The Boy in the Bin

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Paul Sherman already realized, in the real world, he wasn’t supposed to question Sammy without a lawyer being present. He also knew the laws against using any force against a suspect.

He didn’t care.

Sammy Lovelace practiced being a royal pain in his ass for a long time. Sherman made his way down to the holding cells and told the guard to open the door. He handed over his service revolver and suit jacket; directing the guard to lock him in the cell with Sammy. He suggested changing the video tape in the cell recorder. The guard nodded and left for the command pod.

“I’ll bet you never expected to see me again,” he chirped. “I’m so glad the patrol guys brought you here to my jail.”

“I’m not telling you shit Copper,” Sammy barked. “I got rights and you don’t. My old man will bail me out and ...”

Sherman hammered Sammy with a left hook; followed immediately with a right cross. The blows knocked him back against the wall and he fell to his knees.

“I’m fucking suing you for police brutality, asshole,” Sammy shouted. “I’ll own your ass.”

Sherman slid his right foot out of his shoe and kicked out. He caught Sammy under the chin. After 20 years of doing interrogations, he knew how to expertly torture someone leaving no marks.

“I don’t think so Sammy,” he remarked. “In fact, you will be lucky to live through the day. The cell camera is off and my paperwork is caught up. The guard is on break and I’ve got all the time in the world to slowly and painfully kick your ass. When your daddy finally gets the call to pick you up, it won’t be here. I’m thinking the hospital or the morgue.”

Sammy worked his way up to a standing position, but before saying another word, Sherman kicked him again; this time right in the crotch.

“Who supplied the bomb Sammy?” he commanded. “I want to know all the details. For the moment, I’m charging you with attempted assassination of the President. I will add attempted murder of Raphael Hernandez and murder in the first Sylvia Hernandez. Tell me who gave you the bomb and some might go away.”

“I’m not saying a word Copper,” Sammy burst out. “You got no witnesses and you can’t prove a thing. I don’t care how often you hit me, I’m not saying shit.”

“Think about this Sammy,” Sherman commented. “Do you think I would risk getting myself in trouble if couldn’t present an Iron-Clad case against you? Let me show you pictures of your buddy Lenny.

He reached in his back pocket and pulled out four pictures of Lenny taken at the hospital. A large wound in Lenny’s left cheek highlighted where the bullet entered and glanced off his jawbone. His mouth hung at a crooked angle. His face showed a puffiness which only could come from a severe beating; like from the end of a nightstick.

“We got him for attempted murder of a police officer,” Sherman acknowledged. “After we told him he would probably get the needle, he started singing your name. He begged us to listen to him. I will ask you again ... who provided the bomb?”

Sammy found difficulty looking at the photos of his friend. He never believed the cops would beat the shit out of a 15-year-old kid. Here stood living proof. Lieutenant Sherman neglected to tell him one thing. That most of Lenny’s injuries came from bouncing around the interior of the car after being shot. The arresting officer also used a nightstick on Lenny; smacking him once, only to sustain him.

“His name is Rolland Sandez,” Sammy claimed. “He gave me both bombs. He said unless I helped him, he would kill my father. He even pulled a gun on me.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?” Sherman quizzed.

“I hate Coppers,” he shot back. “They been nothin’ but trouble for me. But I didn’t kill that broad Sylvia.”

“I got news for you punk,” Paul responded. “I hate little punks like you. Concerning Sylvia Hernandez; she died because of the bomb you tossed into the house. Why did you want her dead?”

“I didn’t try to kill her,” Sammy asserted. “Some guy named Fred was my mark. Sandez said if I saw a Corvette parked at the house; Fred would be there.”

“Did you kill Fred at his house in the Hamptons?” he inquired.

“Hell no,” Sammy reported. “I never leave the city. Why would I? It’s where my buds are.”

“How about a guy named Mark Lawrence,” Sherman coaxed. “Did you ever hear of him?”

“Sandez told me the old lady banged him too,” Sammy added. “Are you saying I nailed this guy Lawrence instead?”

“No,” Sherman denied, “I’m just curious. Somehow he got wrapped up in all this too.”

Now a new light on things blazed for the Lieutenant. So Sylvia had an affair with both Fred and Mark Lawrence. He needed to dig deeper into this mystery. He needed to figure out how all the players fit. He went to the wall and pressed the red ‘call’ button. The guard returned, opening the cell door for him.

“We’re done here,” Sherman announced to Sammy. “Thanks for the information.”

“What about me?” Sammy cried. “What about my phone call?”

“Don’t worry Sammy,” he promised, “you’ll get your phone call. As soon as you sign a confession to everything I write up. And you better hope I’m nice.”

Paul Sherman smiled to himself as he closed the cell door. There were people he needed to contact and calls he needed to make. Sammy yelled about his rights. He bragged about what he could do to Sherman and how his father would bail him out. One thing Sherman never admitted to Sammy. His department also investigated the business practices of Arnold Lovelace; Sammy’s father.

Two birds are always better than one.

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