scott's office, meditating gratefully on one blessing, that the six governors who had agreed on his appointment had also finally agreed to sleep.
Of course they had all assured him of complete concurrence with his suggested reforms for Duncannon Prison ... but what else could they have done?
Mosby was just outside the bathroom door, standing big enough to insure a half-circle of privacy between the general and the reporters.
"Had a call from Washington, Jim. That Rooney tax mess is getting top priority."