Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
By 5:00 PM, Brandon and Evelyn were separated into two soundproof interrogation rooms on the second floor of the County Sheriff’s Headquarters.
Through the two-way mirror of Interrogation Room B, Hastings, Miller, and I watched Brandon Mercer. The polished, charismatic businessman was gone. His linen shirt was wrinkled and stained with sweat; his hair was disheveled; he sat curled in a metal chair, chewing his fingernails until they bled, while his court-appointed public defender—whom he had been forced to accept after his private accounts were frozen—whispered frantically in his ear.
Across the hall in Room A, Evelyn was taking a different approach. She sat upright, her chin tilted up, refusing to look at the detective across the table. “I am not answering a single question until my private counsel arrives,” she had repeated twenty times. “This is an outrage. I loved my grandson. I will sue this entire county into bankruptcy.”
Hastings turned to Miller. “Let’s break Brandon first. He’s the weak link.”
Miller opened the door to Room B and stepped inside, carrying a thick manila folder and a portable tablet. He sat down across from Brandon, placing the tablet flat on the stainless steel table.
Brandon’s attorney, a tired-looking man named Richard Kline, raised a hand. “Detective, as I stated, my client maintains his absolute innocence regarding the tragic passing of his nephew and reserves his right to remain silent.”
“That’s fine, counselor,” Miller said calmly. “He doesn't have to say a word. He just has to look at these documents.”
Miller slid three sheets of paper across the table.
“These are certified audit findings from the Virginia Department of Professional and Occupational Regulation, executed under federal search warrant at your downtown brokerage firm this morning,” Miller said. “Four hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars missing from seven client escrow accounts. Transferred directly into an offshore sports-gambling portal registered under your name in Curaçao.”
Brandon flinched, his eyes darting away from the paper.
“Embezzlement alone carries up to twenty years in state prison, Brandon,” Miller continued, his voice dangerously soft. “But that’s not why you're here. You're here because you decided your seven-year-old nephew’s life was worth less than your financial freedom.”
“I didn't kill him!” Brandon blurted out, ignoring his lawyer’s frantic tapping on his arm. “I loved Leo! I would never hurt him!”
“Then why did you take his EpiPens out of his backpack on Thursday afternoon?” Miller asked.
“I didn't! He must have lost them! He was a careless kid!”
Miller leaned forward, tapped the tablet screen, and rotated it to face Brandon.
“Leo wasn't careless, Brandon,” Miller said. “In fact, he was a lot smarter than you. Watch.”
Miller pressed play.
The video flared to life on the high-definition screen. The audio rang out through the small room: “The bylaws are explicit, Ma. If the primary beneficiary predeceases his eighth birthday... the entire principal balance liquidates and defaults immediately to me as the contingent trustee! No probate, no David having a veto...”
Brandon stared at the screen. The blood drained from his face so fast that he looked like a corpse. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
On the screen, Brandon’s own hands were seen holding up the yellow autoinjectors. Then came Evelyn’s cold command: “Put them in the metal air vent behind the basement water heater... After the paramedics leave, I’ll drop them down the storm drain near the golf course.”
“Oh God...” Brandon whimpered, burying his face in his cuffed hands. “Oh God... oh God...”
“My client invokes his right to silence!” Kline shouted, reaching to close the tablet. “We are terminating this interview!”
“Wait,” Brandon sobbed, swatting his lawyer’s hand away. Tears and snot were streaming down his face, completely destroying any shred of his former arrogance. “Wait! It wasn't my idea! It was Ma’s!”
“Brandon, be quiet!” Kline warned sharply.
“No! You don't understand!” Brandon cried out, grabbing the edge of the metal table with his cuffed wrists. “She planned it! I went to her house to ask for a loan, and she told me she didn't have the cash! She said David had locked up the family assets! She was the one who said Leo was sick anyway and that the trust was sitting there doing nothing! She told me to take the pens! She said she would handle the 911 call and make sure the ambulance took the long route from the south station!”
Behind the two-way glass, Hastings smiled grimly. “We have him. He just flipped on his own mother.”
Hastings picked up the intercom microphone. “Miller, wrap it up. Grand jury convenes on Monday morning.”
Ten minutes later, Detective Miller walked out of the room, wiping his brow. He looked at me through the glass.
“Your brother just signed a full sworn confession detailing their entire conversation, the placement of the pens, and the intentional forty-two-minute delay in calling emergency services,” Miller said. “He’s trying to trade Evelyn’s head to avoid the death penalty.”
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I looked at the weeping, broken man inside the room. I felt no pity. I felt no familial warmth. The person sitting in that chair was not my brother. He was a monster who had traded my son’s breath for an escape from his own pathetic failures.
“Let them tear each other apart,” I said.
