Bree’s boots resounded against the concrete floor, a steady thrum in the cavernous space of the firehouse as she escorted Garret Stone toward the interrogation room. The air was thick with the smell of metal and sweat, tinged with the faintest trace of smoke that never quite left the building – a scent Bree had come to associate with both tragedy and determination. The firehouse, usually buzzing with activity, stood unusually silent, the majority of its inhabitants out on call.
The room they entered was stark, utilitarian, with walls the color of ash and a single fluorescent light flickering overhead. A table and two chairs sat anchored to the floor, as if expecting a tempest at any moment. Bree motioned for Garret to sit, the muscles along his jaw clenching in defiance before he finally complied, the chair groaning under his weight. She remained standing, her gaze fixed upon him, as Mike closed the door with a definitive click, plunging the room into a hushed solemnity.
"Garret Stone," Bree began, her voice even but carrying an edge sharp enough to slice through the tension, "you’re already in deep for resisting arrest and attempted murder of LAFD officers. That alone will see you behind bars." She watched his eyes, those telltale windows, for a flicker of fear or guilt, but found only a sullen defiance staring back at her.
Bree watched Garret Stone's jaw clench, the muscles along his neck taut as steel cables. His eyes, a sharp slate gray, darted between her and Mike, searching for an angle, any crevice of doubt he could exploit. The interrogation room at the firehouse was Spartan—bare walls, a cold metallic table, chairs that seemed to have been designed to discourage comfort. The fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting stark shadows that made Garret's face appear more haggard, more desperate.
"Attempted murder? That's a damn lie," Garret burst out, slamming his palms onto the table with a thud that echoed against the walls. "I fired in the air, for Christ's sake. I was protecting my property—you had no right to be there!"
Bree leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, her gaze fixed, unwavering. She knew the importance of holding the line in these moments; suspects often mistook empathy for weakness. "Garret, that was not a shot in the air. That bullet landed inches from my feet. The reality here is that you shot in the direction of two LAFD officers," she said, her voice steady. "That’s not just protection—that's a threat."
Mike cleared his throat, shifting in his chair. "Let's talk about Carl Mendez," he said, his words cutting through the standoff like a scalpel. Bree noticed a flicker, the briefest hesitation, cross Garret's features. She filed away the reaction—an investigator’s currency.
"Carl Mendez was found dead under suspicious circumstances. And given your history..." Mike let the sentence hang, a masterful play that invited speculation.
"History?" Garret scoffed, though the bravado didn't quite reach his eyes. "Sure, I've had my fair share of scraps. But I'm no killer."
"Scraps that left one man hospitalized, another with a broken jaw," Bree interjected, her memory of case files clear and unforgiving. "You're known for your temper, Garret. It makes things look bad for you."
"Looks can be deceiving," Garret shot back, but his voice lacked conviction. Mike began laying out the pieces like a chess player setting up the board: Garret's connection to Carl Mendez, the stormy encounters documented by local police, the restraining order from a neighbor who claimed Garret threatened his life. With each fact, the air in the room grew heavier, pressing down on them with an oppressive heat.
Garret shifted uncomfortably, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the tabletop. He was cornered, and they all knew it. But Bree sensed something else beneath the surface—the hidden depth of a man with secrets yet untold. She glanced at Mike, giving him a slight nod. They were close, she could feel it.
Bree's gaze locked onto Garret Stone as the gravity of the situation finally seemed to dawn on him. His posture, which had been defiant, began to crumble under the weight of implication.
"Carl Mendez wasn't just some random guy you brawled with, Garret," Mike said, his voice steady but stern, "he's dead. And evidence is piling up—against you."
A flash of terror passed over Garret's rugged features. Bree could almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he calculated the severity of his predicament. For a moment, he looked like a cornered animal, desperate and dangerous. His hands clenched into fists, then released, as if grappling with an invisible adversary.
"I didn't kill anyone!" Garret protested, his voice rising in pitch, a stark contrast to the low hum of the air conditioner battling against the Los Angeles heat outside. "You got it all wrong. I wouldn't—I couldn’t..."
