part 1 of 0
The door to the interrogation room opened quickly and a large man in his early forties entered. He wore a cheap black suit and a white dress shirt. His belt had a gun holster affixed to it, but no firearm was present. His clean-shaven face was pudgy yet stern, but his eyes betrayed a weariness the man tried hard to hide behind the veneer of his work persona. He closed the door behind him and took the seat opposite the detainee. Opening the manila folder he had brought with him, the man looked over his suspect as he pretended to peruse files he had read so many times that they were committed to his memory. From this side of the glass, the suspect looked even more haggard than he had when Detective Strickland had been watching him from the observation room.
The young man was fairly scrawny and wore a grimy hoodie and jeans. His feet were bare. His curly hair was matted to his head and his hands looked somewhat raw from his attempts to slip the handcuffs he had been wearing when they brought him in from the harbor. The man had kept his head against the table behind his crossed arms since he was brought into the room and the detective’s entrance had effected no change in the suspect’s posture.
“William Thompson,” Detective Strickland read from a print out. “Do you want something to drink or eat? I understand that you were mumbling something about being hungry in the squad car. We can get you a sandwich or something, if you want.”
Thompson didn’t move. He didn’t even appear to be aware that he was being spoken to.
“Ok...I understand you’ve been read your rights, correct? Do you want to tell me what happened on the Bella Marie?”
Thompson raised his head to peer over his arms at the detective, “Do you really want to know?”
The look in the suspect’s bright blue eyes left a vaguely disturbed feeling in Detective Strickland’s guts. He appeared to be simultaneously afraid and eager. Strickland was fairly certain the fear was not of the police, or the inevitable trial. He wasn’t actually sure what Thompson was afraid of, and that uncertainty had begun gnawing in that way that told Strickland when what he was doing was a bad idea. Usually, he’d listen to those instincts, but this was an interrogation room in the middle of the Metropolitan police station. There were several hundred cops nearby and three or four just on the other side of the glass. It would be difficult for a police officer to be more safe with a suspect than he was, in this room, with this suspect.
Strickland cleared his throat, lest his voice betry his concern, and replied “Four people missing, blood all over the boat, you found asleep in the closet of the master berth. Of course I want to know what happened.”
Thompson slowly sat upright in his chair and stared at the detective. His hands flattened against the table, the fingers of his right hand covering the fingers of his left. With the broken and jagged ends of the fingernails on his right hand, he absent-mindedly scratched the back of his left hand, leaving small welts where the nails abraded the skin.
“Ok,” he said quietly. He then turned his head to look at the glass wall, “but you’ll regret it.”
-----
this has been on my computer for over a month. i know what happened. maybe some day detective strickland will too.
The young man was fairly scrawny and wore a grimy hoodie and jeans. His feet were bare. His curly hair was matted to his head and his hands looked somewhat raw from his attempts to slip the handcuffs he had been wearing when they brought him in from the harbor. The man had kept his head against the table behind his crossed arms since he was brought into the room and the detective’s entrance had effected no change in the suspect’s posture.
“William Thompson,” Detective Strickland read from a print out. “Do you want something to drink or eat? I understand that you were mumbling something about being hungry in the squad car. We can get you a sandwich or something, if you want.”
Thompson didn’t move. He didn’t even appear to be aware that he was being spoken to.
“Ok...I understand you’ve been read your rights, correct? Do you want to tell me what happened on the Bella Marie?”
Thompson raised his head to peer over his arms at the detective, “Do you really want to know?”
The look in the suspect’s bright blue eyes left a vaguely disturbed feeling in Detective Strickland’s guts. He appeared to be simultaneously afraid and eager. Strickland was fairly certain the fear was not of the police, or the inevitable trial. He wasn’t actually sure what Thompson was afraid of, and that uncertainty had begun gnawing in that way that told Strickland when what he was doing was a bad idea. Usually, he’d listen to those instincts, but this was an interrogation room in the middle of the Metropolitan police station. There were several hundred cops nearby and three or four just on the other side of the glass. It would be difficult for a police officer to be more safe with a suspect than he was, in this room, with this suspect.
Strickland cleared his throat, lest his voice betry his concern, and replied “Four people missing, blood all over the boat, you found asleep in the closet of the master berth. Of course I want to know what happened.”
Thompson slowly sat upright in his chair and stared at the detective. His hands flattened against the table, the fingers of his right hand covering the fingers of his left. With the broken and jagged ends of the fingernails on his right hand, he absent-mindedly scratched the back of his left hand, leaving small welts where the nails abraded the skin.
“Ok,” he said quietly. He then turned his head to look at the glass wall, “but you’ll regret it.”
-----
this has been on my computer for over a month. i know what happened. maybe some day detective strickland will too.