Page 34 of Deadly Force
Detective Crowley meets us just outside the interview room, a space with bland, institutional green walls that seem to absorb any light. He's dressed down but unmistakably in charge: a glint of his badge clipped to his belt, a worn tablet tucked under one arm, calm authority radiating in every move. “Weston,” he says with a nod, his gaze sharp, then turns to me. “Seventh. Appreciate the earlier debrief.”
I nod once. Neutral. It’s the tone he’ll respect, and the only one I trust right now.
“Appreciate you coming in,” Crowley says to Brooke. His tone is warm but measured. Professional, not impersonal. The kind of voice that earns trust without asking for it.
He doesn’t linger on pleasantries. Just gesturestoward the door. “Let’s get your statement on record.”
We follow him into the interview room—a small, windowless box. The frosted glass of the single wall panel offers no view, only a blurred hint of movement outside. A mounted camera hums softly in the corner, its red eye blinking.
I stay near the door, leaning against the cool, painted cinder block. From here, I can watch her hands, which are clasped tightly on her lap. They’re steady now, but I caught the tremor when she reached for the door handle outside. She’s holding it together by sheer force of will.
Crowley settles into his chair opposite her, opens the tablet, and taps record. “Start from the beginning,” he says, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “From when you got in the car.”
Brooke nods, her gaze fixed on a point just past Crowley’s shoulder. Her voice is clear as she recounts it. The click of the seatbelt, the sudden pass of the white van, the distinctcrackof the shot. She doesn’t embellish. Doesn’t stall. But I catch the way her breath hitches when she describes the sound of the round, how her fingers tighten against the table’s cold edge like muscle memory is kicking in, reliving the moment.
Crowley listens, expression unreadable, his face a mask. Then the questions start, his cadence steady, his tone low. Not pushing. Just pulling threads.
“Did you recognize the vehicle?” “Make? Model? Color?” “Any visible occupants?” “Did it slow down? Stop?” “Any markings? Plates? Tinted windows?”
Brooke answers without hesitation, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “No. White panel van. Older model. No plates that I could see. No windows on the sides. Just the silhouette of the driver. Didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.”
“You didn’t see the weapon?”
She shakes her head, a strand of hair falling across her face. “Just heard the crack. Caleb shouted before I even realized what it was.”
He logs that without a word, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tablet. “How many shots fired?”
“Just one.”
The follow-ups come in rhythm, each question landing with a soft thud in the quiet room.
“Seen that vehicle before?” “Any recent threats tied to your reporting?” “Anyone lingering outside your home? Unusual vehicles parked nearby?”
She answers them all, but I see the flicker of tension when Crowley leans back slightly. Not relaxed, just letting the pressure off, a subtle shift in his posture. He flips to another file, the screen illuminating his face in its pale glow.
“You had your tires slashed night before last,” he says, his voice flat again, a statement, not a question. “That why you’ve got protection now?”
Brooke glances at me before answering, her eyes holding a brief, complicated mixture of reluctance and something else—maybe the weight of admitting she needs backup. “Caleb’s here as a favor to my overprotective brother,” she says, calm but firm, her chin lifting slightly. “But… I’m glad he is.”
I keep my expression neutral, but the words hit center mass.
Crowley nods, flipping past the recent incident report to the crime scene photos. A single 9mm casing, glinting dully, recovered near the curb.
One round. Clean placement.
Someone wanted to prove they could get close to Brooke and drive away.
When the interview wraps, he ends the recording with a firm tap and leans back in his chair, studying Brooke for a second longer than necessary, his expression still unreadable. “You did well,” he says. “We’ll follow up if anything new surfaces. BOLO’s going out today.”
She nods, jaw tight. The weight of it all is pressing down harder now—no adrenaline to keep it at bay. Her shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.
I step closer and rest my hand lightly on her back as she stands.
Crowley's eyes track the movement. His gaze lingers on my hand, then flicks up to meet mine.
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "I'll be seeing you, Seventh."
"Yeah," I say. "Wouldn't want to make your week too easy."
