Oᴄᴛᴏʙᴇʀ 15. 2024
A polygraph was suggested by a team member and it was taken into consideration. Even though polygraph tests are unreliable and have failed many innocent people, passing a polygraph test doesn't mean one won't be charged and there must be some use for it, which is why it is still an option in cases.
A polygraph, mainly referred to as a lie detector test, is a device that records blood pressure, pulse, respiration and skin conductivity, while a person is being interrogated. For any relaxed person, they can easily pass, and for any nervous person, they can easily fail. This is why polygraphs aren't relied upon.
Still, they attached the device to Alessia, though she has no intention of lying, and they proceeded to ask her a series of questions; first, playing out the recording of her anonymous call to the department two days ago.
"Is this you?" Leslie begins, standing over the table and staring down at the girl who's cuffed and seated.
"Yes."
She tilts her head. "Did you use a voice changer?"
"I only used a jammer. I received accent training and imitation."
"I see," Leslie hums, "And, who are you?"
Alessia sighs, "I am Alessia Sterling and I went missing six years ago."
The male detective that came in with the woman earlier huffs in his seat, crossing his legs, "Okay, we at least know that part."
Leslie kicks the foot on the chair where her partner sits, shooting him a glare once he looks up at her. "Shut up, Lauder." She grits out, then goes back to the girl. "How old are you?"
"I'm eighteen."
She nods, knowingly. According to the girl's file, all the little things about her are true. Now, for the real questioning, "Can you tell us why you call yourself the Phantom?"
"That's because I am the current Phantom."
"Child, the Phantom has—what?" Lauder stops midway in his speech, flabbergasted. "Current?" He repeats, turning his head up to Leslie.
Leslie leans down on both her hand on the table. She asks, "What do you mean?"
They know what she means, they just want to make sure she knows what she's talking about. Alessia tells them, "Petro Moskal had a daughter that everyone believes to be dead." Leslie nods, knowing this is correct. "That's because he made it that way. She was the previous Phantom, but no one would've realized the change since I got picked up not too long after her disappearance. If you look well enough, and for the keen persons, you can notice that there's a five months gap between the Phantom's activity in twenty-twenty."
The woman taps Lauder on the shoulder and nudges him out of the seat, where she then sits, looking directly into Alessia's unmatched eyes. "Hm," she muses out of context, "your eyes are unique. Mysterious. Beautiful."
A tight smile flashes for a brief second on the girl's face as thanks.
"Anyway, tell us from the beginning what happened to you exactly."
Alessia pretty much isn't happy about having to retell her story after they already listened to the recording of the call, but she opens her mouth reluctantly. They probably wants to hear it from her own mouth to make comparisons, despite the bad memories. "When I was seven, my dad left me and my mom after getting caught up in illegal stuff. He told mom he was leaving to keep us safe, then told me he'd come back, but I knew he was just running away with his tail between his legs. Mom then also got involved with the wrong guys and I was neglected. Those same guys killed her and kidnapped me, but that doesn't matter now and it's not the point. The leader let me go a year later then committed suicide. I don't know what happened to the rest of them, but I know one of the others are dead..." She goes into detail to the point where there aren't any questions the detectives can ask, since she's already getting there.
Meanwhile Leslie and Lauder are getting down to business with Alessia Moskal in a LAPD (Los Angeles Police Department) interrogation room, the other detectives from their team are out doing groundwork. They travel in pairs, distributed in the community Alessia spent her childhood, at her highschool, the only place registered as a place she took lessons and at Petro's bank.
These two detectives sent to Petro are incomparable to the sloth officers that visited before. However, someone can be considered professional, until proved otherwise (until, greed settles in).
"Good morning, how can I help you?" The lady at the front desk greets the two men that are dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt.
"Good morning, miss." One comes forward, leaning on the counter while the other stands back quietly, "We would like to have a word with Mr. Petro Moskal. Is he in?"
"I'm sorry, but he's in a meeting right now..." she starts quoting, then pauses when both men pulls their police badge from their pockets. "...please wait a moment, I will try to get a hold of him for you." She breathes uneasily.
It's her second time being in this situation. First was when the cops came for an inspection, now, these guys are detectives. She hopes to God there won't be a third time, she's not good with intimidation and feels like she'll piss her pleated pants if any one of them makes a sudden move. Her hands are sweating as she calls Petro and the phone dials for longer than usual, even if he is in a meeting. She hangs up and calls again, but the results are the same.
By now, she's shaking. "H–He's not pick–picking up, so I–I'll lead y–you to his officer... I mean, his office." She stutters embarrassingly, flushing red at their query eyes.
"I thought he was in a meeting." The silent one speaks up. "He's in his office?"
She gushes, "It's virtual. F–Follow me..."
She begins quickly to the side, pressing the button of the elevator after contemplating being in the small confinement with these men. Either way, she sighs, because she has to do her job.
Up, up, up, they go to the highest floor and her heels beat rhythmically on the polished tiles: click, clack, click, clack. When they come upon Petro's office door, she takes a deep breath and knocks.
No one responds and it's soundless inside.
She knocks again. "Sir, it's Suzie! Detectives are here to see you!" She announces, but to no avail.
The men gently pushes the woman away from the door and closes in on it, hands hovering over their weapon. After two, they barge in, kicking the wood from one of its hinges. The door hangs loosely, the men curse at what they've burst in on and Suzie screams.
Blood is everywhere, pooling around the desk and seeping into every crease it can find in the floor. The back of the large office chair is to them and the detectives have to go further into the room, stepping cautiously around the deathly amount of red. One of them uses their foot to rotate the chair and there, comfortably in his seat as if to be sleeping, is the man they're looking for.
It would've been a peaceful sight if his eyes weren't open and a bullet hole wasn't in the centre of his skull.
A wistful breeze circles the room through an open window, guiding their eyes out at the city from thirty floors up. It has no ledge and everything is pure glass. No one could have possibly come through it, and if they did, how would they have left. It's unimaginable.
Just like every other crimes that led to dead ends involving the Phantom, Petro Moskal's death was already a dead end the moment they saw it.
It's only right for a man of his caliber.
THE END.