Winched: A Short Short Story

Winched
By Savannah Baker (Grade 8)

Why was I was being escorted into the police interrogation room, again?

Sitting in this small windowless room again, I kept telling myself I didn’t do it! Not this time. I’m totally innocent.

I know this place well. I have made my way down these halls more than once for different reasons. But the difference between then and now is that I was guilty then, but I’m innocent now.

This time I was escorted by two officers who left me sitting me in a cold, metal chair on one side of a long, metal table. Paul - his name tag told me - left while the other one – Sam, I think - went to stand in the far corner of the room, where he watched me intently. I thought his stare would burn a hole straight through me.

I sat like this for a while. No one came or entered the room. The air was stuffy. And it annoyed me to be here for two reasons: I didn’t know why I was here and these people were wasting my time when I had things to do.

“Mr. Dylan Haves.”

I turned toward the familiar voice to see my “dear friend.” We’ve had many adventures together.

“Officer Swanski,” I said, acknowledging his presence.

“How come I’m never surprised to see you in here anymore?” He asked, taking a chair opposite me.

I grinned. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Swanski and I became well acquainted at my previous visit. That time they tried to pin auto theft on me, but my friends got me out with a few big, well-placed lies. Before that visit, there were six other occasions to get to know Swanski.

“Okay, Dylan, enough chitchat. Let’s get down to business.”

He tossed some photos onto the table in front of me and my grin disappeared. There was a picture of a dead kid, the eight-year old boy from next door. His lifeless body sprawled on the carpet of his bedroom. There was a toy box next to his head and in his right hand he held a video game. Every photo was shot from a different angle. Every image pierced me. He was a good kid.

“You better start talking because you are about to be charged with murder.”

I jumped from the seat.

“What? Are you serious? I never touched the kid.”

“Take a seat, Mr. Haves. Just answer my questions. Where were you last night?”

“I was hanging out with friends.”

Swanski placed a gun in a plastic bag on the table in front of him. I could see the gun and I knew it was mine.

“Why did you kill him?”

“I didn’t! You have to believe me.”

“That’s funny, cause your prints are the only ones on the weapon.”

“You know it’s my gun. But I didn’t kill him. Honest, I didn’t.”

Just then the door opened and in walked the cell guard and Dylan’s state-appointed attorney, Ted Bennet.

“Mr. Haves, don’t say another word! I’ll take it from here.

Swanski turned to the guard and said, “Take him back to the cell.”

The guard pulled me up by the arm and led me away.

__________________________________

The public defender was the first to speak.

“We’ve got him this time, Swanki. Did you see the fear in his face?”

“Scared enough to confess to a slew of lesser crimes and to name the real killer. I like it!”

“I’ll visit him tomorrow and crank up the fear. Tell him that this charge is likely to hold.”

The men shook hands.

“Nice doing business with you, Ted.