I’m Agent Reyes, she’s Agent Esposito, we’re here with the FBI. Do you recognize this man?
At this point, this is almost a Mantra, and whatever religious bones I have left in my body do make me pray that it gets answered sooner than later. When most people join the FBI, they have this notion in your head about what it’s going to be like; it’s always there with law enforcement but gets especially prominent with field where you get to be the… men in black type. The “G-Man”. I can’t lie, that was an attractive part of it for me too, some seventeen years ago when I joined. It’s going to be like X-files minus the supernatural; you’re going to hunt serial killers like in the Hannibal books, you’ll get to go undercover like Johnny Depp, you’ll get a badge and a gun and work all over the country.
Then you start and it’s different than Hollywood’s version. A lot different. And no one warns you about the mountains of paperwork or this; the countless hours of footwork that you’re told is going to be police matter. Unless the police is so severely underfunded that they take ages to get anything done, and when they do it’s so rough-and-ready that you have to do it all over again.
“Maybe it’s for the better”, Rachel told me after our umpteenth failed questioning when I grumbled something about having some police help would be nice. “We still don’t know how he knew we were coming.”
She was right, of course, she was annoying like that. Jesse Copeland has been on our radar for a few years regarding an ongoing case – a trafficking ring that targeted young girls from low-income neighborhoods around the tri-state area. They would earn their trust with promises about a better life, money, relationships. They could get away from their usually abusive or drug-sodden families where no one else would help them.
Jesse was one of those we suspected of being their luring man; he was a well-known face in a lot of clubs and he has been identified by a witness, a friend of a girl that was now missing. We were about to move in on him three months ago when he just disappeared. We suspected he has been warned by someone in the task force that included NYPD patrolling officers as well, so we decided to downsize it a bit.
Cue: me and Rachel going around clubs, pubs and other blackholes in Brooklyn and Queens for days. We had intel that he resurfaced again, diching his previous areas and we needed to find him, fast. Honestly, I had no great hopes for asking around in these establishments, knowing how many people go to places like these, they simply won’t remember anyone even if they go there a lot.
“Yeah, I know him.” The bartender takes the photo; it’s not too clear, Jesse miraculously had no records and as a New York City native, he had no driver’s license so the only picture we had of him was a few blurry pictures from his Instagram – which has been taken down by now – and a still from a security footage. We had no info on his birth, his family, where he went to school or anything, so we guessed Jesse wasn’t his real name. Yet, he takes another look and nods in conformation. I share a look with Rachel. “Yeah, I’m positive, man, I know this guy. This is Rick, for sho’.”
“Rick?”
“Short for Maverick. I… Phew, couldna’ tell his surname, but… You can’t have too many with a name like that, right?”
Thanks to Tom Cruise, we do have quite a few, actually, so it takes us another three days to check out all of them.
Maverick Sheridan’s name is found in a court hearing file, one that gives us an address. Two younger agents are sent to pick him up on an unrelated note; I go to the Bronx to pick up the witness – Destiny – and the social worker assigned to her, and put them behind the two-way glass. On the other side, the suspect is sitting on the table, having moved around in the past few hours.
“I’m… I’m not sure…”
“Take your time”, I say, trying to assure her. I lean against the table, leisurely, giving her space. She’s chewing on her lower lip. “It’s important that you’re sure, okay? Just… Take a deep breath and concentrate. I can get you a coke, if you’d like…?”
She shakes her head; then the guy gets up, visibly sighs and starts looking at the glass.
“He can’t see you”, I promise her. “That’s why it’s dark in here.”
“I know, yeah.” She’s trying to look brave, so she takes a step forward. The guy is… waving his hand from one side to the other. Under different circumstances, watching what people do when they think they’re being watched but aren’t sure how and when can be interesting. “It was dark, but… I mean, I wasn’t paying too much attention, I… I didn’t think…” She shares a look with the social worker who smiles at her reassuringly before she takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I… He looks very, very familiar. Yeah, I think it’s him.”
That’s all we need. Rachel accompanies Destiny and the social worker to the front while I gather an evidence box from the office.
