AV has been working his way through ninth grade English. Most of it is time consuming but not that interesting. This assignment pushed him. He chose an AVENGER archetype.
As the harsh light flickered to life, the suspicious face of the detective came into view. His sharp blue eyes showed an even sharper mind that had not dulled with the age that his grizzled white beard seemed to suggest. His corse thick voice made me think he had only recently stopped smoking. This seemed to me like the kind of man that would stop cold turkey just to prove he could do it. His two sizes too big trench coat that must have been bought the same day that he came back from what ever war had given him the scar. A scar that started somewhere in his beard and cut up across his face disappearing somewhere under his disheveled bangs.
It soon became evident he had never stopped smoking. Even though smoking was banned inside any public building no one cared to inform this man of his infraction. What he did smoke were cigars. He liked to roll and twirl them through his fingers before cutting and lighting them. A heavy file landed on the stainless steel table with a clang that reverberated throughout the now hazy, smoky room. The detective, who had been pacing around the table, dragged an old metal chair whose rubber feet were long gone across the floor. This action causing a monotonous grind across the concrete floor. Setting my nerves on edge – even more on edge than they already were. Here I was facing down the infamous interrogator Paul Mascelli. It was said there was no case he could not solve. He interrogated me; wearing me down slowly with small thing like tapping the table with his with match – over and over and over again. the buzz of the light, the lack of windows, his moving his chair so it would scape across the floor, the one fly in the room with its droning buzz.
This one man was bane of the criminal underground – the fear of every man that ever had any thing to do with organized crime – the fear of being where I was, now, on the other side of a table from him. No man ever came out of that room with out confessing to his charges. The legend is his mother was killed by the mafia when he was 12, and from that day, he decided to fight organized crime to avenge his mother. He supposedly staked out the killer’s shop for months; he’d built a water tight case with photos and recorded phone conversations; how he got them no one cared to ask. They were stunned he had done it – he was 15.
I though about, Edgar Eyre “The Lone Collector” my boss. He lasted the longest at two days stuck at that table. Just siting there he spent the night in that room with that one fly. When Mascelli came in the next morning, Edgar confessed to all his charges. In the end, I knew it was inevitable. I snapped; his skill was amazing. I lasted a mere 15 minuets in his room.