Sometimes dreams feel so real that I’d rather remain sleeping and live in the imaginary world my subconscious has pieced together from memories. Other times, real life feels like a nightmare, and I want to wake up in my bed, sweating but safe, with the horrors being nothing but a mind game.
Today is like that as Detective Shapiro tells me to put my hands behind my back, and she slaps cuffs onto my wrists. Angie’s lips are moving, and she’s jabbing her finger at them like she’s chewing them out, but there is a low hum in my ears, and I’m too dazed to comprehend anything.
The words, we’re taking you in for questioning about the abuse and tampering of a corpse, repeat in my head.
What does this mean?
Am I getting charged for murder?
The detectives steer me out of the apartment, down the stairs, and outside, where the chilly Sunday morning nips at my cheeks with a bitter kiss. Angie clomps after us in her furry slippers, tears streaming down her face as she shouts at them for answers. Detective Shapiro pauses and barks in her face to back off before shoving me into their vehicle. I yell at her to take it easy, but Detective Archibald slams the door in my face when I try to tell Angie everything will be ok, and suddenly, my whole world is smaller than this backseat as we drive away.
∆∆∆
Since my arrival at the station, everything moves in a blur as my wheels spin. How did they find out about my connection to Barry? It must have been Evan. Perhaps he’s a better liar than I give him credit for, and he deceived me that night Sammy and I interrogated him. Shit. I was too soft. If I had let Sammy do his thing, I might not be sitting in this bright room, waiting to be questioned.
The door finally swings open, and my two favorite detectives walk in. Shapiro eases across from me, resting her phone and a folder across the table with a pen in one hand to take notes. Meanwhile, Archibald spins a chair and straddles it with his wrists propped on the backrest. Ok, which one will play good cop, and which will play bad cop? The cuffs clank and chime as I rest my forearms on the table and stare at the detectives like I have better places to be.
“So… am I being charged for something?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why the cuffs?”
“Uncomfortable?” Shapiro purses her lips in fake pity. “Alright, Miguel, there is no way around this, so you might as well confess and tell us where the body is. We have a confession that names you and Jackson Harris as accomplices in the murder of Barry Bakirtzis.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shapiro smirks, “Oh, we’re going to play the innocent game. I see.” She glances at Archibald, who hasn’t stopped glaring at me. “Tell Miguel what we know.”
“Gladly. When Barry Bakirtzis was reported missing by his girlfriend, we spoke with Chloe, and her behavior toward our questioning had us raising our brows. So we looked into the history of their marriage, and it turns out your friend had many reasons to want the guy dead. Yesterday afternoon, we presented her with our findings and how we have probable cause for murder. You should have seen her face," Archibald chuckles. "She was more than willing to strike a deal. In fact, I’ve never seen someone so eager to cooperate to reduce their charges.”
“She sang like a canary,” Shapiro says.
Damn it, Chloe…
“She sure did," Archibald continues. "We brought her in last night, and she confessed to murdering her ex-husband in self-defense and said that you and Jackson Harris helped her cover it up. That’s right—a direct confession from her, and she names you as an accomplice. We also have your friend Jackson in the other room, and I feel he will fill us in on the missing puzzle pieces. Unless…”
“Unless you give us information worth our while,” Shapiro says. “Who knows, maybe we could strike a deal so you serve less time, too.” She looks at Archibald again. “What do you think, five years of prison time with early parole instead of twelve hard years?”
“Yeah, we could work a deal like that if Miguel cooperates with us.” Archibald nods. “So, how about you help yourself and give us what we need.”
Shapiro leans in. “Because I guarantee your friend Jackson will squeal like a firecracker to avoid prison time.”
“Isn’t he going to be a father?” Archibald asks. “I doubt he wants to miss out on his kid’s life. So he’s definitely going to talk first.”
“And not just about where the two of you buried the body. We’ll get him to talk to us about everything else.”
I shrug. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Shapiro glances down at her phone’s screen. “Oh, perfect timing.”
Standing, she smooths down her cocoa brown pantsuit and goes to the door. She opens it wide, then moves over to the windows and yanks the cord on the blinds, slingshotting them open to expose the bright hallway. Across from us is another interrogation room with Jackson in handcuffs, sitting at a table, just like me.
