The detainee at the police station (True story)

The early hours of Saturday always bring out the worst in the city. Drunks, bar fights, people who don't know when to stop. I had been on duty for six hours when I received the radio alert: public disorder in the nightlife area, a guy causing problems outside a club.

When I arrived, my colleagues were already subduing a man in his thirties who was resisting more out of pride than actual aggression. Tall, dark-haired, with a several-day-old beard that gave him a careless but attractive air. He was wearing a black t-shirt that had ridden up during the struggle, revealing a toned abdomen. The shirt was also torn and frayed, showing off his muscular body.

"I haven't done anything, damn it!" he protested as they handcuffed him.

"Marcos Ruiz," my colleague read from his ID. "Thirty years old, no prior offenses."

The procedure was routine: resisting authority, public disorder, and since he couldn't pay the fine on the spot and it was a weekend, he would spend the night in a cell until he could be arraigned in the morning.

During the transfer in the van, I observed him through the rearview mirror. He didn't seem like a habitual offender, more like an office worker who had drunk too much and picked the wrong fight. But there was something in the way he looked at me, even handcuffed, that put me on alert.

"What's your name, officer?" he asked with a voice that was more sober than I expected.

I didn't respond, but during the drive, my colleague who was driving mentioned my last name for an administrative matter.

"Martínez..." he repeated, savoring my last name.

Through the rearview mirror, I saw him smile.

"All you damn cops of your generation are just waiting to be taken down one by one, damn it" he said, stumbling over his words due to his drunkenness.

At the police station, I processed him according to protocol: personal data, effects in an envelope, regulatory photographs. Throughout the process, Marcos maintained that strange attitude, as if he were evaluating me instead of the other way around.

"Remove your shoelaces and belt," I ordered.

"Can't you do it for me?" he asked with a smile that wasn't exactly respectful.

I ignored the comment and led him to cell number three. It was an individual cell, clean but austere: a concrete bench, a stainless steel toilet, nothing else. Ideal for spending a few hours reflecting on poor decisions.

"Get some rest, Marcos," I said, closing the door with a key. I rarely used first names, but I was a bit fed up.

"Are you not going to wish me goodnight?" he responded, clinging to the bars.

During the following hours, every time I passed by the cellblock for the routine checks, Marcos had something to say.

"Hey, Martínez, do you have a girlfriend?"

"How many hours do you have left on your shift? And me? If I don't jerk off during the day, I won't be a...