Chapter 7: Interrogation

  Scene 1

  9:47 AM

  The processing room smelled like disinfectant and fear.

  Adrian Winters stood against a white wall, hands cuffed behind his back, while a federal agent photographed him from multiple angles. Front. Side. Three-quarter view. Like he was a specimen.

  Which, he supposed, he was.

  "Turn left," the agent said.

  Adrian complied. Mechanical. Efficient. No wasted movement.

  His mind was already cataloging details. The agent's name tag: RODRIGUEZ. The camera model: Nikon D850. The time on the wall clock: 9:47 AM. Time since arrest: three hours, forty-four minutes.

  Information was survival.

  Two rooms away:

  Ryder Morrison sat in a metal chair while a nurse documented the bruises on his wrists from the handcuffs. His lacrosse-toned arms looked smaller in the harsh fluorescent light. Vulnerable.

  "Any injuries we should know about?" the nurse asked.

  "No." Ryder's voice was hollow.

  "Medical conditions? Medications?"

  "No."

  The nurse made notes on a clipboard. Ryder stared at the floor. At his feet in county-issued orange Crocs. At the shackles around his ankles.

  Yesterday he'd been a student. An athlete. Popular. Free.

  Today he was Inmate 847392.

  Three rooms away:

  Simon Reeves lifted his shirt while a medical examiner photographed his gunshot wound. Four days old now. Stitched, bandaged, but still angry and red.

  "This is a bullet wound," the examiner said. Stating the obvious. "Entrance and exit. Through-and-through. When did this happen?"

  "February 16th. Around 11:30 PM."

  The examiner made notes. This was evidence now. Proof of the fight. Proof of Mustang's resistance.

  "You're lucky," the examiner said. "Missed your organs. Another inch left and you'd have bled out."

  Simon didn't respond. Lucky wasn't the word he'd use.

  If the bullet had killed him, maybe he'd deserve that. Maybe that would've been justice.

  But it hadn't. So now he had to live with what he'd done.

  Processing complete:

  Fingerprints: scanned into federal database.

  DNA swabs: matched to evidence from Mustang's storage unit.

  Mugshots: three teenage faces staring dead-eyed into cameras.

  Strip searches: humiliating, dehumanizing, necessary.

  Orange jumpsuits: LA COUNTY JAIL stenciled on the back.

  They weren't students anymore.

  They were suspects. Defendants. Killers.

  And the system was about to break them.

  Scene 2

  11:15 AM

  Simon sat across from Agent Morrison and Agent Chen in Interview Room 3. A lawyer—court-appointed, young, overwhelmed—sat beside him.

  The recording equipment was running. Red light blinking. Everything he said would be used against him.

  He didn't care.

  "Simon," Morrison began, "you have the right to remain silent. Your lawyer has advised you not to speak. But you've waived that right. Is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  Simon looked directly at her. No evasion. No calculation.

  "Because I'm tired of lying."

  Morrison leaned forward.

  "Then tell us. Everything. From the beginning."

  Simon took a breath.

  And began.

  RICK STANLER:

  "Adrian found him first. March 2024. Rick worked at Tony's Pizza three blocks from school. Adrian did research—found the dropped charges from 2019. Child predator. Evidence was solid, but the warrant was improper. He walked."

  "We surveilled him for two weeks. Mapped his routine. He was still doing it—watching kids at the park, following them. We decided he was a threat that needed to be eliminated."

  "Adrian planned it. Ryder executed. I provided logistics. We framed Roy Stanley—planted texts, put Roy's fingerprints on the weapon using a lifted print from a coffee cup. GPS spoofing on Roy's phone. It was perfect."

  Morrison's expression didn't change.

  "Roy Stanley is serving life without parole."

  "I know."

  "An innocent man."

  "Yes."

  Chen slid a photo across the table. Roy Stanley's booking photo.

  "Look at him."

  Simon looked. Didn't flinch.

  "He had a family. A wife. Two kids. You destroyed his life."

  "Yes."

