Bros before Hos

The silence in the room was the cold, still air of a museum awaiting the newest treasured discovery broken only by the sound of Masters as he shuffled papers, reviewing the confession. He read and reread the testimony, his eyes cutting a narrow beam of intense concentration as if to pin the words to the paper and extract from them the wriggling, resistant Truth. After a few minutes, he rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair, then took a sip of his coffee.

Less than an hour had past and Detective Craig Masters’ stomach was still doing the slow-roll to nausea. He hated interrogations, always had, but they were part of the job. Usually he let his partner, Detective Fisk, deal with them. The old man was far better at cracking criminals than Masters was—probably because of his first-hand knowledge.

Masters looked over the rim of his coffee cup and found the owl-frame glasses and silent stare of his partner. Fisk’s hands were placed on top of the double-wide desk they shared and his own cup of coffee was sending ignored curls of steam into the air. As Masters met Fisk’s gaze, Fisk raised an eyebrow, making a statement of immense meaning between these two notoriously laconic Detectives. Masters sighed.

“You’re right,” said Masters, “it was too easy.”

Fisk nodded, exactly once. “Let us revisit it,” he said softly, “and find out how and why.”
“To say nothing of where, what and who.”

“Whom.”

Without acknowledging the correction, Masters picked up a remote to a VCR connected to a nearby, ancient-looking TV and pressed “play.” The screen flickered to life.

***

The chain connecting the cuffs jingled slightly when the suspect was brought into the room. The chair they allowed him to sit in was the institution-standard, uncomfortable model. The lights were hotspots sitting in an edgy ambiance, casting the corners of the room in razor-sharp bias. The temperature was just this side of too hot, or just that side of too cold, depending on your point of view. The long, perfectly polished observation mirror was a cold monolith that shielded the accusing eyes behind it and reflected the nervous expression of the man twitching slightly behind the desk.

The suspect’s bald head was already lightly dusted with perspiration and his pupils were slightly dilated—either the fear or the toxins in his system, surely. The red t-shirt he wore was already starting to moisten at the armpit and neck, promising the reek of anxiety later. His breathing was quick and nervous, like the way his hands moved as they sought a comfortable place to hide. When the door behind him creaked open, he almost jumped off the chair as he let out a tiny, startled yelp.

The man who came through the door seemed anything but intimidating. His round glasses sat atop an aquiline nose, and with the bald head surrounded by a half-torus of silvery hair, he looked more a librarian than a police officer. He had a prim, brownish tie that matched his belt and shoes, all three a shade darker than his slacks. Completing the image, his white shirt was starched and pressed to within an inch of its life, but hid the folded edges under a cream- colored cable-knit sweater-vest. He had clipped his shield to his belt, seemingly as an afterthought. It caught the light with a flashing, golden glare.