GuNNhead

Criminals, studied, kept under close surveillance. They’ve found some way to get out. If they knew how they didn’t, they weren’t talking. What is after? Do they hold some secret, or is it a mere anomly? Where did they go, to leave us all behind?

I enter one of their holding cells. His smell is far worse than last time. My first case, I’ve had it about a week now. I kept it simple, ran through everything I learned in training academy, all those years ago. Now it’s time to get answers. I look right into his glossy eyes. His expression doesn’t change. “You’re scum, you know that?” No response, no ticks, no visual queues of any sort. He’s good.

I walk around behind him, his hands are secured in cuffs to his chair. “Listen, you’re going to be here like this for a while, so why don’t you just start talkin’?” His emotionless demeanor disturbs me to the core, like he can see the rotting, grotesque life I have behind all the pretense.

Over the next few days he remains silent, smirking at me, keeping all his secrets close to him. I run through everything we know about each minute detail of his life again. The sad fact is that he appears perfectly normal on the outside, he has a partner, offspring, a good job. But he cut them off, left it all behind, the entire world. This is the worst kind of criminal; it’s said they never talk. But they have to, there has to be one who’ll reveal how they did it. I’ll be the detective who finally cracks one. Down to half a pack of smokes, I put one out on his hand; he doesn’t even come close to flinching.

His criminal record other than this is average. A few air traffic violations is the only thing of note in recent years, hasn’t even missed a medi-check. His smell is beginning to make me sick, so I leave the room to dig deeper, making sure to lock it behind me.

Outside the station, I make my way to his family’s house, maybe there’s something there that I missed. Of course, they’re still as surprised as the system. They try their best to help, it would seem, but it’s ultimately a failure on my part. Nothing I can use. They hate him now, and want to at least get something for his betrayl. I wonder if they have their own plans, however.

I make my way back into the interrogation room. He’s still there, smug as ever. Confident. He has conviction, and fully believes in what he’s done, that much I can be sure of. He’s not going back, he’s not going to come back, for any questions or answers, he’s holding all the cards. I break his fingers; beat his face in until an eyeball pops out. As it’s hanging from the socket, I ask him one last time. “How did you do it?”

Silence.

The rest of my night was spent with my hands bloodied. We’ve already searched him with ultraviolets, taken samples of his hair and nails. To get to the hard answers, I cut open his skull, searching for any clues in his mind. Then I start my knife at the top of each shoulder, run it down the front of his chest to create a large and deep Y-shaped incision that meets at his sternum, going all the way down to the pubic bone. I open him up like a book, attempting to read his innards in the words he refused to speak.

Once I am done, his composure has been placed in bins and studied, offering no further teachings. I stare at his hollowed out body, and see only my reflection. I take the last drag of my final cigarette, and flick it into his torso.

I exit the room; a sun I cannot see is rising outside, and I am left without answer. I leave him for the diener.

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