[520] The Real Game (Flash Fiction)

Police interviews always go the same way.

I let the scumbag wait. Fifteen minutes or more, until they start to doubt if they’ve been forgotten. I’ll make a joke outside the door, something loud about traffic or my blood sugar levels. Then I come in with my beer gut and shirt stained yellow at the pits.

I offer an iced tea or Coke before collapsing in my chair with a fat grunt. I loosen my tie and wipe my brow, push the table against the wall with my foot. Now I can see their body, watch every little movement for clues as to my way in. My face looks disinterested, almost apologetic. Not too much eye contact. This is just paperwork. Everyone here knows that you’re not our guy.

Most suspects start talking right away. They’re eager at this point, to get their stories out, so they trap themselves. Details, specifics, holes, inconsistencies. Most days I feel like a line worker at a factory going through the motions.

But this man today is different. He doesn’t want a coke or an iced tea. He’s stone-walled before I even walk through the door. Cool narrow eyes follow me as I act out my routine. When I wipe my sweaty brow with the back of my hand, when I heave my feet up on the table and lean back, making a big stupid show of it, the man leans back too. He’s young, but when he smiles there are deep lines around the mouth.

He’s special. Rare. A man with a system for evading consequences. I already know he’s air gapped himself from his crime and knows we can’t pin him with what we have, so I cut the shit and go in hard and heavy.

“You posed as the owner of a foreclosed house on Pine,” I say. “Fake name. Alibi at the bar called Malone’s. Cash deposits from three victims stuffed in your pockets. The kind of trick that lands a man six if he’s sloppy enough to end up in that chair.”

“First I’m hearing about it,” the man half shrugs and shakes his head.

“I doubt that,” I reply, and get ready to hit him with it.

“The email you used for the property advertising website is linked to an online banking service who have provided us with a picture of your face and drivers license,” I click my teeth with my tongue. “That was not a wise string to let dangle.”

“There must be someone using my account.”

I need something more, but the man gives me nothing. Over the next fifteen minutes I oscillate between wanting to punch him in the mouth and a creeping feeling of respect.

The interview is over and I stand, flustered but excited.

“I’ve got your number,” I say.

The man scoffs audibly. He’s passed the test.

He won’t recognize me at first, when I turn up at Malone’s without my uniform. My eyes look hungry when I’m outside the interview room. I know he’ll be smart enough to let down his guard, let me show him how this game is really played.

Critique