Chapter 4: Justice

...Riley at the Hall of Justice...

Riley sat waiting for more than half an hour, irritation adding to anxiety. He wanted to help and to put the whole thing behind him. Why keep him waiting? He played solitaire on his cell phone to hide his distress.

The door opened and Inspector Henderson stood in it. His nose twitched above a gray moustache as if to sniff the air. Satisfied, he entered the room and faced Riley from the other side of the table. Riley rose and extended his hand. The inspector paused a heartbeat then took it. His grip was as passionate as a grappling hook.

He sat down, wordlessly. Nearly a minute passed. Then the sergeant placed the backpack on the table. Riley flinched.

“You are Riley Turner?”

He nodded.

“Tell me how you acquired the backpack.”

Riley told him.

“What did you do with the contents?”

He protested it was empty when he found it.

“What's your relationship with the deceased, Robert Martin?”

He denied knowing the dead man.

The inspector signaled to the sergeant who opened a laptop on the table. He pressed a button and turned the screen so they could see it. There, again, was the footage showing the man now known as Robert Martin pushing at Riley’s back.

“Is that you, Mr. Turner?”

“Yes.”

“Why was Martin trying to give you the backpack?”

Riley’s mouth opened as if to answer but the direction of the question stymied him. “You’ve got it wrong.”

“Answer the question.”

“He wasn’t giving me the backpack.”

“You ended up with it.”

“I told you how I found it.”

“Mr. Turner.” He held up the backpack. “The film shows Martin pushing it to you. You end up with it. Mission accomplished.”

“I brought it here when I realized its significance.”

“And what is that, Mr. Turner?”

Recoiling, Riley sat silent, shaking his head.

“Bring the drug sensor, sergeant.”

The sergeant approached holding a black plastic device that looked like a TV remote control. He held it between them like a salesman demonstrating the latest technology. He pressed a button and a red light flashed at the top. He pressed another and a steady beep sounded, regular like a heartbeat. He looked to the inspector.

“Mr. Turner. You know that drugs leave a residue?”

Riley did not respond.

“You’ve seen CSI?”

Riley nodded.

“This sensor detects the traces of illicit drugs. Do you have anything to tell me?”

His anger rising, he shook his head.

The sergeant moved the sensor over the backpack. The beeps accelerated. He opened the bag’s main compartment and they intensified, loud and angry like a swarm of bees. Riley’s pulse quickened.

“The sensor’s picked up traces of drugs, inspector.”

“Mr. Turner, what did you do with them?”

Beads of sweat dotted his hairline. One overflowed to streak down his face. He brushed at it with his hand. Another overflowed and he brushed at that, then another, looking like he was chasing away a swarm.

“Mr. Turner. You’re a college student. I know it’s expensive because I’m sending a kid through. I can see how someone might go down the wrong road, selling drugs to get by.”

Riley, exhausted with explanations shattered against a wall, only shook his head.

“Mr. Turner. I will keep you here until you give me some answers.” Inspector Henderson left the room, the sergeant trailing behind.

Riley, legs extended and arms hanging limp at his side, contemplated his situation. Coming forward in good faith, he met skepticism and disbelief. Henderson’s insinuations weighed on him.

He thought of Susan’s mocking look. Innocent. The word seemed naïve. He came off like someone who didn’t know the ways of the world. Henderson sensed that, too. He was trying to squeeze him into the role of drug-dealing murderer. He thought him a chump.

He grabbed the backpack and flung it against the wall.

A minute passed. The door opened. The sergeant peered in. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Yeah. To Henderson.”

Again the inspector paused at the door before entering, his nose twitching.

“Well?”

Riley reached into his pocket and handed him Susan’s card. Henderson read it.

“You talking to the press?”

“She’s a friend, inspector. I told you everything I know. I’m going now.” He turned to the door.

A lewd smile grew on Henderson’s face. “Your ‘friend’ could tell you I can hold you for 72 hours”.

Henderson stuffed the card in Riley’s shirt pocket. “In case you need it again. Sergeant, take him to lock-up.”

Riley was stunned. The sergeant led him through the door.

“Don’t leave town without letting me know. Ha, ha.”

His laughter stung, chasing Riley down the hall.

“Ha, ha, HA!”



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted March 21.