Chapter 12:

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Reads: 181

“We are all mad here---certainly, they may tell you different, but when it comes down to it there is no fooling the grand inquisitor. We, have all killed our own gods and we lay floating in the messages that are left to burn. We crawl along the floor trying to make sense of the burnt pieces that float to the ground, impossible to link themselves to the others. The wind blowing knocks them off the place that is easy to access those very pieces and we chase the wind, tiring ourselves in a pure kind of utter futility.” The man speaking paused to rub his eyes and shift in his chair, all the while, shivering a bit. Officers Stanton and Horowitz looked at each other and then Stanton moved his head from side to side, the way one does when they are cracking their neck to relieve tension. Horowitz on the other hand got up from his chair where he had been sitting directly in front of the man who had been speaking, and moved around the room near the door. He reached into his back pocket and pulled from his pants a pack of Extra gum. Opening it, he pulled one foil-wrapped stick from the pack and placed the rest of the pack back in his pocket. Stanton looked up at him, and then looking down, took off his glasses and polished the lenses off with his button-up shirt. “Jesus Horowitz, ain’t ya even gonna offer?” Horowitz, now chomping on a new stick of Extra and savoring the initial splash of flavor looked back at him. “What? What is it you want, Stanton?” Stanton’s eyes got big and he replied “How bout’ a stick of that fine and fresh Winterfresh Extra, you so quickly stuffed back in your pocket? Eh?”

All the while, the man in the chair that the two officers had been interrogating, said not a word. Officer Stanton even offered him a stick of gum, but the man sitting in that chair did nothing but stare ahead. The two officers wondered how it was that they had gotten him to talk in the first place, having been in that room for hours. He turned his head around in a circle slowly, and then back, easing tension. Stanton and Horowitz opened the door and left, locking it from behind.

The man in the chair ran his hands through his messed up and mangy hair. He looked at both his hands and then flipped them over. His skin was cracking. He then placed the pads of his fingertips on his growth of beard. It was mangy, unkept, like his hair. One could say, if they didn’t know any better, that he was mangy. But that simply wasn’t the case. In fact, as far as he was concerned, it was only a few moments ago that he was somewhere completely different, doing something completely different, wearing completely different clothes, with people, completely different people. He had been stolen from that place by something. It wasn’t his fault what had happened next. Sure, Officers Stanton and Horowitz would tell him that. They had already told him that.

He closed his eyes tight and tried to THINK THINK THINK! Where was it that he had been? Who was he? What had been his name? He looked down at his shoes, they were low-top hiking apparel of some sort. Had he been a hiker? An outdoorsy type? The shirt he was wearing, quite plain and purple, did not remind him of your typical outdoorsman. The shirt had a collar reminding him of DeNiro or that guy with the really blue eyes who played Henry Hill in Scorsese’s Goodfellas. It was definitely an odd combination, the gangster shirt with the woodsman shoes. His pants, khaki with pockets, spoke nothing but the need for utility that went unused. Maybe he was a lazy individual? Possibly a minimalist? Why would a man wear pants that had large pockets, if he didn’t plan on using them?

Then the man got up from his chair, with his hands in his pockets, he began to walk slowly around the room. He looked at the texture of the walls, and made a complete composite of the whole room inside his mind. If either of the officers that had been grilling him came into the room at any given second, this man would be able to draw the room in a sketchbook days after he had been removed from it. Opening and closing his eyes acted like the shutter on a Polaroid camera. CHUCK CHUCK!!! Went the sound.

When he opened and closed his eyes, his walking paced stopped. As his eyes began to flicker---CHUCK CHUCK CHUCK soon becoming CHICKA CHICKA CHICKA quicker and quicker like some kind of spastic snapshot, then so did his feet shift quicker. His legged began to twitch and tremble a bit and his feet started to pick up the paced. Someone passing by, looking through the little interrogation room window may have though he was tap-dancing or something. But he was not tap dancing. In fact, that same person that might look in, when making their way from what it was his feet were doing to the expression of his face, may very well draw back in horror. It was not a pretty sight, whatever it was that was happening to this man---this man whose name had not been discovered by those officers who had left the room. Instead, alone, the man’s knees seemed to give out and he dropped to the floor, still twitching and frantically slithering towards the door---his hands curled up immobile, crippling his ability to reach to even knock on the door to try and make a sound that someone would hear and come to.

The man tried to open his mouth, but his bottom lip curled in his mouth and was cemented between his teeth that clenched down on it. He let out a loud wince of pain and in the same instant, he found his legs pushing him closer and closer to the wall. He slammed up against it, his arms cramped up and his hands crippled, immobile. Now sitting with his back against the wall, he moved his head back against the wall, bearly touching it, but soon hitting it, bending down his neck and slamming his head back again and again against the wall. As if his neck had a life all to its own, it snapped back his head against the wall over and over, now rapidly, and there started to form a spot of blood on the wall where his head continued to slam repeatedly.

As the pounding continued, Officer Stanton opened the door holding two cups of coffee, with officer Horowitz trailing behind him. The two men saw what was happening, and with quick reflexes Stanton pulled his gun, not aiming at the man whose head seem to be slamming and spattering against the wall---instead just holding against his side but moving closer. Horowitz turned around and using the station phone that was located just outside the door, he made a call. Within minutes there were people from the emergency medical unit entering the room. The man who had been slamming his head made a large bloody spot on the wall and then at the point in which he must have lost consciouness, his body slumped down. The man in question was picked up and placed on a stretcher. His body was carried out of the room. Horowitz and Stanton demanded that at least two officers were on him at all times, no matter where his body was to be taken.

After all the hoopla in the room had been cleared out, the two officers sat down across from each other at the table, doctoring their prospective coffees to their liking. “You know, our boy there, the wall-banger, I’m not sure what we can keep him for. We got nothing,” said Stanton. Horowitz was taking a sip of his coffee and then placing the cup back on the table, but still holding it, remarked, “Not only do I know this, but my coffee is cold now---it tastes like piss.” Stanton smiled a bit but did not laugh. “Really though, how are we gonna keep him here? He’s a complete fucking loon. Nobody is gonna believe that this guy I working with a full deck. Hell, I don’t even think he did what we are saying he did---doesn’t seem to me that this guy can produce a complete sentence, much less murder somebody.” Horowitz, having anticipated further discussion on the matter, had done a little more homework before he had come into interrogate the man, and he began to open the folder he had placed next to his cup of coffee. In doing so, he placed a Xeroxed file in front of Stanton. Stanton’s was a fresh copy, whereas Horowitz’s bore many highlighted areas and decorated margins.

Stanton looked up at Horowitz after a while, “Says here he’s never done time.” Horowitz began to chuckle. “You have been pawing through that shit for nearly twenty minutes and that is all that you have come up with?” “Well, forgive me if it is a tad important. A guy that has never been convicted of anything, being pulled in here for a murder we have nothing on him for. Not to mention the fact that he just basically spazzed out like big time. Fuck, I don’t even know if he is still alive.” And when Stanton was done, Horowitz said, “Well, he wasn’t dead when he left here, genius.”

Earlier that same day, Officer Larry Stanton had been called upon by his partner, Rob Horowitz, to meet him at the scene of a murder at a strip club somewhere in midtown Manhattan. When Horowitz arrived at the club in question, there were beautiful women in long coats all standing together outside, looking across the street at the building directly across from it. There were three squad cars parked directly outside the club, blocking the traffic coming in both directions. Horowitz knew it must have been a big deal, whatever it was, as blocking traffic in such a manner was always a last resort.


Submitted: February 04, 2011

© Copyright 2021 delapruch. All rights reserved.

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