The Storyline
The Interrogator:
An interrogation is really just one of life’s many performances. I manipulate emotions like an actor or a writer. I smell the weakness and seize upon it; it’s the Discovery Channel brought to life, the hungry lion sniffing out the weakness in the herd of antelopes. I see weaknesses where others see charity; the limp of an otherwise virile man, the drunkenness of the lonely woman left in the bar at last call, the stiff elbow of an aging quarterback.
Words are your weapons in this arena; typically the only ones. I must utilize them efficiently. Words are like putty, bland and gray, or taffy, rich and sweet. Either way, I take words and twist them. I read between the lines, from a script by a writer I’ve never met about a story I’ve never heard across from a fellow actor – often a much better one – I’ve never met nor would never care to meet in other circumstances; a script that’s yet to be written and one that changes on every single page.
It is a play, a movie, a fiction, an act. To that end, I should’ve won a dozen or more Oscars by now. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be for playing a part in my own life, just in the lives of those who’ve been unlucky enough to sit across from me in rooms just like this one; close, hot, quiet and menacing.
I’ve never mastered the life side of this dance. In my wake lies a hurricane of personal destruction and professional disappointments. The family members that remain – both of them – are loyal and true, but distant and detached.
friends?
sure?
There is only the game; and the few players willing to play. My stage – the interview room – my only home. My role – the person I play at the drop of a hat once the sedative wears off – my only trusted friend. I have my standard tricks and props, but never bank on them; you can’t. Never rely on shit out of your direct control. You do and you’ll be the one manipulated. All I need is what I can rely on; I have in front of me: a sturdy table, plenty of light, two chairs and two eyes to work.
These are the only control elements of the process; all else is a catalog of variables bordering on the infinite. I call it a stage because in movies you get as many takes as you need. I’m going out live to an audience of one; what happens here changes every time I do it. My skills have an expiration date. Right now they are at their peak.
Tomorrow?
Who knows?
I am equipped the ability to pierce facades striping down, peeling through all they think they are and reviving the demons they thought destroyed. I can translate crazy and speak nuts; talk loudly or listen low. Words, like weapons, cut both ways; mine can hurt but theirs aren’t painless. My skin may be free of scars but my soul is littered with the sticks and stones and verbal landmines from those who’ve sat across from me.
Words come and go and the room stays the same - all else is subject to change. I leave my unsigned personality outside the door. Sean and Mandy snag glimpses after post op cocktails. Operational security blunders usually have something to do with drinking too much beer; with me, larger error - drinking with other people.
Inside this room I am quicksilver; mercurial and fleeting. I can appear 300-pounds and tough as nails or 150 and soft as a counselor. What do you need? I’ve got that? Want something else? I’ve got that, too. I can be coarse, vain, superior, smug, catty, rough, condescending, depressed, alienated or in control.
It all depends on the moment. The key is the subject. What will work for him? Does he need a friend? A tormentor? An ally? An enemy? Appearances aren’t only deceiving, they’re dangerous. One misstep – one misread – can cost an interrogator hours, even days, of hard won camaraderie and respect.
My main goal and objective is to get the guy to talk. Plain and simple. Strip away the bells, the whistles, the technology, the wires, the hard-drives, the cars, and the people; at the end of the day it’s me. It’s him.
He has information.
I need it.
The information isn’t in a suitcase or a safe deposit box. It’s in his head. The only way to get it out is to gain his confidence. Twist him, turn him, befriend him, and betray him. He must want to give it to me; there is simply no other way. Torture is a short-cut leading to inevitable failure. I want my guy big, dumb, and happy. Once I extract the information; I’ll deal with his soul, but always off the clock.
And so begins the delicate dance of interrogator and subject.
Based on a true story, this first person story will throw you into the inner workings of hired mercenaries, and their targets. Often making you wonder who the bad guy is. So begins my new thriller, The Interrogator, which is quite literally “ripped from the headlines.” On a quiet morning in some remote desert, a stealthy unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) delivers its deadly payload. In a split-second, the world’s reigning terrorist leader, Ashraf Palankoor, is assassinated by an unnamed, unseen force.
