Fugitive Warrant by Al Stevens

Author:Al Stevens
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0
Publisher: Al Stevens
Published: 2014-08-13T16:00:00+00:00

18. Interrogation

Three days passed during which I saw one of my captors three times a day when he delivered my meals. Like the first time, he did not speak when he brought the tray in. He put it on the table, turned and left. When I’d try to speak to him, he’d ignore me. Like this:

“Any chance of getting a TV set in here?”

Silence.

“Maybe some magazines?”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

Ignored.

“Wanna buy some naked pictures of your wife?”

He’d pick up the tray and dishes from the previous meal and leave.

The game was obvious and as old as the art of interrogation itself. We used to leave suspects in the box for hours so they could wonder and worry about their chances of getting out. It helped to loosen them up when we finally got around to questioning them.

The difference was, they knew why they were there and what the questions would be about. I was not sure what these guys knew about me or what I could tell them even if I wanted to.

With nothing to do, I pored through the titles on the shelves in the bookcase. Mostly paperback romance novels. I didn’t get much reading done.

Finally, one morning after breakfast, the food server returned and said, “Come with me.” He slipped the hood over my head and led me out by the arm.

I didn’t know where we were going, but I was glad to be out of that nine-by-twelve prison even if I couldn’t see anything. We went down the stairs, made several steps to the right, and he guided me to a chair. I heard the door close, and my captor removed the hood.

The room was similar to our box back at the Homicide Unit: a table with one chair on one side and two chairs on the other, one blacked-out window, and a large two-way mirror on one wall where people in the next room could observe the interrogation without being seen from inside the box. An unshaded light bulb in a ceiling fixture provided the only light in the room.

He locked a handcuff on my right wrist. The cuff was chained to the table. Just like in the box. I had a handcuff key hidden in a pouch on my belt, but the novice frisk had failed to find it. I was surprised they’d let me keep my belt. They probably didn’t care if I hung myself with it. I wouldn’t use the key, though. That’d just invite a beat-down. I was outnumbered.

This was a drill I knew well. I’d used every ploy in the book to cajole, threaten, and trick suspects into confessing or giving me whatever information I needed, so there was nothing these guys could do that would surprise me. Or so I thought.

But part of the three-day isolation period in the locked bedroom had served its purpose. I was dying to talk to anyone.

I waited a full fifteen minutes, sitting alone in their interrogation room. Finally, two of the three goons came in.

“You forgot the water board,” I said.

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