“So tell us how you got your name?” Detective Bill McKinley asked as he pushed the rolling cart across the bed.

For a moment the prisoner just stared out the window of his fifteenth story room. He made no answer as he lifted the white foam cup off the cart and peeled the paper cap from the straw. “I hate hospitals,” he replied, shooting the state troopers a gritty look as he drew in a long drink of water.

“Come on. You hear stories on the street, but we want to hear you tell it,” McKinley’s partner pressed. “Come on Cleaver. Tell us how it started. We’ve got nothing but time here.”

“You want to know?” Tommy chuckled, a wince rippling across his face as he adjusted his shoulder. “It started at the red house. I was seven when we moved in. Everything about the house was red. The siding was red. The carpet was red. Even the wallpaper was a velvety rose- patterned red. About the only thing that wasn’t red was the dark walnut paneling in the living room and the dingy cupboards in the kitchen.

It was a dark house. I turned eight years old there and on my eighth birthday my parents bought me a brand new Huffy bike. It was black with black pads on the handle bars and frame. It had a banana seat too, but my friends helped me turn it into a racing bike. I loved that bike. I rode it every day before school and all afternoon when I got home. That’s until some wise ass thought he could steal it from me.”

There was a morbid chuckle from the two officers as they shook their heads. An odd kind of atmosphere filled the room. It gave McKinley the same type of feeling he got when a tornado was coming. He knew there was eminent danger and yet curiosity kept him watching as the nurse came in to check on Tommy’s sutures. “Are you doing alright? Can I get you anything for pain?”

“No Ken. I’m fine right now thanks,” Tommy answered, taking another swig of his water.

With a nod to the Detectives the nurse checked his cell phone and walked out of the room. McKinley slouched further into his chair and planted his left shoe on his right knee. “So go on Tommy, your bike got stolen yada, yada, yada.”