I force myself to keep breathing steadily, to maintain the professional composure that's kept me functional despite theway my world keeps fracturing around the edges. "What kind of something?"
"The killer left us a gift." He moves to a table near the wall, retrieving an evidence bag that contains what looks like a small digital recording device. "Found this tucked inside the chest cavity, exactly where the historical Carver cases had confession tapes."
The device is sleek, expensive, the kind of professional equipment that suggests someone with significant resources and technical expertise. Not a crime of passion or opportunity, but something planned with obsessive attention to detail.
Something that's been building toward this moment for longer than I've realized.
"Have you listened to it?" I ask, though part of me already knows the answer from the way Finch is studying my face.
"We have. And that's why I need to ask you some very specific questions about your relationship with Casey Holbrook." His tone carries the kind of professional courtesy that doesn't quite hide the suspicion underneath. "Questions about conversations you had with her regarding this case."
The ground feels like it's shifting beneath my feet, because if he's heard recordings of my conversations with Casey, then he knows I've been obstructing justice. He knows I misdirected the analysis away from connections that could have solved this case weeks ago.
He knows I've been protecting a killer at the expense of innocent lives.
"I'd like to hear the recording," I say, because avoiding it will only make me look more guilty. "For context."
Finch nods and presses play, the digital device filling the sterile room with Casey's voice—bright, enthusiastic, completely unaware that her words are being used to orchestrate her death.
"The positioning in both murders isn't just accurate—it's mathematically precise. Arms at exactly ninety degrees, head tilted at exactly fifteen degrees, feet positioned with measuring-tape accuracy."
My own voice follows, careful and deflective: "That's an interesting theory, but the Carver's historical victims were all corrupt officials or people who'd escaped justice through systemic failures. Chen and Martin don't fit that pattern."
The conversation continues, my systematic dismissal of connections that I knew were accurate, my professional authority used to misdirect Casey's brilliant analysis. Every word a nail in the coffin of my credibility, every deflection proof that I've been lying to law enforcement.
But then the recording shifts, and I hear something that makes my blood go cold.
My voice again, but from a different conversation entirely: "The surgical precision, the ritualistic positioning, the way violence was used as a tool of justice rather than simple brutality. The psychological profile suggests someone with extensive knowledge of both surgical techniques and criminal justice systems."
Dr. Shaw's response follows immediately: "Or someone with access to detailed case files and crime scene documentation. Someone who could study the methodology extensively enough to understand not just the physical techniques, but the psychological frameworks that made them meaningful."
The conversation from our meeting yesterday, recorded with perfect clarity. Every word of my analysis of Kent's methods, every acknowledgment of expertise that I'd denied to Casey just hours earlier. The contradiction is damning, impossible to explain away as professional objectivity or evolving theories.
I've been caught red-handed lying to multiple law enforcement officials about the same case.
The recording continues, capturing Shaw's probing questions about the initials on the card, her theoretical discussions of violence as research, her casual dismissal of ethical concerns. But what makes my chest tight with growing horror is the realization that someone was listening to both conversations.
Someone who had access to record private meetings in secure locations.
Someone who's been surveilling me extensively enough to document my contradictory behavior patterns.
"Dr. North," Finch says when the recording ends, his voice carrying the kind of careful control that precedes difficult questions, "would you like to explain why you gave Casey Holbrook a completely different analysis than you gave Dr. Shaw regarding the same evidence?"
The question hangs in the air like an accusation, loaded with implications that could destroy everything I've worked to build. Because there's no innocent explanation for the contradictions he's just heard. No professional reason why I'd dismiss theories with one colleague while developing them extensively with another.
No way to explain the discrepancies without admitting I've been obstructing justice to protect a killer.
"The analysis evolves as new evidence becomes available," I say, grasping for anything that might buy me time to think. "Initial theories often require refinement as patterns become clearer."
"The recordings were made on the same day," Finch observes, consulting his notes with the methodical precision of someone building a case. "Your conversation with Casey was at ten-fifteen a.m. Your meeting with Dr. Shaw was at two p.m. What new evidence emerged in that four-hour window that changed your entire assessment?"
Trapped. The word echoes in my mind like a warning bell, because he's systematically dismantling every possible excuse. The timeline proves I wasn't responding to new information—I was deliberately giving contradictory analysis to different people.
"Detective, I understand this looks suspicious—"
"It looks like obstruction of justice," he interrupts, and there's no longer any attempt to disguise his suspicion behind professional courtesy. "It looks like you've been actively misdirecting this investigation while maintaining detailed knowledge of the perpetrator's methodology."
The accusation hits like a physical blow, because it's completely accurate. I have been obstructing justice, have been misdirecting the investigation, have been using my professional authority to protect someone who should be in prison.
