Instability

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"So he's definitely a Renegade?" I ask my co-worker Rick. Behind the thick, tinted window of glass, a bloodied teenage boy leans back in his chair. Blond hair darkened with sweat, plaid shirt stained with soot.

I cross my arms as tight as a knot. I just don't buy it. He strikes me as a teenage skater-boy, not a courthouse bomber.

"No, he's a circus clown." Rick laughs, spewing a mist of spit on my right cheek. "Of course he's a Renegade! Were you even paying attention?"

I clamp my jaw shut. How badly do I want to punch Rick in his stupid, smug face? Bad enough to give up today's paycheck? And tomorrow's?

"And how old is he again?" I say, biting my lip. My sleeve wipes Rick's spit from my face. Soon, our suspect should be spilling all his Renegade secrets.

Sweat and blood drip off the prisoner. Dried dirt cakes his body. Viscous guilt fills my stomach. My eyes can't look away. They can't, they won't.

Then my stomach growls like a wolf. The money, I remind myself. You need this paycheck to eat tonight. Don't worry about the bleeding boy.

Rick says, "Daniel Fadhill is 17 years old. Now don't let that get to your head. And don't let him ask you to prom like that last guy did. That's not why you're here."

My cheeks burn like a forest fire. I would pay a whole year's salary to knock the wind out of Rick's massive, puffed-up chest. His macho physique and slicked-back hair squeeze all the air out of the room.

Rick continues without missing a beat. "I gave him a good lashing, don't worry. The kid's got a mouth on him."

I nod slowly, grabbing the black remote from the window sill of the one-way glass. The device can help me with the interrogation. Without it, I'd be helpless in there with Daniel. "Is there any leverage in his file I can use?"

Rick flips through the classified papers in his hands. "Nothing in here. Daniel's a high school drop-out who stayed off the States' radar. No records on where he lived."

Rick glances at the clock in the room. "I'm going to search through some more files real quick. Can you handle this interrogation yourself or do you need my help again?"

"I'll be fine," I say. My fist tightens under my crossed forearms. Rick nods, then walks through the doors to the main halls of the juvenile agency. As soon as he's out of view, I take a deep breath, reminding myself I need this paycheck.

It's supposed to be a simple formula, really. Good cop, bad cop. The agency sends in an older interrogator to beat the suspect to a pulp, then the younger agent becomes the criminal's friend. The mixture of emotions confuses the Renegade's chaotic tendencies, to the point where the person confesses to the crimes. How they react (with reluctance or with glee) dictates if the suspect is just a regular criminal or an actual Renegade, respectively.

I exhale. It's not so bad trying to befriend a suspect. It's almost like making an actual friend, if I could disregard the blood and bruises. A petty thief doesn't really enjoy fessing up to the crime committed, but the Renegade does so with an unsettling cackle.

I eye Daniel again. Behind his mask of mercy and civility hides a brain full of Renegade instability. Sometimes, he allows a wisp of it to slip through the cracks. Maybe a small jeer or snarl, but it's enough to scar my skin like a burn.

I exit the viewing room, take a deep breath, and swing open the metal door of Interrogation Room 6.

"Hi," I say. The metal door shuts behind me with a bang. I take a few more steps forward. The suspect's not as thin as he should be, for a Baltimore boy, which is strange.