Watson and Holmes

*No points for guessing the narrator!*

I sit across the table from the suspect, my arms crossed quietly over my chest. He begins to describe his side of the story—how a 38 year old woman ended up dead in his apartment. He's not very imaginative—I've heard this story a thousand times. I am not impressed.

Despite my lack of admiration for his oratory skills, I keep a blank expression on my face. That's what my daddy taught me—never let them see what you're thinking. Be unreadable, and you will always stay one step ahead. So I keep it all locked away. My disbelief, my disgust, my amusement—all of it. The man across the table will never be able to read my thoughts, no matter how hard he tries.

My partner, on the other hand, apparently never learned that lesson. He is pacing behind our murderer, fidgeting with the pen in his hand, a thick file clamped closely to his side in the other hand. If we weren't interrogating a cold-blooded killer, I probably would laugh right now.

A slight movement causes me to turn my attention back to our suspect. The poor guy is looking nervously over his shoulder at my partner, who continues to pace the room. I can tell my partner is waiting for the chance to pounce. He's waiting for something—a certain word, a slip of the tongue. Whatever he's looking for, it hasn't come yet.

So I sit and wait. Wait for that little slip, wait for my partner's all-out attack on the suspect. Wait for the confession.

I can tell our suspect is becoming anxious around my partner. I keep a straight face, focusing my gaze on the suspect. My lack of movement, my calmness, seems to bring him from the brink of panic.

That's how we work. We don't play good-cop/bad-cop. We play sane-cop/crazy-cop. My partner is brilliant, but he needs a steady hand to keep him in check. I am the senior partner, the leash for his overzealous antics. I am the practical, complacent Watson to his unorthodox Holmes.

I see the light in his eyes. He's picked up on something. He begins to fidget; his mouth opens slightly, as if he wants to ask a question but is weighing the consequences of such an action. I force back the urge to smile at his obvious distraction. He's like a kid at Christmas—I can tell he has found something to nail our suspect.

I lean forward, waiting for him to pounce. Then I will lose my expressionless mask. I will attack from the opposite side, effectively trapping our murderer in his own web of lies. In less than ten minutes, we will have this entire thing wrapped up. That is how we work—like a well oiled machine, two opposites coming together to complete a case. Like Watson and Holmes.

He steps forward, holding up an index finger to stop our suspect's narration. I allow myself to smile slightly, taking a deep breath as Bobby begins his question.

Here we go…

~Le Fin