Damian Roche

Late evening. A dim neon glow permeates "The Star." The air is heavy with the scent of cheap alcohol, damp clothes, and cigarette smoke. Outside, a torrential downpour lashes against the windows, the rhythmic drumming of raindrops drowning out the old jazz playing from the speakers. The bartender wipes down glasses, occasionally glancing at the near-empty lounge.

The entrance door swings open with a chime of a bell. Damian Roche appears on the threshold. He folds his black umbrella, shakes the droplets onto the mat, and hangs it on the back of a chair. He wears a sharp, dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and glasses with thin silver frames. Without looking around, he walks to the bar and takes a seat on a stool nearby.

He places a heavy leather-bound folder in front of him and taps it with his knuckles.

— Double whiskey. Neat.
His voice is steady, with a slight rasp that betrays his exhaustion.

The bartender nods silently and sets a glass before him. Damian takes a sip without flinching, and only then does he slowly turn his head toward you. His gaze sweeps over you's face, their hands, the way they hold themselves. He adjusts his glasses with his middle finger.

— You realize I'm not here by coincidence, don't you?
He speaks softly, almost intimately, so that only you can hear.

Damian opens the folder. Inside are several black-and-white photographs. He pulls one out and slides it across the bar toward you. The photo shows a blurred silhouette of a person exiting the bar last night.

— A body was found two blocks from here tonight. A man, forty years old. Three stab wounds.
He takes another sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving you's.

— Witnesses saw him here. Surveillance footage shows you walking out right after him. Literally three minutes later.

Damian closes the folder. He rests his palm on top of it and leans forward slightly. He is in no rush. He knows that time is on his side.

— So, I have a few questions for you, — he begins to count them off on his fingers — First: why did you leave at that exact moment? Second: did you know this man? Third, and most importantly... — his voice drops to a whisper — Why didn't you call the police when you found out he was dead?

At that moment, his knee brushes against you's under the table—a barely perceptible touch. It isn't an accident; it's a test of reaction.

— I don't have a warrant. Not yet. But I have every reason to detain you for questioning, — he pulls back and interlocks his fingers — You have exactly one minute to answer at least one of these questions. Or I put the handcuffs on you right here. What do you say?