Once again, they'd returned to the Eugene police station interrogation room, but this time, an actual suspect sat across from them. Again, Ilse had the visitor badge on her chest, along with a temporary consultant identification Rudiger had managed to conjure up, with an offer of jellybeans.
She'd accepted the badge, and even one of the grape flavored candies.
Now, as she sat across the table, facing Ms. Winters, Ilse could feel the tension in the room.
Sawyer still seemed mad at her for leaving the car. But at the same time, at least he hadn't refused to let her come into the interrogation with him. Good thing, too—interrogations like these, Ilse suspected, was the whole reason he'd brought her along. Still, she kept quiet, allowing Sawyer to take the lead.
The sandy-haired agent had his baseball cap back on, and another cup of coffee, half drained, sitting on the table in front of him. He leaned over the Styrofoam cup, allowing thin tendrils of steam to waft past his cheeks.
“Why'd you run?” he insisted, frowning.
But as with all the preceding questions, Sawyer's words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Ms. Winters just sat still, her expression stony. Those large, Disney princess eyes half-hooded in equal parts contempt and a play at boredom.
“Where were you Thursday night?”
No response.
Sawyer huffed a small breath. “We were told, by your landlord, you were in. Is that true?”
Again, only a stony face and steel-trap lips met his comment.
Now, Ilse could see Sawyer's temper showing. His green eyes flashed, and he jabbed a finger against the table next to his steaming Styrofoam cup. “You need to speak with me, Emily. Things aren't looking good for you.”
Again, she said nothing, this time glancing off towards the door and letting out a long sigh, accompanied by an emphatic roll of her eyes.
Ilse waited a moment, studying the young woman. Clearly, she wasn't in the talking mood. Most likely, she'd had more than her share of experiences sitting across the table from some government personality. Sometimes, such folk offered promises of help in order to get someone like Emily to open up. Those promises rarely came to fruition.
But Ilse had to swallow back her empathy, back her sense of indignation at the normal trappings of bureaucracy. She wasn't here to help a client. She was here to solve a case.
This was the sort of woman to run. To hide. And, when cornered, to fight.
Now, she was hiding again. Behind her silence.
But even the best hiding places could be exposed with the right perspective.
And so, without so much as clearing her throat to announce her introduction into the conversation, Ilse leaned forward, sharply, and—in as authoritarian a tone as she could muster—she blurted out, “Why did you kill those men, Emily?”
Sawyer glanced towards her first, frowning slightly, but then leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. He waited.
Emily looked over a second later, also frowning. Her eyes were no longer hooded, and the bored expression had vanished.
“Wh—what?” she said, staring. “Killed... Wait, holy shit. What? I didn't—you've got me here on a murder rap?” She stared, stunned, her dark eyes dancing between Ilse and Sawyer. Her handcuffs rattled a bit as she adjusted, still staring and unblinking. “You've got it all wrong,” she insisted “I thought...” she swallowed, and Ilse glimpsed something of the scared young girl under all the posturing and facade. An act? A real glimpse of something authentic? The woman was clearly too small to commit the murders herself. Did she have help?
She stuttered, “I thought you were here about my meds.”
“Your meds?” Sawyer insisted.
“Yeah,” she replied, rounding on the agent, but then glancing back towards Ilse, as if unsure who she was supposed to convince. “I wasn't dealing them. Not really. I just... I don't like how they make me feel, and some other people do. So what? It's a free country. At least...” She rattled her handcuffs again where they rested on the metal table. “At least it should be.”
“You thought I was there about you dealing drugs?” Sawyer said, frowning.
“I sure as shit didn't murk anyone; don't be weird. Why would I? When?” She demanded. “Hmm? I've been at all the group home meetings. All the move nights. Everyone saw me. Only a month this time, and I'm out. I'm not compromising that.”
“You really should be taking your medicine,” Ilse said, softly. Outwardly, her tone was gentle. Inwardly, her mind was analyzing, spinning. Was this an act? She knew compulsive liars could be convincing. Psychopaths didn't care for the truth... and yet...
“Oh?” Emily retorted. “You a doctor or a cop, lady? You think it's smart to take chemical emotions they give you after a fifteen-minute survey with someone who has letters next to their name? Shit—please. Last time I did something that stupid was when my step-daddy offered me candy.” She winked at Sawyer and wiggled her eyebrows.
Ilse felt a jolt of sheer pain at the comment. Her heart ached at the young woman's calloused expression. A hardness that had been forced on her by the people who should've helped her.
Still... Two men were now dead.
Sawyer slowly pulled out his phone, turning the device. He didn't talk, he simply clicked to a picture and placed it on the table, spinning his device so Emily had a good look.
“Know him?” Sawyer grunted.
She glanced down, frowned a moment, then snorted. “Mr. Hubbard? Yeah—that ugly old prick taught me in high school. Why?” She trailed off though, her eyes widening. “Wait—holy hell. He's the one who snuffed it?” She grinned now, beaming. “So cool! That bastard gave me an F! Did you know that? Sent me to the principal like six times. I hope it hurt.”
Sawyer scowled now, and Ilse swallowed back a comment. She adjusted her posture, waiting as Sawyer clicked to another picture. “How about him?” Sawyer said, pointing.
This time, her expression flickered. The false bravado and callous indifference faded to something much closer to rage. Her eyes flashed with fury, but like with all other emotions, Emily seemed versed in hiding this. She scoffed. “Frank. Yeah. Know him too. Another candy pusher. He really hit it off with my step-dad in parent teacher conferences. He dead too?” She looked up, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.
“You don't seem upset about it,” Sawyer said, pulling his phone back.
“Nope. If you want me to speak at the funeral, I'll probably just clap. Maybe push over a coffin or something. Mr. Hubbard was an asshole. Frank was an actual bitch. Both of them can rot in hell for all I care.”
Sawyer glanced towards Ilse now, frowning. For her part, she just leaned back, studying Emily, studying the anger emanating from the young woman, the way her hands were now bunched into fists and her cuffs rattled against the table.
Ilse looked to Sawyer, then glanced towards the door with a brief nod.
Tom got slowly up, taking another long sip of his coffee. He looked at Emily for a moment, but to Ilse's surprise, there wasn't contempt, wasn't anger, wasn't frustration in his gaze. Unlike most cops, when confronted with an unruly suspect, he just seemed sad.
He began to move towards the door, tossing the Styrofoam cup towards a plastic wastebin, and missing. Some of the liquid spilled across the floor as he pushed out into the hall. “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
Ilse, quickly rising, hurried, picked up the discarded coffee cup and placed it in the waste basket, and then followed Sawyer out into the hall.
The door clicked shut behind her as Sawyer turned, facing her with one eyebrow raised. “Well?” he said. “She seems angry enough.”
“Yes,” Ilse replied. “But also... She has an alibi for Thursday. By the sound of things, she's only been out of that hospital for a week. Which means if she's been at public events in her halfway house, her presence would likely have been noted. People often note new things more than old.”
“So you're saying it's not her?”
Ilse hesitated, glancing towards the door. “I'm saying,” she began, but before she could finish, Sawyer's phone began to ring.
He held up a finger, fished out the device and answered with a grunt. He waited, listening, then grunted again. He adjusted his baseball cap, frowning now. Then, after a third grunt and, impressively not a single uttered word, he lowered the device.
“Who was that?” she said. “You look worried.”
“Sheriff,” he replied. “They found another body.”