Interrogation
You've probably heard some phony cop on TV explaining how, in real life, we don't call suspects 'perps.' Well, I'm a real cop, a homicide detective, and we do call our suspects 'perps.' It stands for 'Potentially Eligible for Rehabilitation Program' which is also short for perpetrator, but we don't know what the 'etrator' stands for anymore because that part of the manual got blood on it from the last smart guy who started smarting off about what real cops do or do not call their suspects.
The perp waiting for me in the interview room was a shabby-looking hippy type, all long hair and scraggly beard, and the headache that had gripped one side of my head all morning squeezed a little bit tighter when I saw what was in store for me.
"Alright, Mr. Mann, we know you were the last person to see Matthew Scribner alive. Start talking."
"What would you like me to talk about?" he said, the very picture of innocence.
"Cut the act," I said, "We have witnesses that place the two of you at the beach on the day he disappeared."
"Yes, sometimes Matt and I did go for walks."
"But something happened that day, we found the footprints."
"Footprints?"
"There were two sets of footprints, which we followed all the way from the public access at 14th St. until a strange thing happens. Just before Pier 12, there's suddenly only one set of footprints! Why was there only one set of footprints?!"
"Because that's when I was carrying him!"
"You were carrying him. A grown man. And you were just carrying him around?"
"Yes, yes. Sometimes when we'd walk together, Matt would start telling me of his troubles and the only thing that seemed to calm him down was if I carried him on my back. It brought him some small measure of peace. Perhaps you would like to tell me your troubles to see what I mean."
I reached across and smashed his head into the table.
"You want to hear about my troubles? I'll tell you my troubles: I got a missing person and a suspect that thinks he's Dr. fucking Phil."
"I meant no off-"
"None taken!" I shouted, wrestling down the sudden, unexplained surge of rage, "But you better get on with your story, and I am warning you, you better stick to the subject."
"Okay, okay. I was carrying Matt and he was telling me about a problem he was having with a married woman. He called her 'Marie' and he even remarked, jokingly, about how close that was to my own wife's name. But I knew. I just knew."
"Knew what?"
"That he was sleeping with my wife! And here I was, as always, playing the good listener, while he practically bragged about it!"
"And what did you do about it?"
"I carried him away from the beach, he never even noticed, just rambling on with his story. So I carried him all the way to the woods where I called forth two she-bears to devour him. I thought I could make it seem like he was just another victim in the series of bear attacks we've been having lately."
"Wait a minute! You mean the she-bears that attacked forty and two children? We had a guy in here last week claiming he'd asked someone to cause that attack. Was that your doing?"
"That bald asshole? I wouldn't even summon a seagull to poop on my worst enemy's head if that guy asked. That was just coincidence."
"But you did kill Matthew Scribner."
"It wasn't me, it was the she-bears!"
"At your command! Which makes you just as guilty as if you'd devoured him yourself! You've told me everything I need. Officers, get this filth out of my sight."
Another case closed. I should have felt like celebrating, but as the officers led the perp away, I had the strange feeling that I had left something unsaid, something it was now too late to ever say.
The perp waiting for me in the interview room was a shabby-looking hippy type, all long hair and scraggly beard, and the headache that had gripped one side of my head all morning squeezed a little bit tighter when I saw what was in store for me.
"Alright, Mr. Mann, we know you were the last person to see Matthew Scribner alive. Start talking."
"What would you like me to talk about?" he said, the very picture of innocence.
"Cut the act," I said, "We have witnesses that place the two of you at the beach on the day he disappeared."
"Yes, sometimes Matt and I did go for walks."
"But something happened that day, we found the footprints."
"Footprints?"
"There were two sets of footprints, which we followed all the way from the public access at 14th St. until a strange thing happens. Just before Pier 12, there's suddenly only one set of footprints! Why was there only one set of footprints?!"
"Because that's when I was carrying him!"
"You were carrying him. A grown man. And you were just carrying him around?"
"Yes, yes. Sometimes when we'd walk together, Matt would start telling me of his troubles and the only thing that seemed to calm him down was if I carried him on my back. It brought him some small measure of peace. Perhaps you would like to tell me your troubles to see what I mean."
I reached across and smashed his head into the table.
"You want to hear about my troubles? I'll tell you my troubles: I got a missing person and a suspect that thinks he's Dr. fucking Phil."
"I meant no off-"
"None taken!" I shouted, wrestling down the sudden, unexplained surge of rage, "But you better get on with your story, and I am warning you, you better stick to the subject."
"Okay, okay. I was carrying Matt and he was telling me about a problem he was having with a married woman. He called her 'Marie' and he even remarked, jokingly, about how close that was to my own wife's name. But I knew. I just knew."
"Knew what?"
"That he was sleeping with my wife! And here I was, as always, playing the good listener, while he practically bragged about it!"
"And what did you do about it?"
"I carried him away from the beach, he never even noticed, just rambling on with his story. So I carried him all the way to the woods where I called forth two she-bears to devour him. I thought I could make it seem like he was just another victim in the series of bear attacks we've been having lately."
"Wait a minute! You mean the she-bears that attacked forty and two children? We had a guy in here last week claiming he'd asked someone to cause that attack. Was that your doing?"
"That bald asshole? I wouldn't even summon a seagull to poop on my worst enemy's head if that guy asked. That was just coincidence."
"But you did kill Matthew Scribner."
"It wasn't me, it was the she-bears!"
"At your command! Which makes you just as guilty as if you'd devoured him yourself! You've told me everything I need. Officers, get this filth out of my sight."
Another case closed. I should have felt like celebrating, but as the officers led the perp away, I had the strange feeling that I had left something unsaid, something it was now too late to ever say.
Comments
Post a Comment