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***
I've been to a lot of police stations in my two lives. There have been clean, well-maintained, and glossy ones that reeked of government funding, and there have been some that even a homeless person would be reluctant to live in.
But the New York City Police Department, where most of the witnesses were taken, admittedly inspired respect.
Spacious, tall building. With a large fleet of cars, many rooms and a lot of awards hanging proudly from the walls.
As we walked down the corridor, I smacked my tongue every now and then, feeling like Borat, who had gone outside his hometown for the first time.
But as soon as we reached the "interrogation room", all impressions of the cool police station disappeared.
Well, for starters. It wasn't an interrogation room at all, it was a fucking working class, with goddamn desks with gum stuck underneath.
Secondly. Instead of the pretty sergeant who brought me here and with whom I flirted unmercifully the whole way, it was a classic fat cop with a box of doughnuts who interrogated me.
He'd brought the food under his armpit, leaving juicy wet stains on the packaging. Mm-hmm.
But the surrealism continued and the obese cop tried to play the tough guy for a long time, keeping me silent and heavy.
He carefully pretended not to notice my questioning looks, but it was clear even to a novice in reading body language like me that he was just scribbling in a notebook.
-Я... I'm gonna go.
Without commenting on my words, the potbelly went on with his important business. But when I reached the door and opened it, the man's face showed great surprise.
-How did you open the door?
-How did you open the door? -Well. It's not locked," I jerked it open to make it clear, "it's a classroom door. It doesn't even have a simple latch.
-That's right," I slapped myself on the forehead, the cop struggled to get out from behind the desk and stood next to it, trying to loom menacingly, "you can't just leave, kid, so let's get you back to your desk.
-I'm detained?
-Not yet...
-Now, am I in custody?
-No.
-You know I'm a minor, right? -You know that, right?
-What do you mean?
-And I also witnessed a small war in the city centre, -seeing the incomprehension on his spirited face, I patiently knead the bridge of my nose, -Well, with the psycho who blew up the pawnshop. I was there...
-You were? Aren't you lying to me, kid? They told me you made out with a plastic mannequin that looked like Captain America.
-What?
At that moment, the classroom door swung open and in walked a skinny, smoky man with bruises under his eyes so big a passerby would mistake him for a panda.
-Larry, your kisser's in the next room. -Larry, your kisser's in the next room. This one's mine.
Pointing his thumb in my direction, the skinny man sidestepped his fat mate.....
"I feel like I'm in The Masked Show."
-Sit down, why the fuck are you standing there? -Why are you standing there? We don't have much time and we have a lot of work to do.Feeling like I'm going to regret the chubby guy's departure, I sit down across from the new face, folding my arms across my chest.
-Sean Sullivan, right?
-Yeah.
-Sullivan. You're Scottish?
-Irish.
-What's the difference?
I didn't like this guy anymore.
-My dad says it's between a crotch and an arse. -You choose what you like.
-I like arse.
-I'm sure you do.
We sat in silence for a couple of seconds while the cop heard what I was saying.
-"You little shit.
This was more fun than I expected. I burst out laughing, just ignoring most of the words the offended officer was throwing at me.
-What's going on here? -What's going on?
This is the third policeman to enter the classroom, and if he says again that they've mixed things up, I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
But the man who looked inside was familiar and his appearance gave me back hope for a quick and successful resolution to the situation.
-Shawn? What are you doing here?
-Lieutenant, do you know him?
-Yes," George Stacy took the file in his hands and let him go, leaving me alone, "how did you get here?
-I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
-Hmm," the man looked at me with a suspicious look as he read the address, and I think I can guess what he's thinking, "what were you doing there anyway?
-Delivering pizzas, -I tried to look as harmless as possible, I answered the questions without nerves and stuttering, but Stacey's look only made me more suspicious, -Working part-time....
-What's the address, if it's not a secret? -What's the address?
-Not that it's a secret. But what's that got to do with it?
As he continued to stare at me, Stacey pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
-I've got a friend who lives there, so I wanted to make sure she was all right... -Well, she's a friend of mine.
Stacey continued to bullshit me. It would have been easy for a normal guy, but I could see he'd known for a while. Probably contacted his daughter first thing. And the fact that it's his daughter I'm delivering pizzas to is a near certainty.
The unobtrusive interrogation continued, during which I was spinning like a frying pan, not wanting to admit to the father of a young beautiful girl, that I visit her, even if it was for work.
In general, the conversation looked interesting. Stacy didn't want to reveal his parentage or where he lived, which made sense. And I didn't want him to find out that I already knew everything.....
But time was running out, and since I was a witness, not a detainee, the lieutenant couldn't afford to keep me around forever, pestering me with unrelated questions.
