Clean Kill

by Adam Nicholls

  The drawn-out silence was excruciating. He had to ask them something, even if just to show that he was a normal human being, no different from them—save for a police badge and the key to his handcuffs. “Would you mind opening the window?” he asked, leaning forward from the back seat. “It’s stuffy back here.”

  Detective Howard took his eyes off the road and shot a look at his colleague. Blake thought he was about to protest, but then the man nodded. Winters hit a button between the front seats, rolling the window down an inch. Fresh air flew in, caressing his skin. The occasional drop of cool rainwater sprayed against his face.

  “Thank you.” Blake slumped back, his back landing against the cuffs.

  They sat in silence the rest of the way. It would have been awkward had Blake not been so deep in thought. He kept trying to focus on what he would say when they got to the police station, but memories of his father kept creeping into his mind. Even if he was proven innocent right now, who was to say that his dad would be okay? From the way they had described it, it was a cold, hard fact that Val Salinger was a dead man.

  The car slowed around a six-story building and came to a stop at the back. It looked as if nobody had made any amendments to the place since the seventies. The windows were single-glazed, and the paint below them was as dull as the weathered bricks. Blake felt as though he had been dragged back in time to a place where typewriters might cover the desks and phones would call out in high-pitched rings.

  Detective Howard climbed out of the driver’s side and opened Blake’s door, pulling him to his feet. He found himself wishing he had perfectly normal things to worry about, like the expense of the shirt that was being treated so roughly. Or whether he would be home for his TV dinner, like any other November Tuesday. Sadly, bigger things were at hand, and such petty matters were insignificant.

  They crunched across the gravel, the younger man escorting him from behind. They passed a row of police cars. Even they looked too old to be on the road. Why does everything here look older than me? Could the LAPD not afford to keep with the times? Maybe he was just being absurd. Maybe it was just a shock to his system, having spent recent years surrounded by the modern architecture of Los Angeles and being dependent on today’s technology.

  The interior was even worse. They entered through a set of doors that squeaked as they opened as if they were about to drop from their hinges. Blake saw dust particles float around in the gloomy, narrow reception area. A large woman with a double chin sat at a desk behind a wall of glass at the far end. It was eerily quiet—all he could hear was the tapping of her fingers on computer keys and their own footsteps as he was marched over to the receptionist.

  They stopped at the desk where Winters patted him down, removing the cell phone, wallet, keys, and a small can of breath-freshener from his pockets before sliding them toward the woman through a tray under the glass. He watched as she threw them into a box and slid a clipboard back to him.

  “Print your name and sign,” she said, and that was all. Not a hello to her colleagues, not even a frown at him. She didn’t even have the courtesy to look Blake in the eye.

  Then again, I don’t blame her, he thought. I’m just a murderer to her.

  Detective Howard removed the handcuffs, cautiousness in his eyes. “Give me an excuse.”

  As soon as Blake signed, he was escorted to a shoulder-height machine that looked like an ATM, and Howard forced his hand into the slot. When the scanner beeped its completion and a fingerprint appeared on the screen, the detective clicked the handcuffs back on, tighter than they’d been the first time. There was something personal in his cruelty.

  A buzz rang through, and there was the sound of an electronic lock sliding open. The detectives shoved him through, each with a hand on one of his shoulders. The doorway led into a much larger room that looked more modern and not dissimilar to his own workplace. Life was buzzing in here: phones ringing, detectives and officers shouting at each other. A female officer zipped past them, scowling an accusing look at Blake.

  “Room two,” Howard said, moving his fist and pulling Blake by the scruff of his shirt, apparently to room two. “Winters, get everything we need for an interview.”

  You say “interview,” thought Blake, but I hear “interrogation.” Maybe the younger detective would be the right person to suck up to—it seemed like he would be easier to convince of his innocence.

  Blake was marched right through the center of the room, toward the back. Employees of the station—of many ranks, ages, and colors—all hurried around each other, rushed off their feet with police work. He wondered just how many of them were currently working on his father’s case—how many of them thought he was guilty. It was unfair, he thought, that he would be the one accused while the real killer ran free. But he hoped against hope that there wasn’t a real killer, and that his dad had just gone on some unmentioned vacation.

  But why do they seem so sure he’s dead?

  They approached the back wall, and he could still feel the judgmental eyes scanning him. He looked for understanding in them and prayed for justice. Blake wouldn’t accept it. His father was too young to die. It was as simple as that.

  At the door of the interview room, Howard stopped, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and fidgeted with them. Blake caught sight of a man to his left, sitting on a chair and dressed in a plain black T-shirt. He obviously wasn’t a policeman. He looked far too casual. His hair was thick, silvery gray, and slicked back.

  And he was staring at Blake.

  Who are you? Blake had seen this man before somewhere; he was sure of it. The man was looking at him with a hint of recognition: staring, his mouth hung open a little, and a fire in his eyes. Blake had seen that look before, on the faces of men who won high-stakes bets. It was the look of exasperated relief.

