Something Random...

He watched the door intently, knowing that, at any moment, his interrogator would walk through with all the determination of a man looking for answers. A smile danced across his face for just a moment as he imagined the detective's face as he asked the inevitable question. "Where's the girl?" It's how all of those cop shows on television started, wasn't it? Actually, this particular detective could be one of the annoying ones that dance around the subject before they actually ask. He hated those kinds of detectives on television: What's the point of bullshitting when you could actually be getting something done?

He was losing track of time. How long had it been since that beat cop had brought him in? Three minutes? The detective was probably watching him right now on the other side of the one-way glass on the other side of the room, maybe having a chat with the same cop that had brought him in. What's his name? Marcus Allen MacMillan. Date of birth? September 29th, 1976. Any priors? Nothing on his record except for a single, unpaid parking ticket.

Twenty seconds, he thought, straightening his posture in his seat. He was very nearly leaning across the table now, his eyes still fixed hard on the door. Eighteen seconds till I tell him that I did it. Fifteen seconds. Don't fail me, detective. I am never, ever wrong. Five...four...three...two...one...

The door opened and closed quickly as a man in a grey suit walked in and took the seat directly across from Marcus. He was a younger looking man, probably in his mid-thirties with slicked back blond hair that looked too cliche to any old lawyer movies for this man to truly be a cop. Marcus was almost disappointed to not see some gruff looking bastard with salt-and-pepper hair, but that didn't stop him from clapping his hands together and laughing aloud.

"What's so funny, Mister MacMillan," the detective asked, casting a puzzled look across the table to the other man.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Marcus replied through the laughter. "I'm just so very pleased to see that you're as predictable as the cops on television is all. So how long were you on the other side of that glass watching me, detective? I'm gonna go ahead and guess....five minutes? Mind you, sir, that I am never, ever wrong."

The detective stared at Marcus for a moment, before continuing. "Mister MacMillan, my name is Thomas Richardson and I'm the head homicide detective at this precinct. I suppose you know why you're here?"

"Of cousrse,detective, Marcus replied, smiling. "If you don't mind, though, I'd like to hear your answer to my previous question before we begin any kind of questioning. If you would be so kind?"

"Mister MacMillan, I don't really have the tim-"

"Just answer the question, detective," Marcus replied, the smile gone from his face. "All I want is a simple answer. How long were you watching me through the glass? I am never, ever wrong, detective, and I'd love for you to help me show you this before I answer any questions. Richardson sighed and ran a hand across his slicked back hair, his eyes falling to the table for just a moment before coming back up to meet Marcus' now stern gaze.

Five minutes," he replied. "Just long enough to ask the officer that brought you in a few questions."

Marcus laughed out loud and clapped his hands together in mock applause. "I knew it," he cried. "You're so very predictable, detective! Never one to disappoint, eh? Alright, now that we have that covered, I think you'd like to ask me some questions concerning the abduction of that young lady that lives across the street from me. Am I right again, detective?"

"You are," Richardson replied quickly. "Is there any kind of help you're able to give us?"

"Certainly," Marcus said with a smile. "I took her."

Richardson's eyes widened and he leaned forward. "Are you admitting to abducting the girl, Mister MacMillan?"

"Please, detective," Marcus said with a smile, "call me Marcus. And yes, that would be exactly what I'm admitting. Is there anything else you'd like to know? Perhaps where she is? Or maybe where her body is?"

"You killed her," Richardson asked, now leaning well across the table.

"Oh, good heavens, no. I'm merely stating that the afforementioned question should be a valid question in this investigation, but now that you have that answer, maybe you'd like to backtrack a bit and ask the former?"

"Where is she, Marcus," Richardson asked, standing from his seat. "I need you to tell me exactly where she is so I can get her home safely."

"Now where's the fun in that," Marcus asked, his smile widening. "Of course, you'll know just where she is soon enough. Just because I've not killed her yet doesn't mean she won't still end up dead."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I'm thinking the media will tell you just where to find her when it happens, and remember, I'm never, ever wrong. The only thing I'm not sure of is just how exactly it's going to happen. There's so many options in a city this size: She could be dropped off the top of a building, pushed in front of a moving subway train, maybe even gunned down in broad daylight. There are just so many ways that it could happen..."