Ilse stood in the interrogation room, glaring. Their suspect sat with his arms crossed, his legs spread wide as if he were trying to straddle the room. Sawyer sat upright, in his usual, casual posture, baseball cap angled towards the bright lights above.
Ilse didn't want to sit. She didn't want to speak with Mr. Whitney. Didn't even want to look at him. What sort of person preyed on the most vulnerable? What sort of evil was this? To purposefully go after humans recovering from already difficult lives.
It took her a moment and a hidden gesture behind Sawyer's back to realize she was pacing, back and forth, in front of the bleak, gray wall.
She slowed, coming to a standstill directly behind Sawyer, like some guardian angel overlooking its charge. Mr. Whitney didn't notice any of this as he was too busy glaring at the table, his eyes hooded, his expression dark.
“So if I'm seeing this right,” Sawyer murmured, “You're unemployed, is that true?”
Mr. Whitney just shrugged.
“Which means,” Sawyer pressed, tapping a finger against a folder on his side of the desk. The folder was empty, as Sawyer and Ilse had looked the information up on his phone beforehand. But Whitney didn't need to know that. “You have no alibi. No one who saw you. No witnesses to your whereabouts this week.”
Still no response.
“It isn't looking good for you,” Sawyer drawled, rolling his shoulders and picking at a fingernail.
Whitney glared, then said, “You had no warrant.”
“You ran,” Sawyer countered.
“No warrant!”
Sawyer didn't react, returning his attention to his fingernails as if whatever he was finding there was far more interesting than the suspect.
This motion wasn't lost on Whitney, who began muttering darkly beneath his breath and shaking his head, so his dreadlocks swished.
“You're sure you don't want to come clean?” Ilse said, interjecting, feeling her own frustration turning into inquisition. “It could go easier with you. Two murders... that's an escalation for someone with your record. We can tell the judge you cooperated.”
As she spoke, though, a slow, dawning sense of horror crossed Mr. Whitney's expression. He looked up sharply, his eyes blood-shot but staring. “Wait, what?”
“We can tell the judge, you—”
“No, bitch, I mean the murders. I didn't drop no bodies!”
Ilse stared back. Sawyer looked up from his fingernails and said, “So why run?”
“I—damn dude, I thought you were there about my merch...”
“Your merch?”
“You know.”
“The illegal drugs you were selling from your apartment?” Sawyer countered.
“No warrant!” Mr. Whitney returned. But his face turned pale a second later. “But like I said, dude, I didn't know any murders. I've never wasted no one! I'm an entrepreneur and a lover. Not a killer!”
Ilse snorted in disbelief, shaking her head. “Really?” she said, “you're going with that? You're the sort of person to pretend to be a grief counselor to steal money. But somehow now you're above murder? Right.” She rolled her eyes. “We heard you were hitting on your clients.”
“Never happened,” he retorted.
“You were overcharging them, too.”
“Didn't happen either.”
“That's it, hmm? All of it is made up. So you didn't know where they lived—didn't follow any one home?”
“Nah. None of it. Believe what you want, bitch,” he retorted. “I didn't waste no one. I want a lawyer. Yeah. Get me one of them freebie guys. I don't got cash for that.”
“I bet you don't,” Ilse retorted.
“Doc,” Sawyer cut her off, giving her a significant glance and nodding towards the door. “Think we can chat for a second?” He gave a significant tilt of his head towards the door.
She huffed, wanting to protest, but at another insistent nod, she muttered and allowed Sawyer to rise from his seat and guide her towards the door.
As they slipped into the hall and the door clicked shut behind them, Sawyer glanced at her. He didn't say anything at first, just studying her.
“What?” she snapped.
“Hmm,” he said.
“What?!” she repeated, louder.
“Normally you're calm,” he observed, in an even tone. “This case really is under your skin?”
She paused, inhaled slowly and then blinked as if waking from a dream. She half glanced back towards the door, swallowed and then realized with a flush of embarrassment that Sawyer was right. She was acting like a child. Letting her emotions get ahead of her.
Then again, how could she not be emotional?
Lauren and Claudia were dead. She'd failed them. And the bastard in there was acting like he didn't know anything about it.
“Sawyer, he did it—he must have. He knew both victims. He hit on Claudia.”
“According to Bobby.”
“Right, according to the teacher at the trauma class. Look at him—he's lying. He's clearly lying.”
“No evidence,” Sawyer said. “No means.”
“No alibi!” she retorted.
He shrugged which only made her glare more.
“Look,” Ilse said, tapping a finger against the metal door, standing in the dingy hall. “I can get him to talk. I'm sorry I wasn't calm. I can control myself. Just give me a few minutes with him. I can get him—”
Before she could finish, though, her phone suddenly began to chirp.
Ilse hesitated, frowning, and Sawyer gestured for her to take the call.
With a sigh, she pulled the device from her pocket, glanced at the number and felt a sudden chill.
“Who is it?” Sawyer said, noting her expression.
“Rawley,” she murmured, staring. She swallowed once, feeling the nervous chill spreading. Then, she answered. “Hello?”
“Dr. Beck?” the supervising agent's voice came as crisp as ever.
“Umm, yes?”
“I don't mean to interrupt, but I have something you need to see.” Nothing in his tone suggested it was a request. “And Ilse,” he said, his tone gentler, “I'm afraid you're not going to like it.”