Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the San Diego Police Department smelled of stale donut grease and cheap carpet cleaner. The overhead fluorescent light hummed with a monotonous, irritating drone that grated against the nerves.
Nathan Brooks sat at the metal table wearing an orange jumpsuit, his wrists cuffed to a bolted ring in the center of the surface. Gone was the polished, immaculate surgeon who had commanded the respect of hospital boards and social elites. His hair was disheveled, his expensive silk tie was missing, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes.
The heavy steel door swung open, and I walked in, carrying a single manila folder. I didn't sit down immediately. I stood behind the metal chair opposite him, watching him squirm under my unblinking gaze.
"You're not allowed in here," Nathan croaked, his voice thick with nervous defiance. "Where is my attorney? This is a violation of my rights!"
"Your attorney is currently downstairs arguing with a judge who just denied your bail," I said smoothly, pulling out the chair and sitting down. I placed the manila folder on the table and slid it across the metal surface toward him.
Nathan flinched, refusing to look down at the papers. "I have nothing to say to you. You're a bitter old woman who ruined my life over a family dispute."
"A family dispute?" I let out a dry, humorless laugh that echoed off the cinderblock walls. "Nathan, let’s talk about your illegal clinical trials at the medical center. Let’s talk about the offshore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands funded by pharmaceutical kickbacks. And, of course, let’s talk about the two-million-dollar life insurance policy you took out on Emily without her signature."
Nathan’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching violently beneath his left eye. "Circumstantial garbage. Prove it."
"We don't need to prove it," I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table, locking my eyes onto his. "Because twenty minutes ago, your primary co-conspirator—Dr. Alan Vance—was picked up by federal agents at the San Diego airport trying to board a one-way flight to Zurich. He sang like a canary. He gave the FBI every single encrypted file, every patient ledger, and every voice recording of you discussing how to silence anyone who threatened to expose the operation."
The color completely drained from Nathan’s face. The arrogant surgeon facade shattered instantly, leaving behind a terrified, cornered coward.
"Vance... that coward," Nathan whispered, his hands trembling violently against the handcuffs.
"He realized he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life in a federal penitentiary for a sociopath who murders his own wife," I continued, my voice remaining ice-cold and steady. "You thought you could choke the life out of my daughter, fake a heart attack on a private medical center bed, and rush her body to an incinerator before anyone could ask questions. You thought you were smarter than everyone else."
"I loved her!" Nathan suddenly shouted, slamming his cuffed hands against the table, rattling the metal frame. "At first, I really did! But she wouldn't stop prying! She found the patient files in my home office! She threatened to take Sophie and ruin everything I had built!"
"So you killed her," I said softly, the weight of the confession hanging heavy in the small room.
Nathan slumped back into his chair, his chest heaving as reality finally set in. The recording device hidden behind the two-way mirror was capturing every single word.
"I didn't mean to," he muttered, staring blankly at the concrete floor. "It just... happened so fast. She was packing her bags. She said she was calling the police in the morning. I lost control."
"And you tried to burn her to erase the bruises," I added, standing up from the table. "You wanted her body turned to ashes so the autopsy would never reveal the truth. But you forgot one thing, Nathan."
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He looked up, his eyes glazed with defeat. "What?"
"Children see everything," I said, turning toward the door. "And a mother's intuition never dies."
