CRIME - prologue

Flick. Flick-flicker. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz-zzz-zzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

There is nothing more uncomfortable than an interrogation room. And I promise you, they do it on purpose. The wall to wall concrete that suffocates you, the cold metal furniture that could potentially give you a hemmoroid if your in there too long, and of course, the big mirror. Everyone likes the big fucking mirror. That is, unless the people behind it are looking at you.

I shift from cheek to cheek as I attempt to get comfortable in the small metal chairs. I lay my head on the tabletop, looking into my own eyes in the reflective surface. The cool metal numbs the migraine I've been nursing for three weeks and somehow, I drift off to sleep.

"Only the guilty sleep, you worthless piece of shit!"

My head smacks the concrete floorand I'm ripped from a dream about my parents. The chair is across the floor, resting on its side against the wall and Humphry Bogart is standing over me.

"Git your ass up and listen good, kid!"

Ok, so its not reall Bogey, but if you stuck this guy in Casablanca, I don't think I could tell him and Rick apart. He's got the same brown suit, the same hat, the same sunken eyes, and the same cold expressions. I don't know what I did to piss him off, but I'm pretty sure my father had something to do with this.

"I'm sorry, have we met?" I try to stay cool, collected, too bad I'm scared shitless. There's no end to what this guy might have, and the fact that I don't know him just ups the threat level to orange.

"No, but you've met her." He throws a picture across the table and I catch it like a dealer to a poker player.

Oh shit. The doc. The picture is Doctor Marianna Simms. We met through...work related circumstances. But how does this guy know we know each other? Suddenly, there's another picture slid under my hands.

"Oh, Christ!" Goddamit, I need to puke. I stumble away from the picture and rest my forehead on the mirror. At this point I don't give a shit who's looking at me. The picture is the doc again, only now she's laying on an autospy table with three bullet wounds in her head. It kills me to know everything about why she looks like that.

"C'mon now, kid. Start talkin'." He's no Bogart anymore, now he's an angry detective, maybe a little old for the game, and he wants, no, NEEDS answers. This won't end well.

I try playing dumb. "I don't know what your talking about, sir."

"Ha ha." That was creepy. "No dice, kid. Not even snake eyes." Before I can think of what to say next, this Bogey clone has me pinned against the concrete. My head pounds from the migraine and the fall. "Ya see, kiddo, I don't believe I ever gave you my name." He turns my head, renching my jaw and pressing my cheek to the cold stone. He's breathing heavy, like he's struggling to hold me up. Crazy old fool. He's against my ear now, and he whispers, "Detective...Mitchell...Simms."

No fucking way. "Your the docs friggin husband? I always wanted to compliment you on that rock of an engagement ring you got her." Oh smart one, Marty, crack a joke when the Private Dick has your balls in a vice.

And now I'm going down. Simms throws against the floor and staps on my leg. Christ this guys gonna kill me.

"It would have been ten years next Tuesday. Ten years!" He renches his heel into my calf. I scream out in pain, hoping to catch his sympathy, if he has any left. He lets me go and I scramble to the corner. Pulling to my feet I hear the familiar CLICK of a Zippo. "Now let's hear it kid."

I sit back down at the table and turn the pictures of the doc over. I need to concentrate and these aren't helping. I signal for a cigarette and he tosses the pack at mt forehead. It clunks against the bump that was left by the floor. Rubbing it gently, I slip one of the unfiltered Camels between my lips and bend across the table for the lighter. He snaps it open and lights me up.

Puffing into the air, I watch the smoke dance with the flourescents, and I begin...