The End Of Desire: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page B

he
grunted.
    I slowly rocked forward in the chair and
stood, then made the quarter turn in place, finding myself once
again staring at a panorama of putrid blue-green. It was a good
thing my stomach wasn’t bothering me at the moment, or I might have
added another stain to the carpet.
    I heard the rattling of metal against metal
and felt the pressure encircling my left wrist ease up, then the
strain on my shoulders as well. After another rattle, I could feel
the bracelet being removed from my right.
    “Thanks,” I muttered, not sure if I should
say anything or simply remain quiet.
    He didn’t acknowledge my gratitude. Instead
he simply said, “Sit down and keep your hands on the table in front
of you where I can see ‘em.”
    I complied and waited.
    The detective pulled out the somewhat
matching chair on the other side of the table and took a seat. He
remained mute as he shuffled the file folder over in front of
himself then settled in against the backrest. After a long pause he
reached into his pocket, withdrew something, splayed it open and
tossed it on the table in front of me. It was my wallet, complete
with the toy badge pinned inside.
    “Care to explain that, Mister Gant?” he
asked.
    “It’s a long story,” I offered, knowing the
comment was stupid the moment it exited my mouth.
    “I’m not going anywhere,” he replied.
“Neither are you.”
    Keeping with my established pattern of inane
answers, I said, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
    “You’d be surprised,” he grunted. “I’ve heard
it all.”
    “I doubt you’ve heard this one.”
    “Try me.”
    At this point I figured I had little to lose,
so I sighed and answered with a tired drone in my voice. “I’m
trying to stop a killer.”
    “Really? I thought that was a job for cops,”
he harrumphed then nudged the fake badge. “But, wait, you’re a cop,
right?”
    “Obviously you know I’m not,” I replied.
    “You’re not?”
    “Look, Detective…?”
    “Fairbanks.”
    “Detective Fairbanks. Do you think you can
dispense with the sarcasm?”
    “Why? Does it annoy you?”
    “Honestly, yes.”
    “I guess we all have something that gets
under our skin,” he offered. “Personally, sarcasm really doesn’t
bother me much. What really gets to me is people who pretend to be
something they’re not.”
    “Let me guess. Especially when they pretend
to be a cop.”
    He leaned back in his chair, regarding me
with a cold stare, then nodded and said, “Yeah. That’ll do it.”
    “In my defense,” I explained, “I never
actually said I was a police officer.”
    “No, you didn’t,” he replied as he leaned
forward and flipped the file folder open. Peering through the
glasses resting on the end of his nose, he read aloud, “Special
investigations consultant with the Saint Louis Major Case Squad is
what you said.”
    He looked back up at me and waited.
    “Yeah,” I agreed. “Something like that.”
    “Uh-huh. See, the problem is this,” he nudged
my wallet again, “You flashed a fake badge in order to gain entry
to a crime scene, and that shows intent. So, no matter what you
said, you were impersonating a cop. It’s kind of one of those
actions speak louder than words things.”
    I knew my argument had been lame when I made
it, but I was too tired to think of anything else. Besides, lying
is what had landed me here in the first place, so making up a new
fabrication probably wasn’t my best course of action.
    “What if there’s an element of truth to that
story?” I asked.
    “What, so now you’re telling me that you
actually are a cop?”
    I shook my head. “No. But I actually am an
independent consultant for the Major Case Squad in Saint
Louis.”
    “Really?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “Define sometimes.”
    “It largely depends on the case and who
happens to be running it.”
    “So, which is it right now? Sometimes yes, or
sometimes no?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
    Once again my