The Truth?

THE TRUTH?

I was scrolling through YouTube the other day, when I came across this short called Interview of the Year. I’m not sure—either the interviewer had the power to make people tell the truth, or the interviewee could only tell the truth. It was funny, in a cringey way. But it was fiction, right?

Maybe. Maybe not.

I always felt a little different. Not only because I have red hair—a rare and beautiful colour my grandmother always assured me—but because of the weird things that started happening to me. Or to put it another way, the weird things that started happening to my friends when I spoke with them. They would tell me the truth. Now, maybe you’d expect all your friends to tell you the truth and not lie. But they don’t. I found out that all I had to do was ask them if they were telling me the truth, and they would actually tell me the truth. Sometimes it was great—like when Will Tenna told me that he liked me. That was a solid win.

But most of the time it made me sad. People I thought were my friends told me they only hung around with my because I was smart, and they wanted me to do their homework. Or they thought my boyfriend (see Will Tenna above) was only using me. Or that they didn’t like my clothes. Or that they thought I was boring. Or that they thought I was ugly. You know, the hard truth. And it made me cry.

So I stopped asking. I can’t think of a single person who wants to know all the truth all the time. It’s too much. And my friends were becoming a bit leery of me, so I dialled it back. I rationalized that I needed friends much more than I needed the truth. And like I said, ouch.

When I was in high school the truth was not earth-shattering—the stakes were low and we were so self-absorbed. In truth, the only things that took a hit were my ego and self-esteem. Some of the “truths” still sting (Will dumped me for the girl who said I was ugly), but more or less, I moved on.

Or so I thought.

I work in law enforcement—I’m a cop. The perfect place. I figured that I could right the wrongs of society by getting to the truth. The truth will set you free, right?

I have to admit, I like being the officer with the very, very high solve rate. Pretty soon I made detective.

Robbery: “Cory, did you break into the house at 8254 West Drive?”

“Nah. I was home.”

“Are you telling me the truth.”

His eyes filled with panic, and then he told the truth. “Fine, I did it.”

“Okay. Thank you. Where’s all he stuff you stole from the home?”

“I dunno,” he said, his eyes darting around the room, landing on the camera in the corner recording everything he said.

“Truthfully?”

Same look. “It’s in a storage locker—number twelve at the U-Store at Chatham and Deerview.”

“Perfect, Cory. Thanks.

Homicide: “Mrs. Wendt, do you know who killed your husband, Darren?”

There were tears and sniffling. “I have no idea. Everyone loved Darren.”

“Every one loved him? You’re sure you’re telling me the truth?”

“Darren was an asshole. Everyone hated him. He was abusive and he ripped off everyone he met. Open his phone. His contact list is a list of suspects.” The widow looked horrified that she’d confided in me.

“So, you truthfully don’t know who killed him?”

Then the panic. “Fine. His partner, Ken both hated him. And we were having an affair. We hired a hit man, paid him ten thousand dollars.” She’d slapped her hands over her mouth. Then a lot more tears.

Auto Theft: “Tell me truth, Artie, did you steal the truck from 23 Sunnyridge Road last night?”

“Yes. Me and my buddy Randy. We’ve got a deal with some guys at the port. They give us a thousand bucks for every truck we deliver.”

I had to be careful not to overdo my “truthy” interviews. But there were a lot of cases that solved themselves. Someone caught on CCTV committing any one of the myriad of crimes that occur daily in the city. Or getting caught coming or going on a doorbell cam. Or having their cell phone ping off the right tower at the right time. Or an eye witness. That was solid policing.

I have good investigative skills that allow me to hone in on a perpetrator. But, still, to paraphrase Liam Neeson, “I have a particular set of skills,” and those skills help me solve crimes.

About two weeks ago, I was called into my captain’s office. When I entered, I knew it wasn’t good. There were two men sitting in the visitors’ chairs. They were wearing dark suits, white shirts, and had bulges under their coats. Feds.

Damn. Where ever federal agents went, trouble followed. My ever-optimistic brain said they just wanted to big-foot their way into one of my cases, and while not my favourite thing to happen, not the worst.

But I was wrong. Really wrong.

Melissa Voortman was my captain, and kinda like my spirit animal. She was a strong woman who men listened to—mainly because she was usually right. She was the perfect mixture of intelligent and logical. I could see her being Chief of Police one day.

Today she didn’t seem too happy.

She stood as I entered the office. “Fiona, these agents—McCabe and Winston—” She pointed to each in turn. “—need some of your time.”

I looked from Melissa to the two agents. McCabe was in his thirties, obviously lived at the gym, and spent a fair bit of money on clothes. Winston, on the other hand, looked like he spent a lot of time in a barcalounger, and thrifted most of his clothes. Why were feds always opposites?

“Officer Fisher,” said Winston, standing. “We’d like you to come down to our office. We have a few questions for you.”

“It’s Detective Sergeant Fisher,” I said. They knew my rank. They were trying to intimidate me. “What’s this about?” I asked, taking a small step backwards, towards the door, while never breaking my eye contact with Winston.

“We just need to straighten out a few things that have come to light,” he said, giving me a small, insincere smile that never reached his eyes.

“Uh-uh,” I said, glancing at Melissa. “Do I need a lawyer?”

