If I had to choose, my least favorite place on this planet would have to be prison. I mean, isn't it everyone's? And even though it comes with the territory of the job, I can't stand being inside this place. As soon as the metal gate clicks behind me, I practically burst into hives. My skin itches and it spreads up my arms and down my legs. It's like my body is aware of how boxed in I am.
We've done this walk a thousand times before, but a guard still guides us to a private room for our chat. The long corridor is a nauseating beige and the echo of our footsteps almost drowns out the buzzing in my head. To my right, Drake walks confidently, completely unaware of my claustrophobia. He doesn't even notice when I roll my shoulders back to ease the strain in my chest.
As we pass a row of cells, the inmates wait at the bars, their eyes on us. I imagine many of them wondering if we're here for them, to help or make things worse. But for some reason, I can feel their stares burning holes through me. They're worthless, I hear them whisper. No worth in their blood. A couple of them even let out wolf-whistles, which the guard in front of us turns and snaps at them before carrying on as if nothing happened.
Finally, he comes to a stop outside a series of doors. He waits for it to unlock, and then he holds it open for us. Drake ushers me in first. I've seen the inside of this room (and others like it) many times; its damp grey walls close in on the metal table with two chairs. A camera with a red light watches us from the upper corner.
I glance back at the guard. "That's new?" I point up at the camera.
He stares back blankly. "Yep. Just video though. No audio."
I nod thoughtfully as he leaves us to retrieve our suspect — well, not a suspect anymore.
Drake gets to work readjusting the room to our needs. He moves the chairs so they are opposite each other and he places the files from his briefcase onto our side. He even organizes the folders neatly.
"Oh," he says, looking over to me. "There was something that came up the other day when we looked into Jackson. We had interviewed him before."
"What?" My heart thumps in my ear. "When? How did we miss him?"
"After the first murder - Imogen Russell - we interviewed him. He was a coworker a couple of people pointed out." He sighs at his stack of papers. "Actually, they brought him up again - at least a couple of times. They said he was acting weirder and weirder, then he was fired. But they were turned away because he had no connection to the other victims."
I feel like the room is about to fall onto me. "Are you saying we could've ended his killings?"
He shakes his head. "No." He looks off at the wall. "We don't know what would've happened, but it doesn't matter." Drake meets my eyes. "We got him now."
After a minute, he says, "You can sit," gesturing to the only chair on this side of the table.
My lip curls. "Just because I'm the woman doesn't mean I should sit," I snap, the thought barely formed before it flies out of my mouth. Drake flinches so slightly I almost miss it. I glance away. "I'm good standing."
"Damn," he mutters. "That's cold, even for you, Lynne."
I scratch at my throat. It didn't feel so good coming out. I mean, I'm used to my filter not working correctly eighty percent of the time, but that was excessive. Drake hasn't ever patronized me. He's only ever been a gentleman.
Before I can decide to apologize, the lock buzzes and the door swings open. Two guards pull in the man we've been waiting for.
Aaron fucking Jackson.
They bring him to the table, unlocking the cuffs on his hands and cuffing him to the table. Jackson sinks into the chair, and Drake sits opposite him. One guard leaves while the other stands back. But I don't bother looking. My eyes remain trained on Jackson, watching his every movement.
He looks worse than the other night. His hair is just as unruly, and he has dark bags under his eyes. And if I'm being honest, the orange isn't doing him any favors.
He doesn't look at us. His eyes are elsewhere, kind of like before. I take a breath, bracing myself for the same level of instability he showed three days ago.
"Mr. Jackson," Drake starts after a moment of heavy silence. "I'm Detective Drake Barlow, and this is Detective Jennifer Lynne. We're here to talk to you about the events of March 13th and the last five months."
For the first time since being in the room, Jackson finally lifts his eyes and they meet mine. I furrow my brow. As I look into his eyes, I don't see that wild look anymore. They're calm and still. Not...insane. It's like he's not the same person. But he is. He has to be.
Then, an intrigued smile curls along his face. I can't quite place it.
"Mr. Jackson," I say. "I want to —"
"I'll talk," he interrupts. I cock my head and Drake readjusts himself in the chair. "That is what you want, yes? But I won't talk if he's in the room." He's pointing to Drake.
I look down at Drake, who's shaking his head. I glance back at Jackson, and I can tell if he's being honest; he definitely won't talk if we don't do this. I motion for Drake to step away with me.
