SIX

The man known as Fido found himself sitting alone inside an interrogation room in a Panama City police station. He was seated on a lone wooden stool in the centre of the room, hunched over and bored out of his mind. He was a scruffy-looking individual by all accounts; his eyes were hidden behind a dark pair of wraparound shades, his face was unshaven, and his clothes rumpled and creased as though he had been sleeping in them for weeks.

It had been just two hours since Fido had arrived at Tocumen International Airport, following a rather uneventful flight from New York. But from there things had gotten interesting. He had just been finishing up with customs when he was met by a pair of police detectives at the arrival gates. The two brutes with familiar faces had cuffed him and ushered him into the back of their squad car, driving him back to their station on the east side of Panama City for a round of questioning that was still yet to eventuate.

Six long years had passed since Fido had left Panama City in search of revenge against Loa Lacroix and his posse, but evidently he had not been forgotten.

...

Standing on the opposite side of the interrogation room’s one-way mirror were the two detectives who had taken Fido from the airport. They watched their suspect closely. The detective on left, who was leanly cut and an Australian by birth, had a file out and opened in his hands.

“Fido,” the detective read from the file, his eyes skimming lazily over the details. “Still suffers amnesia from two bullets inside his head that he got during the General Gomez shooting ten years ago. Prior to that… well, the kid is a fucking ghost; a real mystery. No birth records, and no known relatives. There’s nothing on him anywhere at all.”

“Yeah, I remember him well,” said the other detective, who was a dark-skinned man with a West-African background. “That fucking spick General Miguel Gomez looked after him after he came out of his coma. Took him in like a stray dog. But the real question is, why in the hell is Fido back in town now?”

“Put it this way, Jackson,” the other detective grinned, “if I had a hundred dollars to spend, and all brothels in town were closed, then I’d be betting every last cent that he’s here for Loa Lacroix.”

...

Fido glanced up as the cell door opened and the two detectives finally walked inside. No introductions were necessary; he knew both of them already, more so from their rather infamous reputation as world-class arseholes than anything else. The first one, Henry Jackson, was half West-African and half Panamanian, and he had the kind of mean and scowling face that only a mother with no eyes could love. The other one, Detective Davis Randy, appeared to be the more easy-going of the two. He had a short, neat hair style and looked quite smart in his attire. He also had the kind of brash and cocky face that was just begging Fido to hit it.

“Fido,” Randy said with a mocking smirk. “The man with one name.”

“Sounds like the title of some cheap spaghetti western,” Jackson chimed in needlessly. "Or maybe one about a stray dog who can't get laid."

Fido watched Randy closely, but he chose not to say anything for the moment. There was no point stringing this out for any longer than was necessary. He figured if he kept quiet they might lose interest and cut him loose sooner. He was certain they had nothing concrete enough to charge him with.

“You know,” Randy said, “ten years ago that fuck-ugly face of yours was all over the prime-time news here in Panama. I mean, it’s not every day some random kid gets caught up in a drive-by shooting and is left comatose for six months, and then wakes up without any recollection of who the hell he is. No life, no friends and no family; that about sums you up in a nutshell, doesn’t it, Fido? The word 'loser' doesn't even begin to do you justice.”

Still Fido said nothing. He wondered if they were going somewhere with all this, or if they were just wasting his time. The later was more likely.

It was Detective Jackson’s turn to take centre-stage now. “So how’s life treating you these days, Fidey? Settled down yet? Started a family? Kill anyone lately?” When the detective didn’t receive a response he quickly moved and snatched away Fido’s sunglasses, no doubt looking to piss him off. “What’s the fuck is wrong with you, junkie?! Too bright in here for you to show me your beady little eyes?!”

Fido felt his hand clench into a fist at his side, resisting the urge to strike the detective. He had a fiery temper, and this prick was asking for it. But he knew it would be stupid to take the bait right in the middle of a police station.

“What the hell are we going to do with you, Fidey?” Jackson tsked. “We can’t arrest you, and we can’t force you to leave town. Hell, we can’t even hold you here and put a roof over your head for the night without violating some sort of bullshit legal right that the legal system deems scum like you are entitled to. Tell me, what are we meant to do?”

Fido decided it was time to open his mouth; the silent approach clearly wasn’t going to work. His deep brown eyes flashed up at Jackson. “You're the corrupt detective, why don't you tell me? Or are you so burnt out from fucking over the law that you've gone creatively bankrupt? Here's a free suggestion. Why don't you drag me out back, away from the prying eyes of any straight cops, and shoot me? From what I hear, that’s how the two of you usually deal with your suspects.”

