Chapter 108: The Disabled Veteran

"Sorry, wrong room." The short man swung the door shut and bolted down the corridor.

"Stop, hey! Don't run!"

Jack sprang into action, chasing after the man and pinning him against the elevator door just as he reached it. Angela, moving slowly and carefully with a hand on her back, gave Jack an encouraging nod as she approached.

"Hands behind your back, fingers interlaced!" Jack methodically patted the man down, who had seemingly resigned himself to the situation and made no effort to resist.

"Found a knife, huh?" Jack pulled a military knife from the man's waist and handed it to Angela. Noticing something odd about the man's right leg, Jack pulled up his pants leg to reveal a prosthetic limb.

Rolling up the man's sleeve, Jack saw a tattoo depicting the Earth, a bald eagle, and an anchor.

"Marine Corps? You're a veteran. Did you lose your leg in combat?"

"Yes, Officer. An IED took it off," the short man responded obediently.

Jack lightened his grip a bit, recognizing the man's cooperation and his status as a disabled veteran.

Jack's hopes for a pleasant lunch were dashed, and Angela only had time to grab a dessert from across the street before they had to take the suspect back to the station.

"What am I being charged with?" The disabled Marine tried to glean some information as he was taken out of the car.

"Initially, you're under arrest. The rest is up to the DA," Angela replied, trailing behind and savoring her cherry cheesecake. As a pregnant woman, she had the ultimate excuse for a constant supply of snacks.

"So, why were the police in my hotel room?"

The Marine still had questions, but he ran straight into Tim, who was walking out.

"Mickey?" Tim looked at him in surprise.

"Sergeant?" The disabled Marine, Mickey, recognized Tim as well.

"You know him?" Angela's eyes widened in surprise, and Jack was also curious, not having pegged Tim as a former sergeant.

"I was his squad leader in Afghanistan."

Tim's gaze was complex, and Jack noticed that Mickey's face showed a mix of shame, resentment, and a hint of anger—clearly, there was a story here.

"What happened?" Tim watched as Jack took Mickey for fingerprinting, clearly puzzled.

"You have a fiancée in San Diego, and the Disabled Veterans Association found you a job."

Mickey avoided Tim's searching eyes, his gaze falling, his face more numb than pained.

"What can I say? I've come to terms with it."

Jack led Mickey into a holding cell, but the disabled veteran was still persistent in his questioning. "I have the right to know why I'm being arrested, don't I?"

"He can't tell you," Tim answered for Jack.

"Can you?" Mickey pointed to the badge on Tim's uniform.

Tim shook his head, his tone softening. "I can't either. It involves the victim's privacy."

"The victim?" Mickey immediately became tense.

"Is it Joe? What happened to him? Is he okay?"

Tim shook his head. "I've already said too much."

Tears welled up in Mickey's eyes, his voice choked. "Is he dead? Please!"

Tim sighed and didn't answer directly. "A detective will be in soon to question you," he said as he turned and walked away.

"It looks like your relationship with him is complicated. Care to talk about it?" Jack, having no recollection of this scenario, was curious about the nature of their connection.

"I had something to do with his leg," Tim began, reminiscing.

"Back then, he got in trouble and was confined. I broke protocol to let him out early, and he ended up getting blown up that day while on patrol."

"But you did it out of kindness," Jack countered, not understanding Tim's logic. "Why feel guilty about that?"

"Rules are important. I shouldn't have broken them."

Jack found this response to be typical Tim. Jack never quite grasped the American obsession with destiny and Tim's peculiar sense of guilt.

"Angela will start the interrogation in about 20 minutes. I need to organize the paperwork. See you then."

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"Split line" ---

"You can't really believe I killed him, right?" Mickey protested, visibly upset.

"We don't know anything, which is why we're asking you," Angela responded calmly, her mood steady after a sugar boost.

"Let me put it this way. Joe died from a broken neck. His cervical spine was acutely compressed, a job done by a professional." Jack watched Mickey closely as he explained.

"It wasn't me." Mickey's expression was sorrowful, tears welling up again. Jack thought it unlikely for a seasoned soldier to fake such emotions convincingly.

"What about the money under the mattress? Where did that come from?" Jack pressed further.

Mickey sniffed, his voice now tinged with a hint of guilt.

"A few days ago, Joe came to me, saying he snuck into a building and found a huge stash of cash—hundreds of millions just piled up on the shelves."

"Hundreds of millions in cash? Are you sure?" Angela sat up straight, her eyes gleaming with interest.

Mickey nodded. "Yes, and there were machines and armed guards with automatic weapons."

"Then he stole a part of it? Why did he spend it with you?" Angela questioned skeptically.

"We were close. He was a fellow veteran, and we always had each other's backs on the streets."

Mickey grew agitated, prompting Jack to test him further.

"And then you decided to kill him and keep the rest of the money for yourself?"

Mickey snorted. "He only took a grand total of ten thousand dollars. We spent half of it that day."

"I told him not to go back, that he got lucky the first time." Mickey looked guilty.

"I should have gone with him, because if it were me, he would have gone with me. We always looked out for each other."

He began to sob.

Jack was pretty convinced Mickey wasn't the killer. A story about millions of dollars in cash seemed too far-fetched to be made up by an average person.

Just then, John entered the room and beckoned to Jack and Angela.

Jack and Angela followed John out, and Tim, who had been listening to the interrogation through the one-way glass in the adjacent room, joined them.

"The money found in the hotel room was all counterfeit," John said gravely.

Jack's eyes lit up. Real cash could mean trouble, possibly leading to a DEA investigation or worse, but counterfeit money? That was a jackpot. They could take down the whole operation, and by the time the Secret Service showed up to claim credit, the case might already be wrapped up, earning them a ton of experience.

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