We Don't Torture People, Even If They Deserve It

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 "For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream."

~ Vincent Van Gogh 


"There has to be some misunderstanding! I'm just a scientist. I'm not rich! Please, you can take all my money!" The man turned out his wallet and pulled out two sopping one dollar bills. He tried to give the crumbled currency to V.C. but she backed away. 

It wasn't that she had anything against dollar bills. 

She just had something against sweaty dollar bills. 

"For the last time, Dr. Robinson," Jack groaned out from his perch on a stool in the warehouse, "We are not kidnappers. We're--I'm a federal agent. And I have some questions for you."

"Hey, I have some questions too!" V.C. said, pacing in front of Dr. Robinson. He was seated in a single chair in the middle of the warehouse. He was under the delusion that the two of them had kidnapped him for ransom. 

And sure, maybe V.C. and Jack may have abruptly arrested him with no prior explanation but they didn't put a bag over his head and shoved him into the trunk. 

Not that V.C. hadn't suggested that. 

Jack had shot that idea down. But after a moment's hesitation. 

He really was upset that someone tried to kill him. Again. 

He must be hurting pretty bad too. V.C. could see it in his movements, each move was robotic as he tried to hide the pain. 

"What does OSHA want with me? I do everything by the book! I clean all my equipment, I take inventory." He paused and blanched under his reddened complexion. Whispering and leaning forward, he said, "Is this. . . is this because of the underground smoking? Because I swear, it was only a couple of time and I'll never used the emergency exit again. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay?"

V.C. could see that Jack had more questions about Dr. Robinson's misuse of emergency exits but held them in. 

"Dr. Robinson. I am an FBI agent." He flipped open his badge to show the man, "I'm not worried about the smoking. . .right now. Right now, I need to know about your relationship with Dr. Sanchez."

"Pauline? Why?"

Struggling off the stool he was sitting on, Jack started forward but V.C. flipped around to take this question. She motioned for Jack to remain sitting and she saw the relief flash across his face. 

"We'll be asking the questions here, Dr. Robinson. Now start talking!"

Just like the movies. 

Flustered, the man started yappering. "We had a very professional relationship. We worked together on a project for SuperNova, that was it!"

"Then why was she murdered with Xanax? The exact same prescription you take for your insomnia." V.C. jingled the orange bottle in her hand, the pills rattling inside. 

"Murdered? Murdered?! With my pills? I think I'm going to be sick."

Oh, please. . .

V.C. hated when suspects hurled while in custody. While she never had to clean up vomit, she didn't enjoy watching anyone upchuck.

She kicked a trash can over with her foot. It skidded across the floor, wobbling until it stopped next to Dr. Robinson. 

Indicating that he should contain his possible vomit to the metal can, V.C. continued. 

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