Joe Mason trudged through the slippery hallway, his posture straight. He held a cup of coffee in his hand. Black no sugar. The barista's loved his order. It was fast, quick and he always left a tip. His short blonde hair was slicked back. He stopped in front of Stacy but kept a good two-meter distance. Stacy always complained about straining her neck when she had to talk to him.
"Who is the prisoner who's been transferred?" Joe asked. "And why on earth did South Wryklin drop him onto our laps?"
"He's a key witness to the South Wryklin College Massacre, "Stacy spoke. "And he insisted on coming here…we believe he can identify Silva…but it's been tough getting him to talk."
"Why?"
"Well, he's kind of the mad shooter who walked into the college, causing chaos before the other attackers came," Stacy said.
Joe took the folder and gave it a quick glance. "I heard about that massacre…I swear I could not sleep for a week."
"Me neither," Stacy whispered. "There is a massacre like every five years…"
"How many had occurred before the Wryklin incident?"
Stacy thought for a moment. "I think four…"
"Which means whoever is behind this hasn't been caught for nearly twenty years?"
"I guess that is why they dropped Clay on us…they are desperate. They don't like agencies like ours," Stacy said.
Joe walked into the dark observation room. Sure enough, Clay Stalin sat in the centre of the room, his hands clasped together, staring straight at the mirror. His face was serious.
"Have you tried to speak to him?"
"He hasn't said a word, which has been…frustrating to say the least. According to my buddies in the hospital…he could not shut up…Bailey this, Bailey that…"
"Bailey who?" Joe asked.
"One of the survivors of the college attack, Bailey Bourne…they believe he is infatuated with her," Stacy tapped on a picture of a girl. "And that he made every effort to keep her alive during this attack."
"You think she might be linked to this all?"
Stacy shrugged. "No connections were found. All evidence suggests that they met on that day, and he just liked her."
"Liked her?" Joe glanced at the solemn face in front of him. He was simply still and staring.
"I remember this investigation was right before an election…were the culprits found?"
"Well," Stacy muttered. "Here is where it gets odd, yes and no…yes, all the attackers were found, dead."
Joe frowned. "Now this I didn't hear."
"Well, you're looking at the culprit who killed them all," Stacy motioned to Clay. "Thing is, the instigator behind it was never found. But elections make things go away…"
"And now he's, our problem?"
"Pretty much," Stacy took one look at him. "He was declared sane and insane by different professionals. It's like, he's toying with them. And he knows exactly what to say and do."
"You suggest he's playing a game with us now?"
"Yeah,"
"Well, I'm gonna go talk to him, see if I can get a squeak…" Joe walked out of the observation room and into the interrogation room. Clay did not even turn his head as he walked in.
"Clay Slator, my name is Joe Mason…I'd like to talk to you about the college massacre…"
An hour into the interview, Joe stood up and walked out of the room. Stacy waited on the other end of the hallway with a cup of coffee at hand. "Told you he wouldn't talk."
"It's like talking to a stone wall, but he has his slips," Joe said taking a sip. "He tends to twitch at the mention of Bailey…where is she now?"
"I actually don't know; I can look it up…" Stacy said.
"Good, I am going back in," Joe said.
"You are really patient,"
"I'm not bothered, there is a difference…he thinks he's toying with me, but I am not biting, I am not going to bite," Joe walked back into the interrogation room. Joe took a seat and flipped the folder he had in his other hand. He placed the coffee down on the metallic table.
"You kill him?" Joe tossed one of the pictures of the corpses on towards Clay.
Clay reached forward and Joe frowned as he lifted the picture and smiled. "He was a funny guy. He tried to take me on with a knife…" Clay dropped the photo. "Thing is, a knife is useless…especially if you are holding a gun." Clay shrugged. "Don't take a knife to a gun fight…isn't that what they all say?"
"So you speak?"
"No, I don't, but for you, Mr Blondie, I will make an accepting….you are driving me a little crazy…who talks for an hour nonstop?" Clay slapped his leg and sat back. "No, you know, I don't want to hear you talk again."
"That's not up to you,"
"Oh, but it is," Clay said. "Talk to your boss…they want Silva, don't they? They want his head on a silver platter…or behind bars…whichever one will stop the press from bugging them with their endless chatter and phone calls, you know?"
"So, you know who Silva is? "
"I will only talk to Bailey…she's here, in this city, isn't she? I heard the trees and buildings are all here, "
Joe stood up. "Something tells me that she doesn't want to talk to you."
"Oh, but she will soon, just ask her," Clay tapped on the picture. "Silva doesn't like unfinished business. It's like a pebble in his shoe. He hates that fact…"
"You're telling me that the survivors are in danger?"
Clay simply shrugged and sat back. He reverted his stare back to the glass and phased out. Joe knew he was no longer going to get any kind of response. He walked out of the room. It was time to pay some attention to this 'Bailey' girl and figure out why exactly Clay is so obsessed with her.
Perhaps, she might be an accomplice, or mastermind. All he knew, was there far more to this story than meets the eye. Now that the case was in his lap, he would make sure to finish it properly.