Caught

Red faced and out of breath, Warren tries to get information from the duty officer. Why inspector, you're in a coppers suit, what'cha up to? Trying to breath in a normal rhythm, Warren asks about the incident in Petticoat Lane Market. Oh, yea, got one fellow in the clink and the others in the hospital, said Sargent Wilcox. Warren, trying not to loose total control begins to ask, Who is... just then the desk phone rang, Warren couldn't stand to wait, he went to the cells to discover first hand the bad news; either way, Jack was in serious trouble. Dying or up for murder.
Trying to calm himself and not draw anymore attention to the situation, he slowed his pace and as nonchalantly as his weak legs could muster, strolled down the long hall to the rear of the building. They held prisoners, recently arrested, for questioning and then moved them to Scotland Yard for further action, if the situation called for it. 
A growing fester of bile begins to churn in Warren's stomach and when he reaches the locked door to the cell rooms, he has to choke down the beginnings of vomit. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin, hands damp as he knocks on the door. Calling out, Duty Sargent, are you there? A freckled and blotchy face appears in the only opening, the size of a small child's head, of the sold wood door, the bars covering the opening preventing any attempt to gain access or escape the space houses behind it. Pulling out his ID card, Warren asks for admittance. Who are you looking for inspector, access is limited right now, per the commander. Clearing his throat and regaining control of himself, Warren once again feeling like an officer of the law, demands to see the man arrested in Petticoat Lane. He may be a suspect in a case I'm working on with the Yard; it could be vital in closing the case. Oh, Yessir. The lock clicks and the door swings slowly inward on heavy hinges. Please sign the sheet sir, he's in cell 8. Thank you Sargent. Warren forces himself to walk and begins the journey down the corridor between the cells; little light comes from the slits in the place of windows and air flow is practically non-existent. The smell of tallow candles and dirty flesh makes his nostrils flinch. Occasional moans greet him as he passes by, suspects who have been recently interrogated and found uncooperative, a practice Warren does not agree with.
Standing in front of cell 8, attempting to see clearly through the smoke the tallow makes, there is barely enough light to see the hunched form balled up on the bare cot at the back of the cell. Realizing he can't show any sign of familiarity to this suspect, Warren yells out, Hey! You there on the cot...get up and come over here...now, if you know what's good for ye. Are you listening #8? If you don't get a move on, I'll throw the shite bucket at you and its full. The mass of human flesh stirs and becomes a man, but his back is facing the cell door. Turn around man and face me-- are you stupid? Warren wants to yell out Jack's name so bad, he grabs the bars that make up the door. Hearing the rattle, the duty Sargent calls out, Is there som'em the matter inspector? Realizing his anxiety is beginning to show, Warren steps back from the cell, letting go of the bars and more of the precious sanity he clings to.
The prisoner begins to turn and face the inspector; the man struggling to straighten up, shifts the matted hair back away from his cut and swollen bruised face. Once again, the only thing Warren recognizes in the man walking towards him is the mismatched eyes...