"Let's try this again. Who are you?" The detective asks.
"I am nobody," Jordan answers.
"That's not an answer."
"In fact, it is. It's simply not the answer you wanted to hear."
"Fine, I'll ask a more direct question. What is your full name, address, and social security number?"
"Well if you wish to know so badly, what's in it for me?" Jordan asks. The detective fixes her with a flat stare.
"How about this? If you don't answer the question simply and clearly, you'll be arrested for breaking and entering, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, and assaulting a patient. So it's really in your best interest to work with me here."
"Is that so? I don't quite remember assaulting a patient. Unless, of course, standing in the same room counts as assault, nowadays."
"As the officers at the scene put it, you 'violently shattered a window, spraying glass and debris onto the sleeping patient'. That sounds like assault to me."
"Agree to disagree."
"You're being very combative for someone looking at 60 to 70 years."
"Combative?" Jordan gestured to her leg, wrapped tightly with gauze and a thin, tape-like material. "I have a broken leg, Ms. Detective. I can assure you, I'm quite incapable of combat at the moment."
The detective, whose face has been growing steadily more red throughout the interrogation, says nothing, choosing instead to open her digital notebook device and scroll through it. Jordan has been steadily wheedling away at her sanity for the better part of an hour.
"Tell me what you were doing that night."
"I was taking a midnight stroll."
"In a mental hospital? With a motorcycle parked out front?"
"Why not?"
The detective huffs in exasperation and closes her eyes. She schools her face into something resembling a statue and her eyes are noticeably blank when she opens them again. Jordan can feel frustration coming off the woman in waves, much as she tries to hide it.
"I'm going to ask you one more time," the detective says, using the cadence of one speaking to a toddler. "Who are you?"
Jordan, who's had a placid smile plastered on her face during this entire interaction purses her lips and gives a contemplative look. "Who am I?" she says. The detective's face has suddenly brightened, all semblance of self control lost. Amateur.
"Detective, listen well, for I speak only the truth. I am dead."
The detective stares blankly at her. "Excuse me?"
"I am dead, detective," Jordan says, all traces of humor now gone from her tone. "You may search your databases and your records but you will never find me, for I am nothing but a phantom. And if you choose to arrest a spirit for the crime, know that there is no material on this earth capable of holding that which belongs to another plane. You can dream of having me locked up in your iron fortresses, but when you wake, I will be gone, and with no evidence to prove I ever existed at all."
The detective's jaw is hanging open. "You're insane," she says.
"Possibly," Jordan shrugs.
"GOD," the detective rises from her chair, "FUCKING," she points a finger at Jordan, "DAMMIT! You're a fucking lunatic!"
"Is something the matter, detective?"
The detective isn't listening anymore. She taps her wrist and the embedded chip lets out a chirp. "I warned you," is the last thing she says before she storms out of the room. Jordan lets out a sigh of relief.
