Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
The precinct smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the quiet despair of bad decisions.
The waiting area was dead silent except for the rhythmic clicking of a wall clock. Ava and Tommy sat side-by-side on a vinyl bench. I had wrapped a clean bandage around Ava's knuckles, and social services had already provided Tommy with a juice box and a warm blanket, though he refused to let go of the hem of Ava’s jacket.
Detective Miller, a weary-looking man with graying temples and a badge that looked like it had seen twenty years of domestic nightmares, walked out of the back hallway holding a thick manila folder.
He looked at me, then down at the two children.
"Captain Reynolds?" he asked.
"Yes," I stood up, buttoning my uniform jacket. "How are things looking inside?"
Miller sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Wade’s lawyer is already trying to spin it as an assault by a minor on a citizen. They’re playing up the broken jaw and the concussion. His parents are threatening to sue the department, the city, and everyone in between."
"And the child abuse charges?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave.
Miller held up a hand. "Slow down, Captain. We found the hasp. We found the locks on the inside of the pantry, too—turns out the boy was locked in there when they had guests over. But Wade is claiming it was a 'home safety measure' to keep a 'volatile child' from wandering into traffic."
"A six-year-old?" I scoffed bitterly. "In a pantry?"
"Like I said, his lawyer is earning his retainer," Miller said grimly. He looked over at Ava, who was staring straight ahead with cold, unblinking focus. "Your daughter packed quite a punch, by the way. Fractured his zygomatic arch. For a twelve-year-old girl, that takes serious adrenaline—or training."
"She learned how to protect people because the adults around her failed to," I said sharply.
Miller didn't argue. He flipped open his notepad. "Look, Captain. Legally speaking, the assault charge against Ava is going to be a thorn in our side unless we can firmly establish immediate defense of another under extreme duress. Diane is backing Wade’s story—she claims she had no idea about the locking mechanism."
"She knew," I said. "Diane has lived in that house for two years. You don't ignore the smell of a locked room or the sound of a child crying."
"Knowing and proving it in a court of law are two different things," Miller warned. "Unless we get someone on the inside to flip. And right now, the only person who can do that is Diane's brother, Russ, or Wade’s father, Arthur. And neither of them looks eager to talk."
"Let me talk to them," I said.
Miller raised an eyebrow. "Captain, you're a military officer, not an interrogator for local PD. If you cross the line—"
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"I won't touch them, Detective. I just want five minutes in the adjacent interview room with Arthur."
Miller looked at me for a long, calculating moment. Then, slowly, he closed the manila folder. "The observation room is through the double doors on the left. You have five minutes. Turn your phone off."
