It took Tim a short while to put his borrowed shirt on. He hissed as he brought the thin fabric over his head, stretching his wound as he did so. Sighing, he let his arms fall limp at his sides, taking a moment to just breathe, and recollect his thoughts.
Shit. Jason's gonna kill me.
He began to second-guess his decisions that led him to where he was at that moment and began to think of different ways to get back to his brother. Right after he did, there was a loud knock at the glass front door.
There were flashing red and blue lights that shun through the white curtains, and just before Margret opened the door, she looked at Tim for clarification. He nodded.
A few minutes ago they had an agreement that they wouldn't tell anyone about Tim's injury straight away. Margret didn't know why she agreed to this, but something in Tim's pained blue eyes made her agree to it.
After taking a breath, she opened the door.
Two police officers were standing on her wooden doorstep. One male, one female. Both were slim and had a serious expression plastered to their young faces.
"Is Timothy here?" the woman asked, her voice like stone, professional.
Margret moved away from the door, and let Tim step in front of her.
"I'm Tim." He said calmly.
The man and woman looked at him and seemed to notice his limp. They did not question him.
They stepped aside and motioned for Tim and Margret to step outside of the house. They led them to the waiting blue and white police car and drove out of the gravel driveway.
The ride felt uncomfortable and silent. The male police officer kept glancing at Tim and Margret through the rearview mirror. Tim would look away, not able to hold his gaze, while Margret would just stare out the fogged window.
After a ten-minute ride, we pulled up at the police station, and we stepped into the cold air.
As they walked inside, some officers gave them a sideways look, and glared at them, or ignored them completely.
The officers led them to a room, where they sat down, and were questioned.
The female officer pressed a button and began to record the whole thing.
"We have Timothy and Margret Flemming here to be questioned about the murder of Pete Newny." She spoke clearly.
Pete Newny.
Tim felt a little uncomfortable to be sitting in this small room, as he remembered the last moments of Pete. It felt weird that he finally knew the man's name, especially after witnessing his murder.
He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
The male police officer stared at both of them with flaring eyes, thinking that he was wasting his time. He looked over at his partner, who had a file in her perfectly manicured hands.
"Tim, where were you the night of the murder?" she asked carefully, glancing up to gain eye contact.
Tim sat up straight as he answered, wincing when his wound stung in protest. "Fifth warehouse, dock three." He remembered.
The woman wrote something down quickly on her yellow notepad. "What time?"
"Close to midnight, 11-12pm."
The woman gazed up at him, her blue eyes with a hint of emerald seeing through him. "And why were you there at that time?"
Tim shifted uncomfortably in his plastic seat. Everyone was looking at him. He pulled the ruined note out of his pocket and placed it on the metal table, hands sweating. "My parents are an addict. They take drugs which makes them dangerous and scary," he fiddled with his fingers, touching the bandage on his hand. "My dad would hurt me and my brother until we won't be able to walk properly for days," he looked up at the woman. "I decided to investigate when I overheard him talking on the phone to someone. He wrote down an address, and told them that he would meet them there," he sighed. "I snuck into his room when he went to the bathroom and took the note. I then showed it to my brother, Jason."
The police officer sat up in his chair. "Then what happened?"
"My brother snatched the note from my hands, saying that I was crazy. Then my dad walked into the room, angry," Tim could feel his forehead and back sweating. "He saw the note and started to beat us," Tim held up his hand as proof, voice wavering.
The police officers stared at it, noting down every detail.
The woman cleared her throat. "And then after that, you left?"
He nodded. "My brother didn't want me to go, but the docks were only a ten-minute walk from our place."
"Did your brother go with you?"
"No, he was too unwell, and hurt."
Margret looked between Tim and the woman, her eyes wide.
"Ok," she said jotting down more notes. "Continue."
"When I arrived at the warehouse, I decided only to watch, and not interfere. I watched them through a crack in the door," Tim took a breath. "They had guns, and men that were guarding the place."
The policewoman studied him. "Can you describe some of them?"
Tim cleared his throat. "Two of them were in fancy suits, one green, one a dark purple," he paused. "The man in dark purple killed Pete."
Tim's eyes started to sting as the memories came flashing back. He was struggling to fight back the tears, and the officers noticed this.
The woman noted it down and then looked up. "Can you please tell us how the man died? I know that this might be difficult for you, but we really need every single detail."
Tim sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "The man was dragged into the warehouse by two other men. He was screaming and was begging for more time. The men in the suits stood in front of him, saying that they gave him enough time."
He looked at them, the officers shifting forward.
"The man in the purple suit smiled and shot him. Square in the head. And he was smiling. Like he enjoyed killing him."
"What did you do then?" the man asked.
"I looked away for one moment, and when I looked back, they were gone. I started to walk away when I felt something cold on my back. I turned and saw the purple suit man there. He pulled me close, and whispered in my ear," the officers' eyes were not moving off him. "The man said that he'd give me five seconds to run." He whispered.
The scene was playing in his head, the fear, the coldness, and the bullet.
He told them that he had been hit in the waist by one of the bullets, and how he was then thrown into the ocean.
"If you were shot at, and then thrown into the ocean, how are you alive?" the woman asked.
Tim looked over at Margret, who was fiddling with her pants. "Margret found me, and gave me medical attention."
The officers turned to Margret. "Why didn't you call the emergency department once you found Tim?"
Margret shrugged. "It didn't seem right, that a boy of that age was shot and thrown into the ocean," she answered, and then added, "And my phone was flat, and my house is practically in the middle of nowhere."
The police officers nodded and turned their attention back towards Tim.
The woman stood and asked Tim politely to do the same.
"May I please look at your wound?" she asked, stepping forward hesitantly.
Tim nodded once more and lifted his shirt, ignoring the pain it caused as he lifted his arms.
The woman examined the bandage and then moved some of it away so that she could see the wound.
Tim flinched and jerked away as a sting came shooting through his spine.
"Sorry." The officer said.
She then moved the bandages back in place and quickly wrote a few things down on her notepad.
"We are going to call an ambulance for you so that they can get that properly fixed up," she said, opening the door and stepping out of the room, the other officer following closely behind. "We'll be in touch."
Then she was gone, flicking through her notes as she went.
YOU ARE READING
Detective
أدب الهواةLife was at its lowest for Tim. Everyday was similar to the other, but very so different. However, that was about to change. One night, he found a secret location of a drug shipment and goes against his brother's (Jason) will to go investigate. He p...
