‘So, who’s going to die today?’

“That was the final text message sent from your son at 6:53 this morning to three of his classmates.”

Detective Malone and George Brown sat facing each other in the interrogation room. Mr. Brown was slumped on his knees, staring at the floor, while Detective Malone continued,

Your son opened fire with an assault rifle at around 7:32, and you purchased that rifle three years ago.

Mr. Brown adjusted his posture in the chair and exhaled a large sigh.

Detective Malone looked to her partner on the other side of the table, who was obnoxiously clicking the end of his pen. His face remained fiery-red and stoic as he clicked a few last times before seizing.

Detective Malone and Moore had discussed the interrogation before it began and, as usual, were at odds about how to handle it. Linda Malone was in her second year as district attorney, and Kurt Moore's animosity had never wavered.

“That kid’s always been a bad apple. I'm not surprised, and I’m totally, one-hundred-percent ‘back the blue,” whatever punishment you want to give him, I fully support.” Mr. Brown stated firmly, folding his arms across his chest.

Moore and Malone gave one final glance to each other before Malone inhaled audibly and answered—

“Mr. Brown, I’m from New York; I spent over a decade in the NYPD before transferring; I've arrested numerous juvenile gang members with illegal or stolen weapons.

Malone, now audibly exhaling, “I never blamed those 15-year-olds for being ‘bad apples,’ most came from broken homes with parents who were on drugs or in gangs themselves.”

Malone continued, “Quite frankly, sir, I’m more likely to blame the orchard before I blame the apple.”

Mr. Brown, now more intently listening with a confused look on his face, responded in a rhetorical tone,

“So what, you're blaming me. Do you think this is my fault? He lowered his tone and continued,

“Look, that kid has given me and his mother hell, always back-talking and getting in trouble at school,” he wiped his face to regain his composure. “I couldn't get through a day's work without his mother calling me about something he did.”

Detective Malone pulled her chair closer, almost touching knees with Mr. Brown.

“Well, sir, _that kid _is your son—Police records show that you have had a troubled past as well, nothing serious like this, but would you agree you were an impish boy as well?”

“A what?” Mr. Brown asked, genuinely confused by Malone’s question.

“Sir, to be direct, we have not yet spoken to your wife, but you are facing charges of involuntary manslaughter and negligent homicide.”

Malone stood from her seat, grasping her handcuffs from her belt loop.

“This is bullshit! I legally owned that gun, and that boy had no permission to use it!” Mr. Brown hollered.

Malone replied by reminding Mr. Brown of his Miranda Rights. Detective Moore shrugged at Mr. Brown, a gesture Detective Malone pretended not to notice.

Malone escorted George Brown down the corridor to the same holding cell his son was occupying.

“You will be hearing from my lawyer. I get one call. Let me call my lawyer now!” Mr. Brown protested loudly.

Malone calmly unlocked the cell door and quietly stated,

“I’ll get you that call, don't you worry, but for now, you can spend quality time with your son.”