The Midnight ***er

Massive door to the investigation room banged shut as Quinn approached. He twitched in surprise.

“Malone, Christmas is closing in but cardiac arrest wrapped up in breakdown is not what I want from you”, he shouted, leaning on the door.

He cast a smile on his pagan face, his foolproof mind, folding his arms. Sarcasm and cynicism looped inside him created have created a defensive mechanism; led by a simple, seemingly paltry quote, masterly rewritten by Jasper Quinn: “Sticks, stones and words can’t break my bones. Nor can hurt me.” Quinnism. That’s called Quinnism.

“Malone!” He yelled on top of his voice kicking the door with his brand new shoes.

“Malone”, he continued.

“You promised me a lap dance, you asshole. I’m getting turned on.”

Quinn avidly continued his banter, stepping away from the door. He began to sway slowly to the rhythm of “I Will Survive”, deterring himself from bursting into laughter. His chapped lips began to release the familiar lyrics; yet fighting the titter.

“You’re a crass idiot, Quinn”, Malone said furiously, coming out of the room. His face smeared red of embarrassment was a dormant volcano turning active. His first decision of confronting Quinn on a level higher than just verbally, was put to sleep as he spotted a smirk on Jasper’s face. A thought of indulging him even more was utterly obnoxious to him. Awful. He refused. He just refused to give in.

“Why do you live off humiliating me, Jasper?” Malone added looking straight into his eyes.

The door behind Malone’s back slammed shut. Draft. A spate of pent up emotions gushed like the rivers of tears from a kid’s eye after losing a ravishing pet.

“WHY? Because you exchange body fluids with my wife?! Or for the medically impaired; because you have sex with her or laconically, because you fuck her? Is that a fair reason, Malone, huh? Is it?”

Quinn snapped looking dagger at Malone. Jasper’s mental pain now wasn’t disguised in cynicism; it wasn’t nicely wrapped up in a gift full of jabber, with a bow of sarcasm on top of it. No. The pain seeped through the canals of the sworn cynic. His own unnatural behavior with fading defensive mechanism stirred up a desire for hurting Malone. He was clutching his fists yet jogging his memory that he had pledged allegiance to solving not causing crime.

“Fuck you, Malone. And fuck HER, Malone!” Jasper said, grazing the sweaty palms of his hands off his shirt.

The hall that dozens of suspects march through every day, transformed into the limelight of the brawl; into the witness of the turning points for the two detectives.

“Fuck you, Malone”, Quinn repeated slamming the door behind.

The investigation room was unpleasantly hot. Lack of windows and a broken air conditioner were jazzing up Quinn’s yen for casting a shed of light on the new case. His awkward self was enjoying the feelings of being trapped; claustrophobic with the suspects. White sugar sprinkled on top of the donuts began to melt; slowly dripping on the hard mahogany table. Vanilla filling burst out of the bagels; spreading its sweet vanilla and cinnamon scent through the air.

Big white clock nailed to the wall ticked 3 AM.

“I’m sorry about your wife”, the boy said following a drop of sweat rolling off Quinn’s forehead.

Quinn panted. And smirked, jumping into his costume of cynicism.

“I fucked his wife. We’re even now”, he retorted, once again lying to a mere suspect.

“Well, listen, kid! Tony. I don’t like you. That hobo effect rarely pans out well. The crap you told Malone... I don’t buy.”

He was striving to stay focused. Barely succeeding. Drama played in his mind; involving sex scenes between Malone and his wife was getting more realistic with every passed second. His eyelids began to fall slowly, making the pictures even brighter. Vivid.

“Damn it”, he said quietly.

Quinn stood up trying to soothe his restless spirits.

“I’m a fucked up detective on the verge of breakdown and you’re stuck with me. Honestly, I don’t feel like following the police procedure of being so damn nice to the suspects. I’ve lost my patience.”

Quinn was pacing back and forth, determined to numb his mind. His black observant eyes were prodding the kid’s thoughts, causing fear. Suddenly, he pulled up the chair and sat down, grabbing the boy by his hand.

“You, my dear boy, are a crystal ball. See the salt. The salt residue on your arms tells me that you swam with the fishies in the sea. The rich parents took their spoiled brat on vacation; your Backstreet Boys hair smudges your theory of being a hobo, just like your expensive clothes. So how did I do? Any good? Or have I just proved my vanity of pleasure?”

Silence. The silence dictated the atmosphere within the room. A muffled sound of the clock and the two inconceivable hearts ticking for the moment, did not dare to unleash the true emotions.

“And you’re neither mute nor deaf”, he continued.

“For fuck’s sake, explain the blood on the fucking baseball bat and your clothes. I may be violent and aggressive but I still want to save that woman. Who the fuck did you bludgeon?”

No, he wasn’t aggressive. Just tempered, just one of dozens of cynical souls out there; just one of hundreds of detectives balancing on the line called life; one of thousands of people who have experienced the state of being cheated on. Just one of them. Unlike the kid, the detective showed his weakness. That was the only difference between the two lost souls. Grasping to cynicism, Jasper tried to regain control.

“I’m not a tell tale, I won’t tell your parents you kill people at spare time”, Quinn said.

“You’re a fucking moron! I didn’t kill anyone, you idiot! If I was your wife, I’d shot you down and dance upon your corpse, you fuck!” The kid snapped.

It works. It always works. His cynicism served cold with no spark of decency. But was it just cynicism speaking or the pain; having to get out?

“Oh, the child has spoken!” Quinn tittered and continued:

“Bravo, bravo! I’m not saying I believe you but it’s nearly 4 AM and I have my needs. I’m sure you want to go home and crash in your water bed so I’m begging you, tell me why on Earth were you so covered in blood?”

Those “I’m begging you..” words weren’t just a figure of speech or what we call exaggeration. Mr. Unpredictable knelt down, begging for information. A rosary in his hands was all he needed. The grown up, smearing the melted sugar on his pants while kneeling, caused a smirk on the kid’s face.

“You need a therapy, seriously, you know that?” The kid said laughing.

“I’ll let you check me in, just tell me how the blood got on your clothes”, Jasper retorted quickly.

“I have no idea, Mrs. Anderson took my baseball bat and so I kinda, like, broke in her house to get it back, I had a clean T-shirt before breaking in. I don’t know.”

“Sweet Jesus! It took you almost 2 hours to say that! I might just strangle you!” Quinn went berserk, frantically opening the door.

“Rivers, Taylor! Cherry Lane 928! Let’s pay Mrs. Anderson a visit! Earn your chocolate!” Quinn was yelling scramming down the hallway.

Hasty movements of the detectives and laughter pervasive during the hardest hassle; when the heat comes down; have kept Jasper’s spirits alive. His cynicism and “I’m just fine, fuck off” motto weren’t always enough; the trust and respect of his colleagues and friends blinded together could impair and finally defeat the villains.

“Malone”, he shouted, “you son of a bitch”.

That last part did not come out as loud; it was muffled by Quinn’s conscience.

“Malone, lock the kid up!” He shouted, turning to the boy:

“I’m gonna strangle you later, after my wife”, he said slamming the door behind.