Storming back into the interrogation room, her boots striking the tile like thunder. She drops into the metal chair with a thud; her eyes blaze as they lock onto Millie. "So," she snaps, "tell me about your first husband—Marty."
Millie's brows knit together, confusion flickering across her pale, tear-streaked face. "What does he have to do with this?"
The sergeant impatiently shifts in her chair, her fingers drumming on the table. "Just answer the question, please."
Millie's eyes soften; a wistful glow crosses her face as she remembers their heated romance. "Marty and I met in high school. Married shortly after we graduated. We were soulmates, always destined to be."
"What happened the day Mary died?"
Tears spill freely; pain etches into her features. She snatches a tissue from her purse, then dabs her cheeks with trembling fingers when she recalls that tragic day. Sniffling, she glances up and says, "I was at a nursing convention in Harrison when I got the horrid call."
She's putting on quite a show, Rachel thinks, recalling how true psychopaths seldom have true emotional empathy.
Millie wipes the moisture from her face again before she continues. "I rushed home as soon as I heard. I just don't understand how he possibly drowned, being a star athlete and all."
"Who found him?"
"Our pool guy. He claims he tried CPR until help arrived. The paramedics claimed he was too late." Sniffling, she dries her face again.
"You were at the convention all day, correct?"
"Yes."
Rachel's eyes narrow. "It's funny, we see you on camera up until lunch, but you disappear shortly after that."
"I was probably on my way home by then."
"According to your call log, the call didn't come in until two."
There's a brief hesitation before Millie responds. "That's right, I was checking back in when I got the call. Ask the receptionist there; she'll tell you."
"We plan to." Rachel flips the page before continuing. "So tell me about your father's death?"
In a sharp, defensive tone she asks, "What about it?"
Millie's posture shifts. She's no longer the grieving widow but someone harder, more guarded. The sorrow in her eyes curdles into fury and hate. Her alter ego, perhaps? Remember how her cousin gets when off her meds? Rachel nervously shifts in her chair. "He's an electrician, correct?"
"Yes, why?"
Being a professional, it seems a little peculiar to me that he neglected to turn off the electricity before working on the wiring."
Millie recalls her father stumbling around the house. "He'd been drinking all day, so he was probably so drunk that he forgot."
"Did he drink a lot?"
""I can't ever recall a time that I didn't see some type of liquor in his hands."
"Did he ever become abusive?"
Millie turns away, her voice barely audible when she says. "I'd rather not talk about my childhood; it was a very difficult time for me."
Pulling a file from her folder, Rachel slides it over. "It shows you were at the ED numerous times. Was that because of him?"
Millie remembers being questioned in the ED again in school. "What excuse did I use?" she questions, trying to think back. "I was a klutzy kid; I fell a lot."
That's what you told your doctor and your teachers too, but like me, they didn't believe you. So DFS came out to investigate, correct?"
"They came out but didn't find anything to substantiate their claim, so they left."
"That must've angered you, thinking that you finally had help, but like all the other times, you were let down." Reaching over, Rachel takes Millie's hands in hers. "The system let you down, so I can understand why you'd want him dead."
Millie jerks her hand away as she takes a defensive stance. She slams her fists on the table and says, "I didn't do it, alright! God knows I wished him dead for all the times he beat me, the times he'd sneak into my room late at night. I told Mom, but she didn't believe me. She slapped my face and said I need to stop making stuff up. So, yeah, I prayed every stinking night that he'd drink himself to death or drive off a cliff driving home from a bar. If that makes me a monster, Sergeant, then so be it, but I swear to you I didn't have a damn thing to do with his death."
In a softer voice, Rachel says, "Realizing no one was going to help you, you decided to take matters into your own hands. Believe me, I understand more than you know. That doesn't make you a monster; it makes you a victim, doing what's needed to survive. No one would blame you if you did."
"I didn't do it. I didn't kill my father or John." Realizing what she said, she glances up, sniffles, and then corrects, "I mean Marty."
"When did you last speak to John?"
"This morning. I told him what was going on with the break-ins and the investigation, and he said he'll be on the first flight back."
"What time was this?"
"I just made it home, so it'd have to be a quarter after eight or so."
Rachel takes another file out of the folder and slides it across. "According to our ME, John died between two and four.
"Millie glances down at the photo. Tears swell in her eyes when she asks, "John's dead?"
"He was stabbed in his car." Rachel slides another piece of paper over. "He was heading to California, not a base."
"John doesn't know anyone there."
"Maybe he was running from his responsibilities. Rachel places another photo in front of her.
"Who are they?" Millie shakenly asks.
"His second family."
"No, that's not right; John would never do that to me."
"DNA confirmed the child is his: Rachel hands her a document before continuing. "Here's another fun fact for you: John was trying to get you committed to the psych ward, claiming you're a danger to yourself and to society."
Millie's sobs echo through the room. "How could John do this to me? How?"