Interrogation

David sat in the hard plastic chair, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. The air in the Yonkers precinct interrogation room was cold, sterile, and suffocating. Across from him, Detective James Calloway and Detective Serena Vega shuffled papers and eyed him like a predator measuring prey.

“David Johnson,” Calloway started, voice clipped, professional. “You were seen in Manhattan around the time of several suspicious deaths. We need to know exactly where you were.”

David leaned back in the chair, his hoodie shadowing his face. “I don’t understand,” he said evenly. “I’ve been living in Yonkers for the past month. I couldn’t have been in Manhattan.”

Serena Vega raised an eyebrow. “Living in Yonkers doesn’t make you invisible, David. We have records of you leaving the city—or at least, surveillance suggesting someone who looks like you.”

David’s lips twitched in the smallest smirk. He whispered to himself, They’re grasping at shadows. Perfect. Then he said aloud, “Surveillance? Maybe you’re looking at someone else. I’m telling you—I moved here to get away from my family, to… start fresh. You’re blaming me for things I didn’t do.”

Calloway leaned forward. “Start fresh, huh? Coincidentally, the people you say you were trying to avoid are all dead. Parker family, your cousins, your twin brother’s friends—everybody connected to you in some way. Don’t you think that’s… suspicious?”

David kept his voice calm. “Suspicious to you, maybe. But coincidence exists. Isn’t that what people always say when they can’t explain things? Coincidence.”

Serena Vega picked up a photo from the table—Harold Parker, smiling, unaware he was gone. “Coincidence? This man is dead. Do you understand that? And your family? Your friends? And still, you’re in Yonkers pretending to act normal?”

David’s fingers drummed lightly on the table. He stared at the photo for a moment. “I understand death. I understand loss. But I am not responsible for every tragedy that touches my life or the people around me. Do you think I could survive what happened to me, just to go on killing people for revenge? That’s… fiction.”

Calloway scowled. “You survived being beaten, stabbed, and thrown into a river. That’s hardly fiction, David. People call that impossible, but here you are. Maybe surviving is one thing… maybe revenge is another.”

David tilted his head, as if considering the point. “Impossible things happen every day. But I’m not a killer. I’m a survivor. If someone wants to call surviving killing, maybe that’s their mistake.”

Vega leaned forward, voice sharper. “Let’s be real. You’re calm, collected, too calm. You don’t seem scared of these deaths. That alone makes you a prime suspect.”

David looked down at his hands, then slowly back at her. “Calm? Maybe. But if I’m calm, maybe it’s because I’m not guilty. Guilty people fidget. They panic. They beg. I don’t. I explain.”

Calloway slammed his hand lightly on the table. “Explain then! Explain why the money you had access to suddenly moved. Why someone drained over seven million dollars in Bitcoin? Do you have an answer for that?”

David’s voice didn’t change. “I have no access to that money. I moved to Yonkers. I have no reason, no motive, and no ability to hack something like that. I don’t even know how to access cryptocurrencies properly. You’ll find nothing linking me to that.”

Vega pressed, leaning close. “You were seen ordering things online, burner phones, strange equipment. Security cameras pick up a figure resembling you near Manhattan that same week.”

David exhaled softly, almost pitying. “You’re piecing together coincidences. You’re connecting dots that don’t exist. Maybe someone looks like me. Maybe someone wants it to look like me. That’s not a confession, detectives. That’s misdirection. Happens all the time in cases like this. People blame the wrong person because it fits a narrative. That’s what’s happening to me.”

Calloway’s voice lowered, more personal. “David… are you threatening us?”

David shook his head, voice calm, almost soothing. “Threatening? No. Explaining. I survived, I moved, I tried to get away from everything that happened. That doesn’t make me a murderer. If anything, it should make me your witness, your ally in finding the real culprit.”

Vega sat back, frustrated. “A witness… in your own case?”

He smiled faintly under the shadow of the hoodie. “If you think I could be guilty, then yes. But I assure you, you’re wasting your time. I have no alibi because I didn’t need one. I didn’t do it. I moved here, and I’ve been alone. That’s it. Ask anyone in Yonkers who’s seen me. Ask neighbors, the delivery people, the stores I frequent. You’ll see the same story. Nothing unusual.”

Calloway exchanged a look with Vega. “You make it sound so neat, so easy. But David, you’ve got to understand… everyone who had a grudge against you is dead. And that makes you our suspect, whether you like it or not.”

David leaned forward slightly, hands still on the table. “I understand suspicion. I do. But suspicion is not evidence. And you don’t have evidence. Not one shred. You have fear. Fear makes people see patterns where none exist. Fear makes detectives chase shadows. Fear makes people want someone to blame. That’s all you have.”

Vega’s voice hardened. “So, what then? You expect us to just believe you?”

David exhaled. “I expect you to do your job. Look at facts. Look at proof. Don’t assume guilt because it’s convenient. I survived. I moved. I’m here. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

For a long moment, the room was silent. The fluorescent light buzzed above, punctuating the tension. Neither detective spoke.

David’s inner voice whispered, They can’t touch me. Not yet. Not until they see the truth—and by then, it’ll be too late for everyone else.

Finally, Calloway stood. “We’ll see, David. We’ll see.”

David nodded politely, voice calm. “I hope you do. For all your sakes.”

He left the room later, free, calm, and entirely aware of the fact that the police were still blind to the shadow he had become—and the storm of revenge that had only just begun.