Mason arrived at the police station with a lot to think about but nothing to say. It had been over an hour since he’d scooped his phone out from the dirt and walked off as much stress as he was able to. The call from Bill had come shortly after, offering potentially positive results.
He went straight for the elevator, riding it up to the Homicide Department. When the doors slid open, he immediately saw Bill waiting by the interrogation rooms—now titled “interview rooms,” courtesy of the sensitive new generation. He was surrounded by colleagues, all asking for advice while he sent them in different directions. When his gaze swept the room and landed on Mason, his eyes lit up, and he waved him over.
“What have you got?” Mason asked, expecting little.
“Room Two, no recordings,” Bill said to another officer, then led the way into the room. He turned on the lights, ignoring the small table in the middle and closing the door to give them both a little privacy.
Mason stirred uncomfortably. He folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, getting a good look at his ex-colleague and friend. “You’re starting to worry me a little.”
“You should be worried,” Bill said, taking a breath. “They’re starting to ask questions.”