Chapter 3- The Second Interrogation

Danny sat alone in the stark, sterile interrogation room, frantically rubbing his wrists. The cuffs—Detective Ote’s personalized touch—had finally been taken off, but the throbbing pain and the livid red welts on his skin remained.

That man had a deeply personal, toxic vendetta against him. They had clashed the first time they met, and ever since, Danny had sculpted his entire existence around avoiding him and anything to do with law enforcement. Yet here he was, two years later, in the same cold chair under the same unforgiving fluorescent lights, the scent of fear and stale air still clinging to the cheap vinyl.

He reached for the plastic cup of water on the table, his fingers trembling slightly, then recoiled instantly, snatching his hand back. Do not touch anything you don't need to. Don't leave prints. Don't give them a single scrap of leverage. The ingrained paranoia was total and instantaneous, a defence mechanism sharper than any blade.

Danny’s head snapped up as the door opened. Officer Net walked in, looking strained and uncomfortable, followed by the hulking, toxic presence of Detective Ote. Danny inhaled deeply, trying to draw frigid air into his lungs to anchor his runaway breath. Just seeing Detective Ote was enough to flood his system with raw, icy terror.

"Why were you there?" Detective Ote demanded immediately, slamming his hand onto the table. He ignored the water pitcher, the chair, and the procedural necessity of starting the recorder. This wasn't an interview; it was a psychological ambush.

Officer Net shot a sharp, warning glance at his superior, clearly questioning the lack of procedure, but the hierarchy was absolute. He remained silent this time.

"Because I wanted to buy a drink on my way to work," Danny replied evenly, forcing the words past the dry lump in his throat.

"Couldn't you have gone to a different cafe?" Detective Ote pressed, leaning over the table until his shadow consumed him.

"Yes. But that one is my favourite, and I know most of the baristas. It's become my routine." Danny could already see the fabricated narrative taking shape in the detective’s narrow, suspicious eyes.

"So you chose that one specifically because they knew you?"

"I chose it because they make the drink I like," Danny corrected, allowing a flicker of defiance. "I go there every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Okay, Danny," Officer Net interjected, attempting to regain control of the room. "You went to the cafe. What happened when you got to the door?"

"I took out my AirPods, cased them, opened the door, and stepped inside. I only took a step or two before my mind registered the scene. The silence was the first thing. Then, the sight of the bodies." Danny paused, his throat tightening. "Once it did, I turned and ran straight out. I vomited, and then I called the police immediately."

Detective Ote folded his arms, the smirk returning. "I've listened to your phone call. I find it very... interesting."

"Interesting?" Danny asked, genuinely baffled. What could be interesting about a desperate call reporting mass murder?

"You sounded so distraught on the phone," Detective Ote drawled, circling him like a shark. "A little too distraught."

"Are you serious? I saw everyone in the cafe dead! Of course, I was distraught!"

Detective Ote scoffed, loud enough for Officer Net to hear, but directed the full, paralyzing force of his contempt at Danny. "A bloody good act, if you ask me. You even managed to inject the horror into your voice that you were missing two years ago."

"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM WITH ME?!" Danny shot out of the chair, rage finally overwhelming the fragile control he’d fought for.

"I hate manipulative bastards like you!" Detective Ote shouted back, jabbing a finger inches from Danny's face. "You use connections, pull strings, and get yourself off the hook every time, no matter who you kill! But this time, oh, this time I have you bang to rights."

Danny took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to sit back down. Allowing the man to control his emotions was allowing him to control the narrative.

"Had you bothered to do your bloody job two years ago, the killer from back then might have been caught," Danny retorted, the calm in his voice chilling even him, though inside he was boiling lava. "Instead, you wasted weeks looking for a scapegoat—and that just happened to be me. The only difference this time is that the killer may be back, and you are choosing to repeat your failure instead of saving future victims!"

Detective Ote's eyes widened, a flash of pure, malicious triumph crossing his face. "How do you know there are going to be more victims, huh? Unless you are the killer! Arrest him!"

"I don't know! I was just making a logical inference based on the similarities of the two cases!" Danny yelled back.

Officer Net held his hands up, a gesture of deep weariness. "This is getting us nowhere. Let's start again, shall we? Detective Ote, we need to follow procedure."

Detective Ote and Danny ignored him, locked in a ferocious, silent staring contest while Officer Net mechanically started the camera and delivered the official preamble. Danny’s mind raced, trying to anticipate Detective Ote's next move.

"Did you kill them?" Detective Ote asked the moment Officer Net finished setting up the camera.

Danny rolled his eyes, a gesture of exhaustion rather than insolence. "I'm a freelance journalist and photographer. Why would I kill anyone?"

