Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Death Warrant ❯ The interrogation. ( Chapter 1 )

One kills a man, one is an assassin; one kills millions, one is a conqueror; one kills everybody, one is a god

Jean Rostand

 

Chapter One

The interrogation.

If alcohol is queen, then tobacco is her consort. It's a fond companion for all occasions, a loyal friend through fair weather and foul. People smoke to celebrate a happy moment, or to hide a bitter regret. Whether you're alone or with friends, it's a joy for all the senses. What lovelier sight is there than a double row of cigarettes, lined up like soldiers on parade and wrapped in silver paper? I love to touch the pack in my pocket, open it, savor the feel of the cigarette between my fingers, the paper on my lips, the taste of tobacco on my tongue. I love to watch it come closer and closer, filling me with its warmth.

-Luis Bunuel

 

 

“My name is of little importance. All that matters is that you think that I am guilty.” I said, my accent only slightly affecting my fluent Polish; though the cop couldn't tell which kind. He went by Collins, the new detective from America. How did I know? His Polish was terrible, slaughtering the beautiful language with his clumsy English. He was only in his early thirties and his fair hair was already beginning to silver. He was blunt, never wasting his time with the politics of an interrogation. The only method that worked for guys like him was bad cop and worse cop. He glanced over at the hefty man in the corner, Michalowski, who was the only reason Collins was going by the book. Michalowski's frown deepened. He had to be in his late fifties. Perhaps he was retiring soon but had one last rookie to train before he could settle down in the Polish country side. Collins eyed me skeptically. I looked most out of place in my linen shirt and Bermuda shorts, but it was a particularly hot day.

“Why was this on your person?” He hung the small bag of marijuana in my face that I had had in my back pocket. I sighed.

“I have glaucoma.” I said calmly. “Are we through here?” I sighed, irked. I had been here for at least two hours now.

“We're through when I say we're through!” he yelled angrily.

“I've already answered all of you questions.”

“Just tell us what you were doing at the train station!” Collins sighed, wiping his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.

“I was meeting a friend, but he never showed up. I was leaving when your people arrived and forced me to the ground. They took my passport and I was then-”

“BULL!” Collins yelled. “I saw you with two other men! You were selling to them weren't you?!” he spat. I shrugged, “I told you I have glaucoma. And they asked me for a cigarette and the time. I do not smoke.” I leaned back in my chair.

“Alright smartass, explain these!” He threw a manila folder onto the table top, black and white photos spilling out onto the olive green surface. They were of me leaving my hotel, the two men who asked me for a cigarette behind me. I shrugged nonchalantly. “A coincidence though I thought they looked familiar.” I rubbed my stubbled chin. Collins slammed his hands down on the table.

“Just admit it! You were meeting them to discuss the plan for kidnapping the Prime Minister! One of you fucks had the gull to send us a letter.” he pulled out the piece of paper that was in his back pocket. He shoved it in my face. I skimmed it. It said something about a ransom.

“Your little plan didn't work because the Prime Minister never showed up!” he laughed, “Who's the dumb fuck now?!” he bellowed, towering over me, as if he thought himself better. I couldn't help but smile.

“Silly American.” I chuckled. Collins reached across the table, creasing my crisp linen shirt in his grasp.

“Collin.” Michalowski said, his keen grey eyes bearing a warning. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.

“Collin.” He said again, keeping his voice even.

“It's Collins.” Collins spat, slowly letting me go. I slipped easily back into my chair. I chuckled, how childish of him.

“My, my.” I grin, fixing my askew shirt. “What am I to do? I tell you my story and all you're looking for is a scapegoat to pin the blame on so the public doesn't see how incompetent your unit is.” I spat light-heartedly, my words laced with venom. Collins jumped out of his seat yanking me across the table.

“Why you-” he brought his hand level with my face, his large, hairy fingers curled into a fist. My body tensed, here's where the fun begins. His partner must have seen it in my eyes, how eager I was to strike at Collins.

“Collins!” Michalowski yelled, doing his best to restrain his partner. He moved quiet agilely for a man of his size.

