It’s a sunny day, bright and brisk. The air tastes like winter, and trees are shedding their exhausted leaves left and right. The impatient little flowers that shot up prematurely are now buried in icy regret. The wind bites at my nose and cheeks, but my mint green stainless steel coffee cup is warm in my hand as I punch in the code to my office. On my way in, I’m greeted by my assistant Diesel, who is wringing his hands fervently.
“We have quite a case for you this morning,” he says, handing me a manila folder which looked like it was one paper away from bursting, a single rose gold binder clip straining to hold its two sides together. I power-walk over to my desk and eagerly crack open the file, but I’m immediately paralyzed by what I see. Waves of visceral fear and disgust sweep through my body, and for a moment, it feels like I’m having a nightmare while I’m wide awake. My knees buckle, but I catch myself and the feeling passes. Diesel rushes over.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” I manage. Really, I’m shaken to my core. Not so much at the contents of that folder as the sheer magnitude of my reaction. I’m an interrogator, for God’s sake! I’m not supposed to waver, bend or break, even when emotions are flooding my nerves. For the first time in years, I feel like I might not be entirely in control. That terrifies me, but I force those troubling thoughts out of my head for the present moment and focus on reading the file. As I rifle through the pages, sentences jump out at me.
“We constantly felt like we were being watched”
“They couldn’t escape from him”
“He ruined their childhoods”
The headlines say it all. This guy is definitely sick, and persistent. He’s been charged with over a hundred accounts of home invasion, spying, and overall creepy behavior, especially around children. I take a deep breath and march down the hall to the room where he’s being held. I enter the chamber and sit down across from him, both of us illuminated by harsh fluorescent light. He’s squinting at me through grimy glasses, perched upon a bulbous nose covered in rosacea. He scratches his beard, then rests his arms on his rotund belly. I almost can’t bear to look at him after what he’s done, don’t want to afford him a shred of human decency. I pull through and begin my questioning.
“So did you do it?”
“Yes, and I don’t regret a thing. I just loved watching those children around the clock, without them knowing. I had eyes everywhere and I saw everything. Then I broke into their homes and I just loved seeing the look on their little faces when they found out. Observing those sweet little kids and sneaking into their houses, that’s what I live for.”
He paused to leer at me.
“And I’d keep on doing it if you hadn’t locked me up here. You got kids, lady?”
“I’d rather die than let you anywhere near them,” I seethed.
“Too bad. I would have gotten them too.”
I’m disgusted with this predator. I don’t want to look him in the eye, but I know I have to finish this interrogation so he can be locked away. I have to make sure he’ll never traumatize another child again. I take a deep breath and regain my composure.
“You’re going to prison, Santa Claus.”