Welcome Home Committee
Closing the door to the taxi, I make my way up the paved path that cuts throughout my green yard. I’m surprised when Ivy swings the front door open and runs into me, sobbing nonsense. I don’t understand a single world through her tears.
“Shh. Calm down and tell me what’s wrong,” I say, stroking her back.
“The police are looking for you. They have a warrant out for your arrest.”
My brows frown as I pull back to look at her. “A warrant?”
She nods slightly against my chest. “For Isabel’s disappearance…”
The thundering sound of helicopter blades flying high above in the midnight sky mutes her voice. The brilliant helicopter light shines on us—temporally blinding me. I squint up at the beam of white light a daze as the wind from the rotating blades attempts to blow us away. Soon there are multiple officers running from their vehicles and bombarding me. Ivy is snatched out of my arms and I’m wrestled to the ground with my hands behind my back and my face in the dewy grass.
I get cuffed and a mouth full of dirt.
***
I know for sure that the four bleached brick walls and poor lighting is intentional and adds to the somber effect of this tiny room I’m being held in. I’m seated in an uncomfortable wooden chair, cuffed to a metal-topped table, staring at the spotless mirror embedded into the wall across from me.
Yes.
The physical layout of an interrogation room is designed to maximize the suspect’s discomfort and sense of powerlessness from the moment they step inside. The physical manipulation begins before the interrogator opens their mouth. I know there are people behind the sheet of glass intently watching me, waiting for any sign to convict me for life. The Knights have made many allies in Cherry Creek but just as many enemies as well.
The side door opens and two detectives walk through. One is tired-looking middle-aged man in a boxy suit that I immediately know and the other is an attractive Indian woman who wears a ruffled white blouse and a snug gray panicle skirt with black shiny heels. Her long hair is held in a silver clip that threatens to cave from the weight of her twisted bun.
The woman smiles at me. “Morning, Hunter Knight. I am Detective Amber Takia,” she points at the solid male at her side, “and this is Detective Steve Baker. We’re here to ask you a few questions. Would you like anything before we start? Water? Tea? Coffee maybe?”
How stupid do they think I am?
I smile back at her, but I guess it isn’t a pleasant one because her smile instantly falls.
Good.
“Yes. You can get me something: My attorney, Mr. Patterson.”