  The door finally clicked open. The detective pushed him through, scraped a wobbly chair back across the cemented floor, and shoved Blake onto it.

  They really think it’s me. Blake prayed that his lawyer would arrive shortly… Had Marcy taken care of it yet? Had Rachel even gotten around to calling her?

  Detective Howard leaned in close to his face. His breath smelled vile: a hot lunch and a lot of coffee. “If I undo these, can you sit without causing trouble?” he spat, nudging his arm to indicate that he was talking about the handcuffs.

  Blake felt as though he was being tested. Why would he cause trouble? He hadn’t done a damn thing so far. “Of course,” he said, holding back on what he really wanted to say to this man. But then the steel loosened and slid from his wrists. He sighed. Things weren’t looking any better for him.

  “I’ll be right back,” Detective Howard said, and then disappeared through the door.

  Blake was thankful for it really; he hadn’t had one second to breathe since he’d been hauled out of work. It was a relief to finally catch a break, even if his movements were being monitored, which they probably were. “Don't worry,” Rachel had said. But how could he not? Sure, they couldn’t possibly have any evidence against him, but then how did they get their warrant? Did they even have one? The day was the worst he’d had in years, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t get any better.

  The detective left the door wide open. An irrational escape attempt was probably expected of him, but he didn’t have the nerve. Didn’t see the point either. Even if he got out of here, there would be nowhere to run.

  He looked around the room, still thinking about the man who sat outside. A small part of him wanted to get up and ask who he was and why he seemed so familiar. But he wouldn’t dare. He was in enough trouble as it was.

  Blake looked around the room. There was nothing but the table in the middle, which he rested his hands on, and a security camera in the corner. With the lights still off, everything was dark and ominous. A pane of glass ran along the same wall as the door, and he wondered just how much of this was private. Though in a strange sort of way, Blake preferred that the rest of the station could see inside. H
e had no idea if he could trust these detectives—they had already given every indication that they didn’t like him, and who knew what they would do to him if he was left alone with them?

  Blake closed his eyes and, before the storm came, whispered a prayer.

  Chapter Four

  The two detectives returned looking no less accusing than before.

  Winters had a small black machine tucked under one arm and a large set of files under the other, barely held together by a blue folder. Howard flicked on the light, pushed the door closed, then took to the wall, where he folded his arms and leaned back. It looked like a different room now that it had equipment, people, and a dizzying bright light.

  While Howard studied them from the back wall, Winters sat in the chair across the table from Blake, spread the files out, and pushed down a button on the machine. “Detective Martin Winters, ID: 3850C. Date: Tuesday, November eighth. Time,” he glanced at his watch, “one-fifteen PM. Please state your name for the record.”

  Blake licked his lips. His mouth tasted like cotton. From this moment on, every word he gave could—and would—be used against him. He wondered if the police gave a damn who they put away for a crime, or if they only wanted to put someone away, so that they could raise a glass to success while receiving all sorts of compliments from their superiors.

  When he was ready to speak, he said, “My name is Blake Salinger.”

  “Mr. Salinger, could you tell me where you were on the night of Sunday, November 6th, leading into the early hours of Monday the 7th?”

  Is that when it happened? Blake had to think about that one. It was two nights ago, going by what Winters had told the machine. His mind was foggy, but he scrambled through it and decided it was probably accurate. “I was at home, sleeping.” It wasn’t the best answer he could give, but it was the truth.

  “I see,” Winters said. “And were you alone on the night in question?”

  Shit. He had known it would come, and he didn’t like to give the answer. “I was alone, yes.” That stung. No company meant no alibi, and no alibi could only make him look guilty. He could almost see a grin weaving itself into the detective’s expression. It was obviously the answer he had wanted.

  “Could you tell me about your relationship with Val Salinger?” Winters had a very professional manner, very thorough and formal. This seemed like more of a presentation to him—an in-depth procedure of all the right questions. No prejudice, no judgment whatsoever.

  That was more than could be said for Detective Howard.

  “Okay.” Blake paused. The answer to this wouldn’t look great either. He could go into detail, but what was the point? When it came to making a solid defense from the law, he figured that less was probably more. “He is my father.”

  Winters nodded, almost approvingly. “Do you keep in contact?”

  “No.” Blake adjusted his collar.

  Howard lunged forward, leaning his fists on the table. “Why not, Mr. Salinger? Did you have a disagreement? A fight, perhaps? Something that caused you to be angry or upset—to react instinctively?”

  “What? No, not at all. We’re just distanced.” This was getting a little too much for him. He was worried he might say something that would land him in trouble. “Look, while I’m waiting for my lawyer, I don’t have to talk. I know that.” His voice wavered. He sounded unsure. “I will answer straightforward questions until she gets here, but I won’t be forced into a corner.” But when would she arrive? Marcy was his father’s wife, and she was, according to his father, an incredibly talented defense attorney.

  “She’s not coming,” Howard said, standing up straight.

  “When was the last time you made contact with your father?” Winters took the reins again, finally showing some balls and huffing at his partner. “And we do appreciate your cooperation, despite appearances.”

