Chapter Three

Following their apprehension by SWAT, the team is interrogated individually by FBI and Homeland Security.

The dim, florescent lights flicker both visually and audibly, a clicking noise almost like crickets sounding out every time the millisecond of darkness comes back around.

            Cooper seems very content, but there’s still a sense of worry in his facial features. Not for himself; but for his much younger co-worker that hasn’t been seen since they were hauled, very roughly, out of that building by SWAT.

            A man in a fitted suit, clearly tailored to mold perfectly to his bold muscles, enters the room with another man. The second man appears more slender, having an additional ten years of life experience than the man in front of him.

            “Mr. Rollins,” the first man says before taking a seat across from him. “Agent Carson, FBI.”

            Cooper nods his head once in reply as if uninterested in the somewhat-formal introduction. “Yeah, I could tell. Who’s he?” Cooper nods towards the second man. Being a private investigator for decades means cooper can tell when a Fed enters the room. They all have the same demeanor, almost like robots. The second man is different. He’s an individual, but he’s still proper. He walks with purpose.

            “Allen Davis,” the man says while claiming the seat next to Carson’s as his own. “Homeland Security.”

            “Of course,” Cooper says. He sounds more impressed, but internally his fear grows. It’s no surprise that Homeland would show up after an attempt is made on the president’s life, but the fact that an agent of that organization is actually sitting across from him now makes the situation all too real for Cooper. “How can I help you gentlemen?”

            “Tell us about Griffin Lauer.”

 

            Abby sniffles as the question is asked. Not that it would take a question, she’s been on a non-stop sob-then-sniffle cycle ever since the first gunshot. “Wh-What do you want to know?”

            “Anything and everything, Miss Brooks,” Davis says, appearing to be playing the not-so-good-cop in the good cop, bad cop game. “How well do you know him?”

            The blonde wipes at her eyes with the bottoms of her palms, the chains from her handcuffs jingling every time her hands move. “I-I don’t really know him that well. He works with me, he’s really nice, he goes on coffee runs for me.”

            “You make it sound like he’s just another guy at the office,” Carson chimes in, seemingly unconvinced. “So why do we have footage from several street cameras and local businesses that show you sprinting into that building after him? Seems awfully risky for the boy who fetches Starbucks for you when you’re thirsty.”

            Abby scoffs, shaking her head slowly. Her mascara is streaked and her hair is a mess from the hot air and the rough SWAT treatment from earlier in the day. If they were to take a mugshot of her right now, she could use it as a headshot for a Shutter Island sequel audition. “I mean, I like him, okay? But we’re not together or anything.” She rolls her eyes before giving her head another shake. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”

            “Well surely he does now,” Davis says, pointing to her abdomen. “His blood is all over you.” Be it shock or the simple fact that she’s had no time to process anything with unyielding attention from law enforcement, she completely forgot about the red stains on her clothes. She almost forgot how they even got there.

            Now she remembers, and the cycle begins again as the tears fall and her chest tightens.

            “Let’s give her some time, Agent Carson,” Davis says as he rises from the table, Carson doing the same, and leaves the blonde girl there, completely beside herself.

 

Monica spins the ring on her middle finger around in circles with the pad of her opposite index finger.

            While it appears to be a nervous habit, there are no other indicators of such nerves expressed anywhere else on her body. Her posture is slightly slouched, but still strong. She isn’t tense, there’s no trembling and her eyes don’t wander like she’s afraid of the room she’s in. Her sight is consistently locked on that ring, not like it’s a significant object but more so like she doesn’t care to look at the gray walls surrounding her.

            It almost seems like she’s been in these rooms before. She’s not comfortable, necessarily, but she’s not afraid either.

            The door opens, and for the first time since she’s been placed there she actually looks up. Not with her whole head, she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, but with her eyes.

            “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Monica Moore.” Carson is actually smiling in her direction, and the way he looks at her tells Davis that this isn’t the first time the other two in the room are meeting.

            “Bradley Carson, I’d say what a pleasure but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.” Her eyes narrow and her head c***s. She’s awfully smug for someone in her position. While Davis appears shocked by this, Carson remains un-phased as he takes his seat.

            “Oh, come on now. You’re not still angry about me becoming SSA over you, are you?”

            “What are you, eight years old?” Monica finally sits up with her back against the chair, her eyes moving to the wall. Under any other circumstances, she’d cross her arms over her chest. In this case, the handcuffs won’t allow it. So she just folds her hands and refuses to make any further eye contact.

            “So that’s how you want to play this, Moore?” Carson shows aggression in his voice that he hasn’t shown with their previous interrogees.

            Again, it does not go unnoticed by Davis. “Am I missing something here, Agent?”

            He pulls his bottom lift far to the left and bites down on it as he shrugs. “You want to tell him, Mon, or should I?”

            Monica rubs her lips together like she’s trying to prevent herself from speaking as she turns her head back in his direction. It fails. “Why don’t you call me that again, you sniveling little prick?”

            “Fine, have it your way.” Bradley turns slightly in his chair, his right elbow resting on the back of his chair as he faces the older man beside him. “Monica and I used to work together in the Bureau. We were on the same team for a while, even. Then she got passed over for Special Supervisory Agent and the job went to me and she just…vanished. Poof, gone. Flash forward a few years later and her and her little herd of Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys try to kill the President of the United States.” He narrows his eyes as he turns his head to look at her. “Piss poor attempt, by the way. He survived. Bullet barely even put a crack in the glass.”

            “Conflict of interest,” Monica states firmly.

            “What?”

            “I want someone else on this case. Someone just tried to assassinate the President and you’re sitting here making jokes like a playground bully. If you’re going to waste time, I’d rather have someone else in here asking me questions that will actually help bring a solution.”

            Carson is visibly caught off guard by her brashness, and his sudden huffing is one of many indicators of how flustered she has made him. “This is an interrogation, remember what that word means? You don’t get to make demands.”

            Monica rolls her eyes and looks away from him, the blue orbs falling directly onto Allen Davis. “Homeland I’m assuming?”

            He nods once in reply. “Sure assumption.”

            “I will tell you whatever you need to know, but he” Monica says as she glares at Carson through her peripheral vision, “needs to go.”

            “Carson, leave.” Davis instructs.

            “This is a JTTF investigation!” Carson shouts like a dog barking in defense of his marked territory.

            “You can start a pissing contest with me or I can see what I can get out of this woman. Now go.” Carson abruptly rises from his seat, the metal legs of his chair scraping the floor and echoing off of the walls of the small room. He’s not one to make a quiet exit, the door slamming shut the final tune in a symphony of heavy footsteps, angrily handled chairs and under-the-breath cursing.

            “Now, Miss Moore,” Davis says as he folds his hands and places them on the metal table top. “May we begin?”