A26 – THE INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT ONE IN THE FAZBEAR MURDERS

[When the tape is turned on, there is a loud, sudden crack, like a gunshot. Then the film, a black-and-white surveillance camera, shivers slowly into view.]

[We see a white interrogation room, with a single white table and two chairs. In one chair sits the interrogator. He is an alert, wary man, lean and wiry like a hungry wolf; his dark hair is slicked back against his head, and he holds himself high, clean-shaven and well-groomed. His white shirt is perfectly pressed, his dark pants dustless and freshly laundered. His dark eyes glitter as he studies the man sitting opposite him, taking in every detail with a surgeon's precision, as though dissecting him with his gaze; he is the picture of incisive effectiveness, never a word or movement wasted. When he speaks, it is sharp and ringing, with a faint Czech accent.]

"Name."

[The man being interrogated looks up with hooded eyes, and we see that he is slumped over, tired, a broken man in every sense of the word. There are thick purple rings under his eyes, and his hands shake as he clasps them in his lap; he clearly has not slept in days. He is rough-shaven and unkempt, with tangled hair and wrinkled jacket and jeans. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and is quietly longing to return there and never get up. When he speaks, it is low, halting and rusty, like he hasn't used his voice in a while.]

"Antonio Benedicto."

[The interrogator studies him.]

"Italian?"

"Italian-American."

[The interrogator makes a tiny note on his clipboard.]

"Occupation?"

"Security guard." [Antonio stares at his shoes.] "Former."

"Where?"

"You know where."

[The interrogator makes another note.]

"When did you get the job?"

"When I lost the last one."

"Which was?"

"Shoe salesman."

"And before that?"

"Video clerk."

[The interrogator laughs softly.]

"You've had a lot of odd jobs, Antonio."

[Antonio is silent. The interrogator makes another note.]

"When was your last psychological evaluation?"

[Antonio stares at him.]

"Is it relevant?"

"If we're to believe your story, yes."

"That's personal information –"

"You were diagnosed with PTSD a few years ago, is that right?"

[Antonio's voice takes on a sharp edge.]

"That doesn't affect anything."

"History of child abuse at the hands of your mother, multiple hospitalizations before the age of eight –"

"Shut up."

"– auditory and visual hallucinations –"

"No."

"– seizure disorder and accompanying fainting disorder –"

[Antonio slams his hands on the table, a thunderclap of sound. The interrogator jumps; obviously he hadn't been expecting his weary, sleep-deprived subject to move so quickly. When Antonio speaks, it is with unmistakable venom in his voice.]

"Enough."

[They stare at each other for a long time. Finally the interrogator speaks, softly.]

"Very well. We won't get into your medical history today, Antonio. Sit down."

[The man sits back, still eyeing him.]

"How did you get the job? Who hired you?"

"The manager."

"Name?"

"You're asking me questions you already know the answer to."

"Answer anyway."

[Antonio glowers at him.]

"Jason Quincey."

"What was he like?" [The interrogator makes small notes on his pad.]

"Normal enough. Friendly. Liked to shake my hand. He was honest about the job – told me it was boring and pointless, but he needed someone to do it. Legal reasons, he said."

"And you agreed to that?"

"I was desperate and out of work. What do you think?"

"Fair enough." [A tiny check mark.] "What was your first day like?"

"I was on day shift. Easy enough – just stand against a wall and make sure no one hurts themselves. The kids were fine. Little loud, gave me a headache, but fine. I figured this was a good enough job until I could find a better one."

"And the third day?" [Scribbling quietly.] "The day of the first incident?"

[Antonio is silent for a moment.]

"How many medications were you on at the time?"

"Stop asking those questions."

"It's relevant, Antonio. It'll help the case if you're honest about it."

[Long, reluctant pause.] "Antipsychotics. A couple antidepressants. I don't know. Sometimes I lose track."

"How many in total?"

"Six, maybe?"

[More scribbling.] "What time did you come into work?"