Our gazes connect, and he looks broken, like he’s been sobbing.
How long has he been here?
Another door squeaks open, followed by the shuffling of feet as two police officers escort Chloe down the hallway in handcuffs. She’s like a limp doll as they hold her by the elbows, practically dragging her along. If she could, she would probably cling to the walls to avoid the next part of her arrest. Her nose and eyes are redder than the devil, and her mascara is smudged to shit. The night she killed Barry replays in my head. She said she’d die in jail, and she's right. The pathetic woman sobbing with snot bubbles doesn’t have the spine for prison.
Those women will make her their bitch on night one.
When Chloe sees me, she pauses in her tracks like she’s face-to-face with a grizzly bear in the wilderness and wants to back up slowly, but the police officers force her to keep walking. She darts her gaze, likely ashamed to look me in the eyes after putting my ass on the line for her, but then she glances at Jackson.
“I’m so sorry, Jacks,” she weeps.
These fuckers did this on purpose. They wanted us to see Chloe in cuffs, crying like a wounded animal. They wanted us to know that our friend betrayed us. But why? And what did I do to her that she would look at me like I’m a monster and only apologize to Jackson?
Shapiro is smirking with arms folded as she walks back to the desk and rests her palms on the surface, looking down her nose at me. “Tell you what, we’ll do you a favor and let you sit with your friend Jackson for a bit.”
“Why, so you can listen in on us through a double-sided mirror?” I scoff. “You’re not getting anything from me.”
Archibald pushes out of his chair and stands. “You can keep saying that, but your friend Jackson has already told us plenty. So you might as well confess about the body and tell us what happened to Richie Reddy.”
“While you’re at it, tell us what you know about the Abramovitz and what happened last night, and maybe we’ll forget all about the rest,” Shapiro says.
Ah, so that’s what this is truly about. They’re still trying to solve the bigger case.
But what do they think I know?
When they bring Jackson into the integration room and shove him into a seat across from me, they remove our cuffs and even give us water to drink. I know what this is. They’re trying to make us comfortable, so we’ll talk. The same thing happened when I killed my stepfather. They separated me from my mom and buttered me up, but even as a teen, I knew it was all a game to get me to admit that I killed him.
As soon as the door closes behind both detectives, Jackson leans forward with elbows on the table and buries his face in his palms.
“We are so fucked. I can’t go to jail,” he cries.
“We’re not going to jail. So far, they’ve presented nothing, and it’s because they have nothing. We don’t know what they’re talking about,” I say, hoping Jackson will catch my drift and not say anything incriminating.
But his complexion turns ashy, and he stares like I’ve risen from the dead. He swallows hard. “…They told me Chloe confessed.”
“Fuck!” I slouch in the chair and drag my hands down my face with a groan. If only I could melt into the floor, through the cracks, and escape this damn precinct. “What did you tell them?”
Jackson's shoulders sag. “They said Chloe told them we came to her aid after she killed Barry in self-defense. We got rid of the body and cleaned up the crime scene. They said they have video from someone’s doorbell camera of us removing Barry’s body from the apartment.”
“They made that up. If he’s dead, where is the body? They don’t have one. Last I heard, Barry ran off with his girlfriend’s money because he has a gambling addiction,” I say, and I need Jackson to play along since the detectives are no doubt listening.
“But… they said they have it on camera.”
“Did they show you this supposed footage?”
“No.”
“Then they have nothing. They’re trying to get inside your head, so you’ll falsely confess, which is probably what they did to Chloe. That man had a gambling problem. He’s likely at a bunny ranch in Nevada, face deep in some stripper’s G-string.”
“But… I confessed,” Jackson says like he's wrapping his thoughts around implicating himself.
“Sure, a confession made under duress.”
Jackson swallows, and his eyes are watery. “They said I could serve less time if I cooperate.”
“What did you tell them?”
He whispers and leans in, “That we got rid of the body. That we cleaned up her apartment. They told me they already knew because Evan told them before Chloe did.”
