Interview Room 4

A crime fiction story about the decisions we all make.

Photo by Arnav Singhal on Unsplash

The bruising on her left wrist snuck out from under the cuff of her bulky, gray sweatshirt emblazoned with the mascot of a local high school. While the veteran detective was certain she hadn’t seen him glance at it, she nonetheless tugged at the cuff with her right hand, swallowing the bruises in soft gray cotton.

“Hi Rachel, has someone offered you a bottle of water?” His voice was soft. She nodded yes. “I’m Detective Ray Norland and I’d like to talk to you about what happened tonight.” She looked at him for a moment, then realized an answer was expected of her.

“Okay.”

“Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”

Her eyes were raw, and her cheeks shone with the remnants of dried tears. She sniffled and, with her hand sucked inside the sweatshirt sleeve, she rubbed her nose.

“Yeah.”

“Rachel, I don’t know what happened, but I want to know.” He approached the next topic carefully. “But I also want you to know that you don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to say anything. You also have the right to get a lawyer down here and be with you when you talk to me. And if you start talking to me and want to stop at any time, you can, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you feel like you understand all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you need me to go over it again?”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything. Detective Norland knew, however, that camera in the black, silent orb that hung in the top right corner of the room had captured and recorded her response. She was seated quietly across from him in a small, windowless room with a concrete floor and cement block walls, a steel table separated them. They called it “Interview Room 4” but that was, in Ray Norland’s considered opinion, just a rosy title. It was nothing more than a room where police officers broke down suspects to make them reveal their secrets. That was all Interview Room 4 was designed to do. Why it was built. He took a deep breath. Blew it out. A minute passed. Then two.

“Where do you want me to start?” With her right hand she pushed a stray stand of light brown hair out of her face and up over her right ear. Her left hand, and the wrist above it, remained pulled into her sweatshirt sleeve. Out of sight.

“What did you do tonight?”

“Me?”

He nodded. There isn’t anyone else in the room, kid. She shrugged, pushed the hair strand behind her ear again.

“Nothin’ much. Homework. Made us mac and cheese for dinner.”

“Talk to anybody on the phone?”

She shook her head in a way that signaled there was no one else on earth she could talk to. To confirm the idea, her eyes welled a bit with tears. Detective Norland considered things for a moment. Then, he gently pushed a small, half-full box of cheap tissues from one corner of the table to a place closer to her. She took one, dabbed her eyes with it, and wadded it but kept it in her hands.

“What time did you fall asleep?”

“Dunno. Maybe eleven?”

“Why do you say eleven?”

She shrugged and began slowly tearing the wadded tissue apart. Pulling it between her hands so that it separated in the middle.

“You told the dispatcher that you heard something that woke you up.”

“Who?”

“The 911 operator.”

“Oh.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you hear?”

“The door busting open.” She looked up at him from the tissues. Bright green eyes. She squinted slightly, pushing the tiny scar – which normally rested placidly and barely visible two inches from her right eye – into the folds of her squint. If she hadn’t done that he may not have noticed it. “Maybe glass breaking?” She let the question hang in the air before concluding: “It sounded something like that.”

“And that woke you up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where had you been sleeping?”

“I feel asleep on the couch.” Her focus had returned to shredding the tissues in her hands. There was a slight tremble in them as she fidgeted. 

“In the living room.”

“Yes, sir.”

Norland had been in Rachel’s living room two hours earlier – just past three-thirty in the morning – after the on-scene supervisor had put out the call for a homicide detective. He recalled the living room to be small and cluttered, the smell of stale cigarette smoke choked the life out of any fresh air that accidentally wandered in. In the small kitchen off to the left, a garbage can in the corner overflowed with crushed Miller High Life cans. A worn, plaid couch sat in the middle of the living room, next to a similarly worn faux leather recliner. An older television sat a few feet across from the couch. The undamaged front door to the house was two feet to the left as you faced the TV. Ray Norland hadn’t seen any broken glass when he performed his walkthrough.

“What happened next?”

“I didn’t know what was going on. Got scared.” Her eyes flicked up to his. He met them.  

“Then what happened?”

She fell silent for a long moment. When she spoke, it was a whisper.

“Got the gun.”

“That’s when you got the gun?”

