by Brian Cotton
Chapter .08
“Have they gotten any word from this guy, yet?” Sullivan demanded. He slammed the shiny wooden door which read “Capt. Donald Fitzpatrick, Resistance Unit” shut behind.
Fitzpatrick jumped at the sound. “No, they haven’t, but give them time. They’ll come through. They always do.”
When the resistance first began to run wild on the streets, the USR deemed it necessary to put an RU in every department of each major city. Since he joined the RU three months ago, Sullivan did his part. His personal arrest count climbed to thirty within his first six weeks. The USR gave him a promotion for his efforts, along with two dip shits to sweeten the deal. Last week’s attack, though, proved to everyone that work still needed to be done.
“I—we—don’t have time for this.” Sullivan said. “Let me go in there and reason with him.”
“Maybe they’ll rile him up so bad that he’ll start talking.”
“No, he won’t, not this one. I can guarantee you that.”
“How do you know?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“Instinct.That same intuition that got me where I’m at now.”
“You know that they are not going to like this.”
“Who cares? We need the Intel. I can get it.”
Fitzpatrick sighed. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of smuggled whiskey. “Go on. Just don’t piss them off, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan turned out of the office. His shoes squeaked on the freshly shined tile floors. As he walked towards the interrogation room, he heard all the chatter from the Agents who scurried about. They moved around, talked, some yelled, but all were feverous in their attempts to find the resistance. Same as him…
He felt a thud on his chest. His failed attempt to pay attention caused him to bump into an elderly man in expensive clothing. He couldn’t catch a glimpse of his face, but he tried to say he was sorry to the man’s back. The smug on the guy radiated off. Sullivan could swear that he smelled.
Thoughts of little Davie clouded Sullivan’s thoughts. The closer he got to the interrogation room, the more intense the thoughts grew. He wanted to raise his son right in this insane world. How could he go home tonight, look at Davie in the eye after what he was about to do, and say he loved him? He would send an “evil” man to his death. Maybe beat the shit out of him first. Sullivan apologized to his son before he turned the corner.
Mason and Wilcox stood outside the interrogation room, taking a little breather. They had their arms folded over their monstrous chests while they exchanged jokes. Upon approach, Sullivan noticed fresh blood stains on Mason’s shirt.
“The fuck you doin’ here?” Mason demanded. He unfolded his arms.
“Fuck yourself,” Sullivan replied. He avoided eye contact and looked straight through the double sided mirror at Miller, who sat with his head down. “Have you got him talking, yet?”
“No,” Wilcox replied, “he’s a tough one, but we’ll get him talking.”
“We don’t have time for that. This whole department is up my ass. Let me through.”
Wilcox laughed and moved in front of the door. “Hey, pussy, this is our job.”
“Out of the way,” Sullivan ordered once more.
Mason laughed this time. “Let him through, Dee, I gotta see this.”
“You’ve got five minutes.” Wilcox said. He moved away from the door.
“Don’t you forget who is in charge here, Agent.” Sullivan replied.
“You won’t be for long,” Mason said from behind. “I can guarantee you that.”
Sullivan ignored the comment. What did they know about anything? He used the silver door handle to open the door. The suspect looked up at the sound of the door opening. Sullivan looked away upon the sight in front of him.
The two ass clowns had fun with this guy, that much was certain, but how extensive was the damage? He noticed lacerations along both cheeks that stained the stringed white hairs. Another gash on the top of Miller’s forehead, the blood mixed in with what remained of his white hair. Sullivan cleared his throat and grabbed the heavy metal chair at the far end of the table. The legs squealed on the tile floor as he dragged it to get closer to his suspect. When he got close enough, he noticed that the two barbarians at least had the decency to bandage up the wounded leg.
“Doug, you remember me, right?” Sullivan asked.
Miller’s head remained down. “How could I forget? You people stormed into my home and took me prisoner for nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s a bold statement.”
“How bold, Agent?” Miller’s head moved up. “What have I done that is so evil?”
Sullivan struggled to maintain eye contact with him. Both eyes sockets were a swollen, dark red mess, the bones shattered underneath. A clinch of the teeth revealed that three of the man’s teeth were knocked out. Blood stained the teeth that remained. Sullivan had to clear his throat and regain his composure before he continued.
“I can list off a number of things. Inciting rebellion, making false statements about our government, religious indoctrination…pick one.”
“So, what are you going to do? Rough me up some more? Shoot me again?”
“Mr. Miller,” Sullivan placed both hands on the cold metal table and interlocked his fingers. “I’ve decided to call off the dogs for a moment. Try to talk some sense into you.”
“Those bastards out there are real animals.” Miller replied. He swished the cold water inside of his mouth before he spit out a mixture of blood and saliva on the tile floor.
“That’s not very sanitary.”
“Fuck your sanitation.”
Sullivan smirked, “You learn that kind of talk from the good book?”
“There are a few lessons in there that you could learn.”
“Look, Doug—“
“Mr. Miller, you’re no friend to me.”
“Fine, Mr. Miller. If you don’t want me to let the big dogs back in here again, you’ll tell me what I want to know. I promised you I’ll be more…diplomatic than those gentlemen outside.”
“Only a sick person like you could call those men outside gentle.”
“That hurts.”
“The truth has been known to do that.”
Sullivan looked down at his watch. “We don’t have a lot of time here. I need some answers. I need them right now.”
