Broken Mirrors

Chapter 6: James Charles

"Someone is obviously framing me! I had nothing to do with this!" Charles shouted.

"Come on, Charles. Who would frame you?" Lloyd asked.

"Probably my bitch ex-wife!"

"Charles, that doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe it was Ralph Walker, someone is setting me up!"

"James, if you've got nothing to hide then answer the questions. Did you know Abigail Thompson?"

"I never knew her until she turned up dead."

"How about Rachel Walker?"

"I didn't know her either."

"So, why did you call them repeatedly?"

"I'm telling you, that number isn't mine."

"Alright, I'll play your game, James. Let's say the number isn't yours. Why would somebody write your name on the Rolodex card next to the number?"

"How should I know that? I told you already, somebody is setting me up!"

"So, you're not going to cooperate with us then?"

"Cooperate with you? I'm just as lost in all of this as you are!"

"James, where were you on the nights of the murders?"

"I was home, I think. I don't remember exactly where I was. That was over a year ago now."

"Can you see from our perspective how this doesn't look so good for you? Just tell us what you know."

"I told you already, I didn't know that bitch Abigail Thompson and I damn sure didn't know Rachel Walker."

"Alright, so that's the way that we're playing it. We're going to get a warrant for your house. Anything you want to tell us before we do so?"

"Bite me. Whatever happened to officer loyalty?" Charles said.

Lloyd led Charles out of the room and escorted him into a holding cell.

"We got this cell just for you!" Hanson said.

"This cell might be for me, but this middle finger is for all of you," Charles said, holding up his middle finger.

When we finally got our warrant, Parker and I made our way with Hanson and Lloyd to Officer James Charles's home address to collect his belongings and look for anything that could be deemed suspicious.

Officer Charles lived alone since the divorce. His wife had taken their two kids along with half of his money and all his dignity. So, Charles could only afford a small, one-bedroom apartment on Maple Street. Charles' apartment was interesting to say the least.

From the outside, the apartment building was nice enough. It was an old brick building which had withstood most of the decay around it. The inside, however, was a different story.

He had one lone, ripped couch in his living room with an old stained coffee table directly in front of it. Pornographic magazines littered the table. He had a small television across from the couch.

His kitchen wasn't much less depressing. His refrigerator was completely empty save for a bottle of ketchup and an expired bottle of mustard and his freezer was home to two frozen steaks. His sink was piled high with used dishes.

The bathroom was pretty much as you'd expect. Our investigation progressed to his bedroom.

The sheets were awry on his bed, there was a nightstand with a lamp adjacent to it, covered in dust. If slovenliness was a crime, he'd be doing 25 to life. His room had one small closet and in it were his police uniforms, some very wrinkled collared shirts, and a safe.