  No excuses. No justifications. Just acknowledgment.

  MARIA EDWARD:

  "June 2024. Professional kidnapper. FBI had a file on her—Adrian hacked into local PD database, found it. She'd trafficked at least eight people. We figured she'd keep doing it."

  "Same process. Surveillance. Planning. We used the same Roy Stanley frame—made it look like revenge for a kidnapping from years ago. Added evidence to his apartment while he was at work. The second conviction was easy. He'd already confessed to one murder. Why not two?"

  Morrison made notes.

  "So you felt justified. Rick and Maria were criminals. You were vigilantes."

  "That's what we told ourselves."

  "But?"

  Simon's voice dropped.

  "But then there was John Winter."

  JOHN WINTER:

  "September 2024. He was an accountant. Father of two. Clean record. No criminal history. No victims. Nothing."

  "Adrian wanted to test our methodology. See if we could frame someone for a completely motiveless murder. Prove we could get away with anything."

  "We framed Jasmine Basak. Same process. Planted evidence, created digital trail, manipulated crime scene. It worked perfectly."

  "And John Winter?"

  Simon met her gaze.

  "We murdered an innocent man to prove we could."

  The room went very quiet.

  Chen leaned forward. "Did you feel anything? When you killed him?"

  "No. That's the problem. I didn't feel anything at all."

  EMMA MITCHELL:

  "February 2025. Adrian chose her randomly. Wanted to maintain our rhythm—one kill every three months. Emma was convenient. Visible. Popular enough that her disappearance would create chaos but not so connected that the investigation would be overwhelming."

  "We framed Derek Morrison. Planted evidence in his apartment. But this time, someone noticed."

  "Simone Laurent."

  "Yes. She saw the patterns. The inconsistencies. She was too smart. Too observant."

  "And you developed feelings for her."

  Simon paused. Then nodded.

  "Yes."

  "Is that why you're cooperating? To protect her?"

  "Partly. But also because—" He stopped. Searched for words. "—because for the first time in three years, someone looked at me and saw a person. Not a tool. Not a killer. Just... someone."

  "And that mattered to you?"

  "More than I thought it would."

  JEAN MUSTANG:

  "He figured us out. Connected the cases. Narrowed it down to three students. Set a trap at his storage unit."

  "We fell for it. Went to see what evidence he had. He caught Simon inside. Adrian and Ryder tried to help. It became a fight."

  "Detective Mustang was trained. Skilled. He fought back hard. During the struggle, his weapon discharged. The bullet hit me—" Simon gestured to his wound. "—here."

  "The fight continued. It was... chaotic. Desperate. Nothing like our planned kills. Eventually, we overpowered him. Ryder used a toolbox. Adrian and I restrained him."

  "It took—" His voice cracked. "—it took a long time. He fought until he couldn't anymore."

  Morrison's expression was stone.

  "And then?"

  "We panicked. Took his body, dumped it near the LA River. Left blood trails everywhere. Made mistakes. It wasn't clean. It wasn't perfect. It was just... murder."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Simon looked down at his hands.

  "That's when I realized. We weren't vigilantes. We weren't executing justice. We were just teenagers who'd convinced ourselves killing was okay."

  Morrison let the silence sit for ten seconds.

  "Simon, why are you telling us all of this?"

  He met her gaze. No hesitation.

  "Because I'm tired of pretending I'm not a monster. And because someone needs to speak for the people we killed."

  "And Emma Mitchell?" Chen asked. "Where's her body?"

  Simon gave them the location. Coordinates. Details.

  Everything.

  When the interview ended two hours later, Simon had given them enough evidence to convict all three of them ten times over.

  His lawyer looked shellshocked.

  Morrison stood. "We'll discuss a plea agreement with the DA. Given your cooperation, we'll recommend reducing the charges. But Simon—you're still looking at decades in prison. You understand that?"

  "I understand."

  "And you're willing to testify? Against Adrian and Ryder?"

  "Yes."

  She nodded. Gathered her files.

