CitPC Chapter V, part 3.
You do not realise how long it has taken me to write this one part. My fingers are bleeding for goodness sake! Because this has racked my brain so considerably, it’ll be a long while before the next part is up. I just need to let my fingers heal. Please… think of the fingers :3
This part is also quite long too.
Rating: PG-13, for cursing, brief violence and intense police interrogation. (Not like that emphasises the rating in any way, but there you go xD)
Chapter V: No Pity For The Chaste, part 3.
Oh and if you’re a bit angry at me for portraying Mike as a pathetic little cry baby, then… erm… I’m sorry. He’s not like that at all really. He’s only like that because he’s just been arrested, beaten up by police and pulled away from his family, so this is having a significant psychological effect on him, making him go all funny and stuff. So there.
Tuesday, February 15th, 11:23am, Scotland Yard.
Sgt Gardener and his team pulled Mike out of that evil police van and hauled him over to the main building. Once they entered the main entrance, Gardener removed Mike’s cuffs and the police did some things that policemen do when someone has just been arrested, like taking down information and all that rubbish, then the policeman at the reception doing the boring informative stuff, assigned one of the other policemen to take little Michael to a holding cell… (Right, this part’s serious now.) Unfortunately for Mike, Sgt Gardener was given the duty of placing him in one of the holding cells… The stupid fat bastard… He unlocked a huge steel gate leading to the cells and dragged Mike though it and then into Cell 1. Roughly grabbing Mike’s shoulders, Gardener pulled him right up to his face. He glared at him menacingly.
“This is where you belong: A dark dingy cell,” He growled, “This,” He grasped Mike’s collar and punched him in the stomach, “was for ignoring MY orders!”
Such an intense impact this had on Mike that he widened his eyes, collapsed to the floor and began coughing up blood. Mike groaned and tried to pick himself up, but this was proving difficult.
“And this,” Gardener made a running start and kicked Mike right in the meat and two veg, “was for punching me in the face, you daft pillock!” Mike fell to the floor once again and trembled in intense pain. He gazed up at the vicious Gardener soaring over him, and quivered and wailed in terror, begging of him to stop.
“S-s-stop it p-please… I-I’m innocent!” Mike finally managed to cry out.
“Such a party pooper. I was rather enjoying beating the shit out of you,” Gardener snorted and began to exit the room; “Just stay here and shut your bloody gob, and I’ll come get you in a few hours time.”
“No ‘Buts’!” snapped Gardener, “You’re staying RIGHT HERE in this cell, and we’ll retrieve you later on for your cross-examination… At least that’s something to look forward to, eh?” He pointed to Mike and guffawed loudly like some mad scientist. He left, or rather skipped out the room in amusement, and slammed the door behind him. Mike could have sworn Gardener said, “You big pansy” just before he shut the door. After a painful few minutes of trying to stand back up again, he heavily slumped onto the shabby prison bed and sighed deeply. Wounded and forlorn, he put his head in his hands and started to hiccup more sobs… Poor guy…
Tuesday, February 15th, 1:59pm, London Bridge Hospital, Ward 15.
“Would you like a cup of hot chocolate, Mr Idle?” said a familiar looking nurse, the one who had looked after Eric after he knocked himself out several days ago.
“Yeah, thanks.” Eric said.
“I don’t want you running away again like before.” She noted.
“No, no, I’m too ill and flimsy to move a single inch - Don’t you worry about that.” Eric replied, smirking to himself. “Oh, since I’ll be staying here a little longer than planned, could you turn the TV on for me? They’re got some of those ‘Two Ronnies’ repeats on now that I’d like to watch.”
The nurse nodded and switched on a small grey television stuck on the wall. She then strolled off to fetch his drink. Eric narrowed his eyes at the TV and groaned. That damn, spinning globe had come to haunt him again.
Dammit, I bloody missed it!
“That was the end of the ‘Two Ronnies’ marathon. Tune in next week for more hilarious sketches from the duo. And now on BBC1, the afternoon news, with Ilene Dover.”
