Chapter 7 - The Interrogation RoomDeep within the subterranean levels of the Reno Police Department, the air smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and decades of bureaucratic despair.
I sat behind the two-way observation mirror in Interview Room B. On the other side of the glass, sitting under the harsh, unyielding glare of a single overhead fluorescent bulb, was Arthur Vance.
Gone was the immaculate arrogance, the tailored Italian wool suits, and the untouchable executive swagger. Stripped of his belt, his watch, and his corporate phone, my father looked shrunken, his skin gray and slack against his jawline.
Detective Voss sat across the metal table from him, sliding a thick folder of forensic bank statements across the surface.
“Your signature, Mr. Vance,” Voss said evenly. “On four million dollars in offshore municipal transfers routed through Apex Holdings.”
Arthur stared down at the paper, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the edge of the table. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and desperate, scanning the empty corners of the interrogation room as if searching for a loophole that no longer existed.
“It was... it was standard business procedure,” Arthur stammered, his voice cracking with panic. “Everyone in commercial real estate plays the game! You can’t pin this entirely on me—my partners, the zoning board, they all approved the—”
“Your partners are already cooperating with federal prosecutors to save their own skins, Arthur,” Voss interrupted coldly. “And your wife has already confessed to her role in forging the environmental documents. You’re looking at a mandatory minimum of twenty years without parole.”
Arthur slumped back in his chair, the last remaining trace of his formidable pride evaporating into nothingness. He buried his face in his shackled hands, letting out a dry, ragged sob.
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Watching him through the glass, I felt no surge of triumphant glee. There was only a profound, hollow stillness. The monster who had watched me bleed on the living room rug and turned his back was nothing more than a frightened, pathetic old man who had traded his humanity for a ledger sheet.
I stood up, smoothed down the lapels of my coat, and walked out of the observation room.
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