He looked nervously to his side as he watched through the one-way glass. His gaze was met evenly, a reassurance in his method.
“You'll be all right,” came her voice, “The first is always the hardest.”
With that, he took a deep breath and opened the door. A single, old woman was seated in the center of the room, her eyes meeting his warmly. He had to squint a bit in the bright light that shone from overhead.
“Mrs. Gaster,” he began while trying to keep his voice even, “Do you know why you are here?”
He stepped over to her, taking the only other available seat across the small table. He watched as a small smile decorated her fragile looking face.
“Oh,” she began, the smile widening, “I'm just waiting here for my son to take me to church. He told me to wait here. Have you seen him?”
He wiped a thin layer of sweat that had begun to build upon his brow.
“No ma'am,” he replied, “You are in a police station. This is an interrogation room.”
He swallowed hard at now taking notice of the look of surprise etched across the old woman's face.
“Early this morning, you were shopping at a grocery store,” he went on to say, “Do you remember?”
“Of course,” she said, now seeming a little fearful, “That's where my son took me before church. He was helping me pick out some food. Then he told me to come here.”
“Mrs. Gaster,” he repeated her name, hoping it would give him strength, “That is how you recall your day's events?”
He merely nodded, those piercing eyes upon him the entire time. With an audible sigh, he procured a folder that was cradled within his hands.
“Mrs. Gaster,” he said yet again, “You shot seven people in that store.”
He placed the folder before the woman, opening it to a series of grainy pictures.
“These were taken from the crime scene,” he continued on while trying to ignore the woman's expression, “These are stills showing you pulling out a gun from your purse and firing.”
He pointed at one of them. She shook her head from side rapidly.
“I remember checking out my groceries with my son-”
“Mr. Gaster is dead,” he said with more volume and conviction, “As are three others. He was shot in the leg; emergency response could not resuscitate him.”
The woman merely stared, her eyes fixed upon the pictures.
“We also have numerous witnesses at the scene saying that you did this,” he concluded, “I'm afraid we are going to-”
A surprisingly strong fist struck him across the face, slicing the sentence short. He toppled out from the chair.
“I did not do any such thing!” the woman roared, standing from her chair in such a way that belied her age.
“That's enough!”
An officer had just stepped into the room, weapon drawn.
“Mrs. Gaster,” he began while taking a step forward, “You are under arrest for first-degree murder and assault of an officer!”
“I didn't do anything!”
The last word came out as a shriek. She charged for the officer, her face contorted in pure rage. He was prepared for such a move, however, and was able to grab a hold of her arms before she could attack. As he placed her torso upon the center table, he saw his superior officer hovering over him. She held out a hand.
“The first one is always the hardest, rookie,” she stated as he took her gesture to help him to his feet, “And yours was definitely one that we will be talking about for a long time.”
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