Chapter 08

The drive to the station was fraught with tension, Mr. Jonathan's mind entangled in a web of possibilities. Upon arrival, the station hummed with the usual morning bustle, yet an undercurrent of urgency pervaded the air. He entered, immediately spotting a criminal in heated debate with the officers—a clear sign of guilt in a petty theft case. Navigating through the corridors, Mr. Jonathan acknowledged familiar faces until he reached his office.

He collected several files from his desk and handed them to an officer nearby. "Solomon, give these to Vanessa," he instructed.

"She's in the interrogation room," Solomon replied.

"Are they still working on that case?"

"Yes, sir."

Taking a deep breath, Mr. Jonathan made his way to the interrogation room where the suspect was being detained.

Before entering, he passed through the observation room, a tech hub where the police monitored interrogations through a large, transparent glass wall. Inside, Mohammed, Vanessa, and other specialized officers were already at work.

"What has he been doing?" Mr. Jonathan inquired.

"Nothing," Mohammed responded.

Mr. Jonathan's gaze shifted to an electric iron plugged into the wall, an unusual item in such a setting.

"And that?" he pointed at it.

"It's Vanessa's," Mohammed explained.

"Nessa, what for?"

"He's refusing to talk. We'll make him talk," Vanessa snapped, her glare piercing the suspect through the glass.

"Not like this," Mr. Jonathan cautioned. "I told her," added Mohammed.

With a sigh, Mr. Jonathan retrieved a small bag of knives from a drawer. "I'm going in," he declared, stepping into the stark, grey interrogation room lit by a flickering fluorescent light. The suspect, a man in his thirties, sat handcuffed to the table, his face a mask of defiant resignation.

Mr. Jonathan's presence brought an authoritative calm to the room. "I need you to understand something," he said, settling across from the suspect. "The more you cooperate, the better it looks for you. But silence only helps those still out there pulling the strings."

The man's eyes flicked up, searching Mr. Jonathan's face for deceit.

"Now, I need you to tell me everything. Everyone has something to say, especially when it comes to protecting themselves or their family," Mr. Jonathan pressed, leaning forward. He signaled through the glass for the recording to start.

"Do you have children?" he began.

The suspect remained silent.

"I don't like when I ask a question and get no answer," Mr. Jonathan said, but again, silence followed.

"What I hate most," he continued, standing up and drawing a knife from his bag, "is silence." With that, he swiftly stabbed the suspect's left thigh.

"Ahhh!" The man screamed in agony. "What the fuck!?"

"Oh, so you can talk. I thought you were mute," Mr. Jonathan retorted.

"I have one... a daughter, but I'm not married. She's my girlfriend's child," the man gasped out between groans.

"I asked a simple yes or no question," Mr. Jonathan said sternly. "Yes, dude... yes," the man conceded through his pain.

"Good. Now, imagine your daughter doesn't come home by curfew. Wouldn't you worry?"

"Yes-ye-yes," the suspect stammered.

"How do you think the parents of your victims feel?" Mr. Jonathan interrogated further.

"Oh-ho-ho-ho," the man whimpered. "I don't know, I don't know. Please, forgive me. I've done nothing wrong, I've never killed anyone, please..."

"I believe that's how your victims beg too," Mr. Jonathan responded coldly.

"If it's about kidnapping, I know nothing," the suspect claimed.

"You have nothing to say," Mr. Jonathan scoffed. The man was gasping in pain.

"The International school girl, you tried to kidnap her, didn't you?"

His breathing quickened, "I have nothing to say," he muttered in pain.

"Akorede, Makanaki - does the name ring any bells?"

A quick flicker of recognition crossed the suspect's face before he masked it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Alright, let's talk about the kidnapping then. You were seen at the scene; we have witnesses. How about you tell me the truth?" Mr. Jonathan's tone was unwavering.

The door creaked open, and Mohammed entered. "You might think you're protecting someone, but think about what you're protecting them from. Life in prison for a crime you didn't commit or one you did?"

The suspect's facade crumbled slightly. "Look, I was there, but I didn't know what was going on. I was just told to watch for anything unusual."

Mr. Jonathan exchanged a look with Mohammed. "He's lying," Mr. Jonathan stated.

"Maybe he's telling the truth," Mohammed suggested. "After all this torture, why would he still lie?"

"Mohammed, you're wiser than this. You're married, settled. I'm just a thirty-three-year-old trying to focus. I expect you to think beyond emotions. This man is playing us," Mr. Jonathan argued. "I've been the Inspector General of Police for two years now, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's not to be swayed by emotions."

