“We know what you've done.” Detective Ballen closed the door behind him. He remained calm despite how his rage stabbed at his temples.
“Can you really blame me for my transgressions?” The question arose from under a black hoodie. Fluorescents illuminated the small room as if to compensate for the claustrophobic vibe. Even under the brightness, the perpetrator’s mere existence seemed to cast a shadow.
“This will go to trial,” Ballen warned, careful to mirror his company’s poise.
“Let it.” There was a neutrality that infested like a swarm of wasps anticipating a threat. The less the figure said, the more Ballen noticed how much he hated that room. He tried to analyze his suspect but his mind kept wandering to the closed door, the oversized table, and how the confined stale air overheated him. This only amplified his rage. Seconds began to pass like hours and Ballen wanted a confession. Maybe it was an apology he was seeking, believing the victims deserved justice. If he had to be honest, it was merely for the spite of being correct but he decided that only made him better at his job. A confession would make things much easier and would certainly be less paperwork.
“Why not make things simple and tell me what you know?”
“You said you already knew.”
“I still need a statement.”
“Detective.” The flatness in the suspect’s voice sent shivers down Ballen's spine.
“I am no more responsible for the damage I’ve done than you are for the criminals that use me.”
“What are the things that you have done?”
“Again, you said you already knew. This conversation only distracts us from the inevitable. Seems a waste of time, doesn’t it, Detective?”
“People want to know the full story.”
“The full story, Detective?”
Ballen tried to make eye contact but there seemed to be no face behind the dark hole that the hood created. He said nothing to interrupt whatever thoughts his suspect was having, hoping for some incite as to what kind of criminal he was dealing with.
“Fine. I'll call your bluff, Detective. Could you imagine your entire life being designed to corrupt the innocent? I am nothing more than the belly of the beast.”
“If you’re trying to get sympathy, it won’t work.”
“I do not seek sympathy, Detective, nor forgiveness. It is not I who have committed these atrocities. I exist as a tool, nothing more.
You know, it’s hard to keep humble in such a life. I try to keep things simple and take care of myself, but I find bits and pieces of myself all over the place. Somehow, fragments of my ghost seem to haunt human nature. Isn’t that ironic, Detective? To be such a pariah and yet I live on the tip of every tongue, in the back of every thought. They have constructed and destroyed empires in my wake. I bear no more responsibility for their discourse then your drill does for the holes it creates. Why would I ask for sympathy, Detective, when I have done nothing that requires it?”
“I think you’re trying to pass blame for the lives you’ve destroyed.”
“Being the victim doesn’t make you innocent, Detective. Their own use of me made them the victim and will perpetuate their weaknesses. To call me an offender, Detective, is almost offensive. Am I not a victim of shame, casted to exist as a slave to the shadows of your kind?”
“I’m not buying your shenanigans. The case against you is solid. All I need is a motive for these atrocities you’ve committed against humanity.”
A chuckle crawled out of the suspect’s mouth. It casted an eerie cloud that fogged the room with doubt and discontent. The blinding whiteness of the fluorescents had been dulled by the gray feeling sinking its quiet claws into Ballen's red hot rage.
“What do you want from me?” He screamed, slamming his fist down.
The figure leaned forward. Hands emerged from the pockets of the black jeans, reaching up to remove the blackness that had veiled the suspect’s identity. The lights flickered, jerking Ballen's attention upward for a split second. When his eyes returned to the figure across the table, his heart almost jumped out of his chest.
He couldn’t make heads or tails of what his eyes were seeing. His own face stared back at him, void of any emotion.
“What kind of game are you playing? Who are you?”
“Do you not see, Detective? I have many faces and wear many hats. I can be a spy, a politician, a writer, a cheating spouse, a drug addict, a social movement, a loving parent, an embarrassed child, a psychopath, or a detective, even. Like I said, it’s hard to remain humble when everyone gives you such power. One could mistake me for a god if it weren’t for my bad reputation.”
“What do I have to do with this?” Ballen's intensity teetered between his familiar rage and a new anxious curiosity. His chest tightened as his heart beat quickened. His fingers began to tap the pencil against the table, but the drumming hit his ears like a sonic boom. Across his skin, he could feel his nerves flutter, making his skin feel too small for his skeleton. No matter how uncomfortable he felt, he refused to relinquish his pride to this criminal.
“Have you not used me yourself, Detective?” Ballen froze as if time itself stopped.
“Would you convict me for your own crimes?””
“How dare you accuse-"
“Careful, Detective,” The figure interrupted.
“No matter how angry you get, the fact remains you have used me in order to know me. I exist only in the falseness you create as a means to expand or hide your own truth. You have displayed calmness as a tactic to manage the situation to your benefit. If you were to show your authentic self in this moment, who knows what you would be capable of right now. I see the fire that burns in your spirit, hoping I give you a reason to manifest it; a reason that you could label justifiable as you turn me into a story to use against me. You want to know my story? You want to know who I am, Detective? You have to look no further than all the little ways which I already exist in your life. I know what it is you never say.
Every time you explain why you didn’t get that promotion. Every time you tell your wife ‘I love you,’ knowing she’s sleeping with your brother. Every time you let reruns of MASH play to distract yourself from the hang over while you put your uniform on. How many victims have you created by never admitting the reason you chose to be an officer is because of how weak you feel when you’re standing naked in front of the mirror? That’s why no one respects you. That’s why your wife hates you. That’s why your children won’t speak to you. Detective, being the victim doesn’t make you innocent. But, why take my word for it? You’ve already decided my guilt and you certainly need someone to blame.”
Ballen sat back. His gaze remained fixed while his brain tried to wrap his fingers around the spiral of this rabbit hole. Silence took over as he considered the suspect across from him. Attempting to analyze the situation felt like confronting his own soul.
“What are the charges?” The suspect asked, keeping the same sharp cold tone.
Ballen didn’t have an answer. The list began with murder, trafficking, and genocide but a sinking feeling in his gut was warning him there was something deeper that he was missing. It felt like it was dancing on the tip of his tongue. Never straying from its base, it spun until he was dizzy.
The figure pulled its hood back over its head, disappearing behind the shadow it emerged from.
“I think the real question is, Detective, am I really the culprit?”
Seconds passed like hours as they sat inside the small room. The silence echoed like a beacon, feeding the ambiguity that choked him.
“I know what you’ve done,” Ballen said. He was desperate to gain control of the conversation.
“Am I the culprit, Detective?”
Ballen didn’t answer right away. He didn’t want to accept the bittersweet defeat of his fractured ego. Finally, he swallowed what was left of his pride.
“No.”
“Who's the culprit?”
“We are.”
“And, yet, here I am. Hmm.”
Ballen had nothing to say. His brain searched for a response but the only a long sigh emerged.
The figure gave a small chuckle and stood up to tower over Ballen. Its presence dominated the room.
“Truth is my only enemy, Detective. Like I said, I'm almost a god,” it said and walked out the door, carrying the gray cloud of doubt away with it. The fluorescents flashed sharply into Ballen’s pupils, re-illuminating every corner around him. There he sat, in the solitude of his own ego, wondering what if truth will be less pretentious when questioned.
Author Bio
Winter Summer is the self-published author of Molly's Misguided Adventures, found on Amazon. She runs a small farm with her family in Western Maine where she spends her time as a teacher and an artist.
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