Without-Feathers.com

Life is nothing but a competition to be the criminal rather than the victim.
Bertrand Russell

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The Perp

Prose

Vignette

“Seems like they get younger every day,” said the chief, turning her angular face away from the one-way glass and the interrogation room beyond. “What is he, fifteen?”

“Seventeen next week.” The detective took another sip of his tepid coffee. “Don’t act so jaded, Emily; he’s the only underage perp we’ve brought in for months. Shady Hills is hardly a haven for murderous teens.”

“Can’t call him a perp yet.” The chief shifted from one foot to the other, easing her aching heels. “When’s the uncle due in?”

“Few hours, probably. Time zone difference’ll give us a little leeway. Too bad the uncle called a lawyer, though; I think the kid would have talked without counsel.” Switching his coffee to his right hand, the detective checked his watch. “Speaking of which—ah.” He broke off as the door on the opposite side of the glass swung open, admitting a short man in a neat gray suit. The man crossed to the young man’s side and set his briefcase down on the table; the words he spoke were unintelligible through the glass. The young man, staring at his folded hands as blankly as he had been for the past half-hour, didn’t seem to notice the proffered hand.

“I like a lawyer who’s late,” remarked the detective, reaching for the door handle. “If they’re slack with the time, they’re slack with the details.” The chief’s thin lips mirrored his tight smile as he passed out of the room; in a moment, the door on the opposite side of the glass opened. The chief pressed the LISTEN button firmly, and her gaze sharpened like a hawk’s.

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