1
The Gotham City Police Department 8th Precinct building was not a particularly pretty structure, crumbling and grey on the outside and dingy, poorly lit and largely unappealing on the inside. The building's unattractive aesthetic was nowhere more apparent than in Interrogation Room 1C, where one particularly despicable perpetrator sat in silence. The room's door swung open and two officers entered, the first one was a tall black man who walked briskly and did not look at the suspect, the other was a shorter, older white man who walked slowly, concisely and confidently who, in stark contrast with his partner made unbroken eye contact with the man handcuffed at the table.
The door shut and the short man approached the table with his taller partner following behind. The older officer observed the suspect who he noted as a white male, early thirties with bleach blonde hair, 5'9, maybe 170 pounds. As they reached the table, the man looked down. This agitated the shorter officer who leaned in and slammed both hands hard on the table, causing the suspect to jump in his seat and look at the officers.
"It's detectives Loeb and Allen and we both know already that you're a sack of shit." Barked Loeb. "Now that we're all acquainted, is there anything you want to say before we throw you in a cell?"
The man looked back down and simply croaked one word in a small almost ashamed voice. "No."
"Come on Chilton." Loeb egged on in a fake sort of encouragement. "Two dead, two orphaned kids and a long, long list of robberies involving a suspect matching your description and you've got jack shit to say?"
Chilton remained silent.
"Real chatterbox, huh?" Allen groaned. Loeb shrugged at Allen and turned back to Chilton.
"Not a peep? Nothing to say? You go through all that and you have no words?" Loeb jeered. "Pretty fuckin' lame to be brutally honest." Silence hung over the room following Loeb's statement.
"I don't think he's feeling cooperative." Allen stated with some frustration.
"Well, I figure we have what we need without his word anyway," started Loeb, "he can cozy up in a cell for the night." Less than a second after Loeb finished, Chilton spoke up.
"It wasn't always so bad, you know?"
"Oh ho, he speaks!" Loeb sarcastically exclaimed.
"I had a job, a place to live, three square meals a day and a car." Chilton stated in a small, defeated voice. "It wasn't much, but it was mine, you know?" Chilton's hands were trembling and he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "Just a face you wouldn't notice workin' at the medical supply plant. Factory work was shit, but it was an honest way to make a livin' and I worked my ass off every day. So when my fat bastard of a supervisor calls me into the office I'm thinkin' about a raise or promotion or something." He paused and his frown became a grimace as tears rolled down his face. "But no. Laid off. Thrown out like the fuckin' trash and replaced with a fuckin' machine. Real wave of the future shit, no more Joe."
"Yeah, very sad, but I'm a detective, not your therapist so could you move this pity party along, please?" Loeb growled.
"Hey, I'm gettin' there!" Chilton defended. "So anyways it wasn't so bad for a while, I had some cash put away, I figured it'd take a couple weeks but I'd be back workin' in no time, good as gold. But no. Gotham's a dry well when you're like me, cause Joey Chilton apparently don't mean shit in this town, so I did what I could."
"And what exactly was that?" Queried Allen.
"Small time shit, pickin' pockets, stealing hubcaps, anything for an easy buck, anything for a meal or two. But then it got worse, you know? Then I needed to pay rent and that ain't so easy when all you're doin' is swipin' hubcaps so I stepped it up. Got myself a piece."
"An unregistered piece." Added Allen.
"Does it really matter now?" Chilton shot back. "So anyways I really started makin' cash then. I wasn't hurtin' nobody or nothin', just scarin' em', scarin' em' enough to have em' turn over their cash and valuables. Never fired the piece, it was more of a prop than anything, you know?" He paused again. "So there I was tonight, pullin' this same gag I done about five times before, without incident, might I add. I'm hidin' behind this dumpster in the alley by where the road ain't so busy and I'm waitin' for some sucker to walk by. When I hear him do I start yellin', you know? Like 'help, help! I need help!'" Chilton recalled. "So soon as the poor sucker gets behind the dumpster where no one can see I whip out the piece, take the money and scram, cept' tonight that don't happen."
"And why not, Chilton" Loeb angrily inquired.
"Cause this son of a bitch comes down the alley with his lady and I got the gun ready and I realize I know that bastard, I seen his face before. He's the guy in the framed picture in the break room at work, he's the one shakin' my jackass supervisor's hand in the picture on his desk, it's his lousy ass's fault I was pullin' that gag in the alley in the first place. It was his company I got the boot from."
"So what, you just wasted them both, huh?" Loeb questioned, brimming with anger. Chilton looked down again and with a small voice through a sickly sad chuckle he simply replied:
"You said it, pal, not me."
"Joseph Chilton," began Allen, as Loeb pulled Chilton out of his chair, "you're being charged with the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne."
"Whatever." Chilton grumbled as Loeb pushed him towards the door.
"Didn't need a confession really," Loeb taunted, "but it was a nice story, I'm sure if their two newly orphaned sons were here to hear your story about why you just had to kill their parents, they'd be real sympathetic."