Page 31 of The Piece You Stole

I can barely see Detective Bradley sitting on the other side of the desk because whoever was responsible for cleaning the glass screen which separates us did a shit job. Instead, I focus on the smears and streaks that make it look like I’m in a dream. Or a nightmare. All blurry and indistinct.

Time slows down again as I struggle to find a position that doesn’t hurt. And as time crawls past, if such a position exists, I never find it.

Detective Bradley snaps questions at me from the computer. Detective Ferdinand, leaning beside the desk with an open light brown folder in his hand answers them.

Looks like they know everything about me already.

My name. Place of birth. Last known address. All of it.

Since they don’t seem to need me for this part, I massage my bare wrists as I focus on the long metal bar running along the bottom of the desk. It has to serve a purpose, that bar, and the only reason I can think it’s there is for someone to be handcuffed to. Not me though. The first thing they did when they pulled me out of the patrol car was to remove my handcuffs. I guess now that I’m in a building full of cops with guns, they know I’m not going anywhere.

Is it just the men they handcuff then?

In the background, the distant hum of low murmured conversation and an endlessly ringing phone bleeds in from the station and into this small side room.

I tune everything out as I battle to find a comfortable position on the hard metal stool.

Hands suddenly grip me, startling me.

That’s when I realize the keyboard tapping has stopped. Looks like Detective Bradley is up again.

He shoves me against the same wall as before. I cry out when my back hits, my bruised ribs flaring in sharp pain. And then I tense as I wait for the sound of snapping rubber, but the searching part must be over because it doesn’t come.

Detective Bradley orders me to stay and takes a couple of steps back.

Bright light blinds me, making me jerk my head away.

Another order, this one threatening me with another more thorough examination if I don’t stay fucking still. So, I stay fucking still and don’t mess up Detective Ferdinand’s next photograph.

Time rushes past as Detective Bradley grabs my wrist and hauls me back over to the metal desk, this time to a small black pad and a white sheet of paper with ten circles waiting for me.

That part goes by suspiciously fast. Maybe because I’m not the one pressing my finger on the black pad and then the paper. Detective Ferdinand, who likes to do everything with unnecessary force, does that, and there’s no pressing. He drives each digit onto the pad with about five times more force than is required and then stabs it on the page.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I wince each time, so maybe it’s not a bad thing that this doesn’t take long.

Finally, ten perfect fingerprints stare up at me. All done.

There’s a box of wipes on the table, the type that I sometimes see in hospitals, but they don’t offer me one for my blackened fingertips, and I don’t ask. They might think they get to demand something in return, and nothing is worth a wet wipe.

And then I’m booked in. My heels disappeared at some point, though I don’t see where they could be in this room since the only thing in it are three desks and white bricked walls. I struggle to remember when they took them away.

Must have been before the photograph.

It’s only now that the massive height difference between me and Detective Bradley registers. Maybe it’s the fizz of rich anticipation filling the space, warning me something they’ve been looking forward to is coming. Something I won’t like.

I have nothing else for them to take. No necklace, belt, or shoelaces. Nothing, they tell me I can use to hang myself in my cell.

Time speeds up again as they lead me down a hallway, my toes curling from the icy stone floor.

My gaze snags on a metal telephone in the hall. One of the large ones you see on TV that takes coins. Above it is a wall of white business cards. I’m moving too fast to read most of them, but a few words jump out at me. Attorney. Criminal. Cheap. I slow down and pull back against the forceful pressure of the two cops propelling me along by my arms.

“I want to make a phone call,” I say. “You said I had the right—”

Detective Ferdinand’s mole eyes narrow so much I’m surprised he can see out of them. That’s the only warning I get before his hand tightens. I suck in a sharp breath.

Fuck, that hurts.

---