Page 31 of Winning Bid

Every interrogation room looks alike. I haven’t been in many of them—most of my client’s troubles are not of the legal variety. But each one smells like sweat and fear. They have a rudimentary set of chairs and tables. Sometimes, there’s the big mirror that you know is one-way, sometimes there isn’t one. No clocks. If you’re lucky, there’s a window for natural light, but when interrogating a suspect, it’s best practice to keep a suspect off their game, and that means no window. The passage of time is psychologically grounding, so with no window and no clock, a suspect loses that grounding.

This room has no window, a one-way mirror, and the chairs give my Dad’s office chairs a run for their money in the uncomfortableness department. It’s the room they use for serious suspects, I’d imagine. Considering their focus is a murder, it seems appropriate I was brought here.

Doesn’t make it any more palatable, though.

Otto says, “Remember what we talked about, Anderson.”

“I know.”

“I know, you know, but lawyers make the worst clients. You’re used to doing the talking. Now’s the time to keep your mouth shut.”

“I know.”

“If they ask you a question, you look at me. I’ll nod if you’re to answer.”

I huff. “I. Know.”

“Then you also know why I’m drilling this into you, so you can take the attitude down a notch. Belligerence doesn’t win you friends. Not with the cops, not with me.”

“Apologies, Otto.”

“Don’t worry about my feelings, Anderson. Just keep yours in check.”

Two men walk in. Suits, not uniforms. One has a file folder in his hands. They sit across from us. The file folder guy begins, “Thank you for coming in peacefully, Mr. West. I am Detective Banks. This is my partner, Detective Wachowski. Understand, this conversation is being recorded.”

I shrug.

“We’d like to begin by asking some questions regarding Neil Johnson. Are you aware he is deceased?”

It’s a benign enough question, but still, I look to Pym. I want him to know I’ll play by his rules for now. He nods, so I respond, “Yes.”

“How did you come about that knowledge?”

I killed him.

Pym nods. “I saw it on TV.”

Wachowski sits back. “Why are you checking in with Pym before you answer? Nervous?”

“Out of line, Wachowski,” Pym snaps. “You’re homicide detectives, which means you think this is a murder, and you’re looking at him like you want his dick for lunch. Why the hell wouldn’t he be nervous?”

The detective glares at Pym but says nothing in response.

Banks says, “We understand your girlfriend knew the deceased, as well. In fact, we’ve narrowed down his time of death to the last night she saw him. That’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

Trap. I don’t even bother looking at Pym. He grouses, “Are you going to keep up with this rookie shit because we both have better places to be.”

Banks taps his finger on the table, thinking. “Mr. West, what do you think of your girlfriend kissing the deceased in front of her place of work? Are you into some kind of polyamory thing or something?”

Just trying to rile me up. I glance at Pym, who nods. I keep my voice level and aloof. “We are not polyamorous. She kissed him while we were not together.”

“Interesting,” Wachowski says. “June is a firecracker, so I get why you’re not enough man for her. You’re smart. You know it, too. Makes sense why you’d follow her. I mean, who wants to get cheated on, am I right?”

“Beating around this particular bush will get you nowhere, Wachowski,” Pym says. “Ms. Devlin is not a cheater. Mr. Anderson is not a murderer. You have nothing on them, or you would have arrested them by now. This is amateur hour, and I’m bored, so either cut to the chase, or we walk.”

“The thing about that is we do have something. Or things, rather,” Banks says. He opens his file folder but doesn’t show us what’s in it. He’s looking at something in there. “On the night in question, a man matching your description was seen at the docks where Mr. Johnson’s body was found.”

His words are ice in my veins, but Pym laughs. “A tall white guy with black hair was seen at the docks at night? Stop the presses.”

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