The Story of Samo: Chapter Three, Part Four
Samo sat on a backless stool, surrounded by cold, sweating stone and cold, sweating police officers. His hands were loosely tied in front of him with soft rope. It was only a formality, since he was not officially under arrest, and could have gotten out of them at any time. However, the law dictated that any suspect in the interrogation chamber needed to have his hands tied. It apparently never suspected that someone would be in the interrogation chamber without being interrogated for some heinous crime. He looked around at the officers. Tarat was standing off to the side watching him with arms crossed. Samo was sure that Tarat would have leaned against the wall had the moisture on the stone not been there. He didn’t want to ruin his nice uniform.
Closer to him, a larger, older officer stood, also with his arms crossed. He was wearing a similar uniform to that of Tarat—they all were—but this guy’s uniform was fancier. He actually had epaulets. Mutton chops grew down from the sides of his face and joined just above his lip—the upper one. Joining above the lower lip would have resulted in a hairy tongue. That wouldn’t taste good. Samo smiled as he imagined the picture. The officer watched him quizzically and looked to the other officers in the room. Two other men were there. One was behind Samo, but he knew that this man was only a few years older than Tarat, which meant he was a few years older than Samo, plus one. He was also one of the biggest twits Samo had ever met, and he’d met a lot of twits. He even wore the mutton chops as a way to brown-nose to his superior. He never seemed to notice that didn’t worked. The other man was middle-aged, kind of plump. Obviously a secretary. He was dressed as an officer, but his physical shape—that of a flaky pastry—belied his desk job.
The older officer, the one with the epaulets, said, “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Diarcha?”
“Samo,” he answered. “My name is Samo. I hate being called Mr. Diarcha.”
“I see,” the officer said, nodding. “Well, Samo, I’ll repeat the question. Do you know why you’re here?”
He lifted his hands and pointed to Tarat. He said, “Because he brought me here.”
Tarat smiled at the simplicity of the answer, then glared at the twit officer, who had apparently glared at him first. The epaulet officer nodded, casting a slightly surreptitious glare at the twit. He said, “Yes, but do you know why he brought you here?”
“Because you told him to.”
The twit sighed audibly and the flaky pastry officer chuckled. Tarat, who was used to this kind of banter with Samo, simply smiled. The epaulet officer shook his head. He said, “Yes, do you know why I asked him to bring you here?”
Samo answered, “For my own protection.”
“Good!” he said, kneeling down. He set a knee on the hard stone floor and said, “Now we’re getting somewhere. How do you know that?”
“He said so.” When the officer stared at him, he explained, “I heard him say when he picked me up. He said it was for my own protection. Considering the fact that I was getting the snotty tar kicked out of me, I’d say he was right.”
The epaulet officer groaned, palming his face. He looked to the pastry officer and said, “I’m going to need some more time with him. You and Torin go up to the offices and wait there.” The pastry officer nodded and started for the door. He turned toward the twit, who huffed and followed after him. Samo smiled as, after they were left, the epaulet officer muttered, “Twit.” He returned his attention to Samo, saying, “You’re not under arrest. It’s just too dangerous for you to be outside right now.”
“It’s going to start getting much more dangerous,” he said.
Tarat stepped forward, starting to speak. When the commander turned to him, he stopped. At the motion to continue, he said, “What’s going to happen, Samo? Is that why you were screaming for Lasci?”
He nodded. “I have to tell him. I have to see him. It’s important.”
“What’s important?” the commander asked. “Why him?”
“I have to tell him. I know exactly what’s going on. He thinks he knows. He thinks he knows everything. He doesn’t, but thinking that could get him killed, like Gianan. Gianan knew something of it, he told me some. Naram told me more. Lasci knows nothing, but he thinks he knows. That could get him killed. I have to tell him, I have to warn him. He’s back!” He started to stand, but sat again when Tarat stepped forward with his hand up in a calming motion.
Tarat said, “Who’s back, buddy? Who’s back?”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you Snake. It would get you killed. I wouldn’t even tell the twins about this. I don’t want you killed, Snake.”
“I appreciate that.” He turned to his superior, who was looking at him with a confused look. He said, “Snake is a nickname he has for me. We knew each other as kids.”
“I see,” the officer replied. “I’d like to see you outside.” When he had stood, he said to Samo, “If someone were to pass the message ‘He’s back’ to Professor Lasci, would he understand?”
Samo nodded. He said, “He should.”
The officer nodded and walked to the door, motioning for Tarat to follow him. Outside, where there was more fabric to hinder the moistness and cold, he said, “Do you want to help your friend?”
Tarat nodded. He said, “Yes sir. What would you suggest?”
“I want you to take this case. Lasci is the one who asked him to be brought in, so he obviously knows something is going on. I want you to go warn Lasci and give him the message.” He waved his hand and said, “I don’t know what’s going on, but it seems like the rantings of a lunatic and a foolish old man.”
“Well, sir,” Tarat said. “I’m sure you think Samo is the lunatic, but I have some advice for you.”
The officer turned to him. “Oh? Well, I normally don’t take advice from officers in their first year on the force, but you know him, so go ahead.”
“Don’t underestimate him. I’m not sure how much of the idiot routine is real or just a routine, but even if it’s not a routine, that guy is a genius.”
“I keep hearing that, but I haven’t yet seen evidence of it.” He looked through the small window in the door and said, “Well, he’s out of the rope and using it to tie sailor’s knots.”
Tarat chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds like him. He’s a mechanical genius, anyway. Would you like me to go find Professor Lasci now?”
The officer nodded. “Yes, Tarat,” he said. “Go do that now, and if Torin tries to give you any trouble over it, ask him when he’s going to get rid of that stupid facial hair. He looks like an idiot.”
Tarat smiled. “Yes sir. I’ll be sure to do that.”
Tales of the Inventor's War 