Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
The interrogation room at the county precinct smelled faintly of stale coffee and industrial floor wax. The harsh fluorescent light hummed overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow over the scratched metal table where Mark sat with his hands still cuffed to a fixed loop. The door clicked open, and Detective Miller walked in, tossing a thick file onto the table before pulling out a chair and sitting down heavily across from him.
"You've got quite the resume, Sergeant Davis," Detective Miller said, leaning back and crossing his arms as he eyed the ribbons on Mark's uniform. "Decorated infantryman, multiple commendations, clean record stateside. So why is a war hero currently sitting in my holding cell for violating a civil protection order?"
Mark kept his posture rigid, his dark eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Because my ex-wife is weaponizing a faulty legal document to keep me away from my daughter," Mark replied, his voice steady and devoid of panic. "The deployment extension legally suspended all prior civil rulings under the Servicemembers Civil Relief Act."
Detective Miller tapped a finger against the closed file folder.
"That might be true regarding custody hearings, Sergeant," Miller said slowly. "However, the SCRA doesn't grant immunity against local fraud investigations or unauthorized financial transactions linked to missing property."
Mark's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he didn't blink.
"I don't know what financial transactions you are talking about," Mark said, his tone carefully measured.
"Let's talk about the twenty-five thousand dollars wired from an offshore account to your personal savings last Tuesday," Miller countered, leaning forward over the table. "An account registered under a shell corporation that was flagged by federal intelligence for smuggling stolen military hardware out of the supply depot in your sector."
A heavy silence settled over the room. Mark stared at the detective, realizing just how deep the trap had been laid.
"That money was back pay and hazard compensation deposited directly by the Department of Defense," Mark lied smoothly, though a single bead of sweat formed at his temple.
Detective Miller let out a dry, humorless chuckle, reaching into the folder to pull out a single glossy photograph. He slid it across the metal table. The picture showed Mark standing outside a nondescript warehouse in a foreign port city, handing a heavy metal briefcase to a man whose face was obscured by a dark hood.
"Department of Defense doesn't usually conduct cash handoffs behind abandoned shipping docks at midnight, Sergeant," Miller said softly. "Want to try another story?"
Mark looked down at the photograph, his mind racing to calculate his next move. Before he could formulate a response, the heavy interrogation room door burst open, and a man in a sharp charcoal suit strode in without knocking, flashing a federal badge directly into Detective Miller's face.
May you like
"Step away from the suspect, Detective," the federal agent commanded coldly. "This man is being transferred immediately into federal custody under the authority of National Security Directive 104."
---