Jonathan leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his dark eyes fixed on the suspect like a predator sizing up its prey. The man across the table flinched under that unrelenting gaze, his blood-streaked hand trembling as he clutched it with the other. The cuffs binding his wrists clinked against the metal surface, a jerky rhythm punctuating the silence.

Sweat showed on his brow, blending with the filth of a long, brutal day. The suspect’s eyes darted between Jonathan and Mohammed, who stood quietly near the door. His breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, the pain from his wounded thigh oozing into every shudder.

The interrogation room felt smaller with each passing second, its bare concrete walls pressing inward, heavy with the unspoken threats that hung in the air like a storm about to break. The faint metallic scent of blood mixed with the sour tang of fear. “I’m not here to play games,” Jonathan said, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the room.

“Makanaki. That name rings a bell, doesn’t it?” The suspect’s face twitched—a subtle, involuntary betrayal—but his lips remained clamped shut, a strong hideout. Jonathan rose from his chair, pacing the cramped space like a caged lion, his broad shoulders tense with barely restrained energy.

He paused by the one-way mirror, catching a glimpse of the observation team beyond the glass. With a sharp, downward flick of his hand, he signaled them to keep the cameras rolling. No mistakes. Not today. Turning back, he leaned in close, his breath warm against the suspect’s ear.

“You know what happens to people who guard the wrong secrets?” he whispered, his tone laced with menace. “They end up alone—places far worse than this little box.” The suspect’s determination wavered, his eyes betraying an internal war—loyalty clashing with the primal urge to survive.

Mohammed seized the moment, stepping forward with a softer approach. His voice was calm, almost paternal, a stark contrast to Jonathan’s barbed intensity. “Listen, if you’re just a pawn in this game, tell us. We can protect you—but only if you help us take down the bigger players.”

The suspect’s gaze shifted to Mohammed, latching onto that sliver of hope like a drowning man grasping at driftwood. “I… I was just there to make sure nothing went wrong,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know the full plan. Just… someone big was involved. I swear, I didn’t have the details.”

Jonathan arched a skeptical eyebrow and sank back into his chair, his demeanor shifting seamlessly into interrogation mode. “Someone big, huh? Give me names. Places. Times. Details.” The suspect hesitated, his lips parting soundlessly. His eyes dropped to the oozing wound on his thigh—a grim reminder of the stakes.

Vanessa stepped closer, her voice low. “You know you crossed a line back there—human rights and all.” Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “You knew, I knew, Mohammed knew—hell, everyone on Sheriff Street knows he tried to snatch that girl. He wasn’t talking. If I hadn’t pushed, he’d have walked.”

“I can’t give you their locations,” the suspect interjected, desperation creeping into his tone. Mohammed exchanged a nod with Jonathan and handed the suspect his phone. “It’s fine,” Mohammed said, offering a disarming smile. “We’ll find them—with your help.”

Jonathan leaned in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “We’ve tapped your phone. It’s linked to our system. Try anything clever, and you’re done.” He flashed a cold, predatory smirk. Through the glass, a tech waved cheerfully from the observation room, reinforcing the trap.

The suspect stared at his cuffed hands. “I can’t call with these on.” Mohammed uncuffed him. “Start dialing,” Jonathan commanded. “But what do I say?” the suspect asked, his voice quivering. Vanessa tore a sheet from the notebook and slid it across the table.

“Follow this script. Loudspeaker on,” she instructed. Mohammed echoed her, “Loudspeaker.” Jonathan loomed over him. “No language we won’t crack. I’m Benin, she’s Igbo”—he nodded at Vanessa—“he’s Esan”—a tilt toward Mohammed—“and the team in there? They’ve got their own tongues. Plus, our system’s got Google Translate. Don’t play smart.”

The suspect swallowed hard, picked up the phone, and dialed. The line clicked.

“Otumó,” he said cautiously.

“Awese,” came the reply from the other end.

“Braimó,” he continued, masking his pain.

“Tara u kataka tuku perere.”

“Nalala.”

The coded exchange flowed—a secret language crafted to baffle outsiders, one he gambled even Google couldn’t decipher.

“Is he serious?” Vanessa muttered, incredulous.

“He’s toying with us,” Mohammed said, frowning.

“English—now!” Jonathan barked, his voice low but authoritative, ensuring the caller wouldn’t hear.

The suspect’s eyes widened in fear. He switched to English, stumbling through the conversation as the techs traced the call. A signal flashed from the observation room. “Effurun, Delta State,” one of them reported.

“Time’s up. End it,” Jonathan ordered.

“So, uh, we’ll talk later,” the suspect mumbled into the phone and hung up, his hands shaking.

Jonathan straightened, his mind already mapping the next move. The Shadow’s web was vast, but they’d just snagged their first thread. This was only the beginning.