The Interrogation
A few hours after the questioning and subsequent bugging of Mr. Anderson, Agent Jones presented Smith with a file on Bronwyn. He dismissed Jones with a curt nod, and he sat down at his desk to read the file at his leisure.
Name: Bronwyn de Burgh Alias: Ronnie Address: 111 Ferguson St, Apt. #403 Occupation: cocktail waitress at a nightclub called "Rumors". Location: 33 West 1st St.
A few lines at the end caught and held Smith's notice:
Arrests: 9 Charges (see list below)
Prostitution, 6 counts Solicitation of a police officer, 1 count Possession of an illegal substance, 2 counts
She's nothing more than a drug-addicted twenty dollar whore, he thought smugly, and she had had the nerve to speak to me like that the night I met her, the little slut. How I would love to bend you over this desk in front of Jones and Brown. Maybe I should let them have a go at you too. Maybe then you won't be so high and mighty and show me the respect I deserve.
Smith laughed harshly, an evil grin twisting his features. Why not? He thought. It had been far too long since his last sexual encounter. He recalled with malicious glee how the woman had begged him to stop his violation of her body, pleading with him to let her go. But of course I didn't; the act had been much too pleasurable for me to even consider acceding to her pathetic, hysterical requests.
Why do women do that? Don't they realize that the more they beg, the more it pleases and arouses me?
I had climaxed several times that last time, I think, and each and every time it had been her cries of pain and agony that drove me over the edge again and again.
He closed his eyes and imagined Bronwyn underneath him as he thrust himself into her sensitive and resisting flesh, causing her excruciating pain, deepening her humiliation as he would whisper in her ear what he wanted to do to her, using and calling her by the coarsest, foulest words he knew.
She's here, Smith realized as Brown and Jones signaled their arrival at the Agency headquarters via their earpieces. He picked up her file and left his office, making his way to the interrogation room. Questioning first Mr. Anderson and now her, he thought. This was shaping up to be a very good day indeed.
It had always been Agency procedure to leave the suspect in the interrogation room alone for quite a while. This served the dual purpose of intimidation and heightening the sense of nervousness in the subject, making them more likely to co-operate in the hope that they might be released soon if they provided the right information.
The only thing it did with Bronwyn, however, was make her more and more angry. It had been humiliating for her to be hauled away like a criminal in front of her co-workers and customers, and she tapped her foot in increasing annoyance while waiting impatiently to see what awaited her.
The only thing she regretted was not being able to change from the dress that was her uniform at work—a red sleeveless dress that had a scooped neckline revealing some of her cleavage, and a skirt whose brief length made her feel vulnerable, especially in circumstances that she had no control over, like now.
Damn those two goons, she thought. Couldn't they have waited for me to change my clothes before we left the club?
Being questioned was nothing new to her—she couldn't recall the number of times it had happened in the past, but as a cop's daughter, she knew enough about the procedure to know that the psychological advantage always lay with the ones doing the questioning.
But that doesn't mean I have to play the game by their rules, she thought, as the door opened and Smith, Brown and Jones walked in.
"How many times do you want me to answer the same questions?" she said, almost an hour later. "Do I know who that woman on the roof was? No. Do I know where she is? No. I never saw her before. I don't know where she came from or where she is going—there. Satisfied?"
"All right, so you don't know her. How did you know, however, that Agent Brown would make that jump between those two buildings?" Smith asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Before I came here, I lived in New York, OK? I've seen guys there who dressed exactly like you do some really bizarre stuff."
"Like what, for example?"
"Punching holes in concrete, denting metal with your fists, jumping from a seventh floor window to the ground and always landing on your feet, things like that. Can I go now?"
"No."
"Take off your glasses," she ordered.
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking you to."
"Why should I agree to your request?"
She leaned over the table and yanked Smith's glasses off his face.
"When you are speaking to me, I want to look you in the eye, not at my reflection, got it?" she stated.
Agent Brown made a sudden movement toward Bronwyn, but Smith shook his head and Brown retreated to the corner of the room where he had been standing.
Smith looked Bronwyn directly in the eye. "Satisfied?"
"Yes". She returned his glasses by throwing them across the table. He reached over and picked them up, then put them in his jacket pocket.
"Why aren't you putting them back on?" she asked.
"Because for some reason, you seem to be a little disconcerted when I look directly at you. Isn't that correct, Miss. De Burgh?" he smirked.
She couldn't meet his gaze, and looked away from him, angry with herself. Damn! She thought, how did he know that?
"So?" she retorted. "You have creepy eyes and I don't want to look at them anymore. How long are you going to keep me here?" she demanded, consciously changing the subject and suddenly wishing to be as far away as she could from Smith, this room and everything associated with him. He was beginning to scare her with his smooth impenetrability and bland demeanor. Did nothing piss off this guy, she wondered.
"Why do you wish to leave so suddenly? Are you that anxious to go out and spread your somewhat shapely legs for the next highest bidder?" By the look on her face, he knew that remark had hit home and it pleased him to get her off her guard, but he had underestimated her temper and her willingness to use it against him.
