The Interrogation
The knock came just after dawn.
Kyle sat at his small kitchen table, elbows braced on the worn laminate, staring at the slow drip from the faucet. The rhythm had irritated him for days, each drop landing like the tick of a clock, but this morning it just filled the silence. His coffee had gone cold hours ago, the surface filmed over.
When the knock came again, heavier this time, he knew it wasn’t a neighbor.
He stood, heart stuttering once before finding its old, steady beat, the one he’d learned overseas, the one that always came before orders.
Through the peephole he saw two men: one older, dressed in a brown sport coat that didn’t fit quite right, the other younger, posture rigid, hand resting close to his radio.
Kyle opened the door.
“Mr. Whitaker?” the older one said. His voice had the calm certainty of someone who’d already decided what kind of man he was speaking to.
Kyle nodded.
“I’m Detective Harlan,” the man continued, showing his badge in a brief, almost courteous flash. “This is Officer Denton. We’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened on West Auburn Street last night.”
Behind them, the early light painted the parking lot in pale gold. Somewhere a dog barked, and a garbage truck hissed to a stop. The world went on, utterly normal.
“Come in.”
“We’d like to do it at the station,” said Harlan.
Kyle felt himself go rigid. He studied Harlan’s eyes. “Am I being arrested?”
“Should you be?” asked Denton.
Harlan raised his hand. “No, it’s just a better place to take down your statement.”
Kyle didn’t resist. Didn’t ask what it was about. The calm that had kept him alive through deployments settled over him again, a strange, hollow steadiness that made everything distant. If he pushed it far enough away, it wasn’t really happening.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, locked the door out of habit, even though he had nothing worth stealing, and followed them out.
The back seat of the cruiser smelled faintly of vinyl and sweat. The cage between him and the front seats gleamed faintly in the light. Officer Denton didn’t speak; the only sound was the soft crackle of the radio and the hum of tires on the road.
At a stoplight, Kyle caught his reflection in the plexiglass divider, older, drawn, the mustache too dark against skin that hadn’t seen sun in weeks.
He didn’t look guilty. Just tired.
The interview room was colder than it needed to be. A single vent rattled overhead, blowing air that smelled faintly of disinfectant. Fluorescent lights hummed, bleaching everything to a dull blue-white that made even clean skin look sickly. Kyle wondered whether not having modern LED lighting played somehow into the questioning.
A camera in the corner blinked red.
Detective Harlan sat across from him, notepad at his elbow, untouched. He’d taken off his jacket, rolled his sleeves. The gesture looked friendly, but Kyle knew that it wasn’t.
“You were at the Roof Motel last night,” Harlan said, his tone mild, “room 214?”
Kyle hesitated, thumb tracing the edge of the metal table. “Yeah. For a few hours.”
“Alone?”
He shook his head. “No. I was meeting someone.”
“Her name?”
“It was a man.”
Harlan didn’t write it down. He just watched him, eyes steady but not unkind. He hadn’t figured Whitaker for a homosexual. Likely a drug deal. He didn’t strike Harlan as a user. Was Whitaker a dealer? “His name?”
“He said it was Carl,” replied Kyle.
“His last name?” Harlan’s eye burned into him.
“He didn’t say.” Kyle saw the pencil touch the notepad and make a circle.
“Where’d you meet him?” asked the detective, expecting either to hear ‘online’ or some bullshit place as the answer.
“At work. He was a customer.” Carl’s face popped into his mind. Then he saw him in his suit, next to his Lexus. He didn’t seem to be the killer type. But Kyle knew because of his training, they would suspect him. He forced himself to remain calm, remain detached.
“What time did you leave?”
“Little after eleven,” Kyle said. “Maybe quarter past.”
The detective nodded slowly. “You drive straight home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual? Anyone arguing, maybe? Raised voices? A thud?”
Kyle frowned, trying to remember. The motel walls had been thin, he could recall the hum of the air conditioner, the flicker of the TV light across the curtains, the faint sound of traffic outside. But no scream. No crash. Just that music the man had playing in the background, barely even audible.
“No,” he said finally. “Nothing. Place was pretty quiet. For a flea bag, not much activity aside from the air conditioners.”
Harlan leaned back, folding his arms. His expression didn’t change, but something in his shoulders tightened. “There was a homicide in room 212,” he said evenly. “Same building. Between ten-thirty and midnight.”
The words landed like a slow punch to the chest.
Kyle blinked. For a second, he could almost hear the air conditioner again, the hollow click of the TV remote, the other man’s laughter, too loud, careless, ordinary.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kyle said again, the words coming out low and slow, almost automatic.
“Understandable,” Harlan replied, leaning back in his chair. “Soundproofing’s not much in those places.” He gave a small shrug, then added, “Maybe you and your friend were making noises of your own.”
“He wasn’t a friend.”
“Your drug dealer then?” Harlan’s stare was icy.
“I don’t do drugs,” said Kyle. He considered whether to volunteer more, will the truth set me free, he wondered. Then said, “I fucked him. He paid me. I guess that makes me a whore.”
Detective Harlan was surprised at how he said it without any feeling. Flat, toneless. What was with this guy? “But we do have a witness who saw someone, you, leaving the motel about that time. Just a few minutes after hearing a scream.”
Kyle looked up. “A witness?”
“Yeah,” Harlan said. “Said they saw a white male, early to mid-thirties. Light hair. Mustache. Driving a tan pickup.” He paused. “That sound like anyone you know?”
The detective’s tone wasn’t cruel, but it didn’t need to be. The facts were doing the work for him.
Kyle’s breath came slow, controlled. “Sounds like me,” he admitted. “But I’ve already told you I was there. But I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Harlan studied him, long enough for the silence to stretch. “And you told me why you were there.” More silence. “You’ve got no priors,” he said finally. “Folks say you keep to yourself. You a violent man, Mr. Whitaker?”
Kyle met his gaze. “No, sir.”
“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Harlan knew that was a lie.
The words should have comforted Kyle. They didn’t.
When they finally let him go, it was nearly noon. The station lobby smelled of old coffee and paper. A woman behind the desk gave him a polite nod, the kind you give someone you might see again soon.
Outside, the sunlight hit him like a spotlight. An officer came up to him. “I’ve been assigned to drive you home. Kyle nodded.
Back home, the parking lot was empty except for a cat stretched in the shade by the dumpster. He looked at his truck, parked in the same cracked spot as always. An officer stood next to it.
“I’ve been told to make sure you don’t get in the truck, take anything from the truck, or even touch the truck,” said the officer.
Kyle walked up to it and looked into the window. He saw the stain on the passenger seat and remembered a few weeks back when the to-go cup from that morning tipped over onto the seat, a thin ribbon of coffee bleeding into the fabric. He had simply stared at it while the damp circle spread. “Waiting for the warrant to take it?”
The officer just glared at him.
Kyle went into his apartment. He’d spent years learning how to disappear, in uniform, in silence, in other people’s expectations. But now his face was on file. His name typed neatly into a report. He couldn’t leave despite the urge to get out of town.
For the first time in years, Kyle Whitaker didn’t feel invisible.
He felt seen.
And it terrified him.
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