"Six thirty-eight. I was a few minutes late. Car wouldn't start. I went into the building ready for Quincey to bite me off for it. He always chewed me out for being late, said he wasn't paying me to snooze my alarm."

"And?"

"He didn't say a word. I thought he seemed a little jumpy, on edge. Said to just be quiet and do my job. Keep an eye on things, he said. I remember his exact words. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't say anything. Just went to my usual corner."

"He claims you fell asleep."

"I didn't fall asleep." [Antonio's voice sharpens again.] "He's a liar. I never fall asleep on my shifts."

"He says you didn't have your coffee, and you were tired, even more tired than usual. You might have let your eyes close for a moment –"

"No. No. He's a fucking liar. I didn't sleep."

"If you say so." [A mark on the clipboard.] "When did you hear the scream?"

"Eight-thirty. Eight-thirty exactly. I know because the band started playing. It plays every half hour on the dot."

"Where did the scream come from?"

"The back table." [Antonio drags a hand across his face, clearly struggling to stay awake.]

"If you want to rest for a few hours –"

"I'm fine. I'm fine." [He recovers himself.] "I heard the kid screaming. I looked over to see what was going on."

"And?"

"Freddy was over at the table –"

"Who?"

"You know. The bear. The animatronic."

"Its name is… Freddy?"

"Freddy Fazbear. Don't you read your own damn case files?"

"Of course I do. Forget it." [The interrogator sighs.] "What was… Freddy… doing?"

"He must have gone over to give the kid pizza, or something. You know how they let the robots walk around, interact with the kids. I always thought it was creepy. Anyway, the kid was screaming because he wasn't leaving, just staring at her. Like his path got stuck."

"What did you do?"

"I walked over. We had a protocol for what to do if the robots glitched out. The robots are programmed to reset if you shine a bright light in their eyes – did you know that? Safety feature."

"Is that what you did?"

"Yup. Took out my little pocket flashlight, flashed it in his eyes. He blinked, and walked away. Back to normal. Told the kid everything was fine, Freddy just got a little confused, he wasn't going to hurt her." [Antonio heaves a slow breath.] "I could never have imagined…"

"You didn't know."

"Of course not. How the fuck could I have known?"

"When did the next incident happen?"

"Six that night. I was ready to clock out in an hour, but had to get all the customers out first. Went around cleaning up trash and serving the last stragglers. A little girl was at one of the tables talking to Freddy. I knew he'd been acting funny all day – nothing scary, just a little odd. He'd have those staring fits, and kept wandering off into rooms he wasn't supposed to. You know how they're all on paths, programmed routes and all that? Well, he kept going to rooms that weren't on his path, that he wasn't supposed to know about. Back rooms, storage rooms. Weird stuff."

"Odd."

"Yes, it was. So I kept an eye on him more than the others."

"You watched him all day?"

"Not all day. Just – kept an eye on him. Like Quincey said to do."

"So you saw it happen."

"Yes." [Antonio groans.] "God help me. I thought the nightmares were bad before…"

"Tell me what happened."

"The girl was telling Freddy a story, or something. I don't know. You know how kids are. I walked past to dump some streamers in the trash, and I heard her ask Freddy why he had eyes."

"Odd question."

"Yes. I looked over. Didn't know what she was talking about. I mean, obviously the robots have eyes, but just the plastic eyeballs, nothing unusual. Freddy looked normal to me, so I said to the girl –"

"Do you remember your exact words?"

"Why did you say that? Something along those lines. And she looked over at me and said the creepiest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life."

"What did she say?"

[Antonio takes a slow breath.] "He has human eyes."

[The interrogation room is silent. Finally the interrogator speaks.]

"Are you sure that's what she said?"

"I'm prepared to swear in court."

"You weren't hallucinating."

"No."

"Did you know what they would find, when they took the robots apart?"

"Of course not. How could I ever have known? I'd only been there a few weeks. I didn't – I didn't fucking know. You have to believe me. I was just the security guard."