She slapped him hard across his face. "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, getting to her feet.
He touched his cheek with a finger. It was a new sensation for him to be slapped and it intrigued him. It didn't hurt—it had been more of a surprise than anything else.
She suddenly found her arms pinned behind her back by Brown and Jones.
"What's the matter, Smith, you need your boys here to protect you from poor little me?" she taunted. "A woman half your size? Gee, I had no idea I was such a threat to your security. Shouldn't you check me for weapons now? I mean, how do you know I don't have a switchblade in my shoe?" she sneered.
"Good point", he acknowledged, getting to his feet. He nodded to his two colleagues and Bronwyn tried not to grunt in pain as she found herself being slammed face first into the wall very hard by their combined strength. Her arms were yanked painfully over her head and she was pinned to the wall by her wrists.
Smith leaned behind her and she felt his hands slide up her legs more slowly than was necessary, since it was obvious that she was carry no weapons. He's enjoying this, Bronwyn raged. He wants me to realize that he is in complete control over what is happening to me, my body, everything.
She knew it was useless to fight or struggle, but that doesn't mean that I have to accept the situation meekly, she thought. Still, she could feel her temper rising and she seethed with suppressed fury.
His eyes ran surveyed her figure, assessing what he saw. She had a compact and well proportioned figure and a waistline so small I could probably span it with my two hands.
Not a bad ass, either, he thought, as he patted her rump then groped her bottom. He thoroughly enjoyed this part of every interrogation of a female suspect for he liked touching them against their will; degrading and debasing them strictly for his own amusement.
He touched the hem of her skirt, and then she felt his fingers touch the crotch of her underwear.
"Goddamn it," she hissed. "Are you convinced now that I am not carrying a weapon in my panties?"
Oh yes you are, he chuckled to himself. You are carrying the oldest weapon known to mankind.
He released her hands and brought her to him so that her back was to him and that her rear was in contact with his groin. Smith let out a growl, deep in his throat as he spanned her waistline with his hands and then cupped her breasts. He pinched her nipples with his fingers until they were hard and erect.
Bronwyn had had enough. She twisted herself out of his grasp, spun around, hawked and spat directly in Smith's face. He shoved her away forcefully away from him and she hit her head on the table before sliding to the floor.
He brought his hand up and wiped the offensive matter away. "You're going to pay for that", he snarled. He reached down and grabbed her by the neck and slammed her face down to the table. He looked over at Jones and Brown.
"Leave us alone" Smith ordered.
Without a word, they obeyed and closed the door of the interrogation behind them.
A few hours after the questioning and subsequent bugging of Mr. Anderson, Agent Jones presented Smith with a file on Bronwyn. He dismissed Jones with a curt nod, and he sat down at his desk to read the file at his leisure.
Name: Bronwyn de Burgh Alias: Ronnie Address: 111 Ferguson St, Apt. #403 Occupation: cocktail waitress at a nightclub called "Rumors". Location: 33 West 1st St.
A few lines at the end caught and held Smith's notice:
Arrests: 9 Charges (see list below)
Prostitution, 6 counts Solicitation of a police officer, 1 count Possession of an illegal substance, 2 counts
She's nothing more than a drug-addicted twenty dollar whore, he thought smugly, and she had had the nerve to speak to me like that the night I met her, the little slut. How I would love to bend you over this desk in front of Jones and Brown. Maybe I should let them have a go at you too. Maybe then you won't be so high and mighty and show me the respect I deserve.
Smith laughed harshly, an evil grin twisting his features. Why not? He thought. It had been far too long since his last sexual encounter. He recalled with malicious glee how the woman had begged him to stop his violation of her body, pleading with him to let her go. But of course I didn't; the act had been much too pleasurable for me to even consider acceding to her pathetic, hysterical requests.
Why do women do that? Don't they realize that the more they beg, the more it pleases and arouses me?
I had climaxed several times that last time, I think, and each and every time it had been her cries of pain and agony that drove me over the edge again and again.
He closed his eyes and imagined Bronwyn underneath him as he thrust himself into her sensitive and resisting flesh, causing her excruciating pain, deepening her humiliation as he would whisper in her ear what he wanted to do to her, using and calling her by the coarsest, foulest words he knew.
She's here, Smith realized as Brown and Jones signaled their arrival at the Agency headquarters via their earpieces. He picked up her file and left his office, making his way to the interrogation room. Questioning first Mr. Anderson and now her, he thought. This was shaping up to be a very good day indeed.
It had always been Agency procedure to leave the suspect in the interrogation room alone for quite a while. This served the dual purpose of intimidation and heightening the sense of nervousness in the subject, making them more likely to co-operate in the hope that they might be released soon if they provided the right information.
The only thing it did with Bronwyn, however, was make her more and more angry. It had been humiliating for her to be hauled away like a criminal in front of her co-workers and customers, and she tapped her foot in increasing annoyance while waiting impatiently to see what awaited her.
The only thing she regretted was not being able to change from the dress that was her uniform at work—a red sleeveless dress that had a scooped neckline revealing some of her cleavage, and a skirt whose brief length made her feel vulnerable, especially in circumstances that she had no control over, like now.
