Chapter 22: The Interview Room
The Donovan family sat on one side of the table like survivors of a shipwreck.
Mark Donovan's hands hadn't stopped shaking since we'd walked in. His wife Linda sat rigid beside him, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the interview room's gray walls. Between them, their two children—Tommy, eight, and Sarah, ten—huddled together with the particular stillness of kids who'd learned too young that adults couldn't always protect them.
I'd seen that stillness before. In refugee camps. In war zones. In places where childhood ended without warning.
Elle stood beside me, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating off her. She'd been quiet since we'd received the assignment—victim interviews while the rest of the team worked the suspect list. Something about this case was hitting close to home.
"Mr. and Mrs. Donovan," I said, keeping my voice soft. "Thank you for speaking with us. I know this is difficult."
Mark nodded jerkily. "We want to help. We want you to catch him."
"Can you walk us through what happened? Take your time."
The story came out in fragments.
A Tuesday evening. The family had just finished dinner. A knock at the door—Mark thought it was the neighbor returning a borrowed tool. Instead, a man in a ski mask with a gun. Six hours of terror while the intruder systematically dismantled their lives.
"He knew everything," Linda whispered. Her voice cracked on the word. "Things we'd never told anyone. Things we'd—" She glanced at her children. "Things that were private."
[WOUND MAPPING: AVAILABLE]
[SUBJECT ASSESSMENT: SEVERE PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA — MULTIPLE LAYERS]
[FOCUS COST: 8]
I let the system work in the background, feeding me data about the family's emotional state. Mark's guilt was obvious in his posture—shoulders curled inward, unable to meet anyone's eyes. Linda's shame manifested differently, in the way she kept touching her wedding ring like a talisman.
The affair. He told them about an affair.
"He made us sit in the living room," Mark continued. "Tied our hands. Then he just... talked. For hours. Telling us everything we'd done wrong. Every lie. Every secret."
"He told the kids," Linda said. The words fell like stones. "About my—about something I did. Before. He told them in detail."
Tommy pressed closer to his sister. Sarah's arm went around him protectively.
"Mrs. Donovan, I'm so sorry that happened to your family." I meant it. "But the details you remember could help us catch him. Can you tell me anything about the man himself? His voice, his movements, anything distinctive?"
"He wore gloves," Mark said. "Black ones. And the mask covered everything. But..." He frowned, searching his memory. "There was something on his wrist. When he reached for things, his sleeve would ride up. Some kind of bracelet or watch band. Metal. Unusual."
I made a note.
"What about smells?" I asked. "Sometimes people remember scents they don't consciously notice at the time."
Silence.
Then Tommy spoke—small, scared, but trying to be brave.
"He smelled like the place Daddy fixes cars."
I turned to him gently, keeping my body language open and non-threatening.
"The place where Daddy fixes cars?"
"The garage. Where they change the oil." Tommy's nose wrinkled. "He smelled like that. Grease and gas."
[EVIDENCE CORRELATION: AUTOMOTIVE/MECHANICAL ACCESS]
[CROSS-REFERENCE WITH SUSPECT LIST: RECOMMENDED]
"That's really helpful, Tommy. You're very observant."
The boy ducked his head, but I caught the ghost of a smile. Even in trauma, children needed to know their contributions mattered.
I glanced at Elle. She gave a slight nod—call Garcia.
I pulled out my phone, stepped to the corner of the room.
"Garcia, it's Mercer. The unsub has access to an automotive workshop. Garage, mechanic shop, something with regular exposure to petroleum products. Can you cross-reference with our twelve suspects?"
"Already narrowing, my genius friend. Give me five minutes."
I returned to the table.
"Sarah," I said, addressing the ten-year-old. "I noticed you haven't said much. And that's okay—you don't have to talk if you don't want to. But sometimes, kids notice things adults miss. Is there anything you remember? Anything at all?"
Sarah looked at her parents, then at me. Her eyes were old in a way that made my chest tight.
"I drew a picture," she said quietly. "After. Mom said I should draw what I was feeling."
"Would you be willing to show me?"
She hesitated, then reached into her backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Handed it to me like it was made of glass.
I unfolded it carefully.
A child's drawing. Crayon on notebook paper. A dark figure with no face, standing in what looked like a living room. The family huddled in the corner—small, vulnerable, clearly afraid.
But it was the detail on the figure's wrist that caught my attention.
Something circular. Metallic, based on the silver crayon used. Not a watch—the proportions were wrong. A bracelet, maybe, or—
A badge. An ID badge on one of those metal expansion bands.
"Sarah, this is incredible work. You're very talented."
"I wanted to remember so you could catch him."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Ten years old. Forcing herself to remember trauma so adults can do their job.
"We're going to catch him," I said. "I promise. And when we do, someone will call to let you know. Okay?"
She nodded.
"Can I have ice cream then?"
I almost laughed. Almost.
"Absolutely. The biggest sundae you can find."
We wrapped up the interview, thanked the family, arranged for victim services follow-up. Mark and Linda looked slightly less broken than when we'd started—not healed, but maybe believing that healing was possible.
Outside the interview room, Elle leaned against the wall with her arms crossed.
"You're good with them," she said. "The kids."
"Training. And practice."
"It's more than that." She pushed off the wall, started walking toward the exit. I fell into step beside her. "You made them feel safe. That's not something you can fake."
"You seemed affected in there."
She didn't answer immediately. We pushed through the precinct doors into the Seattle afternoon—gray sky, damp air, the smell of coffee and exhaust.
"Kids shouldn't have to remember things like that," Elle said finally. Her voice was harder than usual. Older. "They shouldn't have to be brave for adults who failed to protect them."
Old wounds. Something from her past.
I didn't push. Didn't offer platitudes or psychoanalysis. I just walked beside her, close enough that our shoulders occasionally brushed.
Sometimes presence was enough.
"The drawing," Elle said after a moment. "The thing on his wrist. It looked like an ID badge holder."
"Employee badge. Metal expansion band. Distinctive."
"Garcia can cross-reference that with workplace records."
"Already on it."
My phone buzzed. Garcia.
"Talk to me."
"Got one hit that checks all the boxes." Garcia's voice crackled with the particular energy she got when pieces fell into place. "Kevin Marsh. IT worker at a tech firm downtown. Deleted his dating app account three days before the first attack. Volunteers at a community auto shop on weekends—hence the petroleum smell. And here's the kicker: his employee badge has a distinctive metal bracelet-style band. Company standard issue."
Elle was watching my face. I nodded.
"We have a name."
"Kevin Marsh. Address in Beacon Hill."
"Get everyone mobilized. We move tonight."
I hung up.
Elle's expression had shifted—from haunted to focused. The hunter emerging from the shadows.
"Let's go catch him," she said.
I thought about Sarah Donovan, folded in her backpack, remembering horror so strangers could find justice.
"Yeah. Let's."
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