Chapter 22

He paced the floor in his living room, kicking trash and dirty clothes that covered the floor. His thoughts were uncontrolled mumblings. They were shouts and whispers colliding. Voices that were his, but others, talked all at once about nothing and everything. It was maddening! He wondered if he was losing his mind or if it was the meth. He picked up a can of warm beer that sat on a red milk crate he used as a coffee table. Tilting his head back he swallowed the stale beer and gagged. In a rage, he threw the can across the room and kicked the milk crate, sending it bouncing into the television set that no longer worked. Who cared? He thought. He didn’t care about anything anymore. He knew he had to stop smoking the stuff. It had only taken one time to be addicted. Now it was all he thought about. All he wanted. All he needed. He hadn’t slept in days, but yet he wasn’t tired. There wasn’t any point in eating – he wasn’t hungry and couldn’t taste the food anyway.

He needed another fix. He couldn’t let this high wear off. He panicked when he realized he didn’t have any more meth. He would have to steal his next hit. He slid the knife into the leather sheath, attaching it inside his boot next to his skinny leg and pulled his jeans down over it. He would have enough meth to last him a week before he came back to this over-priced dump, he didn’t care what it took to get it either.

He scratched nervously at his neck and then each arm as he walked down the street glancing from side to side. People were watching him. He could feel their eyes on him. Scratching at millions of tiny bugs on his arms, that only he could see, he cautiously left the street and entered a narrow alley. His head swiveled and bobbed. Evil people were following him, he just knew it. They were after him. They would try to hurt him or even kill him. Feeling the knife tap against his ankle he grinned. They better not get too close to him or he’d cut them. He’d laugh as he watched them bleed. He was scratching his arms and talking to himself when Bronson and Sullivan spotted him stumbling towards them.

They were sitting in Bronson’s parked Charger in the narrow alleyway behind a large liquor store. Trash spewed over the large metal can they parked beside, it littered the ground in every direction. Sullivan’s informant had sworn this is where they could find who they sought, so they sat and waited. The man’s appearance had dramatically changed since they saw him last.

“He is tweaking pretty bad today,” Sullivan commented. He noted the sores that covered the man’s face, neck and arms. “Don’t spook him. I want to surprise him and get him subdued before he has time to react,” Sullivan instructed.

He placed a restraining hand on Bronson’s arm when Bronson grabbed the gear shift and started to throw it into drive. “Chill out, let him come closer,” Sullivan warned.

He waited a couple of minutes more before saying, “Now, go now!”

Bronson dropped the gear shift into drive and spun the Charger’s wheels. They converged on him like vultures. They were out of the car and on top of the meth head before he knew what had happened. With their weapons drawn, they ordered him to the ground and handcuffed him. Sullivan removed the knife and the sheath from inside his boot and held up a tiny clear plastic bag, its interior was coated with a chalky white film. “What do we have here?” asked Sullivan.

“Get your hands off me. I haven’t done anything, pigs!” He shouted, “That isn’t mine,” he claimed, as his eyes tried unsuccessfully to focus on the baggy Sullivan held.

He cussed and struggled all the way to the car, where Bronson shoved him in the back seat, buckled him in and slammed the door. Sullivan bagged the knife and sheath as evidence and placed it and the baggy containing the residue, in the trunk. They drove straight to police headquarters while their prisoner yelled, swore and occasionally spat at the metal cage that separated them from him. When they got to headquarters, they had to drag him out of the car, up the stairs, down the hall and into an interview room. They shoved him down hard in a heavy metal chair and chained his feet to the floor in a leg restraint.

“Stay,” Bronson ordered, as he pointed a single finger at Chaz face.

Chaz’ pock-marked face was nearly purple with anger as he yelled and screamed. He cursed in Spanish and in English for several minutes before running out of steam and finally laying his greasy head on the table in front of him.

Sullivan and Bronson met in the observation room after retrieving a cup of coffee. They congratulated themselves on their catch, noted that no one had gotten harmed in the process and hatched the plan for the interrogation. Bronson would be the bad cop and Sullivan, the good cop. A paramedic from the fire department would come check the vitals of their witness. He was blitzed out of his mind, and they wanted to ensure he didn’t’ stroke out when they interviewed him.

The paramedic informed them that their witness had admitted to using meth and that he would probably be cooperative after he settled down. They knew from past experience that Chaz would be truthful, but only after shaking him up a bit. They let him rest awhile before they started. They enjoyed another round of very strong coffee, which tasted a bit burned, and walked into the interview room with their roles firmly in place. After listening to Chaz ramble for about twenty minutes, Bronson slammed his hand on the table and screamed for Chaz to give them something useful. Bronson threatened jail time for the baggy with residue and suggested that Chaz was reaching for his knife when they arrested him. That would be an additional charge.

