The Hangover: Part IV

Phil Wenneck was sitting in a stark room with nothing more than a table in the center of it and two chairs on either side. Along the wall across from him was a mirror which he knew to be a two-way. He'd seen all the cop shows, he knew how this worked. Looking down at his hands, he tried to rub his wrists which were in handcuffs and slightly sore from how tightly and forcefully they'd been put on. He lifted his weary eyes back upward to glance at his reflection, taking in just how disgusting he looked. His hair was slick from sweat and indecipherable debris, he had dark circles around his blue eyes which were bloodshot from exhaustion and he had a cut across his left cheek which seemed to be healing from some earlier altercation. His clothes, soiled as they were, still remained intact. The blue, silk dress shirt he was wearing had the usual grime, but also blood stains all over; and only about half of it belonged to him.

There was a simple overhead light fixture with horrible fluorescent lighting that provided the only light in the windowless room in which Phil sat. More filtered in, however, as soon as the door opened with light from the hallway outside. Turning his gaze, Phil immediately straightened his posture and began to plead with the officer coming in to question him.

"Sir, please, you have to let me go. I can't be here right now. And my friends and I didn't do whatever it is you think we did," he implored, holding his handcuffed hands upward slightly in a surrendering sort of gesture.

The officer looked over at Phil and threw a manilla folder down onto the table. "These photos beg to differ," the man replied in a thick Spanish accent; English clearly not his first language. He wasn't dressed as any sort of beat cop, but in a simple suit and tie.

Phil followed the officer's gaze toward the folder and reached for it. Despite the slight restraint from the handcuffs, he still had no problem at all opening the folder and looking inside. As soon as his eyes wandered to the photographs in question, he raised an eyebrow. "These...where did you get these from?"

"Interpol."

"These are from four years ago," Phil remarked, flipping to some photos further into the small stack. "And...what the hell...Vegas? Seriously, where did you get these from? Why do you have these photos?"

"It should be me who asks the questions."

"Then ask!" Phil bit out. He was tired, stressed, concerned and now thoroughly confused.

"How long have you been consorting with this man?"

Phil narrowed his gaze, trying to listen carefully to his questioning officer. The man's accent was so thick that if Phil didn't pay attention he would miss something imperative the officer was saying or asking. He also had no doubt his friends were in separate rooms, going through the same thing, at the same moment. "Him?" Phil questioned pointing at someone in the photos.

"Si."

Phil didn't answer right away. He stared back at the photos and let everything start to sink in about what the officer might be implying. Instead of giving an answer at all, Phil cleared his throat and closed the folder, pushing it away from him. "I want my phone call."

The officer smirked.



Several police officers were buzzing around as Phil stood at a phone with the receiver to his ear. "Lauren...shit, I think we're in trouble."

"What's going on now? Did you find—"

"No, not yet. We were trying to, but we got...detained." Phil looked at his questioning officer who was eyeing him up with a knowing grin that felt a little unsettling to the blue-eyed school teacher. "We've been arrested by Barcelona police."

"Oh my god...for what?"

Phil let out a sigh. This was not what he needed right now. He had so many other larger things on his plate at the moment.

"Suspicion of terrorism."