Maverick ‘Rick’ Sheridan does not look too agitated when I step in – probably due the fact he’s still under the influence, and he has been told this is just a talk. He smelled like he just came from a long day of running around marijuana plantations when they brought him in and it hasn’t changed in the last couple hours.
“I’m Supervisory Special Agent Jackson Reyes”, I tell him as I lay the box on the aluminum table. I balanced two cups of coffee on the top, and I place one of them in front of him.“It’s from the café across the street, so… It’s good. You’re not a tea person, right?”
Doubtful. “You still remember that this is voluntary, right?” My eyebrow arches up. “You understand you’re not required to talk to me?” The agents that picked him up read the full thing for him. Interviews or interrogation with people that are under the influence are… Well, kind of a grey zone. It’s not prohibited, per say, as long as they are situationally aware, the exact evidence we get from these talks and whether we can admit it at court however depends on the judge. But it’s his lucky day, whether he recognizes or not. He might just get out of this one relatively unscathed.

The light from the TV barely reaches my retinas through the smoke. No ventilation in here, ‘cause I live in a windowless shoebox with my roommate, Cal, who’s at work right now. He’s a line cook at this white-owned Mexican joint, pretty solid dude except for the violently loud sex he has every other night with the most random girls.
I been grinding all week so I could have today off. I’m sitting on the couch with one leg propped on the coffee table, weed residue at my feet ‘cause when I roll, that shit ends up everywhere but the joint. I tell myself I’mma sweep it up later, and I been telling myself that for the past hour, ‘cause big boy here won’t get up off me. He takes up three-quarters of the couch, eyes closed, head on my lap.
We’ve been bingeing this show, Emily in France or whatever. We're watching for the plot, of course. Aight, that’s cap – we’re watching ‘cause this Emily girl hella cute, even if her ‘fits corny as fuck. Whatshisname on the other hand? That dude trippin’, I swear. It’s been, what, two and a half seasons, and they still ain’t together. I mean, he basically a male model, knows how to cook and speaks baguette. What’s stopping this human buttplug is beyond me at this point.
We're about to find out if Emily made it onto the cover of this fancy magazine or whatever when my unnecessarily loud doorbell goes “DING DONG, MOTHERFUCKER!!”. Dex raises his head and I look over my arm that’s so comfortably spread along the backrest. C’mon now…
Without even bothering to pause the show, I get to my feet with a grunt, then reach inside my sweats and tuck my dick in the waistband. Takes me a while to find my way to the door through all this haze, but once there, I squint into the peephole and spy two white people in an office getup, looking pretty harmless. I slide the rusty security chain off, opening up.
“Can I help you?” I ask, gaze traveling from the man to the woman, taking an – unintended – detour South, ‘cause, I mean, damn. Emily who?
Dex hurries to my feet excitedly, to which the man instinctively takes half a step back. The woman grabs the wheel, thumbs in her pockets, chin up high: “Are you Maverick Sheridan?”
“I mean, who’s askin’?” I answer with a question, smiling at her.
But before she could reply with her number and a time and a place, Jim from The Office shoves a badge in my face. (...Okay, bars.) And then, I shit you not, mawfucker hits me with:
“The FBI.”
My smile dropped faster than the Twin Towers.

***

Okay – I really gotta take a leak at this point, but I don’t wanna go through the trouble of asking for permission. This is the F-B-I, bro, I mean, how do you even go about doing that? Do I tug at Special Agent MILF’s skirt and go, “Ma’am, can I go take a pee-pee poo-poo?”. Fuck nah, dude. They prolly have some kinda awkward protocol to keep me from bailing, too, and I’ve had enough of dudes watching me answer nature’s call in a mirrored room. That shit behind me.
I been sitting here for so long I’m about to leave my ass-print on this table, so I figure they should knock on that door anytime now, tell me it was all a misunderstanding, here’s a coupon to Olive Garden or sum’.
