The precinct smelled of wet coats and old coffee. It was a tired smell the building acquired in rainy towns — the odor of people who lived half in offices and half in the weather. Judith came in carrying the rain with her, cheeks flushed from the cold, a determined look that said she'd won a small war.
"Kelvin's coming," she said before she'd closed the door. "He... he agreed. He'll be here tomorrow morning. But he is coming with a lawyer, from what I hear."
The words dropped into the room like a match struck. For a team that had been chasing ghosts for weeks, a single person with a name and an appointment was a rare thing — a piece of the map finally colored in.
Tyson nodded from the head of the table where he'd been quietly giving people assignments. "Good. Prepare the interrogation room. Check if all cameras are at good to go condition. Sofie — make sure the cameras and audio backups are redundant."
Sofie, pale from exhaustion and wired, blinked twice and already had two tabs open on her laptop. "Done. I'll have redundancy and cloud mirrors in place. No leaks on my watch."
Brendon stood at the whiteboard, marker in hand, already sketching the skeleton of the interview. The marker's black tip squeaked slightly on the worn plastic surface. He drew Kelvin's name in a block, then a line to Eris Noir, then a dotted trail to OnlyFans. The connections were ugly and obvious — money, studios, platforms — the sort of neat diagrams people hoped would resolve into a straight-line truth. They rarely did.
"Judith, you'll lead the witness line if anything comes up in followups," Brendon said. "Robert, you do escort. Jason — you join me in the room. I want you running good-cop. I'll be… less subtle."
Jason, who had returned to duty that morning and looked both younger and more fragile for the leave, gave a nervous, apologetic half-smile. His koala features were soft — round ears, big, dark, wet eyes — which made his presence less intimidating than useful in a bargaining room. Yet his posture was straight, and there was a careful professionalism in the way he folded his hands on the table.
"Good-cop, bad-cop?" he asked, voice small but firm.
Brendon didn't bother to hide his grin. "Old is gold."
A murmur went through the room — then straightened into work. They prepared the interrogation room: table centered under the harsh overhead lamp, two chairs opposite the one-way glass, recording microphones, a small box with a visitor's water bottle. The team checked their questions, their legal triggers, and their angles.
Later, when Brendon saw Jason alone, he asked the question he'd been avoiding: "You okay? You took a leave out of nowhere back then."
Jason's face did that quick, embarrassed flush people get when something private is touched in public. "Yeah. I— I needed time. That video… it could've been any one people. Could be someone among us. The way it was shot — clinical, rehearsed. I had nightmares. I left for a week."
Brendon listened. It didn't surprise him; the case had made cowards and heroes in the same night. "So... you just ran away...?"
"No," Jason said quickly. "I thought about it. But then I realized I passed through the academy to be a cop. To be able to handle this. I'm built to stand. At the academy I was top of my negotiation class. We did mock interrogations. I can do the paperwork and the empathy too. I want to help."
Brendon let the words sit. You could train people to be agents and administrators; you couldn't always train them to face that first taste of horror. Jason's return — small, embarrassed, resolute — mattered. It gave Brendon a clean, human fact to wrap his day around.
---
Next Morning — Interview Day
Sunlight was uncertain that morning — thin through rain, flittering like a shy animal across parked cars. The sound of a Lamborghini arriving in front of the station was an incongruity that turned heads. Its low, mechanical snarl was like someone bringing a racetrack into a library.
Kelvin Richardson stepped out of it with the kind of deliberate ease practiced by men born into boardrooms. He was tall, immaculately dressed in a navy suit that kept its lines regardless of the drizzle. His hair was close-cropped and silvered at the temples, like a practiced Schopenhauer. He wore a watch that cost more than the station's evidence lockers.
Beside him walked a solicitor — compact, sharp-suited, the lawyer moving with a professional exhaustion. He had the kind of face that made people feel judged simply for breathing in his vicinity.