"For a headline? The exclusive photo? Because you're evil? Sick, twisted? You get a kick from it? Take your pick, Bowen." Detective Ote spat the final word, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on the table.

"I have never killed anyone! Check the CCTV! I opened the door, saw the scene, turned around, vomited, and called the police. How many more times do I have to tell you?!"

"That is what all killers say!" Ote shouted, jumping out of his chair. "You got away with murder two years ago because of your uncle! But you won't get away with it this time!"

"YOU CAUSED THE KILLER TO GET AWAY! YOU FAILED TO GET JUSTICE FOR ALEX!" Danny screamed, slamming his hands down on the desk so hard the metallic sting shot up his arms, a small victory in pain.

The room fell into an immediate, heavy silence, broken only by their ragged, panting breaths. Finally, Detective Ote slowly sat back down, his face a mask of thwarted malice. Danny remained bowed over the desk, his adrenaline draining away to leave raw, shaking exhaustion.

"Because of you and your fixation on my supposed guilt, the killer was able to escape before you even focused on any other suspect or piece of evidence," Danny continued, calmer now, his voice low and dangerous. "Alex was murdered, and instead of finding out who did it, you turned what was already a nightmare into a torture session for me, simply because you could. And now, you want to do it again."

"What does he mean? What really happened, Detective?" Officer Net asked, his tone now bordering on insubordination.

"Nothing," Detective Ote cut in immediately, waving a dismissive hand.

Danny stayed quiet, focusing on the rhythmic in-and-out of his breath to control his fuming anger. Detective Ote had never solved Alex's case, preferring to publicly imply that "pressure from the top" let the killer walk free—a clear, poisonous hint pointed directly at Danny.

The next few hours were a gruelling, circular repetition. Detective Ote relentlessly hammered the coincidence of Danny's presence, while Officer Net tried to guide the questioning back to physical details. Danny held firm, reciting the sequence of events until the words tasted like ash.

Finally, long after the city outside had gone dark, a sharp knock came on the door. Someone requested the two detectives to leave.

The sudden silence was immense, broken only by the clock's methodical ticking and Danny’s ragged breathing.

He watched the second-hand crawl, his mind obsessively reviewing the two crime scenes. The similarities were too precise to be a coincidence, but the two-year gap and the vastly different locations defied simple logic. And the constant, overriding question remained: how was Detective Ote, the architect of his last downfall, already the lead detective on this one?

An icy, inescapable feeling of dread filled him again. Danny’s mind felt thick and heavy, and his eyelids began to droop an hour into his silent reflection.

Danny didn't know how long he was asleep or when he drifted off, but he jolted awake suddenly. His head was resting on his right arm on the cold desk, and a heavy, woollen jacket was draped across his back. He sat up, clutching the garment. The room felt bone-chillingly cold, yet his body was clammy and sweating.

He looked around. The clock read 10:00 PM. He had been there for over twelve hours.

When can I go home? Danny thought to himself, thinking over the weird dreams he had just woken from.

Dannys dreams had kept going over the scene from the café at first but suddenly it merged with the hotel room. Every mutilated face in the cafe dissolved, becoming Alex's face. The two scenes had combined, making his old, solitary nightmares feel like fluffy clouds. He sighed, realizing months of expensive therapy had gone down the drain. His nightmares were coming back with a vengeance. It felt as if some vast, unknown force was determined to destroy him. Every time he found a foothold—losing his parents, finding a lead with Alex, finally finding peace after his death—the rug was brutally pulled away.

Could it be the same killer? This thought made him shudder so hard that the chair squeaked.

But wait. If it was the same killer, then the operation was flawless even with a two-year gap. Chests ripped open, no blood. And Danny was the first to find them, in a popular cafe, in broad daylight. If no one had entered before him, that meant the killer had slaughtered everyone inside and slipped away unnoticed.

How is that possible?

His thoughts were interrupted by the door opening with a sharp click. Detective Ote and another detective Danny didn't recognize walked in.

"You are free to go," Detective Ote clipped out, his jaw tight with evident frustration.

Danny didn't utter a word. He sprang up, the mystery jacket clutched in his hand and walked as fast as his legs could carry him to the door. He had to get out and get as far away from Detective Ote as possible.

"But I will be watching you, Bowen," Detective Ote hissed, his voice dropping to a promise of eternal harassment as Danny walked past. "One step out of line, and I will have you! I will get you this time, you hear me?"

Danny shuddered, knowing the man meant it. He knew Detective Ote would be planning his next move, perhaps even planting something. But instead of responding, he walked down the corridor, through the exit doors, and out of the precinct.

The cool air hit his face, shocking his system back into reality. He stopped on the steps, inhaled the clean night air deeply, and a shaky, weary smile finally touched his lips.

He was free.

For now.