Chapter 3 - THE INTERROGATION ROOM AND THE VANISHING NEIGHBOR
Down in the local precinct, the metal chair felt like ice against José Hernández’s back.
He sat with his head in his hands, his knuckles raw and bruised from where he had slammed them against the wall of the holding cell moments after arriving. His work apron was still stained with soda syrup from the corner store, a cruel reminder of how ordinary his life had been just an hour ago.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Detective Morales stepped inside. The detective dropped a heavy manila folder onto the metal table with a sharp thud.
“Mr. Hernández, let’s go over the timeline again,” Morales said, leaning over the table, his eyes sharp and analytical. “You claim you didn't know where the tacos came from?”
“I told you three times!” José cried out, his voice cracking with desperation. “Ramón brought them! He said he won a gift card at a raffle near the bus terminal, or that a vendor friend gave him extra food. We didn't have money for dinner. I was tired. I didn't question it!”
“And you didn't think it was strange that your neighbor—a man you barely knew six months ago—suddenly started paying attention to your family, buying groceries, helping you carry water?”
“He acted like a friend!” José sobbed, tears finally breaking free, carving clean tracks through the dust and sweat on his cheeks. “In our neighborhood, people help each other. You survive by trusting your neighbors. I trusted him. Oh God, my little girl… is she alive? Please, just tell me if my baby is alive!”
Detective Morales stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. He could see the absolute shattering of a father’s soul in José’s eyes. This wasn't the performance of a guilty man; this was the agony of a man who had walked straight into a trap laid by a monster.
Before Morales could answer, his radio buzzed loudly on his shoulder.
“Detective Morales. This is Sergeant Ruiz. We just got a dispatch from the hospital team. They performed emergency surgery on the girl. They recovered four sealed packets of high-grade fentanyl-laced crystal from her intestine. One ruptured. She’s in critical care.”
Morales closed his eyes for a second, feeling the blood rush in his ears. He looked back at José.
“They found drugs inside her, José,” Morales said quietly, the anger bleeding out of his tone, replaced by cold fury directed elsewhere. “Your neighbor didn't buy you tacos. He used your daughter to smuggle poison.”
José froze. The crying stopped instantly. His face went entirely blank, as if his mind refused to process the words.
“Where is Ramón?” José whispered, his voice dropping into a terrifying, hollow register.
“We sent a patrol unit to his apartment ten minutes ago,” Morales said, turning toward the door. “His place is completely cleaned out. Not a suitcase, not a jacket, not a single fingerprint left behind. He knew what happened the second the ambulance lights hit the street.”
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José stood up so fast his metal chair flipped backward, crashing violently against the concrete floor.
“Find him,” José roared, lunging toward the detective and grabbing the lapels of his jacket. “Find that son of a bitch, or I swear to God, I will tear this city apart with my bare hands!”
