Chapter 5 - Interrogation Room Four
The interrogation room of the Chicago Police Department was suffocatingly small. A single metal table sat bolted to the floor, illuminated by a harsh, buzzing fluorescent light overhead. Ryan sat across from me—or rather, across from Detective Miller and me, though I was technically observing through the two-way glass in the adjoining observation room.
Inside the interrogation room, Ryan’s composure completely dissolved. Gone was the charming, successful architect who fooled the neighborhood. His tie was loosened, his collar damp with nervous sweat.
'This is a mistake!' Ryan shouted, slamming his palms onto the metal table so hard the audio feed crackled. 'My wife slipped! She tripped over a rug while cooking! Everyone knows she’s unstable! Her father died of a heart attack and she never got over it!'
Detective Miller leaned back calmly, sliding an 8x10 glossy photograph across the table. It was a still frame from the kitchen camera. It showed Ryan’s hands clearly planted squarely against my shoulder blades, shoving me forward with malicious force.
Ryan stared at the photo. His breath hitched. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
'Recognize that angle, Ryan?' Miller asked smoothly. 'That’s the camera you thought you destroyed when you broke into the garage with bolt cutters three weeks ago. Turns out, data redundancy is a wonderful thing.'
'It’s... it’s fake,' Ryan stammered, pulling at his collar. 'AI-generated! Anyone can make a deepfake video nowadays! My lawyer will tear this apart!'
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'Oh, really?' Miller replied, tapping the folder. 'What about the audio track where your mother says, *"Maybe now she’ll stop being selfish"* right as your wife’s skin was melting against the pot? Was that AI too? Or was mom just improvising her lines?'
Ryan buried his face in his shaking hands, beginning to weep not from remorse, but from sheer, unadulterated terror.
