Page 30
Mia Ripley had always prided herself on two abilities; holding whiskey and breaking suspects. She hadn’t done much of either in the past few months, and even though she struggled to admit it, a part of her identity was infused in those abilities.
Over an hour since they’d dragged Michael Brooks, aka Josiah Nicholls into the interrogation room and he hadn’t so much as coughed.
He even remained perfectly still, like a cobra ready to strike, only it was impossible for him to reach any prey from his locked room.
If Ripley was in his position, she’d start spitting out excuses like there was no tomorrow.
Sadly, there weren’t many repercussions for lying in this game, and any semi-intelligent criminal knew this.
And their behavioral profile said that the killer of Frank Sullivan and Diana Jewell was pretty intelligent.
The urge to get in there and put the wheels of justice into was motion was borderline painful. Or maybe that was just the bruise that had now blossomed onto her temple. Either way, sitting around here while Ella and her new bestie ransacked Josiah’s apartment wasn’t the best use of her time.
Screw it, Ripley decided. She was going in.
She stepped into the interrogation room, then gently shut the door behind her.
Yes, she had every mind to smack the blank expression off Josiah Nicholls’s face right away, but aggression just made suspects seize up.
She’d got her minor revenge back in that alleyway, now she had to ensure that Frank Sullivan’s death wasn’t for nothing.
Long-term justice was preferable to a few broken bones.
‘Josiah Nicholls,’ she said. Nicholls glanced up, but not with any real unease.
The man was neither ugly nor handsome. He had brown hair cut in a style that wouldn’t have been out of place in any decade since the mid-nineties.
He was annoyingly middle-of-the-road, like every serial murderer she’d ever met.
She remembered he’d had glasses until she’d knocked them off his face.
She waited for an acknowledgement but none came.
Sitting it was. Ripley parked herself opposite him.
‘Josiah, we’ve got a lot of questions, and it’s in your best interest to start talking.’
Nothing.’
‘We already know you posed as Michael Brooks to infiltrate the White Whale Group. We know your real name is Josiah Nicholls. And we know you assaulted a federal agent. That’s me, by the way.
’ She gestured to the psychedelic bloom of purple and yellow decorating her temple.
‘Oh, and we also suspect you might be guilty of homicide.’
Nicholls remained immobile. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest confirmed he hadn’t somehow died sitting upright.
Something about it needled at Ripley. Most suspects fidgeted. They scratched phantom itches and bounced knees under tables and licked lips gone dry from dehydration. The guilty ones had tells as distinct as fingerprints.
Nicholls had none.
‘My colleague is currently going through your apartment,’ she continued. ‘By now, she’s probably found all sorts of interesting things, and once we have something that connects you to Frank’s murder, we’re going to come down hard, you understand?’
Still nothing. She thought that his thumb twitched when she mentioned Frank’s name, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
‘How are those puncture wounds feeling?’ she tried. ‘You probably need a tetanus shot. Those nails were pretty rusty.’
Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. The vibration traveled through the floor, up the legs of her chair, into her spine. Still, Nicholls didn’t react.
‘You want to play it like this? Fine. But the longer you stay quiet, the worse it gets for you. Innocent people tend to talk.’ Ripley stood up and headed for the door. As she grabbed the handle, her eardrums picked up on alien sound.
The sound of Josiah Nicholls talking.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I did it. I killed him. But it’s not what you think.’
Table of Contents
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- Page 30 (Reading here)
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