-Okay, Shawn. I think it's time to get down to business, don't you?
-What was that just now?
-Stacey opened the file with a dazzling smile that sent shivers down my spine. Apparently he'd got wind of something after all, or I'd thrown suspicions his way. Shit. - Don't worry, Shawn. I'll just question you and let you go right away.
-Okay.
-A couple of witnesses say you ripped the car door off, is that true? -No.
There was no foreplay, no leading questions or any other bullshit, unlike the previous conversation. Now Stacy had hit me in the forehead and for a moment it knocked me off balance, which the lieutenant definitely noticed.
-So it's really true.... I'm surprised, I never would have guessed.
He wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise, coming from one conclusion to another. An unusual tactic, but extremely effective. Noting my reactions to my questions, the man went on and on, until at some point he reached a point where he almost directly accused me of having a relationship with the mutant.
-Wait a minute. Stop!
I even put my hands out in front of me, visually confirming my words. I needed a break, but who's gonna give me one?
-Shawn, I've already figured out most of what I need to know. -Or do you have something to tell me? Or do you have something to tell me? Hmm?
"What is this? "Is this some kind of psychological move to put me in a defence position?
-I didn't tear the door down the way you're imagining it. -No.
-"The fucking kid just ripped the fucking door off. I'm fucking stunned, he ripped it off its hinges," is a lie?
Apparently, it was an eyewitness statement from one of the witnesses at the scene. Or have they already interviewed the others involved?
-More of an exaggeration.
With an interested raised eyebrow, Stacy silently demanded a continuation.
-I'm strong, but I'm not that strong. And the door was deformed from the impact. I mean, there were cars flying all over the place.
-But even so, -the lieutenant's second cigarette went into the bin, -to tear the door off. Sounds fantastic...
-Eh, I wouldn't say so, -I got up from the table, I went to the cupboard at the end of the classroom and, with some effort, managed to pull it off the ground, -fuh....
With a clatter, the piece of furniture fell back into place while I shook my hands off the dust myself. At the same time, Stacy hid his mouth behind his palm as his eyelids widened in surprise.
I'll admit, it was flattering. I'd chosen the healthiest wardrobe I could find, and it was packed to the brim with books.
I never would have thought that-
-The little redhead could do something like that?-I was going to put it another way," Stacey looked at me reproachfully, and then came out from behind the desk and just tried to swing the cabinet, but he didn't get anywhere, "How come? Do you rock? Or maybe a natural talent? Or are you a mutant too?
George's sudden change in behaviour made me extremely wary. He was now playing the role of the man in the diner who could be a conversation piece.
-I've been training since I was a kid. Thai boxing and then mixed martial arts. It's not easy being small, so you have to defend yourself.
-Really.
He didn't fully believe me, he must have suspected something, but unfortunately for Stacy, I was completely sincere in my last actions. Just the power of my own body and the truth. The man didn't know how to react. His gut told him he was being fucked somewhere, but he couldn't figure out what.
The further interrogation went without any major excesses, except for the fact that I rushed to save people instead of running away with them. But I didn't even have to make up anything.
-What do you mean, run away? I'm not like that, and that's not how my daddy raised me.
Stacy's displeasure at the question wasn't faked, so the lieutenant raised his hands in a conciliatory tone.
In general, talking to George was extremely intriguing. He easily adapted to me, changing his behaviour, body movements, and amazing facial expressions. Yawns in all the right places to show his fatigue and disinterest in the question. An understanding shrug of the shoulders. A couple of panicky stories, followed by sharp pressure to condemn my behaviour. Stacey easily maintained that invisible line where a relationship with the "bobby" questioning you can go overboard.
He deftly manoeuvred his way through questions, showing that he wasn't that far removed from the youth and was well versed in many issues. Some slang words could be known only to regular Internet users, but George did not react to their mentioning, calmly carrying on the conversation.
But already imagining what this cunning bug was capable of, I didn't know if it was done on purpose or if he really just let the slang slip past his ears?
His long tenure as a detective had clearly made him a professional at his job and even a promotion hadn't affected his skills much.
To summarise, in two hours of conversation I found myself squeezed like a lemon, both physically and emotionally. Only my rich life experience, non-involvement in the tragedy and truthful testimony, which coincided with other witnesses, helped to get out of this labyrinth of the mind created by the old "bobby".
***
Slamming the door of the taxi that had been called for the questioned guy, George gave the yellow car a glance before pulling out a rather gaunt packet of cigarettes.
It was getting dark outside, and the day was slowly coming to an end, but he didn't regret spending it on questioning Sean Sullivan, even though he would have had time to interview a dozen other witnesses in the same amount of time.
The ability to properly collect evidence is a real art that helps in solving most crimes. Extract among the mountains of rubbish and incoherent facts necessary, to separate the grain from the chaff, and in such cases, real diamonds from the rubbish.
