The Interrogation Room

The poor bastard does'nt stand a chance.

           I watch Watters, through our security camera, pacing back and forth in the hallway adjacent to the interrogation room. Zooming in from the camera’s remote control in my office, I see beads of sweat on his forehead.

           I count the twelve strides he takes before he turns and retraces his steps. There’s a manned desk at one end of the hallway, a steel door with a wire-meshed glass window at the other end. My office is tucked away beyond the steel door.

           I glance through the one-way glass into the interrogation room. A soft sunbeam bathes the wooden chair where Watters will sit, where he will soon be squirming.

           I decide to give him a few more minutes to stress out before we usher him in. His lips are moving as he paces, probably rehearsing his response to my questions but he is clueless about how hard I’m going to nail him.

           My name is Wylie. I’m the master interrogator with our police force. I’m the dude that messes with your mind, the guy who can lead a suspect to believe that I’m his friend. I’m the guy who paints you into a corner, watches silently as you writhe, then panic and then confess. The bad guys often end up in tears.

           If the truth were known, I’m the bad guy.

           I’m paid big bucks to squeeze out a confession and I do that better than any other police interrogator in this damn country. There is no physical threat, no yelling, no ‘bad cop’ act in what I do but, man, do I ever screw with them.

           I buzz the desk and two police officers lead Watters into the interrogation room. I watch as he looks around at the surroundings. I leave him there, alone, waiting for several minutes. I let the white noise, blasting into the room, take its toll on him. I watch him rub the palms of his hands against his pants and then reach up and tug at his shirt collar. I know he’s ready to be taken down.

           I open the door and Watters turns towards it. I don’t have to introduce myself. Watters and I know each other. Our paths have crossed in the past.

           “Hey Harold,” I say.

           Watters’ eyes widen. “Charlie. What’re you doing here?”

           “I work here.”

           “You’re a cop?”

           “No. I’m their interrogator.”

           “I never knew that about you.”

           “I don’t telegraph it, Harold.”

           “Charlie,” says Watters. “Why am I in this room? Surely you know I’m innocent.” He tries to laugh but the stress that strangles his vocal chords squeezes out a sinister cackle. He is so nervous I see his thighs trembling.

           “Harold,” I say calmly, sitting down beside him, “How're your folks doing? Still living up in the north?”

           “They do.”

           “Is your Dad still coaching the ball team?”

           “Uh huh, he’s still at it.”

           I can sense Watters tension is still high. I pour ice water into two glasses and slide one towards him.

           “You know,” I say, “I often think of our championship season, how we beat the Tigers in extra innings, in their own park. Man that was some night.”

           “Yeah,” Watters says, taking a sip of water and leaning back, relaxing in his chair.

           “And you got the winning hit, didn’t you Harold?”

           Watters nods. “Yeah, I was the guy but it was a little bloop single. Pottsie ran like a gazelle from second base to get the winning run across.”

           “What a night,” I say.

           “Sure was.”

           I’ve brought Watters into the zone where I need him to be. I sit back, sip my water and then slowly wipe my hand across my lips. I look him square in the eye.

           “Horrible news about Emily, eh?” I say.

           “Yeah, horrible,” Watters says.

           “You and Emily used to date, didn’t you, Harold?”

           “Used to. Couple of years ago, now.” Watters’ eyes drop to stare at his glass

           “You guys ever get married?”

           “Hell no.”

           “Hell no?” I echo.

           “Well you remember her, Charlie” said Watters. “Who’d want to marry someone like that? Kind of a weird lady wouldn’t you say?”

           I laugh. “A lot of women are weird, Pal. How so Emily?”

           “Well,” says Watters, “for one, she was not a one-man woman. She was a cheating bitch.”

           “She cheated on you?” I ask while locking his eyes on Watters.

           “Oh yeah. Played me for a sucker.”

           “How did you feel about that, Harold?”

           “Let’s not go there, Charlie. The poor lady’s dead now.”

           “Yeah.” I sit back interlocking my hands behind my head. I release a deep, slow breath. I watch the second hand on the wall clock tick off several beats before I continue.

