Friday, May 16, 2014

Friday Flash Fiction - Don & John...again

I hope no one is getting sick of these two, because I'm certainly not.

This is pretty much a direct continuation of last week's story (found here).  This week I kept it pretty short, the challenge over at Terribleminds went up a bit late so I had to rush this slightly.  I almost added another scene but I wouldn't have had the time to edit it properly.  Anyway, enough rambling.

B & B – Interrogation
            The man rocked back in and forth in his chair, the metal legs clinking softly on the floor with each pass.  He pulled the handcuffs tight, wrists worn red and raw from the pressure.
            “A poetic pattern retains inertia.  A poetic pattern retains inertia.”
            Don stood in the observation room, watching the lunatic through the mirrored glass.
“How long has he been doing that?”
Derek Franklin, the department’s head profiler, shrugged.  “Ever since you and John brought him in.”
Don hid clenched fists in his crossed arms, “Do we even know who he is?”
Derek shook his head, “No I.D. when he came in, and his prints didn’t turn up in any databases.”
“And he hasn’t said anything else?”
“He asked if the tooth fairy would visit.”
Don arched an eyebrow, “Seriously?”
“No.  But you did knock out a tooth when you pistol whipped him.”
“Forgive me for not caring.” Don huffed.
Derek chuckled, “You won’t hear me complain.”
They were cut off when the door to the holding room opened and John stepped inside.  For his part the prisoner didn’t react, continuing to rock and mutter that same phrase.
Don watched as John let the door click shut and crossed the room, he passed within reach of the man and Don tensed, but the prisoner didn’t react.
John sat down across the table and opened the thin folder he’d carried in.
“You’ve been linked to over a dozen murders over the last year.  All young women, all taken from their homes, but no other connection we can see.”
The rocking stilled for a moment.
John laced his fingers together, “We’d like to know why.”
The man resumed rocking his chair, “A poetic pattern retains inertia.”
“Is that why you killed these women?” John asked.  “Fulfilling a pattern?”
“A poetic pattern retains inertia.”
John leaned forward, “What does that mean?”
“A poetic pattern-“
“Why did you choose these women?”
The man slammed his hands on the table, “A poetic pattern retains inertia!”
Don leapt for the observation room’s door but Derek held him back.
John hadn’t even twitched, he looked up at the man.
“Sit back down.  You’re not fooling anyone.”
The man didn’t move, “A poetic-“
“Pattern retains inertia.” John cut him off.  “You’re not insane, stop trying so hard.”
The prisoner sat back down, tugging at the handcuff chains.
“Now,” John said, “Why did you kill these women.”
The man smiled, the same damn grin he had in the storage locker, “There’s a pattern.”  He reached out and took the victim photos, laying them out on the table.
“I played my role,” he said, “my job is done.  But my work is not.”
Don can barely see the layout of the photos, and he doesn’t see the connection.  But he can see the look on John’s face.  It’s the same expression his partner gets when he finds the last clues to a case.
As the last photo is laid on the table the door to the observation room bursts open, a panicking rookie cop almost falls into the room.
“Franklin, sir,” he pants, “there’s been another murder.”
From the other side of the soundproof glass the man looks up at John, spreading his hands over the table he grins and points to an empty spot.
“A poetic pattern retains inertia.”

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