Chapter Eighteen: The One Where A Suspect Surfaces

"Where would you like me to start, hun?" The officer stated, but she didn't seem like much of one at the moment, and I mean that in the best approach possible. She had her make up done differently, her hair rebonded and blowing in the wind, her nails manicured, a pinkish bow-like headband at the top of her head, and a short popping-colored mini skirt to accompany her (tight) beige top. Nobody would guess her profession this way, and I had the gut feeling that's what she wanted. It's supposed to appear to be a fun day that she can go unrecognized, possibly more for my sake than hers.

'Good for her' was all I could think and I did mean it, because those women who can pull off both are a charm. I was still intimidated this way, especially in the casual clothes I showed up in, but not in the way I would be with a cop, and I had to let that go. Settling for this would be for the best. At least I could breathe. Maybe that's thanks to her, or maybe I can credit the ocean for that.

It was one of the free ones that we agreed to meet up at. The kind that had rocky sand, and sharp thistles here and there that made it impossible - or more scary and untrustworthy- to do any sort of tanning, sand castle building, or what families like to do on vacation or chill-days, but the waves came and went like they did at every other one.

Under a little wooden hut, she had brought in a folder, that wasn't thick or terrifying to look at. It looked simple enough, but that depends more on the content than the height of the pile of documents she had, and I had no idea what that was yet. It's not the time that I can decide how I think about it.

"I don't know what kind of information you gathered, so how would I know where to start?" I chuckled lightly, trying not to look as dumb as it sounds. It's the only way I could think to respond, and I didn't know what she wanted me to tell her. I came here because I needed information that she had, and I wanted her to tell me everything from the beginning to end, end to beginning, or any other form that it could come in, as long as she gave it to me.

"I guess you're right." She laughed in return, and it was oddly relieving, but she was quick to get with what she came for before I could get too relieved. Picking out certain pieces of ordinary paper from the stack, I waited until she put them out so I can see them. They were each blurry photos in black and white, seemingly straight from a security cam that zoomed in as close as it could get.

"These photos are from the ammo shop cctv, from outside and inside. Three men were the purchasers of the bullets that would fit the gun you found within the time span of a month to a week before September 23rd 2020, when your sister passed. There's not too many gun owners in this area so it wasn't too hard to find out about. If you recognize them, tell me everything you know about them or if anything was suspicious."

Obeying, I peered in closer to the pictures. "I know all of them." I said aloud when I realized, letting my posture back out straight from leaning in so close, as it began to ache. "The first one is Jake Suan. He lives down the street, and owns a sari sari store, so he was usually our main competition, but it's always been friendly. His store has taken off much better after Camille passed though, so I don't know if he would have that type of intention. He seems like a nice person, I think."

The woman seemed to be recording everything I was saying on a notepad, and would only 'ah' and 'oh' or 'mhm' as I did, to show she was listening. I stopped when that was all I was getting out of her, unsure if she wanted me to go on to the next person when she was still writing away. I awaited her validation. "Alright. How about the second one?" She finally said, taking the first picture back and pointing at the one that was beside it.

"That's Bryan Abangan." I thought about him, but it's not much I saw him around. "He's a heavy church-goer. An older man, like the grandpa of the congregations that always has candy for the kids that nobody knows where to buy on their own. He lives alone. His family is all abroad somehow or another, but besides that, I don't really know him. I think he's just lonely and likes attention, but he wouldn't hurt a fly. A gun could be for self defense in emergencies. That's the first assumption I'd make when it comes to him."

I again, awaited for her green light to go on, but this time she simply pointed at the last photo, totally immersed into her note-taking. Taken aback by the lack of accommodation, but with a mental slap that she was here for answers and not hospitality, I continued. "The last one is Cody Alexander Dela Cruz. I've seen him a lot when I was picking up Camille from school. I'm not sure who his child even is. He doesn't like to talk to anyone, but he does smile at them, quite kindly. People that gossip about him like to say he's suspiciously rich because no one knows what he does for a living. I hear he lives in our neighborhood but I don't know what house is his."

