The continuing chronicle of Wesley's quest to be published; plus comments on popular culture, family life, and whatever else falls out of his head.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

“Well, if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil, it would be him.”

Joe Dander shifted angrily in his seat. His wrists were chafing from the handcuffs. The other end of each pair were connected to either leg of the steel folding chair. If he was going to get out of the interrogation room, he’d either have to chew his hands off or take the chair with him. And at his age, with his back, Joe didn’t really feel like going anywhere. Seventy-six was too damn old to care about trying to make a daring escape.

So he waited. He had waited in interrogation rooms before, and he’d wait again. Probably. His chair faced the two-way glass, and Joe’s only options were to stare at the ceiling, stare at the ashtray on the table in front of him, or stare at his reflection.

He had counted 1,534 divots in the acoustic ceiling tiles before the detective returned.

Dectective John Bronwyn was a large, packed into a rumpled courdoury sport coat. He had a round, Buddha face under a graying military haircut, and smile lines etched at the corners of his eyes. He had a thick manilla file tucked under one arm with a steaming Styrofoam cup in his hand as he closed the door. He trundled to the chair on the opposite side of the table and scooted it to the corner—cops always moved the opposing chair so the psychologists behind the two-way mirror could pretend to get into the head of the accused better. All cops did that, except FBI agents, because the Feds were fucking morons—spun it around, and plopped down onto it.

“You are a crusty old bastard,” Bronwyn said with a smile. Ah, so Detective Bronwyn would be playing the role of “Good Cop” in today’s production. He wasn’t very good at it. He was breathing heavy just from the effort to sit down. Maybe Joe would be able to induce a heart attack in the guy. That would be fun.

Bronwyn set his coffee down and thumbed open the file. “Do you know you sent two officers to the hospital, old man?” Joe looked at the table. “You’ve got a fight left in you, I can appreciate that.” He took a sip from his coffee. “Tell me what happened the night of the twenty-ninth.”

“Well,” Joe started with a sigh, “After I fucked your mom, I rolled off her fat ass and did your ex-wife a couple of times.”

Bronwyn didn’t react for several seconds but his head seemed to swell under the comment. Then, as the steam was escaping through his ears, he chuckled. As he picked up his cup to take a sip, Joe noticed that his hand shook and when he sat it down, it was dented from the pressure of his grip. Good, Bronwyn was a lot closer to the edge than he appeared.

Bronwyn set the file on the table and concentrated on it, not making I contact with Joe. The bald spot on the top of his head mad an enticing target. “What can you tell me about what happened last week, on the evening of the twenty-ninth?”
Joe stared through his reflection in the two-way glass at the man he new was watching him from the other side. This was that bastard Piccolo’s fault. If you could accuse anyone of being downright evil, it would be him.


Blogger Bernita said...

Characters well set't cops heard these insults a million times before?

May 05, 2006 8:02 AM

Blogger Wesley Smith said...

Oh, sure. But this was just free-writing. First thing that came out of my head went on the screen.

May 05, 2006 8:06 AM

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