Johnny's eyes remained wide open, his usually ratty hair was unusually rattier than the norm and his usual slumped posture was stilted and clearly on edge. The problem he was trying to process was how anybody could take a look at him and assume murder was the first thing on his mind. [i]Is it the goatee? Thanks Lucy, 'cool kind of beatnick' my arse, I just look like a spree-killer[/i] He thought to himself dejectedly, making sure he stood as little like a deranged killer as humanly possible. He looked at the other four suspects; none of them looked particularly more capable of murdering a stranger than him. That was bad, that would play against him somehow and he just knew it.

He blinked and swallowed nervously under the over-whelming light, sweat was vaguely beginning to form on his skin; Johnny hoped insanely that the sweating was being read as a sign of good-natured naivety rather than the Ed Gein sort of appeal he was sure it was giving him. He could remember it so perfectly; deciding on one of his many existential all-nighters to meet a friend at a bar, an ungodly amount of tequila and then a deafening silence in a hotel corridor. He'd explained this to the impatient alpha-male chimpanzees in the next room a thousand times, but it didn't seem to be even paid attention to, let alone heeded.

And there he was; a member of the Unusual Suspects. After the unhinged looking girl took her turn Johnny swiftly answered, "Look man, just because I'm weak-willed and you have a societal role of authority doesn't mean you can just accuse people like this. I was barely even around the crime-scene!" He asserted, whistling through his teeth in frustration as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

"I mean, what happened is terrible and all, but do any of us really look like murderers? I was a vegetarian for [b]six years[/b], for fuck's sake!"

He realised he had just cursed at what he presumed were the cops and and sighed, rolling his eyes. They didn't even bother to answer him. He closed his eyes, the phosphorous beginning to give him a migraine. He at least knew he had nothing to worry about; the body looked like it'd been disturbed before he even arrived. Bad news for the poor deceased, but great news for a skinny half-man like Johnny when faced with the concept of life-imprisonment. In his more 'screw the bourgeois' moments he'd called the line at Starbucks life-imprisonment, it made him shudder to think about actual prison.

He gulped, regulating his breathing and waiting for the next suspect to answer. Casually and for no reason he could place, he started trying to guess which one of his fellow suspects it could be. [i]Husband. Always the husband[/i] He thought pessimistically.