3:
Interrogation
Gavin tried his best to contain his
anxiety. Before him stood a pair of federal police, and they looked
him up in down, judging him before Gavin had a chance to make his
statement (or so it seemed to him). “Maybe I'm just being
paranoid,” Gavin thought to himself, hoping to calm the very real
sense of dread and fear that gripped him like an immense, crushing
hand. They greeted him with a cold and intimidating stare. One was
tall and muscular with angular features. The other was physically
unexceptional, but had the unsettling demeanor of an obedient goon.
Gavin thought it looked like that they were anxious for an excuse to
bind him, capture him, and throw him in a holding cell where they
would torture him to death. Again, Gavin tried to calm himself and
counter his negative thoughts, though he knew deep down that this
sort of thing happened all the time. He lost a good friend and
coworker early on in his career as an information architect that way.
When Gavin began his work in
information architecture in his mid 20's at the Trans-Atlantic
Department of Media headquarters in Washington, he quickly made
friends with a man named Fabio, who was born and raised in Spain,
went to university at Cambridge, and like all information architects,
began his career at the Washington headquarters. They shared
interests in playing tennis, watching rugby, 20th century
rock music, and drinking German lager. One day while waiting on the
subway platform, a security squad rushed the two friends. Gavin was
pinned and handcuffed, and while he lay face down on the ground with
the wind still knocked out of him, he saw about a half dozen police,
outfitted just like the security squad who had just killed the
disruptive woman on the train he was currently on, viciously beat
Fabio. Blood poured from his nose, his shattered arm flopped
uselessly about as it was torn behind his back. He was thrown to the
ground like a rag doll, and then a few of the officers kicked him in
the ribs and groin. He was pulled up to his feet by his hair, and
then tossed into the back of a motorized cart like a sack of
potatoes. Gavin was released and never given an explanation for the
incident, and it troubled him deeply. About a week later, he saw
Fabio's face on the news, where he was described as a terrorist and
had apparently been executed. Gavin never suspected Fabio to be one
of those savages, bent on destroying western civilization in the name
of their god, but as everyone was taught, one never knows. The
terrorists “walk among us, undetected”, and citizens should
remain forever vigilant. There was no need to fear, however, as the
Federal government had the investigative resources to weed out the
terrorist savages and would always find and kill them without
hesitation, for the good of society. That was the first time Gavin
questioned the judgment of the government, and no matter how mush he
tried to put such a ridiculous notion out of his mind, it always
remained, like a deep scar on his conscience. Fabio would have been
the last person in the world to be connected with terrorism, Gavin
thought.
“Mr. Huntsman,” began the lower
ranking officer, “Please state your point of origin.”
“Chicago” Gavin answered.
The higher ranking officer nudged his
comrade aside. “Pardon my interruption Lieutenant Steinberg.”
“Not a problem, Sgt. Colby.”
replied Lt. Steinberg.
“Mr. Huntsman,” continued Colby,
“I see here in your file that you were an associate of a Fabio
Rodriguez. Do you remember him?”
Gavin's anxiety tighted it's grip,
nearly stopping his heart. He kept the straightest face possible and
answered: “Hmmm, I'm not sure. I don't think so.”
“It says here that you worked with
him at the Department of Media in Washington.” remarked Colby.
“Oh, oh yeah! That guy.
Yeah, I remember now. He just stopped coming to work, and next thing
I know I see on the news that he was a terrorist. Well, it's a good
thing they got him, huh?”
“Right. So you didn't associate
with him outside of work?”
“No, not really. He met up with the
rest of us guys from the office for a beer after work once in a
while, but that was about it.”
“And he never discussed his
political or religious beliefs with you?”
“No, never. Besides, if he ever
brought it up, I would have told him that I wasn't interested. I
could care less about those things, I'm more interested in football
and going to the movies.” Gavin forced the most sincere chuckle he
could muster.
“Right. So you're a football fan?
What's you're team?”
Gavin sighed inwardly. His ruse had
worked. “I'm a Steelers man” Gavin answered.
“Ah, you're old school!” Colby's
mood had considerably brightened. “I'm a big fan of the London
Knights myself.”
“Probably the best of the expansion
teams.” added Gavin.
“You bet!” replied Colby.
“Alright Mr. Huntsman, back to business. Lieutenant, please
continue.” Lt. Steinberg continued with a relatively routine line
of questions, including of course the highly personal matters of how
many people Gavin was having sex with and what drugs he has ingested.
Everything was routine until the final question.
“Alright, Mr. Huntsman, before I
release you, I have one final question.”
“Go ahead,” replied Gavin.
“What was your relationship with Ms.
Wheeler?”
“Excuse me?” Gavin was confused.
The name seemed familiar, but he could not remember where he had
heard it before, though he was sure he had heard it recently.
“Ms. Wheeler?” repeated Steinberg.
“You know, the woman who had just been neutralized by the security
squad for disruption?”
“Her? The screaming woman?”
Gavin was dumbfounded.
“Yes sir. Your name was tagged in
her file.”
“I... I... I don't know.” Gavin's
stomach began churning. Terror began to slither its icy tendrils up
his spine, right through his torso and into his heart. Wild thoughts
of what was coming next began to flood his mind. Did they think he
was a terrorist? Were they going to arrest him? Make him disappear?
“It says here that she consulted you
on a project at the D.o.M. Office in Chicago where you currently
work.” Steinberg stared at Gavin, with a single eyebrow raised,
awaiting his explanation.
“Hmmm, the last time I worked with a
consultant was last September. It was a project dealing with a
Patriot Day commemoration” Gavin raised his eyes to meet Lt.
Steinberg, at this point unable to hide the worry from his face.
Steinberg nodded, as if to imply that Gavin should continue. “Uh,
I remember working with a woman from the Freedom Project Foundation.
She insisted that I call her by her first name, so I don't remember
her last.”
“What was her first name?”
“Deborah.”
“Ms. Wheeler's first name was
Deborah, Mr. Huntsman.”
“But Deborah was younger”
countered Gavin. They could not have been the same woman, he
thought.
“Was she brunette, with green eyes,
about five feet, six inches in height, approximately 130 pounds?”
“Yeah, I guess she was. But that
woman looked old, she was... just not right. And the way she
screamed... Deborah didn't sound like that.”
“A lot can change in nine months,
Mr. Huntsman. Drug abuse, exposure to chemical agents, injuries,
they can all change someone's appearance. But you are sure you did
not speak with her the whole time you were on the train?”
“No.”
“Did she approach you?”
“No.”
Lt. Steinberg stared skeptically at
Gavin for what seemed like an eternity. Gavin's heart pounded in his
chest, as he expected the security squad to swoop in and arrest him
at any moment. Steinberg finally reached into his breast pocket and
extracted a plastic card with a hologram and a dot matrix code bar
upon it. “My card, Mr. Huntsman. You can use it to contact me
instantly, should you remember anything.”
Gavin slowly took the card,
bewildered.
“You are free to go” said the
lieutenant. He motioned towards the exit door on the bullet train.
Gavin walked out in a fog of confusion.