"Room 32B, Room 32B, Room 32B......"
The numbers and words kept echoing in my mind. I was nervous, evident by all the sweat that was dropping down on my forehead. This wasn't exactly what I was looking for, I thought to myself, but maybe it is something that I need.
The anxiety was taking over my brain, although I could still hear faint echoes of the room number as though they were coming from deep down a well. I had been walking for the last few minutes but hadn't seen any "Room 32B". I scanned the doors to my right, and then to my left as I walked on. "31D, 33A, 32A," I murmured to myself as I read the room numbers one after another, "34D, 33B and 32B."
There it was. Room 32B.
The numbers were painted with red on a white metal plate and hung on the door. The plate seemed rusty and the numbers were on the verge of fading away.
"Knock, Knock."
"Hey, you must be the new guy. Come on in.", shouted a voice from inside a room, it sounded young, very young by the standards of where it came from.
So, I walked in. The first thing I noticed was the pastel walls of the room, they were very relaxing and soothing, easy on the eyes. In the middle of the room, a group of men, fairly young, I recall, were seated on blue chairs in what most likely was a circle. I couldn't help but notice that they were very close to each other with laptops on their laps. I couldn't pinpoint what it was, but the look that they wore on their faces was eerie, it gave off a very chilling vibe.
It wasn't exactly what I had expected but I'd sworn to myself I'd give it a try.
From the neatly stacked chairs at the corner of the room, I got myself a chair and sat down with the group.
"So, why don't you introduce yourself?", a man sitting across me suggested. He was fair and I didn't think that goatee suited him and his hoarse and believe me when I say this, very feminine voice.
"Hi, I'm Norman Reed. I'm a cop and I have an angel. Her name is Sam and she's 8. My wife passed away last year and ever since, I'm the only one she's got."
"Ok," they said, seemingly unimpressed, "What made you want to come in to a Conspiracy Focus Group?"
It felt like hundreds of explosions happening at the same time in my mind.
"I.... I thought this was a Single Dads' Focus Group."
The room burst into laughter. I possibly couldn't blame anyone but myself.
Pacing themselves, the man said, mixed with a few giggles and sniffles, "The other focus group ended an hour ago."
My face was red. It almost felt as if the words "SHAME" were tattooed on my forehead. How disgraceful for a cop who was trained to give attention to details. Good Lord.
"I guess I should leave then."
"No, no, stay. You're already here now, might as well learn a few things, eh?"
"You know what?", I thought to myself, "doesn't seem so bad."
After all, what could possibly go wrong?
"So", they seemed to have completely forgotten about me, which was relieving, "what were we talking about?" "Oh, that guy Javier Diaz."
Suddenly, I was interested.
"What about him?", I was very curious. "Well, I know art and what that man is selling is trash." It felt good to be validated for once. However, I withheld the urge to fist bump myself.
"Yeah, yeah, we think that he never gave up selling drugs. It's possible that his painting business is a front for his other business."
"The drugs?" It burst out from my mouth. "Yeah, the drugs."
"That's enough for today.", they said.
"But....But, I just got here."
"Yeah, but, why do you care? You didn't even want to be here.", they said packing up their chairs and carrying their bags.
Well, that was true. And although this was brief, it was definitely something I needed to hear.