But Bree wasn't swayed by his protestations. She leaned forward, her eyes boring into him. "We know about your past, Garret. Your penchant for flames, your violent outbursts." Her words were deliberate, measured to maintain the pressure. "It's not a good look when a man with your history is connected to a homicide involving fire."
Garret's adamance ballooned into desperation, his earlier assurance deflating rapidly. "You're pinning this on me because I have a record? Because I got mad and lit a letter on fire when I was a kid?" He shook his head vehemently, his beard bristling with the movement. "That doesn't mean I'd kill someone!”
"A letter?" Bree asked, surprised. His record said he'd burned down a school gym.
"Yeah, a stupid letter. Look, I was a kid. I was pissed. My girlfriend had given me a Dear John letter, and I— I didn't wanna look at it anymore. So, I set it on fire and threw it in the trash. I didn't know the fire would spread like that. It was an accident."
Bree's heart sank. That sounded more like a mad kid than a legitimate history of pyromania.
“And you didn’t set any other fires after that?” Bree asked.
"No. Honestly, watching that gym burn scared the hell out of me. I don't even like lighters now."
"Then explain your behavior today," Bree countered sharply. "Firing shots, running from us—innocent men don't react that way."
"Protecting my property," he shot back, but his argument sounded feeble even to his own ears.
"From two arson investigators?" Mike interjected, his skepticism clear.
"Look," Garret blurted, leaning forward, his hands splayed on the table as if trying to physically push away the accusations. "Ever since that fire, I've had people tryin' to pin stuff on me I didn't do. All because of one dumb mistake. But I swear on my life, I didn't touch Carl. Whatever you think you know—you're wrong."
Mike and Bree exchanged a glance, unspoken communication passing between them. They had seen suspects crumble before, seen the truth teased out from tightly woven lies. Garret was teetering on the edge, but Bree knew there was more there than what he was saying. And she was determined to keep pushing until the façade shattered and the reality poured forth, no matter how dark or twisted it might be.
"Garret," she began, her voice steady yet laced with steel. "You understand the gravity of your situation?"
He met her gaze, his eyes defiant but tinged with the unmistakable sheen of fear. The muscle in his jaw twitched, betraying his attempt at composure.
"It's not just Carl. There's also the matter of Tessa Harper."
"Who?" Garret asked, seeming genuinely confused. "Look, I didn't have nothing to do with killing Carl, I swear. And I don't even know who that other girl is," he muttered, his voice wavering. He glanced away, then back at Bree. "But I... there's something else."
"Go on," Mike prompted, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.
Garret sighed, a sound heavy with resignation. "I've been running a chop shop out of my garage," he confessed, his words tumbling out with the force of a dam breaking. "That’s why I didn’t want you coming in... it wasn't about Carl."
Bree assessed his expression, searching for any telltale sign of deceit, but she found none. Her heart sank.
"Listen," Garret continued, leaning forward as much as the cuffs would allow, "I've got nothing to hide about that night. I was out drinking with some buddies at O'Malley's. We were celebrating a big job we'd just finished." He tilted his head, challenging them to dispute his claim. "They'll vouch for me. Hell, check my credit card statement. Look at my phone's GPS if you don't believe me."
Bree exchanged a glance with Mike, whose jaw was set in a hard line. Skepticism played across his features, but Bree felt the lead in her stomach grow heavier. She stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor, and stepped toward the door. "We'll do just that, Garret," she said, doing her best not to let him see the frustration seeping into her veins.
As she exited the interrogation room, Mike right behind her, Bree couldn't help but feel the weight of disappointment pressing down on her. The pressure to solve this case was mounting with each dead end they hit. Garret Stone, with his apparent history of pyromania and violent behavior, had seemed like a promising lead—the kind that could break a case wide open. But now, if his alibi held up, they were back to square one.
"Dead end," she whispered, staring out her office window. The streetlights flickered on, bathing the world in artificial light, while the real darkness—the mystery of who had killed Carl Mendez—remained untouched, lurking just beyond their reach.