Second Draft

I finished the second draft of that story I posted before. Read it, or don't.

In The Room

“He’s still in there, sir.”
Sergeant Harris set his bottle of antacids on the corner of his desk. Strewn with papers, a half dozen filthy coffee mugs, and what was either a variety of very small, very sad raisins, or mouse turds, the desk had seen better days. As had Sergeant Harris. He hadn’t had a good nights sleep in going on three weeks, sometimes getting less than an hour in a night. He ran his hand through what was left of his once full head of hair, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Simms had always irritated him, and he normally would have given him a solid dressing down for barging into his office, making vague observations about some “he” being in some “there,” but he couldn’t find the energy to do even that now.
“Who’s in where, detective,” he asked, his voice raised just above a whisper.
“Johnson. He’s still in the interrogation room.”
Harris looked at Simms, suddenly feeling an intense desire to smash his face in. Harris learned long ago to trust his feelings of rage for his subordinates. It kept them in line, kept the department running smoothly. A detective who doesn’t fear his superior will soon turn to forcing sloppy work through the system, effectively giving every rapist, thief, and killer a free pass. Sloppy work overturns convictions, and Harris’ department has had the lowest number of overturned convictions in the state for going on nine years. This is something that he was intensely proud of, and maybe the only thing left in his life that he could take any pride in at all.
Everything looked grim to Harris now. The fedora that he once wore as a badge of pride in his job, a sign to the world that he was a detective, goddamnit, and a damn fine one at that, hung on a hook on the back of his door. He hadn’t so much as glanced at it since a month ago when his son had accosted him for wearing it, telling him he looked like a faggot. He never imagined in a million years that his own son, his boy that he yelled encouragement to during Little League games, and read stories to every night, would ever look him in the eye, and call him a faggot. A faggot. What in the fuck? This scrawny kid with the black nail polish and eye liner is calling him a faggot? Of course, when he pointed out his son’s obvious lack of manliness he was informed that it had nothing to do with being gay. It had to do with being a faggot. What in the blue fuck?
His wife, being the loving, kind, and generous of spirit sort of person that she is made the situation so much better. Upon hearing the argument she came down the stairs from her “t.v. room” where she was no doubt watching one of her many deeply important day time programs, (woe be unto he who interrupted said programs), to find out what all the fuss was about. As soon as she heard the words “I just told Dad that he looks like a faggot” she began to laugh until tears flowed freely down her face for the better part of half an hour. This was no dampening of the eyes. Oh God, no. This was full forced weeping. Occasionally she would stop, the laughter finally simmering down to a sporadic spasm, but every time she glanced his way it began again, the tears flowing as she brayed, and guffawed at his expense. The next morning as he collected his jacket, and placed his once beloved hat upon his head, she walked up to him and kissed him on the cheek, took hold of him by the shoulders, looked him square in the eye, and said, “Have a nice day at work, you fucking faggot.” What in the blue, cocksucking fuck? He wasn’t even mad. He was just sad, disappointed, demoralized. And tired. Never in his life had he been so tired.
“Sir?”
Harris looked around, his eyes clearing. It took a fraction of a second for him to remember that he was talking to one of his detectives, but that fraction of a second still served to further demoralize him. He was losing everything, including his ability to competently manage his department.
“What, Simms? Fucking hell, man. I’m busy,” he spluttered.
“I know, sir. I’m sorry,” Simms shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. At least one thing was as it should be. No detective should be comfortable barging into his office to complain about anything. “But Johnson is still in the interrogation room, sir.”
“Are you twelve, Simms?” Harris steepled his hands below his chin, and stared at Simms expectantly. It took a moment for Simms to realize that an answer was actually expected.
“Sir, I don’t think..”
“Simms, are you twelve years of age?”, Harris interrupted. “Because if you aren’t, if you are above the age of twelve, then I don’t understand why the fuck you are in my office telling me about another detective’s interrogation!” He stood up from his desk, face glowing red, veins standing out on his forehead. Finally. Finally he had an outlet for his frustration, for his embarrassment, and for his disappointment. This fucking asshole was going to get it, and make no mistake. This fucking asshole right here in front of him was going to be his child, his wife, his mother, and every other goddamned piece of shit that ever wronged him. Right now, right fucking now was the summer of his discontent, and motherfuckers were going to get burned to the ground.
