by Jon Athan
The call disconnected. Joann slowly lowered the phone as she stared at her guest. Robin absently gazed at her reflection on the coffee table. The name sat at the tip of her tongue and echoed through her mind – Meadows.
Breaking the silence, Joann said, “Well, that's a relief. I'm glad she's okay. Spending time with the Meadows... It must be hard for all of them. I can only imagine the pain they're going through during a time like this. Sylvia will help them get through it, though. She always does.”
With a vacant gaze, Robin said, “The Meadows family... Meadows... They're the family with the missing kid, right? The one that's been all over the news for the past week or two?”
“Yes. It's such a tragedy, isn't it?”
Robin nodded and said, “Yeah, it's... it's tragic. I'm happy Sylvia is out there helping the family get through this mess, though. She's a wonderful person. A woman with a heart of gold. The world needs more people like her.”
“You're a very bright girl, sweetie. I like that. I think you have a heart like Sylvia. I can feel it. It's the same feeling I had when Sylvia started volunteering at...”
Robin drifted away from the conversation. She had learned enough about Sylvia – a student, an angel, a piece of bait. She sought to link Sylvia to Bruce's unexplained disappearance. She considered it a case of vengeance. They think Bruce has the girl, she thought, they have him because they think he has the girl. The idea infuriated her, but she didn't want to break her character. Instead, she nodded in agreement to all of Joann's praise and adoration for Sylvia.
As Joann paused, Robin said, “You know, being so similar to your lovely daughter, I would love to offer a helping hand. You wouldn't happen to have the Meadows' address, would you? I might drop by later and help with the search or set up a little charity event. I think they need all the help they can get.”
Chapter Eight
Interrogation III
Bruce peacefully slumbered on the uncomfortable chair, his head slumped down to his chest. His snore was faint, purring like a cat at night. His skin was damp and his clothing was drenched in his cold sweat. The rope restricted his movements, keeping him glued to the chair. Despite the restrictions, he managed to sleep like a baby. Sleep offered a sense of momentary solace; sleep took him away from a nightmare.
Frank cocked his arm back over his shoulder, then he delivered a whopping backhanded slap. The snapping sound of the slap echoed through the home, reverberating through the woodland. The blow was powerful enough to give a child whiplash.
As Bruce awoke, startled by the attack, Frank said, “They found your shed, Bruce. They searched through everything. Unfortunately, Katherine wasn't inside. It gives some hope for her survival, but... the rest of the crap they found in there won't help you. It doesn't paint a pretty picture for a man with a record like yours. Is there anything you'd like to tell me before we proceed? Anything at all?”
Eyes brimming over with tears, Bruce asked, “What the hell are you talking about? What do you want me to say? What... What the hell do you want me to say? Huh?”
Frank grabbed a fistful of Bruce's hair as he leaned closer. Scowling, he explained, “It's not about what I want you to say. I don't want you to tell me what I want to hear. That's not going to help me. I want you to tell me the truth. You understand me? Tell me about the shed.”
“I don't know what you want me to say. I just want to go home. I want this to end. That's all I want. Please, let me go. Don't do this.”
Mewling like a newborn baby, Bruce yelped as Frank violently tugged on his hair. Frank yanked at the moist strands, pulling his captive's dome every which way. He needed to release his venomous rage before he erupted. The sound of his teeth grinding was unnerving. Frank released Bruce, then he took a single step in reverse.
As he slicked his hair back, Frank said, “Don't act stupid, boy. Tell me about the damn shed. Tell me about the other missing girl. They found a high school ID out there belonging to a missing girl. A high school student, obviously. They even found a... a goddamn collection of panties.” Bruce stared down at his groin as he sat in silence, pleading the fifth. Frank asked, “What is it? Do you head out to your shed to molest little girls? Hmm? Do you go out there and cross-dress? Is that it?”
Bruce shook his head and said, “Shed, shed, shed... You keep talking about a damn shed. I'm telling you, mister, I don't own a goddamn shed. I rent an apartment. I'm not going to live in a shed like some filthy animal.”
