He was a handsome man. That's all I could tell them when they asked for a description. Handsome in a sinister way. A vague way, a nauseous, fluid, indescribable handsomeness.
"We're not looking for poetry here," the detective said, "I need a description. If you don't know, just say you don't know. Don't lead me on."
I could feel his urgency-- the interrogation room was bubbling with nervous energy, and not my own-- but I couldn't cater to it. There was no definite way to describe the experience.
An unsealed manila envelope full of off white documents. The Handsome Man, whispering in my ear, "Deliver these to the cops." And then I was here, at a police station I've never seen before. Miles away from any part of the city I recognize, with a knotlike, aching pain in my temples.
"I don't know what to tell you. I don't know what I can tell you that I haven't already told you. I'm sorry." I said, massaging my throbbing forehead.
The detective cocked his head to the left and narrowed his eyes, gauging my expression, presumably for truthfulness, before tersely thanking me, telling me to "sit tight," and exiting the room.
Whatever was in that envelope, I could tell, had them scared.