Bound by the Missing Hours

Chapter 3- The Scapegoat and the Second Interrogation

I sat alone in the stark, sterile interrogation room, frantically rubbing my wrists. The cuffs—Ote's personalised touch—had finally been taken off, but the throbbing pain and the livid red welts on my skin remained. That man had a deeply personal, toxic vendetta against me. We had clashed the first time we met, and ever since, I had sculpted my entire existence around avoiding him and anything to do with law enforcement. Yet here I was, two years later, in the same cold chair, under the same cold, unforgiving fluorescent lights, the scent of fear and stale air clinging to the cheap vinyl.

I reached for the plastic cup of water on the table, my fingers trembling slightly, then recoiled instantly, snatching my hand back. Don't touch anything you don't need to. Don't leave prints. Don't give them a single scrap of leverage. The ingrained paranoia was total and instantaneous, a defence mechanism sharper than any blade.

My head snapped up as the door opened. Officer Net walked in, looking strained and uncomfortable, followed by the hulking, toxic presence of Detective Ote. I inhaled deeply, trying to draw cold air into my lungs to anchor my runaway breath. Just seeing Ote was enough to flood my system with raw, icy terror.

"Why were you there?" Ote demanded immediately, slamming his hand onto the table. He ignored the water pitcher, the chair, and the procedural necessity of putting on the tape recorder. This wasn't an interview; it was a psychological ambush.

Officer Net shot a sharp, warning glance at his superior, clearly questioning the lack of procedure, but the hierarchy was absolute. He remained silent.

"Because I wanted to buy a drink on my way to work," I replied evenly, forcing the words past the dry lump in my throat.

"Couldn't you have gone to a different cafe?" Ote pressed, leaning over the table, his shadow consuming me.

"Yes. But that one is my favourite, and I know most of the baristas. It's routine." I could already see the fabricated narrative taking shape in his narrow, suspicious eyes.

"So you chose that one specifically because they knew you?"

"I chose it because they make the drink I like," I corrected, allowing a flicker of defiance. "I go there every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Okay, Danny," Officer Net interjected, attempting to regain control of the room. "You went to the cafe. What happened when you got to the door?"

"I took out my AirPods, cased them, opened the door, and stepped inside. I only took a step or two before the scene registered. The silence was the first thing. Then, the sight of the bodies." I paused, my throat tightening. "Once it did, I turned and ran straight out. I vomited, and then I called the police immediately."

Ote folded his arms, the smirk returning. "I've listened to your phone call. I find it very... interesting."

"Interesting?" I asked, genuinely baffled. What could be interesting about a desperate call reporting m*********r?

"You sounded so distraught on the phone," Ote drawled, circling me like a shark. "A little too distraught."

"Are you serious? I saw everyone in the cafe dead! Of course, I was distraught!"

Ote scoffed, loud enough for Net to hear, but directing the full, paralysing force of his contempt at me. "A bloody good act, if you ask me. You even managed to inject the horror into your voice that you were missing two years ago."

"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM WITH ME?!" I shoot out of the chair, rage finally overwhelming the fragile control I'd fought for.

"I hate manipulative bastards like you!" Ote shouted back, jabbing a finger inches from my face. "You use connections, pull strings, and get yourself off the hook every time, no matter who you kill! But this time, oh, this time I have you bang to rights."

I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing myself to sit back down. Allowing him to control my emotions was allowing him to control the narrative.

"Had you bothered to do your bloody job two years ago, the killer from back then might have been caught," I retorted, the calm in my voice chilling even me, though inside I was boiling lava. "Instead, you wasted weeks looking for a scapegoat—and that just happened to be me. The only difference this time is that the killer may be back, and you are choosing to repeat your failure instead of saving future victims!"

Ote's eyes widened, a flash of pure, malicious triumph. "How do you know there are going to be more victims, huh? Unless you are the killer! Arrest him!"

"I don't know! I was just making a logical inference based on the similarities!" I yell back.

Officer Net held his hands up, a gesture of deep weariness. "This is getting us nowhere. Let's start again, shall we? Detective Ote, we need to follow the procedure."

Ote and I ignored him, locked in a ferocious, silent staring contest while Net mechanically started the camera and delivered the official preamble. My mind raced, trying to anticipate Ote's next psychological manoeuvre.

"Did you kill them?" Ote asked the moment Net finished talking.

I rolled my eyes, a gesture of exhaustion rather than insolence. "I'm a freelance journalist and photographer. Why would I kill anyone?"

