Free Ting-A-Ling by Mike Faricy Page A

he was about to walk into a pit full of howling Rottweilers. I followed him out into the empty hallway and through another security door labeled ‘Robbery/Homicide’ .
    “Just grab a seat,” he instructed. “I’ll let Manning know you’re waiting.”
    I saw no advantage to informing him Manning was aware I’d been waiting for the better part of the past hour, so I just sat down. I was going to joke with him about the lack of magazines in the little room, but figured now maybe wasn’t the best time.
    I’d been studying my feet and counting the floor tiles in the tiny room for what seemed like days when the door suddenly flew open and Manning called, “Haskell, get in here,” like I’d been keeping him waiting.
    He was in white shirtsleeves rolled half-way up his arm. A manila file was tucked under his left arm and he slurped from a coffee mug in his right hand. His head was red, redder than normal, whatever ‘normal’ was. Thankfully, not the crimson I’d seen it become a few times when he could grow apoplectic. He attacked the wad of gum in his mouth, causing it to snap every other second. The fringe of red hair running around the sides of his head looked to have been recently trimmed.
    “I’ve got us right down here, in three,” he said. He was quickly a half-dozen steps ahead of me and I guessed he was referring to interview room three.
    I wasn’t sure if ‘three’ meant that whatever my supposed offense was, it was more, or less serious than being in interview rooms one or two. I followed dutifully and he suddenly stepped into a room and held the door for me. The moment I was in the room he let go of the door and instructed me to, “have a seat there,” indicating one of only two chairs, pointing with his coffee mug just as the door slammed shut.
    He stood there watching me, snapping his gum impatiently while I pulled out the chair and sat down.
    “What’s this about, Detective?”
    He seemed to ponder that for a bit before he ignored my question completely. He opened up his manila file and carefully positioned it in front of him. He took a moment and used both hands to line the edge of the file up squarely with the edge of the table.
    The top sheet in the file had four images centered on the page. Each image was about two-and-a-half inches square. There was an eight digit number written in what looked like red marker on the upper right corner of the page and I took that to probably be a file or case number. There were multiple lines of copy printed below the images, but the print was too small to read, and well, it was upside down.
    The images looked like building rubble from somewhere out of Syria. In one of the images the rear end of a car hung out from beneath a pile of bricks. Since I didn’t know about any car bombings anywhere in the universe I began to relax for just a second or two before Manning looked up.
    He stared at me for a long moment without saying anything, suggesting he was in charge, not me and he was just weighing his options on the best way to blind side me.
    “So, Haskell. What have you been up to lately?”
    “You dragged me down here to learn about my social life?”
    “You’re always up to something interesting, just a little curious, is all.”
    “Do I need council present? My lawyer?” I asked.
    He sort of pursed his lips like he was taking my question seriously. Then his stare seemed to increase in intensity, he lowered his voice an octave and said very matter-of-fact, “I don’t think so, we’re just having a friendly little chat, is all. Just the two of us, you and me. You’re not charged with anything, at least that I know of. I can check if you’d like?”
    It wouldn’t make a difference even if he did check. In fact, about all it would do would be to extend the time I’d have to sit in the room. Manning would probably forget about me and just leave me locked in here while he went home for the night.
    “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
    He nodded,