6 Chapter 6: "Just the facts"

Sirens. Shouts. Flames. Rubble. Everywhere.

Patrick tried to get up. An instant shot of pain burst through his leg, and he collapsed before he was even able to look up. He tried calling out, but no sound emerged from his lips; his throat was dry.

His eyes opened, and what a sight he saw. Vehicles were parked on the street a few dozen feet in front of him. Police cars, and big trucks. Fire trucks, and even an ambulance. There were also people, loads of them, just staring at something behind him. It was strange, as their features were lit up by an orangy-yellow light, which flickered before their eyes. He attempted once again to get to his feet, but with the same result. The pain was so big this time that he did finally manage to shout, but just a weak cry. Unfortunately, the dry feeling at the back of his throat just increased.

Suddenly, several figures jumped on him. Patrick shook violently, startled, but firm hands kept him on the ground. Less than a minute later, he was put onto a stretcher, and carried into one of the vehicles he had seen before, an ambulance. Just before they closed the doors at the back, he caught the shortest glimpse of the scene behind.

And then he remembered.

The house was a huge source of light, with long, spirally flames surging out of the windows and chimneys. The few remaining bricks he could see were black with smoke, and the front door was burnt to a crisp. On the ground in front of the building, there were countless shards of glass, obviously coming from the windows above, which were now just square holes looking out onto the street. But that wasn't all. Great blocks and pieces of rubble were scattered on the pavement and street below.

The house was clearly ruined, inhabitable. Patrick noticed firemen nearby, spraying the house and remaining close by, checking there was no-one still inside. Well, at least he had taken care of that job. But where were his family now? He suddenly saw his sister being taken into another ambulance, along with her children. There was no point shouting now, no-one would hear him anyway. So the journalist just watched.

Suddenly, his own ambulance set into motion, and so Patrick watched as the vehicle left the scene behind. The fire and the people got smaller and smaller, and soon he lay back and closed his eyes, wishing that for one second, he could just forget it all.

***

"Start from the beginning, please."

"It's... not that hard to explain."

The man made a gesture, as if to signal for him to continue, so that's exactly what Patrick did.

He shrugged. "I uh, went down to the kitchen. I couldn't sleep, so I got up and went down there."

"Why?"

"To refill my glass of water." A pause. "It was three am, everything's quiet, you know? But next thing I know, I hear this sort of hissing sound, coming from inside the wall. So I listen to it for a while, before realising it was probably gas. Like a gas leak. So I figured... this whole thing could blow."

"What made you get to that conclusion, Mr Darren?"

Patrick shrugged again. "The sound was pretty close to one of the heating radiators, I think."

The words came out slow and steady in a monotone voice. No emotion, just the facts.

There was a short silence as the three of them sat there. The two interrogators looked at Patrick, perhaps expecting more answers. But none came, and the journalist was comfortable with keeping his gaze down on the grey polished floor. But finally, the man on Patrick's left spoke.

"Listen, Mr Darren. I'm not quite sure how to say this, but I'll just go with it. You know who we are, right? I'm detective Archie Fendler and this is-"

"I know who you are." Another dull, straight answer.

"Good, glad we're on the same page here." A pause. Patrick sensed the man's pair of eyes contemplating him. "You're not making this very easy for any of us, are you?"

"I'm just stating the facts, plain and simple."

"Uh-huh. Except you're not. Hey, look at me."

The journalist lifted his gaze. They were all in a small, square-shaped room, with walls, floor and ceiling that were grey, colourless even, and bare. It was a clean space, but for Patrick it felt cramped and ugly. Both him and the interrogators sat facing each other, across a metal table.

The man on the left, Fendler, looked at him with a half-smiling relaxed face. "Well someone's feeling comfortable." thought Patrick. He wore a light-brown suit, accompanied by trousers the same shade. His face, like the room, was squared, and his hair was a faded blonde, with the first wisps of white starting to appear. The slightest wrinkles of his skin were exposed when he grinned, showing straight shiny teeth. But his face was now dead serious, no more creepy smiles.

"Alright, Darren, about your brother-in-law Alan Chamberlain..."

Patrick's hairs on the back of his neck stood up on an end.

"As you know, he passed away, about a month ago." Fendler suddenly took out a file, quickly flicking through the pages. "Cause of death: suicide. Now, there's an easy answer regarding the why of this: his feelings got the better of him. He got a whole lotta pressure after those rules he made about business with the middle east, everyone knows about it, all over the news, etc. But you see,-"

"It's German, isn't it?"