“I know you don't live there. I never said you did. You go there when the kids you're dating can't see you. You go there for 'privacy' when parents are threatening to kick your ass or report you to the police, right? You've touched kids in that shed, haven't you? Did you take my daughter out there? Did you molest her out there?”
Veins bulging from his throat, Bruce yelled, “I don't know shit about a shed! You have the wrong person! You have the wrong man! Let me go! Stop this bullshit already! Stop–”
Frank slapped Bruce with all of his might, stopping the hysterical outburst with one strike. Bruce's right cheek was red and swollen, bruising from the constant slaps and punches. Frank stared down at his tormented prisoner. He blinked erratically as he tried to stop himself from contemplating. He couldn't allow doubt to crush his resolve.
Frank wagged his index finger at Bruce and said, “Don't lie to me. She told us about the shed. Tiffany... Tiffany Ramirez told us about your little escapades. You took her there when her parents were home. She told us all about it.”
Bruce responded, “She's lying. I never took her to a shed. I made a mistake with her, one mistake, but I never did it again. I've been living a normal, law-abiding life ever since. I go to work every morning as a fucking mall security guard. Nothing more, nothing less. That girl is lying. Why do you believe everyone but me? Huh? Why are you doing this to me? I'm innocent.”
“She's not lying. Why would she lie to us? What could she gain from this? That woman... No, that girl loves you. She wouldn't lie to us if she knew it would hurt you. You can tell me about your 'normal' life all day, but I know you're the only liar around here, Bruce. So, I'll give you one last chance to tell the truth. Tell me: where's my daughter? Where's Katherine?”
With a quivering lip, Bruce gazed into Frank's livid eyes. He wasn't begging for mercy, he was merely awed by the questioning. The captor was set on a warpath and the captive was caught in his trajectory. Bruce was vehement about his innocence, but he couldn't convince Frank to believe him – nothing could convince him.
Bruce swallowed loudly, then he said, “I don't know.”
Frank lunged towards Bruce and yelled, “Where is she?!” Bruce shuddered from the fierce battle cry, leaning as far back as physically possible. As he composed himself, Frank nodded and said, “Fine, we'll have to try something else. I wish you'd just talk to me and make this easier, but you want it the hard way. Believe me, Bruce, this will be much worse than a towel or bag over your head. I warned you...”
***
Bruce trembled as he watched Frank's pacing, pondering the next method of torture. His imagination ran wild like a herd of horses, stampeding over his lingering optimism. He couldn't fathom the next step in Frank's torturous agenda. He was only familiar with the violence he had seen on the news and in his favorite films – none of it seemed likely.
Frank stopped in front of Bruce. He asked, “Do you know which parts of the body are the most sensitive to pain?” Bruce was baffled by the peculiar question. Frank asked, “Do you know which parts of the human body feel the most pain? The most agony?”
Bruce stuttered, “I–I don't know...”
“Well, why don't you guess? Go ahead. Tell me which part of your body feels the most pain.”
Eyes welling with tears, Bruce inspected his body. From his limited view, he could see most of his shuddering figure. The answer shined like a beacon in a dark abyss. He gazed at his crotch and reflected on a history of pain – jabs from friends and knees from girls. His testicles were more
abused than a Republican in California.
In a dubious tone, Bruce responded, “My... My balls?”
Frank chuckled, then he said, “Your balls? Your balls... Of course, you mean your testicles, right?” Bruce nodded as a tear streamed down his rosy cheek. Frank smirked and said, “Your testicles are certainly susceptible to pain. You probably know that from experience. So, in a sense, you are correct. But, there are a few more areas I found while doing my research.”
Awed, Bruce stuttered, “Re–Research? You–You actually researched this crap? Are you kidding me? Are you messing with me?”
Frank chuckled and shook his head – I'm not messing with you, boy. Bruce was astonished by the man's casual demeanor. The distraught father would go further than he expected to find the missing girl. Frank gently tapped Bruce's forehead, then he patted his restrained hands.
