Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Cools’s phone rings. Sergeant Wielder says, “You may now enter.”

  The two detectives dart in, wanting to take full advantage of Joshua’s shock to ask a few key questions. Through the disintegrated door, they cross into the smoky room still full of activity, officers with guns drawn searching every nook and cranny. Across the space they see Joshua deflated and cuffed on the couch. Cools wastes no time. He runs directly to him. “Where’s Kimberly?”

  “Fuck you, top cop!” Joshua replies, tussling in his restraints.

  Cools leans in close, violating his space, and asks again. This time he only responds by turning his attention to Michelle, seizing a long look; his smiling, evil eye gazes up and down.

  Then Michelle screams, “Where’s Kimberly, asshole?”

  Cools adds, “And where is Amberly?”

  Without moving a muscle, Joshua’s eyes shift their focus from peering at her to peering through her. Michelle, at that instant, knows they’re not going to get anything out of him. She diverts her attention to the room, the shattered windows and curtains strewn throughout, lying across his audio system—it seems odd to her that it’s turned on.

  Cools continues, demanding, “What have you done to Kimberly? Where’s Amberly?” He remains highly agitated even as the rest of the men around them begin to settle down. “Tell me where the fuck your wife is.”

  Joshua angles his stare back to him, stating, “You’ve made a big mistake, top cop!”

  “And how’s that?”

  At first Joshua doesn’t answer, he just nuzzles his head back into the couch cushions and, seemingly very comfortable and sure of himself, whispers, “The devil comes, the devil does, and the devil goes; and I bet you think the blood on the yacht is Kimberly’s.”

  Stunned and exasperated, Cools grabs him and yells, “Listen here, you freak. I’m tired of hearing your bullshit. I don’t need her blood. I will find her body. And now that I have you, I have your DNA. And I don’t care how careful you think you are, asshole; I will plant your hair, your blood, even your semen if I have too.”

  “She’s my fucking dead wife; why wouldn’t my blood, hair, or semen be on her, top cop?”

  Instantly Cools realizes what a stupid comment it was and looks around hoping few had heard it.

  “Brad, settle down,” Michelle warns, pulling him back. Then she motions for the remaining officers to take Joshua away.

  They spring back into action, pluck him from the couch, and seconds later emerge from the house. “Move, move, move!” they shout, with Joshua cuffed, his feet bouncing along as they half run, half drag him to an open side door of a van. They throw him in and slam the door shut as the engine roars to life. One of them bangs on the side, the tires squeal, and they’re gone.

  Then forensics moves in, snapping pictures of everything. They find a room converted into a shrine for Kimberly. Her picture, the same picture, haphazardly pasted to every square inch of the walls. Standing in the room, Michelle asks, “How did he know about the blood?”

  “I don’t know; something isn’t right.”

  “Did you see his smirk? I’m starting to think everything we find is…is what he wants us to find.”

  “No, we’re going to get him!” Cools yells before he recognizes how upset she is.

  “Brad, he frightens me.”

  Cools places his arm around her and holds her. “Yeah, I know; he scares me, too.”

  They embrace for a time, letting the agitation subside. Michelle needs him more than she lets on, but he knows. He tells her how sweet her hair smells, calming her enough to regroup her thoughts. And it isn’t long before she begins to analyze the incident.

  “Did you get anything from him when you asked about Amberly?”

  “Not even a twitch.”

  “I feel like he’s playing us, like he’s going to get out of this somehow.”

  “No, he won’t; he’ll leave something unchecked. They always do. We just have to keep searching.” He scans the house for a place to start. Then, remembering Joshua’s financial troubles, he walks over to a filing cabinet in what would be a dining room that’s been converted into an open office. The cabinet looks to be just the kind of where someone would stash a kilo of cocaine. Then, not knowing whether it’s locked, he yanks on the top drawer. Unexpectedly the whole front comes off. The entire drawer is missing; he pulls at the second one, getting the same result. Soon he realizes it’s been hollowed out. He rips the remaining doors off, exposing a vacant expanse. “Look at this!”