“They lied to you. This is what these cops do. They’ll do anything and say anything to get your confession, even if it’s a false one.” I glare at the double-sided mirror and raise my voice a few octaves, “We all know the cops in this precinct are fucking dirty and took cuts under the table from Richie Reddy.”
“Fuck.” Jackson buries his head in his hands. “They got to me. They tried doing the same when Alma was kidnapped, and they interrogated me for hours. Only this time, they got in my head. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all good. Whatever they have is circumstantial, and they clearly forced a false confession by making threats. Don’t say anything else to them. Next, we need to tell them we want lawyers.”
The interrogation room door swings open, and Shapiro has a hand on her hip. “Alright, that’s enough playtime.”
“Agreed.” I stand. “We’re not saying another word without an attorney present.”
“We figured you’d say that.” Archibald enters and walks to Jackson. “On your feet, big guy.”
“Am I going back to the other interrogation room?”
“Nope, we’re placing you under arrest.” Shapiro pulls out a pair of cuffs. “Now turn around.”
“What?” Jackson looks back at me.
“Wait!” I shout. “We said we want a lawyer.”
“And you’ll get one.” Shapiro slaps the cuffs around Jackson’s wrist and tightens them with a clack clack. “Unfortunately for Mr. Harris, he confessed enough for us to book him. His lawyer will have to deal with things from here.”
“You guys have no proof!” I bark, but Shapiro smiles and saunters up to me. She’s living for this as she brings her face inches from mine so I can feel her warm breath.
“Jackson confessed, and so did Chloe. Do you really want to play the innocent act? It’s only a matter of time until I nail your ass.”
“I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I bet it gets you all hot and bothered thinking about nailing me.”
Her smile morphs into a scowl of disgust as she barks over her shoulder to Archibald, “Take Mr. Harris to get booked. I need a few more minutes with Mr. Gomez.”
“You got it. Let’s go, big fella.” Archibald nudges Jackson.
My poor friend looks like the ground has caved beneath him, and he’s plummeting toward the center of the earth, where he’ll be melted alive by liquid magma. The interrogation room door closes softly behind them with a click, and Shapiro grabs the collar of my shirt and slams my face into the table. It happens so fast I don’t register it until stars sprinkle my vision like confetti exploding from a piñata. The haze is followed by the sensation of something warm oozing down my top lip and dripping onto my chin. I lick, and sure enough, it’s blood.
If my nose wasn’t broken before, it is now.
“That’s police brutality.” I wipe my mouth.
Shapiro stares me down with her knuckles pressed into the table. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am damn good at my job. We did a little digging, and we found an address for a storage shed that used to belong to your stepfather, which you took over. It’s on a secluded property outside of town, which, to me, sounds like the perfect place to hide a body. If I get a judge to sign off on a warrant to search the property, what will I find?”
“A bunch of old worthless shit,” I scoff.
“Guess we’ll just have to find out, and I’ve got a great feeling your friend Jackson will work a deal with us and say exactly where the body is. He has a lot to lose.”
“Yeah, he does, which is why it’s so terrible that you coerced a false confession out of him. How much do you think he’ll win in a lawsuit?”
“Cut the bullshit!” Shapiro slaps her palm against the table, but I stare at her and blink slowly.
“I asked for a lawyer. Are you refusing to honor my Miranda rights, Detective? Tisk, tisk. I believe that can get you fired.”
“Fine.” Her nostrils flare with defeat as she straightens her posture and smooths down her cocoa-brown blazer. “Call a lawyer, but we're detaining you for further questioning. So sit tight. We're not done with you."
"Awesome. I was just getting comfortable."
Shapiro smirks, "You better pray you find a damn good lawyer because I plan to bury you.”
“Bury me? That sounds like a death threat, and considering how dirty this precinct is, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a graveyard with countless bodies in the basement of this place. How bloody are your hands, Detective?”
"How bloody are yours?"
“Dodging the question, huh? I guess that means yours are so thick with blood stains it’s like corn syrup. What will I find if I dig into your history?”
Shapiro heads for the door and pauses before swinging it open. "You're not as clever as you think you are. I will have you charged by the end of the day. I guarantee it."
The door closes behind her, and my shoulders sag with a long exhale.
I think I might be fucked.