“So tell us how you got your name?” Detective Bill McKinley asked as he pushed the rolling cart across the bed.
For a moment the prisoner just stared out the window of his fifteenth story room. He made no answer as he lifted the white foam cup off the cart and peeled the paper cap from the straw. “I hate hospitals,” he replied, shooting the state troopers a gritty look as he drew in a long drink of water.
“Come on. You hear stories on the street, but we want to hear you tell it,” McKinley’s partner pressed. “Come on Cleaver. Tell us how it started. We’ve got nothing but time here.”
“You want to know?” Tommy chuckled, a wince rippling across his face as he adjusted his shoulder. “It started at the red house. I was seven when we moved in. Everything about the house was red. The siding was red. The carpet was red. Even the wallpaper was a velvety rose- patterned red. About the only thing that wasn’t red was the dark walnut paneling in the living room and the dingy cupboards in the kitchen.
It was a dark house. I turned eight years old there and on my eighth birthday my parents bought me a brand new Huffy bike. It was black with black pads on the handle bars and frame. It had a banana seat too, but my friends helped me turn it into a racing bike. I loved that bike. I rode it every day before school and all afternoon when I got home. That’s until some wise ass thought he could steal it from me.”
There was a morbid chuckle from the two officers as they shook their heads. An odd kind of atmosphere filled the room. It gave McKinley the same type of feeling he got when a tornado was coming. He knew there was eminent danger and yet curiosity kept him watching as the nurse came in to check on Tommy’s sutures. “Are you doing alright? Can I get you anything for pain?”
“No Ken. I’m fine right now thanks,” Tommy answered, taking another swig of his water.
With a nod to the Detectives the nurse checked his cell phone and walked out of the room. McKinley slouched further into his chair and planted his left shoe on his right knee. “So go on Tommy, your bike got stolen yada, yada, yada.”
Tommy the Cleaver looked at him like a pit bull that just got tasered, cracked a menacing smile and said, “So, my boys and I went looking for the bastard”. As he took another swig Tommy’s eyes grew dimmer, his pupils dilating as he reached out and set the cup down again. In the corner, the heart monitor blipped causing the Detectives to look over. The rate dropped to an eerily restful pattern, as McKinley cleared his throat and gave an uneasy glance to his partner.
“We didn’t find him the first day, but on the second day Allen Blackleg from three blocks over came running up to us. We were sitting on the front porch of that red house and Allen says, all out of breath, I know who has your bike.
I tell you boys that I stood up, calmly went in the house, walked over to the cutlery drawer and slid the cleaver into the back of my pants. Then I went outside and told Allen to take us to him. The next thing I know my buddies are holding Daryn Krenshaw down and I’m yelling hold his hand out, hold his hand out. That’s when I lean over and look Daryn right in the eyes and say you know what they do to thieves in Agrabar?” Tommy said with a cold grin.
Uncomfortable, McKinley’s partner leaned forward and adjusted his tie.
“That idiot just shook his head and yelled I’m going to kick your ass.” Tommy continued. “That’s when I slid the cleaver out and said they cut off your freakin hands.”