As soon as we're against the wall, he immediately says, "No, Jennifer. I'm not leaving you alone with him.
"This might be the only way he'll open up to us," I say, and he knows I'm right. This is the killer of the decade, and we have him sitting right in front of us. He just wants a selective audience. No big deal. "And he's restrained," I add just in case he isn't convinced.
Drake sighs nervously, glancing between me and the man chained to the table. "Fine," he eventually says. "I'll be right outside, okay?"
I nod, and Drake heads for the door. Jackson smirks as he watches him go. He even gives him a little finger wave. But as the door unlocks, Jackson calls out, "Wait." He gestures to the guard in the corner. "Take him too."
Drake worriedly looks at me, but I nod. "It's okay. I'll be fine."
They both leave, and the door shuts behind them, locking me in this room with a serial killer.
This certainly doesn't help the hives.
Although I hate it, I sit down in the chair. I eye at his chest. "You're surprisingly fine after getting shot."
He laughs, but it's dry and cracked. "Oh yeah, the prison nurse gave me a nice bandaid."
"Why'd you do it?"
Jackson raises a brow. "Do what?"
I lean forward, clasping my hands together as if I'm going to indulge him. "Tell me why you did it," I repeat. "You had no priors, you were seemingly a good member of society. So, what made you up and kill six people?"
"You should know."
"Excuse me?"
He gives me that cocky smirk. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."
Alright, I suppose I have to indulge. "Try me."
He motions for me to lean in close, and with an annoyed sigh, I do. He inhales deeply before he says, "It was the demon." His straight face falls as he bursts into maniacal laughter.
My shoulders tense and what feels like a ball rolls through my stomach. Wow. Okay, so he wants to play it that way, huh? "I think I'm done here," I say as I begin to stand.
"Wait, wait!" He shouts, the chains at his wrists clanking. "I'm being serious."
I shake my head as I start to gather the files Drake set up. "I've heard nearly every excuse in the book, buddy; poltergeists, ghosts, even the fucking talking dog."
"If anyone should understand, it's you, Jennifer."
Abruptly, I let go of the folders. My body is stiff as I uncomfortably look down at him. He has a still, straight look on his face and his eyes are hooded. "W-What are you —" I start to say.
"I know what's happening to you right now. I know what's wrong with you."
My throat contracts. "H-How could you possibly...?"
"Because I went through the same exact thing five months ago."
I desperately look over his face, trying to see if he's bullshitting me. But my internal detector feels off or even broken. I don't know if I don't want to believe him or if he's actually being real.
I shake my head. "No. Demons don't exist. It's the lousy excuse murderers like you give to get off."
"It's not an excuse!" He angrily slams his hands onto the table, and I jump. "It was inside of me, and now it's inside of you." I start to scoff, but the air in the throat is cut off when he says, "I can smell it on you." His lip twitches into a grin. "It smells like rot."
A numbness tingles throughout my jaw and it feels like ants are marching up my skin. When the ringing in my ears stops, I let out an irritated scoff and I snatch up all of the files. "Fuck you! You're going to burn in hell. Guard!"
As the door unlocks, Jackson calls and yells for me, but I don't entertain him anymore. I can't. I won't.
When the door shuts and his yelling is silenced, I close my eyes and finally let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding in.
I open my eyes to see Drake leaning against the wall. He stands straight when I approach. "What happened?" He asks, his eyes searching me. "And why do you look so spooked?"
"Me? Spooked?" I try to give my best fake laugh. "Please. Nothing spooks me anymore."
"Well?" He gestures to the room behind me. "What did he say? Was it worth it?"
I sigh, not even bothering to hide that one. "No. Not worth it at all." I glance down the hall to see the guards returning, most likely to retrieve Jackson. "Come on, let's get out of here," I say quickly, not wanting to see that man again.
Come on, Jennifer, I tell myself. Don't let the bastard get to you. I've certainly heard crazier stories from criminals before. So, why do I still feel that breeze down my back and the cold, hard truth in my gut?
Total word count (as of end of chapter 4): 8,332
As of this past weekend, Of Death & Virtue is finished! Or at least the first draft is lol. But writing the ending is such an incredible feeling. I have edits to work through still, but the finish line is so close. I'm ecstatic to say that I will for sure be finishing the contest this year! I can also give a proper update on updates: I have planned uploads of chapters four times a week! Twice on Wednesdays and twice on Fridays (as long as I get my edits done on time). Round one went super well, and I can't wait to see what happens next! Thanks for reading!