So why can’t I stop tapping my foot, then? I only do that when the Spidey-sense strikes, when the air in the room tells me shit’s about to hit the fan. I ain’t got many talents, but lemme tell you, when the vibe gets suss, I’m the first one to call it. Took me a couple years and a couple black eyes to master this superpower my shrink called antipi... antipica.. antiii…cipatory anxiety. Fuckin’ dyslexia, dude.
I been good this time, though. For real. Stayed clean, stayed outta trouble. I mean, I do smoke a blunt here and there, and sometimes it’s to the point where I lockpick my neighbor’s apartment, but like, I ain’t done nun’ wrong, I don’t think. I’d remember if I did.
Growing antsy by the minute, I drag my palms across my face, thinking, “Fuck. Would I remember, though?”. And there it is, the self-doubt, the second-guessing, even if I know I ain’t done shit, I know I done my time, so wh…
Aight, let’s chill, let’s chill. I mean, they really be keepin’ me in suspense, that’s for sure. Might be legal, but it’s gotta amount to some kinda psychological torture at this point, right? Shit's tense as fuck, bro. Makes sense that I’m a little on edge.
I can’t bear staying in one place no more (never could), so I stand up with a sigh, staring at my now-sober reflection. Can’t decide if I’m channeling white-cholo or deer-in-the-headlights. I really shoulda laid off the chain necklace today – deadass makes me look like I’m wearing wife-beaters underneath. Fuckin’ life sentence in its own right.
After loafing about for a few minutes, I sit my ass back down and think, 'Man, I’mma leave the nastiest Yelp review you ever seen.' I’mma go full Karen on the FBI, I swear.

When the door opens, I’m sitting there with my arms crossed over my chest, head down, feet tapping. Without even budging, I glance up at this Reyes dude, and I won’t front, that ‘stache is pretty cool, but that don’t mean he’s forgiven.
Then he plunks a cup of coffee in front of me and I’m suddenly feeling more lenient. I purse my lips at him before grudgingly unfolding my arms and sitting up. Trynna give him the respect I’ve been advised to give when dealing with law enforcement.
“No, sir,” I reply, still feeling too wary to actually lean forward and take the cup. My face might be blank, but my eyes follow his every move, looking like a cornered animal.
“I understand, but I ain’t…” Done shit? Nah. I think it’s one of those times where I should prolly dust off the white boy accent. It’s still there, even if a little rusty. “I haven’t done anything, sir, I know it. I've got nothing to hide.”
I really got no money to spare for legal fees right now. Sure, “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you” and shit, but legal defenders fucking suck, and you still gotta pay up if they get owned in court. If the fucking FBI wants some shit pinned on me, they gon' pin it on me like my ass made of cork.
“Why am I here, anyway?” I ask with a brief, half-hearted hand gesture, already looking tired of this shit. I glance up at him like a kid that's being scolded – only thing missing is a pout.

I have to admit, ‘Jesse Copeland’ was a weird alias to use. I mean, this kid certainly looked like a ‘Jesse’ but as far as I’m aware, ‘Copeland’ has no significance in popular culture or anything. Rachel suggested that maybe it was given to him from a list or something. Maybe she’s right.
One thing’s for sure, short of meeting the guy beforehand and only seeing him on those photos, I’m certain we got him. Only he doesn’t seem to realize it yet. From what we gathered, he has seen his fair share of interrogations and angry cops, but mostly for small stuff, misdemeanors, burglaries, a stolen car that was later abandoned… How does one go from that to this? Luring women away? Scratch that, not women – girls. Underage girls who fell for his bullshit. Girls that are basically the same age as Haley.
I usually try and leave her and my other family members’ memory outside of cases, so I focus back at him. We don’t record interviews or interrogations, so short of that all we have to do to is get them to say they understand what’s going on. From then on, anything is admissible.
“Really, is that so?” I ask back with a slight smile. Wow, never head that before a million times in this room. I lean back against the backrest and take him in. He looks like every other wannabe rapper in California nowadays; guys I see Haley following on social media, the douchebags I see commenting on pictures from the safety of their mom’s basements. They have talk, big time. “Well, then you really don’t have anything to worry about.”