Frank said, “According to most research, the most sensitive parts of the body are the forehead and the fingertips. I don't know about the forehead, but the fingers really made sense to me. I mean, have you ever gotten a splinter under your fingernail? It hurts like hell, doesn't it?”
Bruce sniveled as he pieced the puzzle together. From his history with splatter films, he understood the sinister implications. Before the torture even started, he felt a twinge through his body. He started to feel pain without being touched. The mind was a fickle beast, capable of tricking the human body into believing anything.
Bruce asked, “You're... You're going to pull off my fingernails, aren't you?”
“Not exactly. I'll be doing something with your fingernails, but it won't be that easy.”
Bruce sobbed as he glanced around the room, searching for the tools of torture to no avail. He asked, “What are you going to do? What are you going to use? Huh? You... You sick bastard. What... What are you going to do to me?”
Frank shoved his hand into his pocket, digging around for his tool. He was buying himself time, trying to simultaneously build up his courage and the looming tension. Bruce wailed as a dreadful clicking sound echoed through the room. He wept as he gazed at the black retractable box cutter in Frank's hand. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like the distraught father would be cutting any boxes during the interrogation.
With bloodshot eyes, Frank held the sharp blade up and said, “I warned you.”
***
As Frank approached, Bruce yammered, “P–P–P–Please... Please... Please, wait a second. Please...”
Frank gripped his captive's throat with his left hand. He sternly asked, “Where's my daughter? Where are you hiding her?” Bruce shook his head, struggling to speak. Frank shouted, “Where's Katherine, motherfucker?! Where is she?!”
Despite his strong urge to grovel, Bruce could only conjure a croak of a word. 'Please' was the final word in his vocabulary. Even if he could speak, his response would remain the same – denial. Breathing heavily, Frank glowered and indistinctly muttered. He stared at his prisoner's left hand, carefully picking his first target. The distraught parent chose the index finger.
Without another word, Frank jammed the honed blade beneath Bruce's fingernail. Bruce gasped as the pain reverberated through his entire body. His breath was stolen by the brutal stabbing, vacuumed from his lungs like dust on a shelf. Frank aggravated the wound by slowly twisting the blade beneath the fingernail. The fingernail cracked, then it snapped off the finger. Blood oozed from the grisly laceration.
Over Bruce's wheezing and whimpering, Frank said, “You can end this. You can end the suffering. Tell me the truth. Where's my daughter, Bruce? If she wasn't in the shed, then where is she? Hmm? Where?” Bruce wheezed as his mutilated finger twitched. Teary-eyed, Frank said, “I don't want to do this, but you're making me. You're forcing me to hurt you, boy. This will stop as soon as you tell me where my daughter is.”
Frank pushed Bruce's hand, holding down all of his shaking fingers. He gritted his teeth as he stabbed under the middle finger's fingernail. He twisted the blade until the fingernail snapped off. Despite Bruce's hyperventilation, Frank sawed into the vulnerable flesh. The sharp twinge reverberated through his entire body. Without a second thought, he stabbed the blade under the ring finger nail. He turned the blade and cut straight down into the sensitive skin.
Between his raspy breaths, Bruce said, “I'm... I'm sorry. Please, stop it...”
Frank stepped in reverse, softly trembling. He swallowed the lump clogging his throat as he swiped at the pools of sweat on his brow. He was awed by his violent attack and mystified by Bruce's resilience. The pain was insufferable, but the man refused to confess.
Frank said, “I'll stop when you tell me about my daughter. Tell me where you're hiding her, tell me she's still alive.”
Bruce panted as he tightly shut his eyes, stopping himself from seeing his mutilated fingers or the imminent attack. Tears streamed down his blushed cheeks, sweat spurted from his glands, and his foot constantly tapped. He was a nervous wreck. His idea was rather simple, though: if I can't see it coming, maybe it won't be so bad.
Frank glanced at Bruce's left hand and shook his head. He said, “If we're going to play this game, if you're going to jeopardize my daughter's safety with your damn stubbornness, then I won't make it easy for you.” Sneering in disgust, his entire body moved as he inhaled deeply. Frank shouted, “I won't let you get off easy!”