  Michelle comes over and shines her flashlight inside. It’s smeared with a gooey substance. “Is that blood?”

  Cools yells out, “I need a luminal light in here!”

  Right away a woman from the forensics team appears and waves a beam of light into the empty cabinet.

  The distinctive glows of splattered blood come alive like a laser light show.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cools and Michelle leave Joshua’s home and return to the station. At first there’s some confusion as to where he’s been taken. Michelle calls Captain Jackson, but he doesn’t divulge any information, only tells them to go to his office and wait. After two and a half hours, they are found by Misty Lakewoods, in the cafeteria. She says, “come with me,” and leads them to the task force headquarters, located in the third level of the basement. Neither of them has ever been down to this part of the building, but Misty seems quite familiar with the place as she delivers them to a waiting armed guard—one of Sergeant Wielder’s team.

  “Here you go, and I would like to say congratulations on getting Joshua into custody,” she says, before leaving them alone with the guard. He escorts them through the command center, which is nothing more than a long soundless hallway with closed doors along each side and a large metal door at its end.

  “Why are we down here?” Michelle asks, as they reach the end of the hall. The guard doesn’t answer her; he just punches in a security code, and with a mechanical clank, the door opens into a small space. Cools and Michelle are speechless. They enter, finding Captain Jackson quietly standing in front of a large plate glass window and next to Sergeant Wielder, who is talking into his phone. On the other side, Joshua sits strapped to a chair. And in an instant, they begin to understand where they are: it’s some kind of private interrogation room. The door locks behind them.

  “What’s he doing down here?” Cools asks, looking with interest about the room.

  “Shush!” Captain Jackson spits out, without taking his eyes off of Joshua.

  Although anxious and curious, the two detectives abide by his order and simply study the animal before them. Soon enough interrogations will begin, an occasion that will haunt them all.

  They quickly survey the secreted room. At first glance it is like any other, except it has an enormous three-feet-thick two-way mirror. On the viewing side are four fixed seats and a lot of electronic touch pads on the wall. The mirrored side, where Joshua sits, has a table, a couple of chairs, and a lighting system, in addition to stadium-sized speakers.

  “What is this place?” Michelle asks.

  “All right, now, listen up,” Captain Jackson replies, speaking to them through his reflection in the glass. “This guy is not gonna fuck with us anymore. The blood in the crack is Kimberly’s; I’m sure of it. How he knows about it, I don’t care—it doesn’t matter. He’s in our house now, and he will tell us all we want to know. We’re gonna do whatever is necessary to get a statement from this maniac and seal the deal. He’s my puppet now, and I will pull the strings!”

  Michelle hears the sinister tone in his voice and asks, dreadfully concerned, “What exactly do you mean by ‘whatever is necessary,’ Captain?”

  He turns and stares directly into her, giving her the feeling of being at a crossroads. Then he asks solemnly, “Do you want to know why he’s winning?” Michelle doesn’t know how to answer. “It’s because he thrives on all this. He’s becoming a rock-star killer right before our very eyes. The media w
orships him; they hang on his every word, and he feeds them one freaky statement after another. And he is far from done.” She and Cools start to get the sense that their captain knows more than they do. He speaks as if he is not himself. He doesn’t exert his usual body language, and his voice is ominous.

  “Is there something we should know?”

  “Yes, there is Michelle. I got a call from forensics. The blood in the filing cabinet is not Kimberly’s; it’s B-positive—the same as Amberly’s! And they found more,” he says, looking distraught. “They found a leather-bound book of ancient religious practices tied with a silk scarf. In it, scribbled atop almost every page, are the names of missing girls going back nine years.”

  “Oh my God!” Michelle feels bile rising in her stomach.

  “What are you planning here?” Cools asks.

  “We…the four of us”—he twirls his finger—“are gonna get him to confess, so there will be no plea bargains, so he will get nothing short of a dose of lethal injection!” Then he continues conveying information to them they never could have imagined. He asks, “Do you see his complementary cup of coffee?”

