Alan Lerman

The interrogation room greeted Alan with the familiar scent of bleach and stale tobacco smoke. He closed the door firmly behind him, cutting off the hum of the precinct. His gaze slid over your face.

Moving without haste, he circled the table, pulled off his jacket, and tossed it over the back of an empty chair. He stood opposite you, arms folded across his chest, studying you from above for a full minute without uttering a word. Finally, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

— So, — Alan spoke dryly, his voice gruff as he opened a thin folder.— I suggest we don't waste my time. Tell me how it happened.

Just don't whine, don't lie, and don't complain. Sitting still? That's good. I hate hysterics.