Nothing Special (Nothing Special 1)

“I make no promises.” Day yanked open the heavy door and they quickly made their way to the metal detectors, pulling out their badges.

While they waited for their inmate and his lawyer to come into the small interrogation room, Day and God stared openly at each other as if they were seeing each other for the first time.

“What are you thinking?” Day asked.

God leaned against the wall in the corner with his arms crossed over his broad chest, already in his position as bad cop. His job was to stay lurking in the corner with a hard scowl on his face to intimidate their suspect.

“Nothing in particular.” God shrugged.

“Not thinking about me?” Day asked, his voice husky.

God looked up at him. His eyes held a seriousness that made Day lose his smirk.

“Of course I’m thinking about you, Leo,” he whispered.

Day had to hurry to catch his breath and get his bearings when he heard the clanking of the heavy metal locks as their suspect stepped into the small room with his lawyer and a guard. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, the guard checked with them before he undid the cuffs and pushed the man down into the small metal chair.

Day pushed all thoughts of sexing his partner to the back of his mind and went into his role as good-want-to-help-you-I’m-your-friend sensitive cop. In a soft, professional tone Day spoke, “How ya doing buddy… ya holding up in here?”

“It’s fucked up in here, Day. What the hell you think? You said you were going to get me in minimum-security.”

Day looked at the man with what he hoped was his best I-understand face. Lamar’s long dreadlocks were pulled back in a ponytail. His faded jeans and prison-issue shirt looked like they'd missed the last couple laundry rounds. He smelled like he was avoiding shower time as well. Day had no doubt that most of the cliques and gangs in the maximum ward didn’t take too kindly to child killers. Word traveled fast, especially on the inside. There were men in there that were serial killers, rapist, robbers, you name it… but as soon as someone came in who'd harmed a child, even the most hardened criminal took offense. Had something to do with children being unable to defend themselves… inmates that were child abusers, molesters, or whatever would always have it worst in prison.

“I’m working on it, Lamar,” Day said soothingly.

“You don’t deserve a fucking thing. You don’t cooperate, we’re not cooperating.” God barked from the corner of the room. He wore a menacing glare and stood to his full 6’4” height with his feet shoulder width apart, like a military drill sergeant.

Lamar snapped up out of his chair. “No one was talking to you, God. Everyone knows you don’t give a fuck. I should’ve run from your big ass when I had the chance ya heartless bastard,” Lamar yelled back at a stone-faced God, who never flinched at Lamar’s rage.

“I would’ve loved for you to have run, Lamar, then I would’ve had a reason to put a bullet in your thigh. I find it baffling that you’re the one that shot a kid in the back but I’m the heartless one.” God snarled at him.

“Detective Godfrey, enough.” Day frowned at him, like he was really upset with God. He turned his focus back to their suspect. “Look, Lamar, I’m still working on your placement, but let’s talk about right now. I’m sure your lawyer has already counseled you about the handgun found in your home. We have your prints and a ballistics report that confirms that gun was the one used to kill fourteen-year-old errand boy Enrique Lopez.”

“Yeah. I know I can’t beat that charge,” Lamar said, casting his eyes downward.

“You can’t beat it fuck-face because you’re guilty,” God huffed.

Lamar jumped up but his lawyer pulled him down before he could yell again.

“Look, detectives, we want to make a deal. My client is willing to give over the locations of the other guys that got away, in exchange for ten years with the possibility of parole in eight.”

Day had to be careful not to break character, because he desperately wanted to slap that dumbass lawyer across his face for even suggesting something so ludicrous. Lamar had enough weed in his house to supply an entire reggae concert, in addition to three illegal automatic weapons, and if that wasn’t enough to warrant twenty years, one of those guns was used to kill a kid. Day didn’t have to say anything, because God would.

God rushed forward and slammed his large hands on the metal table so hard that Lamar and his lawyer practically fell backward out of their chairs.

“Eight years for drug possession, intent to distribute, guns, and murder one! Fucking kill yourself!” God roared, glaring at the lawyer. “If you’re going to waste our damn time, then we’re leaving. Let’s go, Day.” God stood up and stalked toward the door.