We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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As I near the precinct, thunder roars in the sky as if aggrieving alongside, predicting the awful circumstances I am trapped in. Unprecedented rains have always brought troubles to my life— the shadiness of my past being a foolproof evidence of the statement.
I spot a van pulling outside the station, giving me false hopes that it isn't connected to what I am desperately trying to hide. A couple fellow detectives dressed in armour overtake my nervous strides, carrying a cuffed suspect to the interrogation room.
"Who's been arrested?" I calmly enquire at a dust eating desk, stacked with a bunch of colour coordinated files. Mine is the same, except for a framed photograph of Dad and I, sitting in a blunt corner, which if he could see, would only pull a nod in approval out of him and a probable frown at the otherwise poorly arranged case folders and knick knacks on the desk. Seems like Olivia wasn't wrong about all the paperwork we are drowned in, and the reason that makes me miss out on the all so familiar Calvin Klein denim jacket lying under the sheeted mess.
"A 27 year old video jockey, recognised as Archie Schiller," the cop informs, rising through the pile.
"Archie who?" I ask, hoping for it to be a mere hallucination of my mind, but refuted by the stern features of my colleague.
"He has been accused of murdering an elderly man in Staten Island, identified as Barney Colbert Stinson. The victim was shot twice on the forehead, and the weapon used has been labelled as another variety of the one we bagged during the Jace Herald homicide case. According to the forensics, the incident supposedly occurred between 1:30 and 2:00 last night and was reported by his immediate neighbours, who claim witnessing unusual activity during the said hours.
Archie Schiller is a potential match to the rough sketch the spectators help made, and if we are to go by their word, the pair spotted him snooping around the victim's property a little while before the shots were fired. We need you to carry out an interrogation with the suspect."
I barely nod— her words acting like a hammer pounding on my heart, until rendered numb with shock. I help myself with the roll around chair across the table, trying to grasp on the sudden burst of information. Archie. Suspect. Killer. Fuck.
I ditch the stained cushion and wobble my way over to custody room, the interpretation hitting none less than a boulder. I don't know what to expect, but disappoint sure engulfs me as his tainted figure comes into sight. His hair is the same kind of disheveled as when he wakes up from a deep slumber, and his oversized hoodie and track suit the one that he has splotched with every brand of beer NYC has to serve. He acknowledges me, but prefers to stays silent— his eyes fixated on the ground, intently observing a line of ants nibble on a piece of chocolate it seems.
"You want to explain this?" I fail to ignore the timid my tone has been reduced to, and in my own station if it wasn't just as worse a feeling yesterday at Rikers.