  As guards led Simon out, Morrison watched him go.

  Chen appeared at her shoulder. "Do you believe him? The remorse?"

  Morrison thought about it.

  "I believe he believes it. Whether that counts as actual remorse?" She shrugged. "That's above my pay grade."

  Scene 3

  2:30 PM

  Adrian's interrogation was different.

  His lawyer—expensive, corporate, immaculately dressed—sat beside him like a guard dog. Morrison and Chen sat across the table.

  The lawyer spoke first.

  "My client will not be answering questions at this time."

  Morrison nodded. Expected.

  "Adrian, I'm going to show you some evidence anyway. You don't have to respond. But I think you should see what we have."

  She slid photos across the table.

  Blood evidence from the storage unit. DNA profiles with Adrian's name highlighted. Surveillance footage from nearby cameras showing their car. Mustang's body at the riverbank.

  Adrian looked at each one. His expression didn't change.

  "Your DNA is all over the crime scene," Morrison continued. "We have Simon Reeves' full confession. Detailed accounts of all eleven murders. He's willing to testify. Against you."

  Nothing. Adrian's face was a mask.

  "We also have Ryder Morrison's preliminary statement. He's already started talking. Says it was your idea. All of it. That you planned everything."

  A flicker. Brief. Barely perceptible. Anger at Ryder's betrayal.

  Morrison saw it.

  "Your co-defendants are cooperating, Adrian. They're trying to save themselves. And they're doing it by burying you."

  Adrian's lawyer cleared his throat. "Agent Morrison, are you offering a deal?"

  "That depends on your client. If he cooperates—if he gives us information we can use—we'll talk to the DA about reducing charges. But the window is closing. Simon's already given us everything. If Adrian doesn't have something new to offer..."

  She let the implication hang.

  Adrian leaned forward. Spoke for the first time.

  "I want to speak with my lawyer. Alone."

  Morrison and Chen stood. Left the room.

  In the observation room behind one-way glass, they watched Adrian and his lawyer confer.

  "Think he'll flip?" Chen asked.

  "No. Adrian's not a cooperator. He's a survivor. He'll lawyer up and fight this in court."

  Inside the interrogation room:

  Adrian kept his voice low. "How strong is their case?"

  The lawyer—Marcus Webb, thirty years of criminal defense—didn't sugarcoat it.

  "Airtight. DNA evidence, witness testimony from co-defendants, physical evidence from multiple crime scenes. They have you on five counts of first-degree murder. Maybe more if they connect you to other cases."

  "What are my options?"

  "Legally? Take a plea deal. Cooperate like the others. Maybe get life with possibility of parole instead of life without."

  "And if I don't cooperate?"

  "Trial. Conviction. Life without parole. You'll die in prison, Adrian."

  Adrian sat back. Processed the information.

  His mind ran through scenarios. Legal options: none. The evidence was overwhelming. Simon had given them everything. Ryder was cracking.

  But there were always other options. Illegal options.

  Prison wasn't the end. It was just a different kind of problem.

  And Adrian had always been very good at solving problems.

  "I'm not cooperating," he said finally. "Prepare for trial."

  Webb sighed. Expected, but still disappointing.

  "Then we'll mount the best defense we can. But Adrian—prepare yourself for the worst."

  Scene 4

  4:15 PM

  Ryder Morrison was falling apart.

  His public defender—Sarah Lin, overworked and underpaid—sat beside him in Interview Room 5. Morrison and Chen across the table.

  Ryder's leg bounced frantically under the table. His hands shook. The facade of confidence he'd maintained for three years was crumbling.

  "Ryder," Lin said carefully, "you don't have to answer anything. I strongly advise you to remain silent—"

  "How long?" Ryder interrupted. His voice cracked. "How long am I looking at?"

  Lin hesitated.

  Morrison answered instead.

  "Five counts of first-degree murder. One count of manslaughter for Detective Mustang. Multiple counts of evidence tampering, obstruction of justice, conspiracy. You're looking at life without parole, Ryder. You'll never see the outside of a prison again."