News, news, always the same depressing rubbish. I don’t know how they have the nerve to put it on in the first place. Bloody BBC…
“Good afternoon, and welcome to BBC news. Headlining the news today: Monty Python actor Michael Palin was arrested today on suspicion of the involvement in the multiple ‘Snake’ murders…”
“HOLY CRAP!” screamed Eric. The other patients and nurses gave him an angry look. “S-sorry…” Eric mumbled sheepishly, scratching his head.
“Mr Palin, 28, was apprehended at his home in North London. Witnesses say that he had resisted arrest and was chased down by several officers. Police had found significant evidence from the murder weapon, which are believed to have exposed Mr Palin’s fingerprints. They believe he to be the ‘Snake’ murderer…”
That’s not right! Michael can’t be the culprit! It’s impossible! Eric gave out a deep sigh. I can’t just let this slide. I’m going to get you out of there Michael… my friend. Eric nodded to himself confidently. “Get me a telephone, stat!” he shouted to another nurse. I’ve gotta ring the police and tell ‘em everything I saw two nights ago… They need to know… about Snake…
Tuesday, February 15th, 3:30pm, Scotland Yard, Interrogation room.
We now turn our utmost attention to Scotland Yard, where after around 4 hours of waiting, Michael has finally escaped his cell, and was now sitting anxiously in the dark interrogation room, waiting and leaning against a long table in exhaustion. Coming out of a door in front of him were DI Keith Simpson and DS Ian Sutherland, holding large folders. Mike saw them and quickly sat up. They approached, and then sat on two chairs on the other side of the table. Sutherland placed his folder down and searched through it. Flicking through its pages, he suddenly stopped and pulled out a sheet of A4 paper. DI Simpson meanwhile reached over to a large tape recorder sat to Mike’s left and pressed a button on it. The cassette reels inside the machine began to rotate.
“Ah, let’s see here,” began DS Sutherland, about to read out the information on his piece of paper, “‘Michael Edward Palin, age 28, from Sheffield, South Yorkshire. Criminal History: No offences recorded. Your suspected offence/offences: The murder of biochemist Alison Jones, 27; The murder of fellow Python Terry Jones, 29; The murder of Australian actress, Lyn Idle, 28; The attempted murder of fellow Python Eric Idle, 28; Two counts of resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer.’” Sutherland looked up from his paper and at the downtrodden Mike. “Well, well, you’ve been a busy boy lately, haven’t you?” He jeered, with a scornful expression upon his fat pompous mug.
Mike glanced up and returned with a heavily wounded face. It was all damp, splotchy and scattered with small bruises, and his eyes were red and bloodshot from tiredness and all the lamentation. DS Sutherland however was anything but sympathetic. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Mike with a very demoralizing stare.
“Just because you’re some TV personality doesn’t mean we’re going to be treating you any differently from any other suspect, is that clear?” he inquired sharply.
Mike gulped hard.
“Although, this is your first offence…” he murmured quietly.
“Let’s here your views.” Said the more approachable DI Simpson, sitting to Sutherland’s right; “We’ll take it nice and slow. Will you explain to us where you were the night Alison Jones died?”
Mike continued to stare at both of them with pitiful eyes. He said nothing.
“Is it true you live near the Jones’?”
Again Mike remained silent.
“You know the family very well, don’t you?”
A lingering silence still hung on in the interrogation room, as Mike still refused to answer.
“Staying quiet, are we?” inquired Sutherland, smirking, “Alright wise guy, then answer me this: Where we you the night your mate ‘Jonesy’ died?”
This got a reaction. Mike’s body language was seemingly revealing. He had tensed up quite considerably. He lowered his head and began playing with his hands. His little heart pushed against his chest, beating faster and faster.
“Oooh, getting nervous are we? Have we caught you out, widdle guy?” mocked Sutherland.
“That sudden reaction tells us that you know something.” Simpson spoke, “Come on; get it off your chest. You’ll feel much better after, trust me.”
Mike gulped hard again. He reluctantly opened his mouth to speak. The Detectives' sly techniques were slowly beginning to take effect.
