True Fiction

Richard sat on the long side of the cold hard table with a low hanging, bare light bulb overhead. The room was otherwise dare, and the yellowing light from the bulb cast a shadow of the muff on his head onto the table in front of him. The light lit the faces of the detectives on either end of the table. He stared at the shadow his hair cast. Maybe he should have gotten the haircut? He had a calm, thoughtful expression on his face – like it was the first time he’s had a chance to really collect his thoughts in a really long time. He looked exhausted, dark shadowy bags under his eyes.

The detectives sat quietly, watching Richard push his thumb into the crumbs on his plate and licking them off. He had insisted on a snack, and now he moved slowly and deliberately. They had a hard time reading him. He just sat there and so they sat there – trying to be patient. But the fat detective wasn’t comfortable in his seat and alternated between shuffling backwards and then sliding forwards again in the wood chair. Now and again he’d reach down and pinch at his balls, giving his scrotum a good tug through his clothes in order to keep things in order. If he could, he wouldn’t wear pants at all. In fact, if this man was created a little less motivated he could have defined the word ‘slob’. But he did slightly better than that. His round face was shaved and he had a clean shirt on. His shirt probably didn’t smell nice anymore, but it had obviously been clean when he put it on that morning.

“You were telling us about the day you met Germaine.” The second detective broke Richard from his train of thought. His voice startled both Richard and the fat detective.

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