Chapter 6: The Interrogation Room Door Opens
Back at the downtown precinct, Detective Marcus Vance rubbed his tired eyes, staring across the metal table at Eleanor. She sat with the exact same posture she had maintained for the past two hours, her dark maroon dress refusing to wrinkle, her dark reddish-brown hair refusing to stray from its pinned perfection.
"Your husband’s house manager just called in," Vance said, breaking the heavy silence. "He found your locked vanity drawer upstairs. He read the Zurich medical files, Mrs. Vance. He knows about the heavy metal accumulation in his bloodstream."
Eleanor’s expression did not soften, but a subtle shift occurred in her eyes—a flicker of profound sorrow that she quickly stamped down. "Then he knows that I spent the last six months trying to save his life from his own desperate greed."
"He claims you’re the one administering the poison," Vance countered, leaning forward over the table. "He says the syringe under the chair was your final attempt to finish the job after the slow drip failed to work fast enough."
"Rohesen has always been a master of projection," Eleanor replied, her voice steady and chillingly clear. "He built a corporate empire on the systematic manipulation of debt and asset stripping. When his primary investor threatened to expose his fraudulent accounting practices last year, Rohesen needed a scapegoat. If he died of natural-seeming cardiac arrest, his debts would be wiped clean, and his hidden offshore accounts would automatically transfer to a secondary trust controlled by his silent partner."
Vance frowned, jotting down notes on his legal pad. "A silent partner. You're talking about corporate conspiracy, Mrs. Vance. Do you have proof of these offshore accounts, or is this just another domestic accusation designed to muddy the evidentiary waters?"
"Check the server room in his private study," Eleanor instructed, her gaze piercing through the detective. "Behind the false wall panel labeled ‘HVAC Control-B.’ There is an encrypted hard drive containing every single transaction, every forged signature, and every communication between Rohesen and the person financing his corporate downfall."
Vance stared at her for a long, quiet moment. There was no panic in her voice, no desperate pleading—only the cold, heavy weight of absolute truth. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his heavy leather jacket from the back of the chair.
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"If that drive isn't where you say it is, Mrs. Vance, you're looking at twenty years for attempted murder," Vance said.
"Search the wall, Detective," Eleanor replied softly, adjusting her cuffs. "And make sure you look closely at who has had unfettered access to that study besides my husband."