  Ryder's face went white.

  "I'm seventeen," he whispered.

  "Old enough to be tried as an adult for murder."

  "But—but I didn't—" He stopped. Started again. "It wasn't my idea. Adrian planned everything. I just—I just went along—"

  Lin put a hand on his arm. "Ryder, don't—"

  He shook her off.

  "What if I cooperate? What if I tell you everything? Can I get a deal?"

  Morrison exchanged a glance with Chen.

  "That depends on what you have to offer. Simon's already given us full confessions for all eleven murders. He's detailed every kill, every frame, every piece of evidence. What can you tell us that we don't already know?"

  "I—I can tell you who killed who. Who planned what. Adrian was the leader. He made all the decisions. Me and Simon, we just followed orders—"

  "That's not good enough," Chen said. "Simon already told us the hierarchy. We know Adrian planned. We know you executed. We know Simon provided logistics. Shifting blame doesn't help you."

  Ryder's eyes filled with tears. "Then what do you want from me?"

  "The truth. All of it. No lies. No minimizing your role. If you take full responsibility, show genuine remorse, cooperate completely—we'll talk to the DA about reducing charges. Maybe life with parole. Maybe."

  Ryder wiped his face with shackled hands.

  "Okay. Okay. I'll tell you everything."

  And he did. For two hours, Ryder gave them details. Some matched Simon's account. Some contradicted it. Some were obvious lies trying to make himself look better.

  But through it all, one thing was clear:

  Ryder Morrison was terrified of spending his life in prison. And he'd say anything to avoid it.

  When the interview ended, Lin pulled Morrison aside.

  "Will the DA actually consider a deal?"

  Morrison's expression was unreadable.

  "Maybe. If he testifies against Adrian. If he shows real remorse at trial. But honestly? He killed five people. The DA's going to push for maximum sentences."

  "So you lied to him. To get him to confess."

  "I told him we'd talk to the DA. We will. Doesn't mean the DA will listen."

  Scene 5

  5:30 PM

  Court-ordered psychological evaluations. Three psychologists. Three very different assessments.

  ADRIAN WINTERS - DR. HELENA SANDERS:

  Dr. Sanders had evaluated hundreds of violent offenders. Adrian was different.

  He answered every question with precision. No hesitation. No emotion. Like he was taking a standardized test.

  "Do you feel remorse for your actions?" she asked.

  "Define remorse."

  "Regret. Guilt. Wish you hadn't done it."

  "I regret getting caught. Does that count?"

  No smile. No sarcasm. Just stating facts.

  "Do you understand that what you did was wrong?"

  "I understand that society defines it as wrong. I understand the legal and moral frameworks that classify murder as immoral. But do I feel it was wrong?" He paused. "No."

  Dr. Sanders made notes.

  Diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder. High intelligence, no empathy, no remorse. Extreme risk to society. No rehabilitation potential.

  RYDER MORRISON - DR. JAMES CHEN:

  Ryder was easier to read. Narcissistic. Desperate for approval. Trying to charm even now.

  "I didn't want to do it," Ryder said, tears in his eyes. "Adrian—he had this power over us. Over me and Simon. We couldn't say no."

  "Did Adrian threaten you?"

  "Not directly. But he—he made it clear. If we weren't with him, we were against him."

  Dr. Chen noted the inconsistency. Ryder had participated in eleven murders over three years. That wasn't coercion. That was choice.

  "Do you feel guilt?"

  Ryder nodded vigorously.

  "Every day. Every minute. I see their faces. I wish I could take it back."

  But Dr. Chen had seen real remorse. This wasn't it. This was performance.

  Diagnosis: Narcissistic Personality Disorder with sociopathic tendencies. Needs external validation. Follower, not leader, but dangerous nonetheless. Rehabilitation unlikely but possible with intensive treatment.

  SIMON REEVES - DR. MARIA MARTINEZ:

  Simon was the most complex.

  He answered questions with clinical honesty. No attempts to minimize. No deflection.

