Did you know that if you're good in prison, you got to watch TV? You could even use the internet. Everything was carefully supervised and things like Facebook weren't allowed, but that didn't bother Ian; he had never been a fan of social media anyway. Telling people you haven't seen since high school about how bored you are, or posting photos of you in new clothes that you think you look good in but don't. He had absolutely no interest in any of that. What Ian cared about were articles, keeping up with all sorts of relevant news-worthy stories to keep in touch with the outside world, as he rarely got to see anything that wasn't one of the four walls of his solitary confinement cell.<br/><br/>He found it interesting that inmates could not access social media sites, but were allowed to read news articles. He could understand the theory, as he was sure it largely helped inmate reintegration if the inmates were up to date on a little bit of what was going on in the world, but something about being able to read a news article particularly pertaining to himself seemed like it should be frowned upon. And it turns out that it<span style="font-style: italic">is</span>, in fact, frowned upon, just not against the rules. And for something that wasn't against the rules, Detective Trace Sandin seemed very upset.<br/><br/>Ian sat in his uncomfortable wooden chair with his hands uncomfortably handcuffed to the armrests, and with Detective Sandin staring at him uncomfortably from across the stretch of table that separated them in the bleak interrogation room. A small black recorder sat in the middle of the table, a red light burning bright to let everyone within a five mile radius know that it was recording everything that was said. And so Ian kept quiet, smiling politely at the detective across from him who seemed to be getting steadily more agitated.<br/><br/>"Ian this is the fifth time I've asked you, and I'm not going to ask again. I need an answer," Det. Sandin said through a clenched jaw, knuckles white from his relentless grip on the poor, innocent coffee cup that lovingly said #1 Dad. "One more time. Did you have anything to do with that letter?"<br/><br/>The corners of Ian's mouth twitched as his smile curled even further upward. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective, I'm afraid I would need to see the letter."<br/><br/>The good detective eyed him cautiously, as well he should. Ian waited patiently, his eyes glowing in anticipation of the inevitable. And the inevitable did happen; Det. Sandin reached for a manila envelope that had been discarded at the edge of the table and largely forgotten about, sliding it toward the middle of the desk. Ian inclined his head toward the detective and his long, fine blonde hair fell in curtains to frame his face, his pale blue eyes sparkling in amusement before he rolled them playfully. He tugged on the chains binding him to his few inches of arm reach in good humor. "I seem to be having trouble opening the folder. Would you mind helping me?" He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing at Det. Sandin's annoyed expression and that vein near his temple that was already bulging, and Ian had hardly said anything at this point. Regardless of his agitation, the detective flipped open the cover of the envelope and pushed it even closer to Ian.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">'You got the wrong one.'</span><br/><br/>Ian smiled at the scribbled smiley face under the single sentence. He sat further back in his seat, leaning against the back of his chair. His eyes went from the detective, to the recorder, and then back again. Det. Sandin seemed to get the hint, reluctantly turning off the recorder and staring at Ian expectantly.<br/><br/>"That letter arrived a day after I was taken to prison, wasn't it? I was made to wait sixty days before I was allowed to send a letter," he explained. He wasn't telling the detective anything he didn't already know. He had never intended on giving him any<span style="font-style: italic">useful</span>information now that he wasn't being recorded, he just made it a point to never be caught on recording. When Sandin looked at him, it was a mix of irritation, blind fury and exhaustion. The poor man had been trying to get something out of him for hours to no avail. The thought made Ian's smile turn to a grin. "Detective Sandin, surely you don't believe that I<span style="font-style: italic">expected</span>to be caught and sent that letter prematurely."<br/><br/>There was that vein again, bulging and trying to push its way out from underneath Det. Sandin's skin. "That's the kind of shit that makes me believe that's<span style="font-style: italic">exactly</span>what you did," he forced out, mostly calm but Ian could tell he was almost ready to break. He was lucky that there were cameras in these rooms; surely if they weren't monitored Sandin would have broken his neck by now. Ian feigned a grave face, nodding solemnly as the detective spoke, and that apparently only made him angrier. Sandin slammed his fist down on the table, his #1 Dad coffee cup rattling in protest and his chair making horrible noises as it scraped the floor as the detective rose to his feet, leaning over the table and shouting in his face. "You think you're fucking funny?! People have fucking<span style="font-style: italic">died!</span>"<br/><br/>Ian felt the detective's hot and heavy breath on his face, and he turned his own away slightly to get away from the stench of black coffee. "I would know, Detective Sandin," he said politely, his smile never falling from his lips. "I'm the reason they're dead."<br/><br/>With a final blow to the unsuspecting table, the coffee cup shattered on the ground. Luckily it had been empty of its former contents, but the sound it made was still mildly threatening. The detective threw himself away from the table, blowing past the table and through the large white door that led out of the interrogation room. Ian looked down at the letter again, smile faltering just slightly on one side as he studied the letter. It was haphazard, sloppy, like whoever had written it - because oh no, he had not been the one to write it - had been in quite the rush. He hummed curiously to himself, looking from the paper to the door, half expecting Detective Sandin to come back. Just outside the door though, the anger had not quelled.<br/><br/>Trace dragged a hand through his short brown hair, sweat making it stand straight up in some places. He was disheveled, hot and sweaty; there was no air conditioning in that particular room and he hadn't thought to bring a fan in. Maybe it had been a good thing though. If they let Baird sit in the heat long enough, he was bound to get uncomfortable and tell them what they wanted to know just to get out of there. He watched the convicted serial killer from behind the one way mirror, tapping his fingers against the windowsill incessantly.<br/><br/>"Do you want to try?" he asked his partner, trying to get<span style="font-style: italic">some</span>form of relief, even if that relief just came from listening to the same bullshit Baird had been spouting earlier. As long as he wasn't on the receiving end of it this time, he thought he'd be alright.