Interrogation.

I had Wilson firmly by the throat, but I didn't take any chances. Mike climbed up the stairs, and took my gun, and held it on Ingram While I patted him down. I kept the knife from his ankle, and the derringer from under his coat, and sat him up in a chair in one of the rooms upstairs. I tied him in a shredded sheet, and began to talk.

"How's your arm?" I had no idea how to interrogate someone, but I saw the blood leaking from where the bone was sticking out of his forearm, so I asked.

"Really? That's where you start? It's great, Allen. I'm sure it will heal up nice, and we'll be playing tennis again anytime now." What an asshole.

"Fine. How's this? Why are you killing these people, and how are they connected?" I shouted more than I meant to.

"No Allen, you know I won't tell you any of that. Try again." He was calm, and incredibly irritating. I did something a bit rough, and nudged the bone. He screamed, and I asked again.
He started laughing. Laughing at the top of his lungs. I shoved the gun into his face, pressing it between his eyes. His brow furrowed, and the laughter stopped.

"Interesting... are you going to shoot me, Allen? If you shoot me, I can't tell you anything. That's what you want, isn't it? Information?" He started laughing again, and after about ten seconds of laughter, violent, full-body laughs, a small spurt of blood shot out of his arm, and he blacked out. He was still breathing, still had a pulse, but he had lost so much blood that he collapsed. Mike and I put his gun back in his hand, repositioned him in the room with the father and the son, and left, calling 911 from a payphone in the area and reporting gunfire from the neighborhood. Then we threw away the bloody sheets and hid.