Werewolf the Podast: Not the Death of the Innocent (Episode 246)

Nicha is interviewed by Detectives from the Supernatural Police Department. Not to find out if he is guilty. But to find out how much he knows. Sadly, if that is too much, then. Well. Let's find out?

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Transcript

This coffee cup is too hot.

I keep shifting it between my hands, palms stinging just enough to stop my terrified thoughts from running away from me completely.

The cup is paper-thin and faintly damp where the heat has soaked through the waxy lining. 

It smells burnt and cheap, nothing like real coffee, but it’s warm, and the warmth feels illegal somehow—like I haven’t earned it.

The room hums. 

Not loudly. 

Just enough to remind me that I am inside something that doesn’t care about me.

Well, it does care about me, but not in a way that I would want to be cared about. 

They care that they have a killer.

Me a killer.

I killed someone.

Me.

I am incapable of everything. 

But... I killed. 

It seems unreal.

I keep replaying it. 

The alley. 

The sound. 

The way it ended was too quick. 

My stomach twists and untwists, like it’s trying to escape. 

I think I'm going to puke.

I hadn’t meant—no, that’s not true. 

I had meant it. 

That’s the part my mind keeps tripping over.

A murderer shouldn’t be allowed to feel... cosy.

But I do. 

The chair is padded. 

The room is heated. 

My fingers are finally thawing after weeks of cold that felt permanent, like it had moved into my bones and filed a change-of-address form.

Maybe prison will not be that bad.

I stare at the door.

Every second it doesn’t open, it gets worse.

When it finally does, my heart slams so hard I nearly drop the cup.

The man who walks in first fills the doorway without trying to. 

Broad-shouldered, long coat, tired eyes that miss nothing. 

Black. 

South London, the accent hits Nicha before the words even do—something about the way he moves, confident but not flashy, like he’s seen too much nonsense to bother posturing.

He shows his lanyard with his picture and identification.

Detective Ben Johnson.

Nicha knows the type.

Not cruel. 

Worse. 

Solid. 

The kind of man who will listen to you carefully and then still put you away because the facts say he should. 

There’s no anger on his face. 

No judgement. 

Just a professional weight that settles in the room like gravity has been turned up a notch.

Ben looks at me—not unkindly, not warmly either—and I feel suddenly transparent. 

Like everything, I have been trying not to think is written on my forehead in block capitals.

Then she comes in.

She moves like she’s got all the time in the world. 

Calm. 

Unbothered. 

Black, wearing a dark hijab that frames her face neatly, her expression relaxed in a way that somehow makes it worse.

She doesn’t look like she’s here to intimidate me. 

She looks like she’s here to understand.

That scares me more than shouting ever could.

She sits, easy, crossing her legs, giving him a small nod—acknowledgement, not comfort. 

She identifies herself with no words, just placing her ID on the desk and pointing to it. 

Soula Abdul.

Ben takes the other seat and places a folder on the table with deliberate care. The sound of it landing feels final.

My hands start shaking.

I am shitting bricks.

I grip the coffee cup harder, the heat biting now, but I don’t let go. 

My chest feels too tight, like the room has shrunk another inch. 

I want to talk. 

I want to explain. 

I want to say that I’m not a bad man, that something happened to me, that someone pushed me... made me do it—

—but the words clog up behind my teeth.

The man looks at me steadily.

She watches me with quiet curiosity.

And I realise, with a cold, sinking clarity, that whatever warmth I’ve been allowed tonight is temporary.

This room isn’t here to save me.

It’s here to decide what I am.

Ben

I don’t reach for the Digital Recording Kit.

That’s the first thing that should tell Nicha this isn’t a normal police interview. 

In our particular department, we have to... what does the professor call it? 

Skirt the legalities a little.

It seems we don’t skirt.

We just ignore them.

It’s not rigth.

I know its not.

But we do often do things and speak about things that can not be... recorded in the... erm, real world.

That sounds so shit. 

Nichas terrified eyes in Nicha’s terrified head—is the first thing that tells me this is going to be a long night.

Soula’s already seated, pen in hand, notebook open. 

Paper. 

Old-school. 

No laptop, no tablet, no blinking red light to make this feel official, safe, and procedural.

Good.

This interview will never make it to the Connect system servers.

Nicha’s eyes are wild.

They keep flicking between me, Soula, and the bare corners of the room. 

He’s already worked out that this is wrong. 

This interview technique.

Of course he has. 

He’s watche tele and seen the detective crime shows. 

Of course he has. 

People know when the rules bend, even if they don’t know why.

I soften my voice. South London calm. The tone I use when I need someone to breathe.

“Alright, Nicha. No rush. Just tell me what happened. From your point of view.”

He nods too quickly. 

Like he’s grateful just to be asked.

And then it all spills out.

Homeless. 

That part’s familiar. 

Too familiar. 

Lost work, lost a place, lost friends who stopped answering messages once the sofa-surfing turned into something more permanent. 

The way he says it—flat, embarrassed—tells me he’s been rehearsing this explanation for months, just waiting for someone official enough to justify it.

Then comes him.

The posh one.

He doesn’t have a name for the Professor. Just “this well-spoken bloke,” “smart coat,” “didn’t look like he belonged where he found me.”

I feel my jaw tighten at that, but I keep my face neutral. Let him talk. Always let them talk.

Nicha says the man listened. 

Says he understood. 

Says he didn’t judge him for being angry.

That’s the bit that makes my stomach sink.

He was convinced. 

Not forced. Convinced. 

Told that the rich bastard in the alley deserved it. 

That threatening him wasn’t really wrong. 

That it might even things out a bit.

Free will dressed up as permission.

