Jericho's Razor Read Online Free

cover the stench. He stretched, cracked his neck and took the seat opposite me. His posture was slightly sagged, but he still carried himself like somebody who was used to being in charge. I stole a glance at his watch and saw that it was Four-thirty in the morning. I had been stuck in the room even longer than I thought.
    â€œMy name is Eddie Torrez. I am the lead detective of this investigation. The purpose for this interview is to get your formal statement on the record. You are not currently under arrest. However, you do have the right to have counsel with you for this interview. Would you like to have a lawyer here?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYour decision.” He said, his tone indicating he thought it was a bad one. “Have a good nap?”
    â€œNot bad.”
    â€œNice shirt.”
    I knew what I was wearing—it was the same shirt I had been wearing for the past two days—I but looked down anyway. It was a black T-shirt with I’M ALREADY GOING TO HELL, NOW I’M JUST TRYING TO GET A GOOD SPOT written on it. It was a dig toward my parents who used religion to justify their homicide. I always thought it was funny. However, it was probably not the best impression, given the circumstances.
    â€œI read in an article somewhere that you were an atheist.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhich means that you don’t believe in Heaven or Hell.”
    â€œExactly. That’s why it’s funny.”
    â€œRight. Because the very best jokes are the one you have to explain.”
    Torrez got to business by asking me to state my full name, address, and occupation. It’s how cops always begin interviews, because it gets the person across the table in the habit of their answering questions. They ask your name, where you live, and then toss out a zinger like “Have you killed anybody lately?” It’s shameful how many people fall for it. It’s why you are never supposed to talk to cops without a lawyer.
    He was writing my answers on a yellow legal pad. “You go by Jericho?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMiddle name is Thomas?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd you go by Sands? Not Sandborn?”
    Sandborn was the name I was born with, the name synonymous with murder in the name of religious extremism. Two decades later, it still followed me. Especially on those times when I had to talk with the police.
    â€œI had it legally changed when I was eighteen,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIf your last name was Manson you might consider changing it to Mann. It makes it less awkward when people introduce you at parties.”
    â€œBut everybody knows who you are. Your career depends on it, right? You cash in on your name, regardless of whatever you shortened it to.”
    I decided right then that I hated Torrez, even though technically he was correct. While true, it was not a concept I even considered when I was eighteen. All I wanted at the time was to be somebody else, and a name change was an easy step in that direction. It was not until much later that I realized I would always be me, would always carry my DNA no matter what I called myself or where I went.
    â€œYour date of birth is January nineteenth, nineteen seventy seven.”
    â€œYep.”
    Torrez set the pen down on the notepad. Straight up and down. Middle of the page. It was the sign of an ordered mind that valued control and reason. Add to that the obvious dislike for sarcasm, and I figured that his would be the desk I saw that looked like it was vacuumed on a daily basis. Meaning his partner was the slob. Must be a fun pair. Torrez made me recount the events of the past twenty-four hours, all while taking notes and flipping pages like a writer in the middle of brainstorm. He asked his next question without looking up.
    â€œThis video message was sent to your cell phone?”
    â€œI received it on my phone. It was sent to an email account.”
    â€œHow many people