16. Questioning

"It is now...," detective James Fitzgerald glanced at his watch, even though there was a clock high on the wall, "Nine fifteen PM, we are recommencing the questioning of Daniel Fenton, aged twenty, regarding the disappearance of Mr Vladimir Masters. Mr Fenton has waived his right to an attorney."

He looked at the young man slumped in the chair across from him. He looked tired and worn, one arm hanging over the back of the chair, his head tilted to the right, eyes half lidded. Still, they had an amused sparkle in them, something that told the detective that Daniel Fenton was far from cracking. He sighed. He was in for a long night. Again. But in contrast to the person sitting across from him, at least James had gotten some sleep after his partner had taken over. His partner who was now watching them behind the one-way mirror in the other room.

"Mr Fenton," James started.

"Danny," his suspect said.

James stopped, trying not to show his annoyance. The man kept on insisting to be called Danny, and said so every other sentence, as if by holding on to this little pet peeve, he somehow could control his situation. James wasn't about to give in, would not allow him even this tiny victory.

"Mr Daniel Fenton," he said, emphasizing the man's first name. Daniel rolled his eyes. "Can you please tell us again where you were the night of April the seventeenth?"

Fenton let his arm fall down from the back of the chair and straightened a little, then leaned his elbows on the table and let his head hang down.

"I. Don't. Remember."

"Come on, Fenton," James said, "It was the night of the massive ghost attack on the mall. Everybody knows where they were that night. Don't give me that."

"I'm not everybody. I. Don't. Remember."

James smiled, reached inside the briefcase he had brought with him and took out the enlarged and enhanced pictures he had just gotten back from the lab, his trump card. He spread them out on the table in front of Fenton, who kept his head hanging down and didn't try to look at them.

"Then let me refresh your memory," James said, allowing himself to sound slightly smug, "These are security camera images, taken just outside Mr Master's home that night. Have a look."

Fenton looked up and stared down at the stills from the video footage. James watched him closely. Fenton seemed to flinch momentarily, but that was the only reaction he gave. Then he leaned closer and picked up one of the pictures, the one that showed him looking up in the direction of the camera. His face was clearly recognizable, especially after the enhancement it had undergone.

"Where was that camera?" Fenton said, sounding like he was talking to himself instead of James.

James smirked a little and decided to answer anyway. "This is the neighbor's camera. Almost a quarter mile away. Didn't think of that, did you?"

Fenton shook his head and shrugged while putting down the picture.

"So I was there," he said calmly, "That doesn't prove anything."

James slammed down his fist, in a sudden burst of anger. "Opportunity," he said, counting on his fingers, "Motive. Means."

"What means?" Fenton asked, obviously not wanting to expand on the motive part – he had inherited most of the DALV corporation and could, if he was cleared from the charges and Vlad Masters was declared dead, call himself a billionaire.

James threw his hands in the air. Fenton leaned back again, a tired smile on his face. "You don't have a body," he pointed out, "And I'm willing to bet you don't have footage of me entering the premises. In fact..." He leaned forward again and began spreading out the pictures. "See? I was there for a little while, and I left. I walked by. That's all."

"Why did you deny being there in the first place?" James asked, trying to capture Fenton's logic and turn it against him, "If you're so innocent, why lie about it?"

Fenton rolled his eyes. "What part of 'I forgot I was there' don't you understand?" he asked snidely, "It's been three months. How am I supposed to remember where I was that particular day?"

"It was the day Vlad Masters disappeared."

Fenton crossed his arms and scowled. "I don't follow every step that fruitloop makes," he said.

"It was in every newspaper."

"Three days later."

"Oh, so you do remember?"

"No!"

James watched with interest as the frustration of his victim... his suspect... rose. The guy was a though nut to crack, but not nearly as tough as some other's he had managed to break. He was getting there, he could feel it.

"Tell me," he continued, smoothly moving to the next subject while Fenton was still smoldering about their earlier conversation, "How would you describe your relationship with Mr Masters?"

He glanced at the mirror for a moment, and therefore almost missed the sudden green glow in Fenton's eyes. Quickly, he looked back but it was gone. He frowned. He must have imagined it.

"He was a fruitloop," Fenton said.

"Was?"

Fenton bumped his head on the table. "Was. Is. How am I supposed to know? He's been missing for three months, I assume he's dead."

"Yes, Mr Fenton, that's what we're here to find out, what you know."

Fenton looked up again. "Nothing."

James smiled, and unobtrusively signaled his wish to be relieved to his partner.

"So you were not on very good terms then?" he asked.

Fenton sighed. "No," he said, "I hated his guts."

"I find it slightly curious hearing you admit that," James said, "Since you've denied being at odds with him before."

Fenton shrugged, looking away from him. "I assume you're going to ask others, and they will tell you that. There's no point in denying it." He frowned. "And I didn't lie about it. I didn't say anything about it if I remember correctly."

James grinned, leaned and retrieved a pile of printouts from his briefcase. He flipped through them until he found what he was looking for.

"He was alright," he read out loud, "We had no conflict. I have no wish for him to be dead, if that's what you're asking."

Fenton blinked. "You said that," James continued, "Yesterday morning. See? You're starting to contradict yourself." He leaned forward. "Come on, Fenton. You can end this. I'm sure you're tired, you want to sleep. Just tell us where you hid the body."

Fenton opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. He slumped down in his chair again and stared at the table, his eyes blank. Slowly, James also leaned back in his chair. It was time.

A knock on the door had Fenton almost jumping out of his skin. He jerked in his seat, and for a moment James thought he'd jump up in a fighting stance, fists clenched, ready to strike. Then he slumped down again. Harry entered the room.

"Chief wants you," he said to James.

James nodded, got up and left the room, careful to firmly close it behind him. Not that he thought Fenton was dangerous, but for a moment there had been... something... in his eyes that he didn't trust. The guy was hiding something.

Once outside, he quickly took two steps, entered the room adjacent to the interrogation room and took position behind the one-way mirror. Fenton was still slumped in his chair, looking warily at the newcomer. Harry smiled pleasantly, looking completely fresh and rested, something James knew he accomplished with a steady stream of caffeine the whole day. He turned the chair around, sat down on it with his legs on either side of it and leaned on the back of the chair.

"Well now," he said. Fenton blinked tiredly. "Where were you again the night of the seventeenth?"