“He’s in there with the cat, sir!”
Harris stopped, taken aback.
“What do you mean he’s in there with the cat? What cat,” he spat out, flustered from his outburst, and his realization that he wasn’t going to get the emotional release that he so desperately needed.
“The cat from the Hardy case, sir.” Detective Simms waited a moment, but seeing that this bit of information meant nothing to the Sergeant he continued on. “The cat that was found at the scene of the John Hardy murder. Johnson brought the cat in with him, and, I mean, we all thought it was pretty funny at first, but he’s been in the interrogation room with it for four hours now.”
“Why,” asked Harris. “Is he telling the perp it has DNA on it, or something?”
“No, sir. He seems to be interrogating it.”
Harris sat back down in his chair, and chuckled. “Let him have his fun, Simms. We all need to blow off some steam sometimes.”
“Sir, he doesn’t seem to be having any fun,” Simms was wringing his hands now. “No cop likes to bad mouth another cop, sir. You know that. But I don’t think he’s well.” He paused for a moment. “He’s taking it very seriously.”
“Fine,” exclaimed Harris, standing up from his desk. “Let’s go. But if you got me up for some bullshit, I’m gonna have your ass.” He reached to his waist, removed his service weapon, and violently tossed it into his desk drawer. Brushing past Simms, he reached for his hat, but stopped just short of touching it, all of a sudden cocking his head as if listening to a conversation only he could hear. A brief moment later he lowered his hand, jerked the door open, and motioned impatiently for Simms to leave the office.
After locking the door, he and Simms made the walk down to the interrogation room in silence. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough for Simms. Harris had always been a hard ass, but something had changed in him recently. You expect to work with hard asses on the police force, but Harris made him uneasy. There was something lying just below the surface of his expressions that he couldn’t put his finger on, an underlying contempt or hatred maybe. Harris had never done, or said anything out of the ordinary, and to be fair, the guy was a damned good cop. But still, he just made Simms uneasy.
“This the one,” Harris grunted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Let’s get it over with.” Harris opened the door, and stepped inside, to Simms dismay motioning for him to follow. The room was small. A two way mirror adorned the center of the wall opposite to the door, allowing them to view the interrogation, but not be seen themselves, and there was an intercom next to it from which they could hear the conversation happening behind the glass.
Sitting at a table in the adjoining room was a blonde man in his early thirties, well muscled, strong jawed. He leaned casually back in his chair, one arm thrown over the back of it, a sly grin on his clean shaven face. On the table in front of Detective Jim Johnson was a small, portable tape recorder, and an orange tabby cat who sat on the table next to it, looking decidedly unconcerned with anything that he might have to say.
“I have time, Fluffy. Lot’s of it.” The voice sounded tinny coming through the intercom, but the sound quality was good enough to understand all but the very worst of mumblers. “You were there,” said Johnson. “You either killed him yourself, or you know who did.” There was a pause for a few seconds. “Right? Am I right, Fluffy? Yeah. I’m right. And you’re going to tell me about it.” Johnson was now leaning forward in his chair, the grin disappeared from his face. “Would you like to know why,” he whispered. The cat was moving it’s head around the room, looking from corner to corner, never meeting the detective’s gaze. Johnson began craning his neck to, and fro, mimicking the cat’s movement while staying in its line of sight, all the time his mouth making an open ‘O’ shape, giving him a coquettish look, like a woman attempting to be sultry.
When Johnson rose from his chair, his hand crashing down on the table flat palmed, making an enormous slapping sound, everyone but the cat jumped. “I asked you a fucking question, Fluffy,” he screamed, spittle flying into the unmoved feline’s face. “I asked you a goddamn question, and this is the point where I tell you the answer whether you want it or not!” Sitting back down in his chair his manner returned to normal, as if just a moment ago he had not been screaming at a small animal. “The answer is this, Fluffy; if you don’t tell me what I want to know I’m going to kill you.” He leaned back in the chair again, adopting the relaxed pose from earlier. “Yeah, I’ll just let that sink in for a minute. Wait. What did he say? Kill? Me?” All of this was accompanied by flamboyant hand gestures, his fingers waggling in the air like a kid’s imaginary six shooter at one moment, and the next his palms pressed firmly against his face in mock disbelief. “Yeah. You’re a fucking cat, Fluffy. I don’t have to explain what I did with you when I leave here, and no one would give a shit even if they found out.”
