Autopsy Of A Mind 7 Prime Suspec

"He's been dead for some time. You can go and check if you want." He shook his head vigorously, obviously understanding the gravity of the situation. He also turned to talk to the group and convince them to leave. I noticed that he didn't mention anything about leaving himself, which made me wonder if he was doing it for an interesting video he could make or just taking responsibility of things that had occurred under his watch. There were a few others who didn't leave, too, but they were the ones with the cameras still rolling, so I was sure that they were hanging around to get more views on the internet.

I was satisfied that there stay would be in vain, only resulting in a warning from the cops or some time in jail if they got really unlucky. Their video footage would be seized as evidence and as it would be considered as sensitive information on an ongoing homicide investigation. Of course, they didn't know that was how the law worked, they thought that escaping the eyes of the police would ensure that they get away scot-free, not that a dozen videos they posted of trespa.s.sing could act as evidence to charge them of a felony.

Sheer stupidity.

As a chunk of the group made their way out of the building, I could hear the sound of the siren. It seemed that the others were too late to get out. Every one of them would be questioned. I even chuckled at how amusing the situation was, but it didn't help my standing in the group.

They were sure that I was a psychopath by that time.

.

Police stations are weird. Actually, I take that back, law enforcement is filled with strange people. Not a single word I had spoken directed them to believe that I was the murderer, yet here I was answering the same questions for the third time in the past four hours. It was in the wee hours of the morning and I was lucky that needed little to no sleep to function as a reasonable human being. I could only imagine what condition the others must have been. Despite their protests, all the members of the group were transported to the nearest police station and had all been questioned alternately. I was not sure what they had said but most of them were let go when they called friends over. Unfortunately for me, I had called the murder in and therefore was being questioned extensively as was Lucas who had been taken to the second interview room just beside this one. Having gone through this process before, not as a suspect but as a victim, I knew well that the questions were more aggressive than what's asked to an eyewitness.

But this was about two hours ago and they had left me here to ponder on what I had been asked and answered. I was patiently waiting for the next round of questioning to begin and was sure that they were trying to instigate me into saying something scandalous as a result of stress and sleep deprivation.

I was glad that they had at least had the decency to offer me a bottle of water when my throat was parched and the room became chilly. It was about at seven in the morning (according to the clock in the interrogation room) when the entrance rattled. A young looking man entered, his expression bare on his face.

He looked somewhat angry as he closed the door behind him and my suspicion was confirmed when he dragged the chair across from me audibly before plopping down to sit on it. He exuded indignance and I expected his questions to be as such, too.

"We should start with your name." Like his face, there was no charm to his voice. He didn't control his vocal cords to maximize his presence or start with introducing himself and establis.h.i.+ng his authority. Amateur.

So I didn't reply to him out of sheer spite. Did it make me look guilty, yes, but was I scared? No. I had figured out that they would realize I was innocent at some point in time so I had nothing to worry about.

"Can you please tell me your name," he gritted out, much to my pleasure.

"Evie Marie Lewis."

I reached into my pocket to fish out the purse.

The boy, though, was alarmed and moved away from me as if to avoid being attacked, which was funny because my body language was anything but polite.

"My ID. This proves my ident.i.ty." I gave him a smile that I hoped was rea.s.suring.

"Do you know why you are being questioned?" See, always with the off the mark questions.

"I imagine I am being suspected of killing the homeless man," I answered him politely. By this time I had already figured out what was going on, who he was, and why I was being questioned repeatedly.

"Good. Please retell the events that led to you finding the body." And I did as he said. Again, he was not asking questions, he was letting me figure out how to answer. It would only lead to the interviewee being able to edit the story to suit their circ.u.mstances.

'Amateur.'

"-and I called 911 and asked them to come over with their forensics team."

"You realized he was dead without checking for a pulse, huh?" He looked so satisfied with himself, thinking he had found a lapse in my narrative.

"When I reached him, I was sure he was close to dying. There was no fogging from his breathing and he wasn't using the cardboard as a makes.h.i.+ft bed. I figured I would have to perform CPR but when I saw his face, I knew he had been dead for some time." I was sitting straight, my hands splayed on the desk, each on one side of the body.

He reached for the file he had kept at the edge of the table and flipped it open. He took out a bunch of pictures and arranged them in front of me to see. I was scared that his only knowledge of investigation had come from watching TV shows, and I hoped that whoever's a.s.sistant he was would realize that and quickly teach the boy how to go about interrogating and presenting crime scene information.

"What do you see?" If I wasn't annoyed enough, this made me reach my limits. I gave him a leveled glare and asked him a question of my own.

"Is this your first time trying to crack a case?" He seemed stunned and the vulnerable expression didn't leave his face fast enough. "Ah, I was right. You lack insight and jump to conclusions. Did you expect me to react horribly? Gasping and gagging at the sight of the body? Or did you think that you could peg my indifference to the scene as proof of my guilt?" I scoffed.

"Are you admitting to your crime?" his excitement was palpable.