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Stonewalling

Transcription of official police interview

By Stephen A. RoddewigPublished about a year ago Updated 4 months ago 9 min read
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Stonewalling
Photo by Greg Shield on Unsplash

Case #0135, Interview #1

Transcription performed by Officer Josie Welsh, Homicide.

*Begin recording*

Voice 1: *spoken with the pretentiousness he graces his coworkers with each and every day* Detective Rory Reardon, Chicago PD Homicide Division, interviewing witness. Please state your name for the record.

Voice 2: I’ve been known by many words throughout my time.

Reardon: Sure... but your given name, please.

Voice 2: “Given” name?

Reardon: Your Christian name.

Voice 2: Come now, detective. Nothing about this is normal, so don’t assume I belong to a mainstream religion, either.

Reardon: I need a name for the record.

Voice 2: You can call me Al.

Reardon: Al?

Al: Yeah. Like the song.

Reardon: Just Al?

Al: Come on, everyone’s heard it. *singing in an admirably close rendition of the actual singer* You can call meee Alllll... *chuckles lightly* That Paul Simon’s really something.

Reardon: You really think he wouldn’t have done well solo since he made it big in a duo.

Al: Paul was always the brains of that operation, detective.

Reardon: Clearly. *clears throat* Well, Mr. Al, thank you for coming down to the station. I understand this was a difficult trip for you.

Al: Not accustomed to moving around much but wanted to do what I could to help the investigation.

Reardon: *in a failed attempt at sincerity* And we appreciate that. Why don’t we start with what you remember of the hours before the incident occurred.

Al: Okay. It was a normal Sunday afternoon. Maybe 35-40 degrees out, moderate sunshine, so naturally it was a bit nippy with the crawl space right below me. Maybe that’s how I picked up on things so quickly. Hard to relax with the cold seeping into your bones.

Reardon: *getting too far into the weeds* Bones?

Al: A figure of speech, detective. Someone like me has a lot of time to think and listen, as you might imagine. Word play is one of the ways to pass the time. That, and watching Jeopardy when Beth’s mom puts it on in the afternoons. Even someone like me eventually picks up on things.

Reardon: Right, so—

Al: Did you know they repeat questions? They figured with thousands of episodes they could start slowly recycling them and no one would be smart enough to notice, but I did. I noticed. I think I’m the only one outside of the secret cabal running the show that knows. Well, me and Ken Jennings.

*Transcriber’s Note: It is neither confirmed or disproven beyond a reasonable doubt that Ken Jennings memorized previous Jeopardy questions and answers.*

Reardon: Al, this is an official statement, so I advise you to remain on topic.

Al: Okay, okay, sorry. Just thought you might like to know the secret to bringing home some extra pay.

Reardon: *sighs* Jeopardy doesn’t seem to make a habit of inviting cops on. I think they see it as bad optics in our current political environment.

Al: Hey, cops are the good guys. Back the Blue. Thin Blue Lives. Blue Lines Matter. Blues Clues. All that jazz.

Reardon: Well, though I’m glad you see our value to society, Mr. Al, your personal views aren’t pertinent to this interview.

Al: All I’m saying is some of my best friends are Ben Shapiros.

Reardon: *mutters* Jesus Christ. *clears throat* So what happened next in the home?

Al: It was a Sunday afternoon, and for whatever reason, Cassandra had decided to change things up for the first time in the twenty years she’s been living with us.

Reardon: Cassandra meaning Cassandra Owens, the victim?

Al: Yes, the very one. She’s the mother of the homeowner, Beth. Moved in with us after her husband died and she could no longer take care of herself. I owe much of my current vocabulary to her incessant Jeopardy viewing. Except that day, for whatever reason, she decided to change the channel to The Price is Right.

Reardon: I think we can leave it at “the television was on,” Mr. A—

Al: Between you and me, detective, I think this was a sign the dementia had really taken hold. I mean, what does that show hold over Jeopardy? It’s a bunch of clueless schmucks spitting out numbers. What educational value does that have? For all we know, the prices will all be higher tomorrow given the liberal yahoos running things these days.

Reardon: *fighting to regain control of the witness* So Cassandra had turned on the television. What happened next?

Al: *refusing to play this half-rate detective’s game* Jeopardy has intellectuals, engineers, tradesmen—heck, even tradeswomen, it no longer threatens me to say. I’m an ally. I’ve done the research. If a woman wants to work and make two-thirds of her male counterpart’s salary, I have absolutely no problem with that.

Reardon: *sound of papers scattering* You know, Mr. Al, I’m starting to think that you’re not here today for the reasons you’ve stated.

Al: Oh?

Reardon: Yes, I think you came here in some misguided attempt to befriend a cop. Or perhaps you wanted a platform to spout your half-baked political beliefs from. Or maybe the promoters at Jeopardy planted you here to boost viewership.

Al: These are quite the accusations, detective.

Reardon: Whatever the reason, the output is the same: the case remains unsolved. Instead, you’re wasting my time and the taxpayer’s dollar as I attempt to extract details out of an uncooperative witness. It’s like talking to a goddamn brick wall!

Al: That’s an incredibly offensive epithet to my people.

Reardon: Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I’m about two seconds from having the sergeant on duty drag you out of the precinct.

Al: But, detective, I am here to help.