Watching the one sided conversation take place, Harris passed through an assortment of emotions, beginning with mild amusement, evolving to disbelief, and ending in mounting anger. After witnessing one of his detectives threaten to murder someone’s pet he unclenched his fists, not even feeling the warm trickle of blood that his poorly manicured nail had produced from his palm, and walked out of the room. Simms watched him go, unsure if he was supposed to follow, but unwilling to go with the Sergeant if not so ordered. When Harris reappeared on the other side of the glass Simms decided that he was done with it. He didn’t want to see what was about to happen. He didn’t want to know.
Johnson didn’t even look startled when Harris opened the door to the interrogation room, and quietly shut it behind him. He didn’t even have the good sense to let his face wash over with shame and embarrassment. This only served to further irritate Harris.
“Now you’re in it deep, Fluffykins,” Johnson stood and clapped his hand on Harris’ shoulder, who remained blank faced. “This is Sergeant Harris, and if Sergeant Harris has taken an interest in your furry little ass then your options are quickly diminishing, my friend. Becoming non-existent even. Poof. Gone in the blink of an eye. Redacted,” Johnson paused for a moment, furrowing his brows. Suddenly his face lit up. “Fucking less than Jake.”
“What in the fuck are you doing, Johnson,” muttered Harris through gritted teeth.
Johnson laughed. “Yeah, I guess I should bring you up to speed Sergeant. Fluffy here was just about to tell me all about how a certain Mr. John Hardy ended up being stabbed thirty-two times in his apartment. He was then going to enlighten me as to why the doors, and windows were all barricaded, and there was no sign of forced entry.”
“It’s a cat, Johnson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you know what that means then. You know that being a cat it isn’t capable of planning or executing a murder. You also know that were it to actually become capable of committing murder it still wouldn’t be able to fucking tell you about it.”
“That’s how they get you.”
“What’s that?” Harris’ eyes widened, bloodshot, wild.
“That’s how they get you,” Johnson repeated.
“That’s how they get you.”
“Sure is. See, sir, there’s a whole world out there that’s hidden from us. Societies, political struggles, an entire day to day operation going on right under our faces, and they’ve done a damn good job of keeping us in the dark.” Johnson glanced at the cat, and adopted a lowered, conspiratorial tone. “But there are those of us who know, sir. We know, and we don’t intend to let them get away with committing their crimes repercussion free any longer.”
Harris weighed his options. He had a detective who had clearly lost his mind to deal with, but it just so happened that this was one of the best officers in his department. Maybe the best. Last year, Johnson’s clearance rate was 10 percent higher than the next detective down, and the department had gotten used to being able to give the man a stone cold whodunit, and wind up with a solved murder. Harris felt like vomiting at just the thought of having to remove him from the squad. If he could smell alcohol on him that would be one thing. He knew how to deal with that. Alcoholism is nothing new to a police department. A day off, and a stern talking to should clear the problem of him bringing it to work up. But there was no smell of alcohol, and neither was there any sign of drug use. Johnson’s pupils weren’t dilated, and he didn’t have the demeanor of someone who was high. No. He was just crazy. He’d lost his shit, and now Harris was going to have to lose him. Fucking great.
“I need you to come with me, Johnson. I need you to see the department psychiatrist, and I need you to do it now. If you choose not to see Dr. Randall then I’m going to have to relieve you of duty.”
Johnson looked taken aback. “But sir….the cat.”
