Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room Downstairs
While I was taking my oath upstairs, Victor Vance was learning that federal military jurisdiction does not negotiate with civilian cowards.
Four floors below in the hospital’s sterile, windowless security substation, Agent Miller tossed a printed email thread onto the stainless-steel interrogation table. The fluorescent overhead light flickered with a faint, irritating hum.
Victor sat slumped in the metal chair, his designer shirt wrinkled, his hair disheveled, his face drained of all arrogance. The handcuffs binding his wrists to the bolted loop on the table clinked softly every time he shifted his weight.
"Recognize that correspondence, Mr. Vance?" Miller asked, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
Victor stared blankly at the papers. "I... I don't know what you're talking about. This is a mistake. My wife had an accident—"
"Your wife was assaulted with a deadly weapon in an attempted murder-conferral scheme designed to seize her military pension and real estate assets," Miller interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a chilling baritone. "And according to the geolocation data pulled from your phone five minutes ago, you weren't just planning to sell her pre-marital apartment downtown. You had already forged her electronic signature on the deed transfer yesterday afternoon while she was lying unconscious in intensive care."
Victor swallowed hard, his throat dry. "We... we were married. Legally, a spouse has rights—"
"A spouse does not have the right to commit identity theft, wire fraud, and aggravated battery," the second CID investigator barked, slamming his hand flat against the table. "And neither does your mother. In fact, while you’ve been sitting here trying to construct a pathetic alibi, Mrs. Patricia Vance just finished giving a full, unprompted video confession upstairs in the holding ward, throwing you entirely under the bus to save herself from a twenty-year federal prison sentence."
Victor’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with blind panic. "She... she what?"
"She told us everything, Victor," Miller said smoothly, stepping closer and leaning over the table. "She told us how you bought the crowbar at the hardware store two days before the attack. She told us how you practiced your story in front of the kitchen mirror. And most importantly, she detailed how you planned to institutionalize Elena in a private psychiatric facility the moment the title transfers went through."
Victor opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His chest heaved as the terrifying, inescapable reality of his situation crashed down on him. There were no lawyers to save him. There was no mother to shield him. He was entirely, irrevocably trapped.
May you like
Miller straightened up, buttoning his jacket. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Vance. The federal magistrate's court opens at dawn on Monday. You’re going to need a very good story to explain why you thought you could declare war on the United States Army."
As the investigators turned and walked out of the room, locking the heavy steel door behind them, Victor buried his face in his cuffed hands and began to weep.