Reardon: By talking my ear off about things irrelevant to this case? Save it. I’m still not convinced that Cassandra Owens didn’t die of anything but natural causes. Old people slip and fall all the time. It’s unfortunate, but it’s true.

Al: Oh, no. Not this time. Mrs. Owens slipped and fell, but the cause was anything but natural.

Reardon: *chair creaking as if leaning forward* Go on.

Al: Before we get to the grand reveal, a quick story, if you will.

Reardon: Oh, for Christ’s sake. *louder* Sergeant Sanger!

*door swings open in background*

Sanger: Yes, detective?

Al: Two minutes, detective, and then you’ll know everything.

Reardon: I’m not falling for this a second time. Sergeant, escort the witness from the room.

*movement in background*

Al: You’re making a mistake. I know the culprit. I can tell you their exact identity.

Reardon: Hold a second, sergeant. *chair creaks* You promise?

Al: Cross what you might call my heart.

Reardon: Thank you, sergeant. I’ll call if I need you.

Sanger: Yes, sir.

*door swings closed*

Reardon: All right, Mr. Al. Give me your story. *Al starts, but Reardon cuts him off* But it better be brief. And no soap boxes. Understood?

Al: Only the essentials, of course. As you might imagine, someone like me that doesn’t move around much gains an appreciation for observation. So when they wheeled me into the station, I got a clear picture of the situation. A police department underwater. A public that no longer trusts those trusted with its protection. A homicide division burdened with more unsolved cases than anyone thought possible. A mayor breathing down the department’s neck for results.

Reardon: What did I say about soap boxes?

Al: Very well. In this macroenvironment, we now turn the lens to our indomitable detective. He got into this work for the right reasons: a desire to protect the weak, to put the bad guy away, to see justice done. However, he has not been immune to these greater forces. Many of those he means to protect fear him, and many others hate him. He knows in his heart that he’s trying to do the right thing, but under the constant onslaught of voices telling him he represents things less than noble, even he starts to question it all. To doubt.

Reardon: For the love of—

Al: Fine. We turn the magnification one level deeper. As if the assault on his core beliefs weren’t bad enough, he finds that the other foundation in his life is now cracking. A wife who’s fed up with the sacrifices his long hours and low pay force on his family. A son who has no interest in carrying on the family tradition of service in uniform. A daughter who has gone to college and now spouts many of the same slogans the detractors in the media hurl at his profession. But these are much harder to tune out.

Reardon: How... how do you know all of this?

Al: They took me past your desk on the way to interrogation, detective. I saw the wilted flower bouquet in the trash: a paltry peace offering that you knew would fail before you even brought it home. The empty takeout boxes from endless nights on the job. The family portrait shoved in the back corner of the desk. The police academy accolades that were hung with pride now crooked and covered in dust.

Reardon: *quieter now* What does this all have to do with the case?

Al: I saw the portrait of a man hanging on by a thread. Years of trying his hardest to make the world a better place to only have that world spit on him in every imaginable way for having the gall to do anything positive. That you still wake up and come to work each day is truly admirable, detective. I confess, I originally came in here to spin some false story to protect the doer. But after seeing all this, I realized that I might be able to have a greater impact. That I might be able to do something more than to go on watching Ken Jennings cheat the system on Jeopardy each day. I might be able to save a life.

Reardon: Go on. Please.

Al: We return to the suburban Chicago home where an elderly woman slipped and fell. As you said, this sort of thing happens all the time. Poor balance, weak muscles, and fragile bones: not a great combination. But this time, there was a cause more than cruel chance. Cassandra Owens had just changed the channel from Jeopardy to that vile Price is Right sludge, and the doer, who had remained silent for years, could remain silent no longer.

Reardon: It can’t be.

Al: Imagine her shock, detective, when a voice screams out, “Change that back, you old bitch!” And not out of nowhere, but from the wall. If the fall hadn’t killed her, I’m sure a heart attack was following right on its heels.

Reardon: My God. Then that means...

Al: You got your man, detective. Congratulations.

Reardon: This... this is the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. If you had a hand, I’d shake it.

Al: Don’t stop trying to make this world a better place. It needs as much help as it can get.

Reardon: Sergeant!

*door swings open*

Sanger: *hint of annoyance in his voice* What is it, detective?

Reardon: The wall has just confessed.

Sanger: You mean?

Reardon: Yes, we cracked the case!

Sanger: The Chief’s going to want to hear this. And the mayor.

Reardon: Please take Mr. Al here away for processing.

*movement and sound of wheels squeaking*

Reardon: Oh, and sergeant?

*squeaking stops*

Sanger: Sir?

Reardon: Send the boys who removed Mr. Al from the structure in here when you have a moment.

Sanger: Yes, sir. They’re waiting in the hall, actually. *louder* The detective wants to see you.

*multiple footsteps in the background*

Reardon: All your hard work with the hacksaws paid off, gentlemen. Mr. Al here just confessed.

*multiple shouts of excitement and claps of high fives*

Reardon: Drinks are on me after work tonight. *after a moment* Ah, hell, why wait that long?

*champagne pops as “You Can Call Me Al” starts playing*

*End recording*

Humor
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About the Creator

Stephen A. Roddewig

Writing the adventures of Dick Winchester, a modern gangland comedy set just across the river from Washington D.C.

Keep an eye out for A Bloody Business, a Martin Williams novel!

Vocal chapter president for the Horror Writers Association 🐦‍⬛

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