Winston’s smile got larger, but still didn’t reach his eyes. “No. No, no, no,” he said holding his hands out towards me in a calming gesture, like I was some kind of wild horse. “We just need to get some things on the record.” He looked from me to Melissa and back. “Our office is just more convenient. You understand, right?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “No, I don’t understand,” I said. “And, I’m not going anywhere with you unless you have a warrant or I’m under arrest.” My strident behaviour was enough to cause Winston to drop the smile, and for McCabe to stand up beside his partner. “Do you have either?” I asked looking between the two men.

They looked at each, then back at me. “No,” was all Winston said.

“Then, I’m not going with you,” I said. “And if you need to contact me again, please contact my lawyer.” I pulled out my badge and removed a business card for my lawyer. I handed it to Winston. He dropped it on the floor.

The two agents turned on their heels, and left the office without saying a word.

Melissa looked after them, then back at me. “What the hell was that about?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I was going to ask you the same question,” I said, picking up the card off of the floor.

She shook her head. “They were talking about your solve rate. Mentioned how high it was. Asked me if I noticed anything peculiar,” she said shrugging. “I said no, and just told them that you’re the best detective on the squad.”

I smiled, but my heart was pounding in my chest. I knew that Melissa wouldn’t tell them anything, even if she had anything to tell them. But she didn’t. I hadn’t told anyone. It was my secret, and mine alone.

But somehow …

I tried to think about what two federal agents could want with me. There really was only one thing.

Later that night, after I finished work and was heading out to my car, they grabbed me. It wasn’t unexpected, but it was still traumatic.

“You should have come with us this afternoon,” said McCabe as he pushed me into the backseat and zip-tied my hands in my lap.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Neither agent answered me. We rode in silence.

They didn’t take me to any office. Instead they took me to what I figured was a safe house—but probably not that safe for me.

They marched me up to the front door. Winston opened the front door. McCabe guided me in from behind.

“Sit,” said Winston, pointing to the kitchen table.

I sat. The two agents pulled out chairs and sat across from me. I held up my hands, showing them my zip-tied wrists.

“No,” said McCabe. I shrugged. I tried to look nonchalant, but my breathing was rapid and my heart jack hammered in my chest. Two federal agents had just kidnapped me. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.

I looked around. I nodded. Definitely a safe house. The entire house was beige—the furniture, the paint, the curtains, the cupboards, the carpets, the floor. It was an open concept with the kitchen, dining room, and living room creating one large space. I clocked a staircase up—probably to bedrooms and bathrooms—and a short hall to laundry and the garage. There was no sign that anybody lived here—not one personal item, or photo, or magazine.

Winston spoke up. “Officer Fisher—”

“Detective Sergeant Fisher,” I interrupted, staring him down.

He sighed. “Detective Sergeant Fisher, how do you explain your incredible solve rate?” he asked. “We’ve never seen one so high.” He Took out his cop notepad and flipped a couple of pages. “It’s ninety-five point seven solve rate. That’s amazing. What’s your secret?”

I stayed silent.

“We’ve been following you for the last five years, and we believe you have a special …” he paused to try and put his beliefs into words. “… a special ability that makes people tell you the truth.” He looked at me. “Am I correct?”

I would have crossed my arms, but I couldn’t because they were still zip-tied. Instead I leaned back. “No comment.”

He nodded and smiled. “We’ve looked at all of your interviews, and you seem to be able to get the truth out of suspects against their will. How do you do that?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“If what we believe is true, we need you working for the government.”

“I have a job,” I said.

“But we can offer you a better job,” he said.

“I don’t want another job,” I said. “I’m perfectly happy being a police officer.”

He tried to smile. “If you work with us, you can continue to live your life as you do now. We’ll only need to second you occasionally, when warranted. The rest of the time, you’ll be the same Detective Sergeant Fisher that you are, solving all the cases—just like you do now.”

“What if I don’t agree to your terms?”

“Then we keep you here until you do,” said McCabe, from behind me. He’d been standing at the back of my chair in case—I don’t know—I did something wonky? Some kind of voodoo shit? Who knew what they thought.

“You can’t do that. I’m a citizen, and I have rights.”

Winston laughed. “And we are the federal government, and we can do whatever-the-hell we want.”

I twisted, and tried to look at McCabe, then back at Winston.

“Are you two telling me the truth?”

“No,” said Winston, a look of confusion passing over his features. “We’re going to take you to a black site, and you are going to spend the rest of your life under house arrest …” he slapped his hands over his mouth.

McCabe started speaking, “We can’t have people like you running around in the wild. If our enemies knew about your ability, they would either kidnap or kill you.”

“We’re going to have to keep you safe, and you are going to have to work for us. Or you’re not going to work for anyone,” said Winston. “We will retire you.”

The both stopped talking, shock writ large over their faces, horror dawning about what they had just confessed to. They looked at each other then at me.

“Huh,” was all I said. I knew they were bullshitting me in the beginning, trying to be nice, but I didn’t think it was this bad. “But you both are so tired, I think you need to sleep.”

And they did. McCabe fell to the floor and Winston’s head slammed on the table.

Oh, I forgot to mention that besides making people tell the truth, I can also make them sleep on command. Or, I can make suggestions that they believe are true. Even it they aren’t. Think Star Wars, and “these are not the droids you are looking for.”

That was two weeks ago. I’m back at work, and nobody suspects a thing. Just before McCabe and Winston drove me back to my car, at my suggestion, I might have also suggested that they found out nothing about me, and there was no case. It was just a big misunderstanding over a really stellar cop doing a stellar job. Nothing to see here.

But what about next time?