03-13-2014, 06:29 PM
Golyanovo District precinct was, by all meanings of the term, on the wrong side of the tracks. On the outskirts of Moscow, many of the buildings were still of the painfully boring USSR style; cookie cutter blocks of concrete, everything identical and not a hint of imagination to be seen. The area was far removed from the world view of Moscow; high crime rates, graffiti, struggling infrastructure. The region was almost entirely populated by (mostly) legal immigrants, who formed small, close-knit communities and English had yet to become the universal language it was supposed to be.
The local police precincts were often populated by the trouble makers that weren't wanted closer to the heart of things, or the underachievers no one else wanted to deal with.
The unmarked car the two officers had used was brought into the station's parking lot and nestled between two squad cars that had seen better days. Peter was hauled out of the back seen and shown in, where all the usual processing was skipped. No finger printing, no mug shots, no reports filled out. Peter was brought straight to that interrogation room at the end of the hall, with the flickering light above the sturdy door. It wouldn't take an overly active imagination to connect the old building with the long dead KGB of the Soviet Union.
Peter was sat down in an uncomfortable steel chair that was bolted to the floor, and a chain bolted to the floor between his legs was attached to that of his handcuffs.
Konstantinov and Sokolov were both quite knowledgeable about how to beat a man for the most pain with the least damage. Bruises healed much faster then cuts, after all, and most street punks weren't near as tough as they thought. All the beatings in the world weren't nearly as dangerous to a man's confidence as his own imagination. Peter's pills were set on the table alongside a plastic cup of water and a long necked funnel. It would be easy for them to write the guy's death off as an overdose, surely.
The questioning began after a cursory few minutes of rough housing; phone books were a classic, and the phone book they had at their disposal looked like it was a veteran to the role it was put to on Peter. The questions started after it was clear to the man that they were quite intent on their course of action. He either cooperated and walked, or played it tough and could look forward to seeing first hand what a bag full of his pills could do to a person.
The local police precincts were often populated by the trouble makers that weren't wanted closer to the heart of things, or the underachievers no one else wanted to deal with.
The unmarked car the two officers had used was brought into the station's parking lot and nestled between two squad cars that had seen better days. Peter was hauled out of the back seen and shown in, where all the usual processing was skipped. No finger printing, no mug shots, no reports filled out. Peter was brought straight to that interrogation room at the end of the hall, with the flickering light above the sturdy door. It wouldn't take an overly active imagination to connect the old building with the long dead KGB of the Soviet Union.
Peter was sat down in an uncomfortable steel chair that was bolted to the floor, and a chain bolted to the floor between his legs was attached to that of his handcuffs.
Konstantinov and Sokolov were both quite knowledgeable about how to beat a man for the most pain with the least damage. Bruises healed much faster then cuts, after all, and most street punks weren't near as tough as they thought. All the beatings in the world weren't nearly as dangerous to a man's confidence as his own imagination. Peter's pills were set on the table alongside a plastic cup of water and a long necked funnel. It would be easy for them to write the guy's death off as an overdose, surely.
The questioning began after a cursory few minutes of rough housing; phone books were a classic, and the phone book they had at their disposal looked like it was a veteran to the role it was put to on Peter. The questions started after it was clear to the man that they were quite intent on their course of action. He either cooperated and walked, or played it tough and could look forward to seeing first hand what a bag full of his pills could do to a person.