“Let go of me!” Collins spat, shrugging him off and leaving the interrogation room, slamming the door behind him.

“He's got a temper that one.” I chuckled. “It is good that you stopped him when you did." I said smugly as two other officers came in and handcuffed me again. They led me out of the room and to a holding cell.

“You wait here until your lawyer comes.” One said coldly. I nodded and sat on the bed, the bare mattress was thin and stained. The cell faintly smelled of urine and sweat. You're probably wondering what an innocent man needs with a lawyer. Well I could try to prove my innocence on my own which would prove fruitless or I could have someone who is trained to do just that for me. It was always good to be prepared. I would probably be here for a while. Ulrich, my lawyer, wasn't happy that I called him. Then again neither was I. I was already in a foul mood because I was late, as was my friend. Ever since I was a child I have always been very punctual. But my comrades were not. I thought of my mother and how she beat punctuality into me, I suppose I can blame her for how focused I am. She would be crushed to find her eldest son had been sentenced to the chair or worse. Though we stopped speaking long, long ago, I thought of her often. I wondered what happened to the other two. The Ukrainian and the Austrian. They were a sketchy looking duo. Dirty and suspicious. Better suited for dying first in battle, unnamed and trampled over, than the delicate art of assassination. So I imagine. It was because of their clumsy antics that I am here now, in an 8 by 8 cell so I will think whatever I please. I hate people who don't know what they're doing, men and woman who have no direction in life. Just wandering aimlessly from job to job. They are a waste of air. I scoff, if I ever get my hands on them! Oh! My perfect record is now tarnished forever! I will be the laughing stock of my entire community.

I sigh and lay back, putting my hands behind my head. I can't help but wonder where Ulrich is. I have a train to catch and I would like to say goodbye to my friend before I do. Today is my last day in Poland. Out of all the things I imagined I would be doing on this sunny afternoon, squandering it in a dank smelly jail cell never crossed my mind. I sat up as the guard came to the door. It swung open with a god awful creak.

“You've got a visitor.” He cocked his head toward the hall. I sighed gingerly, getting up slow; maybe I am getting too old for shit like this. I was handcuffed yet again and led to a room that greatly resembled the lunch room of a small elementary school with circular, bright orange chairs that were attached to the table by curving metal poles. My hand twitched at the thought. My daughter would be entering kindergarten this year. Everyone told me I was crazy for trying to start a family with all the traveling that I do. My wife, Natasha and I, we make it work somehow. I'll have to remember to pick up souvenirs for them before I leave.

“Good afternoon.” Ulrich said, standing, straightening his Italian suit. I took his hand; we shook once and sat across from each other.

“I never expected to get a call from you of all people. The world truly must be ending.” He said in Russian, our native language. With a quiet smile on his face, he waited for an explanation.

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” I put my head in my hands. With in the hour I was released. It was refreshing to take in something other than the smell of musk and stale piss. As I was leaving, a group of officers were bringing in two men. A Ukrainian and an Austrian. They stared at me, struggling against the cops to keep eye contact, hoping their silent pleading will somehow coax me into action. The corners of my lips twitch, turning into a smile, as cold and as cruel as I. It was ecstasy to watch their faces ashen in horror. They should think that I am doing them a favor. Our employer would do far worse things than the police ever could. I looked over my shoulder; to no surprise the ever spiteful Detective Collins was watching me, with a scowl on his face. Silly American.

“Here.” Ulrich reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of `COOL' cigarettes. He liked the American made ones for some odd reason. I took one out and put it between my lips, lit it, and took a long. Deep. Drag. The sweet nectar of nicotine filling my lungs. I glanced over my shoulder, letting the smoke lazily billow out of my parted lips. By the time Collins yelled `stop' he was already a blur in the rear view mirror.

