Frankie yawned a little rubbing her face as she drove down the highway. Back to precinct. This case had her insomnia returning, not to mention her boss's constant threats. She needed some kind of miracle.
Her eyes fell to a car parked on the side of the road, and she slowed her speed as she noticed that it fit the description of the main suspect's car. No way, she convinced herself, but as she pulled closer, her eyes widened as she saw that the license plate matched. "No fucking way," she muttered aloud, and then pulled over behind him.
It was specifically against the rules to investigate a potential murderer alone, but this was huge. She couldn't pass it up. She made sure her gun was loaded and in its holster before picking up the warrant and approaching the car. She tapped on the window carefully. "Maisonn Kreiter? This is entersomecity PD, I have a warrant to search your vehicle."
The back door opened slowly and a man poked his head out of the door, his entire face obscured by a white mask. "I do not accept," he stated simply, his smooth, expressionless face staring up at her. Grungy, disgusting black hair hung all around his shoulders and face, and he stank something awful. "I do not accept. Try again later." He shut the door, his formless black cape hanging slightly out of the door.
She jumped a little at this, but then pulled the door open again. “Sir, I’m afraid it’s not negotiable. I’m Detective Francesca Reynolds, and-”
He merely shut the door again.
Frankie stared for a moment before sighing and leaning her back against the car. She picked up her cell phone and dialed, holding it to her ear. “Yeah, Ozzy? I found the suspect. Yeah, he’s hostile. I’m gonna need some backup asap. Thanks.” She flipped it shut and then went back to her car, sitting in the driver’s seat.
The man opened the other side of the car, pushing himself up and turning to face her. "Not negotiable." He drummed his fingers on the top of his car carefully. "Not negotiable. Not negotiable. Not negotiable."
She stared at him from her car, tingles of anxiety unearthing in her stomach, but she kept a steady gaze, confident to show him she wasn’t leaving.
He stared at her from behind his barrier. "Not negotiable," he repeated, voice gentler. "You're a joke. Come speak to me."
She, after watching him for a bit, stood and shut the door to her car, standing beside it. “Are you willing to talk now?” she asked, raising a brow and brushing reddish-brown strands of hair behind her ear.
"I invited you," he murmured, tilting his head. "People are coming."
Frankie raised a brow, nodding. “Yeah, they are. You’re being what we consider to be a hostile witness.”
"Not negotiable," he laughed sharply, slamming his hand on the top of his car. "Not hostile. People don't need to be coming."
“You’re being extremely hostile right now, Maisonn. You need to calm down.” Frankie leaned against her own car, folding her arms across her chest.
"You won't find anything." He shut his car door, walking around the side of the car to sit on the trunk, facing away from his car.
“Let me be the judge of that, huh?” She pulled out a notepad and pen from her pocket. “I suppose while we’re here, I can ask you a few questions. Did you know Kaitlyn Morris?”
"Kaitlyn Morris was not negotiable," he replied simply, tapping the car again.
“So you did know her,” she prodded, jotting something down. “Did you have anything to do with her murder?”
"Murder. You're not negotiable. I didn't know her." He slid his palm across his car. "Don't be silly."
“But you know something about her murder? Or maybe you killed her yourself?” she continued with a calm voice, focused on writing.
"I'm not a killer." He pushed himself off of his trunk. "They won't find anything."
“You’d better hope not, ‘cause you’re showing an awful lot of signs that you are a killer. So, you didn’t know her, you didn’t kill her. What about Jackson Montag?” She continued writing idly.
"Montag is Monday in German," he breathed. "You won't find anything."Bookmark
“That’s very interesting. Back to the question, did you know him?”
"Jackson Montag is a beautiful name."
She looked up at him and the put the pad of paper away. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to take off the mask.”
"Not negotiable," he giggled softly.
“You’re right about that one.” She pulled the gun from her holster, clicking it into place. “I’m gonna count to three and you’d better remove that mask, or I have to right to arrest you for deliberately disobeying an officer.”
"Put the gun down," he mused, facing her voice. "Put the gun down, Francesca Reynolds."
“Detective, to you. One.”
"Put the gun down."
"Two."
"Put the fucking gun down."
“Three. You’re under arrest, Mr. Kreiter.” She approached him now, with handcuffs. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.” She undid them, pushing the gun into his chest and pushing him against the car.
He grunted as he was pushed against the car, not struggling. "Oh, oh my god," he whispered, inaudibly, full of real emotion. "Oh my god. You are not negotiable!"
“That’s one thing you’ll learn about me, Mr. Kreiter.” She took his hands, cuffing him, and then led him to her car, pushing him into the back seat.
"No, I can't go in here," he mumbled, and fought against her hands, pushing away from the car with his foot. "My sister, my sister, I can't go in here!"
“She’ll be fine.” Frankie kicked up his leg and then pushed him into the seat in one smooth movement, shutting and locking the door. She picked up her cell phone, dialing again. “Where the fuck are you? I’ve got him in cuffs. Hurry the hell up.”
"She won't be fine!" he shrieked from the back, thrashing violently, kicking against the windows and rolling around the back. "She won't be fine! You're killing her! Let me go!"
“He’s flipping shit, Ozzy. Something about his sister. I can’t keep him here for long.” She hung up the phone and then went to the window, hitting it a few times. “Calm down! Everything will be fine as long as you cooperate!”
"Not negotiable! Not negotiable!" he screamed over and over again, seizing violently in the seat, gripped with panic.
