I asked a simple question, Mr. Shepard.
“It’s like I said, I told the other detective everything!”
The interrogation room looks like every interrogation room in every cheap cop movie. Dark due to the single bare bulb that hangs above a table adorned with coffee stains, chipped corners and cigarette burns. Damp due to a puddle in the corner that weakly reflects the dim light. Anthony Shepard attributes the stale, musty smell of the room to the puddle as well, though he tries not to dwell too much on this thought. A cigarette butt burns in the ashtray, sending tendrils of smoke to join the haze that hangs from the ceiling.
Anthony has been sitting in the room for two hours. His oxford shirt is soaked with sweat, like the red hair on his head that matches his wrists, fresh out of the handcuffs. The detective across the table lifts a mug of cold coffee to his scarred face and drinks even as he clenches a clove cigarette between his lips.
Then you’ll have no difficulty answering the question once more, Mr. Shepard. An innocent, elderly nun died from a heart attack thanks to you. Surely you’ll understand that cooperation is of the utmost importance.
“I’ll uh, I’ll tell you everything that I told the first cop, but it won’t be any different. Okay, so I was driving down Elston, coming back from work when, um, I realized that my windshield was dirty. Like, really dirty. I could barely see anything because, uh, it was streaky. I got new windshield wipers last week. I think they’re the problem though. I pulled into that gas station on Diversey, right? I was out of fluid, like windshield cleaning fluid. The blue kind?
It was on the way home so I figured, ‘Why not?’ I don’t know how to put that stuff in my car though, like what if I put in too much? Or not enough? And, uh, I was kind of embarrassed about that, about not knowing, so I didn’t want to ask the guy at the counter for help or anything. I just bought it and figured I’d look it up online or call my dad or something. But they have those little bucket things with the squeegees, you know? Can I get some water before I keep going?”
The detective nearly sends the intercom flying off the table as he punches the button.
Grobels, bring in some water.
The room is briefly lit when the young officer enters. Grobels places the cup next to the ashtray and leaves before the door swings shut. Anthony pecks sheepishly at the water. His throat has never been so dry. The detective’s face is painted in shadow, illuminated only by the bulb and the fresh cigarette between his lips.
Continue.
“Okay, so they had the bucket things. I figured that if I had to wait until I was home to put in the liquid stuff, I might as well clean my windows. I finished the back windshield, the two back windows, and the passenger window, and the driver’s side. No trouble or anything. It all started when I went to work on the front windshield. The squeegee just felt… right? It felt correct. It slides into that bucket so well, and when you use that brown paper towel to clean the rubber before you wipe again, it’s like, that texture is so cathartic. The squeal makes me shiver every time I wipe. That stop-go resistance when you hit a dry spot on the glass and that perfectly clear reflection that gives you this distorted view of the world behind you. I felt at peace, officer. I wish I were a bum with a squeegee and a spray bottle, I’d be the happiest man alive.
It wasn’t my fault, though. I never saw that nun coming off the bus, officer. I just heard her scream and slump to the sidewalk, sir.”
The detective has drawn deeper into shadow. Only the embers of his cigarette betray his position. He does not speak for some time.
You didn’t know your fly was down the whole time? You didn’t notice your erect genitalia out there for the whole world to see, including dear Sister Rose?
“No, sir.”
Silence.
A brief rustle.
In the shadows, Anthony hears three drops strike the floor.
Silence.
You’re free to go, Shepard. I suppose every man gets off to something. Cleaning windshields is kind of odd, but hey, I’m the sort of man who really enjoys playing bad cop. You get my drift?
Anthony’s brow furrows in confusion, though he sighs in relief as he rises from his chair.
“Thank you, officer.”
Don’t mention it. Err, before you leave, do you have any tissue on you?