  They both reply, “Yeah.”

  “Well, then I will let Sergeant Wielder take it from here.”

  Sergeant Wielder, no longer talking on the phone, clears his throat before he begins. “In it is an experimental drug, Dimeophoximien, that we used primarily in Operation Desert Storm to retrieve vital information from suspected terrorists. It should be coursing through his veins in approximately ten minutes. It alters cognitive functions and perceptions by overloading his brainwaves and simultaneously firing all receptors of both the left and right hemispheres of the frontal lobes. It will bring the deep recesses of his mind to the surface. He will involuntarily do and say things he doesn’t intend to, attempting to react one way, only to do the opposite. For example, he may try to scream from the pain but start singing a song he cannot stand. Or attempt to spit on you, only to piss his pants. And best of all, he will try to answer questions in one manner but admit to things inadvertently—things that will help us get a conviction.”

  Captain Jackson explains further. “Also you should know that I released a statement from my office stating that Joshua is currently being held in Tacoma, where a few obstacles are in place, but they’ll figure it out within a couple of hours. That means time is short.”

  Cools and Michelle are utterly stunned by his words. But Michelle finds the strength to express her thoughts. “This is illegal; we could go to jail.”

  “Well it is a grey area,” Sergeant Wielder answers, “but dark enough that we aim to keep it under wraps. Think of it this way: it is only intensified coercion, albeit of a type that the public is not ready for.” Michelle gives him a gaze suggesting she is unconvinced. He asserts, “We cannot operate with our hands tied!”

  “Have you two done this before?” They both linger implicitly, giving her the answer. “You’ve got to be kidding me. My God!”

  Cools starts to say something, but Sergeant Wielder holds his hand, signaling he needs to communicate more. “What I am about to tell you must remain entirely off the record.” He gives them a look displaying his resolve. “I am technically still employed with an elite unit within our military. I have full authority to execute these actions. And if anything ever came of it, I can argue that he is a religious terrorist, relieving you at least from any prosecution.”

  “Prosecution! I can’t get freaking prosecuted. I’m married; I have a child.”

  Captain Jackson grabs her shoulders, shaking her. “Listen, Robertson, we’re not gonna give this savage any chance to live out his days in a cell filled with commissary and fan mail. He has to die, and this is the only way—the only way for us to protect our community, to get justice! Think of all those young girls dying horrible deaths at his hand. He’s not gonna go unpunished!”

  Michelle looks to Cools, only to see he is already silently onboard. She breaks Captain Jackson’s grip and turns to the window, staring at Joshua, absorbed in thought. At first she feels like crying, until the vengeance that’s in the air sets in. She takes a long look at him then pivots back to the three men in the room. Immediately she can see the difference; the men in front of her are strong, principled, noble.

  They are her protectors.

  Then she remembers her childhood and her father, and the way he had always said to her mother, “Men know best.” It was a statement she thought of as funny and playful, until her college years when the adage morphed into a hated phrase—an egotistical, discriminating, and oppressive comment that at that time in her life she advocated against in support of the women’s movement. But deep down, in places she would never outwardly admit, she felt it to have some level of truth and prudence. She looks to Sergeant Wielder, seeing a man sure of his doings. He postures, showing her the security she is looking for. Then Detective Michelle Robertson turns the corner, asking, “Are you positive you can protect us from any prosecution?”

  “Michelle, we will do everything possible to keep this under the radar, but if it ever comes out in any form, I can make it go away,” he replies, assuring her.

  She hesitates, pressing her captain to close the deal. He recites to her a motto he learned from his former captain. “We punish wrongdoers. We kill evil.

  He has to die Michelle, and this is the way.”

