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They dragged him into the police station's interview room. He was a short stocky kid of 16. He wore the usual street gear: torn oversized surplus army camo jacket, baggy pants, rings in both ears and hair dyed the color of black leather.

The other detectives sat him down roughly, cursed and left the room. We were alone together at the plain wooden table with a pad and pencil on it, just the two of us, the old cop and the young suspect. I smiled, but his stare was defiant, unyielding, as he slouched in the chair.

The bright light on his sullen face made him look even younger, almost childlike innocent. I wanted to be sympathetic, but my job was to get information from this young man accused to murder. Not an accidental shooting. Not violence in a fit of anger. Just plain cold-blooded murder, most likely for a street drug deal gone wrong.

"Let's start at the beginning," I said as pleasantly as I could as I picked up the pencil. "How did all this happen?"

His look was bitter, and he seemed to chew out the words. "You should know. It all started when you decided to leave mom and us kids, and you took off with that other woman."

Learn more about this author, Ted Sherman.
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