Damn those two goons, she thought. Couldn't they have waited for me to change my clothes before we left the club?
Being questioned was nothing new to her—she couldn't recall the number of times it had happened in the past, but as a cop's daughter, she knew enough about the procedure to know that the psychological advantage always lay with the ones doing the questioning.
But that doesn't mean I have to play the game by their rules, she thought, as the door opened and Smith, Brown and Jones walked in.
"How many times do you want me to answer the same questions?" she said, almost an hour later. "Do I know who that woman on the roof was? No. Do I know where she is? No. I never saw her before. I don't know where she came from or where she is going—there. Satisfied?"
"All right, so you don't know her. How did you know, however, that Agent Brown would make that jump between those two buildings?" Smith asked.
She rolled her eyes. "Before I came here, I lived in New York, OK? I've seen guys there who dressed exactly like you do some really bizarre stuff."
"Like what, for example?"
"Punching holes in concrete, denting metal with your fists, jumping from a seventh floor window to the ground and always landing on your feet, things like that. Can I go now?"
"No."
"Take off your glasses," she ordered.
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking you to."
"Why should I agree to your request?"
She leaned over the table and yanked Smith's glasses off his face.
"When you are speaking to me, I want to look you in the eye, not at my reflection, got it?" she stated.
Agent Brown made a sudden movement toward Bronwyn, but Smith shook his head and Brown retreated to the corner of the room where he had been standing.
Smith looked Bronwyn directly in the eye. "Satisfied?"
"Yes". She returned his glasses by throwing them across the table. He reached over and picked them up, then put them in his jacket pocket.
"Why aren't you putting them back on?" she asked.
"Because for some reason, you seem to be a little disconcerted when I look directly at you. Isn't that correct, Miss. De Burgh?" he smirked.
She couldn't meet his gaze, and looked away from him, angry with herself. Damn! She thought, how did he know that?
"So?" she retorted. "You have creepy eyes and I don't want to look at them anymore. How long are you going to keep me here?" she demanded, consciously changing the subject and suddenly wishing to be as far away as she could from Smith, this room and everything associated with him. He was beginning to scare her with his smooth impenetrability and bland demeanor. Did nothing piss off this guy, she wondered.
"Why do you wish to leave so suddenly? Are you that anxious to go out and spread your somewhat shapely legs for the next highest bidder?" By the look on her face, he knew that remark had hit home and it pleased him to get her off her guard, but he had underestimated her temper and her willingness to use it against him.
She slapped him hard across his face. "You son of a bitch!" she snarled, getting to her feet.
He touched his cheek with a finger. It was a new sensation for him to be slapped and it intrigued him. It didn't hurt—it had been more of a surprise than anything else.
She suddenly found her arms pinned behind her back by Brown and Jones.
"What's the matter, Smith, you need your boys here to protect you from poor little me?" she taunted. "A woman half your size? Gee, I had no idea I was such a threat to your security. Shouldn't you check me for weapons now? I mean, how do you know I don't have a switchblade in my shoe?" she sneered.
"Good point", he acknowledged, getting to his feet. He nodded to his two colleagues and Bronwyn tried not to grunt in pain as she found herself being slammed face first into the wall very hard by their combined strength. Her arms were yanked painfully over her head and she was pinned to the wall by her wrists.
Smith leaned behind her and she felt his hands slide up her legs more slowly than was necessary, since it was obvious that she was carry no weapons. He's enjoying this, Bronwyn raged. He wants me to realize that he is in complete control over what is happening to me, my body, everything.
She knew it was useless to fight or struggle, but that doesn't mean that I have to accept the situation meekly, she thought. Still, she could feel her temper rising and she seethed with suppressed fury.
His eyes ran surveyed her figure, assessing what he saw. She had a compact and well proportioned figure and a waistline so small I could probably span it with my two hands.
Not a bad ass, either, he thought, as he patted her rump then groped her bottom. He thoroughly enjoyed this part of every interrogation of a female suspect for he liked touching them against their will; degrading and debasing them strictly for his own amusement.
He touched the hem of her skirt, and then she felt his fingers touch the crotch of her underwear.
"Goddamn it," she hissed. "Are you convinced now that I am not carrying a weapon in my panties?"
Oh yes you are, he chuckled to himself. You are carrying the oldest weapon known to mankind.
He released her hands and brought her to him so that her back was to him and that her rear was in contact with his groin. Smith let out a growl, deep in his throat as he spanned her waistline with his hands and then cupped her breasts. He pinched her nipples with his fingers until they were hard and erect.
Bronwyn had had enough. She twisted herself out of his grasp, spun around, hawked and spat directly in Smith's face. He shoved her away forcefully away from him and she hit her head on the table before sliding to the floor.
He brought his hand up and wiped the offensive matter away. "You're going to pay for that", he snarled. He reached down and grabbed her by the neck and slammed her face down to the table. He looked over at Jones and Brown.
"Leave us alone" Smith ordered.
Without a word, they obeyed and closed the door of the interrogation behind them.