"Feeling good about yourself is not the same thing as doing good."

- Theodore Dalrymple

03:58 a.m

10 days earlier

It wasn't like the olden noir films where a single light-bulb dangled from the ceiling of a dark room. Modern interrogation rooms like the one Tim had been stuffed into were no more extraordinary than an office cubicle. Bright white fluorescent lights did nothing to help the already dull white room, shining as if heaven's judgement had surrounded him. Shoved into the corner was a single chair in which he sat, next to a table aligned to the wall. As the accusations against him were watery at best, he wasn't cuffed for the moment.

The two detectives which he came to know as Oliver Hardy and Julliane Smith stood before him on the other side of the table, a folder of documents in each of their hands. The usual one-way mirror beside them, and a blatant camera above the door probably recording their every words and movements.

Looking the female detective dead in the eyes, Tim asked, “Can I get my phone call now?”

She replied, “Only after you've told us why and how you killed your father.”

“And what makes you think I'd do something like that?” he leaned against the corner walls of the room, letting out a sigh of comfort as he did so. He knew the reason the interrogation table was placed as it was in the corner. It was to make him feel trapped between the walls and the detectives. He made no attempt to hide that the trick to strain him into a confession was not working.

“For one thing,” Detective Hardy said, “You claim a man in a straw hat chased you in your dreams and killed your father.”

Smith continued, “And we found antidepressants in your room. Almost half a dozen bottles of them,” from her folder, she took out pictures of the familiar medicine cabinet and laid them across the table. “So here's what happened. You forgot to take your meds, had a little episode. Maybe hallucinated a little. Cut up your dad, got rid of the weapon, and in your delusion, called the cops on some make believe monster.”

Tim replied to only half her accusation, “Sin isn't fiction. It's real and medically recognized.”

Julie Smith leaned over the table, bearing her entire person to overshadow Tim. “Not by the judicial system. And definitely not by me,” he wondered how a beautiful woman could have such an ugly attitude before remember his own personality was no better.

“So,” Tim continued, pretending to not have heard her. “Where's my lawyer?”

“You're not getting one.”

“Well that's no fair,” he replied with a playful tone. “In that case, I guess I'll just keep my mouth shut.”

Smith stepped back but Hardy slid in from the side, a stern expression on his face. “You're under heavy shit here. Your father's dead and you're the most likely suspect in his murder. You think this is a joke?”

The smile slipped from Tim's face, almost instantaneously. “Joke?” he stood up from his seat. The two detectives instinctively backed away, their hands reaching for the firearms hidden behind their backs. Not a single creak of hesitation rested in Tim's eyes as he delivered his lines. “My father is dead. The people I care about are being targeted by an illness with no cure and I might be next. So no, this isn't a joke.”

“So there are other people you're targeting?” Smith asked.

“That's what you got out of that?” Tim replied, outraged.

“Fine, let's talk about the drugs. What are they for?” she changed the subject quickly in an attempt to confuse him.

He took a breath to calm himself before settling back in his seat. Despite his initially calm demeanour, he felt he had fallen into some form of trap by raising his voice.

You're just a kid. Joshua had once told him during one of their arguing sessions. No matter how smart you are, how talented you'll be, you can't beat experience.

“Listen up boy,” Hardy said. “It's best if you just tell the truth now. There's nothing to gain from being an ass.”

Tim contemplated silently as the detectives starred him down. Despite the pressure that exuded from the two adults, he held their gaze. “Fine,” he replied finally. “I had major depression when my mom died. I took those medications to help make it through back then. I stopped taking them after I stabilized and kept them around just in case. Happy?”

Smith pulled up a devious smile. “So you are off your medication and things got bad...”

“That's not it-” Tim tried to correct her.

The female detective was relentless. “And since your father was the cause of your mother's death...”

He got to his feet, furious, “Stop accusing me of-”

Hardy tried to cut in, “Julie, ease up.”

But the pleas fell on death ears as she finished, “You got into an argument and killed him!”

Tim found himself vaulting over the table, the plastic chair flying back from under him by the force of his jump forward. He swung his legs wide, kicking across the air as the two detectives attempted to jump back to avoid the attack. Tim was sure he had at least hit Smith, for droplets of blood as red as her hair trickled to the floor.

On the other side of the table, he landed on both feet and found his footing quickly, before attempting to rush in and tackle the female detective. However, instead of the soft impact of shoulder blade to stomach that he was expecting, he found himself twirling into the table, crying in pain as his face slammed violently into the wooden furniture from Hardy's punch.

He tried to stand again but was forced down against the table top by the vice-tight, smooth-skinned grip of Detective Julianne Smith. The cold slap of metal followed by the sharp tightening sensation in his wrists signalled his handcuffing and the end of his outburst. He could taste the blood from the molar that cracked on impact from the punch. A stinging pain through the nerves. A pouch of blood pooling in his mouth.

Smith violently grabbed Tim's collar, pulled him to a stand and barked, “Now! You're under arrest, you fucking kid!” she spat over his shoulder and the phlegm of blood that landed on the table concluded he had at least managed to injure her.

XXX

04:45 a.m

10 days earlier

Most of their fellow officers at the precinct didn't particularly have a love for doughnuts. But with the neighbourhood doughnut shop being the only nearby restaurant opened for twenty four hours a day made it a common sight in the break room after midnight. The room was fashioned with a floral theme in mind, since the previous police chief had a hobby for gardening. Red and white flower tiles lined the floor. The tables and chairs, though made of plastic, were laminated with wooden designs.

Julie sat in one of the chairs, her coffee having gone cold in her discussion with Oliver. Finally taking a sip from her drink, she stuck her tongue out in disgust, the cold having neutered the flavour and her bleeding gums soured the taste. The bruise Tim gave her cheek did not help either.

“All I'm saying is,” Oliver continued, “You should've gone easy on the kid. What if you're wrong? You'd just accuse an innocent boy of murdering his father. What if this Sin thing is real?”

“It is not fucking real,” she replied, crossing her arms in disdain. “It's just mass hysteria and people are using it to commit crimes.”

“There's no proof that-”

“Exactly!” she cut in, not allowing him to finish. “There's no proof of its existence. Everything from the heart attacks to Somnidin can be explained by mass hallucination, nothing more.”

Oliver raised his cup of joe and pointed out, “That's a pretty far fetched theory you've got there partner.”

“More far fetched than murdering dream monsters?”

“Touché,” he leaned back in his seat, accepting the rebuttal, taking a sip of his coffee. “But we still can't get him for murder. All we've got is some flimsy logic and your gut hunch.”

“Our gut hunch,” she corrected.

“Your gut hunch,” he insisted. “I still don't think he did it. And I don't think throwing him in the holding cell will get us anywhere either.”

“At least he's not going anywhere. No family to bail him out, not a dime to his name. He'll stay here till we can find the time to settle him.”

“It's almost as if you've got a personal vendetta against this kid.”

“This kid is a murderer, using the lamest of all excuses,” she attempted again to force her point, her flaming locks flailing as she discussed the issue passionately. “The whole city is going wonky from this bloody pandemic thing. We've got enough on our hands without having to deal with another budding psychopath.”

“Julie, you've always been the smarter one. I hope to God you're right on this,” Oliver replied, wearily leaning his face into his perched hand. “I don't want to be that guy that traumatises a kid into becoming a psychopath.”