“I… I was…” he began, slowly but surely, “I was at… the same pub as Terry.” His voice was very mournful and slow-paced, but at least he was talking now. “We had a couple of pints, nothing else… then, erm… two men came towards us and told Terry that his wife… had been murdered... It was too shocking for words. Terry… he couldn’t believe it… Neither could I.” After a while, Mike became more comfortable in talking, “Without reason, Terry suddenly went completely bonkers and ran off. I followed along after him. After running for around 10 minutes, I’d totally lost him. Then, I managed to locate his whereabouts to his house, which… which at the time was all boarded up. I entered, and…” Simpson furrowed his brow when Mike suddenly stopped talking. He watched as Mike’s face creased up and his eyes were becoming watery. “T-t-there was…” He began to splutter his words. The waterworks were coming back again. “There, w-w-was…T-Terry lying… l-lying… s-stone de…d-dead…” Mike trembled and more tears descended down his face. He let out a soft cry, leant against the table and placed his head in his hands. That sickening sight of his friend lying dead. The upsetting images had scarred Mike for the rest of his life. Recalling these events was proving almost too much for him. The detectives exchanged concerned looks. Mike sniffled and tried to talk to the two detectives.
“A-a-and then…” he stuttered, trying to calm himself, “I-I… I saw a tall… figure enter the room. I trembled in horror and… and as soon as I could, I rushed out and informed the police… t-t-that’s all… that’s all that happened.” Mike sighed in exhaustion and leant up against the table again. Finally, it was over… but not for long.
“Interesting alibi there. And you stand by that completely?” Simpson asked.
“100 percent.” Said Mike confidently.
“The night of Terry’s murder: When Mr Jones decided to run away, you followed along after him. Why did you do that?” Simpson inquired.
“He looked so upset and distraught, so I followed him. He was my friend. I couldn’t just let him run away crying. I’m not some cold-hearted bastard…”
Next, Sutherland decided to put in a word or two into this discussion:
“You followed him, because you wanted to help him. By putting him out of his misery - By murdering him in cold blood!”
“No!” shouted Mike, “I would never kill him, or anyone! Stop making these stupid accusations!”
“Alright, don’t get your panties in a knot.” Sutherland scoffed. “I present to you, exhibit A, the murder weapon of that night: A boning knife.” As Sutherland said this, Simpson brought out the knife inside a transparent plastic bag. “Please explain to us why this was covered in your fingerprints.” He said.
“No comment.” Mike said.
“Why the holding back all of a sudden?” Sutherland spoke, “Have we caught you out?”
“NO!” Mike snapped, “I-I mean… no…”
“Go on then. I’m waiting for an explanation.” Sutherland said impatiently.
Mike gave Sutherland a bitter look. He flinched when a line of cold sweat dribbled down the side of his face. They were on to him.
“When I saw Terry, I began to cower in terror, and out of sheer panic I removed the knife from Terry’s chest. It was a completely idiotic thing to do. I feel so stupid!”
“Pfft, you’re one inept liar aren’t you?”
“I know it’s sounds ridiculous, but I’m telling the truth!”
“Keep lying like this, and we’ll lock you up for good. Why can’t you just come clean?!”
Mike gritted his teeth. The pressure was building on him rapidly.
“I will now present exhibit B.” Said Sutherland. Simpson pulled out a small object from his pocket, also in a plastic bag and placed it next to the knife. “Tell me what this is.” Sutherland ordered, pointing to it.
“Erm… a potter’s needle?”
“Good, good.” Simpson smiled, “Do you know why this is relevant?”
“Erm, T-Terry… That figure I saw must’ve stabbed Terry with it.”
“Hmm, I wonder why you know this?” Sutherland considered.
“Well, I saw it… sticking out of his eye.”
“You saw it there. And you knew it was there, because you placed it there in the first place!”
“It all adds up, Mr Palin. Or do you want me to explain it to you? How were you able to identify this weapon?! It was almost pitch-black in that room!”
Mike gasped. “B-b-because...”
“You murdered him!” spat Sutherland.
“LISTEN TO ME, PLEASE!” Mike yelled.
