rUtHless – Chapter 1
Intro
Start reading rUtHless, a dystopian detective novel set in a world where the apocalypse may already be unfolding unnoticed.
Chapter text
Interrogation.
Everyone knows the rules. The right to remain silent. Only they don’t. For fifteen years I’ve walked perps into these rooms. The jangle of chains. The rapid-fire click of handcuffs. Chairs scraping the cheap linoleum. A cough. Awkward silence.
Interrogation 2.
The sign on the door, scuffed and generic. Just a word and a number meaning nothing and everything.
For fifteen years, I’ve extracted information in these tiny rooms—the dead end for most who get here. Tables bolted to the floor. Perps chained to the table. Watching them fidget, count floor tiles, shift in their chair. They look everywhere but at me except when they’re lying—which is always. Until they say the only word that matters—lawyer.
Never thought I’d see it from the perp’s point of view. The chair’s the same on this side as the other, but it isn’t. Unforgiving. Wrong. The view. Facing the door. The exit. I never questioned it, the way out, until now, because it isn’t what it was.
Waiting. That’s the first trick and a good one. A slow breath in until the puncture in my chest stops me. My reflection in the two-way mirror. Haggard like the room with its dingy paint and fluorescent hum. Alone. Except I’m not. Behind the mirror, Internal Affairs watches me watch them. I can’t see them, but they’re there. Let them wait. They’re good at that.
A tech comes in and sets up a camera in the corner nearest the door, checks the frame and focus. He doesn’t look at me. The lens—functional, indifferent—does the looking now. Everything on the record, even the waiting.
Alone again. Empty chairs promise visitors when the time comes. My foot taps the floor, bringing a wince because of my aching leg.
My interrogation.
The watchers wait for the loose strand that untangles the web, while I investigate the floor tiles for patterns. Investigating. That’s what I should be doing. Searching for Kalen Fitz’s hideout or begging the feds to interview Luca Moretti, the hitmen who victimized Los Angeles. No garden-variety criminals here. These hallowed halls hold the lowest of the low who hit the big time in their villainous careers—homicide. Kill someone and wind up in a small room in a nondescript building with bad lighting and worse coffee.
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Since the disasters, coffee has been scarce. Murders are up and coffee is down. I remember when homicide dicks had less to do. Pick your flavor of government panacea and it reduced violent crime. Mine’s regular with a little milk when I can get it. First thing I’ll do when they get here is ask for coffee. Black. Bitter as it comes. Because if they refuse, I’ll know where this is headed.
Like everyone else who has sat on this side of the table, I’m innocent. Before walking through that door, I told anyone who’d listen. Like everyone else who sits here, I’ll tell them they’ve got it wrong. Because they’ve never heard it before.
Oscar, the man who raised me and who was also a policeman, never talked about this. Archie, briefly my partner and thorn in my side, who I learned too late was my biological father, would say I’m lying in the bed I made.
The waiting kills. I check my phone and lift the letter that brought me here, hand-delivered by my division commander. The clock on my phone shows an hour past the official start time. The letter tells the tale in standard legal jargon.
Dear Detective Zalerian, This letter serves as formal notice that you are under investigation by the Internal Affairs Division (IAD) of the combined Los Angeles County police departments which is being conducted in accordance with the provisions of the Public Safety Officers Procedural Bill of Rights Act (California Government Code Section 3300 et seq.) and relevant Public Safety Pronouncements published during the current state of emergency. Investigating Officer: Juno Kincaid, Captain of Internal Affairs Details of the investigation: You are being investigated for failing to adhere to department policies and alleged misconduct involving the pursuit and subsequent death of Kalen Fitz, alleged murder suspect, the deaths of Detective Sergeant III Archibald Yanos, Detective I Gabriel Delenda, and Patrolman I Darnall Ghafeer, and related offenses under California Penal Code sections 240, 242, 245, and 187.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat, seeing it all in black and white, numbers obscuring the meaning. Penal Code 187—murder. The unlawful killing of another human being with malice aforethought. Me. Malice aforethought. Fifteen years on the force with not so much as a demerit. Now just a little inquiry to clear the air and cleanse the force’s conscience. Just part of the process.
I rub my aching leg, avoiding the unhealed gash where Fitz’s knife just missed my femoral artery. The wound in my chest twinges only when I breathe. I paid a small price. They should pin a medal on me, not that I deserve it. I limped away. Archie, Gabriel, and Darnall didn’t make it. They should get the medals.
I glance at the mirror. They’re watching. Just a procedure they’ll say. For the optics. To soothe a worried public after the well-publicized funerals. But Internal Affairs doesn’t care about optics this much unless the county does.
I have to answer their questions because I was there. They’ll shred my decisions with malice aforethought using the benefit of hindsight to find a scapegoat. We caught the killers but they need a scapegoat. Because they lost three good cops when there weren’t enough in the first place.
Now I know how a prisoner feels. I won’t give the watchers any satisfaction. My leg aches, but I won’t move from this chair until they come. I’ll show them indifference. Not that it matters. They decided the outcome when they sent the letter. The only thing I’m guilty of is falling in love for the second time in my life—with a witness, foolish as that may have been. When the hitmen tried to take her, she took cover with me. Then she left anyway. It’s hard to tell the difference between that and the puncture in my chest.
This case should be open and shut, a formality for the county to assuage its naysayers. But Kincaid’s on the case. He only investigates when there’s a problem to be solved. And that bothers me. I don’t like being the problem. The whole thing makes no sense…yet. Somewhere along the line, I touched a nerve, a loose strand to a sensitive spot—one that would bring Kincaid to bear. Maybe Fitz and Moretti are more important than I thought. Investigating will have to wait. Right now, I need to focus.
Focus prevents weakness and calms the mind. Let them watch. I should give them something or they’ll keep me here all day so I place my hands flat on the table. I have to answer their questions anyway.
Let the interrogation begin.