by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
After the last class of the day, Sociology, Trent stopped by The Grinder, ordered a sandwich to go, and drove to his Roseville apartment. He parked in his assigned spot. Two spots over was a police cruiser. He got out of his Audi with sandwich in hand, grinned politely at the two officers in the cruiser, and made his way to the stairs, mounted them throwing a glance over his shoulder: the cop got out and approached him, his hand on the revolver in its holster. Trent stopped and frowned at them.
“Something the matter?”
“Are you Trent Blackwood?” Asked one.
“Yeah, why?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Regarding?”
“It will only take a few minutes, we’ll give you a ride back.”
“A ride back? Just ask me here, now.”
“Can’t do that.” The cop read The Grinder on the paper bag and said, “Bring your sandwich with you, you can eat it at the station.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No.”
“What if I don’t want to come with you?”
“You have that right.”
“And if I use my right?”
“Then Sergeant Jimenez will be here with a warrant in fifteen minutes or so.”
Trent’s eyes widened. He went down the stairs saying, “Then let’s go. I have nothing to hide. It’s a mistake, whatever this is.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” the cop said impassively.