Sentimental Journey

     "I don’t know what you want."

     The prisoner was hunched over a plain metal table, quietly sobbing into his hands. So I tried again.

     "Why do you think you're here?

     More sobs, his body shook with them.  "I don't think anything."

     In fact I had no idea what he'd done, if he'd done anything at all. But he'd been picked up in an emergency security sweep, one in a batch sent under heavy escort to be interrogated, and I was the duty field interrogator. He was probably exactly what he appeared to be, a lawyer's or banker's clerk. But you never could tell. And his response suggested he was thinking something then, just not now.  But what was he thinking about?

     We'd set up temporary shop in a commandeered warehouse office.  All sorts of wires were taped or clamped to the prisoner. They snaked back to the little table where my sergeant sat over a nondescript machine, in full view of the suspect, twirling dials and poking at switches. From the prisoner's point of view the way it was rigged it could have been anything from a polygraph to a torture device.

     "So .... ?"

      "I -- don't know what you're talking about."

     I looked over at the sergeant, shrugged gravely.  He returned a stage-nod and deep frown.

     The box was neither for torture or truth telling, it was only an old tube radio receiver we'd found, tore out its back panel then looped or jammed among its electrical components some hook up wire we'd found in a spool.  In these field interrogations we didn't have time for the real thing. But with a little improvisation and the right props, you never knew what might emerge from a guilty conscience.

     While we weren't suitably equipped to torture anyone, we could execute them. And execute them -- almost all of them -- is what we did best. Looks can be deceiving and while the clerk might be a clerk, he might also be an agent provocateur, an unwitting stooge or some other enemy of the state.

     I scratched a match off my thumbnail, it flared, lit a cigarette.  I said nothing -- silence is an interrogator's ally.  He said nothing --his despair was total, his spirit crushed. He ceased wringing his hands, spread them flat on the table.  The cigarette burned down to ash.

     A long minute passed.  I was about to motion him towards a back door, behind which a man flexed a newly-cleaned garrote. Then I noticed the clerk's ring. He was still wearing it because the arresting officers hadn't picked him clean of valuables before turning him over. The ring was unique, I knew that for a fact because I'd once owned it for a while, and more important, I knew the woman who'd given it to me and later asked for it back.

     "On your feet tough guy".  

     I flicked the cigarette butt at a different door.

     "Go through there, A path leads out of town to the Old Road.  Take it and run far and fast and never come back again."

     After he'd fled, my sergeant laughed, asked me if I were "going all sentimental".

     I shrugged, didn't answer because rank hath its privileges.  I lit another cigarette, blew out the match with a stream of blue smoke and eventually said, "you know me, just an ol' softie.  Who's up next?  Send him in."

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

Very well written. I liked all the little details that bring it to life. It works well not knowing the where or when. The routine of the impending execution based on so little is very chilling and then how the discovery of the familiar ring is enough to save his life. The only point I'm not sure about is whether there is a mismatch between some of the lighthearted dialogue between the two soldiers and the brutality of what appears to be regular executions. I'll admit that I might have that wrong.
Cheers and thanks for suggesting this piece.
Alan

[The Last Dragoon]

Thanks. the jarring mismatch is intentional, I probably need to refine it more. its an insight to the mentality of a psychopaths, as these two are.