“PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME,” Adam asked stoically. He sat across the table from Louis in the interrogation room with a manila folder laid out in front of him. The older detective, who had introduced himself to him as Lt. Shostrom, leaned cross armed by the two way mirror, with the sole of one shoe propped up against the wall. He had asked Louis if he wanted an attorney present, to which he told the cop no, the irrational thought that only guilty people needed lawyers having popped nonsensically into his swirling head.
“Adam, you know me,” he cried out, pleadingly. “Your fiancé knows me! I haven’t murdered anyone!” He heard the hysteria in his own rising voice.
“Settle down and state your name, please.”
“Louis Jacob Naulin.” He slumped into the wooden chair dejectedly, though the anxiety he