Sean Sullivan turned out to be the most valuable witness of the incident, bringing a mountain of information, in the smallest detail told and recorded on a dozen sheets.
A fortunate coincidence allowed Sullivan to know the exact time of the incident. The young pizza-delivery boy was extremely punctilious.
He recounted every detail of his actions and everything his attentive eye could pick up. An amazing memory or maybe a skill that had been worked out on purpose?
It was questions like these that plagued the old policeman's mind, preventing him from relaxing a little and getting on with his work.
The more he learnt about this Sullivan during the interrogation, the more strange things came out, as if he was sitting in front of him a future billet for a spy, special forces or something worse.
Could Sean be connected to criminal gangs? Such skills would be of no use in his normal life, so he would probably use them for their intended purpose. But for what? Stacy had no way of knowing.
The only thing that amused him in this whole situation was the work of the delivery boy who had put him at the scene of the explosion.
-Pizza delivery guy, who'd have thought it?
That answered a lot of questions at once. The daughter's strange behaviour lately. Pizza boxes scattered around the flat. And his little Gwen had put on a few pounds, already struggling to fit into old clothes.
In fact, it became clear why the pizza is always the same brand and only ordered on certain days.
"Sly little thing, got her eye on the red-haired delivery boy."
Clenching his fist, George had already imagined having to defend his daughter's room from the assaults of one small redheaded Irishman, but remembering the recent question, he raised his hand higher, stroking the grip of his pistol.
-There's no fun in hand-to-hand combat with this kid. -Better the tried-and-true method.***
The next morning greeted me exactly as I'd feared it would. Every newsfeed on the internet and television was full of threatening messages about mutants and everyone associated with them.
The headlines frightened people, making them whisper and look warily at their neighbours, suspecting them of being sick maniacs with superpowers.
There were fewer people on the streets, and Queens was under a real curfew. Even the bandits for a while quieted down, hiding in their norms and trying not to show their faces, because now mad from the losses in the fight with the mutant "bobbies" did not change on small things, first shooting, and then ask questions.
That's why the situation in the city only heated up. Of course, in time, all this will subside and gradually routine will return to the streets of the city ... Except it would never be the same again.
Already now Washington has convened an emergency meeting on the issue, responding to people's complaints and outrages. The government will have to take action, otherwise the people will not calm down, and while people are worried, you can't make money.
I'm sure the heads of major nations have known about mutants for a long time and have been dealing with the issue, but so far the "not so" people have been ignored, letting them just live among us.
I heartily spun the mouse wheel, after which my old PC almost burst into flames while the links and headlines popping up abundantly on the monitor were trying to load.
-Everywhere you click, it's the same thing," Pete, who was sitting next to me, was having just as much success with his phone, "Check it out, it's your picture again. There's even a little bit of video of you dragging a man across the pavement.
-Yeah, I dragged him," I grumbled, trying to find something more meaningful to say than empty shouts about the end of the world, mutants, and the "aliens" among us, "the damn grandfather tried to sue me. See, I wasn't dragging him around like that, and I should have made more of an effort.
-Wow, wow.... How'd it go?
-Fuck him. The police, medics and other rescuers took my side, saying they'd be taking my side in court, so the old man ducked and rode off into the sunset. Didn't even say thank you, asshole.
-World's not without bad people. -Pfft.
-Pfft. -Half these people wanted to sue me. I could see it in their cheeky, disgruntled faces. If it wasn't for the bobbies and the doctors, I wouldn't have been so lucky.
-Yeah, that's how you save people.
-Come on, they're just scared, and I'm their way of venting their fear and anger, -I realise that I can say a lot of things in the heat of the moment that I'm sure I'll regret later, so I decide to change the subject, -You'd better tell me, is there anything useful there? Or is it all full of the same stuff?
-Yeah, nothing. Nothing at all. Your muddy face in an equally muddy photograph and a poor quality video. People were more interested in the gunfire and the mutant laser beams than the people who got hurt.
-Maybe it's for the best.
(Somehow. George Stacey in my fic is not going to be a simple statistic. He is a hardened cop who knows his job and solves the problems assigned to him.
Yes, by the way, if anyone didn't get the joke about the Scots and Irish, it's basically an exchange of insults. The very comparison may not please the representatives of both nations that like to defend their culture and identity in the united kingdom. That's why Sean responded so aggressively to the policeman, leaving no options for choice, because whatever you say, you'll end up as a dove. I mean, he's not comparing the Irish and Scots to arse and crotch, he's just being rude to a "bobby".
And a picture of the New York Police Department. In real life, I think they started building it in 2009, but I got it a little early. Marvel)
***
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