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Fletch sets the recorder on the steel table inside Interview Room One. Garret sits, but he’s not cuffed. He’s not tied to the chair or the table or anything else inside this room.
He swears he’s a killer, but he presents absolutely no threat to us, so we’ve left him unbound and got him a cup of coffee.
“Tell it to us from the top.” I roll an apple between my hands and try with every ounce of willpower I possess to bring my mind here, and keep it off the woman who works a few blocks away.
Every cop inside this building is already dubbing our case a slam dunk, but I can’t for the life of me bring my focus to Garret and away from Minka.
Is she okay? Has she eaten? Does she miss me at all? And why the fuck do I feel a hot slick of worry in my gut?
“Tell it to us in your own words,” I try again. “Start with your full name, then bring us to the grass roots of what the hell happened.”
“My name is Garret Lee Mulroney.” He swallows nervously, so his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I was born right here in Copeland, on October thirteenth, nineteen ninety-nine.”
“Good. Okay.” Pulling out the chair opposite him, I sit down and take a bite of my apple. “Tell us where you were between the hours of ten and two, two nights ago.”
“I was with my friend, Gage.” He looks toward the mirrored wall, the kind everyone knows is a one-way mirror, where folks can watch on the other side, if they’re so inclined. “Gage Steerer. We were driving around from about nine.”
“Just the two of you?” Fletch asks.
“Yes. Just the two of us.” Garret brings his brown eyes to me. “We were driving around for a couple of hours, and every now and then, we’d circle Paul McGregor’s block and check if the lights were off yet.”
Pacing behind me with a frown marring his face and lips flattened to a straight line, Fletch asks, “Why? Why were you circling Mr. McGregor’s home?”
“Because we were waiting for him to be asleep.” Shakily, Garret sits a little taller. “Uh… wh-where’s Gage? Where did you put him, because—”
“He’s in the next room,” I answer. “Same setup as you’ve got. Table. Chairs. Mirror and a cup of coffee. He’s safe, and we’ll hop on over and have a chat with him soon.”
“Is he…” His gaze flickers between me and Fletch. “All alone?”
“We have an officer stationed inside the door, just to keep an eye on him. But they won’t be chatting. Why did you need Mr. McGregor to be asleep, Garret? Why were you watching his home?”
“Because we planned to go inside.” His voice crackles a little—with fear? Uncertainty? Regret?“Can you bring Gage in here with us? Then we can tell you everything together, and he won’t have to be alone.”
“Not right now.” I take another bite of my apple and crunch louder than probably necessary. “We need to get the story from each of you separately first. Maybe after that, we can put you together. You don’t seem like you’re resisting giving us a confession or evading punishment.” I look to Fletch. “He’s pretty amicable, to be honest.”
“We’ll spend an hour with you,” he says to Garret. “Get the story. See what’s up. Then we’ll go to Gage and do the same.”
“We have the same story,” Garret reasons. “We were both at the same place, same time.”
“Different perspectives.” Fletch shrugs. “Don’t stress it, okay? You came to us. You’re being entirely too fucking polite. So me and Malone both get to be Good Cop today. Sit back, relax, and tell us what you know of the night Paul McGregor was murdered.”
“It was cold.” Wrapping his hands around the foam cup of steaming coffee, Garret looks down at the black liquid and speaks as though on rote. “We were just driving around the city, waiting for the night to get on and the lights to turn off. We passed McGregor’s house probably twice an hour, and when we passed by around ten, the lights were out upstairs.”
“Is that when you went in?”
He shakes his head. “We did two more laps, which took about an hour, just to make sure he was really down. We didn’t wanna…” He brings his fearful gaze up. “We didn’t want him to be awake or scream or whatever.”
“Because you didn’t want to be caught?” Fletch brings Garret’s attention to him. “You didn’t want the party to end too soon?”
“We wanted to get the whole job done,” he answers instead. “We wanted him to be in his room, in his bed, and asleep.”
“Alright.” I spin the apple between my fingers and wait for our guest to slow his breathing. To calm himself.
He doesn’t look like a hardened killer to me. Instead, he looks like the brave one in a duo of terrified kids.
“So, McGregor was probably asleep around ten, but you and Gage waited until around eleven to stop,” I recap. “What next?”
