Aayotrie Chaudhary
The screams of agony washed out by the roars of the sea as the wind picked up and water sloshed around aggressively. Many ships and boats filled with those desperately begging for the rushing water to have mercy on them as they fight to overcome the surging waves and reach land. The storm trapped them in some kind of hellscape, without even a drop of sunlight entering through the guarded winds. Water flooded decks and continued to topple over anything amidst it. The only glimpse of light lasted mere seconds as each lightning bolt struck the overcrowded sea. Waves reaching well above five feet forged their way onto the bow of the ships. As the water rushed through ships claiming them for itself, those who could, jumped and swam.
As Marlon’s ship began to sink, unable to endure the thrashing of the seas. Marlon, who was merely a deckhand, was found only the next morning by the coastal guards, desperately clinging to a small piece of driftwood. The captain was nowhere to be found.
The frail man was brought in and interviewed by the coast guard. Marlon recalled that the wind had picked up so quickly that he and his Captain were unprepared, as the water rushed over the bow of their boat, nets filled with fish still caught below, the ship had begun to tip. As Captain desperately tried to tug the net back on the boat, his foot, lodged into sloshy wet boots, got trapped in the nets. Marlon attempted at getting his captain’s boot out from the web of fishing nets, the only light coming from the strikes of lightning glinted on the wet shine of the captain’s boot as it kept sinking deeper into the flowing water with the captain’s foot still stuck in it. Finally, as the drum of the rain beat down at their bodies, the Captain yanked his foot out, however the fishing line still caught on his leg and his other foot still stuck in another damn boot, the captain looked at Marlon and screamed for him to leave him behind, those screams almost a whisper from the terrorizing storm flowed delicately into Marlon’s ears and with a final look as his Captain, he jumped off board and began to swim.
To the investigator, Archer Murn, the story just seemed like a ploy to seem as a hero, some savior that swam and tried to save a guy. Marlon was brought to the local sheriff’s office for an investigation. There were four chairs in the interrogation room, but they only needed three of them. It was cold in the room, the type of cold where it would be heaven to walk in after experiencing the harsh rays of the sun outside, but unbearable to sit in for hours at a time. Yet, they ended up spending five hours there, and as the hours passed, Marlon’s story would be constantly chipped at until it eventually cracked and fell to pieces.
Just after he had been considered a dear heroic friend who tried to save his captain, by the end of the interrogation, Marlon himself was convinced he was murder.
“Maybe you hit him? What did you hit him with?,”
“I didn’t,”
“We know you did Marlon. Fess up. What did you hit him with? Here’s the scene, you both know the boat’s not gonna make it, there’s only one life jacket, and you wanted it. So, Marlon, what did you hit him with? You didn’t say no damn prayer did ya, you’re a liar Marlon, you couldn’t care if he lived or died.,”
“…”
“Maybe a hammer?,”
“Was there a hammer on board?,”
“No.,”
“Then not a hammer, what did you hit him with Marlon?,”
“I don’t know what I hit him with.”
“Yes you do.,”
“A pipe?,”
“A pipe? Sure.,”
***
Marlon was a poor man. Not a dime richer than those who would beg on the streets. So, the court appointed him a lawyer, Mack Peters. One thing that irked Mr Peters was how the story just didn’t match up. Why would Marlon kill his Captain for the one life jacket, yet not be wearing it once he was found?
Mr Peters sat Marlon down in his office. There was a stack of papers on his desk, a small calico cat sculpture in the corner. The air conditioner was broken so there was a small desk fan that Mr Peters had pointed at himself. The busy road could be heard from the office, the sounds of cars zooming by and occasional beeps of car horns. Mr Peters sat on one side of his desk in a red swivel chair. Marlon sat at the other side, rubbing his hand nervously and glancing all around the room as if he were afraid to be accused of thing after thing once more.
“Whatever you did, tell me the truth. If you did it, it’ll be alright. We’ll figure out what to do, but I need you to be honest with me.”
After a moment’s pause Marlon began retelling the story once more. The story Marlon said matched not the one he confessed to during the investigation, but the original story he had told the coast guard. How he had desperately attempted to assist his captain, but as the storm pounded upon them, their senses much too blocked out, the captain’s stuck foot, the screams for Marlon to go, to save himself, the prayers from the captain for the protection of his wife and children, Marlon had to abandon his captain.
The following day, a body was found floating in the bay. The gleam of the waves blocked off by what originally looked like just a piece of driftwood. The body of the dear old captain was found floating in the once harsh waves, one bare foot, the other covered with a soggy boot. Seaweed latched onto his face, a head injury which resembled as if it had been hit by a boat.
That’s when the last puzzle piece of Marlon’s story fell into place. The captain’s missing boot. For why he confessed to a murder he had no part in, but rather occurred through nature’s beast of a storm, the answer lies in the strikingly abnormal interrogation process, often forcing a storyline just to satisfy the detectives.
