The silence at the FBI Headquarters was dense, cut only by the hum of the servers. Michell and Michael had already returned from the crime scene on Starling Street, but Michell's mind was working at a frequency that allowed no rest. He remembered with surgical precision the small puncture, almost invisible, near Arthur's jugular.
Michell picked up the radio and dialed Célia, who was still in the field with Bruno, Foxy, and the rest of the team.
— Célia, listen carefully — said Michell, his voice grave and authoritative. — Arthur didn't die just from asphyxiation. I saw a puncture mark on his neck. Someone sedated him before finishing the job. I want you and the team (Bruno, Foxy, all of you) to go right now to Arthur's house. Turn over every inch. Look for ampoules, syringes, or any trace of sedative.
Célia didn't question it. Minutes later, she and her group entered the watchman's residence. The search was exhaustive, moving furniture and turning over technological waste, until Bruno found something behind a false panel in the bathroom.
— Michell, we found it — Célia informed over the radio. — Three ampoules of a potent sedative. One of them is open.
— Bring everything — Michell ordered. — Every piece of evidence. Leave nothing behind.
— Confirmed. We're on our way — she replied before hanging up.
While the team was en route, Michael took a brief break to leave the building and buy something to eat, maintaining his facade of absolute normality. When Célia arrived at HQ, Michell met her immediately in the forensic lab.
— Run DNA and fingerprints on these ampoules now — said Michell. — And check if there's anything in the victim's house records that matches our internal database.
Time passed in a trail of tension. Michael returned to HQ, discarding the packaging of his snack with precise movements. As soon as he crossed the corridor, Michell intercepted him.
— Michael, meeting room. In five minutes. Be there.
Michael merely nodded, without altering a muscle in his face. Exactly five minutes later, he opened the heavy door to the room. The scene was that of an improvised tribunal. The entire main team was there: Célia, Owen, Bruno, Foxy, and Michell, surrounded by other high-ranking FBI agents.
— Sit down, Michael — Michell requested, pointing to the central chair.
Michael settled in, folding his hands on the table.
— The reason we're here is simple and brutal — Michell began, projecting the autopsy images. — The cause of Arthur's death was asphyxiation, but he was neutralized beforehand with a sedative. Célia's team found the material at the victim's house.
Michell paused dramatically, sweeping his gaze over everyone present.
— What no one expected is that the forensic lab has just confirmed: the sedative and the material collected at Arthur's house bear the fingerprints and DNA of a person sitting in this room right now.
The agents around them held their breath. The shock was visible on the faces of the support officers, while the main team remained in an icy silence.
— That evidence is yours, Michael.
Michael didn't blink. He showed no fear, no guilt, nor the dread one would expect from a man accused of murder. His voice came out calm, as if he were reciting a bureaucratic fact:
— Michell, if that were true, you wouldn't have waited five minutes to call me, knowing the evidence supposedly points to me. You would have detained me the moment I entered the building.
Michell stood up slowly, taking the handcuffs from his belt. The sound of the metal clinking echoed like a verdict.
— I needed the entire team present to see what happens when the enemy decides to hide in plain sight. Michael, you are under arrest for the murder of Arthur and for tampering with federal evidence. We have your DNA at the victim's house and your fingerprints on the murder weapon. They are irrefutable evidence.
Without resistance, Michael extended his wrists. The "click" of the handcuffs closing was the only sound in the room. Michell's gaze was fixed on his — a gaze searching for cracks in an armor he still didn't fully understand.
Michell grabbed Michael by the arm and led him out of the meeting room, crossing the corridor under the astonished stares of the other agents, until they reached the armored interrogation room.
The fluorescent lights flickered when Michell pushed the door open. Michael sat on one side of the metal table, and Michell positioned himself across from him, alone. The chess game had left the board and now, in the isolation of that cold room, the real confrontation was just beginning.