Lifting the lid of the box, I take out a folder and start looking through the contents, making sure he doesn’t see them. Photos relating to the case.
“To talk. Answer a few questions.” The coffee tastes like always; good, strong, reliable. Nothing surprising. It’s the same one I’ve been getting for years, a familiar side taste of this room. Or the other couple dozens made exactly the same that’s inside the HQ. “You got somewhere to be? Maverick?”
Another girl to fool, maybe. A payment to get. Maybe he’s just unsure if he plugged his curling iron out.
“Does the name Kaycee Goodman say anything to you?” I ask, sipping on my coffee. “No? Well, how about Madelyn Day? Or… Sasha Ruud? Jessica Jensen? Her friends called her JJ. She owned a Stafford she named Eddie. You have a dog like that, right?” Maybe he mentioned it to her; another thing they had in common, something they could talk about. Striking up conversation with pets is surprisingly easy. It also makes you look more trustworthy. After all, if someone loves their dog they can’t be a bad person, right?
“Let me just refresh your memory for you. Are you more of a… Visual kind of guy?” JJ’s picture slides across the table; it’s taken from her yearbook, last year. This year’s photo day was supposed to be held in March. “This is her. Rings a bell now?” She’s smiling widely at the picture, just like most other kids. It’s a bit awkward but JJ was a lively girl who happened to live in a bad place with the wrong people. In the yearbook before this one, you can almost tell where she hid the blackeye her mother gave her. Her make up skills weren’t up to the level most women reach eventually in abusive households.
Next, I slide in another photo – this one’s taken in the dark with a strong flashlight. It also has yellow evidence markers scattered in the background, all around JJ’s body. You could almost think she was sleeping, if not for the telltale signs of wet lines around her mouth and her cold stare. She wasn’t killed in a violent manner; she was drugged and OD’d, had a reaction to one component in their backyard concoction. But we’re sure ‘Jesse’ has never taken part of whatever life the girls had after he delivered them. Probably never seen them ever again, and never seen anyone – as far as we know – die. So we were sure this would shock him. He was a little fish who played way out of his league. Smaller misdemeanors were consistent with that. He wasn’t a violent guy; he just didn’t care.
“This is her, too. Found her in Jersey a week after she has been reported missing from a party in Northern Brooklyn. You still don’t remember her?” No, he wouldn’t. Obviously, he had nothing to do with this. Not when he’s so sure he hasn’t done anything. So I slide in the third one – the still of the security footage. “You can go and get an attorney, if you want. But if I were you, and… Believe me, I’m very happy I’m not you…” Three knocks on the picture of him leading JJ out of the club. “I would stay and talk.”

Soon as I agree to talk, he turns all bad cop, leaning back like he hot shit or sum’. Right – I almost forgot how much I hate cops. Never met the feds before, but it looks like I better get ready for this DLC called Central Booking On Crack.
Anxiety creeping back up, I cross my arms again. You know what, dude? Your ‘stache ain’t even that cool.
He takes a moment to size me up and I’m determined to win this staredown for, uh, about three seconds. I avert my eyes in defeat, right knee still burning calories. Why’s it feel like he’s rubbing it in my face when he says I have nothing to worry about?
I glance up again when he calls me by my full name and asks if I got somewhere to be. Pausing for effect, I raise one brow, eyes darting to the left.
“Uuuh… Yeah?” I crane my neck with a lazy kind of attitude. “'Was supposed to be my day off, y'know.”
I can’t keep up this tough-shit act for too long, though, ‘cause my tics come back when I get too pressed. I look like I’m trynna blink a fucking bug outta my eye. Looking down all petulant, I add in a mumble, “And if you told me I’d be here all day, I woulda fed my dog.”
My poor boy gon’ be losing his shit if they put my ass away. Sure, Joey would prolly take care of him and all, but he’d still be wondering where I was and if I was ever coming back. I mean, how do you explain that to a dog? I’ve tried telling him – in plain English – to stop trynna play with squirrels ‘cause they hate his ass with a passion, and one day they gon’ gang up on him, and dog days will be over then, boy. I don’t think he got the message.