“Come on, man. I don’t know nothing else,” Chaz started. His head hurt and his fingers were tingling. He agreed to tell them more if they took his handcuffs off. He said he couldn’t feel his fingers any longer. So Bronson removed his handcuffs and allowed him to rub his wrists before handcuffing him with his hands in front of his body.

“There, now spill it!” Bronson demanded.

“This guy told me he’d give me a thousand bucks if I could get a necklace back from some chick. So I got my buddy Juan to lift it. I was gonna split the profits with him,” Chaz admitted.

He told them how slippery Juan Diaz had been and how he himself was still on probation from a previous drug charge. He said if there was any way to steal the necklace, Diaz would have gotten it. No doubt about it. He didn’t know what had happened to Diaz, he still couldn’t believe he was dead. Chaz swore that he hadn’t killed Diaz.

“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Chaz,” Bronson said, flashing his best smile at Chaz then over to Sullivan, who only rolled his eyes. “It’s just that we don’t believe you. You understand, right?” Bronson paused, but when Chaz just stared at him with watery, bloodshot eyes, Bronson continued, “I mean, come on, Chaz, who would pay a thousand dollars for a silver necklace? You didn’t think that sounded a bit odd?” Bronson asked.

Chaz just stared back at him; sweat seeped out of his pours filling the tiny room with a combination stench of chemicals and alcohol. Meanwhile, Sullivan pretended to be taking notes. Instead, he drew a picture of a hangman’s noose on the yellow legal pad he held. Being the good cop during an interrogation was boring work. The senior detective continued to doodle on his note pad, periodically glancing from Bronson to Chaz.

Chaz’ bloodshot eyes burned as he thought about the last question he was asked. He felt sweat forming on his bald head. He used his handcuffed hands to wipe at the sweat. “I dunno. What did you ask me again?”

Bronson repeated the question, and Chaz finally admitted that the unknown guy had given him 500 bucks and said he’d give him the other $500 after Chaz had brought him the necklace. No one was supposed to get hurt, and Diaz needed the money.

“But Diaz never saw any money, did he?” Bronson asked with a smirk. “All he saw was the business end of a blade.”

Chaz hung his head and began to cry. “I know, man. I know,” he sobbed. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot.”

Sullivan piped up then, “Chaz? How was the guy who paid you supposed to get in touch with you. Did he call you? Do you have his phone number? Were you going to meet somewhere?” Sullivan asked rapidly. Chaz just looked bleary-eyed and confused.

Bronson took over again by asking, “Why would Diaz meet with the guy that hired you if you were the one he gave money to, Chaz? None of your story is adding up.”

Bronson got up from his chair as he spoke. He circled the tiny dingy room as he rolled his head and neck relieving the stiffness. Chaz didn’t respond, he just looked down at the table, his tears beginning to fade. Bronson circled behind Chaz’ chair and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“You are a liar. You killed Diaz!” He hissed. “We intend to prove it. You are going back to the big house.”

Chaz was alive then, screaming, “No.” Straining against his restraints he yelled, “I didn’t kill him.” His ugly face was twisted with anger. “I’ve never killed anybody. I ain’t going back to prison.”

The Spanish cursing began again and neither detective attempted to stop it. They just looked at Chaz and waited for his ranting to subside. When it did, Chaz was breathing heavy. The odor coming from his breath and person was filling the small room. It nauseated Bronson. He began fanning the stench away.

“So when was the last time you talked to this unknown guy who just handed you a fist full of money?” Sullivan asked.

“Like I told you, dude, I don’t know when I talked to him last – a week ago, maybe.”

Chaz appeared to be coming down off his high. The detectives watched as his hands began to shake a little. His eyes, although still bloodshot, tracked a little more together, giving the appearance that Chaz was a little more in control of his faculties.

“Is it possible you talked to him the night of the murder?” Bronson asked, as he glanced at Sullivan who was sketching something with his pen. Bronson walked slowly around the table behind Sullivan while waiting for Chaz to respond.

“Maybe he called me that night, or the next day. I can’t remember exactly.”

Bronson scratched his chin, acting like he was thinking, “Did he mention anything to you about killing Diaz?” Chaz worked hard to focus his eyes on the detectives face, “No, he was still asking me about that stupid necklace. I didn’t even know that Diaz was dead yet.”

“Do you think he killed Diaz?” Bronson asked. There was a long pause as Chaz thought about the question. He stared at his handcuffed hands before he answered.

“Yes, I think he killed him,” Chaz admitted. “He killed him, but it’s my fault that little girl don’t have no daddy now.”

Chaz’s high was gone. In its place was the despair and emptiness he always felt when he was sober. It bore into his haunted conscience with ease and celebrated his miserable life with constant whispers of self destruction. His own selfish greed had cost someone their life. He glanced helplessly at the shackles that held him in place. These chains might be the only thing that could one day set him free from his addictions.