THE END

Chapter 9 - 2010: The Manic Maestro

Sequel of chapter 4

The interrogation of Faraib Fakir unfolded within the sterile walls of the interrogation room, where the faint hum of a flickering fluorescent light seemed to amplify the tension between the two men. Ashwath, his posture rigid and commanding, stood across from the calm figure of Faraib, who sat with unnerving nonchalance. His legs were crossed, his fingers tapping idly on the arm of the chair, as if he were awaiting the end of a tedious meeting, rather than a high-stakes interrogation.

Ashwath’s voice broke the silence, steady and cold, "What procedures do you follow in the event of a patient's demise in your hospital?"

Faraib tilted his head slightly, a slight, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corner of his lips. His eyes, dark and calculating, met Ashwath's with a disdainful amusement. "I merely own the hospital, Mr. Ashwath. The day-to-day operations, including the treatment and care of patients, are managed by my appointed personnel." His tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of any concern for the seriousness of the question.

Ashwath narrowed his gaze, his eyes unwavering. He stepped closer, the tension thickening in the air. "Your cooperation is imperative, sir," he said, his voice now laced with authority, every word a calculated command.

Faraib leaned back in his chair, his fingers still drumming on the armrest, unphased by the shift in tone. His expression remained eerily calm, the slightest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. "As the MLA of this city," he said slowly, his voice dripping with self-assurance, "I assure you, Mr. Ashwath, delving into this investigation may have unforeseen consequences." The implication was clear, and though he spoke with apparent ease, his words carried a veiled threat.

Ashwath’s expression hardened, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "You may think you hold influence, Faraib, but I will get the answers I need," he said, his words measured but firm, his voice unyielding. "What was the source of your campaign funding during the election?"

Faraib's eyes flickered for the briefest of moments, a flash of something—defiance or perhaps concern—before he regained his composure. He let out a soft, mocking chuckle, leaning forward slightly as if amused by Ashwath's persistence. "Mr. Ashwath," he said with a mocking tilt of his head, "it seems you're not interested in a peaceful existence." The laughter in his voice was chilling, reverberating off the cold concrete walls, and the atmosphere in the room grew more oppressive.

Ashwath stood motionless, the heat in his eyes unmistakable as he stared Faraib down. His hand clenched into a fist, the urge to break the man’s calm composure nearly overwhelming, but he kept his cool. Every second counted now.

The telephone rang, slicing through the thick tension in the room. Ashwath’s eyes flicked toward the device, his brow furrowing as he gestured sharply to one of his officers. The officer moved swiftly, lifting the receiver with a look of intent focus, but as the conversation unfolded, his expression shifted from attentive to grave. Something was amiss.

The officer extended the receiver towards Ashwath, his eyes dark with silent urgency. With a steady hand, Ashwath took the call, his features hardening as he listened, every muscle in his body tightening in response to the voice on the other end.

"Ashwath, what the hell are you doing?" His senior officer’s voice roared through the phone, the fury in his tone unmistakable. "What on earth is going on in your head?"

Ashwath's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady, unyielding. "Sir, Faraib is a suspect in my investigation," he stated calmly, each word clipped, carefully measured despite the heat of the situation.

"Fuck your investigation, fuck your theory!" the senior officer spat back, his voice vibrating with raw anger. "Nobody would ever believe your twisted ideas. Are you out of your mind? Living in some deluded fantasy world?" His words exploded through the receiver, each syllable a lash of reprimand.