His words were met with silence. Even .306 wasn’t expressing his desire to shoot on sight.
Crefloe stepped out from behind the tree.
This was the moment. Was he going to be shot or was he going to get them to cooperate?
I’d left it up to him in the planning. He was sure he’d know the moment. We’d find out right now. I tensed, ready to grab one of the rifle barrels and begin firing.
Crefloe held his hands half-heartedly in the air. “Look. I have a pair of pistols, but nothing else.”
“We’re going to need those pistols.”
Crefloe nodded, his hands still up and began to walk slowly toward them.
The barrels of both rifles pulled back. I heard the men crunch leaves as they backed away.
Crefloe could have easily made eye contact with me, but he kept his gaze straight ahead instead.
“What’s up with your skin?” .306 asked. “Get acid thrown on you or something?”
“Vitiligo,” Crefloe said. “It’s a skin condition. Soon I’ll be white just like you.”
“Seriously?” .306 asked, wonder in his voice.
“Seriously. They have the reverse too… called Blavitiligo. It’s where people turn black.”
“Now you’re fucking with me,” .306 said.
“Wouldn’t do that to a guy holding a rifle on me.” They removed his pistols. “They think it’s something the aliens brought.”
“Is it contagious?” .30–30 asked.
“Dunno. It’s just a weird condition. Doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t tingle. But the whiter I get the more superior I start to feel.” Crefloe laughed. “Know what I mean?”
30-30 laughed with him. “You made all of that up, didn’t you?”
Crefloe chuckled. “Yeah. Sorry. Couldn’t help it. It was just the look on this guy’s face.”
“Amos, he’s right. I thought you were going to shit your pants right here.”
306, whose name was evidently Amos, sighed. “That was messed up, Steve.” Then to Crefloe he added, “Come on. Let’s get you in front of the Rev so we can clear you and you can get on your way.”
“Can I put my hands down?” Crefloe asked. “After all, you’re behind me.”
“I suppose so,” Steve said.
It wasn’t until they began moving away that I risked a look. They’d both shouldered their rifles and were walking behind Crefloe. Sure enough, he’d made them comfortable. He could sell crack to the Pope, given the chance.
Now it was my turn.
Go time.
I lowered my M4. “Don’t move.” Two simple yet effective words.
Steve and Amos stopped cold. Their backs tensed. Their hands went to their rifles.
“I’ll shoot you before you can even get it clear,” I said. “Now turn around.”
They both turned. Amos’s face was ash white beneath red hair. Steve’s was beet red beneath brown hair. Their eyes went from my M4 to my face, then back again.
“Crefloe, if you please.”
He turned around a big smile on his face. “Put your hands in the air.”
They both did.
Crefloe disarmed them, including regaining his pistols. He then frisked them, finding Steve’s ankle pistol and a pistol at the small of Amos’s back. Once completely disarmed, I had them remove their clothes. They tried to argue out of it, but I made my countenance such that they knew I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Once I had them sitting naked back to back, I began my interrogation.
Interrogations are strange things. No two are ever the same. There’s no magic word to make someone speak. There’s no defined method. Listening to what’s said and not said is as important as knowing what to say. Hollywood, as usual, got it wrong. Although I absolutely loved Crease’s interrogation of the kidnapper in Tony Scott’s movie Man on Fire. Cutting off Amos’s and Steve’s fingers, then cauterizing them probably wouldn’t be the best way to engender trust. Torture was basically useless. The only time I’d seen it used was in Afghanistan where a UK soldier went missing and his life was in imminent danger. Ten minutes, a knife, a threat to kill the man’s family, and a dedicated interrogator got the exact location of the missing soldier who was rescued alive. But those were on-offs. Normally, information gained from torture was unverifiable until it was too late. After all, if someone was torturing me, I’d tell them anything just to make the pain stop.
The greatest advantage an interrogator had was not fear and it wasn’t hope. Those were both palpable emotions to which one could latch on. No, the greatest advantage was uncertainty… and as long as I could keep uncertainty alive in the hearts of my two prisoners, the better chance at my success.
Using the hours of the clock, I stood at twelve and Crefloe stood at six. Amos faced nine and Steve faced three. Their hands were ziptied in front of them. They were told not to move, not to look anywhere but straight ahead, and to cooperate. The idea was to depersonalize the situation. Without me to focus on, it would be harder for them to mentally defend against my techniques.
We stood silently for exactly seventeen minutes and eight seconds before someone said a word. It wasn’t me, nor was it Crefloe. Instead, it was Amos.
“What’s going on? I thought this was an interrogation?” he said, trying to keep the quavering out of his voice. He had a big build. He wasn’t fat, probably only because McDonald’s had ceased to exist. His round face held a worried look that was akin to eating bad pudding.
Neither Crefloe nor I answered.
Two minutes twelve seconds later, “Seriously, what’s going on?” Amos turned to look at me.
“Don’t look at me,” I said leveling the M4 at his face.
His head jerked back and he once again turned to face nine o’clock.
“Shut up, Amos. This is a tactic,” Steve said.
“Actually, it’s not,” I said. “I’m waiting on someone. When she gets here the interrogation will begin.”
“Someone? Who’s coming?” Steve asked without turning.
“An asshole you’ll regret meeting,” I said. “I hate her methods.”
“Whatever you might think about them,” Crefloe said, his voice low and calm, “You have to admit that they work.”
I made a face. “But they don’t leave much.”
“What are you talking about?” Amos asked breathlessly.
“Shut up,” Steve whispered. “It’s a tactic.”
I checked my watch and yawned.
After thirty-three seconds, Amos asked, “If it’s a tactic then why aren’t they asking us any questions.”
I watched Steve as he tried to work through the question for the answer and failed. He frowned.
“Listen, man,” Crefloe said on cue, “If you’re so worried about their safety, then why not ask them what we want to know?”
“You know how she gets. I don’t want her mad at me again,” I said.
Steve shifted. His pallid skin was pulled tight on a thin frame. He had a tattoo on his right arm. USMC.
“She’s usually not this late. Want me to call her?” Crefloe asked.
“No. She wanted radio silence,” I said.
A minute and four seconds later, “Listen, maybe we can make a deal,” Steve said.
I shook my head. “It’s probably too late.”
“I mean, what is it you want? We don’t really know anything so if you want to know something, then we can probably tell you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. How do I know you’re going to honest?”
Amos licked his lips. He tried to look at me without moving his head. “There’s no reason to lie. We have nothing to hide. Look, I’m Amos Dayton and this is Steve Frembly. We’ve been friends for about a year and watch each other’s backs.”
“How many others live in the house?” Crefloe asked.
“Five,” Amos said.
Steve closed his eyes as he said, “There’s Emma Driscoll, Frank Spatz, Sara Wong, Rolando, Carl Upchurch and The Rev.”