Detective, You're Guilty!

**It's been so long since I've written/posted anything ;-;; I really want to write more! Anyways, this story is inspired by the Reid interrogation technique, which has led to many false confessions since its creation in the 1960's. WARNING: It's... a little dark.**

The evening air was crisp, blowing through the window and rattling the blinds. Carlos Sanchez’s house, the murder victim’s, was dark, except for the faint blue glow of a computer screen on the far table. By the door, his pair of Size 8 shoes was still left waiting. A mug brimming with coffee sat in front of his computer monitor, one of the only objects illuminated in full light. Everything else was covered in faint gloom.

Carefully, I stepped past the threshold, remembering to slip off my shoes. The digital clock on top of a cabinet shelf told me it had just turned 8:30 pm. Taking a deep breath, I thought deeply.

Right. I had to remember this scene well, to replicate it exactly from my memories. This was precisely something I could not mess up!

Living in the scenario I’d re-made in my mind, I swept my gaze around the living room. Details filled in each gap of my memory. The tall, stiff coat-hanger, frozen at the bottom of the stairs to my left. The stairs themselves, which were carpeted, leading up to the second floor. Further into the living room, two sofas were arranged around a giant rug. I remembered back when I used to sit and play with toy trains on it. Train trolley problem! My dad loved to declare. He’d set it up – two humanoid Legos lying on one train track, and six on the other. My train would be on one starting track that split up towards both.

Now, let’s say the left track has two humans, and they’re people you know. They’re family members close to you, he explained. If you don’t pull the lever and redirect the train onto the other track, then the train will run them over. But the other track has SIX strangers. Do you let your loved ones be run over, or save them at the cost of six others?

Back when I was little, not understanding a thing, I’d “googoo-ga-ga” and knock the train off the tracks. But as I grew older, I knew what I’d do in that situation.

I’d save my loved ones. Obviously. Working for the greater good was noble in a way, but… Honestly? It couldn’t be me. If my dad were on that track, I could never put him in danger.

“Alright, time to focus, buddy.” Someone’s voice caught me by surprise. Startled, I blinked and looked up.

And there was another me. Standing there, looking back at me with his usual tousled black hair, smug smile, and arms crossed with casual confidence. 5’8 feet tall, young and dashing. Cool but also known to be happy and wholesome on the inside.

“What the– who are you?” I demanded, dazed.

He shrugged. “I dunno. A part of you? Your logic?” He chuckled. He was like a reflection of me, ripped right out of a mirror. “A small voice in your head? Anyways, I’m here to help you focus and stop you from going insane. If you haven’t already,” he added uncertainly.

“Oh.” Okay, whatever. Why not?

He frowned. “Anyways, this is serious. Detective, you need to come up with an answer soon to tell them,” he reminded. My shoulders tensed. Shadows cast by the blue screen flickered ominously over his face. “Where are your investigative skills? You used to love mystery shows. You always wanted to be a detective. Now you are today. Come on. Help the good guys catch the bad guy. Remember everything.”

My circumstances caught up to me. Slowly, reality trickled into my head, bleeding through the crime scene. Panic seized my throat.

“Y-you’re right,” I stammered out. “I have to.”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Dad.

That day, I’d come home drunk to a pitch-black house. And what did I find on the rug in the living room? He’s dead.

Grief blurred my vision, making me choke.

That’s right. Because Carlos Sanchez was no stranger.

I was the one who found him. He was my dad.

No… I can’t imagine myself as a detective investigating some random stranger’s case anymore. That was my father. My composure started to crack. The illusion-

“Hey, snap out of it!” Other Me snapped his fingers, literally, and fixed me with a harsh glare. “Detective! Lock in and get to work!”

I clenched my hands. “Okay.” I inhaled. Exhaled. “‘Kay.”

I tried to recall it.

In the living room, Dad’s desk hugged the left wall. His computer was on, but it was an update screen, hence the… blueness. Along the right wall were cabinets and framed photos, sticking to it like spiders. There was our usual kitchen table immediately to my right. Go around the corner that it created, and there was the kitchen.

The clean kitchen, I thought distantly. It was always spotless. Even on that day, I didn’t see any trail of blood going there. No knives in the sink, no blood on the dishes. No utensils were out of place.

“Which meant the murderer brought their own weapon, didn’t they?” The Other Me perked up.

“That’s right,” I said, remembering that the police never found the murder weapon. “Whoever it was must’ve taken it with them.”

We walked into the kitchen, and I frowned. There was just one small patch of blood in the sink-

. . . . .

“Small? Hell no!” the police officer sitting across from me corrected. His face was stern, as if I'd personally offended him, and his hands were steepled under his chin as he stared directly at me.

I stopped. “What?” I asked, stunned.

“We saw lots of blood in the sink!”

My mind swirled. That’s not what I remembered. Or had been I too drunk?

. . . . . .

Okay, fine.

Back into the scene.

“Lots of blood in the sink.” Other Me frowned, brows furrowing as he put his hand on his chin. “So the murderer must’ve washed their hands or weapon(s) here.”

I closed my eyes.

. . . . .

“Right, okay,” I told the police officer, my heart pounding. “Maybe I… just misremembered. I’m sorry.”

. . . . . .

Looking back, nothing else was amiss. No sign of struggle or theft. That must’ve meant Dad had been taken by surprise.

Going closer to the rug, I realized that his body’s location had been outlined in chalk. His body was gone, though.

My heart dropped. He’d been lying on the floor, one arm draped over his bleeding stomach. The other limp beside him. Yellow tape surrounded the area.

When I first saw his actual body, I screamed.

