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Interrogation Room

  By Greg Wilburn

  Copyright 2014 Greg Wilburn

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  INTERROGATION ROOM

  One day after the O’ Talley’s murder incident on the corner of 16th Street and Kalon Avenue.

  (I see the police station. I’m led in from the main offices where the officers on duty give me glances of disgust, like they’ve already decided I’m a murderer without even gettin’ to know me. I meet their spite with kind smiles, hoping to change their premeditated image of what my arrestors have told them I am. It doesn’t work. They grimace, placing their guns on their holsters and waitin’ for me to move, to give them an excuse to blast me up with more holes than swiss cheese.

  I shrug my shoulders and look forward confidently, assuring myself and the bossy officers pushin’ me through the main walkway of my innocence. They don’t have anythin’ on me, except for a few unreliable witnesses across the street from the bar after everythin’ happened. They’ll have a hell of a hard time pinnin’ the massacre on me.

  The shufflin’ papers and groanin’ detainees and clop-clop of the uniform shoes fade as we round the first corner. The big officer with the faggoty moustache—Bailey. He’ll probably be called somethin’ like that by the other one—shoves me against the wall and drives his gun deep into my kidneys. “I should do it right now, scumbag. We’ll get you for killin’ my brothers. Why wait for trial? This is all the justice we need, right here” he says, takin’ the safety off.

  I smile as my teeth grate themselves against the cement wall. It tastes like cold more than anythin’, and I chuckle as I talk back. “You better be damn well sure it was me that did it. You wouldn’t want to go killin’ off any innocent parties now. They’ll take away your shiny little badge and your cute little toy gun if you do. If you want, I can even show you how to use that thing for real sometime. You lap dogs aren’t really good with anythin’ except your fluffy little tails you keep tucked between your legs when the captain comes around. Like little bitches” I say.

  He pushes the gun a little harder in, and I can tell I’ve worked him up enough to where he’ll be distracted in the interview. The other officer—I’ll find out his name later when he tries to play the good cop—reaches out and grabs Bailey’s shoulder and says, “Stop, Bailey. If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right. If he’s the guy or not, I dunno. But if we’re gonna get him, we gotta do it right. That’s how they would’ve wanted it.” Bailey sighs heavily, holsters his 9mm, and gives me another shove into the wall. I take in a mouthful of chalky cement and grunt.

  Bailey pulls me be the collar and leads me around a second corner lined with interrogation rooms. The silence of that particular hallway dulls the outside world and muffles it underneath a fuming layer of their “justice.” The officers toss me into room two or three, as there’s likely another culprit gettin’ beaten to a pulp in room one. More “justice.”

  The room is small, blank, and dull, and looks a lot like the cells at the state penitentiary. A few memories flash before me: Danny being stabbed to death, a riot or two, a couple of threats on my life, and a couple deals to sneak in some supplies. These memories that shaped me toughen me up, givin’ me more courage to stay aloof and pluck the cops along with a nice guitar solo, like all the nights with Jenna in the Midnight Club.

  The six walls of the cement box have a bolted down metal table that reflects the lights from the ceilin’, two metal chairs that have seen too many things—they’d make great witnesses on the stand—and one of those two-sided windows so the detectives and captain can watch them break me and confess to everythin.’ Not likely. Bailey and the other grin to each other, excited to snap my will and find out that I’m the guy who did it. I’m smilin’ too, mostly because I sure have some stories to tell.

  Bailey shoves me into the middle of the room and tells me to sit. I glide over to the nearest chair and bend to sit. Bailey kicks the chair out from underneath me and I fall on my ass. He kicks me in the stomach hard and gives a bitchy little punch that swipes across my face as he says, “Not there. That’s my chair. You sit over there.” I pick myself up, give myself a small chuckle, and move to the other side of the table and sit in the chair.

  The other cop stands tall, his back against the glass. He pulls out a cigarette and an old lighter—probably from his dead father or grandfather or somethin.’ They were murdered, and that’s why he became a cop. It’s always that way with the smokers—and takes long puffs of it. Bailey sits across from me and tries to give me a death stare. He needs more practice. Or a gunshot wound. Then he’d figure out how to do it right.

  He slides his fat tongue across his teeth under his hairy lips, just asking for me to make a move or give him a reason to smash my head in. It’s silent for a minute or so, then a knock on the door breaks the silence. The other officer opens the door and a slim hand hands him a case file. It looks hefty, like they’ve got a lot on me, but there’s nothin’ for them to go on. They put a bunch of papers and forms in the case to make me think I’m in trouble, but it’s a joke. Nice try, fellas.

  The officer tosses the file on the desk and then goes back to smokin’ against the glass. Bailey pulls out some papers slowly, tryin’ to make a big deal out of the thing. He looks up at me, hopin’ I crack. I smile widely as I meet his gaze, and he looks back down at the papers. After shufflin’ some more useless forms around, he leans back heavily and lets out a deep sigh. I don’t wait for him to start the party. I make the first move. They hate it when you do that.)

  Me: (I give a smirk to piss off Bailey) “You done playin’ around with your dick, officer? You’ve got the wrong guy. And by lookin’ at how little you actually have in that cute little case file of yours, you probably couldn’t convict me even if you tried for six months. So, why don’t I just get the hell outta her—“

  Bailey: (He gives me a stern look) “Shuddup, asshole. We already know you did it. The guilt’s written all over your face. If you actually looked in this case file, you’d see we have over four witnesses that saw the same thing, hairs and fibers from inside the bar, and your DNA was found on one of the murder weapons. You’re lucky that the security cameras were under maintenance that day, because you’re lookin’ pretty solid for this.”

  Me: (I let out an obnoxious laugh. The other officer narrows his eyes and furrows his brow. Bailey’s eyes widen with subtle surprise) “Yeah, right. You’ve got sooo much evidence that I’m the culprit, and yet you guys put me in the interrogation room. Seems to me that you don’t have very much at all, or else I’d already be in the hold. Nice try, bitch.”

  (The other officer shifts his position and puts his weight on his right leg and rests the other on the wall. He glances over at Bailey for a second, takes a long drag, and looks at me again.)

  Bailey: (He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table and rests his head on his fists) “Listen, punk. The only reason I have you in here is because of officer Dirk—(something dignified of that nature. Worst case, his name is Ben)—over here. With all this evidence stacked against you, I was gonna take you straight to a holding cell. But Dirk over here wants to give you a chance. That’s why you’re here. We’re givin’ you a chance to come clean. Maybe you can cut a deal and save yourself some time.”

  Me: (I stop laughin’ and let my hands rest on the table for a moment. I use my hands as I speak to make it seem like I’m takin’ what he says seriously.) “Well, thank you
for the chance to give a confession……. (His eyes focus intently and Dirk perks up in surprise) but you see, I can’t help you. The only time to give a confession is when you’ve done somethin’ wrong. And I haven’t done anythin.’ Sorry, but I got nothin’ to give you guys. And if I had somethin’ to hide, I’dve lawyered up already. I usually would, but seeing as I’m not guilty, I don’t need to. You’re gonna have to look for someone else to put away this time.”

  (Dirk lets his shoulders drop a bit; he knows I’m right. Bailey shifts uncomfortably in his chair for a quick second, then he gets ready to shift to second gear. He stands up abruptly looks at me, then Dirk, nods at him, and then heads for the door. Bailey smiles as he exits the room.

  Dirk tosses the butt of his cigarette on the ground and smashes it with his foot. He lets out another deep sigh and walks over to the chair. He sits gently, like a cat ready to pounce. I get a little suspicious of how calm he seems to be as he starts to pull