“What answers?”
“Don’t play dumb. I read your letters, by the way. Cute.”
“What do you mean, ‘cute’?”
Sullivan leaned in closer. “I mean, it’s cute that you poor, ignorant fools think you can change things with just words scribbled on paper.”
“You starve us, inject fear on us, and you think that’s okay?” Miller started to get feisty. “Don’t think for a second that I’m not aware of why you make us take those damn supplements every day.”
“The supplements are for your own health. Don’t bring that conspiracy theory shit here. You’ve let those letters brainwash you. Or maybe you’ve just grown too senile?”
“I remember…remember what it was like before your government stole it all away from us.”
Leftovers, Sullivan thought, they always say the same thing during these interrogations. He stood from his chair and began to crack his knuckles. The look in Miller’s eyes was a mixture of fear and defiance. The suspect didn’t dare look away like a coward, but he still feared what came his way.
“Enough games. You’ve worn my patience thin.”
“I’m telling you, you won’t get any—“
Sullivan walked behind the old man and pressed both of his thumbs on top of Miller’s broken eye sockets. He applied a little pressure; just enough to give this little prick something to think about. Quick panting came, but no cries, yet. The hope remained that Miller would say something—anything—so that an intense torture session could be
avoided.
“Come on, Mr. Miller, think!” Sullivan ordered.
Nothing. Please, just say something, anything.
“I can’t hear you.”
Silence.
A full force of pressure on the shattered eye sockets now. Something deep inside said to let go. Cries from Miller for the pain to stop. Thoughts of little Davie in shock at what his father was doing. It was all ignored. This man had information that the USR needed. Now was not the time for guilty consciences.
Say something!
“Okay…okay…” Miller cried out.
“What?” Sullivan replied. He relieved some of the pressure.
“I’ll tell you what I know!”
The Agent took in deep breath before he let go of Miller’s face. He took a seat back in front. Sullivan peered into the man’s eyes: what he could see of them. He conceded for a few moments to give his suspect a chance to collect his thoughts. He just hoped that the Intel he might receive proved to be useful.
“Go on,” Sullivan finally said.
“Okay, umm,” Miller said in between pants. “There’s this woman. She’s about my age, I think. She lives in an apartment, near downtown.”
“Her name?”
“Jenna…Jenna…”
“Take your time.” Sullivan replied with a hint of sarcasm.
The wheels inside Miller’s head started to turn. Sullivan’s eyes never left the old man’s. Why was it so hard to remember?
“Kaspar…yeah, that’s it. She lives alone, all by herself.”
“Is she the source, or just another carrier?”
“I don’t know…” Miller replied.
The ‘I don’t knows’ started to get under the Agent’s skin. Miller had to give him something he could go to Fitzpatrick with so the torture would stop. So Miller could go to his death in peace. A name would do nothing; achieve nothing. A clinch of the fists, which caused cracked knuckles in Sullivan’s hand, and the old man threw up his arms in defeat.
“I swear to God, I don’t know.” Miller pleaded. “Please. I just know she sends them out.”
“What’s her address?” Sullivan demanded.
“2765 Sycamore Street. Her apartment number is…oh, hell, I don’t remember. But that’s the building.”
Sullivan stood. “You’re sure that this is all you know?”
“Why would I lie?”
“We’ll see if this checks out.”
Sullivan turned his back on his suspect and walked towards the door.
“You know something?” Miller asked.
Sullivan stopped in his track. He turned to face the suspect. Miller sat there, beaten to hell, and still wanted to say something to him. Though the Agent would never admit it out loud, he envied the old man. Miller believed in something higher than himself. The only thing Sullivan believed in was doing enough to get by. To do just enough to care for his son and for a wife who no longer loved him in return. This man had nothing, yet he still stood firm and did not waiver. If not for the torture, the old man would have said nothing and accepted his death.
“What now?” Sullivan asked.
“You’re a coward. All of you are cowards.”
A nerve was struck. Sullivan paced back towards Miller. He leaned against the metal table and gripped the side with both hands for support. His grip so tight it caused his knuckles to go pale.
“I’m a coward?” Sullivan demanded.
“That’s right.”
“Look at yourself. Look at this band of…terrorists you associate yourself with. Always hiding in the shadows, right? You cling to your…Bible and a way of life that has long since passed. And, you? You sold out one of your comrades because you couldn’t stand a little pain.”
Sullivan wanted to finish the job that his partners started. He leaned his body upright and peered down at Miller. The old man looked away. Something started to come from his vocal cords. They were…words to a song? It took a few moments for the Agent to make out what the song was. Then he heard them. Those words that the USR taught him, to all citizens, were never to be spoken of again.
“Oh, say, can you see…”
Complete defiance towards his captor. For the government that Sullivan served every day. Miller remained devoted to that old way of life. What was it about a country with no morals that attracted the old fool?
“Sing all you want,” Sullivan said. He straightened his back. “All the way to the gas chamber.”
When Sullivan turned, the singing grew louder. He had all that he could take from Miller. All the disrespect he could take in one day: the Bible, the flag, the letters, and now the singing. It was enough to cause a civilized human being to throw up. Sullivan opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.
“That how we pussies get it done.” Sullivan said as he walked passed his partners.
“Blow me,” Mason said to Sullivan’s backside. “Better yet, go blow Fitzpatrick again.”