Detective Randy chuckled to his partner. “Am I hearing this right? I think Fidey here is accusing us of breaking the law, Jackson. Vigilante justice of all things. The irony of it all is too much. This guy should be a fucking stand-up comedian.”

Detective Jackson bent down beside Fido, leaning in close to him. “Nah, he’s not funny. He's just a cocky son of a bitch. I know plenty of guys just like him; they talk a lot of shit to compensate for their small dicks.”

“Okay, enough of bullshit,” Randy said, his eyes shifting to their suspect. “What are you doing back in Panama, Fidey?”

Fido shrugged. “Is it a crime to take a holiday?”

“No. But it is a crime if your travel plans involve you imitating Charles Bronson in Death Wish 10!”

“Charles Bronson’s dead; he only made five,” Fido’s face remained neutral. “And I’m not quite sure I’m following you here. Are you accusing me of doing something illegal, Detective?”

“Damn straight I’m accusing you of doing something illegal, you fucking smart arse!” Randy slammed his folder down on the floor in front of Fido’s feet and the contents came spilling out. In it were a series of black and white mug-shots; men with dark skin and long, dreadlocked hair. “How about the murders of Arthur Clay, Henry Codling, Ernie Morrison, Keith Baxter, Monty Stillwell and Max Jacobs? And that’s just for starters! Or don't you consider the ending of human life to be worthy of a policeman's time?!”

“You’re calling me a murderer?” Fido glanced down at the photos, not looking in the least bit concerned. “I've got to say, I’m insulted. Amused, but still definitely insulted.”

“Oh come on, Fidey, playing dumb won’t win you any food stamps around here! I know you’ve seen these mugshots before. Some close colleagues of mine showed them to you after you came out of your coma. Every single one of them was linked in some way or another to Loa Lacroix. You know, that very same man who turned you into a fucking brain-dead zombie with a limp dick.”

“Ah, I thought one or two of them looked familiar,” Fido shrugged again. "But sorry, my memory isn't so crash-hot."

“Still not shitting your pants yet, Fidey? Then how’s this for a revelation?” Randy’s eyes narrowed. “All seven of these poor Haitian nationals were found butchered up in Monterrey in Mexico during the exact same two-week window that you were checked-in there at a local dive called The Hotel Paradise. The body of the last victim, one Max Jacobs, was found just the day before you checked out.”

“And I take it you’ve never heard of a coincidence?”

“Coincidence my arse! I could also tell you a similar story from six months earlier, this time in Vancouver, Canada. Five Haitian scumbags with known connections to Lacroix were found dead over a ten-day period that you were staying in town. Maybe next time you want to go travelling around the world killing people you should try using an alias. Just a tip. It makes you harder to trace.”

“Wow, you’ve really done your homework on my recent travel itineraries, Detective,” Fido said with a slight grin. “I’m impressed. Really. Your work ethic is to be admired, and you must be real busy around here. But I’m a bit concerned regarding your professionalism. See, so far while you have been busy threatening me with all these unsubstantiated theories and false allegations you haven’t even bothered reading me any of my legal rights.”

“Oh come on, Fidey,” Randy said, “if I was threatening you, trust me, you’d know about it. As for your rights, you have none; you haven’t been charged with anything yet. Nor will you be. That’s not how we operate”

“Then what was the purpose of bringing me in here?”

“The three of us are just having a nice chat here, that’s all. As friends.”

Fido rolled his eyes. “And if you’re not charging me, you have no right stop me walking right out the door. Panamanian law 101. Now I should be going. Believe it or not, I didn't fly in to see the two of you. I actually have other places to be.”

“Nobody’s stopping you from leaving,” Randy shrugged. “You’re free to go any time you want to. I was only trying to help you, Fidey. It would be a shame for us to have to draw your chalk outline.”

“Please, Detective, don’t do me any more favours.”

Randy’s face turned serious. “Okay, fine, go. But just remember something: you best be keeping your nose clean and your tiny dick in your pants while you’re in town. Because unlike those bible-humping pussies up in Mexico, Canada and the US of A, the police here aren’t afraid to shoot first and make excuses later.”

“Thanks for the warning, Detective. But you really don’t need to worry about me, I only came here to fuck your ex-wife.”

Randy walked closer, leaning over to whisper into Fido’s ear. “Be my guest. That way I could lock you up for Necrophilia. I killed that fucking bitch years ago!”

“Save your sad sob stories for someone who has the time or patience to give a shit.” Fido stood up to leave. He brushed shoulders deliberately with Detective Jackson as he walked past. “I’d say goodbye, Detectives, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing you both again later.”

“You bet your arse you will, Fidey.” Randy turned to his partner and winked as Fido walked out and slammed the door closed behind him. “That is unless a bullet sees you first.”