by Ethan Greenberg 2 years ago in fiction

Will the truth come out?


Darkness, and the smell of damp cement. Of all the five senses he could use to describe this room, those were his favorite. He chuckled to himself, he found the situation almost drolling. The lights flash on and nearly blinded him, he hears the soft hum of the fluorescent bulbs and heavy footsteps.

"Jesus, you're more ugly than how they described you," a deep voice spoke to him.

Mr.Clairison looked up, he almost looked like a caricature one would see at a fair; long hooked nose, large egg-shaped head cursed with male pattern baldness, yellow crooked teeth horrendous enough to make any dentist shriek in horror, and the hair (what was left of it) was thin and wiry.

"My name is Detective Harrison, and I'm not going to B.S. anything; you know why you're here," the deep voice said.

The detective sat down at the table between the two and placed a folder full of images in front of him. Mr. Clairison almost burst out laughing, he knew what those were photos of, and it was damn near hilarious to him.

"As you know, the Boston Killer has been on the loose for the past few months," the detective began, "We know that of that you work for him and of the 30 murders he is responsible for, you participated in 10 of them."

The detective placed about 5 or 6 photos of different crime scenes; almost all the bodies shown seemed to be killed in such a fashion that they nearly beyond recognition. It was ludicrous how funny Mr. Clairison found these photos, he felt as if he were reliving these moments.

Based on how mirthful he was, Mr. Clairison began to speak; "Well, what do you want me to say?" His voice was rusty and metallic.

"The hell you mean?! Why'd you do it?! Who is the Boston killer?!" the detective demanded.

"Ah, well to cite one of my favorite witticisms by Oscar Wilde, 'I can resist anything but temptation,' and the most tempting thing to me detective," Mr. Clairison began to smile wider fully displaying his mouth of gold, "is the rush I get from doing the things that I do. I assume there is something for you too, something that makes you feel that way?"

"This is no time for banter!" Detective Harrison yelled. Harrison stopped, breathed, and calmed down. "Now, the state has decided to present you with an option, and while the public may not agree with this, it seems to be the only choice we have."

"What? I'm free to go?" Mr. Clairison said facetiously.

"No," the detective spoke through his teeth, "the option is either you tell us who he is and you only get life in prison. If not, you will receive the death penalty instead."

Mr. Clairison sat and thought to himself, "Even if I wanted to tell you, I can't. He always wears a ski mask and uses a voice modifier. The only thing I could tell you is the same thing the witnesses saw: tall white male, stocky build. Nothing else I can tell you, you're fresh outta luck!" Mr. Clairison began to laugh again.

Detective Harrison stood up and started to walk away, "I guess you are too. I'll tell the judge to get the chair ready."

Mr. Clairison stopped laughing, his eyes grew wide and scared. "Wait!" he exclaimed, "I do know one more thing just give me a chance!"

Harrison stopped walking, "Well? Out with it then."

"I know where he hides out, it's last house Greene Drive," Mr. Clairison began quickly. "That's all I know, I'm sorry."

The detective turned around and smiled, "Since you have said your secret, it's time I shared mine as well." Harrison placed on the table a small black speaker and a wired microphone attached to it.

Mr. Clairison's eyes grew wider "That's a-"

"Not 'a'," Harrison interrupted, "mine. Unfortunately for you, you've failed my test Mr. Clairison. I cannot work with someone who isn't willing to put their life on the line for me."

Mr. Clairison was shaking in his chair, "B-But sir I-"

Harrison stopped him "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Excuses are useless at this point." Harrison pulls out a small pistol and a silencer out of his jacket pocket. He pointed the weapon at Mr. Clairison's head, who, at this point, was on the verge of tears. "One would usually assume that a person in my position would apologize for what they are about to do," Harrison began, "but as you know with me, that never happens."

As Harrison pulled the trigger, the last few moments of Mr. Clairison's life was the smell of wet cement and being swallowed by the darkness he once gained comfort in.

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