The quiet and clean jail cell that Bulldog Armstrong had been sitting in was replaced by a quiet and clean interrogation room. Everything in the Arbor Springs Police Headquarters (in reality a small building with only one holding cell) was immaculate. Crime in Arbor Woods consisted mostly of offenses that merited nothing more than a ticket so an actual arrest hadn’t been made in years. Officer Wembley, however, did not like to be idle, and he was compulsively clean, so his second home was neat as a pin.
Bulldog sat in a comfortable padded chair in front of a long, dark table. He wasn’t shackled to the table or the chair or to anything at all. He wasn’t handcuffed or restrained in anyway. This is odd, Bulldog thought, I could be a violent criminal who leaps over the table, slugs the cop and runs away.
“I didn’t feel the need for cuffs, Mr. Bulldog,” Officer Wembley said as he sat down across from his prisoner. “It’s not like you’re going to jump over the table, slug me and run off. Hard to hide in a small town like this if you did.”
Okay, that’s really odd, Bulldog thought, it’s like he read my mind. “It’s Agent Armstrong,” Bulldog corrected Wembley.
Wembley looked sympathetic. “Well, no not really. There is no agent Armstrong that I could find. The federal government has no record of an agent with your name in it’s database. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any record of you at all. That name you gave me, Myron Aloysius Armstrong? That doesn’t show up anywhere. The social security number you gave me? It was for a guy who died twenty years ago. All that info you gave me is bunk. Myron Armstrong doesn’t exist. Now you may be crazy, in which case we’ll get you some help. Or you may be trying to pull some shit on me, in which case you and I are going to have a problem. And you don’t want to have a problem with me, you understand?”
Bulldog didn’t say anything, just stared back at him. His mind was reeling. Those bastards, they erased me, he thought. How could they do that to me, after all I’ve done for them?
“I’ll be straight up with you,” Wembley said, “you cooperate, you’ll be all right. If you’re difficult, things could go wrong. You’re all alone in that cell, nobody knows you’re here, nobody would know if something happens to you. Now I’m going to ask you, straight up, who are you?”
Bulldog continued to stare, his mouth closed, his lips a thin, hard line. He didn’t move a muscle.
“All right, you think you’re a tough guy? That’s fine. I’ve dealt with hard asses like you who don’t wanna talk, they all end up the same. Sooner or later, they all talk.”
Bulldog remained silent and motionless.
Wembley slammed his hands down on the table. Bulldog didn’t flinch. “Okay, buddy,” Wembley said in a loud, firm voice, “you’ve asked for it. I know how to deal with punks like you.” He stood up, put his hands on hips. “I hate to do this, this is gonna be painful for you, but’s it got to be done. You know what? You’re not getting dessert with your dinner tonight. That’s just the way it’s got to be. You’ll get your dinner, we’re not monsters here in the Arbor Woods P.D., but you sure as hell won’t get a dessert. What’s worse is, I’m gonna throw your ass back in that cell, go in the kitchen and bake up some fresh chocolate chip cookies, because that’s what I do here on Friday nights. You’re gonna smell those cookies baking, and when they’re done you won’t get so much as a crumb. Tough guy, my ass. You’ll break, just like all the rest. Now back in the cell with you.”
Bulldog went quietly, wondering if maybe he really had lost his mind.
Bulldog sat in a comfortable padded chair in front of a long, dark table. He wasn’t shackled to the table or the chair or to anything at all. He wasn’t handcuffed or restrained in anyway. This is odd, Bulldog thought, I could be a violent criminal who leaps over the table, slugs the cop and runs away.
“I didn’t feel the need for cuffs, Mr. Bulldog,” Officer Wembley said as he sat down across from his prisoner. “It’s not like you’re going to jump over the table, slug me and run off. Hard to hide in a small town like this if you did.”
Okay, that’s really odd, Bulldog thought, it’s like he read my mind. “It’s Agent Armstrong,” Bulldog corrected Wembley.
Wembley looked sympathetic. “Well, no not really. There is no agent Armstrong that I could find. The federal government has no record of an agent with your name in it’s database. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any record of you at all. That name you gave me, Myron Aloysius Armstrong? That doesn’t show up anywhere. The social security number you gave me? It was for a guy who died twenty years ago. All that info you gave me is bunk. Myron Armstrong doesn’t exist. Now you may be crazy, in which case we’ll get you some help. Or you may be trying to pull some shit on me, in which case you and I are going to have a problem. And you don’t want to have a problem with me, you understand?”
Bulldog didn’t say anything, just stared back at him. His mind was reeling. Those bastards, they erased me, he thought. How could they do that to me, after all I’ve done for them?
“I’ll be straight up with you,” Wembley said, “you cooperate, you’ll be all right. If you’re difficult, things could go wrong. You’re all alone in that cell, nobody knows you’re here, nobody would know if something happens to you. Now I’m going to ask you, straight up, who are you?”
Bulldog continued to stare, his mouth closed, his lips a thin, hard line. He didn’t move a muscle.
“All right, you think you’re a tough guy? That’s fine. I’ve dealt with hard asses like you who don’t wanna talk, they all end up the same. Sooner or later, they all talk.”
Bulldog remained silent and motionless.
Wembley slammed his hands down on the table. Bulldog didn’t flinch. “Okay, buddy,” Wembley said in a loud, firm voice, “you’ve asked for it. I know how to deal with punks like you.” He stood up, put his hands on hips. “I hate to do this, this is gonna be painful for you, but’s it got to be done. You know what? You’re not getting dessert with your dinner tonight. That’s just the way it’s got to be. You’ll get your dinner, we’re not monsters here in the Arbor Woods P.D., but you sure as hell won’t get a dessert. What’s worse is, I’m gonna throw your ass back in that cell, go in the kitchen and bake up some fresh chocolate chip cookies, because that’s what I do here on Friday nights. You’re gonna smell those cookies baking, and when they’re done you won’t get so much as a crumb. Tough guy, my ass. You’ll break, just like all the rest. Now back in the cell with you.”
Bulldog went quietly, wondering if maybe he really had lost his mind.
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