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If that were the case, it didn't matter who he was or how bad she felt; all that mattered was that people were dying, and she had to stop it from happening.
"Come on, Owen," Jake said, "I need you to come with us."
"No... no..." Before they could react, Owen dropped to the ground, landing in a puddle. He curled up in a ball and began rocking back and forth.
Jake looked at Fiona. It was wrong, but what were they supposed to do? They couldn't just leave him here.
"Come on," Jake said to Fiona, "help me help him up. Let's take him to the station."
***
The sterile fluorescent lights of the precinct flickered overhead as Fiona and Jake escorted Owen into the small interrogation room. He shuffled in, his eyes cast down at the floor. Fiona couldn't help but notice how vulnerable he looked, like a wounded animal caught in a trap.
"Sit down, please," Jake instructed, his tone firm yet gentle. Owen sank into the metal chair without a word, his gaze still fixed on the floor beneath him.
"Owen, can you hear me?" Fiona tried, leaning in closer to catch his eye, but his attention remained elsewhere, lost within the recesses of his tormented mind. He hadn't resisted when they'd tried to lift him into the car, and he also hadn't said a word since. They hadn't cuffed him, of course--he wasn't under arrest. But they needed to talk to him.
"Let's just get this over with," Jake muttered to Fiona. She could tell by the look on his face that he didn't like this either. "Owen, we're here to discuss your possible connection to the recent poisonings in Portland. Do you understand why you're here?"
A faint mumble escaped Owen's lips, incomprehensible and barely audible. It was unclear whether it was an attempt at communication or merely a reflexive sound.
"Owen, we need you to cooperate with us," Fiona pleaded, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his arm, to try and break through whatever barrier his mind had erected. "If you didn't do anything, we need you to tell us that."
"Didn't..." Owen finally whispered, his voice cracked and hollow. "Didn't do it..."
"Good, that's a start," Jake said, his brow furrowing as he continued his line of questioning. "Do you know anything about the poisonings? Have you heard anything that could help us find who's responsible?"
Owen's eyes seemed to glaze over, and he retreated further inward, the weight of the situation too much for his fragile psyche to bear. Fiona clenched her jaw, her frustration at their lack of progress warring with the guilt she felt for putting him through this ordeal.
"Enough!" The door to the interrogation room swung open violently, and a tall, authoritative woman stormed in. She had a stern look on her face, and her body was tense with righteous indignation. Her commanding presence filled the room, her blue suit immaculately pressed, her stride purposeful and direct. Fiona might think she was a lawyer, but she recognized her from a portrait seen earlier today.
This was Dr. Eleanor Jensen, Owen's therapist. An apologetic-looking officer was behind her, who had clearly failed to stop the woman from getting in.
"This is immoral!" she shouted. "You have no right to subject this man to this kind of torment! As his emergency contact, I demand you let him go."
"Dr. Jensen," Fiona began, trying to maintain her composure, "we're just trying to get some answers—"
"Owen is not faking this!" Eleanor interrupted, her voice shaking with anger. "He's genuinely unwell, and you're only making it worse by continuing this farce of an interrogation. He suffered a traumatic brain injury in prison and is incapable of hurting anyone. He's not the same person who once sold illegal poisons or whatever it is you think he did."
"Dr. Jensen, we understand your concern," Jake said, his tone placating, "but there are lives at stake—"
"Let him go," Eleanor demanded, her eyes locked onto Fiona's. "You can see he's in no state to be here. He cannot help you."
Fiona hesitated, her gut telling her that Eleanor was right, but the weight of their responsibility still pressed down on her. She exchanged a glance with Jake, who gave a barely perceptible nod. As much as it burned, Eleanor was right.
"He's free to go," Jake relented. "He was never under arrest, but he collapsed in the street. we couldn't just leave him."
"So you took him here?" Eleanor fired back. "I don't care who you are--this is wrong."
As Eleanor led Owen out of the room, his unsteady gait and vacant expression driving home the point that they had been chasing a ghost, Fiona could only wonder who the real monster was. Someone had killed Glen Hartwell and Sharon French, and if it wasn't Owen, then who?
The door clicked shut behind Owen and Dr. Jensen, leaving Fiona and Jake in the sterile interrogation room. The walls seemed to close in around them, the silence heavy with the weight of their fruitless pursuit. Fiona's chest tightened as she considered the implications of their actions, her conscience gnawing at her like a persistent itch.
"Maybe we were wrong about him," she whispered, avoiding Jake's gaze. "Maybe he really isn't capable of—"
The shrill ring of Jake's cellphone cut through her words, startling her. She watched as he swiftly pulled it from his pocket and answered, his face a mask of professionalism. "Agent Tucker."
Fiona's heart pounded in her chest, her gut telling her that this call would only bring more bad news. She studied Jake's face for any hint of what he was hearing, but his expression remained impassive. Moments stretched into an eternity as she waited, her breath caught in her throat.