  She closes her eyes for a moment, saying a short prayer. Then she opens them, with a new mind. “Okay, okay then, let’s do it. Let’s break this disgusting freak!” Sergeant Wielder springs into action, explaining the inner workings of his enhanced interrogation room. “I want to prepare you for what you are about to see. The room is outfitted with some devices that will augment the effect of the drugs. Creating nightmarish flashes of lights, the temperature will fluctuate rapidly between one hundred thirty and ten degrees Fahrenheit. Speakers will pound reverberating bass, more like shock waves actually, with the deafening, high-pitched sounds of a disturbed woman. Her voice will be acute, wailing orders to comply, to obey, as well as attacking him personally. But the primary mechanism is the air pressurized chamber he now sits in.” He breathlessly explains as Michelle’s and Cools’s eyes widen. “We call it IEC, for ‘intelligence extraction chamber.’ And how it works is simple: The room is completely air tight and can hold up to five hundred pounds per square inch of pressure. Three of the four walls are stationary, while the wall to his left actuates in and out, generating very high pressures. It is painful and extremely disorientating; it can even rupture his internal organs. The stresses will also bow the two-way mirror, distorting his reflection. Now, I want you to know that what you are about to witness is extremely effective and will surely amaze the both of you.” Then, without allowing any discussion, he begins pushing controls on the keypad. Cools and Michelle hold hands, appropriately unsettled, while Captain Jackson stands expressionless.

  On the other side of the glass, Joshua starts to feel a dizzying sensation, the embers of nausea. The wall left of him closes in, and the mirror twists, deforming his image. He encounters a pulsing force as his sickness steadily increases. Next neon lights begin to flicker. On and off, off and on, sporadically, while others strobe in an array of colors. The force subsides momentarily and then drives harder, pushing on him from every angle, crushing him. The drugs are coming on strong, and his bending image frightens him. The lights strobe faster, more off than on; the room heats up, and sweat runs down his face. Bass speakers roar to life, rumbling through him, enhancing the pressure as other amplifiers are piercing his ears, screeching. “Obey!You will obey!You are nothing!” The demands are followed by sounds of a woman taunting and cursing. “Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh! You are trifle! Void! Disgraced!” Her screams curdle him as panic shudders through his body. “You can only obey! Ahhh! Ahhh! You coward!” The temperature falls; his core shivers. His sweat chills him, and the woman’s shrieking grows louder, coming from the left of him and then the right. His mind is sealed with paralyzing fear, his bones are being cons
trained, his brain is twitching, and confusion surrounds his consciousness. “Ahhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhhhh! Die! Depart from life!” Her voice is menacing, and inside his strobe-lit lips begin to beg, to abandon all and plea for their mercies.

  Then it stops.

  He exhales relief, whimpering. Much-needed oxygen and white blood cells rush to aid his body. Only the bottomless ringing in his ears and trembling pain remains. Then it comes on again, even more intense than before. Shocking his inner being, his throat begins to swell under the heaviness, suffocating. Terror sets in, and the woman continues shrilling, “Ahhh! Ahhhh! You are disorder! Obey me!” Rhythmic stresses seize his functions; he wets himself. But he’s not sure that he didn’t do it on purpose. His internal organs coil like the image seen in the carnival mirror, a masquerade of visual echoes. Complete and utter horror surges inside…It stops.

  He has a brief moment of reprieve with isolated thoughts of where am I, why am I? Again it comes alive, faster, with more weight, more chaotic sparks of light, an inescapable hallucination of morbid realities. “Ahhh! Ahhhh! Ahhhh!” The heat rises, almost burning his skin. He tries to stand, but instead his arms flail about; he tries to close his eyes but cannot; he tries to speak, but his mind won’t let him. Thoughts of suicide flood his psyche; he thinks of Kimberly, Ra, and little Frankie—anything to make it stop. But the woman won’t quit fucking screaming. “You are a genius! A madman! You are hell! Ahhh! Ahhhh!” He drools on himself; he wants to tear at his skin. It stops, yet he knows it will soon return, an inevitable nightmare of doom and condemnation. He attempts to cry but instead launches into uncontrollable laughter.