"For a headline? The exclusive photo? Because you're evil? Sick, twisted? You get a kick from it? Take your pick, Bowen." Ote spat the final name, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists on the table.

"I have never killed anyone! Check the CCTV! I opened the door, saw the scene, turned around, vomited, and called the police. How many more times do I have to tell you?!"

"That is what all killers say!" Ote shouted, jumping out of his chair. "You got away with murder two years ago because of your uncle! But you won't get away with it this time!"

"YOU CAUSED THE KILLER TO GET AWAY! YOU FAILED TO GET JUSTICE FOR ALEX!" I screamed, slamming my hands down on the desk so hard the metallic sting shot up my arms, a small victory in pain.

The room fell into an immediate, heavy silence, broken only by our ragged, panting breaths. Finally, Ote slowly sat back down, his face a mask of thwarted malice. I remained bowed over the desk, adrenaline draining away to leave raw, shaking exhaustion.

"Because of you and your fixation on my supposed guilt, the killer was able to escape before you even focused on any other suspect or piece of evidence," I continued, calmer now, my voice low and dangerous. "Alex was murdered, and instead of finding out who did it, you turned what was already a nightmare into a torture session for me, simply because you could. And now, you want to do it again."

"What happened, Detective?" Officer Net asked, his tone now bordering on insubordination.

"Nothing," Ote cut in immediately, waving a dismissive hand.

I stayed quiet, focusing on the rhythmic in-and-out of my breath to control the fuming anger. Ote never solved Alex's case, preferring to publicly imply that "pressure from the top" let the killer walk free—a clear, poisonous hint pointed directly at me. He was a cancer.

The next few hours were a gruelling, circular repetition. Ote relentlessly hammered the coincidence of my presence, while Net tried to guide the questioning back to physical details. I held firm, reciting the sequence of events until the words tasted like ash.

Finally, long after the city outside had gone dark, a sharp knock came on the door. Someone was requesting the two detectives to leave.

The sudden silence was immense, broken only by the clock's methodical ticking and my ragged breathing. I watched the second hand crawl, my mind obsessively reviewing the two crime scenes. The similarities were too precise to be a coincidence, but the two-year gap, the vastly different locations... it defied simple logic. And the constant, overriding question: how was Ote, the architect of my last downfall, already the lead detective on this one?

An icy, inescapable feeling of dread filled me again. My mind felt thick and heavy, and my eyelids began to droop an hour into my silent reflection.

I don't know how long I was asleep or when I drifted off, but I jolted awake suddenly. My head was resting on my right arm on the cold desk, and a heavy, woollen jacket—a non-uniform civilian jacket—was draped across my back. I sat up, clutching the garment. The room felt bone-chillingly cold, yet my body was clammy and sweating.

I looked around. The clock read 10:00 PM. I had been here for over twelve hours.

When can I go home?

I kept going over the scene in my head. Even in my restless dreams, I saw the cafe, but suddenly it merged with the hotel room. Every mutilated face in the cafe dissolved, becoming Alex's face. The two scenes had combined, making my old, solitary nightmares feel like fluffy clouds.

I sighed, months of expensive therapy—down the drain. My nightmares were coming back with a vengeance. It felt as if some vast, unknown force was determined to destroy me. Every time I found a foothold—losing my parents, finding a lead with Alex, finally finding peace after his death—the rug was brutally pulled out.

Could it be the same killer? The thought made me shudder so hard the chair squeaked.

But wait. If it was the same killer, the operation was flawless. Ripped out hearts, no blood. And I was the first to find them, in a popular cafe, in broad daylight. If no one had entered before me, that meant the killer had slaughtered everyone inside and slipped away unnoticed.

How is that possible?

My thoughts were interrupted by the door opening with a sharp click. Ote and another detective I didn't recognise walked in.

"You are free to go," Ote clipped out, his jaw tight with evident frustration.

I didn't utter a word. I sprang up, the mystery jacket clutched in my hand, and walked as fast as my legs could carry me to the door. I had to get out and get as far away from Ote as possible!

"But I will be watching you, Bowen," Ote hissed, his voice dropping to a promise of eternal harassment as I walked past. "One step out of place, and I will have you! I will get you this time, you hear me?"

I shuddered, knowing he meant it. I knew he would be planning his next move, perhaps even planting something. But instead of responding, I walked down the corridor, through the exit doors, and out of the precinct.

The cool air hit my face, shocking my system back into reality. I stopped on the steps, inhaled the clean, night air deeply, and a shaky, weary smile finally touched my lips.

I was free.

For now.