TWENTY-SEVEN

Daniel








The last thing I want to see first thing on a Monday morning is a man with rabbit teeth. And the last place I want to be at eight forty-five in the morning is down at the police station face-to-face with a policeman that can't even afford a polite conversation. Trust me. These are the worst possible way to start the day. Worse than that nightmarish blowjob. I shudder.
He's so fat that when he breathes he makes this annoying whizzing sound. A sound you'd normally make when you're avoiding coughing.
He sits down, it looks like a struggle too. He takes a few minutes to himself, wiping away the seat, throwing away the last bit of his carrot.
"Daniel, Thank you for coming through."
Am I suppose to say no problem? It's not like I had a choice. They dragged my sister and I out of the house at exactly seventy thirty only to come leave me here to admire their brown walls for an hour. What the fuck? Who does that? We're just kids. Mourning kids, at that.
"I'm detective Cooper. For protocol purposes, I'm gonna have to record our conversation. Is that okay?"
I let out a noncomittal grunt. That's clearly a rhetorical question.
"Good. This will help us with the investigation, greatly. Would you like a lawyer present?"
So that he can stick his nose up my ass? I don't think so. "No need for a lawyer. We're just talking, right detective?"
He laughs. It's fake. I do, too. Louder than him. I stop abruptly and look him directly in the eye. He startles and blinks up at me. He's shocked and... Sceptical? Well, good!
Another officer comes in. By the way she spills into the room, I'm sure she woke up late. She must be the type to hit the snooze button with a need of five more minutes of sleep. She meets Cooper's stare and goes all red and fluttery. Oh fuck! I hope this does not mean what I think it means.
Ms. Pretty is just my type. She has big tits: important. Pale: very important. Tall: not very important. Fine ass: important. Blond: very important. Her face? Generous to the eyes: added bonus. And her Aura? Submissive which is top priority. And yes, I can tell by just looking at her. She's the kind that believes in fairy tales and Prince charming.
"Sorry, I'm late," she says.
"Hi, I'm officer Chapedi," she says, traping a strand behind her ear. When she goes for the seat next to an annoyed Cooper, she trips on God knows what and falls face first into Cooper whose chair topples over and he lands on his fat ass with a grunt. She lands with a thump on top of him.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles.
She gives a nervous glance at him and tries to get up, her knee-length skirt catches on the leg of the table and the horror slams into her features. Half of her skirt is trapped under the table.
The sound of fabric tearing haunts me until the rip stops at her upper thigh.
Ms. Pretty leans her hands, palm first, on the walls, pushes herself to her feet and brushes the dirt off her. Chin up. Shoulders back.
I like the fire in her eyes. The spirit. I sit up straighter.
Trying to sew back her skirt with her fingers is of no use.
She disappears for a minute...or two. When she walks back towards the table she's in a fresh pair of pants. She sits down, rummages through the papers in front of her and her elbow knocks down the still-full paper cup. The coffee covers the floor within seconds.
They call a cleaning lady. She's the kind of girl I should be with, her skin so rich and nourished that I'm reminded of Papa.
"We know you were there," detective Cooper begins. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Okay, so I don't appreciate being taken for a fool. I mean, I watch a lot of crime indie films and documentaries. I know how these things work. If he really knew what happened he wouldn't be trying to make me confess to a crime I didn't commit.
I want to go home now. I have zero tolerance for lies. I'm such an expert in lies that I can smell them a mile away.
I drum my fingers on the table and hum like a dying bird. Cooper bristles. Ms. Pretty is young. Fresh out of highschool, I assume. Some one, her father maybe, must've found her the job. South Africa's unemployment rate may be high but people with the right kind of money/connection can get a job easily. Especially our police. There's always someone willing to grow their bank balance in human resource.
"I know what happened," Cooper says. "I'm giving you the chance to tell your side of the story."
I skill my face to be surprised. "You know what happened to Papa? Good. But detective, I'm confused. What are we doing here, Clara and me? We've already told you everything we know. I came home with my girlfriend, who I've already given your people her contact details. She was with me until the storm passed."
"We spoke to your girlfriend...?"
"Zoe," I offer but then correct myself. "Nevaeh."
"Nevaeh (hmm, weird name). She did collaborate your story but Mr. Addas, I'm much more interested in the minutes after Nevaeh left, before your sister came home?"
"It was probably what? Three? Five minutes?" I look him in the eye. "What could happen in five minutes? You saw the state my father's body was in. Now I'm no expert but I doubt in five minutes I could have killed Papa, cut him to pieces, and had the time to hide his head and hands."
"Daniel, we can't help you unless you're honest with us," Ms. Pretty says.
I stare at them being careful not to sound too annoyed. "Help me. What do you mean help me?"