Page 16 of Her Last Confession

The night air was cool against her face, carrying the metallic tang of approaching rain. Weather reports had predicted storms moving in overnight, and Rachel could feel the pressure buildingin the atmosphere. It matched the tension she felt building in the case—something was coming, gathering force like the clouds above them.

Detective Wheeler was waiting for them just inside, his lean frame propped against the front desk. He looked exactly as Rachel had expected from their phone conversations: late forties, with tired eyes and the kind of thin, grizzled beard that suggested he often forgot to shave rather than made a conscious choice to grow it.

"Agents," he nodded, pushing himself away from the desk. His badge caught the fluorescent light as he moved, the gold dulled by years of wear. "Working late hours, I see?"

A quick round of introductions was made but it was clear that all three of them were eager to get down to business. Wheeler led them down a fluorescent-lit hallway. The walls were lined with the usual mix of community outreach posters and wanted bulletins, faces of the missing and the hunted staring out at them as they passed. Rachel had always thought there was something accusatory in those gazes, as if each face was asking why they hadn't been found yet.

The sound of their footsteps echoed off the institutional tile floor, mixing with the distant sound of phones ringing and the steady hum of computer fans. Even at this hour, the precinct wasn't completely quiet—crime never slept, and neither did those who fought it.

Wheeler guided them into a small conference room—more of a glorified closet, really. A scratched wooden table dominated the space, surrounded by four chairs that had seen better days. A whiteboard hung on one wall, spotted with ghostly remnants of previous cases, half-erased notes and diagrams that hinted at other mysteries, other crimes. The single window looked out onto the parking lot, its blinds casting prison-bar shadowsacross the table. A stack of file boxes sat in one corner, labeled with case numbers in black marker.

"Not exactly the Ritz," Wheeler said with a self-deprecating smile, gesturing to the chairs. "But it'll do the job."

Novak set his laptop on the table, the movement stirring up a small cloud of dust that danced in the harsh overhead lighting. "We'll make it work. What can you tell us about this case that isn't in the initial reports?"

Wheeler pulled out one of the chairs, its legs scraping against the linoleum floor with a sound that made Rachel wince. He settled into it with the weariness of someone who'd spent too many hours in similar chairs.

"Sandra Mitchell was well-liked at her workplace. No enemies that we could find. We had the same conversations with the people she worked with, looking for anything. How about you two? Were you able to speak with Alana Townsend?”

Rachel leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “We were. And the plot thickens with her.” She then explained their conversation with Alana, going into the financial fraud allegations and their ensuing visit to speak with Victor Reeves.

Wheeler processed it all, nodding. “Jesus. You guys have been all over the place today, huh? And in terms of Reeves…that doesn’t surprise me. I’ve heard rumblings about him for years…the kind of guy who would sell his own kids if the price was right. But you said he checked out?”

“Seems that way.”

"Also,” Novak said, “Claire Mitchell—Sandra's sister—told us that Sandra attempted suicide almost two years ago. Seemed odd, given how she was killed.”

"Yeah, we didn't get that out of the sister," Wheeler said. "But some good old detective work helped me find the very brief report. An ambulance was called out when she fell from that beam in the barn."

Rachel felt a chill run down her spine, despite the stuffiness of the small room.

Wheeler stood, his chair creaking. "Listen, we've been doing some digging into EndLight and MedTech Solutions. Got a pretty substantial file built up in the database. It's... well, it's something else."

"How so?" Rachel asked, watching as Wheeler moved to the computer terminal in the corner.

"Let me log you in, and you can see for yourself. It's interesting stuff. Morbid as hell, but interesting." His fingers moved across the keyboard, the clicking sounds echoing in the small space.

As Wheeler worked at the keyboard, Rachel studied the room more closely. A coffee maker sat in the corner, its carafe stained brown from years of use. The air smelled of stale coffee and printer paper, with an underlying hint of industrial cleaner. It was a room where countless horrible stories had been pieced together, where killers had been identified and victims had found justice. Now it would serve as their war room in the hunt for whoever was turning EndLight's "peaceful passage" technology into a weapon.

After getting them logged in, Wheeler headed for the door, pausing in the threshold. "Got a few other cases I need to check on, but call if you need anything. I mean that. And help yourself to the coffee—it's terrible, but it's hot."

Once he was gone, Rachel and Novak dove into the files. The information on EndLight painted a picture that was both fascinating and disturbing. Rachel found herself absorbed in the technical details of the pods: the precise control of oxygen levels, the careful balance of gases, the multiple confirmations required before activation.Everything designed to be peaceful, controlled, humane, she thought, scrolling through page afterpage of specifications.Until someone stripped away all the safeguards.

But then, as she looked over the many other features, she found another detail that seemed to tie directly into their case.

"Look at this," she said to Novak, turning her laptop so he could see. The blue light from the screen cast strange shadows on his face. "The legitimate EndLight pods have tinted glass tops so users can see out. They're meant to be portable—people can choose to spend their final moments looking at something beautiful."

"Which explains our killer's choice of location," Novak muttered, his eyes never leaving his own screen. The reflection of endless lines of text scrolled across his glasses. "The woods, the view... he's perverting their intended purpose, but keeping elements of their design philosophy."

Rachel nodded, scrolling through more documents. "The waiting period is interesting too. The real pods have multiple confirmation requirements, fail-safes. Our killer's knock-off stripped all that away. Made it immediate and irreversible."

"Speaking of knock-offs," Novak said, finally looking up from his laptop, "I'm looking for any sign that the designs might have leaked. Someone would need detailed technical knowledge to recreate these, even in a simplified form. The engineering involved isn't simple. Which means out killer may have an engineering background."

Rachel was about to respond when something caught her eye in Wheeler's files. The timestamp showed it had been added just hours ago—a link from a news website saved to the database. The article was less than a year old. "Hold that thought. Look at this…” She read over each line as she summed it up for Novak. “It looks like several engineers were fired from EndLight over ethical concerns about nine months ago. One in particular, Dr.Marcus Kent, was extremely vocal about safety protocols being ignored."

Novak leaned over to look, his chair squeaking in protest at the movement. "Looks like Wheeler already pulled his records too. Think he's worth talking to?"

Rachel checked the time: 11:42 PM. Late, but not too late for a house call in a murder investigation. She thought of Sandra Mitchell, of the killer who could potentially have another EndLight knock-off hiding somewhere out in the forests.

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