Chapter 5 - The Architect of Alibis
Two days later, the local police precinct felt less like an inquiry board and more like a theater where Diane was starring in her own tragedy.
I sat across a metal interrogation table from Sergeant Miller. The room smelled of stale floor wax and cheap disinfectant. Miller didn’t look tired anymore; he looked like a man holding a detonator with a shaky finger.
“Your sister-in-law’s legal team submitted a formal statement this morning, Mr. Vance,” Miller said, sliding a thick manila folder across the table.
I opened it. Inside were receipts, bank statements, and sworn affidavits.
Affidavit one: Diane purchased the ingredients for the mocktails at a local grocery store three hours before the party—using cash, neatly avoiding digital paper trails. Affidavit two: A character witness statement from a neighbor claiming they heard me complain about Uncle Arthur’s will at a neighborhood barbecue a month ago. Affidavit three: A psychological evaluation request filed by Diane’s attorney suggesting I have a history of "repressed hostility" and "erratic financial management."
It was a masterpiece of pre-emptive gaslighting. She wasn't just defending herself; she was burying me under an avalanche of fabricated narrative designed to make a jury believe I was a desperate, unhinged man who lashed out at a child.
“Impressive, isn't it?” I said calmly, tossing the folder back onto the table.
Miller narrowed his eyes. “You’re remarkably calm for a man whose fingerprints are on the glass that nearly killed his brother-in-law, while a mountain of circumstantial evidence points directly at you as the sole beneficiary of a family feud.”
“Sergeant, let me ask you a question,” I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the cold steel table. “If I wanted to kill my own son—my only child—why would I do it at my own housewarming party, surrounded by fifty witnesses, while standing three feet from my sister-in-law?”
“People under extreme stress make irrational choices,” Miller countered smoothly.
“Sure. But people executing a murder plot don’t usually swap the cup out in plain sight and then hand the poison to the exact target the killer intended to eliminate,” I said. “Diane brought those drinks out. She prepared them. She placed them. If you pull the residue analysis from the kitchen blender at her house—not the grocery store, her actual house—you’ll find traces of the same solvent found in Derek’s blood.”
Miller didn’t flinch, but a tiny twitch at the corner of his left eye betrayed him. “We’ve already executed a search warrant on her residence, Mr. Vance. Her kitchen was clean.”
“Of course it was clean,” I smiled faintly. “She had two days to bleach the counters before your boys even knocked on her door. But did you check her car trunk? Did you check the tool shed behind their detached garage where Derek keeps his restoration solvents?”
Miller went very still.
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“You sound awfully certain about where she keeps her things,” Miller said softly.
“When someone is trying to frame you for murdering your own son, Sergeant, you tend to do a little homework,” I said, standing up and buttoning my jacket. “I’m going home to check on my boy. Let me know when you find the bottle in her shed.”
