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"Name's Boris Tanner," Wilson said, handing over a file. Its cover was marked with red flags, indicating a record that was anything but pristine. "His sheet's as dirty as your lot keep this place clean," Finn quipped, leafing through the pages, noting the recurring offenses scrawled across the records.
"Professional protester, or so it seems," Amelia observed, scanning the file over Finn's shoulder. "Trespassing, obstruction, public nuisance..."
"Seems he doesn't take kindly to people buying up historical sites," Finn added, his mind already piecing together a profile. "Especially not Richmond Castle."
"Indeed," Wilson confirmed. "And his antics got physical outside the hospital morgue with the Richmond's real estate broker. Not the smartest move."
"Or perhaps the most telling," Finn suggested, his gaze never leaving the file.
"Let's see what Mr. Tanner has to say for himself then," Amelia decided, her tone all business. She was ready to confront whatever lay behind that door, her resolve as unbreakable as the polished surface of the station's floors.
Finn placed the file under his arm, feeling the familiar thrill of the chase ignite within him. As they stepped closer to the interview room, Finn felt the usual surge of adrenaline that accompanied every suspect interview. He had to control that to make sure it didn't cloud his mind.
"Let's hope Mr. Tanner is in a talkative mood," Amelia said, her hand reaching for the door handle.
"Either way," Finn replied, with a glint of determination in his eye, "I have a feeling he knows something."
The door to the interview room swung open with a whisper, a silent testament to the meticulous upkeep of Wellhaven Police Station. Finn Wright stepped through the threshold, his senses immediately sharpening at the sight before him. Boris Tanner sat on the far side of the table, his silhouette rigid and imposing against the stark white of the room.
"Mr. Tanner," Finn greeted, voice steady but not without a hint of steel.
Tanner's response was merely a grunt as he unfolded his arms, resting them on the table with a sense of defiance that bordered on provocation. His eyes, dark pits of intensity, locked onto Finn's, unblinking. The air between them became charged, an invisible current crackling with the tension of unspoken challenges.
Amelia Winters followed suit, the clack of her heels on linoleum tiles punctuating the silence that had settled like dust. She maneuvered around the table with a grace that belied the gravity of the situation, pulling out a chair opposite Tanner. The scrape of metal legs against the floor sounded abnormally loud in the sterile environment.
"Good evening," Amelia said, her voice devoid of any tremor that might betray the high stakes of the interrogation. With a practiced motion, she pressed the button on the recording device situated at the center of the table. A soft beep acknowledged the start of the record.
"Today is the 16th of November, 6:05pm," Amelia announced, enunciating clearly for the sake of the audio log. "I am Inspector Amelia Winters, and with me is consulting detective Finn Wright."
"Present," Finn added, jokingly, raising his arm like a school child only for the file to fall out from under it onto the floor. He quickly picked it up and tried his best to act cool.
As Amelia continued the formalities, Finn took the opportunity to study Tanner more closely. There was something about the way the man sat, an innate resilience reminiscent of ancient walls weathering relentless storms. But beneath the surface, Finn detected the subtlest flicker of uncertainty—a flame that could be fanned into a blaze with the right breath.
Finn's analytical mind began to whir, piecing together Tanner's posture, the set of his jaw, the slightest shift of his weight. Every detail was a clue, every movement a potential piece of the puzzle they were trying to solve. Finn's past may have been marred by personal upheaval and professional setbacks, yet his ability to read people remained undiminished by those stresses. It was this very skill that had once made him a formidable agent, and now, it served as the key to unlocking Tanner's facade.
"Are you comfortable, Mr. Tanner?" Finn asked, his tone deliberately casual.
"Comfort's got nothing to do with it," Tanner retorted, his voice a low rumble. "Let's get on with it."
"Indeed," Amelia concurred, her own scrutiny of Tanner covert yet thorough.
"Very well," Finn agreed, shifting in his seat, ready to dance the delicate tango of interrogation. Tanner might resemble a bull, but Finn and Amelia were matadors, adept in the art of control. They would weave their questions like capes—red flashes of inquiry designed to direct and ultimately, uncover the truth hidden behind Tanner's bullish stance.
Finn's gaze locked onto Boris Tanner. The sterile hum of the police station seemed to recede behind the veil of concentration that descended upon the room. "Mr. Tanner," Finn began, a razor-sharp edge of inquisition to his voice, "I couldn't help but notice you're here without representation."
"Lawyers?" Boris scoffed, a derisive snort escaping him as though the very word tasted sour. "They're just another cog in the bloody machine. I stand for myself." His chin jutted out defiantly, a physical manifestation of his obstinance.
Amelia leaned forward, her elbows resting on the cold metal table, her fingers interlacing with precision. "Let's talk about your altercation with Gregory Harding." Her voice was calm, measured, like the first few drops of rain heralding a storm.
"Private matter," Boris muttered, almost to himself, his arms tightening across his chest as if guarding secrets.
"Private until it spills into public view," Finn countered, leaning back and observing Boris with eyes that missed nothing. "Harding is a real estate broker, isn't he? Represented Thomas and Lily Richmond... recently acquired Richmond Castle before their untimely demise last night."
The words hung heavy in the air, each syllable laden with implication. Finn watched as the muscles in Boris's neck tensed, cords standing out against his skin like rigid sentinels. The man shifted, a subtle redistribution of weight, his feet planted firmly on the ground as if bracing against an unseen force.
"Richmond Castle?" Boris's voice was a low growl, barely contained. "You mean Hemworth Castle." There was a history there, unspoken but palpable. Finn could sense it, smell it—it was the scent of old battles and grievances long-held.
"Richmond Castle, Hemworth Castle," Amelia interjected smoothly, redirecting the conversation with the finesse of a chess master moving a pawn. "Names don't matter as much as the death of two human beings. What we need to know is why you clashed with Harding."