“Yes, sir.” She nodded.

“Your father’s gun?” A slight pause in her response. She nodded again so he pressed forward: “Where does he keep it?”

“In his bedroom.” Her voice was so soft that Norland was slightly concerned that the mic on the overhead camera wasn’t picking it up. And he wasn’t sure if he wanted it to.

“That’s the room that’s…” his voice drifted as he feigned trying to recall the layout of the house. She let him twist for thirty seconds before supplying:

“In the back.”

“In the back,” he confirmed, pointing at her. “To the right of the bathroom,” he added. She nodded; her head bowed. He folded his arms and looked at her. She continued to shred the tissue until she felt his gaze on him and looked up at him. “I’m guessing that’s about twelve feet from the couch. Maybe fifteen,” he mused. She shrugged.

“I guess.”

“Where does he keep the gun in his bedroom?”

“Under the mattress. He’s not supposed to have it. ‘Cause of his…record.”

“I know.” Norland unconsciously rubbed his push broom mustache with his hand. She wasn’t much older than his niece Tamara. They were both wisps of things, the kind of girls that old folks said a strong breeze would knock over. But he knew in his guts that the little girl in front of him had been knocked over by a whole lot more than a strong breeze during in her life in that house.

“Where was your little brother when you heard the door bust in?”

“In his bed. I’d tucked him in a couple hours earlier.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight.” The smile turned on the edges of her mouth, quick as a hiccup. Was gone just as fast. “Is he okay?”

“He’s okay. They took him to Vanderbilt to get checked out.” Norland grimaced. “Looks like he had a nasty welt on his back. Couple of them.” Her silence filled the room.

“When can I see him?”

“I don’t know yet, Rachel,” Norland said, honestly. Tears welled in her eyes, but no sobs came. In a practiced motion, she took what was left of the shredded tissue and held it briefly under each eye, drying vainly to dry it. “The gun was under the mattress?” She nodded at his question. “Loaded?” She shrugged. “Why did you get the gun out?”

“I was scared.”

At least that part is true, Norland thought. That part is right on the damn money.

“What happened next?”

“I saw the man in the house, and I was…I was so scared. I just…” She picked up her left hand, made a gun with her thumb and forefinger and mimed pulling the trigger.

“How many times did you pull the trigger?”

“Two? Three? I don’t know.”

“What happened to the man?”

“He fell down.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Went into Stephen’s room and locked the door.”

“Did you take the gun with you?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Called 911 with your cell phone?” She nodded again. They sat together for a few minutes. Norland believed in being comfortable with silence when talking to suspects. People in interrogation rooms – in interview rooms – with detectives hated that silence. They sought to fill it. When they did fill it, it was usually to give the detective something that turned out to be incriminating. You just had to wait. Be patient. Be comfortable in the silence. Tonight, however, things would be different. They’d have to be. As an initial step to that resolution, he decided that he would be the one to fill the silence.

“When did you learn that the man you shot was your father?” The room stood still. All the atoms between them froze in place. Her hands, which had been gently kneading and shredding the tissue, also stopped. It was the moment at the very apex of the roller coaster. The weightlessness that fills your brain before everything rushes back down to earth and you hold on for dear life until it’s over. The silence between them that lasted only a few seconds felt like half an hour.

“Not until the police came.” She looked up at him after she said it. Her soft green eyes were searching. The unruly brown hair had once again fled from behind her ear and hung, suspended, in front of her face like the long rope of a Wild West hangman. Just holding there in the air. Waiting for the pull of the lever and that would draw the rope taut.

Norland met her eyes in silent but sure communion. What passed between them could not be spoken. Never be spoken. Slowly, her left hand and wounded wrist emerged free from her sleeve and she used it to slide the unruly hair from where it hung in space back over her ear in safety. To be sure she understood, he asked more questions.

“What was he wearing when he left the house earlier?”

“Jeans. Boots. A plaid jacket kind of a thing. With buttons. A t-shirt.” Her eyes remained fixed on his. Her hands sat still in her lap.

“What was the man who busted in the house wearing?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Couldn’t or didn’t?” His voice arched ever-so-slightly. She looked at him, her eyes questioning. Then she saw what he was asking. And why.

