The cops came at around 1 or 2 in the morning. I was on my bed listening to the radio, about the only thing that works nowadays. Salome was singing us insomniacs a lullaby when the door to my apartment is busted clean through. I do my best to look scared, because looking expectant is gonna raise questions. I don't exactly have a clean track record, no one does anymore. But the cops are quick and don't ask questions, just slap the cuffs on me. They read me my 'rights' but I ain't listenin'. Why bother when we're all gonna die soon?
They push me outside, and shove me into a van packed with their buddies. I'm sitting there surrounded by sausages in only my nightgown and robe. Bastards. Yeah, they all got a good look at me, even the driver. I ain't got no shame though, just pushed my chest out and batted my eyelashes like a good girl. The boys loved that, loved it so much that we almost died before we got to the police precinct. There's some humor for ya.
Men.
They become so stupid when they're around big breasts. Not that mine are big.
The police precinct ain't what it used to be, or so I'm told. There used to be plants that grew around that place, but now it's run down. Looks more like a place to make moonshine than a place for justice. Shit's depressing. I try not to think about it as I walk up the steps. The boys direct to me an office, with a desk and a porker of a man sitting behind it. The fucker's got a donut in his hand, but it's gone quickly. I swear he musta inhaled it.
I'm pushed into a cold metal folding chair and then cuffed to it. It ain't the best way to make me stay but I suppose I won't get far if I have to take a piece of furniture with me. A picture of me slamming the chair on a guys' head appears in my mind. It's a comical image, one that almost makes me chuckle. I stop myself though because the guy is lookin' all sinister. He shuffles some papers around to intimidate me and begins the grilling process.
"Rowland K. Ellis? Know 'im?" From a vanilla folder he takes out a mug shot and slaps it down in front of me.
"Yeah, what's it to ya?"
"He's dead."
I pause, because it's what you do when you're told someone's been killed. "... Dead?"
"Neck broken, arteries slashed and throat cut open, yeah
dead. Now if that ain't murder lady, I don't know what is." The man reaches underneath him and places a plastic bag in front of me. I take one glance at it and I know what's in it. "This here your shit?"
"Yeah, it's my make up."
"You a hooker or something?"
I admit, no woman bothers with make up no more. Sure it covers up winkles and fine lines, but it doesn't do much for tears.
"Sort of."
He's looking at me all funny. There's shadows underneath those eyes and his lips turn up in a snarl. I don't like that look one bit, but it goes away quick. He's suddenly all professional again, that scum bag. "We found it in his bathroom, along with your other belongings. What I want to know is, what is your relationship to Mister Ellis? Pretty woman like yourself shouldn't be with no old fella."
Oooh, playing the flirt are we? I admit, I had to bite my tongue. What does it matter if someone's been murdered? People are murdered all the fucking time in cold blood. So what, Rowland was rich, but that don't make him special, it makes him wanted. And wanted people die quick. His death should have been written off as a casualty.
"He and I were in a relationship officer. I saw him once at the bar and feeling lonely, decided to talk. But that was weeks ago, and I'm moving out anyways."
"Why ya moving out?"
"Cause."
"Cause why?"
I finger the necklace Rowland gave me, it's a pretty thing with sapphires and diamonds."...He ain't fond of gold diggers sir, and I sure as hell am one, according to him."
"Are you angry with him?"
I pause and smile. "Oh... I'm mad as hell."
I knew I as good as written my death sentence. The cop sure as hell thinks so. He gets up and leaves me there, slamming the door. I'm still wondering why the hell they care, but politics still exists in this crummy world. Even when the apocalypse is coming and innocent people are dying on the streets, we still fight for power. Oh well, I've just about given up on humanity. Let the insects and the rodents take over, they'd probably do better than us.
I reach over and grab the vanilla folder he left on the desk. Without even thinking I dump everything out in front of me with a manicured hand - it's all mostly photos. I see dear sweet Rowland, lying there in his own blood and his machine hooked up to him. There's a clean slice over his throat where the killer done cut it open. His neck is definitely broken, from the angle that his head is leaning. The sight doesn't even phase me. Well, maybe a little...
"Must've pissed off the wrong people, didn't ya?"
I throw the folder to the wall and stare at the pictures, numb.
I start to ask myself why I gave myself up so easily. Tch, and I get a quick answer. Life just isn't worth it anymore. The only glimmer of hope now is the Holy Grail. The gangs and politicians of Rapture won't let anyone else get involved with that, else they'll get shot. Still, there's a reason why I fought so hard to get here. Be stupid to waste my efforts right?
I open up the plastic bag with my make up. The scent of powder, roses and plastic fills my nostrils, pleasing me more than any man ever could. I get my compact out and set it on the desk, over the photos of Rowland. The blood is starting to upset me some. I pop open my Lancome foundation and apply some on my face with my fingers. My Urban Decay palette is nearly used up, but I manage to dab some black onto my eyelids. My lipstick goes on last, the deep red color giving the cop pause.
Whoops. I didn't realize he had come back in.
"What are you doing, that's evidence!"
"I'm sorry officer, I just feel naked without my make up on." And I smile as he looks me over.