A confused look. "Excuse me?"

Patrick made a gesture. "Fendler. Good name, it sounds northern-European."

The detective sighed. "Yes, my grandfather's family moved here just before WWII, if you need to know. Now, I'm warning you Darren, pay attention. This case... I believe it can't just be (if I may) a simple suicide. And I think you know that, don't you? We both know that there's more to this than the facts on this document." He slammed his finger down on the open file in front of him.

"Oh, so that's what this is now, a case? The man's dead, Fendler. Don't try to make this into something it isn't, portraying yourself as the hero, the man that brought whoever responsible for Alan's death to justice."

"You know that is not my intention."

Patrick glared at him. "Isn't it, though?"

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Let's just cool down in here, eh?"

The two of them turned to look at the second interrogator, for he was the one that had spoken. And he continued, scratching his head:

"I say we bring things back to his house. Be clear this time, Darren, or we'll be charging you with obstruction of justice, and trust me, that'll be the least of your worries. Forensics are sweeping the house as we speak, and sooner or later they will find out what really went on in there, so you might as well tell us now, make it easier for everyone. "

The journalist gave a long stare at Fendler, before sitting up straight in his chair.

"Alright. You want the truth? Here you go then, go fetch. I found a flippin' time bomb under the kitchen sink. Fun, eh? There they were, five dynamite sticks that were about to blow my sister's family to pieces. I look at the timer, and I realize I've got five minutes to get them out of there. Five minutes. It's all just a blur from then on, to be honest. All I know is that I got them all out of there in one piece. Oh, and of course the house is destroyed, what's left of it."

There was a silence. The man on his right then nodded, scratching his head again. He had dark hair, slicked back, and a rounder face than Fendler's. Patrick could see quite a bit of his scalp down the middle of his head.

"Okay, we're glad you're cooperating here,..."

"Any ideas of how this bomb got there?" Fendler interrupted.

"Umm..." Patrick slowly lifted up his hands, showing he had no idea. The sweat started to trickle down his back.

The detective nodded ever so slightly. "We'll be checking the CCTV to keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

Patrick froze. "CCTV?"

"Uh-huh." said the man on the right. Patrick tried to ignore the scratch this time. "Apparently, Mr Chamberlain got a subpoena a few years back for cameras to be installed on the street by his house. Probably just another security issue. Why?"

"Nothing. I, uh, just hadn't realised." Patrick shrugged. "Anyway, are we done here?"

Fendler looked at the other interrogator. "Harry?"

"I think so, there's just a couple of things we need to make crystal clear, before you go." said Harry.

"Ah yes, I almost forgot." said the German American.

"You did forget." thought Patrick.

"We'll be keeping your sister's family in one of our safe houses for a while. Don't worry, it won't be all that far from their previous home or from Elaine's work."

Patrick nodded.

"No whiny protests this time? Good." said Harry.

The journalist restrained himself from turning the detective into a Harry soup.

Fendler's half smile returned. "No, of course not, Harry. That is probably one the few things we have said today that he actually agrees with. Why? Well, because it's become one of his top priorities."

Harry raised an eyebrow, standing up "Huh?"

Fendler continued. "Yeah. He ain't got a family of his own, so he looks after his sister's. Ain't that right, Darren?"

The journalist just stared at him with a disparaging look on his face. "Jerk."

The detectives packed up their files, showing that they were done. Patrick got up and didn't even wait for them to finish. Fendler stopped him with a hand before he passed through the doorway.

"Here, take this." he said, handing him a small piece of paper. "It's my card, with my number on it-"

"You're not my type, thanks." Patrick said dryly.

"Don't be an idiot. Seriously, just take it. Just in case."

And so the journalist reluctantly slipped it inside his jacket pocket. Harry was about to speak up as he left, but Patrick didn't let him. "I can show myself out, idiots." The two detectives watched as the other man walked away, down the corridor.

"What is his deal?" asked Harry, with a confused look on his face, scratching his head.

"I'll tell you, as long as you don't ask any more questions." responded his companion. "He basically thinks we ruined his career. A few years back, he wrote some articles that we didn't quite agree with, so we kindly told him to unpublish them. He's hated us ever since."

But-"

"No more questions!" said Fendler, walking away too, in the opposite direction.

Patrick pushed through the front doors of the grey building, greeted by a sudden burst of fresh air. It was a chilly but atmospheric morning in New York. He suddenly noticed a bin to his left. In it, he tossed Fendler's card, before starting on his way to the nearest bus station.

Man, he really did dislike the FBI.

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