abby82 | FIC: Crackerjack [The Border]

Crackerjack
by abby

fandom: The Border
category: pre-series
rating: R for strong language
disclaimer: Maggie doesn't belong to me, I'm only borrowing her; no money is being made
word count: 624
author's note: written for medie's “Because We’re Awesome” drabble-a-thon but because I have no 
self-discipline it’s not quite drabble length; a fair warning, this story isn’t beta’d.
prompt: [The Border] Maggie Norton—interrogation

summary: “Her interrogation skills are legendary; she once reduced a vicious serial killer to a sobbing 
six year old, begging her forgiveness.”—character description on The Border’s Official site

******

It’s all in their eyes. Usually it’s just a flicker. Fucking political correctness has trained them well but not well enough to stamp out their brief flirtation with gender superiority. They take one look at her—her gender, her size—and automatically assume she’s incapable of the job needed. It’s not one for the fainthearted.

The suspects are more honest about their opinions. They don’t disguise it behind social niceties. This one is no different.

“Darling did you take a wrong turn on your way to the Ministry of Transportation? You can’t renew your driver’s license here.”

“Superintendent Norton,” she says in introduction as he continues to give her another once over. The smile of a condescending ass is plastered on his face.

“Lady you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m gonna talk to you. You tell that to the stick-in-the-mud who sent you in here.”

“Well you just told him yourself,” she says glancing towards the mirrored glass on one of the walls. “So why don’t I just take a seat anyway,” she casually continues before she settles into the chair across from him.

It’s really only by chance that he ended up in their sandbox. She’s got to admit that he’s her first dual citizenship serial killer. He’s left bodies, broken hearted families, and frustrated local, state, provincial, and federal agencies in his wake throughout southern Ontario and upstate New York. Lucky her.

She was right when she pegged him as a condescending ass but he’s smart too and he knows how to cover his tracks. Metro PD got a lucky break when they caught up with him when they did. He was already preparing to skip town.

She’s in there for hours. The back and forth between a suspect and interrogator can be draining but it’s also an adrenaline rush. It’s a delicate game they play. One wrong turn and she loses any ground she’s gained.

Then suddenly it’s like a deluge of information pouring out of him. Names, dates, locations—everything they could possibly need to put this guy away. The detail he goes into for his last victim is astonishing.

Shit.

She already knew he was guilty but to hear him actually say it out loud is more disturbing than she thought it would be. Ruddy splotches are splayed across his face and tears are streaming down in an unending torrent. His muffled muttering is almost incomprehensible through his hiccupped tears but she manages to make out one word, “Sorry.” The son of a bitch is fucking sorry. Sorry that Michelle Wallace felt enough sympathy to hand him some change when he was panhandling outside her insurance agency; sorry that she took the bus home rather than drive herself; and sorry for the unspeakable things he did to her body.

He looks up at her with swollen eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he manages out. There’s vehemence behind his words but she doesn’t really care. It won’t bring back Michelle Wallace; comfort her family or the other families out there who will never see their loved ones again. She’s done here. Her job is done and with that she rises from her chair and without a glance back she exits the small room.

The eyes that look back at her are different than the ones she saw going in. There’s fear, shock, admiration, and a few showing resentment for good measure. Whatever.

“What did ya do to him?” One of the young Mounties asks her when he finishes checking in on their now confessed killer. “He asked me if I had a tissue. He’s got snot all over his face.”

“Did you give him one?”

“Should I have?” He asks, confused by her question.

“Why not? Snot crusts.”

-30-