One Stop Before (PT 2)

Before you read “One Stop Before – PT 2,” check out the first part of the story here.

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“The last thing I remember is walking out of that place, alone, wearing a bright orange jacket.”

“Is that really the last thing you remember?”

“It’s in my first verbal statement, in a written statement and I’m telling you again. Yes, that’s the last thing I remember.”

“Do you know why you were there?”

“I told you, I was curious.”

“Curious about what? A jacket? That’s a little ridiculous, don’t you think.”

“Yeah, as stupid as it sounds I was curious about a jacket. A hideous jacket that I now miraculously own!”

“Do you know who those people were?”

“How would I know?! I’ve never set foot in that place before that day. Isn’t that your job to find out who they are?!”

The detective stood up, walked toward one of the many file boxes stacked in his office adjacent to his desk. The room had very few personal effects – no family photos, no awards or accommodations collecting dust nor any annoying trinkets one would find to help lighten one’s mood when entering into a situation such as this one.

“Did you get fired or something?” Paul asked.

The detective chuckled moved a box from the top of the pile to get the another, opened the to and pulled out a file. He walked back to his desk, sat down and dropped the file down. Opening it, he scanned the first page with his boney index finger.

“”As soon as I saw her, she said they were waiting for me.’ Isn’t that what you said? That they were ‘waiting for you.’ Then here,” he said turning the page. “You said you remember opening the door to leave and you looked over your shoulder but the room was empty. I’m having a hard time figuring out what it was that you remembered last,” the detective said. He stared at Paul, without blinking. It was the thousand-yard stare. He didn’t break eye contact and slammed the file shut. The sat in silence for a while. You could cut the silence with a knife, and the tension emanating from the detective’s gaze, too. Without giving Paul a chance to respond, he got up again, walked toward the door, opened it and with an annoyed smirk on his face, gestured for Paul to leave.

“Thanks for stopping by. We’ll let you know if we come across any leads or details about the orange jacket cult,” the detective said with a smirk on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

Paul was still sitting with his new jacket draped across his lap. As soon as the detective made the gesture, Paul leapt out of the seat with such frustration he caught himself from falling after he tripped on the chair’s leg.

“This is the fourth time I’ve been here and you still don’t have any ‘leads’,” he said using air quotes. “Not even a speck of information or anything for that matter. I’m telling you, I was drugged or kidnapped or something. I don’t know what you would call it but something happened that I didn’t want happening!”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Parks,” said the detective as his hand made another gesture for Paul to leave.

Paul huffed and stormed out of the detective’s office. As his palm rested on the door to leave the police station, he came to a sudden stop.

“I forgot my coat,” he mumbled, turned around and quickly grabbed it out of the detective’s hand before rushing out the door.

Despite it being the dead of winter, Paul refused to put on the coat. He didn’t know who wore it last, where it’s been or even the last time it was cleaned. Being caught dead wearing a bright orange, full-length puffer jacket was also on the top of his list of reasons for weathering the winter wind jacket-less.

The cold winter air hit him hard as he turned the corner. His eyes burned as the wind violently whipped in his face, the pooling tears blurring his vision and forcing him to blink violently to clear them.

“Why don’t they believe me?!” he said out loud. His fists were clenched so roughly he felt his dull fingernails created faint, half moon etching in his palms.