Kelvin's expression when the doors opened was courteous, a public smile that didn't reach his eyes. He was a man who'd learned the monetary value of attitude: approachable, concerned, with all the tonality of the press release he'd memorize before giving it.
"Mr. Richardson," Tyson said from the doorway, "we appreciate you coming."
Kelvin inclined his head. "Of course. I want to help. Anything to bring… clarity."
His lawyer's jaw was a wire. "We expect to be treated properly, Chief. We reserve our rights but are willing to cooperate to the extent the law allows."
They were ushered into the small interrogation room. The one-way glass hid the murmuring team behind it. Brendon nodded at Jason, a small signal — you do the face, I'll do the nerve.
Jason took the chair opposite Kelvin and folded his hands. He turned on the Good Cop.
"Mr. Richardson," Jason began, voice soft and steady, "thank you for coming in willingly. We know you have responsibilities. We're not here to trap anyone — we're desperate for answers. If you can help us, anything you tell could speed up the investigation and prevent more harm."
Kelvin's eyes flicked to the lawyer for a beat — permission? — and then he allowed the whole room to see him being a man who wanted to parece generous.
"Of course," Kelvin said. "I'm… horrified by the footage. I want justice for whomever was harmed."
Jason leaned forward. "Did you know the victim? Whitney — or someone who used that mask? Were you in contact with her? Any business relations?"
Kelvin's posture stayed poised. "I knew Whitney in a professional way. We'd discussed content distribution strategies. She was an independent creator with a wide reach. Not someone on OnlyFans' payroll, per se, but an important creator with a strong brand."
Jason's smile was a careful mirror. "Did she ever work with Eris Noir?"
Kelvin's hand brushed his suit, a small micro-move that betrayed nothing. "Eris Noir was a small production entity I invested in years ago while scouting indie studios. That company folded — legal issues, poor management. I did fund a short or two, but sir, I wasn't involved in day-to-day operations."
Brendon had been watching Kelvin through his armour, watching the way as if scanning him from inside. The man's polish was an armor; everyone polished things before they slipped them under the door. Brendon's job was to force the door with a crowbar.
He switched tactics.
"You funded Eris Noir," Brendon said, voice low, blunt — they had to bludgeon pretense before finesse. "You put money into a studio that now shows up as the origin of Trial One. The server routing for the upload hit Eris Noir's dissolved account. Your signature's on the investor brief. Why?"
Kelvin's lawyer straightened in a way that could snap. "I'm advising my client not to answer questions that might incriminate him. We'd like counsel present."
Jason held up a hand — good cop placating. "We're not forcing you to self-incriminate. Mr. Richardson, if you can help us by telling the truth — no pressure will be forced, we just need clarity — it helps your company and ours."
Kelvin's jaw tightened. "I understand the gravity. I sold my equity. After the bankruptcy I had to cut losses. The only thing I regret is that I didn't do a better job vetting the people behind the projects. But I truly had no knowledge when the content was posted."
Brendon leaned forward. He set his palms on the table and let the light make shadows across his knuckles.
"You're aware of how that looks, Mr. Richardson aren't you?" he said. "Investor in a studio that disappears and then uploads a live-action murder. Plenty of people invested with you. Plenty of money moved through phantom companies. Bank records are paper trails, Mr. Richardson. They don't disappear when someone doesn't want them to."
The lawyer's hand moved. "Objection to the insinuation, Chief."
Kelvin's face didn't change much; he'd learned to be photographed in hard light. But his fingers fiddled ever so slightly with his cufflink.
Jason, like a practiced second, reached for the gentler route. "Mr. Richardson — we understand the legal positioning. But think about Whitney as a person: a creator, someone who has people depending on their channel. Did anyone threaten her? Any professional rivalries that escalated?"
Kelvin blinked, the tiniest human flicker of discomfort. "Whitney was outspoken. She courted controversy. There were creators who disliked her for being provocative. Rosa Marigold is one of the names I remember — they had a feud online about content theft. It escalated into public insults. But a feud doesn't make one a killer. Right officers?"