Frank stumbled towards the chair. He held Bruce's right hand down, preparing to mangle him. Like a skilled surgeon, he sawed under the index finger's fingernail with pinpoint accuracy. He pulled the blade up, snapping the fingernail and stabbing down into the flesh. He clenched his jaw as he sliced down towards the tip of the finger.
Slobber streaming down his chin, Bruce bawled. He jerked and pulled every which way, but to no avail. He couldn't escape his restraints, he could not dodge the sharp blade. He tried to plan an excuse, a false confession to buy time, but the constant torture muddled his thoughts. The ringing pain was unbearable.
Frank wagged the box cutter at Bruce and said, “I can keep going. I won't stop until you talk. You understand me?”
Bruce responded, “I... I don't know where your daughter is. I'm sorry, but I don't know. Please, stop this. It hurts...”
“Tell me the truth and I'll stop. Tell me something, please. Help me and I'll help you.”
“But, I really don't know anything, sir. I don't know.”
Frank sighed in disappointment. At heart, he wanted the torture to end, but he couldn't allow doubt to kill his daughter. He staggered to his knees, then he removed Bruce's boot. He tossed the shoe aside, then he tugged on his prisoner's damp sock. An extensive education was not required to link the pieces. Bruce could accurately predict the next step – toenails.
Frank stared at his captive's shaky foot with somber eyes. He nodded, accepting the daunting task in hand. He stabbed the blade underneath the big toe's toenail. The nail was painted red by the gushing blood as the box cutter ripped through the flesh with ease. Frank didn't waste time, either. He sliced into the neighboring toenail immediately afterward, removing the nail and slicing the sensitive skin in one foul move.
Bruce bellowed and bounced on the chair. He convulsed from the pain, only held down by the durable rope. The anguish was overwhelming. He felt a tingling sensation due to his damaged fingers and toes, like if an army of ants were scurrying across his skin. His head swayed and his eyelids fluttered, pummeled by the sudden giddiness.
Bruce weakly muttered, “Fuck, fuck...”
Frank stepped in reverse, sniffling and grunting. He withdrew his blade, then he wiped his bloodied hands on his pants. He stared at his tormented captive, awed by his own savagery. He was stained by the violence and haunted by the guilt of his actions. Yet, he refused to quit until Katherine was returned to his home.
As he walked away, Frank said, “You think about your answers from now on, Bruce. You think about what I said. It will only get worse for you.”
The rickety stairs howled beneath Frank's heavy boots. He
closed the door behind him, then he lurched towards the kitchen sink. He vigorously washed his hands. He wanted to cleanse his soul of his violent deeds – he wanted to scrub the shame away. The blood lingered like lint in a wallet, clinging to his skin as a permanent reminder of his actions.
Frank muttered, “Damn it... Goddammit...”
Frank stopped his muttering, standing still and listening to the running water. He could feel eyes piercing into him – judging him. He glanced at the archway to his right, then he bit his bottom lip. He had never felt so much shame in his life.
Julia stood by the kitchen entrance, trembling like a frightened pup. She had clearly overheard the cries of agony. The basement wasn't soundproof. She couldn't conjure the words to speak to her husband. What could she possibly say at such a difficult time?
Frank found himself in a similar dilemma. He couldn't explain his actions to his beloved wife. He could attempt to justify himself, but the effort would be in vain. Like Julia, he was utterly revolted by his deeds. With downcast eyes, Frank turned away from his wife, giving her a cold shoulder.
The desperate father shouted, “Sylvia! Sylvia, take Julia to the living room. Take her away!” As he continued to scrub his hands, Frank whispered, “Take her away from this nightmare...”
Chapter Nine
A Cold Case
The pungent aroma of coffee and the tantalizing scent of baked goods wafted through the tiny shop. The smell glided across the black walls and the spotless white tile flooring. The sound of patrons slurping, munching, and, of course, typing echoed through the room. It wouldn't be a coffee shop without someone writing a novel or a screenplay.