Page 19 of Two is a Pattern

“You’re the federal interrogator?” he asked and scoffed.

“Yes, sir,” she said and glanced at her wristwatch. “And my time starts now. Let’s get to it.”

They put her in an interrogation room with nothing but a small table and two chairs. She laughed. “I’m not a wizard. I need the case file. All the information and time to read it.” So they put her in a supposedly soundproof empty cubicle with three padded gray walls, but she could hear them talking about her from the other side of the room. Blonde. Teenager. Girl. Fucking joke. Apparently, she’d been called in by the deputy chief, whoever that was, but they didn’t really want her there.

Finally, though, they gave her a thick file and a box of evidence. She read everything twice. Pulled a pair of gloves out of her bag to examine the evidence, then decided to take advantage of being ignored.

She slipped out of the cubicle and down the hall to the row of interrogation rooms. The suspects were a brother and sister, twenty-three-year-old twins raised by an abusive stepfather after their mother died of cancer nearly twelve years ago. The stepfather, a member of the sheriff’s department, had turned up dead in a ravine not too far from the twins’ home. Which was probably why Annie was here. A neutral third party, so to speak.

The boy was in with at least one of the detectives; the girl had been left alone. The rooms didn’t have mirrors, which was what she was used to. Instead, officers gathered around the door,listening through an intercom. She could hear the good-cop-bad-cop routine from where she stood.

“Look, Marco, we just wanna help you out of this jam,” said one. “We can work with the district attorney if you confess now.”

“Maybe you won’t have to spend your last days on death row,” someone else said.

It sounded like the detective who’d met her at the door. It wasn’t a good approach. All good-cop-bad-cop did was confuse the suspect. Gave them whiplash. Especially when used on someone so young.

She pressed against the wall and let herself into the interrogation room with the sister.

“Whew,” she said after the door closed behind her. “It’s crazy out there! You want a pop or something?”

The girl was suspicious and wary. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” Annie leaned against the closed door. She sighed loudly and tilted her head. “I’m stuck here too.”

“You’re not a cop?” the girl asked.

“God, no,” Annie said. “Do I look old enough to be a cop?” The girl studied her, and Annie laughed. “Don’t answer that!”

“Who are you, then?”

“Oh gosh! I’m so rude! Where are my manners?” Annie sat down across from her. “I’m Annie! I’m an intern here. They asked me to see if you need anything.” Annie leaned in a little. “You said no to a pop, but there’s a vending machine with snacks, or I could get you some water?”

“I don’t want anything,” the girl said miserably. “I just want to go home.”

“Well, I can’t help with that.” Annie clicked her tongue. “What’s your name anyway?”

“Maria.”

“Maria,” Annie repeated softly. “You mind if I hide in here a little while with you?”

Maria shook her head.

Annie smiled and reached under the table to activate the intercom and toggle the light on outside the door, indicating that the room was occupied and in use. “Great,” she said.

* * *

The sun was up by the time Annie dragged herself home, her bones heavy with exhaustion. Maria’s brother, Marco, had clammed up and asked for a lawyer after less than an hour. She’d spent nearly five hours with Maria. Getting to know her, getting her to talk. Eliciting confessions took time, and Annie had to first wade through Maria’s abusive history with her stepfather before getting to what happened to him.

In the end, Annie got the confession. She usually did. But when she finally emerged from the interrogation room, it seemed like the whole department was waiting in the hallway. The gruff cop was annoyed that Maria hadn’t turned on her brother, sticking to the story that she’d killed the stepfather alone.

“You’re welcome,” Annie said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and heading for the elevator.

She entered the house through the front door, flipping the deadbolt behind her, and walked down the hall, stopping short when she saw Helen sitting alone at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of coffee.

“Oh,” Annie said. “You’re still here. You okay?”

“Kids are at school, Zach’s at daycare, and I called in sick,” she said. “Never got any sleep last night.”

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