“I’ll have someone see to it. Don’t worry about the cat. I need you to start worrying more about yourself. You need a break.” Harris put his hand on Detective Johnson’s shoulder, and started leading him towards the door. “It’s alright, Johnson. You’ve been under a lot of stress, putting down murders left and right, and running yourself ragged. You just need to…”
Johnson broke away from Harris, dashed at the table, and seized the cat by the throat. He pinned it to the table, the orange tabby’s claws tearing the flesh from his hand in ribbons, a look of surprise, and fear on its face. Harris, at first shocked, quickly overcame his surprise, and lunged at him, grabbing hold of him by his shirt, and trying to tear him away from the cat. It was no use. Johnson was at least twenty years his junior, and in peak physical condition. It would take three Harris’ to move Johnson in the state he was in.
“My name isn’t Fluffy, you fucking cunt.”
Harris let go of Johnson, and backed away. The voice had been high pitched, nasal, almost inhuman. The situation was deteriorating quickly, becoming less what he could have seen as a temporary nervous break down, and more of a complete break from sanity. Not only had Johnson lost enough of his marbles to believe that a cat could commit a murder, and then admit to it, but he had now adopted a split personality. He now thought that he was the murdering, talking cat. It was straight jacket time. Fuck, it was call for back up time. Harris began slowly moving towards the door, keeping his eyes on his damaged detective, and the cat that he was about to squeeze the life out of. This is why he was able to see the cat’s lips move when it spoke again.
“Let off, and I’ll talk. I’ll talk,” the orange tabby croaked. Johnson took his hands off its throat, and it rolled first unto its side, and then slowly, tentatively, worked its way to its feet. “Fucking cunt,” it croaked again, and spat blood unto the table, cocking its head to fix a glare of hate on Johnson, who seemed completely undisturbed by the cat’s opinion of him. Instead he took a handkerchief from his back pocket, wrapped his bleeding hand in it, and sat back down.
“It’s still rolling,” said Johnson, pointing to the tape recorder that sat on the table. “Start talking, Fluffy.”
“I told you that isn’t my name, asshole.”
“State your name then,” Johnson glanced over at Harris as if just remembering he was there. “Oh, Sergeant. Hey, I’m sorry, sir.” He shrugged his shoulders, and pointed at the cat. “You know how it is, though. The fucker just needed a little push in the right direction.” Harris said nothing. “Sergeant? You okay?” Harris nodded, turned around, and walked briskly out of the room.
In the hallway, Harris leaned with his back against the door, breathing heavily. He felt dazed, disoriented, and close to hyperventilating. A few officers passed him in the hall, shooting him confused glances, but none spoke to him. After a few moments he convinced his feet to start moving, and returned to his office. At the door, he dropped the keys, and had to bend down to pick them up, his hands shaking. After finally getting his door unlocked, he slipped inside, closed it behind him, and sat down at his desk. A heaviness was in his mind. A deep, pregnant emptiness that allowed for no thought, and no contemplation. He sat there, silent, emotionless, blank faced.
He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there when there was a knock on the door, but according to the clock on his desk it was now after six p.m. He called out for whoever it was to come in, and in sauntered Johnson, his face lit up with the biggest shit eating grin he had ever seen.
“We got ourselves a confession, sir. I’m going to go type it up right now.”
“That’s great, Johnson,” Harris mumbled. “Really great work.”
Johnson sat down across from, and crossed his legs. “Here’s the thing, though. The little fucker’s lying.” Johnson took a pack of gum from his pocket, removed a piece, and popped it into his mouth. He started to put it back in his pocket, but paused, and held the pack out to Harris. “Want one,” he asked. Harris shook his head. Johnson shrugged, and stuck the pack back in his pocket. “Anyway, he didn’t do it. He says he did, but he’s a lying little cocksucker. He’s protecting someone. So, I’m going to type out his confession, and take another whack at getting the truth out of him.”
“That sounds like the way to go.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. Anyway, thanks for being so understanding, Sergeant. We’re going to put this murder down, I swear it to you.” Johnson got up, and began walking out of the office.
“Hey, Johnson?”
“Yeah, boss?”
“Lock that door, would you?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Johnson turned the lock on the inside of the door, and walked out pulling it shut behind him. As soon as Harris heard the click of the latch indicating that the door was firmly closed he opened his desk drawer, removed his service weapon from it, took it out of its holster, clicked off the safety, placed the weapon in his mouth, and blew his fucking brains against the wall behind him.