  "I lack normal emotional responses," he said. "I can intellectually understand that murder is wrong. I can see the harm it causes. But I don't feel it the way you do."

  "Have you ever felt anything? For anyone?"

  Simon paused.

  "Simone. When I was with her, I felt—something. Not love, maybe. I don't know what love feels like. But something close."

  "Is that why you protected her?"

  "Yes. And because I knew—intellectually—that hurting her would be wrong. Even if I couldn't feel it, I could understand it."

  "Do you think you deserve punishment?"

  "Yes. I killed eleven people. I destroyed families. I framed innocent people. Whether I can feel guilt or not doesn't change that."

  Diagnosis: High-functioning sociopath with capacity for attachment formation. Emotionally detached but intellectually aware of moral frameworks. Recent trauma may have triggered psychological break leading to cooperation. Remorseful? Perhaps. Cured? Never.

  Scene 6

  8:47 PM

  The holding cells at FBI headquarters were temporary. Tomorrow they'd be transferred to LA County Jail to await trial.

  But tonight, they were here. Separated. Alone.

  SIMON'S CELL:

  He lay on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. His wound ached despite the painkillers. But physical pain was easier than the other kind.

  He thought about Simone. Safe now. Alive. That mattered.

  He thought about Mustang. Dead. Murdered. Blood on Simon's hands, literally and figuratively.

  He thought about Emma, Rick, Maria, John. The innocent people they'd framed. Roy Stanley serving life for crimes he didn't commit.

  For three years, he'd compartmentalized. Separated the killing from the living. Been a student by day, a murderer by night.

  But the walls had collapsed. Now it was all one thing. One identity.

  Killer.

  He closed his eyes.

  Maybe I deserve this, he thought. Maybe prison is where I belong.

  RYDER'S CELL:

  Ryder couldn't stop moving. Pacing. Three steps one way. Turn. Three steps back.

  The cell was too small. Too close. Walls pressing in.

  This couldn't be happening. He was seventeen. He had lacrosse recruiters looking at him. College scouts. A future.

  Now? Now he had a jumpsuit and a cell.

  He banged on the door.

  "HEY! Someone! I need to make a call! I have rights!"

  No response.

  He sank to the floor, back against the wall.

  Tears came. Hot. Shameful. He tried to stop them but couldn't.

  This wasn't supposed to happen, he thought. We were supposed to be perfect. Untouchable.

  How did it all fall apart?

  ADRIAN'S CELL:

  Adrian sat perfectly still. Cross-legged on the mattress. Hands resting on his knees. Eyes closed.

  Meditation. Control. Focus.

  His mind worked through the problem methodically.

  Variables:

  - Simon cooperating: evidence overwhelming, testimony damning

  - Ryder breaking: unstable, unreliable, desperate

  - DNA evidence: incontrovertible

  - Legal options: none

  Conclusion: Conviction inevitable. Life without parole.

  Next problem: Prison survival.

  Variables:

  - High-profile case: target on his back

  - Young age: vulnerability

  - Intelligence: advantage

  - Time: years to plan

  Solution: Escape.

  Not immediately. That would be stupid. Security would be maximum for months, maybe years after conviction.

  But eventually, attention would fade. Guards would get complacent. Routines would become predictable.

  And when that happened, Adrian would be ready.

  He'd already researched prison escapes for a school paper sophomore year. Security vulnerabilities. Blind spots. Human error.

  Back then, it was academic.

  Now, it was survival.

  Adrian opened his eyes.

  Patience, he thought. Control. Survival.

  This isn't over.

  Scene 7

  9:15 PM

  Every news network was covering the story.

  TEENAGE SERIAL KILLERS: HOW DID NO ONE KNOW?

  CNN had a panel of experts. Criminologists. Psychologists. Former FBI profilers.

  "These boys were honor students," one expert said. "Student council. Athletes. They hid in plain sight by being exemplary."

