Interrogation

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Charles Sunderland had been sitting in the sterile interrogation room for about half an hour when Jacob Koest limped in, followed by a police officer. The room was devoid of colour or furniture, save a modestly-sized table and three rigid, uncomfortable metal chairs, all of which were bolted firmly to the floor. The two men appraised one another: Charles saw a middle-aged, lank, gaunt man in dark glasses, shakily supporting himself on the left side with a cane; Jacob observed an unkempt individual with a combination of nervousness and hostility in his features. The two locked eyes for a few seconds, each seemingly attempting to stare the other down, until Charles shifted his gaze to his feet and Jacob moved to sit in one of the two empty seats on the other side of the table; the cane clacked loudly as he limped to the table and was rested across his lap as he seated himself, and the officer left the room, locking it behind him. Charles raised his head at this point, and the two seemed to engage in another staring contest, except Charles did not break eye contact this time. After a few more seconds-or was it minutes? The lack of a clock made it impossible to tell time here- Jacob reached slowly into his jacket and placed the Dictaphone on the table. He pressed “record” and stated calmly: “My name is Detective Koest. Why are you here, Mr. Sunderland?”
Charles snorted, his face twisting into a nasty smirk and his fear temporarily turning into contempt. “You don’t know? What kind of interrogator are you?”
Jacob’s reply was no less calm, his face impassively grim. “Why do you think you’re here? I want your answer.”
“I’m apparently here because I killed someone, but the last two who tried to get answers out of me can tell you I don’t know anything.”
The detective’s expression remained impassive. “There’s a good deal of evidence indicting you as the killer, Mr. Sunderland.”
Charles snorted again, his contempt for the detective almost palpable at this point. “Bollocks. This is a fix-up. I was framed. Someone obviously knew my reputation and took advantage of it, yeah?”
“Yes, we’re quite aware of your... reputation. GBH, armed robbery, vehicular theft- you obviously like to keep yourself busy. Even an accusation of murder, though you were never convicted.”
Charles’ expression darkened for a moment, before grinning sardonically. “Well, it’s good to have hobbies, yeah?”
The right corner of Jacob’s mouth turned up slightly in a half-hearted impersonation of a smile. “I’m sure your victims would refer to your activities as something slightly more extreme than ‘hobbies’...” He paused, seemingly in deep thought. “...Charlie.”
Suddenly the man’s face changed from that of relaxed contempt to a scowl of cold rage. “Don’t you ever call me that, you piece of ****.”
Jacob retained the calm half-smirk, replying, “What? Charlie? Why do you dislike that nickname, Charlie?”
Charles suddenly stood up, ready to lunge across the table at the offending detective, his lips framing a scream of rage, when he abruptly became aware of an invasive sensation in his mind, an almost electrical pressure being applied directly to his brain. He stopped dead; all thoughts of violence were drowned out in the static fog enveloping his mind, and he awkwardly dropped back into his seat. As his mind recoiled, he heard, as though from a great distance, “You may have outfoxed the others, but I have a far more direct method of obtaining information.”

Jacob concentrated, ignoring the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. He was used to them by now. Charles’ outburst had given him the weak spot he needed to properly get into the man’s head; he had been calmly scanning Charles’ surface thoughts for the last few minutes, and on the mention of his crimes the nickname had popped up momentarily by some kind of association. He pushed as hard as he could, flinching at the spasm of pain which went through his head as he delved deeper into memories, searching for the source of the anger and the information he needed. Within seconds he had what he needed; Charles was indeed the murderer, but there was more. Much more. A confession was still needed, however, but Jacob had just the idea of how to get it.

“Charlie?” the voice was horribly familiar to Charles, as was the nickname. It was his wife.
“Becky?” Charles responded in a hoarse voice, his mind completely turned in on itself, no longer aware of his surroundings.
“Charlie, what did you do to me?”
He was frozen from horror, but still managed to respond. “You’re dead.”
The voice of his wife was not angry; it was almost apologetic. “Yes. You should know, after all.”
Charles whimpered, near tears out of fear and grief. “It wasn’t my fault, Becky. I couldn’t stop myself, I was so angry, I couldn’t stop myself from doing it. I’m so sorry, Becky, please, I’m so sorry...”
Becky’s voice remained sadly apologetic. “Now you’ve killed someone else, haven’t you?”
“...Yes...”
“Why did you do it, Charlie?”
Even in his emotionally wrecked state, Charles still held on to a thread of resolve. “I can’t tell you, Becky. If I told you, they’d find out.”
“Charlie, if you tell me, I’ll forgive you for what you did. If you just tell me, I’ll forgive you for what you did to me. All you have to do is say it.”
With this, the last of Charles’ defence collapsed. He drew in a shuddering breath, tears running down his face, and confessed.

After Sunderland had been taken away by, an inspector sat down opposite Koest, who was clutching his head. “Fine job, as always, Koest; we’ve got all we need.”
Koest pulled a small white bottle out of the inside of his coat, shaking two white pills from it and swallowing them. “I just wish it didn’t hurt so bloody much.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose I’m used to it by now.”
The inspector smiled wanly. “I imagine you’ll want to be getting home, now, then. I’ll arrange someone to drive you back.”
“Right, thanks.” The detective stood up slowly, supporting himself on his cane. “By the way, I managed to get something else out of him.”
The policeman looked interested. “Yeah?”
“If you look three doors down from Sunderland’s residence you’ll find a body buried under the back garden. It’s the body of Rebecca Sunderland. Ask Charlie about it and he’ll admit to everything.”
“Thanks, Koest. We’d been wondering about that one. Just wait in the lobby and someone will pick you up.”
The detective gave a curt nod, visibly flinched, then turned around and made his way out of the room, his cane clacking loudly across the floor.

That's it. Any criticism is welcome, nay, encouraged.

 

Pretty good that mate.

 

I like it. It moved along very nicely. A minor editing thing.

I think this should be "had been sitting in the"

 

Oops, didn't notice that, and neither did the spellchecker, curse it's bones.

 

"The man sat thinking tea and feting biscuits."

Spell check has its limitations. Only checks to see if a word is spelled correctly not if it is used correctly.

Good story. Hope to read more from you.

 

Thanks, I was quite happy with myself for actually going through with something for once. I'll probably do more at some point; I can definitely see room for improvement.

 

Clixby, I think the piece would read better without the explanation at the start. I read it twice. The first time was with your explanation about how it relates to the whole story; the second was without it. It read much better the second time. Leaving people with questions isn't necessarily a bad thing, especially in a prologue. It tends to keep people interested. Well, it did me anyway!!

 

Thanks for the advice. if that's the case, I may take it out. does this forum allow

Spoiler

tags?

[Not at the moment, sorry. -Tal]