Then Belphastus—though Nicha doesn’t know that name either. 

Just “the bloke in the McDonald's jacket.” Laughing. 

Mocking. 

Not taking him seriously.

And Nicha snaps.

He doesn’t dramatise it. 

That’s the worst part. 

No big speech. 

No attempt to sound tough.

“I just… did it,” he says, staring at the table. 

“Didn’t think.’ 

‘Just wanted him to stop laughing.”

I’ve heard confessions like this before. The honest ones always sound unfinished, like the person telling them is still trying to catch up with their own actions.

Halfway through, he looks up at me.

“Why ain’t I got a solicitor?”

There it is.

I meet his eyes and don’t flinch.

“You can’t have one.”

The confusion hits him hard. I see it ripple through his face. 

Fear, then suspicion, then something worse—resignation. 

Like the universe has finally confirmed what he’s always suspected about his place in it.

He pauses. Proper pause. Long enough that Soula’s pen stills.

I don’t interrupt. I don’t rescue him.

This is the moment.

And then he sighs.

Not relief. 

Defeat.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll just… finish then.”

He carries on. 

Tells me everything. 

The stab. 

The shock. 

The blood. 

The cold realisation that you don’t get to rewind moments like that, no matter how much you want to.

I listen. 

I always do.

But inside, I’m thinking two things at once.

First: He chose this.

No matter who whispered in his ear, no matter how cleverly the board was set, the move was still his.

Second: Someone wanted him to choose it.

And whoever that someone is, they’re not done yet.

Soula keeps writing. 

Paper only. Every word heavy.

I let Nicha finish.

And when he does, the room feels colder than when we started.

I let the silence stretch.

It’s deliberate. 

Silence makes people talk, but it also gives you time to think—and right now, thinking hurts more than listening.

Nicha has finished his story. 

What’s left of it, anyway. 

He’s hunched over the table, hands wrapped around the paper cup like it’s the last warm thing he’ll ever be allowed to touch. 

Steam curls up, disappears. 

Just like people do.

Soula hasn’t said a word. 

Not a single prompt, not a nudge. 

Just that pen moving, neat and patient. She’s very good at this part. 

Always has been. 

Let them forget she’s there. 

Let them forget who is there.

I ask a few more questions, gently. 

Not about the stabbing—that’s done. 

I circle instead. 

The posh man. 

Where did he stand? 

What did he say, exactly? 

Did he give a name? 

An address? 

Anything at all that might connect dots that should never be joined.

And that’s when it hits me.

This interview isn’t about justice.

It’s about containment.

We’re not here to help Nicha. 

We’re here to measure him. 

To find out how much he knows. 

How dangerous his knowledge is. Whether it leaks upward.

The Professor cannot exist in this story.

Neither can the Department.

I look at Nicha and feel something crack, just slightly, in my chest. 

He’s not clever enough for what he’s walked into. 

Not cynical enough. 

He thinks truth still matters. 

Thinks if he explains himself properly, the world might understand.

That’s the cruellest part.

Because he knows too much.

Not names. 

Not details. 

But shapes. 

Intent. 

The sense that someone nudged him, angled him, used him. And once a human realises that—once they can articulate it—you can’t just put them back out into the world and hope they forget.

People like that don’t forget.

Soula’s pen stops.

She tears a small piece of paper from the back of her notebook and slides it across the table to me without looking up.

One word.

Wil

That’s all.

My stomach sinks.

Wil means finality. 

Wil means no paperwork, no appeals, no comforting lies about witness protection or second chances. 

Wil means the mess is cleaned so thoroughly that no mess remains.

I nod. 

Once. 

That’s all that’s needed.

Soula folds the paper, tucks it away, and finally looks at Nicha. 

There’s no cruelty in her eyes. 

Just distance. 

Professional, practised distance.

I look at him, too. 

Really look.

Cold alley. 

Hot coffee. 

A bad choice dressed up as justice. 

A life that went wrong long before tonight.

“We’ll leave it there, Nicha.” 

I say, keeping my voice steady. Human. Kind.

He nods, trusting me.

That nearly breaks me.

I stand, straighten my jacket, and walk to the door with Soula leading the way. 

‘Follow her, please.’

Nicha stands and follows Soula.

He has no idea.

In the holding area are the two cells we have to choose from. 

Cell one is just for him.

If he goes in there, he will come back into the real world.

Trial, prison time. Life... of a kind.

In the other cell, someone waits.

Not Someone. 

Something.

Wil.

A real murderer, monster and psychopath.

The werewolf himself.

We walk past the empty cell. 

We take him to the cell holding finality.

I ask Nicha to stop.

I smile at Nicha and pat him on the shoulder.

He smiles and looks thankful for the friendliness and kindness. 

Soula opens the door.

I see her nod her head to whoever is in the cell.

I wince. Nicha stands in utter confusion. 

I steer him through the door and see Wil standing with his back to the door.

I squeeze Nicha’s shoulder gently before turning to leave.

I turn and leave.

Soula closes the door and locks it.

The click of the lock sounds far louder than it should.

We walk away, lost in our own thoughts.

This is wrong.

What we do is wrong. 

But one man's death means little in this world.

Or the other one that we play in.

And Nicha—poor, angry, manipulated Nicha—will disappear so cleanly that the world will barely notice he was ever here at all.

As we turn the corner at the end of the corridor, we hear it. Nicha screams, just once, then he's gone. 

Forever. 

I look at Soula, wanting to say something. 

"Don't," she says to me. "Please, Ben, just don't. You know we had to, right?"

"Yeah, it's just... it's just..." I say, wiping a tear from my eye, "Sometimes, I fucking hate this job."