My brows meet in the middle at that array of names. Dude, I ain’t even talked to that many girls in my sober life, let alone got sum’ to do with ‘em.
I don’t answer whether Dex is a Stafford or nah, ‘cause Porn ‘Stache here seems to know enough as it is. Why even ask me questions, Sherlock? Just jail my ass right now, c'mon, you know whodunit!
(For real, though, what the ever-loving shit is going on?)
He offers to “refresh my memory”, and uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s not like I have a choice here, do I? I don’t dare ask him that, though, so I just shrug, one hand gesturing limply in his direction.
“I mean, be my guest,” I figure with a weary look.
Arms still crossed, I lean forward and tilt my head to look at the photo. One look and I immediately know, “Nah.” I purse my lips at him, then add in a triumphant-slash-petty tone, “Never seen her in my life.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he returns to his stack of Cheese Pizza, probably, and he whips out another photo like a goddamn Uno wildcard. I’m expecting yet another yearbook kid I ain't never seen before, but no.
He hits me with something else entirely.
Taken aback, I slowly uncross my arms, staring at the picture in a straight-faced kinda shock. Reyes begins explaining way before I could even begin to understand what I just saw. Takes me a while to find my words, and even then, an aghast, breathless realization of “That’s a kid…!” is all I manage to whisper, eyes see-sawing between him and that photo.
It’s an OD if I ever did see one – and trust me, I’ve seen dozens. All my dead friends. Never forgot anyone, I could recite all their names, alphabetized, in my sleep. Ashlyn, Bree, Don, Faith, Johnny, Kevin, Shane, Tracy, Twon, and I could go on all the way to Z. (That was literally his name, dude was a legend by the way.) No JJ was ever on my list, but I guess I should add her now, God rest her.
And then, just when I thought this couldn’t get any more batshit, Reyes slaps a photo of me on the table. Only it ain’t me, as I realize when I lean closer, my features rearranged all Picasso-like ‘cause I’m just that confused. I mean, I won’t lie, it does look like me at first glance. And second. Okay, maybe third, too, but, like…
“The fuck is this?! Th… That’s not me!” My voice cracks higher in disbelief, shoulders nearing my ears as I spread my arms. My palm gestures at the photo frantically, “I ‘ont even own a, a Brokeback Mountain type getup like that, like, c'mon!”
A corduroy jacket with wool collars? Who am I, a gay cowboy?
Eyes wide, palms still hovering, I look down at the photo, then back up at Reyes, gaping like a fish out of water. I don’t know what the sick fuck did to those kids, but honestly, I’m not sure I wanna know.
“Yo, you got the Wrong. Guy.” I tell him, enunciating so clearly my English teacher would shed tears of joy. “Wh, whuh..." I huff in frustration as I look to the side, shoulders dropping. I can't believe this shit.
I sigh and slap my thighs helplessly, then lean on the table towards Reyes, making an effort to chill out before he handcuffs me.
“Aight, hit me.” I figure with a shrug, knuckles knocked against the table as I let my hand fall back down. “Hit me. Ask me anything. What do you need, an alibi? I'll give you an alibi.”
Leaning back, I emphasize that with another shrug, looking sure as hell.
“I mean, I work day and night. Every minute of the day, all I'm doin' is payin’ my taxes and abiding the shit outta the law. Okay?” All I got to my name are alibis, dude. Brows way up my hairline, I look into his eyes and shake my head widely, declaring, “And that sure as fuck ain't me.”

He’s giving me attitude like twelve years old who thinks rolling your eyes is the superior answer to everything because everyone is just. So. Dumb. It’s almost entertaining, I swear – and promising. He’s the one coming of as straight up inane and in my experience guys like these aren’t trying to portray themselves otherwise because they simply can’t. You can always cheat and try to look more idiotic and less educated than you are – although ego is usually a big obstacle –, but it doesn’t work the other way.
It doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s going to give us an easy ride to court, by any means. But the fact that his tough guy act is so transparent is a good sign. There are a lot of people you simply cannot break during interrogations like these; some are sociopaths, some are simply good at what they do.
Maverick seems to be neither, so far.
“It’s only been a couple hours, I’m sure the dog’s fine.” So he cares about his dog, or so he says. I wonder if he ever cared for those girls the same way. Did he ask if they had enough food? Water? If they were comfortable?
You can’t jump to conclusions when you’re running an interrogation. Not only is that unlawful and unprofessional, the accuracy rate is questionable at best – that’s why you go for hardcore evidence as base. Physical evidence, witnesses, recordings, paper trails. By the time we get someone in for an interrogation – although this doesn’t classify as one yet –, we’re sure he’s the right one. From then on, it’s a matter of techniques. When you have someone you cannot break, you call in the pros – we have several agents who are expert interrogators. I’m not one of them, but Rick’s reactions aren’t exactly subtle and he keeps talking.
I’m positive we have the right guy. The fact that he denies ever meeting those girls means nothing. His reaction is quick, too quick, almost, a back handed response. He doesn’t truly think about them, doesn’t take a few deep seconds to go over her features. It’s a doctrinal no. A ‘fuck no, I won’t give you anything’. So it doesn’t mean shit.
I’ve seen the crime scene photos of JJ a hundred times already; a copy is stuck to the board we have in the office, so I don’t need to look at it. My gaze is fixed on him; the way he leans back, as if to try and get away, his shoulders square up, his eyes jumping from one detail to another. He hasn’t seen that part of the deal, I guess. It’s one thing to know something can happen and another to see the act.
His shock is probably genuine. Good. Maybe he’ll be capable of remorse or guilt. Those emotions help us.
“Yeah, that’s a kid. She just turned sixteen three weeks prior to her abduction.”
All the girls we’ve found had high levels of different drugs in their system – some traces were well known, ketamine, methamphetamine, then there were DXM and loperamide from over-the-counter medicines for cold and diarrhea. None of them had the exact same amounts or components, they just gave them whatever they had on hand to make them cooperative and easy to subdue.
Does he get his stuff from the same place?
“Really? It’s not you?” I take back the photo, pretending to look through it again. I even hold it up to compare it against his face. “Well, it looks an awful lot like you, doesn’t it? Identical, I would say.”
Brokeback Mountain type getup. That actually puts a small smile on my face. Wasn’t that the thing with the gay cowboys? With Gyla-however you write his name? My ex-wife made me see it at the cinema. It was very awkward.
Well, Maverick is sure as hell no cowboy. Don’t know about the gay part but I also don’t really care. He’s lashing out – also good. We need him vulnerable and hectic, just enough so he doesn’t get spooked and walks out. So far it seems like he’s more afraid of what would happen if he leaves and that’s to our advantage.
“Sure, if you have an alibi, we would love to look into it”, I say, shrugging. “Do the dates and times matter or can we just ask for an alibi for whenever and you’ll have someone confirming you were there? Day and night?” That’s actually kind of hilarious.
Don’t antagonize him, a voice reminds me. We need him.
If he wants dates, I’ll give him dates, write it down on a piece of paper and slide it in front of him. If he confirms he understands, I give him my pen.
“We’ll need names and numbers.” Tough luck if he can’t remember them. “Address will suffice.”
I sip at the rest of my coffee while he’s trying to remember whatever Miss Jackson taught him in Pre-K about these fun shapes we call ‘letters’. I look at the paper before standing up and giving it to Costa who has been in the adjoining room, watching it. She gives me a non-verbal ‘he’s a ding-dong’ and goes on to make the calls.
“It’s going to take an hour or two, probably. So… Would you like something to eat, maybe? Do you need to use the restroom? I’m afraid we can’t have people just roaming around the halls unsupervised so…” Shrugging again, I take the coffee cup and walk it to the bin next to the door. “I would like to keep talking. What say you?”

He seems kinda amused that I have no life outside of work, which, rude. Like, no need to be a dick about it, man. Can’t we all just, like, chill? For once in the history of the universe?