“It all happened so fast.”

“So, you didn’t see what the man was wearing.” She nodded. He nodded in return.

“He came in too quick,” she added.

“But you had time to get the handgun?” He was looking at the ceiling when he asked it. Then his eyes dropped to meet hers. He shrugged. She considered the question for more than a full minute.

“I guess he didn’t get in right away. I heard the first boom on the door and that’s when I went to get…to get the gun.”

“So, he didn’t bust in all of the sudden.”

“No, sir.”

“You’re saying he tried to break in first and that’s when you went to get the gun…And when he actually broke in. Got into the house…before you could see what he was wearing…that’s when you fired.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked at him expectantly. His nod was so quick and so shallow that it would never be seen on the video recording of the interrogation. It was only intended for her. And he knew she’d seen it.  

“Why didn’t you call the police when the break-in started?” His voice was gentle, but the tone underneath was urgent. An important question. A critical question. She looked at him and shrugged.

“I just panicked. All I could think about was Stephen and not…not letting him get to Stephen.”

Norland looked at her with newfound admiration. That has the added advantage of being the truth, he thought. A thought visibly occurred to her. Her voice was mild but the conviction behind it was stronger than steel.

“We called the police before.” Her eyes locked with his. “Nothin’ happened.”

Shame burned in Norland’s cheeks, and he averted his eyes to focus on the cold, industrial gray wall of the interrogation room. He dropped his head and sighed deeply. Chastened, he sat quietly for a long moment.

“Where y’all gonna go?” His question was the first confirmation of the deal they’d struck.

“My Aunt Sadie, my Momma’s sister.” She was trying not to answer too quickly. “She lives in Chattanooga. I’m gonna see if she’ll take us.”

“You haven’t talked to her recently, have you?” Norland’s question was sharp. A new threatening fact that would touch on planning and, worse, premeditation. Rachel immediately shook her head.

“No sir, not since Christmas.” Three months ago. “But after…after Momma died, she always said if we needed anything to let her know.” Norland sighed again. This time in relief.

“Do you have her number? Want me to make a call?”

“No, sir,” she said, her voice pleasant as if he had asked to carry her groceries to the car, “I can call her whenever…Whenever we’re through here.” There was hope in her voice. Mindful of the black orb watching in the corner, he decided not to answer her directly.

“You don’t drive, do you?”

“I can drive.”

“You got a license?” The surprise was evident in his voice.

“In January,” her eyes searched his to assess if he considered that fact to be a problem. He shook his head to indicate that it wasn’t.

“What about a car?”

“I can take the truck.”

“The uh…the…your father’s truck?”

“If it’s alright with y’all, sir,” she said, her voice deferential. “I don’t know who else would take it.”

“He ain’t got any family around?”

“I’ve got an uncle, but he lives in Arkansas. We haven’t seen him in forever. Since Stephen was a baby.”

Norland looked at her for a long moment. She was a pretty girl. A young woman. A pretty young woman who deserved to have a life ahead of her. A woman who had paid for her freedom. Resolved, he nodded and asked: “You gonna need a ride back to y’all’s house?”

And there it was.

The tears shone in her eyes, and color rose in her previously wan cheeks.

“Yes,” she whispered. Then, as soft as a prayer, she added: “Thank you.”

“Gimme a minute,” Norland said by way of response as he got up from the table and turned and opened the door to the interrogation room. He stepped into the hallway where he was met by Sergeant Tim Walters, his supervisor. Walters had been waiting for him.

“We been to that house six times in the last eighteen months,” Walters said, shaking his head. “Domestics. Child protective services. You name it. The dad was shit-housed every time.” Norland nodded, wincing. “All the charges got dropped. No one showed up in court.” Walters exhaled and shrugged dramatically. Whattya gonna do, right?

“That’s what it sounded like,” Norland said, nodding his head back towards Rachel in the interview room. He looked at this supervisor, making every effort to control any outward show of his rage at their shared impotence. ‘We called the police before. Nothin’ happened.’ Goddamit.

“Well, I guess we gotta decide,” Walters continued, “if we’re booking her on homicide charges or cutting her loose. What do you think Ray? You believe her break-in story?”

“Yes,” he lied. “Yes, I do.”