D'Amares felt horrified! Oh Lord! I missed it! But there was also a girl with us. "The g – gi – girl looked like medieval –"
"Painting huh? Trying to be Poe here?" Keaton snapped and opened the briefcase without warning, "It doesn’t matter whatever happened last night. You are going to prison anyways for the past activities you had done under persona of an ordinary civilian."
Keaton spoke when his eyes moved from the contents of his briefcase, "One female and one male were found dead. Not two females, do you get it? And the gun just had your fingerprints on it."
D'Amares said noting at first but said, "I need my lawyer here. Call Bughaloo. I'll give you his number he lives in West –"
"Bughaloo's missing. Now don’t make me mad. Bughaloo has not been found even after Brymer's custody."
In a sudden Keaton turned the briefcase towards D'Amares. He couldn’t believe what was in front of his eyes. He just found himself listening to Keato 's voice, "Even if Bughaloo is found, forget the idea that he'll come here. In fact, forget the idea that we'll let him here to see you."
My God, why didn’t I keep this hidden? He thought by looking at the contents of the briefcase.
Inside the briefcase lay driving license, passport and some other documents. There were many other things which had made him fall in shock when he had seen them for the first time.
"And this…" Keaton showed him flight ticket of Tacoma International Airport which was scheduled to take off after some hours. "You were planning to escape today. To…Chateau, France, your origin…"
"I may have a convincing explanation for this…" he mumbled but stopped because of some reason. Then he didn’t choose to speak anything more.
"No explanations. I just came here to fill up the formal procedures. My job is done in here. Explain this to FBIs later." Keaton snapped at him, shooting TPD pipebomb, "You know D'Amares, when we took you here last night we found drugs in your blood. We would never have found you if you hadn’t been to a local medical facility in order to buy some pain killers." Then Keaton looked at D'Amares' photos in which his hands, feet and back was injured due to some reason, "You were clever to have survived by living in here with another name under our nose. But you couldn’t outsmart us anyways –"
D'Amares began to cry tears of a lunatic, "Why lord?"
Keaton kept looking at him weep for a while and asked with a suspicion in his mind, "Are – are you Célestine D'Amares?"
"No." he said in low voice, moving his head with some hope even though he had just been told Keaton was just there to do his job which did not even mattered anymore.
"Where – where's D'Amares?" Keaton still was suspicious if he was telling truth or was just kidding to distract TPD.
What he answered to Keaton made him pale in disbelief. Keaton eyed around the vault and left, "Jesus how this can go wrong?" The men observing from Control Room had no idea what piece of information had been passed to Keaton.
In control room, Alford's cell phone rand. The call was from none other than Keaton himself but he had no intention to share what he had told about D'Amares.
"Okay then. Proceed." Alford replied and looked at the strange man with them in the room. Completely unaware if condition was under their condition or not, he doubted if the peculiar man with them could turn out to be helpful at any scale for them or not.
Ten minutes after Keaton 's departure, an old thin man with long beard and white hair entered inside the interrogation vault. He looked like he was hungry for a couple of years and never had combed his hair. The old man was dressed in black shirt, loose denim and was barefoot.
The old man looked around first and then saw man whom everybody called Célestine D'Amares – a French misanthropist who had been caught in USA under strange circumstances.
The chair which one belonged to Keaton was now his. He calmly sat down, looked at mirror and discovered himself looking like a Middle Eastern beggar dressed in rags.
"I – I was there." The old man pointed at mirror, trying to tell him that people were eying them from the other end, "There's a room inside this looking glass. Patrick Turner." He introduced himself while D'Amares didn’t even glance at him, "And I am not a cop."
"I don’t care who you are. I – I – I'm just," he didn’t opt to speak for a while, "I am not D'Amares. I am Allan. Allan O'Connell."
"You know what, the microphone affixed on you collar has been deactivated. They can't listen to what you speak," Truner pointed at his shirt and looked down at his clothes, "and I don’t even have mic attached anywhere on my clothes."
Those men shared awkward silence for sometimes. Turner couldn’t imagine sharing awkward silence with same sex could also be this much of an embarrassment.
"Can you tell me what exactly happened to you?" Turner broke the silence.
O'Connell glanced at him, "Is this new interrogation technique or what?"
"No, of course not! Believe me or not but I'm also here due to an unexplainable occurrence. It's true…" Turner spoke fast but slowed down, "You're not alone…"