Custody

A detective working the graveyard shift discovers something deeper and darker than six feet deep.

“Well, that was quite the feat, Mister…” Detective Gustavo Martinez glanced at his notepad, “Mr. John Smith.  How original.”  A sniff and rattle of handcuffs was the only response.

Smartass. “Alrighty, then.  Look kid, you seem reasonable, so I’ll be frank.”  Leaning back in his chair, Martinez slid a lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds from his breast pocket.  He lit his smoke and took a drag.  “You could walk with fifteen, even on first degree murder, provided you cooperate.  Let’s pretend I overlook the fact no alarms were triggered and the building’s security cameras were disabled.  S**t, you didn’t even wake the dog.  I’m no expert, but why a professional would target someone so unprofessional is beyond me.” Martinez glanced sidelong at the young man, and received a deadpan stare, devoid of fear, worry or anger.  Just boredom.  What are you playing at?

 “Olivier Beauchenne, a real John Doe.  Lived in a one bed apartment, but you know that.  A hotel clerk for Christ’s sake.  For someone with such expertise on macabre matters, what this poor SOB did to deserve your loving touch is mindboggling.  Almost as mindboggling as finding you on your knees at his doorstep, still holding a dripping hammer.”

Martinez took a final drag, flicked away the butt, and steepled his hands on the table, locking tired eyes with his quarry.  “Stare, take your time, we’re not going anywhere.  Maybe I’ll get bored, skip a trial, and sit your white a*s right on the hot seat and watch it cook like it’s on the new Foreman.”  Come on you little s**t, give me something.  A derisive half smile was his response.  Martinez slouched in his chair, glancing at his reflection in the one way mirror on the wall. Want a turn, Sarge? Blood from a stone with this prick.  He looked back at his quarry, a smirk in those grey eyes. Uppity sumbitch. 

 The detective squinted at his watch, the face flashing 2:14 a.m.  “Something funny?” spat Martinez, “Spill it, I could use a laugh.”

“Very good detective.” The words float on a voice so surprisingly soft Martinez had to lean over to catch them.  “Hank Schrader would be proud.  Scared poor little whitey so bad he wants daddy to come and tell him everything’s gonna be ok.” He leans in, crowding Martinez.

“Did you tell that to your little Manny on the ride to Deer Park elementary at 8:15 this morning?”  Martinez tried not to move, dread curling in his gut.

“Did you say everything’s gonna be ok?  Even though Daddy’s on the s**t list at work?  Even though Mommy and “Uncle Tom”, with his fancy house and fancy cars, want full custody?  But now poor Manny knows Daddy lied. Ever since he was dragged from bed at 9:03 p.m. then shoved in back of a car by strangers, all he can think is, ‘Why did daddy lie?’   Now that’s a s****y thing to do, detective, lying to your son.”

Martinez felt the blood drain from his face.  “What in the f**k are you talking about?”  He croaked.

“Haven’t you listened to a single word I’ve said?”  Those grey eyes became flint, boring into Martinez.  “Your son is gone, detective.  And only I know where to find him.” 

Martinez felt the world, along with his stomach, do a flip flop.  Mary Mother of Christ, Manny…MANNY.  “WHERE IS HE YOU SONOFABITCH?!” Martinez leapt across the table and grabbed the man’s throat, his grip steel.  “WHERE?”

The door burst open, and three SWAT officers peeled Martinez off as the man’s face turned crimson.  “F**k you, give me back MY SON!” screamed Martinez, as he was dragged from the room.  He sprinted to his car, fumbling in his pockets for his keys and cellphone, hot tears stinging his eyes.  Heart racing, his shoes beat the pavement.  Yanking open the cruiser door, he jumped behind the wheel, phone out.  He looked for her name. Maria.  He jammed the call button down, come on baby pick up PICK UP. 

Voicemail.  “F**K!” screamed Martinez, beating the steering wheel.  “FUCKFUCKFUCK”.  His phone rang.  He mashed the button, “Hello? Maria, baby Manny is-”

“Manny is fine.  For now.”  A coarse, Slavic voice responded.

“What, who the f**k-” Sputtered Martinez

            “Save your questions, detective.”  The voice drawled.  “Someone would like to talk to you.”

“Gus, baby, I’m sorry it has to be like this.”  A familiar, unapologetic voice responded.

            “Maria…you…our son…”

“No Gus, not our son.  MY SON.”  The line clicked dead.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

You have a story here. I had to read it twice to make sure I knew who was talking. Suggest you make it easier for the reader. Open ended is fine with me, but you might want to sear the raw edge a little and make sure a reader knows your intent. Better than "Flotsam." Thanks.

[ward74]

This is good, although I did have to read twice to follow the conversation. Suggestion, look at the layout of the dialogue. I had this problem until I started taking note of how the likes of James Patterson do it. But I did like it. The end was a really good twist, Martinez having no idea Manny is not his son - brilliant!