Carlos Sanchez was found dead at his home, stabbed fifteen times… Who could’ve done such a thing? Why would anyone hate him to this extent?

I fought to hold back my grief.

It’s true we argued not long before his death, but who cares about that anymore? I was his only son who lived with him. Yet that evening, I went out to party with friends.

Why did I have to go? When I came back, he was… Gone. Just like that. Not even paramedics could save him in time.

I should’ve stayed home, I wanted to sob.

But it was clear now. Looking at the blood on the sofa and the rug, I was confident that fingerprints were left behind. Surely, real evidence can be compiled.

“It could be our neighbor,” I concluded out loud to my other self. “He knows where our extra key is hidden. In the plant pot outside.”

But at the same time, my heart withered. Could our old neighbor truly be that cruel? But who else could it be? I just wanted to get to the bottom of this. I had to. For Dad.

We completed a full circle around the room. With my jaw set, I prepared to get justice for our father. “It’s gotta be him! If not, I can think up a list of other possible people, too.”

My Other Self nodded. Despite his cheery smile, shadows lurked under his eyes.

“I think so, too,” he said, stuffing his hands into his leather jacket’s pockets. “It’s gotta be-”

. . . . . . .

Back in the interrogation room…

“You.”

I paled.

Froze. Slowly, I raised my head from my hands.

“I’m sorry?” I asked hoarsely. I couldn’t believe my ears.

“We know it’s you,” the officer said with unshakable truth. But his eyes burned with intimidation. There were two of them, sitting across from me. They'd slowly inched closer, leaning over the table. One of them had rolled their chair around the desk’s corner towards me.

Staring, staring, always staring. Every time I tried to remember that scene, they kept cutting in.

I choked out a sob and buried my face in my hands.

“Stop it,” I begged, unable to escape. “Seriously! I don’t know anything! It’s not me-!”

“But all the evidence we have says it is!” The man’s voice sharpened. He slapped a large hand onto the thick file he’d brought in. He’d thrown it on the table after he came back. He’d left me waiting and worrying in the small, gray room for fifteen minutes, then he returned with all those files, which looked enough to incriminate an entire neighborhood. “The DVD on top is camera footage that showed you coming home at 8:00, not 8:30!” he roared.

“What?! It’s not true!” I cried. “I really did arrive at 8:00!” And I knew the truth, sloshing and reverberating inside me.

Carlos Sanchez was not murdered by his son.

I’d been out partying.

But this was the third hour into the interrogation, and my own voice began to strain.

Could I have stabbed him? My own father, fifteen times?

“No, no, no!”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That was what it seemed like for hours on end. On the tenth hour, I began to break.

Was it me?

My soul could’ve broken into pieces. Could I have stabbed him and forgotten?

“At 8:00pm, you came home drunk, and used your keys to enter the home,” the police officer recounted to me. I squeezed my eyes shut but still saw the scene he was painting. “A…” He paused, very briefly, “neighbor’s camera saw you enter. You’re his son, that’s why he didn’t expect it. And you had time to wash your knife in the sink. Then you got rid of the evidence, and you called us.”

That’s bullshit! Why would I call the cops if I killed him?!

“But that makes sense, doesn’t it? That’s why Dad didn’t fight back,” a voice said, and I didn’t even recognize who it was in my head.

I spaced out. Or at least tried to. My body ached from the stiffness of the chair. My eyes burned with tears, and my ears hurt from their shouting voices. Inside, I was ready to do anything to get them to stop.

When my attention returned, the other officer was speaking to me gently as if I were a pitiful child and not a monster. My heart jumped and ached in equal measure.

“You said you were arguing with your father?” the younger man asked sympathetically. “Is that why? Tell me about it.”

I cried into my hands and forced out a response.

. . . . . . .

In my mind, I was back at the scene. 8:30 pm.

I ran towards my father’s body on the floor. I hugged him tight and cried hard.

“Come on, please!” I sobbed out. “Dad, come back to life!” It should’ve been funny. I was begging, crying, suddenly a child all over again. “Come back and tell them I didn’t do it! Please!”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were closed, his hair and shirt matted with blood. Why did this have to happen to us?

. . . . . . .

“I understand,” the officer replied. I’d just told him about our conflict.

It never mattered to me. I love him still.

“I see that you had your reasons. Well, if you admit to it, we can solve all of this,” he coaxed soothingly. “Honestly, I would’ve done the same in your situation.”

No, what’s wrong with you?! I’d never kill my own father!

But I…

…

It’s been thirteen hours. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and the image of blood keeps floating before my eyes.

Maybe I did do it.

“I was also drunk,” I choked out weakly. As if to defend myself. He simply nodded and passed me a piece of paper.

“For you to sign.”

. . . . . . .

The truth had been muddled by blatant lies. Not even I could reconcile the scene I remembered with theirs.

Back in the living room, my Other Self gazed at me pityingly.

What a terrible place in my mind to escape to.

Once again, this very crime scene.

Anything to get out of that suffocating room, though, I suppose.

“Neighbor… Our neighbor…” My voice tapered off. I couldn’t remember that deduction anymore. “Could it be our aunt? No, I… I can’t..”

My Other Self sighed, stepped forward, and gave me a hard pat on the back. His eyes were a look of resignation mixed with pity. Then he clamped handcuffs around my wrists. And he gave me a smug, sanguine smile.

“Well,” he announced, like a police officer triumphing over a villain in a show. He playfully pointed a finger-gun right at me.

“Detective... you’re guilty!”

----NOTE-----

This story was particularly inspired by the Tom Perez case, which happened pretty recently, in which a man was pressured into a false confession of killing his father... Even though in reality, his father was alive and well!