I walked into the station, the air thick with the scent of disinfectant and stale coffee. Officers and workers darted around everywhere; I could already tell I was getting ready to see a different, uglier side of New York. A young officer at the front desk, barely older than me, directed me to an interview room.
"Detective Black will be with you soon," he said.
The room was sparse, furnished with a small table and two chairs. A one-way mirror, I knew, hid a pair of watching eyes. I sat down and clutched the table, attempting, and likely failing, to appear calm. The initial shock from the call this morning had vanished, replaced by a cold resolve I hadn't known I possessed. I felt no suffocating waves of anger or grief; I simply had a singular goal: to find my father's murderer and return the favor as soon as possible. The clock on my last week of life had just begun ticking, but I didn't yet know how loudly it truly resonated.
Minutes stretched into what felt like years until the door finally opened. Detective Black was a man in his late thirties with a condescending demeanor, his ragged dark suit appearing like a second skin. He looked exhausted, as did everyone else at the station. He sat down opposite me, placing a thin file on the table and sliding it forward into my hands.
"Mr. Rozz," he began, his voice flat. "Thank you for coming in." He continued, "I'm sure this is incredibly difficult, given the circumstances. Your father, Michael Rozz, was found deceased in the rectory of St. Patrick's Cathedral this morning around 4:30 A.M. He suffered multiple stab wounds."
"Stab wounds?" I responded grimly. Nothing could faze me anymore; my emotions felt ripped away, and frankly, I didn't want them. My goal and my willpower were all I needed.
"Yes, stab wounds," he replied after giving me a few seconds to process. "We're almost done processing the scene, but we just wanted to ask you a few questions."
"A little quick for wrapping up a murder scene, is it not?" I said, in a rather accusatory manner I hadn't intended.
"That's classified information," he retorted quickly. "Now, as his next of kin, we understand you haven't been in regular contact, correct?" His tone was devoid of any sympathy, purely factual, merely going through the motions on another case.
"No, not for a few years," I hesitantly admitted, turning my gaze from him to a scuff mark on the table. "I ran away from home a few years ago, attempted to pursue my own path."
"I see," he said, scribbling something down on a notepad he pulled from his ragged suit. "Did your father have anyone who might want to harm him? Disputes with parishioners, financial troubles, anything strange?"
I racked my brain, attempting to find anything beyond the devout Catholic I grew up with. "Frankly, Detective, my father was... well, he was a man of peace. He left his law career to become a priest; he was well-loved in the community, as far as I know. A pacifist, always. It makes no sense."
"Everyone has their... complexities, Mr. Rozz," he countered gently. *'He has empathy after all,'* I thought to myself.
"People often keep aspects of their lives private. Were there ever any secretive meetings, strange places, or unusual visitors in the rectory or your home?"
My mind wandered through every possible memory until it hit me like a blow to the gut. Our house had always been exceptionally large, a testament to my father's quick accumulation of wealth in his short-lived law career. I was allowed to enter and wander the spacious rooms and halls to my heart's content, except for one room: his bedroom.
"Well, there wa—" I cut myself off quickly. If there was anything in that room, I wanted to be the first one to find it, especially if it was something personal. "No, Detective, I'm sorry, but nothing comes to mind. I didn't keep up with the specifics of his life... we had a difficult relationship towards the end." He nodded slowly.
"Well then, it looks like we're done here. Sorry about your father once again, Mr. Rozz." He said as we both stood up. I could tell there was something he wasn't telling me. It didn't matter to me now, though; I could find that out later. I had to get to that room first.
"Thank you, Detective. I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help. Good luck with the investigation." I finished as they sent the same officer as last time to escort me out. As I walked out of the station, I looked up at the gloomy sky. I hailed a cab and set out for my childhood home.