No Remorse

          The interrogation room was silent, like the calm before a storm.

            The man sat at a desk in the center, with a small lamp shining into his face.  His long, lank brown hair hung over his pale, gaunt face, covering his dark eyes. The red flannel shirt he wore hung over his small frame like a jacket on a scarecrow. His hands were bony and scarred, the consequence of doing mechanical work for years on end.  His mouth was locked in a cold smirk.

            The door opened with a soft click, and another man stepped into the room. His face remained obscured by shadow, but he was obviously a cop. Probably a homicide detective of some sort. The detective walked into the room, and set something down on the table. It sounded like a coffee mug. He sat across from the pale man, and made sure his face was covered in darkness.

            “What is your name?” the detective asked.

            “Don’t you motherfuckers already know?” replied the man coldly. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the silhouette across from him.  The detective took a sip from his coffee cup and sighed. He pulled out a folder of some kind, placed some pictures on the desk, and slid them over to the man.

            “Do you know these people?” asked the detective. He sounded as if he wanted nothing more than to leave the room and never return. The man shifted in his chair and began to examine the pictures. He suddenly looked at the detective with a smile on his face.

            “Do ya have a smoke? I think it’s easier to focus if I have a good smoke.”

            “Just answer the damn question,” the detective replied. He was becoming more annoyed by the minute. The man’s sneer widened, and then he began pouring over the pictures in earnest.

            These pictures were clearly crime scene photographs, for they seemed to depict a massacre in some suburban house. The first one showed a middle-aged man lying in a pool of his own blood, who appeared to have died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He had incredibly short black hair, a somewhat pale complexion, and a bit of extra weight on his hips and stomach. His green eyes stared skyward, lifeless. His mouth, or what remained of it, hung open in a silent scream. The 9 mm he used was lying on the floor next to his right hand, covered in blood. The second picture was of a woman, slightly younger than the man, possibly in her mid 30s.  She seemed to have been executed at point blank range, as her hands were bound behind her and the bullet wound was right on her forehead. Her blonde hair was covering her pale face, but the man could see one blue eye remaining open. The woman’s face was etched with an expression of both sorrow and terror. The third and final picture depicted the children of the family, who were laying side by side, with their hands tied and bullet wounds in their foreheads.  The first one, a girl in her late teens, had her mother’s eyes. Her long black hair fell around her head, and the boy, no older than 16, took completely after his mother. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and a look of pure betrayal on his face.

            The man grunted, looked up, and his smile only widened. “Yeah, I do know these people. Let’s see here, the papa would be… ah shit, what’s his name? Um… Wilson. James Wilson, that’s it. He was a car dealer, wasn’t he? And his wife was Mary Wilson. Jesus, she was pretty…” He trailed off and began staring into the distance, his hair covering his eyes. The only sound in the room was the detective’s pencil scratching as he took notes. The man shook his head, and began again, “The daughter’s name was Clarence, I think, and the boy’s name was William. Yeah, William. Hey, can you take these cuffs off of me,” he held his hands up, showing that they were shackled together, “they’re starting to chafe.”

            The detective was not amused. “Sir, can you tell me what happened to this family?” he said as he took another sip of his coffee. 

The other man put on his best “innocent” face.  In a mocking voice, he taunted, “Well gosh, detective, I just don’t know. It looks like a murder-suicide if ya ask me, but gee, I’m just dumber than a sack of shit, ain’t I?”

The detective was motionless. He stood up, slowly walked over to the man, his face staying out of the light. He stopped, and then hit the man hard enough he almost fell out of his chair. The man yelped, and started glaring at the detective as he walked back to his side of the desk. The detective pulled his chair out slowly, and very deliberately sat down. He took another sip of his coffee, and continued taking notes.

“Did you have anything to do with this, sir?” the detective asked in a crisp, cold voice. He clearly hated the man sitting across from him.

“I didn’t pull the trigger, if that’s what yer askin’,” replied the man in an incredibly sarcastic manner.

The detective sighed, and continued, “Let me rephrase the question. Would this family still be alive if it weren’t for you?”

The man pretended to be lost in thought, before offering, “Oh, probably. You can’t account for car accidents, or freak oven explosions and the like, though.”

“Can you explain, please,” the detective stated. A small quiver entered his voice.

“Oh, I suppose I could. Let’s see here… I believe it was three days ago now? Yeah, three days.  I was drivin’ down the highway, ya see, and a thought enters my brain. I’m thinkin’, how far can the bonds of blood go before they break? Can they survive in times of trouble? So, I decide to go to your sweet little town, and lo and behold, I see what appears to be the perfect family walkin’ down the street. So I says to myself, “If any family’s gonna survive, it would be them,”. I follow them home, and make a plan for that night. I grabbed 2 9 mils from my luggage, a lantern, and a pair of wire cutters. Luckily for me, their circuit breaker was outside the house, so it was child’s play to cut the power and break in. They was havin’ dinner at the time, so I walk in and start shoutin’ for them to get on the floor, and I bound their hands. I lit the lantern, and I explained the situation to them. In 30 minutes, I would kill every single one of them. However, I also placed my 2^nd 9 mil on the ground, and told them that if one were to take it, and kill the other three, that one would be spared. I also told them if any of them tried anything I didn’t like, I would shoot all of them, no questions asked. I sit in the room, waiting. It gets to minute 29, and I’m thinkin’ “Maybe they will pass the test after all,”. Then James stands up. He takes the gun, and wordlessly walks to each member of his family, and puts a bullet right between their eyes. I left after that. I don’t lie to nobody, sir. My mama said that lying sends you straight to Hell. James musta shot himself afterwards.” As he finished, he leaned back into his chair and chuckled to himself.

There was a long silence after the man finished his story, with the only sound in the room being the detective’s pencil, accompanied by a small snuffling sound. After what seemed like hours, the detective finally stopped taking his notes.

“I just have a few more questions,” whispered the detective, his voice wavering, “Why did you do it?”

The man leaned forward a bit, and proclaimed, “I believe it was H. H. Holmes who said that “I was born with the Devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing,”. It’s simply who I am, detective.”

The detective swallowed, continued to take his notes. He finally stopped and asked “Why did you turn yourself in?”

The man barked out a laugh, “You really think these were the first people I killed, detective? I want to go to prison, so at least the people I hunt will fight back. I’m gettin’ tired of killing cowards!” He sat back and continued laughing.

Wordlessly, the detective began gathering up his things. He slowly picked up his now-empty coffee mug, his notes, and his folders. When it came to the crime scene pictures, something seemed to trip him up.

“What’s wrong detective?” the man simpered. The detective shuddered, and walked toward the door in a hurry.

“Say, I never got yer name, did I detective?”

The detective stopped. He slowly walked over to the main light switch in the room, and flicked it to the on position. The detective had short, black hair. He then turned to face the man, his green eyes streaming tears.

“My name… my name is Martin Wilson, and I swear to you, you’ll be feeling the prick of the needle in no time. There’s a special place in hell reserved for shitstains like you, and I’ll make sure you find your way there soon enough!” he exclaimed as he stormed out of the room, flicking the light switch off as he left.

The man began to laugh as the desk lamp flickered and died.