[He looks almost pleadingly at the camera.]

"God help me, I was only the security guard."

[The footage ends, and the tape clatters quietly to a stop.]

A27 – THE INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT TWO IN THE FAZBEAR MURDERS

[The tape starts right away, clicking merrily along. The interrogation room wavers into view, this time occupied by a short-haired, slight interrogator. She looks small, but there's a cool composure to her, a confident power over the situation. She calmly shuffles her papers, and then looks at her subject as one might an interesting specimen on a slide. When she speaks, it is with a measured, probing voice.]

"Quincey, I presume."

[Jason Quincey smiles cautiously. He is a lanky, pimply man in a stained white Led Zeppelin T-shirt and ripped jeans, slung easily across his chair like a king in his throne; he seems perfectly calm, but there is a tension in his shoulders that reveals he knows why he is here. He wears a Freddy Fazbear baseball cap turned backwards, and when he reaches to scratch a zit on his nose, we see a skull and crossbones tattoo on his elbow. When he speaks, it's relaxed, but with a slight edge, a hesitation in his words.]

"You got it."

"You have a very interesting resume." [The woman peers at her papers.] "Tattoo artist, then small-time theater actor, then restaurant worker, and finally restaurant manager. Quite the career trajectory."

"What can I say?" [He manages an awkward laugh.] "I'm a man of many talents."

"A jack of all trades, indeed. That seems to be a pattern in this case – odd jobs."

"You've spoken to Antonio, then."

"We're speaking to all your employees."

"Him most of all, I bet."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I hired him a couple weeks ago. Security guard." [Jason scratches his nose again; it seems to be a nervous habit.] "I didn't know about his mental health problems. His medical file is thicker than War and Peace."

"Employers aren't allowed to discriminate on the basis of medical diagnoses, unless they put clients in harm's way."

"Of course not. I wasn't discriminating. Just didn't realize he was a little…" [Jason makes suggestive hand gestures.] "Out of touch with reality."

"So you think he's inventing stories. To defame your restaurant."

"I didn't say that. But he's got mental problems. Who knows what goes on in that head. I'm not implying anything, of course."

"Of course not." [The woman studies him.] "Tell me about your restaurant."

"It was a good place. Nice place. Everyone loved it. The kids loved it, and they were the ones who mattered. They don't care if the décor's a little rough or the security guards look like they've been slamming whiskeys all day, they only care about fuzzy animals who sing songs and making their parents buy them pizza and toys. My business counted on making them happy, and that made me feel good every day."

"How many total reported incidents were there at your restaurant, before the murders began?"

[He coughs awkwardly.] "Reported to the police, you mean."

"Yes."

"Five."

"How many were fatal?"

"None. One involved an injury, but he recovered. No one was seriously hurt until the murders started. I ran a safe and happy restaurant, I can promise you that. Not the terrifying death trap the papers would have you believe."

"I see." [She makes a note.] "Describe the incident that involved the injury."

"Bonnie grabbed a kid's arm while he was blowing out his birthday candles. The poor kid struggled so much the fingers put dents in his arm. He was fine, just had some bruising. We fixed the robot and settled out of court for emotional damages."

"Nothing else happened before the murders?"

"Nothing at all." [He scratches his nose.] "Not a damn thing."

"Did you know about the health code violation?"

"With the robots? Yeah, I got slapped with that bill. I cleaned the robots, and they got off my back."

"There was talk of blood and mucus."

"Horseshit. Media bullcrap. They just got a little smelly, that's all. They're old robots."

"You don't think that was related to the discovery."

"No. Of course not. How could it be?"

"One of your employees claims otherwise."

"Of course Antonio claims otherwise." [Jason spits on the floor.] "That crazy bastard. He'll tell you the robots grew fangs and demon tails if it'll get him off the suspect list."

"You can't discount his testimony."

