Chapter 11

            Police Headquarters was an ugly gray building made of concrete and marble. Taking inspiration from the Brutalists, the architects decided that law and order was best represented with a structure both boxy and jagged. Headquarters was where the chief kept his office and where only the most dangerous criminals were kept.

            Herbert entered the lobby to be met by a bored receptionist with his chin in his hand staring at a computer screen. He stood in front of the desk in silence and looked around at the others sitting in chairs. They were an eclectic mix of Carser City citizens: tearful mothers, disappointed fathers, bruised women, and sunken-cheeked men. They all sat and waited with patience and quiet misery. Herbert cleared his throat, still waiting for the receptionist to address him.

            “One minute, sir.” The young man croaked back as he clicked his mouse. After another minute, he looked up unsmiling. “What can I do for you today?”

            “I'm here because my...my son is in holding.”

            “What's your son's name?” Fingers flew across the keyboard. “Can I see your ID?”

            “Darius Freeman.” Herbert pulled his ID from his wallet and slid it across the desk.

            The young man paused and squinted at his screen. Then he picked up the ID and studied it. “Darius Freeman...is your son?”

            “Yes,” Herbert barked, his voice coming out low and hoarse and angry. “Is there a problem?”

            “Well, Darius...he has a different...last name.”

            “Have you ever heard of adoption?” Herbert's voice rose, catching the attention of the other people seated in the lobby. “Am I being discriminated against because of the color of my son's skin?”

            “Uh, no, not at all,” the receptionist said quickly, his pale face flushing as his eyes darted from Herbert to the faces of the people watching. “It's just...I was just...”

            “I want to see my son right now or I'll be forced to call my lawyer.”

            “No need for that, sir. Just have a seat and I'll see if he's allowed to take visitors...” The receptionist got up and scrambled away from his desk through a door.

            Herbert remained standing in front of the desk with his arms crossed. The young man returned after a few minutes. Behind him was a sandy-haired man Herbert recognized as Detective Samson. His blue eyes shined with recognition as he smiled at Herbert.

            “Detective Samson wants to have a word with you before you meet with your son.” The receptionist said.

            “Good to see you again, Mr. Winslow.” The detective held out a hand.

            Herbert stared at the detective's stubbled face for a beat before taking the hand and giving it a weak shake. “You too.”

            “Why don't you come back with me this way?” Samson led the way through the door. Herbert followed him into the building. They passed offices and desks. Cops in uniform joking as they drank coffee. Samson smiled and nodded at some of his peers until they came to a sudden stop at a door marked Interview Room A.

            “I just had a couple of questions for you before you go and see your son, if you don't mind. It won't take a minute.” The detective's voice was low and slow and drawling, as if he were reporting the weather.

            Herbert narrowed his eyes. “Without a lawyer?”

            “It's nothin' official. We're not charging you with anything. More jus' a matter of personal curiosity.”

            “I don't have to answer anything. I just want to see my son.”

            “Y'know, it'd be to both of our benefits if we have a sit down for a minute. See, we get the lawyers involved and then I'm gonna have to do a bunch of paperwork and charge you with obstructing justice...maybe get you locked up in a cell overnight....maybe not see the judge to get your bail posted for a few days...it'd be a whole tangled mess...” Samson sniffed and looked down then looked back up with a gleam in his eye and a smirk curling his lip.

            “Christ.” Herbert shook his head. “All right.”

            “Right this way.” Samson opened the door and led the way into Interview Room A.

            It was a plain room with dirty off-white walls. A stainless-steel table took up the majority of the floorspace. There were two chairs positioned on each side of the table, also made from stainless steel. A two-way mirror stretched along the far wall parallel to the table.

            Samson sat down in one of the chairs and gestured for Herbert to do the same. Herbert pulled his chair from the table and filled the room with a low metallic screech. He dropped into his seat and stared at the detective.

            Samson stared back with serene eyes. He folded his hands in front of him. A few minutes of quiet passed between the two men.

