This writing prompt took 2nd place in the Mystery writers 'Talk, Talk, Talk" competition.
A big thanks to all who read, voted, and commented.
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"Do you want a cigarette?"
"Sure. I'd love a smoke."
The detective pulled out a pack from his inner pocket and extracted one, handing it over to Dr. Smith.
He placed it eagerly between his lips. "Thank you. Light?"
Patting his pockets, the detective found a blue disposable lighter and slid it across the interrogation table.
Dr. Smith worked the ridged wheel of the lighter. After several failed attempts, it finally produced a flame. He brought it to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"An ashtray?"
"Oh, you can't smoke in here."
"Then why the hell did you let me light it?" He licked his fingers to put out the glowing tip. He rested the cigarette and the lighter on the edge of the scarred table.
The detective laughed, his bushy mustache twitching. "You can smoke it when you get released."
"So, I'll be getting out today." Dr. Smith loosened his striped tie and the top button of his tailored shirt.
"Don't count on it. If I get my way, you won't see the light of day for twenty-five years to life."
Looking at his watch, Dr. Smith said, "I don't have that kind of time. In fact, I think it is time that I invoke my right to an attorney."
"You do have the right, but a smart man like you shouldn't need a lawyer to talk to a dumb guy like me." The detective loosened his own inexpensive tie with several coffee stains along its length.
"I don't think you're dumb, but I won't be manipulated into confessing something I didn't do."
"Good. I'll have you answer a few simple questions to clear this whole matter up. Then we can both go outside and have a cigarette."
"I didn't kill that woman."
The detective smirked. "That wasn't going to be my first question. I was going to work up to that."
"And, I was cutting to the chase. I didn't do it. You can't have any evidence that says otherwise. So, if you're not going to charge me, I'll be leaving."
Dr. Smith stood. The metal chair scrapped on the linoleum.
"Sit back down! That woman has a name."
Involuntarily, he took his seat as a pang of guilt etched a hole in his stomach. "I know. Her name was Kristy. Kristy Jenkins."
The detective opened up the folder resting on the table in front of him and read from the top page. A picture was stapled to the top corner of the file.
"Kristine Marie Jenkins. Age thirty-six. Divorced. Mother of two. Boy age twelve and girl age ten. A medical-surgical nurse at Sinai Hospital. A beautiful woman. Or she was a beautiful woman before some monster got a hold of her."
"I didn't do it." Dr. Smith pleaded while he rubbed at his face.
"We'll get to that. You do admit the two of you were dating."
"Yes. We had gone on three dates."
"So, things were starting to get a little hot and heavy?"
"I don't see how that is any of your business."