"I'm going to. Put that down in your records. Antonio Benedicto doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. He's so hopped up on antipsychotics he wouldn't know an animatronic from an armchair. Put that down in your little tape." [He scowls at the camera.] "Don't believe a word he says. Take it straight from me. I hired the guy, didn't I?"

"Why did you hire him, if you thought he was so unfit to work?"

"Because I couldn't find anyone else. You know how the economy is."

"No, I don't. I don't understand how you can call him insane and removed from reality, and yet feel perfectly safe letting him guard your restaurant while you're gone and watch over children. That seems like criminal neglect on your part, doesn't it?"

[Jason gapes at her, speechless. She smiles, and makes a calm note on her pad.]

"I recommend you be more truthful with me from now on, Mr. Quincey. Your livelihood depends on it."

[With a soft whir and clatter, the tape ends.]

A28 – THE INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT THREE IN THE FAZBEAR MURDERS

[This tape takes a while to get going, but finally the interrogation room whispers into view. The Czech interrogator is back, his hair glimmering with oil as he turns a page in his folder.]

"You seem nervous, Miss Hudson."

[The woman laughs nervously. She is a petite, dark-haired woman with a young, soft face; she can't be a day older than twenty. She is dressed shoddily, wearing a faded orange college sweatshirt and sweatpants, drumming her fingers on the table as she looks around the room. She is obviously anxious and uncomfortable; the pits of her sweatshirt are already darkening with sweat.]

"You'll have to forgive me. I've never been a suspect in a murder before. My life usually isn't this exciting."

"Name, for the record?"

"Kate Hudson." [She refocuses.] "Former night guard."

"Tell me about the job."

"It wasn't much. Easy money, to help me pay tuition. Physics degrees at private colleges aren't cheap, you know. All I had to do was sit in the security office at night, read the paper, watch some cameras. Occasionally had to jigger a camera if it cut out, or cycle the power, or clean a monitor if the day guard spilled something on it. Otherwise, simplest job in the world. A monkey could have done it."

"Did you know the day guard?"

"Yes, Antonio. I saw him at staff meetings. He was a nice guy – a little haunted, but nice. I hope he's not involved in any of this."

"How long was your shift?"

"Midnight to six. Always." [She chuckles nervously.] "I would say the graveyard shift, but given the circumstances…"

"When did the incident occur?"

"Two months in. I was in the office as usual, reading about stocks and studying for my calculus final. The cameras were fine, the power was on – all normal." [She takes a slow breath.] "I was never a brave woman. I should make that clear. The only reason I was okay sitting there in total darkness for six hours was because I didn't believe in ghosts, and I was sure nothing would happen to me."

"And then something did."

"Yes. That night, around one in the morning, I heard a noise. The first noise I'd heard in two months. And that alone was terrifying. I'd never heard a noise before. You have to understand, the restaurant was dead empty at night, except for the spiders and moths. I'd been scared out of my skin more than once by a moth landing on one of the cameras. But this – this was no moth, and I knew right away something was going down."

"What was the noise?"

"It sounded like a clatter. Like someone had dropped a pan in the kitchen. I remember that distinctly. I looked at the kitchen camera, and saw that the picture had gone out. And then I got really scared."

"I imagine you did." [The interrogator is watching her closely.] "Did you investigate?"

"Of course not. Fuck no. I'm not some stupid bitch in a horror movie. I shut my doors, hunkered down and hyperventilated like a madwoman as I thought about what could have made it. Maybe the chef had balanced a pan funny on the counter before he left, and it had chosen that moment to fall off and scare the balls off me. Gravity, or something. Or maybe someone forgot to turn off a robot, and it had wandered into the kitchen. And that thought made me check the stage camera."

"What did you see?"

"I saw what I was terrified I'd see from the moment I took the job. One of the animatronics was missing. You know – the yellow one. Chica, or something."

"Right." [The interrogator makes a small note.] "What did you do then?"

"I connected the dots, obviously. There was an animatronic wandering around that someone forgot to power down, and all I had to do was find a way to shut it down – or get the hell out of there. At this point I was really scared, and I wasn't thinking straight. I chose the second option."

