Chapter 10

Trench Series

10. The Frail Detective

“They do, but after what you offer them, they’ll want you alive and in good health.”

It was morning when I woke up in my bed. I had a bad headache and did not remember how I got there, but I assumed the revolutionaries drugged me and put me here. My mission: To give false information to the police force about the revolutionaries and where they are hiding. Sounded pretty stupid. After all, if anyone got caught, it would be me. I was not going to help them. I was just going to pretend I was doing so. Hopefully my last-minute plan would work.

It was odd because the rebels had said that the government wanted me dead, and then they go on to say that I would have information valuable to them. They had not given me any information that was of the utmost importance.

I got to work and the officer greeted me as I walked in to my office. “Hello.” “I’ll tell you everything!” I yelled, being clear of my intentions right of the bat. “You’re a bed-mourner!” he exclaimed, using the expression I hated the most.

“It’s not like if the government wants to kill you. They just want to interrogate you.” “Well, one of the snipers tried to kill me last night.”
“You mean a month ago?”
“Excuse me?” I asked, puzzled.

“The “last night” that you’re talking about happened a whole month ago. 29 days, yep, long time no see.” I was speechless, enough for him to continue speaking uninterrupted. “Some civilians found you down in Suicide Valley six days after your disappearance. They assumed you were dead, but any smart person could have seen that you were laid there and not thrown off. You have some valuable information. The government will want it.”

“29 days?!”
“Oh, and by the way, the trooper that tried to kill you was hanged last night.” This was too much for me to take in. I excused myself and he said to go home. I

did and soaked in the information he gave to me. In the afternoon though, I was done thinking, I had questions that were left unanswered. Questions like: Why was the trooper hanged? By law? If so, did he disobey orders? Why did my brother jump off? How come he was not related to me? Was my family worried about me?

That last question stuck and all the other questions, I figured, had to wait. I drove to my parent’s home. I got out of the car. I took a deep breath. I had not seen my parents in a year or so. My excuse was that my year had been very busy with work. I did not have time for family. I knew some people that did not see their family at all, so I was good.

I rang the doorbell. No answer. “Of course no answer!” I yelled out loud. “My child!” I heard a screechy voice from inside say.
“Mother? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Daniel!”

“My name’s not Daniel, Mother. That’s my brother.” “Then who are you?”

“Just open the door, Mom!”
The door opened slowly. “Oh, Jacob! How are you?”
“Horrible. I have this massive headache and a month that I can’t remember.

“How’s Naomi?” she asked.
“I’m not with her anymore. It may have been a while, Mom, but I call you every

“Not last Sunday!”

“No, but didn’t the government notify you that I was captured by-”

Her eyes looked blankly into mine. Her grey hair was not orderly like it usually was. Her teeth were yellow and she did not look well.

“Are you ill?” No answer. “Where’s Dad?” “Dead,” she responded quickly and coldly. “Excuse me?”
“He’s dead. I killed him.”

“You did what?”
“No, I killed him.”
“You killed him?”
“No, Ike did.”
“Ike killed him!” I said understandingly.
“No you didn’t. Ike did.” She then looked down and started to talk to herself. “You’re not doing well, mother.” She kept talking to herself. “I think I need to take

you to the doctor.” She ignored me unbeknownst to her. “Mom, grab my hand.” She did with the look of a four year old.

I went to my AV with her and made her sit in the front with me. I then drove to a psychologist’s office. The whole way there, she kept talking about Daniel’s little toy train set that he used to have when we were younger. It was my set, but I did not bother explaining it to my mother. She most definitely went mad.

After I had dropped her off at a psychologist’s office, I went to my own office

wondering whether Ike, my cousin who was a trooper, had really killed my father. I could not jump to conclusions. I did not trust my mother enough to do so anyways.

I got there and went straight to my officer’s office. Unfortunately, he was busy. My next option was to go to the one person in the police station who despised me: the detective. With his strict gaze and his short, wiry black hair, there was nothing I despised more either.

“What do you want?” he asked as he stood up. He did not give me time to answer. “I was just thinking of heading home.”

“I simply want to know what happened to me.”
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” he said, his green eyes watering. “I must know.”
“You were drugged.”
“I can’t give you every detail.”
“Why?” I shot back seriously.

“It’s confidential information.” By now, he was on the verge of crying. “I just can’t tell you.” He went around me and left.

He had never acted so frail in front of me. He was usually a very concrete man. What I saw that day was a broken man. I noticed he had forgotten his handbag that he carried home everyday. I picked it up and ran to catch up to him. I gave him his handbag. He said thank you and started away, crying.

Had I done something to him? That I did not know. I reserved myself and did not pursue the conversation any longer.

Just then, the officer approached me and lead me to his office. “You wanna know everything.”
“Yes,” I responded.
“Shall I start from the beginning?”

“No, actually, can you tell me what’s wrong with the detective?” “His wife got murdered,” the officer said plainly.
“Have you caught the murderer?”
“Yep. Took us a while though.”

“Is he in the cells?”
“No. He’s right here in my office.”
“I looked around the room. It was just the officer and I. I took a step back.

“Officer! Is this a confession?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
“Did you kill the detective’s wife?” “No. You did.”


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