The battery in the clock died again. That’s the second time this month. This unnerved the man. The same man who is now holding a cold cup of coffee. He raised the cup slowly to his mouth and took a small sip. The temperature didn’t phase him, nothing did. His mind was elsewhere, drowning in his thoughts; trying to sort through the mess that has enveloped him in the last seventy-two hours. A door opened behind him. He wasn’t sure if he had actually heard the sound, despite the calm of the icy room, his mind was deafening. “You alright man?” A voice broke through the void. The man turned to see another detective standing in the room. The young man’s face bore the image of concern mingling with anxiety. “I’m alright.” “Do you want me to go in alone?” “Nah, I need this.” The man feigned a smile at the young detective. Once the door had closed, the man turned to face the window in the room. He gazed through the glass at the man sitting in the chair. Hands and feet cuffed and shackled. A prisoner. He was trapped, about to be brought to justice, and yet, he appeared serene. Someone knocked on the door. The man remained silent, staring at the prisoner. He raised the cup to his lips once more, and he grimaced at the taste. He put the cup down on a table and grabbed his notes folder. When he opened the door the young detective was standing there with his fist raised knuckles out. “I was beginning to worry. You ready?” “Yeah, I think so.” “I need you to be certain, no ‘B’ game.” “Of course partner, I only ever bring my ‘A’ game.” The older detective smiled as though a child would when visiting an aunty. A cheek pinching aunty. His naive counterpart returned with an enthusiastic smile and together they began walking down the hall. The man approached the door labeled INTERROGATION ROOM B, and took a deep breath. He opened the door and proceeded inside. This room was even colder than the previous one. The man nearly exhaled as one would on a cold winters day. He sat down and stared at the man across the table, as he did on countless occasions over the years of his career. But this time seemed different. The man could always pinpoint the exact emotion that the suspect was feeling, get inside their head and wear down their defenses. That was his ‘A’ game. However, today — of all days — felt like his first rodeo. The young detective shut the door, turned on the camera, and then began asking preliminary questions. The suspect answered every question without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. “Tell me.” The man started. “How did you do it?” “How did I do what?” “How did you get the bombs inside those people’s vehicles?” “I don’t know what you are talking about.” A fist came slamming down on the table that made the young detective jump. “You know damn well what I am talking about!” The man shouted at the suspect. The handcuffed man wasn’t phased, he simply stared, a malevolent grin spread across his face. “Nevermind how. Why did you do it? All those innocent people.” The man spoke with a shakiness in his voice, hopelessness. The suspects smirk turned into a full blown smile now. “Innocent? You think those people were innocent?” The suspect spoke with an icy tone. The chilling look he gave only added to the seemingly sub-zero temperature of the room. The man fell silent, allowing the suspect to continue. “People don’t get into a vehicle that they know will explode. Unless, they are already dead to begin with.” The words struck through the man like an emotion seeking missle set to anger. The man was out of his seat now, and his chair hit the wall behind him with a shattering smack. He reached across the table and grabbed the suspect’s collar and pulled him towards him. “Let him go!” The young detective jumped in and pulled them apart. The man was staring into the suspects eyes, fire blazing inside of him. He then grabbed his notes folder and opened it. The suspect stirred in his seat, handcuffs clinking against the metal of the chair. Without a word, the man slammed down five photos. “I want you to tell me what you think when you look at these pictures.” The suspect leaned forward and peered down at the gruesome display. A tear began to well in the suspects eye, followed by a few more. The man glanced at his partner who was sporting a ‘we got him’ look. A wave of victory and relief flooded the man and he swept up the pictures and stood to leave when he heard a chuckle. Terror coursed through the man’s veins and began pulsating in his temple. The chuckle grew until it became borderline hysteria, “Shut your mouth! You psychopath.” The man shouted at the criminal, but the laughter didn’t quit, in fact, it became even more intense. Finally, the criminal stopped, fell completely silent. The man could hear the deafening sound of his own thoughts again, but that sound was distingushed by what the criminal said next. A phrase that the man knew he would one day hear, just not from a sick son of a bitch like this. The criminal stared at the man with his frozen eyes. “Your time is up detective.”
