Jail Scene

 

The cold handcuffs grind against the bones of my skinny wrists. I struggle against the guards, but not for the purposes of escape, it’s just that they are a fair bit taller than me, and it is hard to walk when you are being lifted in the air by your armpits. They seemed to have picked up on my discomfort, as they put me down and held onto me by the collar of my shirt. Though this was not a courtesy, they just knew I would move along quicker if I could walk.

At last, we come to the visitation room, and the one who came to see me is already there. In that cold grey room, a single window behind him is the only source of dim light, he almost looks like a silhouette. I am handcuffed to my chair across the table from him, he asks the guards to leave, they comply, and our conversation begins.

“We found another one of your victims,” says my Detective, as he pulls out a manilla envelope from the suitcase at his feet.

“I confessed to all my victims already, there are no more for you to find,” I respond, more curious than anything.

“Found may be the wrong word. But you are the only one who kills with poison gas bombs in the mail. Clearly this package just took longer to arrive than the others.” My detective opens the envelope to let me see the picture of the body. It sure does look like my handywork, there is just one problem.

“All the people I wanted dead, I killed. And if I had still been waiting for packages to arrive when you caught me, I would’ve told you. I played this game and I lost. I like to think I am a good sport like that.”

“Clearly you don’t want another crime added to your sentence.”

“When you are serving eleven life sentences without parole, adding doesn’t make much of a difference. I have got nothing to hide.”

“They could give you the death penalty.”

“Life stuck here without a chance out is a death sentence. Just so happens they let old father time wear the black hood.”

My detective is silent. I will fully admit he is smarter than me in most ways, he got into college, I didn’t for one example. But I am smarter in a few ways, and this is one of them.

“So, what is this about? Some kind of Silence of the Lambs type deal? I help you catch this freak, and you give me time off or special privileges?” If I could move my arms, I would have leant back, putting them behind my head. But I am locked to the chair, so I don’t.

“No, I know you did this,” says my Detective.

“Oh… I get it now. You and the boys finally caught yourself a scapegoat. Must have gotten tired of arresting black boys huh?” I look down at the picture of the boil ridden corpse of a white man. “And you finally found one of my types considered just high functioning enough to be in prison rather than the looney bin, one that you have power over. One that you can deliver as much harsh justice to as you want, keep the bloodthirsty public happy whenever you need dirty work done,” I ramble and ramble, but still my Detective keeps up that stoic face. Silence is often confirmation. “So, who was this victim? Some kid who wouldn’t rat out his friends? Some cop who quit because he grew a conscience. Did he see the chief beat his wife?” My detective trembles. “Oh, did he see you beat your wife?” He closes the envelope and puts it back in his suitcase. “I am pretty sure my odds are like sixty-five percent on at least one of those being true.”

My detective stands up with a huff and storms his way out of the room. But just before he can walk through the doorway, I speak up. “I am not going to give you that ‘we’re not so different spiel’ because we are different in one extreme way. I admit I am evil.”