"You ran."

"Of course I ran. I mustered all my courage, took my coffee and newspaper, and sprinted out of that security office like it was on fire. I never dared to look into the kitchen as I ran past – just got out of there. I shut the restaurant door, locked it, and called Quincey to tell him what was going on. Woke the guy up, but I knew I had to report this so he wouldn't get the scare of his life when he came to open the place in the morning."

"Did he come to help?"

"Yes, he drove over right away. He was there in ten minutes. He took my key, unlocked the door, and walked inside. I didn't hear what he did, but he came back out five minutes later and told me the problem was solved, and to finish my shift."

"And what did you do?"

"I refused, obviously. He had never told me the robots would move and scare the hell out of me. I asked him, how could I ever feel safe there again?"

"And what did he say?"

"He looked at me, and then he said, you're fired. I said, good. And that was that."

"You didn't question it?"

"Of course not. I was still freaked out, and I wasn't thinking right. Just walked to my car and drove off, and never went back. I found another job the next day."

"So you've never been back to the restaurant."

"No. It scared me then, and now… well, you know what happened." [She looks up at the camera.] "We all know."

[The tape clatters quietly to a stop.]

A29 – THE INTERROGATION OF SUSPECT FOUR IN THE FAZBEAR MURDERS

[The tape snaps and crackles for a while, gradually revealing a picture. The interrogation room we've come to know well, and a third new interrogator, a woman with short blue-blonde hair and piercing green eyes. She stares intensely at her subject, calculating, measuring and mathematically studying every motion and thought. When she speaks, it is with a thin British accent.]

"You're late, Mr. Borsovick."

[The man coughs into his sleeve. He is a thickly built, muscled man, shaped like a battering ram; when he rests his hands on the table, they are corded with callouses. He is dressed in a thick jacket with a toolbelt around his waist, and smells strongly of motor oil and grease. When he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly, with a thick Russian accent.]

"It's Borsovich. Karl Borsovich."

"Forgive me. You understand that you're here to give a statement of some importance."

"I didn't ask to be the one who found them." [He coughs again, a low, hacking sound.] "I'm just a mechanic. I fix cars. Didn't ask for the nightmares. Poor little things."

"Tell me who called you in."

"The manager. That scrawny baseball cap kid." [He fumbles in his pocket, then hastily draws back.] "You sure you don't allow cigarettes in here?"

"Quite sure, Mr. Borsovich. Please give your testimony."

"The kid called me in to look at his robots. His fuzzy animal things. I never got animatronics, but I knew how to fix them, so I came."

"Had you been to the pizzeria before the call?"

"No, never. I read about it in the papers, but I don't have kids, so there was no reason to go." [He coughs.] "I never liked pizza."

"Was Quincey there when you came to the restaurant?"

"Yes. He had to be there, to open the door for me. I came after hours, at eight. Per his instructions." [He touches his pocket again, unconsciously searching for a cigarette and again remembering he isn't allowed one here. He moves his hand away.] "He told me the robots had been acting up. Asked me to take a look at them, to satisfy the legal team, but he wouldn't let me open them up. Said he was afraid I'd damage them – they were old, he said."

"Did you believe him?"

"They looked old to me. The teddy bear was beat to hell. I'd never seen such ancient machinery still working. Almost a miracle, it was." [He mutters something in Russian.]

"What did you say?"

"Never had a good relationship with God, not since he took my sister away. Always thought something was wrong with his head. And what I found in those fuzzy little robots… it only confirmed what I'd always known. That our God in heaven is a psychopath." [He snorts derisively.] "When that kid went into his office, I popped Freddy open to get a look at his guts. Didn't like some smarmy little American boy bossing me around."

"And you found them."

[He grimaces, and looks at the camera.] "Do I have to say it?"

"For the record."