“I do,” I agree, shrugging. “I mean, you can call my roommate, for one,” I raise my thumb, beginning a count on my fingers as I list all his options, bobbing my head from left to right. “I drive Ubeeer, check the invoices, call the clients... I work at a deliii, ask my boss, check CCTV…” I draw the word out with a rising inflection, then widen my eyes and crane my neck at him. Fuck, I don’t know, you’re the fed, figure it out. Your job to get the right guy, not mine.
If he does the legwork, he’ll see I wasn’t where he thinks I was. I hope. I mean, if the timestamp on the footage he showed me is at the wrong time on the wrong day, at a time I have no alibi for, I might still be fucked.
“There you have it. I ‘on’t do much outside’a that,” I confess in a mumble, shrugging. It’s true: I don’t have time for shit, and even if I did, I’m a simple dude, aight? I don’t really go around rock climbing or traveling or whatever. I stay at home with a pitbull and a Red Bull and I watch Emily in France. And I like it that way, ‘cause God knows I’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime. Never been ready-er to just settle the fuck down and live my life in peace.
Thank Fuck I have Reyes here to take care of that for me.
I take his damn pen and paper and begin scribbling my names and addresses. Can’t spell entire phone numbers off the top of my head – I got fucking dyslexia –, but c’mon, that’s what phone books are for. Stop actin’ all ableist, you Federal Bureau of Dicks.
My handwriting’s one of the few things I’m proud of, by the way. Shit looks like the blueprint your teacher draws on the blackboard in third grade. I hate that Doctor Font that some people use, but you know what, I bet the dyslexia living rent free in my head dysagrees. She has a fuckin’ field day with those.
I lean back and cross my arms, watching as he walks out and hands my contacts over to Another Agent or whatever her name was. My stare follows him with a distrustful look, him walking back to our little table, urging me to speak some more. The more he tries to keep me talking, the less I think this whole cooperation thing was a good idea. Might be I spend too much money on dog food – shoulda spent it on a fuckin’ lawyer.
Well, shit. Too late to turn back now, as I liked to say during that specific period of my life that consisted only of mistakes and bad decisions that kinda led me to puking my guts out onto Skid Row.
“I mean, I ain’t exactly a saint,” I figure, eyes fixed on the tabletop. “Been in and outta rehab and shit. Drug stuff.” I make an effort to pick up some eye contact, trynna look like I’m telling the truth, ‘cause I fuckin’ am. “Hard.”
This gay cowboy they’re looking for, I doubt he suddenly turned mustache-twisting evil over the course of one year. Not gonna lie, I don’t think I woulda been able to stay clean while also supplying other folk with the good stuff. As a dude who constantly looks like he tweakin’ on uppers, downers have sure as hell been my downfall. For a good while, I ain’t even thought I’d be able to abstain, I was convinced I’d be on Suboxone forever, at the very least. That used to be my best case scenario, that used to be something I’d pray for.
“Graduated drug court, too. Bet that’s on record,” I shrug, secretly hating that that’s on record. “So ‘s not like I been off the radar, y’know. P.O.’s been watching me pee in a cup for a year. You can call ‘em, too.”
Whatever the fuck happens in here today, at least I’ll know I did all I could for once in my damn life. Can’t lie, though, it’d be extremely in-character for the feds to bust me during this unique time in my life where there’s nothing to even bust for once. At some point, you just gotta take a moment and laugh. Either that or lose your damn marbles.
I’ll be real here, though. Us opioid folk are an archetype, and as an Enforcer of the Law, I figure Reyes should prolly be aware. We pathetic. I can barely suppress my own emotions, let alone oppress other people.
And now that I’m clean, I just wanna chill, man. I just wanna go home and feed my damn dog.

“Your roommate?” My eyebrows shoot up, angling my head, awaiting confirmation. “The one who’s not the dog, I’m hoping…?” A name, man. We need a name. Hopefully not something akin to ‘Fido’ although I’m guessing he’s one of those people who give dogs human names, anyway.
