13 Drops of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

traveled to another country.
    He walked from body to body, shooting indiscriminately.
    And while Denoté and his two brothers finished their dirty work, Page stepped outside and told those waiting in line the bad news. “There was an accident,” she said. “Someone has been hurt. The show is cancelled.”
    When the question of refunds came about she lied, saying a full refund would be issued between three pm and eight pm the following day. Some complained. Some didn’t. And none realized how close they had come to certain death.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    THE CONFESSION
     
     
    George was stripped of his belongings and placed inside one of the small padded room inside the police station, which looked nothing like the interrogation rooms he had seen on television. The room was bright and small, six feet by six feet. There were no dark corners creating a gloomy atmosphere, no light bulb hanging from a cable in the ceiling; the room didn’t have the famous mirrored window that George thought was commonplace. There was no table to pound an angry fist against and no chairs to kick over in disgust. It was just a box, really––a white padded box with two white padded benches on opposing sides. The room’s only door had no knob, only a small murky window you couldn’t see through. There was a security camera behind a bubble in a corner, where the ceiling and the wall collided. The floor was covered in cheap brown linoleum. Both padded benches had stains of blood that were hard to notice, and even harder to ignore once they were seen.
    George waited for an hour and ten minutes. Sometimes he would sit, sometimes he would stand; sometimes he walked from bench to bench thinking about what had happened. He was sitting with his elbows pressuring his legs and his face planted into his hands when the door opened. Two officers entered the room and took the opposing bench, introducing themselves as Detective Martin and Lieutenant McKean. Neither man was dressed in a uniform. They had white collars and nametags. Martin had a potbelly and short black hair. McKean looked like an Irish boxer in training. His fists seemed bigger than his head.
    Both officers offered a hand; George had no choice but to shake them.
    “Before we get started,” McKean said, “I’d like to inform you that today’s conversation will be kept on file.” He pulled a small recording device from his pocket and turned it on. Tape started rolling.
    No digital recordings here, George thought. He correctly assumed that tape was favored because it was harder to manipulate.
    McKean said, “We record everything for continuity reasons, and to ensure the protection of both parties. We’d like to remind you that anything you say can, and will be, used against you in a court of law. You have the right to remain silent, which means you don’t have to answer our questions. I’d prefer it if you did, of course. It makes things a whole lot easier on my end, but the choice is yours. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yes,” George said. His voice sounded steady.
“Good.”
“Are you okay? Can I get you something, a glass of water maybe?
“Sure. Water would be great.”
    McKean knocked on the little window located in the center of the door. The door opened and McKean stepped out of the cell, returning a few seconds later with a small paper cup filled with lukewarm water. He handed the cup to George, and said, “For the record, can you tell us what your name is?”
“My name is George Lewis.”
“Address?”
George took a sip of water. “765 Batter Avenue, Oshawa, Ontario.”
“How old are you Mr. Lewis?”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“Do you have a job?”
“Yes, I work at the harbor, the docks.”
“Oh yeah? What do you do there?”
“I load trucks.”
“Were you working today?”
“Yes, but just in the morning. I had the afternoon off.”
Very nonchalantly, Martin nodded and said, “What time did your shift start?”
    George smirked, realizing