The Mysterious Interrogation of Mike Morrison

TW: Mental health, violence

The hallway was dark and cold. Allen shivered under his white, freshly steamed, button–down shirt. He anxiously gripped the wooden handle of his briefcase. He ignored the sweat beginning to drip down his brow.

Allen laughed, and that caught him off guard. He must be really scared if he was sweating in an air–conditioned space. His laugh surprised him; It’d been a while since he’d laughed. In his career, relaxation and joy was practically impossible to come by. Looking after the worst crooks in the country was certainly not a fun job.

He quickly shook his head, trying to retain focus. He glanced at his watch: 3:25AM. This was his final task before he clocked out for the night. He couldn't wait to get this over with.

Allen’s briefcase swung aggressively beside him as he briskly walked down the hall, passing the dark cells which held terrible people. Psychotic monsters, devilish criminals, killers who were never satisfied. . . . But perhaps the man Allen was ordered to see tonight was the worst of them all. At least, that’s what everyone told him. And now, he was about to find out why.

The keycard slipped through the scanner which accepted it with a click, and Allen swung the thick, metal door open, nearly slamming it against the wall. His emotions were rising steadily. Mainly his anxiety, but among that anxiety was anger, annoyance, and impatience. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want another man to talk to only to get nowhere. He of all people should know that the smart criminals, the truly smart ones, never revealed anything about their past, their crimes, or their true intentions. What they really felt, what made them this way. . . They would either bend the truth, or mess with the interrogators entirely by making up absurd stories that were so bizarre, yet would seem totally believable due to their chaotic background and figure.

The interrogation room’s eerie energy immediately hit Allen in his core. He hated being in the interrogation rooms. It just always felt like something bad was going to happen, and that was without the convicted felon even in the room!

Heart beating, Allen made his way to the table in the center of the room, which was underneath a thick glass wall that separated the questioner from the criminal. He pulled out the brown, comfy, three–wheeled office chair, and sat down, adjusting his position before the interrogation began, which was now in. . . He stole a look at his watch again: two minutes.

It felt like thirty.

Allen bounced his right leg up and down, stared around the room at the recording cameras in the top four corners of the room. He placed his briefcase onto his side of the table, and opened it, flipping through his folders, scanning the file of the man he would be questioning: Mike Morrison, convicted murderer and sex offender. The worst of the worst. A real villain. Allen picked up a pen and nervously twirled it in his fingers.

Allen stopped. There was no way he was walking away from this unharmed. At any given chance, Morrison would surely attack. Like they were studying him as if he were some sort of animal.

“Allen.”

Hearing his name startled him, and he dropped the pen onto the floor. He jumped in his seat, and stared through the glass barrier.

Sitting directly across from him, on the opposite side of the table, was Mike Morrison. His long, dark hair shimmering in the light. Morrison’s face was stiff. Expressionless. Unreadable. The dark, almost black eyes staring deep into Allen’s soul.

“You— You know my name.” Allen stuttered.

Morrison nodded. “I did a little research before our little meet and greet.”

His voice was gruff, but soothing at the same time, and deeply unsettling. He almost spoke in whispers, as if he was trying not to be heard.

Allen nodded.

He started to speak, but was cut off by Morrison.

“Uh, apologies, I hate to butt in. . . We would all love to get started as much as you, but before we do, could you dim the lights, please? Steven prefers to work in the dark.”

Allen stopped. That was ominous. What did he mean “we”? And why did he say the word as if there were more than two people in the room with them?

“S– Sorry, but, who’s Steven?” Allen asked, cautiously.

Morrison suddenly grinned. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Allen did not like that response at all.

“Trust me, this will go a lot smoother if the lights grow dimmer.”

There was a beat. Should he do this? It was entirely against protocol. The agency required that they be able to witness everything that happened in the cells and the interrogation rooms twenty four seven.

Allen slowly looked up at a camera, and nodded to it. Unseen hands from the technician room lowered the electrical power, and the darkness creeped into the room, until Morrison’s face was the only visible object.

The silence was deafening. No one spoke for a while. Allen was too scared, and Morrison was clearly enjoying his fear.

Finally, after an eternity, Allen cleared his throat, and spoke.

“Mike Milligan Morrison, Case 2,374.” In between his words, he flipped through his pages, dropping a pen on the floor from. He bent over to pick it up. “Charged with the murder and assault of Kylie Bradford, age 22. Do you know why you’re here?”

“We’re here to give you answers.”

“Stop doing that, please.” Allen sighed, nervously.

“What?”

“Saying ‘we’ as if there’s more than one of you in your body. It’s creepin’ me out.”

“But it’s the truth, as you’ll soon find out.” Morrison replied.

Allen shrugged off this vague remark. It was time to get to the real reason why he was here: the questions.