“You don’t say?” This guy’s gotta have the absolute worse survival instinct I’ve ever seen. He’s not the only one, no; people would be surprised how often cases are solved because the perpetrators are simply dumb as a bag of hammers. They may think they’re smarter than everyone else and got nothing to be afraid of, or quite the opposite, they are just too out of their mind to realize they could be going down. I think it’s safe to say, this one won’t pass for the first option.” So you didn’t get your ‘Don’t do drugs’ pins in Boy’s Scouts?”
We’ve had his file, even if some of it has been redacted – which can be explained by either juvenile court or, as he says, ‘rehab and shit’. He’s talking, though, and that’s not too bad; if he doesn’t clam up, we’ve got a chance he’s gonna drop something useful. “That’s very nice of you, thank you. I’m sure he has great things to say about you and the content of your bladder.” There’s this saying, that if you’re a junkie, you’ll always be a junkie, because addiction is not something you can effectively fight and win over; it’ll be with you forever, sometimes dormant, sometimes rampant. I don’t judge them as a principle but getting better once – no matter how hard it was, and I bet it must be – doesn’t mean shit in the long run. “You’re not here in relation with drugs, though so that has little to no bearing to whatever transpires in here.” I settle back to my seat, comfortably leaning back against the backrest. I’ve got all the comfort he doesn’t. “Cooperation does. But you know that, right? What with the drug court and everything. Did they light your ass up every time you acted out of line? When you looked at the judge funny? When you were late for a check-in by two minutes? Or when you relapsed, once?” They always relapse; and their attorney usually says, that ‘relapsing is part of the journey to healing’, or something along those lines. You can’t just quit cold turkey and expect the results to hold on, not even with cigarette or coffee. I should know, been trying to quit both ever since my daughter was born.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, pal, you’re not even the one we’re looking for.” Only not in the way he thinks. But that’s besides the point, along with all his protests that I’m expecting about how he’s been telling me that all along. “We’re looking for the one who did this”, I stress the end, pointing at the picture of JJ. Then I reach back into my lil’ box of mystery and get another two photos; all girls, one of them OD’d although by then she’s been missing for months, unlike JJ. One was strangled, with all kinds of self-defense wounds all over her arms, the other died of blunt force trauma. They’re a bit older, but no less infuriating. All of them had bruises and wounds in different stages of healing before their deaths, so we’re assuming they weren’t as heavily sedated as the others – as supported by toxicology reports – and tried to escape or fight back. That might’ve been the reason why they upped the sedation. “And this. And this… We know you didn’t murder these girls. We know that, okay? That’s not what I’m asking you. I’m asking you to think about them. Really think..”
I decide against pushing those photos in front of him and instead get the photos from when they were alive; two of them had their driver’s licenses, Rebecca and Imani, the third one, Tanisha, was only fourteen. It seems like he has a hard time looking at dead girls, which should be the reaction of every normal person. I really do know that he didn’t kill them; but that doesn’t mean he’s not responsible, and I need him to look at them.
“You know what it’s like to be drugged out of your mind, right? You said you did hard shit. Well, they did too, only it wasn’t voluntary. They had all kinds of shit, amphetamines, methamphetamines, ketamine, rohypnol… The people who did this to them, gave them opioids so they will be easy to handle and when they needed them somewhat aware of the surroundings, so they could be sold to pedophiles who think beating it to petite teen porn on the internet isn’t enough, they gave them ecstasy, only to be sedated again. And when they tried to fight back, or when their body couldn’t take the cycle anymore, they threw them out like trash.”
He's agitated but there’s also something else; his defiance isn’t exactly cemented. He’s trying to get this shield in front of him, made up of sheer annoyance and denial but he feels something for these girls. I’m ignoring the fact it could be a general disgruntlement at the fact that these girls died and choose to focus on the other option; that it’s guilt.
“I just want you to think of them, and then think of this.” Once again, it’s the picture of him ushering JJ out of the party. “Just keep looking at it. Nothing seems familiar? Really? You don’t have any memory of being in a place like this at any time in the past years?”