[Tuesday, February 16, 12:00]
"He's a lot calmer than our last suspect," Stella said, peering through the windows of the interrogation room. John Miller was the most average of average. Average height, average build, average looks. Straight brown hair, brown eyes, Caucasian. And like most people who were left in interrogation for more than five minutes, bored out of his mind. He had resorted to spinning a pack of cigarettes on the steel table for entertainment.
Mac reached for the door handle, but then Flack turned the corner into the hallway at half a run, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "Stel, Lincoln Medical just called. Juliana's awake."
Mac let go of the handle. "Want to let him stew for a bit? He'll keep."
She was already backing down the hall on Flack's heels. "Grab Danny and go ahead," she called to him. "I'm going with Flack."
The detective smiled and paged Danny. Of course Stella wanted to see the victim. In short order, Danny had stationed himself behind the mirrored glass, and Mac entered the interrogation room. "Mr. Miller, you were in the Bronx Saturday night."
The man didn't move from his slouch in the chair, one arm draped over the hard metal back. At least the cigarettes went back into his pocket. "Yeah. I like to take walks in the city. Fridays and Saturdays especially. So much more going on," he chuckled.
Mac sat down, the stiff opposite to John Miller's ease. This one either had nothing to hide or was too stupid to show the police a little respect. Maybe both. "You left something behind while you were there." He slid a picture of the hate graffiti across the table. The crimson letters glared angrily against the dull brick backdrop. "We know it was you." Another page followed, showing the imprint of half his thumb, captured in the paint while it was wet.
John studied the photographs, brow furrowing. "Yeah, I remember seeing this. But I didn't do it," he drawled, pushing the images back across the table and resuming his slouch. Did they really bring people to the precinct to charge them for vandalism?
"And you didn't try to kill Juliana either, right?" Her picture was laid down between them.
John's eyebrows rose. That's what they'd brought him here for? They thought he'd killed someone? "What? No! I don't even know this girl." He pushed that photograph at Mac too. He didn't need her staring at him while he was being interrogated.
"She was found in the alley next to the message. And your fingerprint tells us you were there," Mac challenged, lacing his fingers together and leaning across the table.
John sighed, sitting up a bit straighter. "I'm not saying I wasn't there. I touched the graffiti and it was still wet. I just couldn't believe someone would write something so... so cruel." He shook his head, his whole demeanour drooping. "You gotta understand, I work at the visa office. I spend all day approving foreigners to come work in the States. The hate in this city is... It... ugh," He pulled at his hair, growling in frustration. "It makes me so mad. We deny so many visas." He emphasized his words by slapping his hand on the steel table. "People don't understand how qualified someone has to be to be accepted. They bring so much to America."
Mac put up a hand, ending the tirade. "Thank you for your work, Mr. Miller. Now, if the paint was still wet, did you happen to see who put it on the wall?"
"Sorry," he shrugged. "Must've just missed the guy. The alley was empty when I got there."
The detective scribbled a few notes. A case with less evidence he'd seen in a long time and each suspect they talked to was looking less and less promising than the estranged husband. "And what did you do afterwards?"
The man leaned back in the chair again, his arm resuming its spot across the back of the chair. "I went home."
"Can anyone vouch for you?" he glanced up, but John was inspecting his fingernails.
He shook his head. "I live alone." He glanced back at Mac. "But I swear, I didn't do this."
Mac stood, opening the door to the interrogation room. "Thank you, Mr. Miller. If we need anything else, we'll be in touch."
John nodded and pushed himself up, fishing the smokes back out of his pocket. "Sure, whatever."
Mac rubbed his temple, discouraged. Aside from John's thumbprint, the spray paint hadn't been smudged, so it had finished drying before the rain started around 9. They could prove John Miller was in the alley, but they had nothing to tie him to the stabbing. He began gathering the pictures back into the folder.
Danny left the adjoining room and leaned on the doorway. "Whaddya think?"
"Not sure," Mac answered. "He's certainly passionate about his work."
"My gut says somethin's up with the guy," Danny frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't get a read on him."
"Maybe I should have gotten Flack behind the mirror," Mac teased, tucking the folder under his arm. Flack really was his father's son, eerie people-reading instincts and all.
"Okay, hang on, gimme a chance," he said, walking beside Mac as they headed back to the lab. "John Miller was relaxed, not nervous at all." For a few strides, Danny put a swagger in his step, ever animated, always gesticulating. "He answered all your questions directly, but did you notice he didn't make eye contact once? And he wouldn't look at the pictures either. Kept pushin' 'em back at you." He mimicked the motion, shoving imaginary pages at his boss. "I don't get it. Half of it says innocent, the other half says lying through his teeth. You can't be both and my gut says he's lying."
Mac smacked Danny's arm with the evidence photos. "Go find some evidence to back up your gut, then."