The booking is a quiet, stiff affair. Any reports read of Elias' initial arrest would remark on his willingness to proceed, his lack of dragging his feet, but this time, though not obstinate, he's reluctant, lost in thought and needing a push into each task.

This, of course, changes when the evidence is offered.

He's tense, as he reaches for that bloodied journal, thumbing through a few pages. He doesn't answer the question at first, skimming the pages instead, before he looks to the dagger. A short glance over it is all he takes, before he looks back to the journal, closing the leather cover gently.

"This is mine," he states, a quiet, simple fact. "One of my older personal writings, from several years ago. A collection of private notes and musings."

A beat. A flicker of a glance, back to the dagger.

"...I'm loosely familiar with the weapon as well, yes. You'd said you found it in my bedroom?"