Detective 1

Andrew Yang.
I pull out a pack of gum and add a new piece to the 2 I’m already chewing. It’s better than cigarettes my daughter tells me.
I pick up his file and glance over it, the details are unimportant. I heard his voice. Yang is guilty. I am never wrong. 23 years I have looked down people from the other side of this mirror, I know the face of guilt. The posture. The fake.
He sits there on the edge of his seat, feigning fear and confusion. This kid is not afraid of shit. Not yet anyway, he hasn’t met me.
I grab my coffee off the table, sink into the pleather desk chair and take a sip. The mint gum ruins one of my favorite daily moments, but I keep chewing.
Yang sits calmly, alone. Poor posture leaves his long dark hair hanging like a curtain in front of his face.
This fucking kid.
His blood splattered white v-neck would look stylish if you were to pass by him on the street, any other color and he could be an artist, but it is crimson red. The kind of red that comes pouring out of a fresh, violent, deep puncture wound.
He lifts his hands and places them on top of the stainless steel table he sits behind.
I want to get out from behind this glass and break him. Pick up his skinny designer jean wearing ass and snap his back over my knee, but that is unfortunately not my job.
3 sets of footsteps come down the hall, I recognize 2 of the voices. I spin my chair towards the door and take another sip of coffee. The doorknob turns and a stream of light comes into my dark chamber. 3 suits walk in. I don’t bother standing up, I already know what they are going to tell me. Yang is going to walk.