8. Sasha #4
I’m not worried about my fingerprints turning up anywhere. I’ve been watching forensic murder documentaries since I was a teenager. I’ve spent my life making sure nothing could ever be tied to me. The irony is so thick I could choke on it.
Once I’m in their system, I’m put up against a height board and given instructions to look straight ahead and then to either side. As soon as that’s done, one of the officers says, “We need you to remove your shirt so we can photograph any visible tattoos.”
I pull my shirt over my head, and more than one set of eyebrows go up when they see all the ink I’m covered in.
The first thing they zero in on is the Grim Reaper that runs up my inner forearm, the one that identifies me as a member of the Melnikov Bratva.
They take pictures of all of them, though, the black roses, the skulls, the barbed wire that’s covered in blood, the names of my wife and daughters, and the detailed image that covers my entire back of a weathered tree, ravens swooping down to eat the small bits of flesh that cling to the skulls littering the ground.
Reese fucking loves this tattoo. I guess that was clue number one.
“Tilt your head, please,” the officer with the camera says as he snaps a photo of the tattoos that climb up my neck.
I have Cyn’s name on me in several places, and he photographs all of them except one.
No one asks if I have a dick tattoo, and I don’t volunteer the information, so that at least stays private for now.
When it’s over, I’m given my shirt back and this time when they cuff me, they let me keep my hands in front. It’s a risk for them, but I’m not about to argue. It’s a lot more comfortable this way.
The next room I’m led into almost makes me want to smile, because I’ve seen similar versions on enough true crime and cop shows to recognize it for what it is instantly. I let them push me down into a chair before one of them says, “A detective will be in to speak with you soon.”
I let my eyes scan the room while I ignore him until he leaves me alone in the room.
The darkened glass that runs the length of one wall is almost certainly hiding a team of curious police officers, and the security camera in the corner is picking up video and audio.
I’m used to being the subject of curiosity, so I’m not fazed by it now.
Leaning back, I close my eyes and wait for them to come to me.
They take their time. Even without a clock, I know at least an hour has passed before the door opens and Detective Alvarez walks in with another man right behind him, both of them looking serious in their dark suits, somber expressions set on their faces and tan folders in their hands.
Since this is all being recorded, Detective Alvarez introduces himself again before the other man says, “I’m Detective Bronson.”
Alvarez steps back in to say, “We’re with Sasha Melnikov, who was arrested today in connection with the murder of Rosalie Mendez.”
They both sit across from me. I meet their stares, keeping the same bored, dead look in my eyes. It’s not hard to manage. I am unbelievably bored, and without my wife and kids, I’m very much dead inside.
Detective Bronson steps into the good-cop role because Alvarez already proved he’s a dickhead.
“Sasha, we just want to figure out what happened. If you had nothing to do with this, then now’s your chance to clear your name,” he says.
When I stay silent, he tries again, “Can you tell us where you were on the night of July 18th? That was three nights ago, Saturday night, if that helps.”
I know exactly where I was three nights ago, but I don’t think saying I didn’t kill Rosalie because I was murdering someone else is going to help me right now.
When it’s obvious I’m not going to say anything, Alvarez gets pissed and opens one of his folders.
He covers the table in large, color images of Rosalie’s naked body.
I recognize the dark hair, but her face is swollen from the beating she’d been given, and her body is a bloody mess of too many stab wounds to count.
I’m insulted on a deep level that anyone would think this was my handiwork.
Not a single wound looks like it was strategically placed.
This is the work of a man who doesn’t know how to properly use a knife.
He was in a rage, and his work is sloppy and disorganized.
I’m not sure what he thought was going to happen by showing me these pictures, but I’m guessing my reaction isn’t it.
“You’re a fucking monster,” Alvarez hisses at me while he points to one of the pictures, the one that shows the small daisy tattoo on Rosie’s inner wrist. She always rubbed it when she was nervous.
I bring my eyes back to his. “I want my lawyer.”
“Of course you do,” he mutters while he starts to gather up all the photos. “You fuckers always want to hide behind your goddamn lawyers.”
After they leave, I clasp my hands behind my head, ignoring the clink of the cuffs, and close my eyes again while I wait for Ev.
He’s the only one who can get my ass out of this mess.