CSI universe short prompts

57 - Jack Malone/Don Flack

Detective Don Flack leaned against the cold metal table, his eyes locked on the suspect across from him. The dimly lit interrogation room buzzed with tension, and Flack's characteristic wit was sharpened like a blade.

"You think you're clever, huh?" he said, his Brooklyn accent slicing through the air. "Playing games with us, dancing around the truth."

The suspect—a wiry man with shifty eyes—squirmed in his chair. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

Flack leaned in, his breath hot against the suspect's face. "Jack Malone," he said, emphasizing each syllable. "He's the one who brought you in. You know Jack, right? The guy who can smell a lie from a mile away."

The suspect's gaze flickered toward the one-way mirror. On the other side, Jack Malone stood, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Malone was the legal muscle for the FBI's missing-person unit, a man who had seen too much darkness and still managed to keep his cool.

Flack continued, his sarcasm dripping like acid. "You see, Jack and I have this little argument. He thinks you're innocent. Me? I think you're dirtier than a subway platform at rush hour."

The suspect's Adam's apple bobbed. "I didn't—"

"Don't interrupt," Flack snapped. "Jack's got this soft spot for lost causes. Thinks everyone deserves a second chance." He leaned even closer, his voice a low growl. "But me? I've seen enough scumbags to fill the Hudson River. And you? You're swimming in that same murky water."

The suspect's eyes darted back to Malone. The boss was unyielding, his gaze piercing through the glass. Flack wondered what went on in Malone's mind—the weight of the cases, the ghosts of the missing, the secrets he carried.

"You want to know the difference between Jack and me?" Flack said. "He believes in redemption. Me? I believe in justice."

The suspect licked his lips. "I didn't—"

Flack slammed his palm on the table, making the suspect jump. "Enough!" he barked. "You're lying, and we both know it. So spill. Where's the girl? The one who vanished without a trace?"

The suspect hesitated, then cracked. "She's in the old warehouse by the docks," he whispered. "Please, just protect me. I'll testify."

Flack straightened, satisfaction curling in his chest. "Good choice," he said. "Now, let's go find her."

As they led the suspect out of the room, Flack glanced at Malone. The boss nodded, a silent acknowledgment. They were a team—two sides of the same coin. Jack with his compassion, Flack with his edge.

And in the shadows of the precinct, their argument continued—a dance of justice and redemption, whispers in the interrogation room.