The tape recorder sits on the kitchen table between us, its red light a steady accusation in the dim overhead lighting. Digital display shows nineteen minutes and counting. Plenty of time left on the device, plenty of truth still to extract.
Jenkins's right hand is missing two fingernails now—the thumb and index finger. Clean removals, surgical in their precision, designed to cause maximum pain without threatening his ability to speak clearly. His uniform shirt hangs open where I've made careful incisions across his chest and arms. Nothing deep enough to cause serious blood loss. Nothing that will kill him before I'm ready.
"You sick fuck," he gasps, spittle mixed with blood flecking his lips. His voice carries that particular rasp that comes from screaming, though he's learned to keep the volume down. Smart man. Even drunk, he understands that drawing his neighbors' attention would complicate things for both of us.
I clean the small surgical scissors with a sterile wipe, the same methodical care I use for everything. Three screws, never two, never four. Patterns matter. Precision matters. Jenkins watches the motion with eyes that have gone from rage to fear to something approaching respect for my process.
"Detective Jenkins," I say, my voice carrying the same professional tone I might use to discuss building materials. "You've been investigating the Carver killings for seven months. Tell me, in your professional opinion, do I seem like someone who takes pleasure in violence?"
He doesn't answer immediately, too busy processing the pain radiating from his mutilated hand. When he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its bluster. "What the fuck do you want from me?"
"Truth." I set the scissors down and pick up the small paring knife I've selected from his own kitchen drawer. The blade catches the light as I examine its edge. "I don't do this for pleasure, Detective. I do this because men like you only tell the truth when pain makes lying impossible."
"I don't know what you're talking about." The words come out automatically, a reflex honed through decades of deflecting responsibility. But his eyes dart to the tape recorder, and I can see him calculating. How much does this man know? How much can I deny?
I make a shallow cut along his forearm, just deep enough to part the skin. He hisses through his teeth, body jerking against the restraints. "Every lie you tell me costs you something, Detective. We can do this quickly, or we can do this slowly. The choice is yours."
"Fuck you. My department knows where I am. They'll come looking—"
Another cut, parallel to the first. This one draws more blood, a thin red line that pools in the crease of his elbow. "Your department thinks you're sleeping off a drunk. Your drinking buddies from Murphy's Tavern watched you stumble to your carthree hours ago. No one expects to hear from you until Monday morning."
The fight goes out of his shoulders, just a little. Reality setting in. He's truly alone with me, truly at my mercy, and we both know his fellow officers won't think to check on him until it's far too late.
"Besides," I continue, wiping the blade clean, "we both know you've never been particularly concerned with following proper procedures. Bending rules, cutting corners, letting passion override protocol. Isn't that what your reputation is built on?"
His jaw works soundlessly for a moment. Then: "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth. About what you do to her." I lean forward slightly, meeting his eyes. "About what you did last night after she brought you the spare key."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or the first hint of real fear. "You were watching."
"I was watching." I don't elaborate. Let him wonder how much I saw, how long I've been observing his private cruelties. "Tell me about Delilah, Detective. Tell me about the bruises she covers with makeup. Tell me about the apologies she whispers to empty rooms."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The knife moves again, this time across the back of his hand. Deeper than before, deep enough to make him cry out. The sound echoes in the small kitchen, bouncing off appliances that have witnessed sixteen years of his violence.
"We can establish a pattern here, Detective. Every lie costs you flesh. Every deflection costs you blood. Or you can tell me the truth and spare yourself unnecessary suffering."
He's breathing hard now, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night air. "You don't understand. She's…she's difficult. Ungrateful. Always thinking she's smarter than everyone else."
"Go on." I keep my voice neutral, clinical. Just a professional gathering information.
"Sometimes…." He swallows hard, the words coming reluctantly. "Sometimes she needs discipline. Structure. She gets mouthy, acts like she's too good for this family."
"You hit her."
"I discipline her." The distinction matters to him, this semantic difference between abuse and correction. "She's my daughter. It's my right."
I make another cut, this one along his thumb. He jerks against the zip ties hard enough to make the chair creak. "Try again, Detective. Use honest words this time."
"Fuck! Yes, all right? Sometimes I hit her. But she deserves it. She provokes me, pushes my buttons until I have no choice."
The first real admission. I glance at the tape recorder, its digital display showing twenty-three minutes now. Good. We're making progress.
"Last night," I say, setting the knife aside and picking up the needle-nose pliers. "After she brought you the key. What happened then?"
His eyes follow the pliers, understanding immediately what they're for. "Nothing happened. We went inside, she helped me look for my keys—"
