My Life with Death

FBI Nevada Branch, Las Vegas, Nevada, Interrogation Room C

 They seated me in an uncomfortable chair at a metal table in a dark room with a massive mirror on one of the walls. The man who brought me immediately left again. I stayed there alone in a gloomy room, illuminated by fluorescent lights, with feelings of anxiety and great questioning. Another man entered the room, and I began to think of more questions. He slammed the door and dropped a thick federal file on the desk across from me. He sat down and, with a very reserved expression, began to leaf through the folder.

I recognized him. It was the same agent as on the roof—agent Hoover. I was trying to remember his name. Just the feeling I got from him. He immediately recognized me, and I was all the more irritated.

"We've been lucky lately," he said.

"I wouldn't call it luck," I retorted. "I was hoping I'd never see you again," I mumbled.

He ignored my comment.

"Doctor," he addressed me. "you know that stealing classified material belonging to the government is a federal crime. So is breaking into a federal building," he added. "I have a question that I have in mind, you can answer," he emphasized. "Why would anyone break into the FBI and steal documents from a twenty-year-old case?" he asked, adding, "Especially when it's a case that that individual himself investigated and successfully closed ten years ago."

I didn't want to talk to him. Answer him, investigate with him. Just the idea of sharing a room with him made me uncomfortable.

"For now, you are here as... let's just say a suspect and will remain so if you answer all my questions. I want to talk to you," he leaned against the back of his chair and intertwined his fingers on the table. He was very relaxed. "You're not in handcuffs, you're not under arrest...yet," he emphasized repeatedly. "if you answer me, you will be able to leave," he announced.

"Talk to me," taken aback. "to talk... About what?" I asked.

I felt confused, surprised, and nervous. I didn't know what he was going to ask me. I was afraid of personal questions about painful topics.

"About everything," he replied. "You said it yourself. I'm no longer an agent. So I can't talk to you about the federal investigation," I said calmly.

"I don't want to ask you about the case. I don't care about the case at all. That's the business of the cops in Washington."

I continued to refuse to have any conversation with him. He was looking at me in his sly way, and I wasn't comfortable with it, but I didn't want to show any sign of weakness. Even though I didn't want to look at him, I stared straight into his eyes. I knew the principles of interrogation. I knew what to say, what to do, and what to avoid. And that's what I applied. I just kept silent, but I still had a lot of questions in my mind. I wondered where Christine was, if she was also being interrogated, or if she was being held in some dark cell. He also tried to look strong, but you could tell he was impatient. It's pretty likely that if I weren't a woman, he would have long since thrust one into me to get information out of me.

His blood began to boil. A massive pulsating vein appeared on his forehead. Beads of sweat began to run down his cheeks. He seemed nervous. He clenched his hands into fists. On the table in front of him was my folder. He hit her with his right fist.

I was frightened. I jumped slightly on the chair.

"Okay. Ask questions," I said as if nothing was happening—turning him off even more—and waved my hand in agreement. "What interests you so much about me," questioningly. "you seem to know everything about me anyway, so let's get this over with," I pointed to the file in front of him.

"First question," he cleared his throat. "Why are you risking so much? Why do you act like you don't care? What about your daughter? Why do you keep chasing the ghosts of the past? Is this for justice for your mother or your peace of mind?'

"You said the first question," strangely. "do you mind more that I'm a woman or that I do your job better than you?" haughtily. "and why are you bringing my mother into this?"

"Wasn't that letter from her?"

"Why do you think that?" I concealed the truth. "Or did you know before you gave it to me? Why are you asking me questions you already know the answers to?" in exasperation. He was silent, and that burned me even more.

"Do you want to talk to me here, or do you want to solve a murder," I jumped out of my chair. "You're wasting my precious time here... you bloody bastard," I stammered. "why are you here asking me about my private things?"

I was furious at him, at the world, at myself. I wanted them to let me go. I wanted to know where Christine was. I wanted to keep looking for more leads in the investigation before the FBI cut me off for good.

"So...if you don't have any more questions, you can let me go or arrest me," I informed him.

"Mrs. Kent..." he addressed me."

"Doctor," I called. "Doctor Stepman.

"Mrs. Kent, Doctor, I will release you on the condition that you return to D.C. and not," he emphasized. "...continue to investigate any case that falls under the FBI or any other agency, because the next time you make an arrest, the officials involved might not be as friendly as we are, and they could put you straight in a state prison," he added.

"Fine, so... I can... I'm leaving," I said awkwardly, holding my handcuffed hands towards him. He nodded in agreement and removed my handcuffs using a minor metal key. I left the room. Christine stood at the end of the corridor with a frightened look. I walked towards her. I grabbed her hand and said, "You're okay... let's get out of here. I don't want to be here another minute.'

She nodded in agreement, albeit confused.