Trails

Chapter 18: Working Like a Pro

"We're here," I said.

I pushed my left foot against the pedal and sped over to the station: a thick brown coating reaches over the building.

Dark windows, a white door, and a brown sedimentary sign with yellow letters etched on the surface.

Along with the sign, sheriff cars sat comfortably in between the white lines. I entered the dark gray area and parked the red convertible in right next to the police car.

Together, we got out of the car and hurry over to the department, where Miles Emerson is spending the rest of his years in a prison cell.

For now, I think he's going to stay there until the authorities transfer him to a different prison.

Ben and I pushed through the doors of the sheriff's department then hurried to the interrogation room.

Running, I saw blue carpet turning into a moving conveyor belt. Sun brightens the light blue office as the heat seeps through the window.

Clamoring of phones, talking, and the sounds of  coffee pots brewing dark liquids.

With our sneakers rubbing against the carpet, we took a sharp right turn and saw an empty corridor.

"Maybe we should ask someone," I suggested.

Ben nodded in agreement as he notices an overweight sheriff, chewing a huge jelly doughnut.

Other than wearing a brown uniform, he had dark greasy hair, blue eyes, and a ring that squeezes the fatness in his fingers.

"Excuse me, sir." I began. "We would like to go to the interrogation room."

A loud laugh escaped from his throat.

"And I would like to marry a Victoria's Secret model," he mumbled sarcastically.

"Seriously?" Ben snorted.

"There is a teenager lying that he killed people. We want you to tell us where the interrogation room."

"Why?" he rasped. "You kids don't know anything about what they're doing in there."

"We know that you're wasting our time." I spat, earning me a look from Ben. 

"Nicole," Ben snarled. "Keep your cool."

I bit my lip from keeping my words under control.

"Fine," I snapped, glaring at the fat sheriff. "What do you want?"

The sheriff dropped his jelly doughnut and glanced in my direction.

"A lady's phone number," he answered.

I went into my pocket for my phone and gave him Aunt Jessica's number.

"Here," I insisted. "Now can you tell us where the interrogation room is?"

The sheriff looked at the number written on his paper, then back at me.

"Is this a legit phone number?" he asked.

Seriously?

"Dude, it's her phone number." Ben sighed. "Tell us where the room is!"

"Keep heading forward in the left corridor, and go to the right." he instructed.

Ben and I flashed him a cold look.

"What?" he asked.

"Gee," I beamed sarcastically. "I would have thanked you so much, but you didn't tell us that five minutes ago."

"Yeah," Ben agreed. "Thanks a lot."

Together, we walked back to the left corridor and followed the sheriff's instructions.

We kept pacing until I found a silver door. As soon as I turned the knob, I saw sheriff officers,  FBI agents, and the mayor of Nebraska standing in front of the glass mirror.

In every criminal movie, you see every  interrogation room being dark. Either because directors made it look conspicuous, or because darkness is the new "suspense".

It was so pitch dark in the interrogation room that I couldn't see anything. I put out my hand waved it around in case if I bump into something.

But the minute my hand touched someone's shoulder, I froze instantly.

"Hello?" a voice called. "Who is this?"

Instead of answering his or her question, I watch two policemen throwing questions at Miles: he wore a red plaid shirt, jeans, and black sneakers.

His red hair looked like it had been in a shower. His eyes were red and sore from crying, and his face is even paler than Ben's.

"Oh, crap." I murmured.

"Why the hell are you asking me to confess when I already did?" Miles yelled. "I killed them! I killed them all!"

Although he convinced half of the authorities, I noticed squeakness in his voice, and his finger tapping viciously against the white table.

The way he keeps looking at the surface, it's like he's ashamed of something.

Inside the room, two cops circled around Miles like they're the Great White. Shaking their heads, they left the room.

"This is hopeless," one of the cops say. "We can't get this guy to crack."

"He has to be working with an accomplice."

I turned on the lightswitch and cleared my throat very loudly.

The guys who were staring at the glass, stared at us in shock. The mayor took a careful look at us before collecting his thoughts.

He wore a brooding dark suit and wire glasses. The mayor had no hair on his plump face, yet he wears a fake toupee on his head. He has blue eyes and a serious frown.

"How did you kids-" he ask.

"Snuck into the interrogation room without you noticing?" Ben finished.

"We followed the yellow bricked road, it wasn't that hard."

The sheriffs started threatening us to leave, until I stopped them.

"Let me talk to him," I insisted. "Maybe he can open to me-"

"Yeah, right." one of the sheriffs interrupted.

"How can you talk to a crook like him?"

"Seriously," Ben sighed. "Do you really want to go there?"

"You have been interrogating him for how many hours? Three? Four?"

The sheriffs sucked their cheeks and said nothing.

"Let Cole take care of this," Ben insisted. "I've seen her do it."

"And unless Mayor, you want Miles to crap in his pants, I strongly suggest you let Cole do the interrogation. Wouldn't you agree, sir?"

After Ben was finished with his speech, everyone looked at him in surprise.

The mayor looked at him with sheer amazement then gave him permission. From that incredible moment, I fell madly in love with Ben's snarkiness. 

Smiling, I navigated my way into the field of muscular professionals, opened the gray door to the interrogation room, and entered inside.

The minute I closed the door, Miles stopped looking at the table and fastened his eyes at me.

"Mia?" he baffled. "What are you doing here?"

Quietly, I waltzed over to the chair and stared at him for a moment.

"Miles," I began. "I want to know what really happened at Wesley's birthday party."