"Okay great. Thank you. Moving on." The officer said, a dramatic period written on her paper that closed the topic and started a new, like her speech was intending on its own. "The second thing I mentioned to you on the phone was about the uniform. I used to work at the Tagbilaran City Hospital, as a nurse, years ago before I became an officer around four years back. A string of that uniform was in with the gun that you turned into me. Now, we can't rely too much on this because there's too many ways that this could end up here, and it could purely be coincidence, but that doesn't disregard that it's there so I have to investigate it. I still have to ask you, have you or your family had connections with this hospital, in any way at all?"

"Almost everyone knew Camille there. She's afraid of pills, so she went in for little things to kill her pain, and they started to treat her more like a friend than a patient, especially after sprains and broken bones. There was a time period it felt she was in everyday." I admitted. By the look on her face though, it was as if the answer wasn't what she was looking for. I didn't understand how she could have expected a certain answer for what the situation was, but she must've already had her own theories. If she wanted me to say more to match up to what she could be thinking, she was going to have to elaborate, and she knew that.

"Understood, but that wouldn't explain why a string of the uniform was stuck on a gun that you said was found at your house." The woman was waving her pen overtop of her paper, in case I'd say something that she had to note, which obviously wasn't right now. She was ready for any news I could throw out there. "Has the hospital done any in-home service for your family before? Maybe sent their nurses to check up on or care for someone after an injury, or a surgery? They don't do this that often, but if it's specifically requested then the hospital's president will grant the wishes of the family or the patient. Do you remember anything like that happening at any point? Even if it was a long time ago?"

She was starting to push the questions at me, in a pestering force, and a while through it, it was beginning to bother me, but that lack of comfort must've poked at some switch in my head, because I remembered something. A memory that I was trying to forget and that was hard for each of us, that had nothing to do with Camille at all, but that seemed to be what she was looking for. It had to help, if she was onto something here, so I had to say it, didn't I?

I used my exhale as a chance to stall, and it ended up being done much too slow and exaggerative. She noticed, and the feeling came to her that I did have something to say in regards to what she brought up. I saw that, but I didn't want to give her an opportunity to push at it some more, so I gave her what she wanted. I've been doing that a lot these days, it seems.

"Yes, I remember." I sighed, figuring out how I wanted to say it. "Papa got heart surgery maybe five years ago, and we were told that he should have constant eyes on him after it was over with, but my mother was working full time at the mall in the city to pay for the medical bills, - we needed the extra cash - and it was exam season, so both Camille and I were busy hardcore studying or with extra curricular activities or groups at school to maybe boost our grades up by a couple percentages at the last minute. We were too busy to give him the care we needed and we couldn't drop it for him as much as we wanted to. He wouldn't really let us either, so we got a nurse to watch after him as much as he detested the idea. I thought it'd be for the better."

"So you got a in-home nurse." The officer put my long rant into a final gist, writing that down as well, probably. "I know this is a little much, because that was a while back and you've had your share of experiences after that period of time, but do you happen to remember the name of the nurse that hospital had appointed to serve that care?"

"Yeah, I think it was-." I began on a cheery-ish note, but the more I thought about it the more it came to haunt me, and the more I had an issue with finishing my sentence. Back when Gianni had accused me of being Mew's murderer because of the lock on the cabinet and the hidden key she never knew the location of, I could've sworn it came down to the three of the remaining family members; myself, my mom, and my dad who had access to opening it, but that wasn't fully accurate.

The nurse caring for him back then knew about it too, because we entrusted her to give him his medications from that cabinet in order to allow him to rest, and didn't feel it would be necessary to change our medicine-cabinet situation to suit that change, especially because Mew wouldn't stand for it. She was a member of the household too, after all, and we decided to accommodate for that.

Gianni may have screwed up, but his screw up wasn't as idiotic, disrespectful and offensive as I thought it was. It had sense, and he was rightful to believe as he did based on the information that he had. With this in my head, I couldn't keep still, and I was brought automatically and urgently to my feet.

The dots were starting to connect. The arrows were all pointing at the same person, and the evidence she collected; every last bit of it headed down the same road.

Standing up, I swallowed to warn myself that this wasn't the time to shout. "Holy shyet." I bellowed, still a bit too loud for the circumstance, but a lot quieter than I could've had it. "I know who it is. I know who did this to Mew."