           “Harold,” I say leaning forward slowly in my chair, “where were you hanging out last Friday night?”

           “I was at home.” I notice a slight twitch in his left eyelid.

           “Can anyone vouch for you?”

           “No. I was home alone. What are you suggesting, Charlie?”

           “You? Home on a Friday night? Alone?” I smile and chuckle. “That’s not the Harold Watters I remember.”

           “Well that’s where I was.” His eyes quickly move away from looking at me. He glances beyond my shoulder towards the mirrored glass where I know my two assistants, viewing the proceedings from the other side, are recording his words and closely studying his body language.

           “Harold,” I say softly, “As hard as this is for me, I have to tell you our detectives have obtained evidence of you recently being in Emily’s car.”

           He quickly looks back at me. His chair squeaks with the rotating of his body. I imagine his pants are sweaty and are sticking to the wooden chair.

           “No way,” Watters blurts. “I’ve been nowhere near her.”

           “I see,” I say.

           Watters leans towards me. “Tell me what they have on me, Charlie?” 

           If he hasn’t already been sweating down his spine, then I imagine the trickle has certainly begun now.

           “I can’t reveal that information Harold.” I tap my fingers on the file folder that I hold in my hand. “It’s classified evidence but I assure you, it’s compelling stuff.”

           He shakes his head.  

           “Tell me what went wrong, Harold,” I continue. “I’m here to listen.

           Watters runs his hand back and forth across his forehead. Crap, he thinks, I know I was drunk when I left the pub on Friday night. Did I not go right home?

                      “Harold,” I say. “I know Emily broke your heart. The police have talked with several of your friends. And hers. Your friends say she really hurt you. That’s got to suck, Man.”

           “Oh, it sucked all right,” says Watters.

                       I continue. “The police report also says that Emily’s friends suggest that you have harassed and even threatened her occasionally.”

                      “Those are lies,” Harold blurts out. He wriggles in his chair. I can sense he is close to breaking.

                      “Listen Harold.” I pause for a few seconds. “I know you didn’t actually mean to kill Emily last Friday night. Believe me, I understand how a broken heart can summon up a degree of anger in us that we never think possible.”

           “No Charlie, I’m not that kind of guy.” Harold’s breathing is shallow, his voice is weak.

                      “Harold, listen to me.” I am speaking in a tone just above a whisper. “The evidence is too powerful.” I tap the file folder in my hand. “I suggest you just confess and I’ll do my best to get the charges reduced to manslaughter.”

           “I didn’t do it, Charlie.” Watters is crying. I touch his forearm.

           “Poor Harold,” I say softly. I set him up for the kill.

                      It takes another fifteen minutes of coercing Watters before he convulses. He completely crumbles, allowing me to extract a confession. I stand up and rest my hand on my old friend’s slumped shoulder. He is bawling like a child.

                      “You’ve done the right thing, Harold. You’ll soon feel better for letting it all out. Trust me, I’ve seen this before.” I get up and leave the room, closing the door.

                      I growl at my assistants, telling them to get out of my office, to leave me alone. I pull a flask of whiskey from my drawer and take two deep gulps. I notice my left hand is clenched in a fist and I feel the dull ache of another stress headache settling in at the back of my skull.

                      I’m unable to sleep well that night, jolted awake several times by nightmares that leave me gasping for breath. Just as Emily gasped for breath when being strangled last Friday night. I am also haunted by repeated visions of how easily I ripped Watters’ soul apart during the interrogation. The poor bastard.

                      In the morning, I report to the police chief’s office. I tell him I’m done with this shit. The job of breaking people apart no longer gives me a rush. Especially when it’s an old friend. I hand the Chief the envelope with Watters’ signed confession. I also give him my resignation.

                      I don’t tell the Chief that I lied to Watters about the police having evidence against him. I don’t tell him that Watters is actually innocent of murdering his old girlfriend, Emily Ostander.

           I take my briefcase and walk away without looking back.

                      Our investigating detectives are such imbeciles. The only reason they even suspected Watters, in the first place, was because of the hints I dropped and the rumours I circulated.

           They will never connect me to Emily’s murder. That cheating woman broke my heart too, you know.