“Oh my God,” she muttered, rubbing her face. “Look, Maisonn, calm the fuck down. People will be here shortly. Everything will be fine.”
"She's dying, she's dying," he groaned, his voice mostly an inhale, his body shuddering uncontrollably. "I can't breathe."
Finally, another car pulled up, and Ozzy jumped out with a couple other people, sirens flashing. “What’s up, Frankie?”
“We need some tranquilizers now. This guy is fucking crazy!” she screamed, gesturing to him, and one of the other officers ran back to the car for the tranqs. After setting them up, Frankie cautiously opened the door and took the syringe. “Maisonn, hold still.”
"Get away," he hissed, scooting away from the door desperately, his wrists already rubbed raw from the cuffs. "Get away! Get her away from me!"
She grabbed his arm, but was pulled away by Ozzy and the other officer. “Hey, what the fuck, guys!?” she screamed, struggling against them. “Let me go!”
“I-I don’t know what’s going on, man!” Ozzy cried, holding her back.
He hesitated, breathing hard, and then rolled forward, falling out of the car onto the ground. "Don't let her go," he gasped, laying weakly on the ground. "Francesca Reynolds. I will not leave my sister."
“What the hell are you doing to them!?” she cried, but then squirmed her way from their grip, effectively knocking one officer unconscious and the other to the ground. “Get back here, Maisonn!”
“What!? O-Okay, okay! I will!” she answered, kicking Ozzy off of her legs and going to him. She took his arm, but then jammed the syringe into it, pushing the plunger down. “Go to sleep, Maisonn.”
"Suffer, Ozzy," he breathed, though he didn't struggle, slamming into the ground hard as the drugs worked through him.
Ozzy screamed in sudden pain, writhing on the ground.
“What the fuck…?” Frankie murmured, but then picked Maisonn up by the collar and threw him back into the car. She took another syringe, going to Ozzy. “Ssh, babe, calm down. I’ve got this.” She injected it into him as well, and sighed as he slipped into what seemed to be still a painful sleep.
Maisonn chuckled a little, but he could only surrender to sleep.
-
Maisonn stared at the ground as it wiggled in and out of focus, his hands cuffed behind his back and to the chair in which he was seated. He was dressed in a prison jumpsuit, his hair shaved into a much more manageable length, his body thin and unhealthy.
Frankie stepped into the interrogation room, shutting the door behind her and setting her papers down on the table as she took her seat. She stared at him for a few hard moments before sliding a photograph of a grisly murder in front of him. “Did you do this?”
He squinted at the picture, swallowing slowly, and then lifted his gaze up to her, his eyes heavy. "I'm incapable of asking questions," he stated simply, blinking for a long time.
“Why?”
"I don't understand inflection." He dropped his eyes down to the murder again, licking his lips shortly. "This doesn't look nice."
“Did you do it?” she repeated, slower, seeming extremely aggravated.
"You raped her." His voice was flat, accusatory but not angry. Every motion was muted. He bowed his head a little.
“Look, Maisonn,” she spat angrily, slamming her hands down on the table. “We’ll give you back your sister and your car and everything as long as you help us out and answer these questions. Got it?”
He shook his head, shifting his weight. "You're a filthy liar," he whispered. "Release me."
“Answer the questions and free Ozzy of whatever the fuck you did to him, and yeah, I will.”
"But you won't give my sister back. You can't. She's raped." He closed his eyes. "I worked a long time to keep her alive. I guess as long as she's being tortured, so is my playtoy."
Frankie rubbed her face in distress, sighing irritably. “You misunderstand. We are not torturing her. She is being kept safe and sound. No one’s touching her, no one’s talking to her, she can even see you right now. She’s looking right through that glass.” She pointed to the two-way mirror. “She’s fine. And she wants this whole thing to be over.”
"She's not here, because she's raped," he sighed. "Francesca Reynolds, you will never understand."
“Maisonn Kreiter, you have no grasp on reality. You are insane. Do you know what that means? That means you’ll go to a white building with lots of other insane people and wear a straightjacket for the rest of your sorry little life unless you help us out. Do you understand me?” she snapped suddenly. “Who’s not understanding doesn’t matter because it’s going to happen to you either way if you don’t help us.”
"I'm not insane. I know how to play your little game." He looked up at her, sitting up a little. "I can pretend, just like all of you, to be 'real'. But we all know that it's society's shitty little game. You're just afraid of me because I'm feral. So afraid that you raped my sister."
“I’m not afraid of you.” She raised a brow, leaning forward on the table. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Maisonn. Confused, yes, but not afraid. Your sister, by the way, was long gone when we found her, so whoever raped her did it a long time ago. You know what, Maisonn, I think you raped her. I think you raped her of a normal, happy life and you felt so guilty about it, you felt compelled to keep her alive in your sick little brain. Society does have a shitty game, but that doesn’t matter because it’s still being played and it’s still gonna kick your ass.”
"I'm not going to tell you anything," he mumbled, staring at her. "I am not an almanac and I am not a rapist and I am not going to tell you anything."
“But you are a murderer.” She pointed to the photos. “You murdered these people just because you wanted to. You raped them of their lives because you felt like it. You are a rapist.” She stood and picked up the photos, pushing her chair in. “Think about it. We have all the time in the world.”
"I'm not telling you anything," he chuckled, closing his eyes.
“Good. Gives me an excuse to keep you locked up.” Frankie turned to the door, exiting the room and shutting it behind her.
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