2.12 - Interrogation
I expected to be dropped off at intake and be processed. Instead, they push and drag me through the station making sure every officer can see me. When they’re done with the parade, they leave me sitting in a cold interrogation room with my cuffed hands secured on the table. I can’t think of any real reason to have me here other than trying to instigate something. The whole thing is more annoying than anything else. I know they make the room cold to bother people, but I prefer the cold. Air conditioning is my best friend; without it I over heat far too easily.
A detective walks in, he’s short and thin. The white hair on his head is nearly gone, not even leaving a full ring. He slams the door behind him before slamming a notebook on the table in front of me. I don’t know if he’s angry or holding his breath, but his skin is bright red, almost purple. As he stands above me staring me down. I keep a straight face knowing that if I stood up, I’d be close to a foot taller than he is.
“So, you like beating up police officers,” he asks in a condescending voice.
“I don’t really like beating up anyone,” I respond to him in the same manner.
“It says in this notebook you sent 17 police officers to the hospital.”
I instantly start to laugh, “I didn’t touch nearly 17 police officers. You think I can be up 17 heavily protected and armed police officers? I’m honored you think I could do that but no,” actually, I probably could if I had some gear of my own.
“Okay smart ass, what do you know about the casino operations?”
“I know they do bad things there,” I keep my answer short. I’m starting to get the feeling they hope to charge me with something beyond just protecting civilians who got caught in the mess.
“And what did you do there?”
“Nothing.”
“You think if you keep quiet someone is going to rush in and save you. You’re ours and as soon as your buddies start talking, you’re going away for a long time. You put your trust in the wrong people.”
“Are you even in the right interrogation room,” a very serious question.
The officer grabs me by the collar of my shirt with one hand, pulling me towards him. With his other fist he threatens to punch me in the face for being a smart ass.”
“Beating me up before even taking a mug shot is the dumbest thing you could do,” I have to force my laughter back as I say it, but I’m so serious.
He releases me by pushing me back into my chair. The handcuffs scrape against my wrist, making me notice a bruise forming for the first time. They must be an underfunded department to still be using metal cuffs; not even those with magnetic locks. There’s better and more secure options. The officer snatches his notebook from the table and storms out of the room.
The whole process is designed to break you mentally but I’ve been in the military long enough that I’m already broken mentally. They don’t leave a clock so you have no sense of time. I’m not in a hurry to be anywhere so it doesn’t matter. At some point they may come in and offer food, a sign that they can be trusted. The problem is, I haven’t done anything, except punch a few of their coworkers in the face. The cuffs are still on, not because they feel threatened but because they want to remind people that jail is the only option left. I already knew I was going to jail so it does nothing. If anything, this is just a time to take a nap for me.
I’ve seen children open fire on people I care about. I’ve shot a kid. I’ve been blown up and lost an arm. I’ve been hit so hard by bounty hunters that I saw stars. There’s nothing they can really do to me at this point, short of killing me. I wouldn’t put that past them, but I think I’ve drawn too much attention for them to safely get away with it.
I lean forward and rest my head on my hands, but it’s uncomfortable. I settle leaning back and letting my head hang over the back of the chair. Closing my eyes, I try to think of somewhere peaceful before I can drift off to sleep.
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