"I found them." [He shakes his head bitterly.] "Poor little things. All mangled and chopped up by the gears and servos, hidden away and rotting in their tombs. I'd never seen… it was a horror I had never known until that moment. And I hope to our crazy, sadistic, madman God I never know it again."

"What condition were the bodies in?"

"Old. I could tell. They'd been there a long time. But I knew what I was looking at, and the smell…" [His hand goes to his pocket for a third time, and he visibly tugs it away.] "It was the smell of death."

"Do you think Quincey knew?"

"Of course he knew." [He scowls.] "He must have known. That slippery American bastard wouldn't let me lay a hand on them, and look what was hiding in there. Why else would he try to keep me out of their guts unless he knew what was tangled up with them?"

"Maybe he was just worried about liability if you broke them."

"Liability. Pah." [He smiles grimly.] "You're full of more bullshit than Gorbachev. If Jason Quincey is behind these murders – if he laid one greasy finger on those poor little souls I found… he'll have a whole lot more to worry about than liability. The God I don't believe in will make sure of it." [He reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a cigarette; before the interrogator can stop him, he lights it and takes a long draw, sighing with relief.] "Now if you'll excuse me, I need one hell of a smoke."

[The tape darkens and fades away.]

B17 – THE PERSONAL DIARY OF DETECTIVE PETERSON, LEAD INVESTIGATOR OF THE FAZBEAR MURDERS

[The camera flicks on, and a young, blonde-haired woman balances it carefully on her desk; it's evidently a cell phone. She arranges it until satisfied, then clears her throat and looks confidently into the camera, testing different expressions and poses. When she finally speaks, it's with a commanding, even voice, carrying like a newscaster's.]

"The investigation into the Fazbear murders continues with the testimony of four extraordinary witnesses."

[She shows the camera an arrangement of manila files, one for each suspect they have just interviewed. She sets them down on the desk and opens the first, showing the picture inside.]

"Antonio Benedicto. Twenty-eight-year-old Italian-American male with a history of mental illness, more medications than you can shake a stick at, and a rough childhood. Struggling to get by with a veritable cornucopia of small jobs, one of which brought him to a pizzeria that would entangle him in a serial murder. Troubled doesn't even begin to describe him, but is he really the killer we're looking for, or just a harmless man fighting his demons?"

[She moves to the next file.]

"Jason Quincey. Thirty-two-year-old American male, but looks and acts like he's seventeen and has an attitude to match. Raised rich, but rebelled against his parents and dropped out of college to become a tattoo artist. His career spiraled downward from there, and it left him running a pizza restaurant with a history of dangerous incidents that he refuses to take a modicum of responsibility for. Including the latest, our string of murders. Obviously, he is our number one suspect."

[The next one.]

"Kate Hudson. Twenty-year-old American female, and a college student majoring in physics and computer science. Young, bright and with lots of potential, a whole life ahead of her. Unfortunately, she took a job that drew her into a mess she'd struggle to get free of. Our least likely suspect, but we're keeping an eye on her. She acted a bit too nervous in the questioning room for our liking."

[And the last one.]

"Finally, Karl Borsovich. Thirty-five-year-old Russian male, immigrated here when he was fourteen. Runs a mechanic business downtown, and gets called in for plenty of odd jobs. This seemed no different, until he opened up the robots he was supposed to be fixing and got a nasty surprise. Probably a victim of a sad circumstance, but he's gruff enough about this whole thing to raise some eyebrows."

[She sets the files aside and rests her hands on the desk, taking a slow breath.]

"The clock is ticking. If I can catch the Fazbear killer before he hurts anyone else, then children all across the world will sleep safer in their beds."

[She closes her eyes.]

"There's only one question left to ask: is he one of these four people in the files I have in front of me? Or is he someone we haven't even thought of? Are there more victims we don't know about? Where is he hiding now, and what's his next move?"

[She looks fiercely at the camera.]

"My name is Detective Jane Peterson, and I intend to find out."

[She leans forward and taps the screen. With a quiet pop, the log ends.]