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“EVERYTHING YOU HAVE is circumstantial,” Steve said outside the interrogation room.
“I know he’s your son, but he was found at the scene covered in her blood and he has motive,” Detective O’Keefe said.
“Where’s the murder weapon?” Steve asked, frustrated with the inability of the police force to hear reason.
“He could have ditched it in the river before we arrived.”
Steve wiped his face, resisting the urge to make the detective do what he wanted. The only time he allowed himself to use the ability to influence was in an emergency where life and death was a factor. And while this was worrisome, it didn’t qualify under the strict guidelines he imposed on himself for utilizing his powers. Instead, he counted to ten and then met the Detective’s gaze. “You can’t question him without a legal guardian present or without legal representation.”
Detective O’Keefe waved his hand toward the room. “You’re welcome to sit in, and while we’re on the topic, do you want me to get you a public defender?”
Steve huffed and narrowed his eyes, digging into the Detective’s private thoughts, pulling out his assessment of the case and Steve bristled. “Your charges will never stick.” He turned away from the detective and paused with his hand on the doorknob. “And you’d better get that warrant to search my house, because I’m not feeling all that cooperative right now.” He stepped inside the room and closed the door, meeting Tom’s gaze.
You’re in a shitload of trouble right now. Steve signed and took a seat next to him. He inhaled and ran his palm down his face before he added, it’s time for us to lawyer up.
Tom’s eyes widened. They think I killed her?
Steve nodded, and a fresh set of tear tracks flowed down Tom’s cheeks before he folded his arms on the table, burying his face in the crook of his blood-smeared arms. His sobs filled the room and Steve put his hand on Tom’s back and closed his eyes, buffering his soul from Tom’s sorrow and fear.
The door opened, and Tom raised his head. Steve pulled his hand away from Tom’s back and folded his arms across his chest, staring down Detective O’Keefe. “You could have at least let him clean up.”
“We gave him a fresh uniform,” he said waving toward the standard issue jumpsuit. “Besides, he didn’t seem to mind the blood when he slit her throat.” The detective threw the case file on the table and took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“I...” Tom started, but Steve raised his hand silencing him.
“I’m advising my son not to answer any questions.”
Detective O’Keefe’s lips pressed together, and his eyes narrowed in disgust at the trump card Steve just played. “When can he answer questions?”
“After his lawyer arrives. When is his arraignment?”
“Monday morning,” he said through a smug smile “Is this why you haven’t been able to crack this case as quickly as the others?” He waved his hand toward Tom.
Steve balled his hands into fists, glaring at the Detective. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he said trying to keep his voice even, but his words bristled with the snarl of anger. “I trust until I can post bail, he will be kept away from the adult population?”
“Yes,” Detective O’Keefe said. His answer was clipped and his glare just as telling as Steve’s.
“Wha?” Tom said, his gaze bouncing from the detective to Steve and back.
“You’re going to have to stay in here until Monday.”
Tom’s eyes flashed over with fear. “Why?”
Reading more than just Detective O’Keefe’s mind, Steve said, “They think you’re the Windwalker.”