Killers in a room

"Why'd you do it?"

The question seems innocent enough, but it's anything but. It's as loaded as a special on Saturday night, and it's aimed at the man across the scarred pressboard desk.

The questioned leans back and smirks. He toys with the Styrofoam cup of shitty coffee. The creamer is powdered and the sugar is the junk that comes in pink packets. He can practically feel the cancer cells multiplying when he sips.

The questioner sits on his side of the desk. He leans forward, hands clasped and elbows on knees. The sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up, and a pack of Winstons sits in his chest pocket. He stares at the smirking man drinking lukewarm coffee.

The two of them settle into a silence, and it looms. Seconds bloom into minutes, and the smirk sticks, even after the cup is empty.

"Am I under arrest?" Broken, the quiet shatters with a question in answer to a question.

"What do you think?" Parry and riposte.

"I think I like to hold my thoughts close."

"I thought the saying was about enemies."

"You're not so far away, are you?"

"And here I thought we were getting to be friends."

"Friends don't lock friends in interrogation rooms."

"The door isn't locked."

"So I'm free to go?"

"Do you want to leave?"

The smirk fades as the man's chair comes to rest on all four legs. "Why don't you show me to the exit, detective?"

"Like you showed her your knife?"

The smirk returns disguised as a smile, but it doesn't reach up and grab the eyes.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, officer."

Gesturing for the suspect to come closer, the investigator leans in to whisper in the man's ear. No microphones can hear, and the camera only sees him mumbling something.

"You can admit what you did, or you can leave. The difference is life in prison or a death sentence." He then puts a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, and squeezes briefly. The power in that grip shocks the suspect, and when he later looks, he sees bruises in the mirror. Leaning back, louder for the record, the detective continues. "I know you killed her. I can smell it."

The suspect laughs it off, but he's rattled. "Yeah? Well, I'm glad I use Dial. I wish everybody did."

"She used Ivory, and I can smell that on you, too."

The smirk and the smile fade into the rearview as the suspect stands. "I would like to leave now."

"Confession is good for the soul. You sure you don't want to get right with God?"

"We're done here, detective."

The old cop looks up at the man impatiently standing on the other side of the desk. "You sure you want to be?" The man remembers the pain of the investigator's grip, and he winces.

"I have nothing else to say."

"Okay, sure. Catchya later."

The camera doesn't watch the detective's grin, nor does it notice his eyes shift from green to gold and back again.

Parts and pieces of the suspect end up washed to sea, but no one ever reports him missing, since he murdered the only person who would have cared.