The "I'll start writing and see where it takes me"-project, part...infinite.
Possibly, and probably, up for some editing later on. But for the moment, and the time being, here goes:
The woman sat down in front of him, sporting the body language of an unloaded garbage container. He reckoned it was mostly due to her being ordered to sit her bloody ass down on a quite unsteady spindleback chair, close to the ugly, long side wall of the narrow and almost claustrophobic interrogation room. The only way she could demonstrate her contempt: behaving like an unwilling, little bitch. No less than he had expected, and his preparedness pleased him. She would not manage to completely put him off this time. Hopefully.
The target for today’s massive questioning was wearing a grey hood, ten sizes too big, and some truly unfitting, black jeans. He never seemed to understand how a woman with such a nice, slim figure could dress so carelessly. It was as though she deliberately made an effort to look clumsy and even unattractive, despite her lean features. Perhaps it was just a matter of self-defence. Posing as cool and untouchable or something like that; anyway, he could not fathom the slightest bit of it. And she did not really succeed, either, for that matter. Her looks were describable as nothing short of beautiful. Plus, the sloppiness had little effect on the unceasing sparkling of her brown eyes in the dim light of the shadeless light bulb, just above her mass of brown hair. Also intensely shining, the curls fell loosely around the symmetrical, slender face. In combination with her blood-red, full lips and immaculate skin, this resulted in the angel-like appearance she had become immensely famous for; in the minds of numerous (lest to say all) police officers over the later years. When referred to during their archetypical and serious cop-to-cop-conversations, she always came out as "the angel". A significantly merciless one, though; an angel of death, in order to waste another cliché. Regardless of the cruel context, and regardless of how the cruelty increased, the policemen spoke of her in a manner close to awe. Reluctant to define it as actual respect, because they all hated her too much, he still found the resemblance to it being pretty close. And of course, she never ceased to amaze him. In fact, he had yet to meet a more – whatever implication the word might lead to – fascinating killer. Her personality captivated him, and her background history was horrid enough to flabbergast any cold copper-fuck; which again was the label she had chosen when addressing them during interview situations. Her hardcore-lingo equalled that of any colleague he was acquainted with. Similarly, her variety of “past experiences” and thereby long-developed “abilities” to handle copper-fucks like him, for instance, were more than disturbing.
The angel could handle them and she could handle them well. Based on their mutually despising each other, any solution to the conflict between the two parties had so far been impossible to find. But after all those weeks and months of exhausting work, long hours on the night shift and buckets of coffee, he had told his seething anger and brooding frustration that it was about time he gave her one, last chance. He deserved a little co-operation now. And when he stepped into the interrogation room earlier that morning, he had – in consequence of this decisiveness and the pathetic, high hopes – yearned to watch that perfect face of hers turn pale. Desperately longing for some success, to finally penetrate her shield of insufferable non-response; he was prepared to destroy her. At least figuratively speaking. He would crush her, beat her, defeat her.
Oh yes; that was what he kept telling himself. But however promising his intensions and tireless preparations had seemed to him, prior to the meeting itself, he ended up heavily disappointed. Once more, he came to find himself met with silence, and silence only. A repetition of their previous moments together; down to the last, fucking detail. There was no help in her persistent equivocation; she had never given them any assistance. Too bright, too clever and too…unsettling. Such were his guesses. But neither his own actions nor her methods were really explainable to him. He observed her hostile movements; her aggressive lighting of the cigarette which a young delegate offered her, the steady thumping of her boot soles against the linoleum floor. Her ever-so-closed face. Her entire attitude was indeed reserved, to an extreme extent, and he realized getting close to the truth remained an act of absolute improbability. What’s underneath will stay underneath, as his friend Jonah had put it. For the moment, he was simply too tired. And - although he was aware it would prove difficult, he intended to call it quits with a minimum of dignity left. Hence he lifted his pen, pointed it at her with a somewhat shaky finger, and looked down at his desk while he spoke. “That will be all for today.” She lifted an eyebrow. She lifted an eyebrow and kept looking at him, while he was continuously staring at the edge of the dirty table. Her non-existing shyness, her strength, her total, disrespectful arrogance out-manoeuvred him.
The only response! Two hours of his precious time; two hours of uncomfortable, seizing-her-up stress, and all she offered him was a bloody lift of an eyebrow! “Get out”, he whispered, his voice stinging with the awareness of their unfinished business. She did not blink. “Or”, he continued relentlessly, “I swear, I’m gonna kill you.” And then he understood what he had just said, and he condemned his own stupidity, his thoughtlessness. So unbelievably unprofessional! No wonder she gave him that icy laughter. A puff of breath, more like it; a clearing of the throat, or even a croak. But no; it was not really any such. There was nothing accidental about her actions, he knew too well, and this was plain laughing. She was mocking him and unfortunately, she was quite right in doing so. Unable to stand her celebration of inevitable victory, he therefore repeated his order. Get out. And she did; she rose from the unsteady, old chair and gave him another, vague grin. The corners of her mouth hardly moving, yet it was so evident to him, he could have cried. “Bye-bye, Anderson”, she told him. “See you soon, then.”
And he knew the angel was right. Her precision was irreproachable and she was inexorably...hauntingly...right.