            “Well?” Herbert finally said, frowning. “Aren't you going to ask any questions?”

            “How're you doin' today?”

            “Fine.”

            “Good, good. So, Darius Freeman is your son? Is that correct now?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well, that's fascinatin' to me, seein' as you're white and he's black.”

            “You're very observant.”

            “Guess that's why they made me a detective, now, isn't it?”

            Herbert's mouth shaped itself into something between a grimace and a smile. He clenched his teeth and swallowed down the rage. This was no time to lose his temper. The detective was trying to rattle him and see what shook out. It wasn't his first time in an interrogation room, but he hoped it would be the last. He sat and waited for the next question, trying to approximate his face into a mask of patience.

            “When did you adopt him?”

            Herbert stroked his chin and tried to remember. It had been years. A decade? That seemed about right. It was after that first year of darkness. He remembered over the course of that year a scrawny little teenager would come into the shop asking if there was any work to be done. Herbert would always turn him away, sometimes with stony silence, sometimes with kindness, and other times with cruelty. But he always came back. Herbert admired the boy's persistence.  “Ten years.”

            Samson whistled. “Hoo boy. Ten years, huh? That's quite some time.” He paused and leaned forward conspiratorially. His voice dropped. “Now, in all that time, did you ever happen to make this little adoption of yours official? You ever get down to city hall and sign some papers? Meet with a social worker and all that jazz?”

            Herbert frowned and Samson leaned back, knowing the answer. “No, I can't say that I did.” Resentment flooded Herbert's chest. He remembered the day he finally said yes. Some milestone had passed. Matthew's birthday? Or his wife's? Or maybe it was just the anniversary of the crash itself. In any case, he was miserable and sober, on the verge of killing himself. It was noon, lunchtime, and he decided to eat outside because the weather was nice. And so, he sat and ate his sandwich, loathing the world around him. And who should come along but the kid? He walked right by Herbert and started digging through a garbage can, looking for something to eat. And Herbert looked down at his lunch and felt that ache in his heart and wondered if his family was watching him right now from their seats in the afterlife. He called the kid over and asked him his name, if he was hungry. And he remembered how he looked at him with those wide eager eyes. They cut a deal then and there: Darius would get half of Herbert's sandwich after sweeping the floor of the shop. That was how it all began.

            “Well, then,” Samson leaned back in his chair. “Seems like you're not the suspect's father, after all.”

            Herbert's eyes lit with rage. He wanted to reach across the table and choke the smug detective until the lights went out in his eyes. Herbert breathed. He was too old for such nonsense. Samson was young and strong and wouldn't go down without a hell of a fight.

            “Legally speakin', that is.” Samson scratched his chin.

            Herbert spoke slowly, each word passing over his teeth a cold slice from a razor. “I'm sure any judge would recognize my status as his legal guardian.”

            “Well, that's the other thing...how old is Darius? Too old for a legal guardian. He’s in his twenties. Legal guardianship is only for minors. This ain't no minor we’re talkin’ about here.”

            Herbert said nothing. He only sat and smoldered, his tongue passing over his teeth every few minutes.

            “Why's this boy matter to you so much?” Samson spoke after another long pause. “Why not just let it be?”

            Herbert still said nothing.

            Something shifted in Samson. It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun. His voice grew low and his watery eyes seemed to darken. “See, if you don't let it be, we might just have to pay your shop a visit, see about all those carpets you been cleanin'.”

            Herbert stared, not breaking his silence. He knew an empty threat when he heard one. There was no proof. Did the police have the time or resources to comb thousands of square miles of desert? He smiled politely.

            And just like that, Samson snapped back into his easy-going self. He nodded and returned the smile. “All right. I s'pose it's time to see your son.” He stood and loped his way toward the door.

            Herbert followed a step behind him.

            They walked down the hall to another interview room. Samson paused in front of the door. “Don't forget. We're doin' you a favor here. We'll give you five minutes. That's all we can do considerin' your...situation.” He opened the door for Herbert. The door swung shut behind him.