Fly on the wall

Police interrogation room. Flat white walls, single dark window, cold steel table shining in fluorescent light. No distractions, no uncertainties, no questions.

"We just want to know the truth, Mr. Fisher"

It is not possible for a real man to be a cliche. We must remember this. For each part of his life that fits a stereotype, there are a multitude of surprising secrets. Even so, we are not often presented with the secrets. Neither could Jacob Fisher see the secrets behind the apparent cliche of the police officer in front of him: narrow red tie hanging loose from coffee stained white shirt, top buttons undone from...frustration? exhaustion? heat?...cigarette hanging on for dear life through every grunted syllable, barely more than a comical prop. Even the cop's attitude and pose were straight out of a movie: leaning forward across the table, resting his weight on the knuckles of his fists, eyes pleading with his subject to give up the tired game.

"Heads," said Jacob Fisher.

An angry hiss emitted from the corner of the room followed by a sharp slap of skin on skin and a grunted curse. Then the soft ping as the detective flipped his quarter in the air again.

"What are you trying to prove, Fisher?" The cop looked over his shoulder at the detective who nodded briefly, the movement barely more than a shift in the shadows on his fedora. "Why do you persist in avoiding the question at hand?"

"Simple," said Fisher, "if you give me my freedom - heads - that you have so arrogantly deprived me of, I will tell you exactly why - tails - I can correctly predict the result of your friend's coin flip. Heads."

The detective sullenly stopped flipping the coin at this point and stuffed it back into his pocket, retrieving a small notebook and hurriedly scribbling a note, which he handed over to the interrogating officer.

The officer smiled tiredly and placed the note flat on the table.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fisher, but I have no choice but to keep you detained until you offer us the assistance we need. Simmons, would you escort this prisoner back to his cell, please?"

With this last he opened the interrogation room door and admitted a uniformed officer who firmly guided Mr. Jacob Fisher out of sight down the corridor. Returning to the note on the table, Officer Redmond looked at Detective Laughlin and chuckled.

"Smug bastard. Don't know why he thinks he was so special. Nothin' special about guessing a coin flip...and being wrong every time. Any stupid monkey could guess wrong."

"Yes sir," said Laughlin, "but not even a monkey would be wrong every time. Sixteen times in a row yesterday, and thirty-three today."

Redmond grunted. "Wrong is still wrong," he said, and turned out the light as they left the empty room.