“So, let me get this straight,” the detective says to the man as he sits at a wood-print linoleum covered desk in a sickly green-yellow lit open office full of the bustling chatter of dozens of citizens and cops, “This woman,” the detective thumbs through a file of papers, “Emily Parker,” he looks up at the man, “You’re telling me she kept you as some kind of, what did you call it? Some kind of sex slave against your will and you then took her life in order to escape?”
“Can I please see my family?” the man’s hands quiver as he holds coffee in a Styrofoam cup in both of his hands.
“Yeah,” the detective sighs, “We haven’t been able to, uh, locate them, since you came to us.”
“What does that mean? Locate them?” the man asks, “Are they okay?
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You were found nude wandering around a residential neighborhood in Brooklyn while muttering to yourself,” the detective breathes, “The address you gave us contained a deceased woman. You admitted to killing her. You claim a one hundred and ten pound woman held you prisoner. You’re a six foot three grown man. You murdered her with your bare hands. You stop me when this starts to sound weird.”
“God fucking damn it,” the man spits, “I’m the victim here. This happened to me. I just want to see my son.”
“Sir,” the detective holds his hand up, “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.”
“Contact her friends,” the man pants. “Seriously, just talk to them. They saw her fuck….” The man pauses and shakes his head in disgust at himself, “They saw me get fucked by her,” he whispers.
“Yes, sir,” the detective pauses, “We did contact the acquaintances of the decedent, and they described viewing a consensual encounter where you role-played for Miss Parker for their entertainment.”
How do they know it was consensual, the man asks.
“Well, sir, you were fucked with a, uh, strap on in front of a large number of woman drinking wine,” the detective says as he rubs his