  At last, some humanity! But what about Marcy? Was she really not coming, or had he just said that to plant the seed of doubt?

  “A year ago, I guess. Look, we never got along. Detective, you’ve asked me several questions and told me nothing, so may I ask you something?”

  Winters craned his neck and looked up at his partner as if to ask for permission.

  Howard frowned but nodded anyway.

  “I woke up this morning and went to work,” Blake said. “Just like I usually do. My close friends were as close this morning as they were last week, and my distant relatives were ever distant. When I got to the office, I had a meeting, took a piss, and the next thing I know I’m being taken to the police station and accused of something I didn’t even know had happened.” His hands were shaking. He was losing his patience, becoming sloppy. “Now, I’ve answered all your questions, and I’m happy to answer even more, but I won’t be saying a damn word until you’ve told me what you know about my father.”

  They both leaned back with their mouths agape, shocked by the sudden outburst.

  Breaking the silence, the door swung open and a female officer in uniform came in with a handful of transparent bags. Without looking at anyone else, she put them on the table and nodded at Winters before leaving the room.

  “Right on time,” Detective Howard said.

  Blake studied the bags, trying to see what they contained.

  Winters looked down at one of the bags, separated it from the others, and slapped it down onto the table between them. “Presenting item #46518. Mr. Salinger, is this your key?”

  Blake looked down at it. His heart began to race. For years he had kept that key on the Superman key ring, which was still attached. He could feel his face redden, growing hot. “It is, yes. But that has been at my father’s house the whole—”

  Detective Winters held out his palm. “A simple yes or no will suffice. Now, can you tell me why traces of Val Salinger’s blood were found on the key?”

  “No. I can’t. I mean—”

  “Moving on to item #46519,” Winters continued, removing the evidence bag and replacing it with another. This one contained a small metal object with black smudges around its surface. “Can you tell me what this is, Mr. Salinger?”

  Blake leaned in and peered at it. “Looks like a bullet.”

  Detective Howard stepped forward again. “Your bullet.” It wasn’t a question.

  “What? No.”

  “Then why is your thumbprint on it?”

  Everything was getting blurry. His stomach felt like it was spinning, and dizziness clouded his vision. “My thumbprint?”

  “Yes. From when you pushed it into the magazine, no doubt.”

  “What magazine? I didn’t use a gun.”

  Howard thumped a fist into the table. Everything on it jumped, rattled, or rolled onto its side. “Then what did you use to murder Val Salinger?”

  Shit. Idiot.

  “Nothing! I—” As his voice cracked, Blake could feel the tears brewing behind his eyes.

  “You’re lying.” Even Winters pressured him now. “Your print is on this bullet, which was extracted from your father’s chest. Are you denying the evidence?”

  “Yes!” Blake shot up, kicking the chair back behind him. “Until you told me, I didn’t even know he was dead!” The tears came flooding, drowning his words as he said them.

  Howard leapt toward him. He had been waiting for “the excuse,” as he had put it earlier. With immeasurable force, he dived at Blake and pinned him back against the wall, holding a strong forearm against his Adam’s apple.

  Restricted, threatened, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. His father was dead, and he was going to be locked up. Worst of all, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “We got you,” Howard said, a self-approving smile appearing on his lips.

  Blake could just about see Winters standing by the table, not uttering a word of protest.

  There was a knock on the door. Blake had never been so grateful to hear anything in all his life. He needed time to think, to figure out how he could give his statement with absolute
clarity and get out of the crosshairs. But more than anything, he wanted to take a few minutes to breathe, to steady himself.

  Detective Howard looked at the door, huffed, and then let go of Blake and stepped away. He adjusted his shirt and straightened his tie. When everyone had silenced as if nothing had happened, he opened the door. “What?”

  Time seemed to slow down for Blake, watching it happen. A man entered the room, flashing his badge in a manner that demanded respect. It took seconds for it to register with Blake that this was the man who had been sitting outside. But now he looked different: a new suit jacket over his T-shirt… and a set of glasses? It was only because he had studied him that Blake knew who he was. Why he was there was a different subject altogether.

  The silver-haired man didn’t say a word. The door creaked to a close behind him, and as soon as it clicked, he threw a punch at Howard, sending him rolling over the table.

  Blake’s eyes widened in shock. Did that really just happen?

  Winters reacted immediately, lunging at him—a partner’s instinct, milliseconds too late.

  Smooth and swift, the man slid the belt off his waist and ducked. A moment later, he hooked Winters’s arm into the loop of the belt, pulled it taut, and used the restraint to drive the detective’s face into the table.

  Blake stood in horror, two unconscious policemen at his feet. His mouth hung open, and he realized his hands were held up in surrender. He wanted to speak, to ask this man what the hell was going on, but the words were caught in his throat.

  The silver-haired man knelt by Howard’s body, searched through his pockets, and then shook his head in disappointment. It looked like he hadn’t even noticed Blake, who was still backed up against the wall. The man moved over to Winters’s unmoving body and searched his pockets too, producing a set of keys.