Read more | Joseph Richards | Leave comment (13173)
An interrogation is really just one of life’s many performances. I manipulate emotions like an actor or a writer. I smell the weakness and seize upon it; it’s the Discovery Channel brought to life, the hungry lion sniffing out the weakness in the herd of antelopes. I see weaknesses where others see charity; the limp of an otherwise virile man, the drunkenness of the lonely woman left in the bar at last call, the stiff elbow of an aging quarterback.
Words are your weapons in this arena; typically the only ones. I must utilize them efficiently. Words are like putty, bland and gray, or taffy, rich and sweet. Either way, I take words and twist them. I read between the lines, from a script by a writer I’ve never met about a story I’ve never heard across from a fellow actor – often a much better one – I’ve never met nor would never care to meet in other circumstances; a script that’s yet to be written and one that changes on every single page.
It is a play, a movie, a fiction, an act. To that end, I should’ve won a dozen or more Oscars by now. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be for playing a part in my own life, just in the lives of those who’ve been unlucky enough to sit across from me in rooms just like this one; close, hot, quiet and menacing.
I’ve never mastered the life side of this dance. In my wake lies a hurricane of personal destruction and professional disappointments. The family members that remain – both of them – are loyal and true, but distant and detached.
friends?
sure?
There is only the game; and the few players willing to play. My stage – the interview room – my only home. My role – the person I play at the drop of a hat once the sedative wears off – my only trusted friend. I have my standard tricks and props, but never bank on them; you can’t. Never rely on shit out of your direct control. You do and you’ll be the one manipulated. All I need is what I can rely on; I have in front of me: a sturdy table, plenty of light, two chairs and two eyes to work.
These are the only control elements of the process; all else is a catalog of variables bordering on the infinite. I call it a stage because in movies you get as many takes as you need. I’m going out live to an audience of one; what happens here changes every time I do it. My skills have an expiration date. Right now they are at their peak.
Tomorrow?
Who knows?
I am equipped the ability to pierce facades striping down, peeling through all they think they are and reviving the demons they thought destroyed. I can translate crazy and speak nuts; talk loudly or listen low. Words, like weapons, cut both ways; mine can hurt but theirs aren’t painless. My skin may be free of scars but my soul is littered with the sticks and stones and verbal landmines from those who’ve sat across from me.
Words come and go and the room stays the same - all else is subject to change. I leave my unsigned personality outside the door. Sean and Mandy snag glimpses after post op cocktails. Operational security blunders usually have something to do with drinking too much beer; with me, larger error - drinking with other people.
Inside this room I am quicksilver; mercurial and fleeting. I can appear 300-pounds and tough as nails or 150 and soft as a counselor. What do you need? I’ve got that? Want something else? I’ve got that, too. I can be coarse, vain, superior, smug, catty, rough, condescending, depressed, alienated or in control.
It all depends on the moment. The key is the subject. What will work for him? Does he need a friend? A tormentor? An ally? An enemy? Appearances aren’t only deceiving, they’re dangerous. One misstep – one misread – can cost an interrogator hours, even days, of hard won camaraderie and respect.
My main goal and objective is to get the guy to talk. Plain and simple. Strip away the bells, the whistles, the technology, the wires, the hard-drives, the cars, and the people; at the end of the day it’s me. It’s him.
He has information.
I need it.
The information isn’t in a suitcase or a safe deposit box. It’s in his head. The only way to get it out is to gain his confidence. Twist him, turn him, befriend him, and betray him. He must want to give it to me; there is simply no other way. Torture is a short-cut leading to inevitable failure. I want my guy big, dumb, and happy. Once I extract the information; I’ll deal with his soul, but always off the clock.
And so begins the delicate dance of interrogator and subject.
Based on a true story, this first person story will throw you into the inner workings of hired mercenaries, and their targets. Often making you wonder who the bad guy is. So begins my new thriller, The Interrogator, which is quite literally “ripped from the headlines.” On a quiet morning in some remote desert, a stealthy unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) delivers its deadly payload. In a split-second, the world’s reigning terrorist leader, Ashraf Palankoor, is assassinated by an unnamed, unseen force.
Read more | Joseph Richards | Leave comment (13173)