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Authors: David Roys
Tags: Technological Fiction
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back . Naylor led them to a room. A uniformed cop stood by the door and opened it for them.
Naylor said, ‘Just make yourself comfortable, while I get a pad and recorder. Can I get you a coffee?’
Chris nodded to the coffee question and walked in to the room. There was a table and two chairs, the walls were painted a pale blue and the ceiling was white. Three strips of fluorescent lighting gave a stark brilliance to the room, a cold and clinical light, like an operating theater. There was a mirror that ran the length of the right hand wall. Chris walked around the table and sat at the furthest chair so he could see the door. The mirror was now on his left. He wondered if he was being watched. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and switched it off. He really should call Michelle. Let her know where he was. He put the phone back in his pocket and slouched back in the chair and waited.
After about twenty minutes, Naylor came into the room. He was carrying a stack of papers, or folders, with a tape recorder perched on top. Another cop followed him into the room, with two coffees. He placed them on the table and then left, closing the door behind him. There was no handle on the inside of the door. Naylor spread out his papers and folder on the table and put a cassette in the recorder.
He said, ‘You don’t mind if I record your statement do you?’
Chris recognized the question as rhetorical. He nodded and then took a sip of coffee. It tasted burnt, like it had sat in the percolator all day.
Naylor said, ‘So, Chris, tell me about Jasmine. How well did you know her?’
‘I already told you.’
Naylor said, ‘For the record.’ He tapped the table near the recorder. Non-threatening. Just routine.
Chris recounted his relationship with Jasmine and Naylor made notes, occasionally glancing up and making eye contact, smiling. Friendly, reassuring. He said, ‘Can you tell me where you were on the day Jasmine was killed, between 6:00AM and 7:00AM.’
‘I was at work. Alone. I was asleep on the sofa in my office. I’d had a long night, working, finishing some code for my presentation, remember?’
Naylor said, ‘Can anyone confirm that’s where you were at that time?’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Chris. ‘I was asleep. I don’t know if anyone saw me, but I doubt it. It’s a bit early for staff and students. Michelle came in around 7:30AM, she brought me breakfast.’
‘So I understand Mr. Sanders. When was the last time you saw Jasmine alive?’
‘I already told you this,’ said Chris. He was starting to feel frustrated.
‘Indulge me,’ said Naylor.
Chris went through the details of when they had last met once more. Naylor waited for Chris to finish and then continued writing for a minute or so. It seemed longer. Then he put the pen down and looked up. He said, ‘Do you know how we identified Jasmine, Mr. Sanders?’
Chris thought about it and said, ‘Dental records?’
Naylor’s expression changed. Half interest, half puzzlement. He said, ‘It’s funny, most people think of driving license, or other personal effects before they think of dental records.’
‘She was running,’ said Chris. ‘She wouldn’t be carrying her ID.’
Naylor said, ‘Actually we got her ID by unlocking her phone and tracing her records through her network provider.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of the folder and slid it to the front of the table. ‘We also got details of her most recent activities, calls made, missed calls, that sort of thing. Do you know what we found Mr. Sanders?’
Chris didn’t like the way he was suddenly Mr. Sanders and no longer Chris . This conversation didn’t seem to be the friendly chat, he thought it would be and he began to wonder whether he should be finding a lawyer. But he had nothing to hide, so there was no reason to get a lawyer. Yet. ‘Judging from my phone,’ he said, ‘I’d say she made at least twenty-three calls, with that number to my mobile
Naylor said, ‘Just make yourself comfortable, while I get a pad and recorder. Can I get you a coffee?’
Chris nodded to the coffee question and walked in to the room. There was a table and two chairs, the walls were painted a pale blue and the ceiling was white. Three strips of fluorescent lighting gave a stark brilliance to the room, a cold and clinical light, like an operating theater. There was a mirror that ran the length of the right hand wall. Chris walked around the table and sat at the furthest chair so he could see the door. The mirror was now on his left. He wondered if he was being watched. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and switched it off. He really should call Michelle. Let her know where he was. He put the phone back in his pocket and slouched back in the chair and waited.
After about twenty minutes, Naylor came into the room. He was carrying a stack of papers, or folders, with a tape recorder perched on top. Another cop followed him into the room, with two coffees. He placed them on the table and then left, closing the door behind him. There was no handle on the inside of the door. Naylor spread out his papers and folder on the table and put a cassette in the recorder.
He said, ‘You don’t mind if I record your statement do you?’
Chris recognized the question as rhetorical. He nodded and then took a sip of coffee. It tasted burnt, like it had sat in the percolator all day.
Naylor said, ‘So, Chris, tell me about Jasmine. How well did you know her?’
‘I already told you.’
Naylor said, ‘For the record.’ He tapped the table near the recorder. Non-threatening. Just routine.
Chris recounted his relationship with Jasmine and Naylor made notes, occasionally glancing up and making eye contact, smiling. Friendly, reassuring. He said, ‘Can you tell me where you were on the day Jasmine was killed, between 6:00AM and 7:00AM.’
‘I was at work. Alone. I was asleep on the sofa in my office. I’d had a long night, working, finishing some code for my presentation, remember?’
Naylor said, ‘Can anyone confirm that’s where you were at that time?’
‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Chris. ‘I was asleep. I don’t know if anyone saw me, but I doubt it. It’s a bit early for staff and students. Michelle came in around 7:30AM, she brought me breakfast.’
‘So I understand Mr. Sanders. When was the last time you saw Jasmine alive?’
‘I already told you this,’ said Chris. He was starting to feel frustrated.
‘Indulge me,’ said Naylor.
Chris went through the details of when they had last met once more. Naylor waited for Chris to finish and then continued writing for a minute or so. It seemed longer. Then he put the pen down and looked up. He said, ‘Do you know how we identified Jasmine, Mr. Sanders?’
Chris thought about it and said, ‘Dental records?’
Naylor’s expression changed. Half interest, half puzzlement. He said, ‘It’s funny, most people think of driving license, or other personal effects before they think of dental records.’
‘She was running,’ said Chris. ‘She wouldn’t be carrying her ID.’
Naylor said, ‘Actually we got her ID by unlocking her phone and tracing her records through her network provider.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of the folder and slid it to the front of the table. ‘We also got details of her most recent activities, calls made, missed calls, that sort of thing. Do you know what we found Mr. Sanders?’
Chris didn’t like the way he was suddenly Mr. Sanders and no longer Chris . This conversation didn’t seem to be the friendly chat, he thought it would be and he began to wonder whether he should be finding a lawyer. But he had nothing to hide, so there was no reason to get a lawyer. Yet. ‘Judging from my phone,’ he said, ‘I’d say she made at least twenty-three calls, with that number to my mobile
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