A/N- I know, I know, didn't update in ages, but don't worry, I never intended to give up on these stories, they're my babies. Will update more often, I swear. So here's chapter 8!

Chapter 8

As Anatoly squints vigorously, trying to take in the flickering light coming from the old bulb attached to the upward wall, he clumsily drags himself into the dark cell. His eyes burn from obvious lack of sleep, his cheeks sunken, and his back's in terrible condition due to the tough mattress and constant interrogations.

The officer gives him a slight uncommitted nudge forward, and the cell's metal lock mocks him from behind. Gazing around, he has to admit this isn't that bad. The previous cell was significantly smaller than this one, and it smelled.

A lone lavatory was visible in the corner, a tiny sink right next to it. Besides the downside of the malfunctioned bulb, the floor is almost clean and the tiny window isn't cracked.

That could be a plus.

Passing a rough palm through his blond short hair, he exhales as his fatigued body plummets to the bed. It seems like eternity passes, and he still cannot get used to the idea that of being behind bars. He misses his wife and son terribly, and the grudge he holds against his keepers cannot be measured with words.

His mind's running the events of the passing days, and he has to admit he's sure of nothing, by now. Dear Olga repeatedly warned him about the possible outcome of ignoring his psychiatrist's instructions. The medicine is to be taken daily, if not, a possible psychotic break is in order.

When was the last time he took the pill? He can't remember. He was so sure it would be fine, but lately, every truth was shaken out of his world drastically, and he remained like an empty shell.

They tell him he killed a girl. For the life of him, he cannot remember killing any girl.

They showed him a picture, but he can't remember ever seeing this girl in her life, much less in her death. But then again, he considers as he scratches his scalp, he never really aimed at getting to really know the school-children. Teenagers, those were teenagers.

And teenagers are mean.

When he was a young boy, back in Ukraine, he was often abused by mean boys and girls. Mocked for being skinny and stupid. Dark days for him, those were.

He met Olga when he was sixteen. She was pretty, and a bit of a geek, but she understood what it feels like to be socially challenged, and she didn't see him as a laughing stock.

But he was always problematic. Most of the time quiet, but tending to violence when it's most unexpected. So he was treated, and now on the pill.

And they told him non-stop of might what just happen when he stops taking his pill.

Did he kill that girl? Blinking painfully, he hopes he didn't. he can't remember really what he did that afternoon. He may have drank something, may have…done things? But he didn't take anyone's life.

But they seem so sure it's him? And they're cops.

The cops where he came from know best. They wouldn't lie, right?

He's just so confused….

It takes another two days before Arthur decides he can't possibly take much more of this. The looks Agnes gives him is no real help, either.

As he walks down the path of the twelfth precinct this morning, he is hesitant. Not really finding himself. He asks about the detectives working on the Richmond case.

Soon enough he finds himself in a small squared room, in-front of two male detectives. One dark skinned with a Latin appearance, and the other with a slight Irish touch to his form.

"Thank you for coming over, Mr…" Irish cop says slowly

"Robinson," completes Arthur, "Name's Arthur Robinson," he entwines his fingers nervously.

They both sit infront of him, pads to their laps, nodding.

"We're eager to hear what you have to say, Mr. Robinson."

The old man clears his throat, "Right. Well, I wasn't sure up till now that it was such a good idea, coming here…" Latino cop tiltes his head, and with a sigh, Arthur surrender, "My last running with the cops wasn't very pleasant, but I guess I had to put this behind me and come forward with what I know…" and he gets the feeling he reveals too much. Right. Focus.

Both the male cops wait, letting him take his time, "On that day," he starts slowly, waves his hand in explanation, "The Richmond kid dying, I mean…I was there," he blinks, then explains when he see the look in their faces, "I'm a cab driver," he chirps, and the 'Ah' look covering their features tells him he should continue, "I was called to the area by a client who later on canceled, right where the school is."

Both men write this down, then the Latino cop frowns, "When was that, Mr. Robinson? What time?"

H shrugs, "About 2 o'clock, maybe?" he hesitates, "Something like that. I was about to drive back to the station, when suddenly, three boys jumped into my cab, all like," he gestures with his right hand to his chest, "short-breaths and a little frightened," he passes his tongue over his bottom lip, "but that was not why I was bewildered; they were so eager and urgent to get out of there, and well…." His eyes start to run about the room, and he's suddenly unsure of what he's about to say.

"Well?..." Irish cop urges him to not stop there, "What was it, then?"

"One of the boys," he continues after a long pause, "his shirt was turn, like he struggled with someone, and the other one, the boy sitting in the middle, he looked shocked and scared…He wore a simple white blouse, and it was all covered in blood…-"

That definitely gets their attention, "The boy's shirt was in his blood?" Irish cop raises and eyebrow.

Robinson nods repeatedly, "Yes," he said, "and then he started like…shaking. All over. He kept muttering 'What have I done, I should have stayed out of it, we're in over our heads, what have I done…' and he kept saying it over and over…"

The officers write his words down energetically, and he keeps going, "They asked me to drop them off in a sideway junction in SoHo, and the entire ride one of the boys, the tall one, kept yammering at the boy with the bleeding shirt to keep his mouth shut, saying 'What's done is done'".

He then gulps, "That was right in the school where I picked them to my cab, detectives. And they were behaving way off. I found it odd. And then that kid got killed? I didn't know what to do."

The Irish cop seems considering, "You've waited before coming to us," his voice a little suspicions, why is that?"

The man seems ashamed, "I didn't know where this blood came from," his eyes run about, "I knew it was off, but just later, much later, I realized what it could have meant. So when I got come I cleaned some of the blood which found itself on the seats. I didn't want the boss to get pissed. Later on I figured I shouldn't have done it".

The shorter detective's hand scratches his forehead. Probably lost evidence, he can't be too happy 'bout that, lost blood samples, Robinson knows now he made a huge mistake. He should be thankful he's not in lock up for obstruction of justice like last time. The thought alone is nauseating.

After a pregnant pause, the Latino detective blurts something, chewing on his pen; "Tell me, Robinson," he blinks, "Do you remember which junction it was where you dropped them off?"

Thinking momentarily, Robinson nods, "I do," he said, "I can take you there if you want," he really tries to be helpful; maybe they'll cut him some slack.

"And tell me," the detective leans forward, his face shows that he's 'all business', "If I bring those dudes to a lineup, any chance you'll spot them for me?" his hoarse voice gives him the child.

Gulping, he responds with the same seriousness, "Detective," he says honestly, "there are certain faces in your life you don't forget so quickly. Those were from the above. I'm a 100% sure I'll recognize them when seeing them. I remember their eyes like it was yesterday that I saw them."

Leaning backwards, the detective is evidently pleased. Exchanging knowing look with his partner, he then says, "That good then. That gives us something to work on."

A/N-thinks will get much more complicated before becoming simpler in this case. Are you still with me?

Please R&R