  Fox News was already politicizing it:

  "This is what happens when we don't teach morality in schools—"

  MSNBC was interviewing classmates:

  "Adrian was so nice. Always helpful. I can't believe—"

  "Ryder was popular. Everyone loved him. This doesn't make sense—"

  "Simon was quiet. Kept to himself. But he tutored me in calculus. He seemed normal—"

  Westridge High School was in chaos. Counselors overwhelmed. Parents demanding answers. Students terrified.

  Victim families held press conferences:

  Sarah Mitchell, Emma's mother: "Justice for my daughter. Finally. But it doesn't bring her back."

  Jean Mustang's widow: "They murdered my husband in cold blood. They deserve to spend the rest of their lives in prison."

  Public opinion was divided:

  Twitter: #LockThemUp trending. "They're monsters."

  Also Twitter: "They're seventeen. They need treatment, not prison."

  And disturbingly: True crime community already making fan pages. TikToks analyzing their psychology. Tumblr edits. "They're so smart." "Adrian's actually kind of—"

  The District Attorney held a press conference:

  "We will seek maximum sentences for all three defendants. They showed no mercy to their victims. We will show them none. Justice will be served."

  Scene 8

  10:47 PM

  They moved Simon for a witness identification lineup. Down the hallway. Past the other holding cells.

  Past Adrian's cell.

  Past Ryder's cell.

  First time they'd seen each other since the arrests.

  Simon was brought past Adrian's door first. Adrian stood at the small window, hands cuffed, watching.

  Their eyes met.

  Adrian's expression: cold. Assessing. Betrayed.

  Simon didn't look away.

  Adrian mouthed a single word:

  Traitor.

  Simon mouthed back:

  I'm sorry.

  Adrian shook his head slowly. Deliberately.

  The meaning was clear: You're dead when I get the chance.

  Then Simon was past Ryder's cell.

  Ryder's face appeared at the window. Eyes red from crying. Rage replacing fear.

  "YOU DID THIS!" Ryder screamed. "YOU DESTROYED US!"

  Guards pulled Simon forward. Away from the cells.

  But Simon had seen enough.

  Adrian would kill him if they went to the same prison. That wasn't a threat. It was a fact.

  Which meant Simon needed protection. Isolation. Separation.

  That's why he was cooperating. Not just guilt. Not just protecting Simone.

  Survival.

  Scene 9

  11:58 PM

  Adrian was transferred to LA County Jail just before midnight.

  Maximum security wing. Solitary confinement for high-profile cases. Eight by ten feet. Concrete walls. Steel toilet. Thin mattress. No windows.

  This would be his life for the next several months. Maybe years. Maybe forever.

  Most people would break here. First night in jail. Seventeen years old. Facing life without parole.

  But Adrian wasn't most people.

  He sat on the edge of the cot. Hands folded. Began cataloging information.

  Guard schedule: shifts changed every eight hours. Rounds every thirty minutes. Predictable.

  Facility layout: he'd counted turns on the way in. Memorized hallways. Exits. Weak points.

  Other inmates: he'd heard voices in nearby cells. Some screaming. Some crying. Some making deals.

  Knowledge was power. And Adrian was patient.

  He had time to plan. Years, if necessary.

  Prison wasn't the end. It was just another problem to solve.

  And Adrian had always been very good at solving problems.

  A voice from the cell next to him:

  "First night?"

  Adrian didn't respond.

  "I asked you a question, kid."

  "Yes," Adrian said finally. "First night."

  "What're you in for?"

  Silence.

  The voice laughed.

  "That bad, huh? Don't worry. You'll learn the rules. Or you won't. Either way, welcome to County."

  Adrian opened his eyes.

  On the wall across from him, someone had scratched words into the concrete:

  NO ONE ESCAPES

  Adrian smiled.

  Seventeen people had escaped from LA County Jail since 1985.

  He'd researched it for a paper in sophomore year. Security vulnerabilities. Blind spots. Human error.

  Back then, it was academic curiosity.

  Now, it was survival.

  He lay back on the cot. Closed his eyes.

  And began planning his escape.