Luke 8:17

Prison was the least favorite place for any person. Innocent or guilty…

There’s no difference between prison and hell; both full of sinners. Grief and pain. Humans who acted most inhumane.

“You look nervous.” Spencer said, walking lazily beside Emanuel with that stupid grin on his face. Keys spinning lazily around his gloved fingers as he led Emanuel around the dark and moist corridor.

“No one confesses that easily… there’s something, I can feel it in my gut,”

Emanuel was still baffled from the fact that the stone cold serial killer who had so many, same pattern victims… just turned himself in. He carried a cup filled with water, and the fat folder under his arm. Thanks to Spencer who generously landed it to him.

“You should really get your gut checked then…”

Spencer tried to joke but as soon as he saw Emanuel’s facial expression he just cleared his throat and kept silent; until they reached the door to the interrogation room.

The guard in-front of the door took one look at Spencer and Emanuel, the guards sharp gaze turned to Emanuel after a moment and spoke.

“Five minutes, special request.”

Emanuel raised an eyebrow. Special request? He saw the guards eyes go back to Spencer who just nodded. Right. Whose special request would it be if not Spencers?

Emanuel entered into the interrogation room with a stone cold expression on his face, he wasn’t here for chitchat or casual banter.. He was here for business. The prisoner sat there in-front of the desk, two guards standing behind him. As soon as he closed the door, the killer almost flinched, only a trained eye would see the slight movement.

Emanuel narrowed his eyes and gave the prisoner a look over.

Young man; maybe around his mid 20’s, his back hunched forward. He was nervous, and judging by the bruises on his face, the split lip and the big obvious neck brace: he probably received a warm welcome from other prisoners. He didn’t look dangerous… and it made Emanuel’s face paint into a scowl.

“Hello Roger. My name is Detective Emanuel, I requested a visit.”

The young man, Roger Pérez looked up at him, his handcuffed hands fidgeting together, Emanuel took a step closer offering the cup of water he brought in with himself into the interrogation room. He pushed the cup of water closer and sat in-front of Roger who was actively avoiding eye contact. He was sweating. Literally, Emanuel could see the drops of sweat forming on his forehead, and it made his gut twist again.

“You confessed of being guilty for targeting and killing people who represent political interests.”

“Yes.” Roger answered without thinking, his eyes still downcast, he reached for the cup of water with his trembling hands and took a sip.

“You killed all the listed victims?”

Emanuel said as he opened the folder and took out a few fine printed photos of the victims and held them out for Roger to see.

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“…” Roger looked over the photos and gulped down his saliva loudly… finally making eye contact with Emanuel… he answered.

“All of them.”

Emanuel did not falter, after a few seconds he sat back with his arms crossed.

“How.”

“Sorry…?”

“How did you kill them? Tools, creative ways of slicing throats? Or torturing methods?”

Roger felt his face getting paler, he looked around the room as if looking for help, the sweat from his forehead fell on the picture of one of the victims.

“How did you kill Miss Madeline for example?”

Emanuel pointed at one of the victim’s photographs. Calm, cool, collected. But he could see how those questions stressed out Roger. He didn’t look dangerous not expect that.

“… stabbed with a fine blade.”

Roger responded. He tried to act confident but Emanuel was not having it.

“She was shot. Can you tell me where she was shot?”

Roger felt a tremors go through his body.

“…in the head..”

“In the heart.” Emanuel said as he closed down the folder, he took out the pack of cigars from his trench coats pocket and lit it. While doing so he could notice how Roger was beginning to hyperventilate. Breathing a little too hard as obvious panic began to creep up him spine.

Emanuel didn’t speak anymore, he has 2 more minutes. But he knew what was about to happen. His gut never lied to him, after making eye contact with Roger again. The prisoner snapped.

“You should’ve been dead.

You made it out alive.”

Roger almost laughed, covering his face with his hands.

“You fucking bastard!”

Roger rose from his chair in one swift motion, his face painted in a frown. Eyes crazy. He was going to attack the detective but before he could the two guards ran up to him and held him back while he tried to break free, grunting and kicking.

“No one has power over the day of death!”

Emanuel sat there, he wasn’t influenced by Roger’s words physically; but his eyes narrowed again as he blew a stick cloud of smoke out of his mouth. Collecting the folder back and closing it with finality in his moves.

