Episode 1: His Confession - by Trixie Wrights

Instructions: Listen to the audio while reading. Read alone. "Mr. Rogers... do you have anything to say for yourself?" The question hung in the air. The old man sat quietly with his hands folded on the steel table. His handcuffs clinked softly as he absentmindedly moved his fingers. A gentle smile rested on his face. He looked nothing like the monster the newspapers had described. His grey hair was neatly combed. His glasses rested low on his nose, and despite the handcuffs around his wrists, he wore the calm expression of a man waiting for a doctor's appointment rather than an interrogation. He looked up at the detective and smiled. "I'll wait for my lawyer." Detective Salvador scoffed. "Your lawyer?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Don't worry, Rogers... you'll get one." He paused before adding, "You're going to need him." Rogers simply adjusted his glasses. The silence that followed felt heavier than the walls around them. The room smelled faintly of fresh paint and cold metal.It was the middle of fall.Rogers slowly turned his head to his right, smiled warmly and gave a quiet thumbs-up to an empty corner of the room. Neither detective noticed. Outside the interrogation room, Detective Monroe watched through the one-way glass. He had seen murderers before. Armed robbers. Drug traffickers. Men who laughed while confessing to terrible crimes. But this man unsettled him. "I don't get it," Monroe muttered. Sal folded his arms. "Get what?" "He doesn't look dangerous." Sal let out a dry laugh. "Neither does a snake until it bites you." Monroe looked back at the old man. "What exactly did he do?" Sal's jaw tightened. "I've worked homicide for twelve years." He paused. "I've never seen anything like this." --- Three hours later... A black sedan rolled into the station parking lot. Attorney Allen Brooks stepped out, straightened his tie and picked up a leather briefcase polished enough to suggest this wasn't his first high profile case. The young lawyer had been called in without much information. All he knew was that his client had confessed to multiple killings. As he approached the detectives, he noticed the exhaustion on their faces. "Good afternoon, officers." Neither man smiled. They stared at the tag on his breast pocket. Allen Brooks. Sal nodded toward the interrogation room. "That's your client." Allen looked through the glass. An elderly man sat quietly, humming to himself. He looked ordinary. Average. Almost... Harmless. Allen frowned. "That's him?" Monroe let out a humourless chuckle. "You'll understand soon enough." The interrogation room door clicked open. Sal and Monroe followed behind him. "Mr. Rogers." The old man looked up. "Oh..." His smile widened. "My lawyer." Allen instinctively stretched out his hand before remembering the handcuffs. He quietly pulled out a chair instead. "My name is Allen Brooks. I'll be representing you." "Pleasure to meet you, son." Allen sat down. "I'll remind you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in court." "I know." Rogers nodded. "I've been waiting." Allen opened his notebook. "Before we begin... is there anything you'd like me to know?" The old man's smile disappeared. "My wife." He swallowed. "Please don't arrest Claire." Allen looked up. "What about your wife?" "I made her help me." He smiled. Allen's pen froze above the page. The silence lingered long enough for his heartbeat to quicken. Outside the room, Sal slowly turned toward Monroe. The detectives exchanged uneasy glances. Allen cleared his throat. "Help you... do what?" Rogers looked at each man in the room before answering. "You don't know?" "No." "I thought that's why I was here." For the first time since his arrest, Rogers laughed. Not loudly. Not maniacally. Just a soft, quiet laugh. "Oh..." "I suppose we should start from the beginning then." Sal leaned back in his chair. "That would help." The old man rested his cuffed hands on the table, leaned back and inhaled slowly, as though trying to remember a scent from long ago. "I was born in 1946." Sal sighed loudly. "Oh, come on, old man..." Allen raised a hand. "Let him speak." Rogers smiled again. "You remind me of myself when I was your age." "The difference is..." Sal interrupted. "I've never murdered anyone." The smile remained. "No." Rogers replied softly. "Killers aren't born." He looked directly into Sal's eyes long enough to make his skin crawl. "They're made." Nobody retorted. Somewhere beyond the interrogation room, a telephone rang. No one moved. The room suddenly felt colder. Allen uncapped his pen. "Mr. Rogers...Take your time." The old man nodded. "I will." He took a slow breath. "My wife and I owned a small restaurant on Block Five." His eyes drifted toward the far corner of the room, as though he were no longer seeing the interrogation room at all. "It wasn't much..." A faint smile crossed his lips. "But it was ours." "We worked hard." "Business was good once." "Until the farm stopped producing." "Our savings disappeared." "My wife cried every night." "I didn't know how to save us." He paused. Then his expression changed. "My son..." The room fell silent. "My son was the best of us." No one interrupted him. Not even Sal. Rogers lowered his head. His voice became barely above a whisper. "It all started..." "...the day my son died." Silence filled the room. Allen looked up from his notebook. Monroe slowly folded his arms. Even Sal, who had spent the last few hours looking at the old man with nothing but hatred, said nothing. Rogers finally lifted his head. His eyes met theirs. "Have any of you ever buried your own child?" No one answered. "I hope you never do." He lowered his gaze. The hum of the fluorescent light echoed. TBC...

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