For just a moment, it seemed like the guy had lost interest. Bill trudged a half-self ahead of him back down the alley, silently enduring the odd unnecessary shove.
Then there were rough hands on him; pain radiated from his bruised back as it slammed into rough brick, and his head snapped back with a--
--clash of steel on steel the tang of metal in the air too many too many too many--
--sudden crack that sent the world spinning. When the spots in his vision cleared, the cop was in his face, hand gripping his jaw, forcing eye contact.
There was a vicious intensity to the man's stare, and, forced to meet it, Bill was struck with an unaccountable jolt of familiarity. The thrumming at the base of his skull intensified.
Could just demand a lawyer. Should probably demand a lawyer. Would it make any difference? Crazy eyes hadn't even bothered to Miranda him up, and they'd find his name anyway soon as they ran his prints.
"Bill," he rasped awkwardly around the iron grip on his face. "Bill Stewart."