Most people get scared, start explaining, start apologizing. This man just sits there with his hands folded, calm, like he's been through this before. Check his pockets, Mitchell tells Wilson. You need a warrant for that. Andrew says, "No, I don't.
Not if I suspect you're armed. Not if I believe you're a threat. " Wilson moves forward. She pulls Andrew's phone from his jacket pocket. It's a newer model. Password protected.
Unlock it. Mitchell demands. No, that's not a request, and I'm not giving you my passcode. That's a violation of my Fourth Amendment rights. Mitchell grabs Andrew's collar again, jerks him halfway out of the chair.
You want to talk about rights? How about my right to keep this station safe? How about my right to investigate suspicious individuals? I'm not suspicious. I told you why I'm here.
You told me nothing. Mitchell slams Andrew back into the chair. Then he moves behind him again. This time, his hands go to Andrew's shoulders, fingers digging in. Pressure points.
Not enough to leave obvious marks, just enough to hurt. Last chance. What ceremony are you talking about? Andrew's voice stays level despite the pain. Tomorrow morning, 8:00 a.m., the mayor will be there, the city council, your entire command staff.
Mitchell's hands freeze just for a second. Then he recovers. You're lying. I'm not. There's no ceremony tomorrow.
Yes, there is. And I'm supposed to meet your captain tonight to discuss the final arrangements. Wilson exchanges a look with Mitchell. Something passes between them, a silent conversation that happens in the space of a heartbeat. He's lying, Wilson says.
There's nothing on the schedule. But Mitchell isn't so sure anymore. The way this man speaks. The specific details, the mention of the mayor and city council, that's not something a random troublemaker would know. Mitchell walks to that door, opens it slightly, calls down the hallway.
Brooks, get in here. The young officer appears 30 seconds later. He looks nervous. His eyes flick to Andrew, then to Mitchell. Yes, sir.
Check tomorrow's schedule. See if there's any ceremony listed. Anything involving the mayor. Brooks hesitates. Sir, I can check, but Deputy Chief Walsh usually handles.
Just check it now. Brooks leaves. The door closes again. The room falls silent except for the hum of the ventilation system. Andrew sits perfectly still.
His hands remain folded on the table, but if you looked closely, you'd see something in his eyes. A calculation, a countdown. Mitchell paces. Three steps one way, three steps back. His boots scrape against concrete.
Wilson stays by the door. Her arms are crossed. She's watching Andrew like a hawk, looking for any sign of weakness, any crack in the facade. You said something earlier, Mitchell says finally. About your brother.
Andrew doesn't respond. What did you mean by that? Still nothing. Mitchell comes around the table, gets close, invading space. I asked you a question, and I chose not to answer it.
Wrong choice. Mitchell grabs Andrew's collar again. This time, he doesn't just jerk. He twists, pulls, lifts Andrew partially out of the chair. Andrew's hands come up instinctively.
Not to fight, just to stabilize, to keep from falling. That's resisting, Wilson says from the door. She says it loud enough to be heard outside the room, loud enough to establish the story. He's resisting. Andrew isn't resisting.
He's trying to breathe. Mitchell's grip is cutting off his airway. His face is turning red. His eyes are watering again. And then Mitchell does something that crosses a line.
He slams Andrew's head forward hard, fast. Andrew's forehead connects with the metal table edge. The sound is sickening, wet, and sharp at the same time. Andrew slumps back in the chair. Blood runs from a cut above his eyebrow.
It drips onto his collar onto the table. Wilson doesn't move from the door. Mitchell steps back, breathing hard. His knuckles are white. His face is flushed.
You shouldn't have resisted, he says. Andrew touches his forehead. His fingers come away red. He looks at the blood for a long moment. Then he looks up at Mitchell with those same steady eyes.
This is exactly what you did 3 years ago. Mitchell freezes. What? 3 years ago? This same room?
My brother Brandon. You beat him to death right here. The color drains from Mitchell's face. The door opens. Brooks is back.
He's holding a printed schedule. His eyes go wide when he sees the blood. Sir, there is something on the schedule. Tomorrow morning, 8:00 a.m. A swearing-in ceremony for the new chief of police.
The room goes silent. Mitchell stares at Brooks. Wilson's arms drop to her sides. Andrew sits with blood running down his face, watching them process the information. That's impossible, Mitchell says.
His voice sounds hollow. Walsh would have told us. It's on the internal calendar, Brooks says. He holds up the paper like evidence. Mayor Anderson, city council president, state representatives, all confirmed for 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.
Mitchell snatches the paper from Brooks's hands. His eyes scan the text. His lips move silently as he reads. Then he crumples the paper and throws it in the corner. Get out, Brooks.
Sir, he's bleeding. I said get out. Brooks leaves, but not before his eyes meet Andrew's for just a second. Something passes between them, an understanding. Then the door closes.
Wilson locks it this time. The click echoes in the small space. This doesn't change anything, Mitchell says. He's talking to himself as much as to Andrew. You still trespassed.