The man sneers, his bulbous form exuding confidence as his whiskers twitch. "Of course you didn't." His mustache bristles a bit with his smile.
"I didn't do it." He repeats it. He says it slower this time, in case the detective is slow. Which is not out of the realm of possibility.
The man walks over to him and leans in, invading his space. The vile smell invades his nostrils. "And what? She stuck the knife in herself, and the murder weapon magically appears in your hand, and her blood just happens to be all over you? Oh, and of course, you don't remember anything. Just that you didn't do it."
He clenches his jaw, and tries to reason with Mustache. "I didn't do it." He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't kill her." He closes his eyes for a second, the details of her murder filtering back to him. When he opens his eyes again, they shine with the unshed tears.
"Oh, what is that?" Mustache bends down to stare at his eyes. "Is that guilt I see?"
Angry now, he turns to stare back at Mustache. "It's grief," he barks out. "But they're both words that start with G. So I understand how you'd get confused." Mustache grumbles and slowly wobbles his way over to the other side of the table. He sits down with a grunt, and opens the folder. He mumbles something to himself.
"It says here you're a decorated officer. Air Force." He looks up from the folder. "Is that right?"
"You tell me."
"You're a talkative one, aren't you?" He murmurs something. Mustache sighs, as if he's doing him some great favor. "In all honesty, John, why'd you do it?"
"Colonel Sheppard." This man doesn't get to call him John. Not when she used to.
"All right. Colonel Sheppard, why'd you do it?"
"I didn't."
"Look, you're not the only one, you know. Sometimes, you just wake up one day, and you're tired of the whole thing, but you don't have the heart to end it. So you end her."
"You really have a way with words, don't ya?"
The other detective comes in, and sits down next to him. Her red hair is shoulder length and her glasses are perched carefully on her nose. "Colonel Sheppard, I'm Detective Mullen."
"Hi."
"I read in your file that you did something in Afghanistan? And then you went to Antarctica. You're highly recommended by all your superiors. Did something stressful happen? Did work drive you over the edge, and then you--"
He huffs out a laugh. "You think I killed the woman I--you think I killed her because I was stressed out? What do you want me to say? 'Sorry, officer, the punching bag just wasn't enough any more.'"
Mustache bursts back into the room, a triumphant look on his face. He smiles at the man mockingly, waiting for his Eureka moment. Instead, Mustache glares at him. "You won't be smiling any longer after I tell you what we just got."
He tilts his head to the side in a mocking gesture. "Chocolate."
Mustache's face visibly reddens. He reaches into his pocket and throws it on the table. "Look at those."
"And what are those?"
"That's called evidence, Colonel Sheppard. They're negatives."
"Of what?"
"You. Committing murder."
He releases a growl of pent-up rage and frustration. "I didn't kill her!" Mustache has apparently gotten angry as well. He picks up the bag and shoves it against his face.
"You see that, Colonel? That's called irrefutable proof. Look, this is you with the knife, and this is you driving the knife into her body!"
"Stop!" The other detective steps in before he can gut Mustache. Mustache smiles.
"I think you're going to like the big time, Colonel." Mustache grabs his arms and pulls him up to his feet. He clicks the handcuff around the first wrist.
John Sheppard, you are charged with the murder...
And then the second.
of Elizabeth Weir.