“Quit waiting for your ship to come in -- build your own boat instead. That’s what my father would always tell me. In his rather simple manner, this was the finest piece of advice he could give a person. Despite its crude sentiment, there was some validity to it. Opportunity does not wait for anyone. It must be pursued, seized and ultimately conquered. You see, agent, those who dawdle earn nothing, while those who act achieve their dreams.”
The CIA agent who had identified himself as Jennings observed the prisoner suspiciously. He had been playing the role of “good cop” while his partner had stepped out from the pale gray interrogation room. He adjusted the thin glasses that had sunk far down his nose.
“Look Doc, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove by giving me a psych lesson, but,” the tall Jennings began but was interrupted by his subject.
“I would appreciate if you would address me by my full title, agent. I am, after all, a doctor.”
“Fine, Doctor,” Jennings retorted trying his best not to roll his eyes. “Look, my partner isn’t exactly as forgiving as I am, and he’ll be back in a few moments. Just give me a quick confession, and we can avoid any more unnecessary violence.”
The doctor snorted, aghast at the notion he would so easily submit to the agent’s sympathetic appeals. “What exactly should I confess to, agent? Of all of the atrocities I am accused of, which would make you cheeriest? Would you like a quick confession to one of these wrongdoings? You could put me away for up to three years for even the simplest confession. Or you could allow me to start at the beginning and give you the entire chronicle.”
“I’d like to hear your story, Doctor,” Jennings coaxed.
“Fine, I shall tell you my tale. When I speak, I will speak uninterrupted until I have said all that I am to say. I have much to get off my chest. You will then take my confession to your higher authority, and we will be on with our affairs.”
Just then the door swung open and the “bad cop” returned. This one had identified himself as Deacons and had struck the doctor several times before storming out of the room in a huff. The captive changed his demeanor, sinking back into his chair.
“What’s the matter, Jennings,” Deacons chided in a nonchalant way that made it sound like he had only spoken two words opposed to four. “Can’t get this schmuck to talk yet?” He closed in on the doctor and leaned in until their faces were less than an inch apart. “Do I need to smack you around some more?”
The doctor’s face was stolid. He was not afraid of the agent, and he was certainly not afraid of being hit. He had been hit by people far superior to the man he had come to think of as a poor excuse for law enforcement.
“Your eloquence is quite astounding, Agent Deacons. For someone looking to secure a confession, you have simply delayed all of the progress your man Jennings had made. If you would please silence yourself and stow that domineering ego of yours, we can get underway.”
The agent’s already red face turned several shades darker. He didn’t like anyone telling him how to run an interrogation, much less the captive. He reared back a fist and made ready to strike when Jennings suddenly grabbed him.
“He’s about to give us everything, you idiot. You hit him again and he goes back to holding out. You know better, Deacons.”
“Sticking up for the lowlifes now, Jennings? You’ve gone soft.” Deacons squared up to Jennings, now redder than ever and breathing heavily. “You know I always get my confessions. I do it my way and on my terms.”
“He’s not even holding out, you blowhard. Shut up for two seconds and let the man talk.”
Deacons eyes darted between the prisoner and his partner. “Fine, but after this, you and I are going to have a talk about who the good guys and bad guys in these interrogation rooms are.”
“Sure we will, Deacons,” Jennings said finally satisfied that he had restored order to the proceedings. “Now, Doctor, please continue.”
One half of the doctor’s mouth curled up into something resembling a smile. The other half was swollen shut from Agent Deacons’ fists. His jet black hair was mussed and disorderly a departure from his ordinary high standard of grooming. His brown eyes rolled to one agent and then to the other and he resumed his tale.