Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

“Mr. Casey will escort us and remain during the interrogation.”

Jack looked the man over. He was dressed in dark loose-fitting clothes, not the usual dark suit and tie or blue windbreaker of the FBI. Like the other guards, he had a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol at his side, while an HK submachine gun was strapped over his shoulder. Casey possessed the lean, strong body of a swimmer, his eyes focused and alert. There was no question about the man’s abilities.

Casey slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, and ushered Dorran, Peter, and Jack into a dark room. The only source of light leaked through enormous red velvet curtains that had been drawn across a picture window.

Casey flipped a switch, flooding the room with a harsh, bright light courtesy of a temporary flood in the corner of what was now seen to be a parlor. The walls were covered in chintz wallpaper, the floor in wall-to-wall burgundy carpet. A guard stood silently in the corner, his rifle clutched tightly against his chest.

All furniture had been stripped away except for a metal table in the center of the room and several hard wood chairs. Casey drew back the curtains, revealing an eerily lit backyard, the leaf-filled pool, a tennis court with a torn net. The picture window was obscured by a chain-link fence that reached from floor to ceiling; its galvanized metal links stood in sharp contrast to the room’s decor.

In the center of the room sat Cristos in a large wooden high-backed chair, his wrists cuffed to the thick oak arms, his ankles chained to the heavy legs. He was dressed in the dark charcoal-gray suit he was captured in; the knot of his blue tie was perfect. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The day’s growth on his face only served to enhance his ominous appearance, which agitated even the guards. It was as if they had caged Satan and were awaiting his retribution.

But it was his eyes that disturbed Jack the most. They were dark, malevolent, and fixed on Jack, like a predator lying in wait to strike down its innocent prey. He studied Jack for several seconds before turning his assessing eyes on Peter and Dorran.

Casey walked backward, practically disappearing into the corner. He spun his rifle forward, gripping it tightly to his chest, thumbing off the safety as if to send a message.

The three sat down before Cristos, Dorran in the middle, Peter to his left, Jack to his right.

“I am Special Agent Carter Dorran. You are in the custody of the United States government and the state of New York and are being charged with murder. This is Peter Womack from the U.S. Justice Department.” Carter pointed at Peter and then at Jack. “And Jack Keeler, the DA from New York City. Would you like an attorney?”

“Not yet,” Cristos said softly.

“Understand that our legal system provides-”

“You should be aware that I understand your judicial process as well as, if not better than, you.” Cristos spoke as if he wasn’t bound, as if he wasn’t being interrogated, as if he was before a legal committee in a large corporation.

“Do you wish to offer a confession,” Dorran said, “or should we proceed?”

Cristos nodded.

“Can you explain what you were doing in that building’s elevator shaft?”

“No,” Cristos answered.

“Were you in the Bonsleys’ apartment?”

As Dorran continued his questioning, Jack opened the file and examined the images of the dead general, a single bullet hole above his left eye; of the Bonsleys’ laid out against each other, their heads tilted at odd, impossible angles. Jack fought the sour feeling in his stomach, trying to hide the emotion from his face.

While most would succumb to the horror and reality of death, of brutal murder, their minds overcome with grief and revulsion, Jack was different. Anger had arisen in him at the violation of the most basic tenet of human existence.

As he continued listening to the line of questioning, in a slow reveal of emotion, Cristos smiled as he glimpsed Jack’s reaction.

“You killed a head of state,” Peter said. “Was this on behalf of a foreign government?”

Cristos took a deep breath and turned his full attention to Jack. “Mr. Keeler is the most skilled man in the room, yet he is silent.”

Peter paused a moment before continuing. “Are you working on behalf-”

“I’m only going to have a conversation with one of you,” Cristos said, still staring at Jack.

“You don’t dictate how this interrogation goes,” Dorran said.

Cristos glanced at Jack’s wedding ring. “Married?”

Jack didn’t respond.

“Children?” Cristos paused. “Children are amazing. They make us see the world from a whole new perspective. They teach us patience, tolerance, and sacrifice.”

Jack stared at Cristos, assessing him, letting him continue.

“It’s interesting how every child starts off innocent,” Cristos continued, “but each follows a different path. Some become men like you; some become men like the general; some become like me.” Cristos paused. “Do you think it’s fate, someone pulling strings, or do we choose our own path?”

Jack had conducted too many interrogations to count. There were moments to listen, moments to speak, moments to challenge, and moments to play mind games. He knew the personality types: the passive-aggressive who attacked with charm; the ultraviolent whose rage was obvious and explosive; the compliant and cooperative who answered every question without hesitation, weaving stories on the spot that they believed as much as they hoped the interrogator would. And then there were the types like Cristos.

“What you did today was monstrous,” Jack finally said.

Cristos leaned forward, becoming more attentive.

“In the last twenty-four hours,” Jack continued, “you took three lives.”

“And how many did I save in the process?”

“Save?” Jack asked with a raised brow.

“How many people would have died at the order of the general just in the next month?”

“So your defense is that you killed three to save more?” Dorran said, trying to reenter and resume control of the conversation. “Well, that’s not how it works.”

Cristos ignored Dorran and spoke directly to Jack. “When a soldier, a military man, kills another man, when a fighter jet drops a bomb destroying a village, it’s for honor and country. But when an individual kills, it is called murder. Why is that?”

“Don’t equate war with this,” Jack said.

“We’re all at war in some way or another. Some people use their words to fight, to tear the opposition apart emotionally. Others”-Cristos tilted his head at Jack and Peter-“use their legal system of laws, to take down and destroy their opponents’ freedom and security. And others forgo destroying the character, choosing just to eliminate the individual altogether.”

“Did the Bonsleys deserve to die?”

“Do the people in a poor village where an errant bomb was dropped deserve to die? Dispatching death in a war, when a country deems it necessary to success, is understood by humanity, but when it deals in eliminating a single man, when the public doesn’t understand its purpose, it’s horrific, shocking, evil.”

“Did you kill those three people today?” Jack asked.

Cristos smiled. “You’re going to have to do at least a little work here, Jack. Let me ask you a question. Are you the type who is more interested in justice, truth, or an eye for an eye?”

Jack said nothing.

“Could you look me in the eye and kill me so others might live? Put your lawyerly self aside. Could you be the hangman? Hold the pistol to my head and pull the trigger to save lives?” Cristos paused, waiting for Jack to answer. “I didn’t think so. It’s always so much easier from behind the curtain, pulling other people’s strings to do your bidding. Well… I just think you should know, if you asked me the same question, I’d have no problem laying that pistol right up against your temple and pulling the trigger.”