Free Night and Day by Ken White

beat me as much as they liked, as long as they liked,
till they got what they wanted.
    What was strange was that they didn’t seem to want anything. The whole point of beating a
prisoner is to get information or a confession. That implies questions between the punches and
kicks. These guys weren’t asking questions.
    They talked and joked among themselves as they laid into me. They swore at me when I
puked on myself. But never once did they ask me anything.
    I can sort of remember passing out twice and being revived by a blast from the fire hose.
Beyond that, the night is just a blur of fists and feet. Finally they got tired of it. Or more likely,
the night was ending and it was time to punch the clock and head home. Either way, I must have
passed out and they left me there.
    When I woke up, I hurt. Everywhere. Legs, arms, chest, gut, head. It was a symphony of
pain, and all of the instruments were playing at full volume.
    I was on my side on the concrete floor, my nose a couple of inches from an open two-inch
drain hole. The last thing I really wanted to do was move, but the stench from the
drain was making my stomach do flips, and I didn’t want to vomit again.
    With a groan, I sat up. My body screamed. I didn’t, but it was close.
    The back wall of the cell was a couple of feet behind me. Getting there was a
problem, but I knew I’d fall over again if I didn’t prop myself against something.
    Fighting back the urge to scream, I used my legs and arms to push until my back rested
against the wall. It wasn’t an improvement, but at least I wasn’t going to hit the floor again.
    It was a standard ten by ten holding cell. Three white, concrete-block walls, a wall of bars in
front. The hall on the other side of the bars was empty.
    I rested the back of my head against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to think. It wasn’t
easy. Some people say that you can blot out pain, push it into a corner and ignore it. I don’t
have that particular skill. When I’m hurting, the pain does jumping jacks in front of me. It
doesn’t like to share my attention with random thoughts.
    There were a couple of things that were obvious. I wasn’t there because of any personal
beef Ray Holstein had with me. If it was personal, he’d have already killed me or taken me to an
abandoned building or a field somewhere for this little party. Holstein wouldn’t bring me to a police
station and get his pals together to beat me up.
    So I was in custody. And whatever the charge, it had to be serious enough to stand up
against Joshua’s influence when he woke up.
    Cynthia would try to call me when I didn’t show up in the office, and she’d have Downtown
District send a cop around to check the apartment. When they didn’t find me, they’d call around
and sooner or later find out where I was. Joshua would know about it half an hour after the sun
set, and he wouldn’t be happy.
    That was as far as I could think it though with the limited information I had. One thing was
for sure. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so whatever they were holding me on was a frame,
probably the handiwork of Ray Holstein.
    I heard footsteps outside the cell and opened my eyes. Spit-shined shoes and blue uniform
pants. I tilted my head back a bit. The patrol lieutenant from the day before, Iverson, stared at
me, his face impassive.
    I cleared my throat. “How you doing?”
    “Better than you,” Iverson said. “Want some water?”
    I noticed the plastic squeeze bottle in his hand. “Sure.”
    Iverson pitched it through the bars. He had a good eye. It landed in my lap. And it hurt
when it landed.
    “Thanks,” I said, raising the bottle to my mouth. I squirted a little into my mouth,
swallowed, then squirted in some more.
    Iverson watched silently.
    I set the bottle down next to my leg. “So, Iverson, any idea why I’m here?”
    “Sure,” he said. “Murder.”
    “Who did I kill? Those two Vees yesterday?” I closed my eyes.
    “The homicide squad is trying