The Meaning of Charlie Armanio

V

"G'DAY, SIR," I SAY as greeting to the straight faced man behind the counter. He spares us a second, gazing up at us with serious eyes, then mutters 'one minute' as he closes his clipboard and looks at us expectantly.

"How may I help you today?" He smiles at me grimly, and places his hands beside him on the counter. His fingers tighten around the counter.

"I'm here to report a murder," I say, breathing heavily, like I'd walked the entire way here. My hands are getting clammy by the second; I have already started to sweat despite there being air conditioning in the small police station.

"Listen, girly," he groans, "I've'd kids come in here the entire week and calling filing reports of 'murders' and whatnots and if you're lying just know that that too is punishable by law. Lying to a police officer?" He looks behind me at my dad and chuckles lightly, placing a hand on his belt and shaking it slightly, causing his walky – talky and gun to rattle, "they must be out their damn minds."

"I promise you officer, this is the real deal."

I don't say that. My dad does. His voice is strained and angry and cold and his hold on my shoulders tightens reassuringly.

"Well, alrighty then, follow me."

Webster doesn't really know crime. It's small and holed up and far away from any highly rich folk and crimes like stealing are fairly common around here so, when a girl comes around screaming attempted murder, it catches a lot of police attention very quickly. And so, around a few hours later, a find myself being ushered into a secluded room.

I head towards one of the two chairs and take a seat. The cold, metal chair is strong and uncomfortable as I lean my back against it and close my eyes. It's all too much to do. I don't want to be interrogated. I've told the story too many times but I'm silently giving myself some much needed encouraged since no one's here to give that to me.

I inhale sharply when I hear the metal door creak open and gently being closed shut. It's quiet, almost too quiet to be able for it to elicit such a frightening response but it does and I immediately sit up straighter and place my palms together, lacing my fingers.

I inhale again – deeper this time – when he takes a seat in front of me and places his water in front of him. There's a lamp directly over us, but the room is still a little dim. I inhale, the deepest and longest one yet, and the tangy scent of spray paint and the air refresher that is unsuccessfully doing its duty to eradicate the smell fills my nose as the man in front of me shoots me a short smile.

"Good afternoon, Miss Ashford. I'm Detective Clyde and I'll be handling your case," he lifts his lips in a short, small smile that oddly remind me of Dean in Supernatural. I'm wringing my hands as his sharp blue eyes pierce into mine. They're calculating but not cold, they're trying to figure me out. "Now, by state rules, this conversation is going to have to be recorded, okay?"

I bite my lip and nod, but it's hard. I'm a bit scared of the outcome of this whole situation, and I'm intimated by Detective Clyde's calculating stare but I push it away and inhale – again.

"Okay," my eyes are looking directly into his, while his are looking directly into mine as if he were trying to hold a staring contest with me, but I realise he's distracting me when I hear the slight click of a button.

"Please do remember, Miss Ashford," he clears his throat and folds his hands in front of him, like I have, "this is a safe place. Everything you choose to tell me, is for you. We are trying to help you attain justice so you have to help me, by being honest with me throughout. Answer all of my questions to the fullness of your ability. Okay?"