Chapter 3
The interrogation room of the county precinct smelled faintly of old coffee and industrial cleaner. A single, scratched metal table sat beneath a buzzing overhead fluorescent light that cast harsh shadows across Nathan’s face. Across from him sat Detective Miller—no relation to the nurse, but possessing the same weary, skeptical expression. A microcassette recorder rested on the table between them, its small red light glowing steadily to indicate it was capturing every ragged breath Nathan took.
“Let’s go through it one more time, Mr. Hayes,” Detective Miller said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “According to your wife, you burst into the hospital room in an unprovoked rage, threatened her life, and then stole medical equipment while screaming obscenities in a children’s ward.”
“That’s a complete inversion of reality,” Nathan said, his voice tight with frustration. He rubbed his temples, trying to soothe the pounding migraine behind his eyes. “Clara was standing on the bed, hovering over Lily’s IV line. She looked unhinged. She said—word for word—‘The sicker you are, the more valuable you are to me.’ How does that sound like a loving mother?”
Detective Miller tapped a pen against the metal tabletop. “People under extreme stress say things they don't mean, Mr. Hayes. Your wife has been staying at the hospital around the clock, watching her only child slowly fade away. She’s exhausted. You, on the other hand, have been living across town in your downtown apartment, visiting only during designated hours due to your ‘demanding career.’ Witnesses at the hospital describe you as distant and erratic.”
“I work to pay the mounting medical bills!” Nathan slammed his palm against the table, causing the recorder to rattle. “Clara hasn't worked in three years. But she has private accounts—accounts I only discovered last week that are receiving monthly payouts from a rare-disease research foundation. A foundation that happens to be studying Lily’s exact symptoms.”
The detective stopped tapping his pen. He narrowed his eyes, studying Nathan with a renewed, calculating gaze. “Are you accusing your wife of intentionally poisoning your daughter for grant money, Mr. Hayes? That is a very serious allegation.”
“I’m not accusing her; I’m telling you what the evidence points toward,” Nathan insisted, leaning forward into the harsh light. “She wanted Lily sick because sickness brings attention, sympathy, and funding. Munchausen by proxy isn't just about emotional need anymore; in Clara’s case, it became an enterprise.”
“And the syringe found under the bed?” Detective Miller asked neutrally. “The lab preliminary report came back an hour ago. It contains a synthetic immunosuppressant—the exact compound keeping your daughter’s white blood cell count artificially suppressed. Your wife claims she found it hidden behind the trash can and was about to hand it to the nurse when you attacked her.”
“She lied,” Nathan said flatly. “She was administering it. If you check her fingerprints on the plunger, you’ll find them.”
May you like
Detective Miller stood up, gathering his notepad. “We checked them, Mr. Hayes. They belong to someone else. Or rather, they’re completely wiped clean.”
***
