This Space Feels Empty

Part 1

The room was confining and encased by patchworked walls of white cement bricks. A singular, plain table with a chair on either side sat directly in the center and the monitoring eye of a camera rested in the upper left corner. A police officer or detective, with depthless eyes sat in the chair across from a man, Mr. Jones. For Mr. Jones, the police man (he thinks now he was a detective but he couldn't quite remember) seemed to be a permanent fixture, like he was just as much the room as the room was him. And the detective, who was part of the chair and the room, wore glasses with white frames, that covered his roving eyes. The detective continued to stare forward, not looking at the man, but only monitoring and waiting. Aside from his roving eyes, the detective's body was frozen, not a single fidget. And occasionally he asked questions but they were short and direct, probably so that he could record everything Mr. Jones did.

The questions were simple enough. How are you feeling? Can I get you some coffee? But Mr. Jones knew these questions weren't just simple questions, they were nudges. Towards what, he wasn't sure. But he sensed something because the officer's depthless eyes continued only to record and monitor, just like the camera in the corner of the room. Was the detective trying to implicate him? He wasn't guilty and no cold, cement room and emotionless police detective was going to make him believe otherwise.

"Sir can you please recount everything that happened tonight? From about five on. We're just trying to get a sense of what is going on," The detective said and this time his voice wasn't cold. It was pleading. Mr. Jones looked up at the detective but still didn't answer.

"Mr. Jones, please. We are trying to help you." The detective's voice again sounded off, not cold like when they asked if the man, Mr. Jones, wanted coffee. Mr. Jones looked at the detective's eyes that were ringed by dark circles. Oh Smith. Of course, he'd forgotten but Mr. Jones remembered the detective's name was Smith. He looked back up at Detective Smith who wore white framed glasses.

"Mr. Smith, please. I've told you everything I know. I don't know why I'm even here," Mr. Jones said, offering the detective the first words he had said since the last time he told them everything he knew.

"Well one more time. Please, if you will," The detective asked and looked down at the white Styrofoam cup in front of him. He took a sip, made a bitter face, and looked back the man. The man, Mr. Jones, he sighed.

"Around five, at least I think it was five, but sometime around then I went down the street from my apartment for a drink. It had been a rough day. My mother is dead now and I just wanted to get a drink. Not that we ever got along well, actually that might be an understatement, but still, she died, so I wanted to get a drink. So, I went down to the bar and bought a rum and coke, probably. I can't remember exactly but that's what I normally get. Anyhow, it was well rum and the ice melted fast because the coke was room temperature so it wasn't good. I told the bartender but he just shrugged and I didn't feel like arguing because my mom's gone now and I did love her. So, I just decided I wouldn't tip when it was time to go. Anyway, I stayed there for a while and had a few more rum and cokes probably and I'm sure by then the street lights were on.

So, when the street lights come on I normally go home. I leave the bar, walk home, eat leftovers and go to bed. It was early I think, around nine? I'm not completely sure but that sounds about right. Which is why I don't understand why I'm here or what you want with me," Mr. Jones said and watched the detective remove his glasses, wiped them against his blue uniform and sigh.

Detective Smith didn't know what to do here. This situation was unlike any other he'd encountered in his long career. The station was small and the town, normally safe. He was waiting, waiting for orders on what to do next. Nothing could have prepared him for this man, Mr. Jones. He glanced up at Mr. Jones and he looked away and down, at the glasses in Detective Smith's hands.

Mr. Jones was small, remarkably so for a man with such big hands. His hair was greasy and looked like his hands had run through it many times. His eyes moved fast, but he stayed still in the seat, only moving when a big sigh overtook his body. He looked perplexed, sometimes genuinely confused as to why he was being interviewed. Other times, a glint of something else showed. A furrow of eyebrows, a smile, and sometimes even flaring nostrils.

And at this point, Detective Smith wasn't even sure why they had continued to interview him. A confession was unlikely and though it would probably make things easier in the long run, it just didn't seem to be worth it. They were stalling and he'd been chosen to occupy Mr. Jones time until they figured out exactly who he was and compiled the necessary evidence. But Detective Smith had never dealt with anything like this, rarely anything more than domestic disputes gone wrong. Jones, was different and they needed more help, so he continued to interview and interview in the hopes that he would maybe get something while he waited for orders on how to proceed.