The Betrayed by Brian Hill

Author:Brian Hill [Hill, Brian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Interrogation

New Orleans, Louisiana: 7:13 AM, Friday, October 19th, 1984

Freddy had Bernie delivered to an empty interrogation room twenty minutes later. I was alone in the room when Bernie arrived, with Freddy behind the one-way mirror, observing.

As they led Bernie into the room, his huge, gnarled hands cuffed in front of him, he reminded me of an abused puppy. He had that same look: eyes downcast, red rimmed. Shoulders slumped, head bowed.

He let the officer lead him to the chair, then turned as ordered and let him remove the cuffs. Then he sat when told to, looking at the table blankly, a forlorn expression on his face.

When the officer left and the door shut, I spoke up.

“Bernie?”

His eyes slowly rose until they connected with mine.

“Hello, Mr. Rev,” he said, voice uninspired, then his gaze drifted back down.

“Bernie, are you okay?”

His face scrunched up and his eyes began watering.

“No, Mr. Rev. The mens here are mean to me, and I can’t do my work, and Ms. Grimes is gonna be mad at me, and, and— ”

Tears came flowing out of his eyes in streamers as his words devolved into a pitiful blubbering. He sat there, a vision of misery, bawling like a small child.

I could feel pressure rising inside me at the injustice. This poor, disabled man was being mistreated by those who had sworn to protect him, and he didn’t understand why.

I let the anger flow through me and dissipate. I needed to control my emotions, at least until I finished the interview. Then I could rain holy hell down on Stephenson if I liked.

I waited until the waterworks slowed. A long streamer of snot hung from Bernie’s nose, so I retrieved my handkerchief and gently wiped it away for him. Bernie snuffled, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Bernie, I need to ask you some questions so I can get you back home. You want to go back home, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Rev, I sure does,” he said, a spark of hope appearing in his light-blue eyes.

I nodded, took a deep breath, composed myself.

“Bernie, have you ever cut anyone with a knife, even by accident?”

“Yes, Mr. Rev, I has,” Bernie responded, head lowered in shame.

My stomach dropped, but I had to plow on. I hardened myself and posed the obvious question.

“Who? Who have you cut, Bernie?”

“Well, when I was littler, I weren’t so good at knives, and I used to cut myself a lot. Yes sir,” he said, holding out his hands to show the myriad of small scars crisscrossing his fingers, “I used to cut myself by accident an awful lot.”

Bernie’s face crumpled a little at some internal thought, and he added, “Father Duncan used to always put band-aids on my hands and make them not bleed no more. I miss him, Mr. Rev,” he said, tears threatening to overtake his face again.

“I know, Bernie,” I said, pausing for a moment to let a burst of pity for this poor man dissipate again. “What about other folks? You ever cut anyone else, even by accident?”

“No, sir,” Bernie said, adamantly.

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