What I'd like to be doing here is setting up a Voight-Kampff machine and asking about a tortoise in the desert (protip: whatever she says, choose "doubt"). "I could try," she says, with no forced effort to maintain composure - her face as bright as it was before I walked through that door.
The sounds of sadness fade away as quickly as they arrived. I ask her if she'd be okay with answering a few questions for the investigation. There's no reddening of her cheeks - no change in color at all, in fact.
Her fingers don't quite settle upon her face. Still, something's very wrong here, and I don't mean the case at hand.
The lead detective of the crime, I've been given the unenviable role as harbinger of bad news. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Michelle, but your mother is dead." She hunches forward a few inches and throws her head into two upraised hands, audibly sobbing. I'm sitting across from young Michelle Moller, whose mother I just found brutally murdered.
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