The Subtle Art of Brutality

His eyes burst open when they recognize the barrel of a gun pointed at him.

“Where is Delilah Boothe?”

“Oh my God, dude, Jesus fucking Christ, I—what the fuck is going on here man! Who are—”

“Tell me where Boothe is.”

I cock back the hammer. His bloodshot, watery eyes glisten with all the moisture he has left in his body. His teeth are varying shades of yellow and black. His track marks are ten shades darker than his light complexion. Black hair mussed and matted by days of indifference. His lips so parched they crack. New blood spots dried next to old blood spots. Sores. Hard lines. Sunken cheeks. Waste.

“Delilah Boothe,” I say. His eyes search for recognition of the English language.

People who are poor liars will show it. Their eyes dart everywhere looking for a convincing answer. I’ve had illegal Mexicans mumble and speak gibberish—not Spanish, gibberish—when I ask for ID. I’ve had drug dealers make up a new story with every breath when I ask for details. I’ve had warrant arrests that lie about what the warrant is for. They accuse police of making shit up. I took care of that last month, Officer. I swear. There must be some mistake. I’ve arrested a DUI who told me the reason he doesn’t have a license is because he was recently robbed at gunpoint. He gave me a fake case number. He never mentioned how his driving privileges were permanently revoked. And later on, I found one license in his front seat. I found another one in his glove box. Then he couldn’t figure out how in the world him having those was possible. Liars lie.

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Drug abusers are disconnected from reality. Obviously. Their brains sometimes have to legitimately search for facts, details and chains of events. That makes things more difficult. Their minds are scattered and awkwardly jump from one important focus to the next. And the universal rule about that is: whatever is an important focus to a drug user during questioning is never what is important to the officer during questioning. Berating hopheads to keep them on topic is one technique I’m good at. Coming down hard on anybody for anything is one technique I’m good at.

And of course, most times the drug abusers are also poor liars.

“Dude, I got no fucking clue! Dude! I don’t even know a Deborah!”

“Delilah. You ruined your marriage for her. Remember her now?”

“My marriage? To Autumn? Hey, that was years back, man. I got—”

“Try harder. Delilah Boothe. She fenced some dope through you not too long ago.”

“I, uhhh...” The first sweat bead runs down his face. Bingo. I press my heater against his forehead. “Oh shit...you’re the five-oh, ain’t ya?”

“No.”

“You gotta be. With that hair cut? You gotta be. I think I uhhh...I think that—oh! Delilah! Yes. Yes she came over for dinner. It was just tacos and shit. I think she left a pair of panties here somewhere...just let me dig around—”

I lean in. “Where is she?”

Two ideas suddenly make a connection with James. A new look of horror now: “You...you with the dealer she took from? Oh Christ, say you ain’t—”

Let him believe it. New angle: “I’m willing to work with you on this.”

He tries to cry. I’m not sure if he’s trying to drum up sympathy in me or if he’s really this distraught. Either way, I don’t care.

“Tears don’t mean shit, James. Answers do.”

“Dude, I swear the last time I seen her was about three months ago. Okay?”

Me, staring.

Brink of hyperventilation: “Yeah, so it was like four—no! Five months ago and I, uhh...I—”

Me, still staring. The timeline is bullshit but asking a junkie for solid, unwavering numbers is like asking Nancy Pelosi to wipe that insane plastic surgery surprise off her face.

“She rolled in all scared, had a load of shit with her. Said she didn’t know where to turn. Knew I dabbled in the shit, thought I could help. She got all at ease with me when she realized I knew enough to score for us both. She’d been evicted, bro. Her old man or whatever tossed her ass from the house we used to party in and everything. I guess he got out of prison and came home and just threw her shit out. What a dick. But she needed cash. She didn’t have shit. Hell, she coasted into my driveway on fumes. I had to take a gas can like two miles down the road just to—”

“I don’t care about her fuel situation. I want to know about the dope and her.”

“Right, right. Give me a minute to remember. I’m not Einstein or anything. Well, I told her I knew some dudes who sold to me here and there. I woulda sold it myself but my PO, she’s a cunt. She doesn’t piss test me so often anymore but if word got ’round that I was dealin’...damn I’d be in stir for fuckin’ life.”

“What are you on probation for?”