The interrogation room was exactly like the dozens Marcus had sat in from the other side of the table. Beige walls. Metal table bolted to the floor. Mirror that wasn't really a mirror. Fluorescent lights designed to make everyone look guilty.
He'd been here three hours. No water. No phone call. No lawyer yet.
Just him and his bloody hands and the weight of what he'd done pressing down like a physical thing.
Marcus stared at his reflection in the two-way glass. They'd taken his clothes, given him paper coveralls that crinkled every time he moved. His hands were bagged in evidence bags, clear plastic turning pink where the blood hadn't fully dried. He looked like a ghost. Like something already dead.
Maybe he was.
The door opened. Marcus didn't look up. He knew the rhythm of interrogations, knew they'd let him sit and stew before sending in whoever they thought would crack him fastest. Probably Devereaux. The captain would play the disappointed father, the mentor betrayed.
But it wasn't Devereaux.
"Detective Kane." Internal Affairs. Lieutenant Morrison, forty-something, with a face like a hatchet and eyes that had seen every lie ever told. She sat across from him without preamble, placed a digital recorder on the table, and pressed record. "This is Lieutenant Sarah Morrison, Internal Affairs, interviewing Detective Marcus Kane regarding the homicide of Miguel Reyes. Time is 4:47 AM, November fifteenth. Detective Kane, you've been advised of your rights?"
"Yes." Marcus's voice came out hoarse.
"And you're waiving your right to counsel at this time?"
"No. I want a lawyer."
Morrison's expression didn't change. "Then this interview is over." But she didn't move. Didn't turn off the recorder. Just sat there, studying him. "For what it's worth, Kane, I've been doing this for twenty-two years. I know a stone-cold killer when I see one. And I know a cop having the worst night of his life. You're the latter."
Marcus looked up for the first time. "Doesn't change what I did."
"No. It doesn't." Morrison leaned back, arms crossed. "But it might change why. And why matters."
"I killed a man."
"You called it in yourself. Waited for arrest. That's not how killers usually operate."
"How would you know what kind of killer I am?" The words came out sharper than Marcus intended. "Maybe this is exactly how I operate."
Morrison's eyes narrowed. "Is that a confession to additional crimes?"
"I want a lawyer."
"You already said that." She stood, finally reaching for the recorder. "The public defender will be here in an hour. Until then, you sit tight. Don't talk to anyone. Don't make this worse than it already is."
She was at the door when Marcus spoke again, the words dragging themselves out against his will: "Lieutenant. Hypothetically. If someone was doing things they didn't remember doing. If they had gaps in their memory, blackouts where they were conscious but not in control. What would that sound like to you?"
Morrison paused, hand on the doorknob. She didn't turn around. "Hypothetically? It would sound like someone building an insanity defense. And Detective Kane? That's a very dangerous game to play. Because if you convince people you're crazy enough to kill without knowing it, you might never see the outside of a psych ward again."
The door closed behind her with a sound like a cell locking.
Marcus was alone again.
He looked at his hands. The bags crinkled when he flexed his fingers. Somewhere under that plastic was the evidence that would convict him. GSR. Blood spatter. Tissue samples. Everything he'd spent twelve years learning to collect from crime scenes, now collected from him.
The really fucked up part was how clean the muscle memory felt. Even now, sitting here, he could recall the weight of his weapon, the smooth draw, the squeeze of the trigger. Three shots, textbook grouping. Then the knife….where had the knife come from?, and the precision of the cut.
He'd done it perfectly.
That was what scared him most. Not that he'd killed. Not even that he couldn't remember the details. But that his body had known exactly what to do, like it had done it a hundred times before.
The door opened again. This time it was Devereaux.
Captain Richard Devereaux looked like he'd been carved from granite and disappointment. Six feet of military posture and expensive suits, silver hair immaculate even at five in the morning. He didn't sit. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at Marcus the way a father might look at a son who'd burned down the house.
"Marcus."
"Captain. I invoked. You shouldn't be here."
"I'm not here as your interrogator. I'm here as your friend." Devereaux's voice was soft, paternal. The same tone he'd used three years ago when Marcus had been broken and desperate. "Talk to me. Help me understand what happened tonight."
"I want a lawyer."
"I pulled strings to get you Reeves. Best defense attorney in the city. He'll be here within the hour." Devereaux finally sat, movements careful, deliberate. "But Marcus, between you and me, off the record..what the hell were you thinking?"
Marcus laughed. It came out wrong, edged with hysteria. "I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. I wasn't thinking at all."
"You're saying you didn't mean to kill Reyes?"
"I'm saying I don't remember killing Reyes. I remember being home. Then I remember standing over his body. Everything in between is just... gone."
Devereaux's expression shifted. Something Marcus couldn't read. "Gone how?"
"An hour. Completely missing. Like someone else was driving and I was just along for the ride." Marcus met his captain's eyes. "You were military intelligence before the force. You've ever heard of anything like that? Soldiers losing time, doing things they don't remember?"
The silence stretched too long.
"Richard." Marcus leaned forward as much as the cuffs would allow. "Have you heard of anything like that?"
"There were programs." Devereaux's voice was careful, measured. "Black book operations. Behavioral conditioning. Ways to help soldiers cope with trauma by compartmentalizing their experiences. But nothing that would cause what you're describing."
"What kind of programs?"
"Classified. And irrelevant. Marcus, you need to focus on the present. You killed a man. That's not in dispute. The only question is whether it was premeditated or if you were having some kind of episode."
"I don't want diminished capacity. I want to know what happened to me."
"What happened is you had a psychotic break. The PTSD finally caught up with you." Devereaux stood. "It's not your fault. The war broke you. We tried to fix you. Sometimes the fix doesn't take."
Marcus stared at his captain. At the man who'd been his mentor, his father figure. "You sent me to Meridian. You recommended the program."
"I recommended treatment for a decorated detective who was falling apart. Yes."
"What if the treatment is what's wrong with me?"
"Then we'll investigate that. After we deal with the murder charge." Devereaux moved toward the door. "Marcus. I'm on your side. But you need to let me help you the right way. Don't go looking for conspiracies that aren't there."
"How do you know they're not there?"
"Because sometimes the simplest answer is the right one. You're sick. You need help. That's all this is."
The door closed.
Marcus sat in the silence. Simple answer. Occam's Razor.
Except his phone was in evidence now, and on that phone was a message he'd sent but didn't remember sending. A confirmation to an unknown number. TARGET NEUTRALIZED.
That wasn't a psychotic break. That was a report.
Like he'd been following orders.