Sutherland grumbled and slouched in his chair. Mike sighed.
“My wife goes to pottery classes once every week, and she bought a box of potter’s tools to take with her. She showed me its contents and that’s how I know what it was. That’s all.”
“Huh, well thank you for enlightening us with this information.” Sutherland said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Hmm, its all clear to us now. We searched your property earlier today and we did come across the box of tools. We found that there was a needle missing from there. Not only that, whilst searching through the kitchen drawers, your wife came to inform us that both a meat cleaver and a boning knife had gone missing from her kitchen, so she had to buy new ones.”
Mike’s mouth hung open. Sutherland gave his colleague a look as if to say, ‘Look at me, I totally pwn at these interviews.’ Sutherland turned his attention back to Mike, and glared at him furiously.
“So, on the night of the murder, you went and ‘borrowed’ one of your wife’s tools and took a knife from the kitchen. Later on, waiting for the right moment, you followed Terry to his house and murdered him right there and then! AM I A GENIUS OR WHAT?!”
This comment subsequently leading to an intense shouting match.
“WHAAAAAT?!” bellowed Mike in shock, “YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDIN’ ME! I’VE TOLD YOU A THOUSAND TIMES: I DIDN’T KILL HIM! YOU GOTTA BELIEVE ME!”
“YOU BLOODY WELL DID KILL ‘EM!” Sutherland roared, standing up from his chair, “YOU STOLE BOTH A KNIFE AND A POTTER’S NEEDLE FROM YOUR WIFE AND MURDERED YOUR BEST FRIEND! YOUR FINGERPRINTS WERE ALL OVER THE MURDER WEAPON AND THE NEEDLE! NEED I SAY MORE, MR PALIN? NEED. I. SAY. MORE?!”
“SO WHAT IF MY FINGERPRINTS WERE ON THE WEAPONS?! Mike screamed, also standing from his chair in protest. “WHAT MOTIVE DO I HAVE TO MURDER THEM, HUH? … NONE! ABSOLUTELY NONE! NO BLOODY MOTIVE! WHY DOES NO-ONE UNDERSTAND ME?! I NEVER KILLED ANYONE! FAIR AND SQUARE! SO PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!”
Mike picked up his chair and lobbed it halfway across the room. Simpson and Sutherland exchanged astonished looks. Mike widened his eyes and dropped to his knees. He lifted his head heavenward and screamed. Holding his head, he fell down, rolled up into a ball and began rocking back and forward.
“I never killed ‘em, I never killed ‘em, I never killed ‘em…”
Déjà vu had come upon him, as he shook and cried in hurt and suffering. This confined space, in this gloomy room, with these horrible people - It was too much for him to take any longer. Sutherland, completely ignorant to the fact that Mike was going completely insane, continued to blast harsh words towards him. Simpson remained frozen in amazement.
“THE AMOUNT OF EVIDENCE TO CONVICT YOU ARE BEYOND QUESTION! IT’S OVER! SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR FUTURE CAREER, YOUNG MAN! YOU’RE GUARANTEED A LIFETIME SENTENCE FOR THIS! STUPID IGNORANT LITTLE FREAK!”
“ENOUGH!” yelled a booming voice from behind them. It was DCI Steele.
The two detectives jumped in surprise. Steele had listened to the entire cross-examination, and had decided to intervene.
“Mr Sutherland? Mr Simpson? Leave this room now. I need a word.”
Both men nodded and made their way out the room. Mike meanwhile was whimpering and sobbing uncontrollably.
“Oh, and Mr Sutherland?”
Sutherland stopped and gave Steele a quick glance.
“I suggest you refrain from treating Mr Palin in that manner again. Learn to control your temper for God’s sake. You’re acting like that deranged Sgt Gardener.”
Sutherland nodded reluctantly and walked out in a huff. Steele watched him then turned to Mike. He was wailing miserably, holding his head and quivering violently on the floor. Steele gave him a sad look on concern, and his eyes almost welled up with tears. He shut his eyes and closed the door, leaving Mike all alone… once again…