This is a piece of a story that's going in my book. What do you guys think?
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply just once before putting it out in the ashtray on the table. Then the words tumbled out of him like puke from a light-weight drinker with a bad stomach.
"Yeah, I shot her. I'm not going to lie or sugar coat it. I put the gun against her head while she was sleeping and pulled the trigger and if you think I deserve to be punished then by all means, punish me. To tell you the truth I really wouldn't give a rat's ass if one of you fucking pigs came up and slit my throat right now. You could do it you know. Just put my body in a cell and claim it was suicide. But you're too fucking chicken shit to do it. Fucking cops. You think you're all a bunch of big men dontcha? Well fuck you! Fuck all of you!"
He stood up suddenly and belted the nearest officer across the face. The others immediately jumped him and tried to hold him down while he ranted and raved and kicked. For a skinny guy, he could sure take a beating though. With six fat cops on top of him he could almost stand up.
Sgt. Kawalchik sat and watched the fight, not moving from his place at the head of the table. In the dim light of the interrogation room the fat folds on his face cast weird shadows and made him look more than a little creepy, to me anyways. Me, the special guest at this crazy party.
When they had knocked the the life out of him they stood him up. One officer made the mistake of getting too close and the guy spit a wad of blood in his face. The result was quite comical with the fat slob pawing at his own face, trying to keep it out of his eyes. The convicted murder smiled and mumbled something under his breath. The officer, who apparently didn't think the gag was funny, belted him across the face, knocking him out cold. The Sgt. and I watched as he was dragged away, possibly to the hospital, but solitary confinement was a more likely choice.
The Sgt. turned to me with that blank look he always had. He'd make a great poker player, you could never tell what he was thinking.
"So Mitch," He said in that low gravely voice of his, "What do you think?"
I smiled. "I think the pope still shits in the woods."
The Sgt. frowned. "You think this is a fucking joke?"
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my hands behind my head. "Jeez Sarge, relax. He's just some psycho that killed his bitch wife thats all. He fucking admits it himself for crying out loud."
Sarge went back to staring at the grimy wall at the other end of the table. He sighed. "Yeah, but somethin' don't add up. There weren't any fingerprints on that gun for one thing..."
"Why the Hell are you so interested in this anyways? You could have him sent to the chair right now if you wanted too."
"That 'bitch' happened to be my daughter. Now she's dead and something don't add up right." Still no emotion from the guy. He was like a statue. A fat dumpy statue.
It felt like I'd been hit in the stomach with a shovel however. I lit a cigarette and shoved all my snarky comments down in my guts to dissolve in acid.
I was about to say something when the next witness was escorted in, probably saving me a good deal of grief caused by my big mouth...