The P.I.
The silence was broken along with Joe’s
current train of thought as two voices came closer. They seemed to be getting louder and angrier
as they approached.
“Remember that favor you said that I had.”
“Yeah, but you’re not gonna call that in
now. This is hot stuff! Big time terrorism, and this boy has
something to do with it.”
“This boy has nothing to do with
anything. He was just in the wrong place
at the wrong time.”
Now that they were right by the doorway,
their voices became hushed, but Joe could still make out what they were saying.
“Whatever the case, this guy is my prisoner,
and my detectives will interrogate him and get his statement.”
“Listen Carl, I don’t want no damn
statement. I just want five minutes with
this kid to see if he ran into one of my colleagues in there.”
Carl: “That’s why I brought you here. I didn’t walk you down here for my health.”
There was a bit of silence.
“I’ll be honest, Carl. Some of what we’ll be talking about you
shouldn’t be hearing.”
Carl: “What’s the point in us even
arresting this kid then?”
"You can ask him anything you want, I
just want to get him off the record."
The one named Carl let out a huge sigh.
Carl: “Hank, if you do anything to mess up
this case, I’m gonna deck you. Your big ugly
gray mug is gonna go spinning into orbit.”
Hank: “Five minutes, Carl, that’s all.”
Carl: “You got your five minutes. Use ‘em
wisely. And he better be in usable
condition once you’re done with him.”
There was silence followed by footsteps,
then more silence. The wooden door
creaked open and in entered one of the talking men. Joe guessed this one to be Hank, who, to Joe,
looked very old and tired. The man’s
clothes matched his hair, gray and unkempt.
He bore down on Joe with his grayish green eyes and Joe struggled to
meet his gaze briefly and resigned to stare at the floor. Joe’s brief glimpse showed him that the man
wasn’t too tall. The way his shoulders
set and all of the frown lines on his forehead gave Joe the distinct impression
that this Hank was not a patient man.
Joe dared to look up at the man again; his
grandpa wouldn't approve of him looking away.
The man’s gaze was fiercely trained on Joe, and Joe began to fidget and
squirm in his chair. He tried to sit as
still as he possibly could, barely managing to breathe in the process. Joe let out all the air as slowly as he
could. As the man approached, Joe tried
to offer a bit of awkward stilted conversation.
Joe: “Hello, sir. How can I help you, sir?”
Hank: “By dropping the crappy pleasantries,
this ain’t the prom, kid. You’re wasting
both of our time. Now, you can answer my
questions like a good little boy.”
Joe’s stomach twisted and turned. He didn’t know what this man wanted or even
if he had the answers that he was looking for.
It had just dawned on him how much trouble he was in. He was a terrorist — to the rest of the town
at least — and would be tried as such. They’ll probably give me to a firing squad
for treason or something, he thought.
The old guy loudly snapped his fingers.
Hank: “Pay attention, Joe Shmoe! I don’t have a lot of time.”
Joe looked the man in the eyes and nodded.
Joe: “Yessir.”
The old guy pulled a chair from outside the
room and sat. He studied Joe for a moment and found his opening.
Hank: “What happened in that stadium, kid?”
Joe didn’t know where to start.
Joe: “Well … um … me and my friends wanted
to see the Pickers, and Mod—”
Hank: “Enough foreplay, kid. Start from the explosion. You were there for that, right?”
Joe: “Yessir. It happened during the second quarter. I was watching the game when it happened.”
Hank: “What happened to your friends?”
Joe: “I don’t know. I didn’t see them after.”
Hank: “But they were sitting right next to
you, right? How did they get out but not
you? What the hell were you doing in
there that whole time?”
Joe froze.
He didn’t know what to say. Most
of what he did earlier was probably very illegal. The old guy was sharp as a tack. He was quick to notice Joe’s hesitation.
Hank: “What the hell were you doing in
there, kid! Talk!”
Joe pushed his chair back and spelled it
out for Hank.
Joe: “N-no.
I want a l-l-lawyer.”
Joe tried his best to sound a lot bigger
than he actually was or felt. Hank had
risen out of his chair so fast and with such fury that he looked like a man
half his age. Joe sprung backwards and
out of his seat as he tried to scramble away.
There was venom in the old man’s glare.
He screamed at Joe.
Hank: “Do I look like a damned cop?”
After that his voice lowered to a subdued
growl, but his demeanor was no less intense.
Hank: “I wasn’t born yesterday, Joe. I do know that you were somehow a part of the
night’s activities. You wouldn’t have
come out of the building nearly a whole hour later if you weren’t. Why were you so scared of those security
guards at the stadium? You ran from them
like you were running for your life, and the way that you tackled that last one
to get outside … you weren’t just scared of getting into trouble or getting a
little roughed up. If that were the case
you wouldn’t have so willingly surrendered yourself to the boys in blue.”
Joe stared at the floor and gave a soft
shrug. He honestly didn’t know if he
should answer that.
Hank: “Why’d you give up once you made it
outside? If you wanted to get away so
bad, why didn’t you try to keep running once you made it out? What about those guards inside frightened you
so much?”
Joe looked at Hank for a while before he
decided that he was better off not talking.
He wasn’t sure if it was a bit of savvy that he’d picked up from all
those cop shows he watched, or fear that stayed his tongue.
Hank took a moment to reassess the
situation and let out a sigh. He wasn’t
dealing with the hardened criminals that he was accustomed to dealing
with. He was dealing with a young
teenager. He needed to change his
approach.
Hank: “Listen, kid — Joe. Anything you say to me now won’t be used
against you or those you care about. I
just want answers. I lost someone in
that stadium and I just want to know if you saw them. Now, can you level with me, kid, we don’t
have much time.”
Joe: “Who — who are you?”
Hank: “My name is Borland, Hank
Borland. You’re a kid, so use my last
name.”
Joe: “Are you a—”
Hank: “I'm not a cop, but I used to be one
a long time ago. Right now I’m looking
for a woman named Dahlila. Did you see
her in that stadium? About yay high and
tougher than Kevlar.”
Joe’s heart and stomach jumped at the
name. He was sure that everything that happened
under that stadium had just been an alcohol-induced dream. He was sure he’d
never see nor hear of or from Dahlila.
Now Borland was tossing that name out like he knew the woman.
Joe: “Blonde hair?”
Borland: “Where did you see her?”
Joe paused.
He didn’t want to put Dahlila in any danger, and he remembered how he
found her, all tied up in the underground part of that stadium. Who put her there? Joe’s face must’ve given away his thoughts,
because Borland pursued the subject more aggressively.
Borland: “Listen, kid, Dahlila is important
to me. Please! Tell me where she is.”
Joe: “How is she important to you? Answer that for her sake.”
Borland pulled out an old and worn-out
wallet, and in it sat an old and worn-out photo. Borland took out the photo and showed it to
Joe.
Borland: “That little girl there is Dahlila
when she was younger. I helped raise
her. She’s as precious as my own
daughter. I need to know where she
is. Please, tell me where she is!”
Borland pleaded his case, not only with his
words but with his eyes as well.
Joe had sympathy for the man, and felt he
could trust him. He told Borland about
everything except the shape-shifting, because he hardly believed it
himself. Borland was ready at the end of
his tale with questions.
Borland: “Do you know where the girls were
headed?”
Joe: “I don’t. We were separated.”
Borland: “I see. What about the little girl’s name? Do you remember it?”
Joe: “Her name was Melissa.”
There was a flash of recognition in
Borland’s eyes and he whispered, “That’s good,” so low that Joe could barely
hear him.
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