Roger kept yelling, kicking and laughing maniacally while the guards escorted him out. The prisoner wasn’t yelling from hate or anger , but he felt threatened. And it only rose up more questions.

But one thing was clear… Roger knew more than he spoke. Because he shouldn’t have known about the car crash. His big mouth couldn’t stay shut forever.

After leaving the interrogation room, he closed the door behind him. Cigar dangling in his parted lips, Spencer stood there with his arms crossed.

“You saw the lunatic, so… anything useful?”

Emanuel didn’t answer right away he took his hat off, and after a long moment of silence looked up at Spencer. He complete ignored his captains question. And asked his own question directed at him.

“You said my car is under investigation.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow but answered anyways. “That’s correct,”

“Right.”

Emanuel walked past Spencer without explanation, he needed time to process. This so called interrogation brought him nothing but more problems.

…

The keys twisted in the keyhole of Emanuel’s apartment as he pushed open the door, kicking his shoes off he took off his trench coat and threw it on his couch. He needed a drink. He was planning to stay up all night, looking over the documents and the case folder for any small clues.

After unbuttoning half of his dress-shirt; he looked at himself in the mirror of his dimly lit room.

The scars and stitches still present. Half-healed bruises painting his chest and the side of his neck. The golden cross chain painting his collarbone gently.

He frowned looking at the chain.

He should really take it off… he wasn’t religious. Not in the slightest.

It was just a stupid gift.

He sighed; His calloused fingers gently brushed the golden cross. He should really take it off…

...maybe another day.

After pouring himself a generous glass of fine whiskey he got back on his couch and flopped down. Spreading the folder open with the victims pictures, the documents and all the paperwork on his glass coffee table.

Even after downing alcohol down his system ; Roger’s words still rang in his ears.

‘You should’ve been dead. - you made it out alive,”

He knew about the crash. It wasn’t only a drunk accident… it was planned.

Someone targeted him.

In thoughts he looked around the room, rubbing him temples to get rid of this awful headache, and then his eyes landed on his trench coat, and a small white piece of paper sticking from the inner pocket.

Emanuel raised an eyebrow. And suddenly the memories were back in fragments again. The mysterious number… he totally forgot about it.

Emanuel looked away… he didn’t need help, he’d solve those questions on his own.

After a small back and forth with his eyes moving from the folder to the crumpled number he sighed dramatically, snatching the paper with that weird number on it and opened it. Memorizing the numbers as he tapped them carefully into the home telephone.

Marcus said this person had eyes and ears everywhere… maybe a little help wouldn’t be so bad. Right?

Beep

Beep.

Beep…

It was past midnight. Of course no one would pick up. Emanuel groaned in frustration and hung up himself. His fingers massaging the bridge of his nose before he took another gulp from his whiskey. Savoring the taste of burning sensation against his throat.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillows but right before he could relax, the phone erupted in loud ringing. He jumped up wanting to quickly answer the phone. His sudden movements made the whiskey glass tip over, spilling fine alcohol all over the paperwork of the folder.

“Fuck!” Emanuel yelled as he tried to take the folder off from the puddle of whiskey, which also made him trip on his own pants and fall - hitting his head against the glass coffee table. “Shit!”

He groaned in pain as one of the stitches on his forehead opened. A small drop of blood falling on his carpet, the telephone rung all the way through that chaos, and just as he reached to the phone on his knees, crawling desperately to pick up the call…

…it ended.

Emanuel swore under his breath, sitting back on the floor with his back against the couch.

After sitting on the floor for a hot minute, he took a deep breath, his eyes wandering around the floor as his eyes landed on something supporting the telephone table.

… A book? Not just a book.

The Bible… His Bible. Or what used to be his.

Unconsciously, his fingers went to his golden chain again… but he quickly stopped himself. Taking the Bible out for whatever reason crossed his mind, the table tipped slightly.

He opened it, finding a highlighted page and read the bold text in his mind.

Luke 8:17 ‘Nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed…’

Silently Emanuel closed the Bible and let it rest in his lap.

Something unsettling pooled in his gut.

The feeling that someone, God or sinner. Was trying to tell him something.