 

#

 

“If you don't hurry, you'll miss your train.” Ulrich says as he pops the trunk. He parked on a hill a good hundred yards away from where my friend stayed when the pressure of politics was too much for his pea-brain. I get out, mumbling my thanks as I lift the hood. I unzip the duffle bag inside, quickly assembling the self-loading, rigor .22 model K10 22PPF. A low velocity weapon, light and compact, easy for a quick get away. Not my choice but it would get the job done; I crawled up the slopping hill, laying flat on my stomach. I repositioned my fingers on the rear grip, resting my cheek on the stalk. The grass was tall here, I wouldn't be seen. I licked my lips as I focus my eye on the side scope, zooming in on my target. Do I feel bad for what I am about to do? Of course. But the 500,000 rubles I was being paid by Uon, the Ukrainian rebel activist group would help me cope. It would be waiting for me on the seven o'clock L train from Warsaw to Belgium beneath seat R45. To me, the life of the Prime Minister of Poland was worth a lot less.

“Hello old friend.” I whisper to myself, my finger curls around the trigger, the gun shutters in my firm grip, reloading as quickly as I fired.

“Goodbye.” I smirk, hearing the blood curdling scream of his wife is sweet relief, a weight off my shoulders. I saunter down the hill and disassemble the gun, throwing it in the back of the trunk. I think I too, like Michalowski, will retire me however at the ripe age of twenty six not sixty two.

You may think me a terrible person. But death is death. People kill for next to nothing. For saying or wearing the wrong thing. Is it so wrong that I make a living off of it? It is the `smart' thing to do. The survival of the fittest and all that. You exploit your skills to get ahead. The only thing I happen to be good at was killing. My first kill…my first kill was my father. I was fifteen. You see he was always pushing me to become a better man than he. Chastising me again and again if I failed at something. Be it loosing a fight or coming second in my class. I was never good enough. He told me once, that I had to be perfect. I am perfect. I suppose I can thank him for making me into the man I am today.

I hated him. He was a heavy drinker. He would berate us, my siblings and I. Starting always with the youngest, Demetre, then my sister Anna; finally it would be our turn. Olek and mine. Olek is my twin, younger only by a few seconds. Those few seconds saved him the beating that I always received. My father made me fight him. I always held back until that day. His dying words were `I am proud of you. My son.' It offered no comfort. I still hated him and now I had to live with his blood on my hands.

The first kill, is always exaggerated when being relayed in a story. My father died in the mud like the pig that he was. It was raining. I was numb to everything. There was no anger, no fire engulfing my heart, my muscles, or my lungs. Nothing. Just the cold and a new awareness of every rain drop that hit my skin. I soon found that I liked that feeling, the heightened sense of consciousness after a kill. I believe my mother realized that the night I stood out in the rain, looking at my bloodied hands, marveling at them. She said I smiled. She withdrew from me of course, not talking to me, keeping the little ones away from me. I felt as if she had disowned me. Eventually I left. At sixteen, I was on my own. “Stop here.” I say, as Ulrich almost pass a small boutique. There is a dress in the window Natasha would be breath-taking in. We park, as we are getting out of the car Ulrich chuckles.

“What?” I say with a curious smile.

“Let me ask you something. You are a good husband, faithful and thoughtful, but are you honest with your wife? Is it healthy for a relationship to have such deception in it? And with a child no less. You are barely straight forward with me and I would think myself your closest friend if our relationship can even be called that. I don't even know your real name. Does she? If you cannot trust the woman you married in front of God and your family then who can you trust?”

I looked at the store. Natasha and I did not have a wedding per say. We went to the court house; the only family was her great grandmother. It was convenient at the time. Though I would love to give her the wedding she deserves. When I ask her about it she says no, and that she was happy with the first one. I miss her and my daughter.

“Your wife and daughter are very beautiful. It would be a shame if something happened to them because of you. Tulia and Tasha was it?”

“Natasha.” I cock my chin towards him. He nods.

“My mistake.” he smiles. “You don't have to answer my question now, something to think about on the train.” he waves his hand in the air, dismissing it. There something I do not like about his tone, the way he talked about my family. It sounded menacing. I do not like that. I stop walking.

“Ulrich.” I say calmly. He keeps walking, tucking his hands into his pants pocket. He looks over his shoulder and smiles.

“If you don't hurry you'll miss your train.”