“So, you murdered and assaulted Kylie Bradford, correct? Do you deny this claim?”

Morrison slowly nodded his head.

As Allen was about to move onto the next question, Morrison interrupted him again.

“I didn’t kill her, Mark did.”

Allen stopped.

“Who’s— Who’s Mark?” Allen asked, beginning to get a bit freaked out.

Morrison suddenly sat up straight, squaring his shoulders. His face grew more stern and cold, if that was even possible. And his eyes. . . Somehow his eyes had changed his entire expression. They became. . . Evil, dark, mysterious.

There was silence. Allen hated silence; it made him extremely uncomfortable.

“So, is— Is this Mark? To whom I’m speaking?” Allen stammered.

“I killed that girl. And assaulted her. To answer your question.” The voice replied. It sounded like Morrison, but it wasn’t. It had that same feeling of a low, horse rumble, but was now adjusted with a slightly higher pitch.

Allen was growing scared. His heart rate was going up exponentially.

“So, why. . . Why did you—”

“Kill her?” Mark finished for him. He chuckled. The laugh scared Allen. It wasn’t just a little laugh, it was something deeper, an evil emitting from within his throat. Something primal.

The eerie energy grew in the room.

“I did it because she deserved it. I had to kill her. If I didn’t do it, then no one else would.”

There was a beat.

“The world wants you to think there’s no such thing as free will. . . But that’s all there is, right? Free will? I can do whatever I want. Anything. No one can stop me.”

Allen frowned. “So, you killed her just to. . . Prove a point? That’s it?”

Mark laughed again.

“Maybe, maybe not. You’ll never find out. That’s what makes me dangerous.”

Allen tilted his head, perplexed. He hesitated about what to say next. “Ok, S– Sir, I’m trying to help you—”

“No one helps. No one helped me. They never will.” Mark’s voice grew steadily louder. “They never will, do you hear me?! THEY NEVER WILL!!! THEY NEVER WILL!!!!!”

The noise was scaring Allen. In fact, he straight up jumped from the chair at the level of volume coming from Mark, who was now out of his chair, and pounding his hands ferociously on the glass, as if he thought he could break it. But he couldn’t, right?

The pounding got louder, and cracks began to split the glass like an unravelling spider’s web.

The screams began to give Allen a headache.

“Help! Anyone? Can anyone help me?!” Allen shouted, hoping his voice would reach someone. Anyone who could get him the hell out of here.

“If no one helped me, ya think they’d help you?!” Mark laughed maniacally. “No one gives a shit about you! No one will fucking care if you die, because you don’t matter to anyone in this world! ANYONE! Do ya hear me?!”

With that, Mark crashed through the glass, and lunged at Allen, knocking over the chair, and gripping him by the throat, and shaking him aggressively. Allen’s head grew hot with nausea and adrenaline. His body flailed around for something to defend himself with, found the pen he had dropped earlier, and stabbed it right into Mark’s left eye, blood spraying from the organ.

Mark cried out in pain and anger, and clutched his face, momentarily giving Allen a chance to escape, but it was a second too less.

Enraged, Mark stood, firmly placed a foot on Allen’s torso to prevent him from getting up, and reached over for the knocked–over chair. He raised it over his head, and was about to bring it crushing down onto Allen’s weak body, when he froze. His body was still. Not like a normal person would freeze, but like a statue. Absolutely immobilized, the chair stiffly hanging over his head.

Allen gripped the shoe that was on top of him as hard as he could, trying to shove the insane man off him. At last, he was able to roll out from the pressure of the murderer.

The maniac’s body fell onto the floor, limp. The chair clattered onto the cold, metal surface of the interrogation room, startling Allen once again. He wiped the blood off his face, and took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to regain his posture.

When he felt calm enough to leave, he stepped over the limp body, placed the blood stained golden pen into his briefcase along with his files, and shut the briefcase.

After placing the chair back where it initially sat, Allen sighed. The lights turned on again, and he began to walk out of the room, when he was stopped by the left hand of Mike Morrison.

“He told you to leave the lights off.” The voice was deeper, now. And British. This must be Steven.

Allen’s heart was racing again. He tried to pull away from Steven, but it was too strong of a grip. It began to hurt his ankle. he grimaced under the pressure. He heard the footsteps of men running down the hall, making their way to the cell. Alarms were blaring throughout the facility.

“Please. . . Let me go.” Allen begged, his voice shaking.

Steven’s grip remained stiff.

“Know this. . . They’re coming for me, not for you. Because they don’t care.” Steven softly whispered. He let go of Allen’s ankle.

Shaken by the event, Allen pulled his leg from Steven’s grip, stumbling backwards as the doctors and police burst into the room, none of them paying any attention to him whatsoever.

Allen turned, and left the chaos behind, refusing to look back as the broken man was drugged, and aggressively dragged back to his cell.