The interrogation room was not what at all what I would have expected. It looked more like my old Kindergarten classroom than the inside of a police station and I concluded that the person responsible for its paint-job must have either been colorblind or on ecstasy.
There were no windows or pictures, and there was a single turquoise door that didn’t match anything I’d seen in the entire precinct other than the molding that surrounded the giant two-way mirror. The walls were a warm beige, and the floor-tile was a hideous, almost Creamsicle-orange. My mother would have died.
For a second I thought that maybe he had positioned me at just the right angle in the mirror so that I could see the reflection of the one strand of black hair sticking straight up in the back of my head like fucking Alfalfa, but couldn’t reach to smooth out.
But no, I thought, nobody is that twisted. Then again, they had me stuck on top of Candy Mountain.
The man’s name was Detective Ronald Wiley. I had originally introduced myself as the Road Runner, but like most people, he just didn’t get my sense of humor. Or maybe another clever homo had used the line before me. Either way, at this point, I most certainly would have loved to drop an ACME iron on his head.
I had first met Wiley’s associate Taz -and no, that wasn’t his actual name, it was an alias- quite a few months back at a club that Johnny used to take me to called Izzie’s, while he was working undercover with the DEA in what I assume was an effort to hinder the drug trafficking in and out of Boston Harbor. And yes I realize the terrible irony of the fact that Taz was working together with Wiley in the hopes of catching the Road Runner.