Chapter 3

Chapter 3 (the chapter isn't finished yet)

My head shifts to the window of the police cruiser, and then does a 180 degree turn in attempt to view my hand cuffs. This cold chrome steel seems bound to my flesh. The thrill ride that is my head, carrying my thoughts, drops down drastically only to be caught by my shoulders. All of my thoughts dump onto the floor, leaving my mind completely blank. Once more I begin to stare out the window of the police cruiser, then to the sound proof glass dividing myself from the police.

Although I couldn’t make out what the police were saying, I had a pretty good idea of their topic of discussion. Something told me that their minds were already made up. In their minds I was a guilty murderer. Apparently I killed this Jane O’Neil, and stashed her in my basement. They must have thought the blood was hers. ‘Why didn’t I just go to the dentist’ I think to myself.
The car jerks left and my temple head butts the solid right door. My vision goes blurry and I take a nap. Thoughts of sugar plums dance through my head, as the police cruiser dances through the vacant streets that make up this city of mine.

When I awake, I’m surrounded by uniformed men, and a parking lot of cars that are only distinguishable by their license plates. “Rough ride kid?” Officer Jones says to me with this sarcastic tone of voice.

“I’ve had better.” I mumble back to him. The ride must’ve taken a while because I had sleep in my eyes when we arrived, which made the next twenty minutes or so unbearably uncomfortable. I attempt to wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and an officer yells while pointing at me, thinking I’m trying to escape. This causes officer Jones to give me a swift punch to the stomach.

“Don’t even think about trying anything, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to put you down,” His neck ripples to me. I fall to my knees when he retracts his arm. Fat sausage like fingers grip my collar in effort to give me a vertical boost, however before they can finish, Officer Sanburg lends me a helping hand. “Follow me…punk.” Jones seemed slightly defeated.

As we enter the station, papers seemed to be flying everywhere. People ran in circles, while voices chattered away on phones. “Just like clockwork,” I grumble to myself quietly. After about five minutes, we entered a dark chilling room, as stone cold as the wrestler. My hands are untied and I wipe my eyes within seconds. I let out a barely audible sigh of relief. The thoughts of questions make my forehead and underarms start to leak.

“Mr. Portovich,” Sanburg starts, “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions.” I debate asking for a lawyer, until I start to ponder movies I’ve seen. The guilty ones always ask for a lawyer. ‘I don’t really have much to tell, or a lot to say, so I don’t really seen the harm in answering their questions.’