CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Chief Morgan’s words sent a jolt through Jenna—”I know who the killer is.” They’d been working this case for less than twenty-four hours, and already Morgan claimed to have solved it.
“Please hold on for a minute,” she said into the phone. Then she turned to the photographer. “Mr. Langley, would you excuse us for a moment?” she asked, keeping her tone professional as she turned toward the door. “We’ll take this call in the hallway.”
“Of course,” Langley replied with an easy nod, though curiosity flickered across his features.
Jake followed her into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind them but leaving it slightly ajar—a subtle message to Langley that their conversation wasn’t finished.
“Chief Morgan,” Jenna said into the phone, her voice low, “you’ve identified a suspect?”
Jake leaned in close enough to hear both sides of the conversation, his shoulder brushing against hers. The contact was brief but steadying.
“It hit me like a freight train,” Morgan said, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of self-satisfaction. “We’ve been overthinking this. The answer was right in front of us all along.” He paused, clearly savoring his moment. “Dr. Timothy Morrison.”
The name meant nothing to Jenna. “Morrison?” she repeated, glancing at Jake, who shook his head slightly.
“Former forensic sculptor,” Morgan continued. “Specialized in facial reconstruction for law enforcement—worked with Pinecrest PD and a few other departments in the region. The man could build a face from nothing but a skull and make it look like a damn photograph.”
“That’s certainly a relevant skill set,” Jenna acknowledged. “What’s his connection to the victims?”
“That’s the thing,” Morgan said. “I don’t know if there is one. But three months ago, Morrison was working with us on the Bedford homicide—victim had been unidentifiable, face destroyed. Morrison reconstructed it, and we got an ID within days.”
“So what happened?” Jake asked, loud enough for Morgan to hear.
“The idiot gave an interview to the Gateway Herald about the case—shared details that weren’t cleared for release, talked about our investigation methods, compromised the whole damn thing,” Morgan said, his voice hardening with remembered anger.
“I blacklisted him after that. No more contracts with Pinecrest PD, and I made sure the neighboring departments knew what he’d done. ”
Jenna frowned. “So you think this is what—revenge?”
“Could be something like that,” Morgan replied. “I’ve heard things since then. His wife left him, took their kid. He lost his studio space because he couldn’t make rent. Started drinking heavily. Rumor has it he’s been on a downward spiral, possibly into more serious substance abuse.”
“And you think this spiral led him to start killing people and replacing them with mannequins?” Jenna’s skepticism leaked into her tone.
"Think about it, Graves," Morgan insisted. "Who else in this area would have the skills to create those lifelike faces? The man specialized in taking reference photos and crafting perfect facial reconstructions. He knows anatomy, sculpting techniques, and materials."
Jenna caught Jake’s eye, seeing her own careful consideration mirrored there. Morrison did fit a crucial part of the profile—he had the technical ability to create the mannequins. But the psychological aspect was murkier, and connections to the victims were not established at all.
“Do you have an address for Morrison?” she asked, deciding that an interview was, at minimum, warranted.
“Already pulled it,” Morgan said. “2715 Sycamore Lane, a rental house on the east side of Pinecrest. Colonel Spelling and I are heading there now.”
“We’ll meet you,” Jenna decided. “Give us fifteen minutes.”
“Make it ten,” Morgan replied before ending the call.
Jenna slipped her phone into her pocket, turning to Jake. “What do you think?”
“The skill set matches,” Jake said thoughtfully. “And a psychological break following professional disgrace and personal loss isn’t unheard of. But it seems thin unless we can find a direct connection to the victims.”
“Agreed,” Jenna said. “Let’s wrap up with Langley and head over. If nothing else, Morrison might have insights on who else could have the technical skills for this kind of work.”
They returned to Langley’s apartment, where the photographer was arranging prints on his desk, though Jenna suspected it was busy-work to mask his curiosity. He looked up as they entered.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“For now,” Jenna replied with a practiced smile that revealed nothing.
“Mr. Langley, we appreciate your time. We’ll be checking those alibis, but in the meantime, if you think of anything that might connect Marjory Powell and Kevin Torres—beyond your professional work with them—please contact us immediately. ”
Langley nodded, handing each of them one of his business cards. "Of course. And Sheriff? I hope you find whoever did this. Marjory was kind during our photoshoot—brought me coffee, asked about my career. Kevin, too—he gave me a free month's membership to try out his gym. They were good people."
The simple humanity in his statement struck Jenna. It was easy to get lost in the macabre details of the case and forget that real people had been taken—people with kindness to share, with lives that touched others.
“We’ll do our best,” she promised.
Outside in the parking lot, the midday heat had intensified, the air thick with humidity. Jenna slid into the driver’s seat of the cruiser, starting the engine and cranking the air conditioning.
“Morrison,” Jake said as he buckled his seatbelt. “Never heard of him before today. But Morgan sure has an axe to grind with him.”
“That makes me cautious about his objectivity,” Jenna observed, pulling out of the apartment complex. “Besides, forensic sculptors do facial reconstruction from limited reference material to achieve a probable appearance. It’s not likely to include moles and slight scars.”
“So we’re adding Morrison to our suspect list, not crossing Langley off it.”
“Exactly,” Jenna replied, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. “This case is too strange to narrow our focus too quickly. But we’ll see what Morrison has to say for himself.”
The house sat at the end of a neglected street where chain-link fences guarded browning lawns, and sun-bleached toys lay abandoned in driveways.
The small ranch-style home had once been white, but years of weather and neglect had stripped it to a dingy gray.
Jenna guessed that Morrison had moved here recently when his life started coming apart.
Jenna pulled the cruiser to the curb, her eyes cataloging the details that spoke of his troubles: overflowing mailbox, newspaper still in its plastic sleeve on the lawn, blinds drawn against the day.
"Looks like Morgan and Spelling beat us here," Jake observed.
The two men stood by their vehicle, deep in conversation.
Morgan's stance was aggressive, shoulders squared, and hands gesturing emphatically as he spoke.
Spelling, by contrast, maintained his usual calm, his tall figure straight as a post, listening more than talking.
Morgan turned as they approached. "Bout time you got here," he said. "We were just discussing the approach."
“Let’s not go in guns blazing,” she suggested. “If Morrison is as unstable as you’ve indicated, Chief, a show of force might escalate things unnecessarily.”
“Fine,” Morgan conceded. “Your show, Graves.”
They approached the front door, and Jenna knocked firmly. "Dr. Morrison? This is Sheriff Graves from Genesius County. We'd like to speak with you."
Silence followed, broken only by the distant sound of a lawn mower several houses down. Jenna knocked again, louder this time.
“Dr. Morrison? Timothy? It’s important that we talk to you.”
Something moved behind the peephole, and then came the sound of multiple locks being disengaged—a dead bolt, a chain, a doorknob lock.
The door cracked open, and the chain went taut, revealing a sliver of a haggard face.
Bloodshot eyes peered out, focusing first on Jenna, then sliding past her to Morgan. The door immediately began to close.
“No,” a hoarse voice said from behind the narrowing gap. “Not Morgan. You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming around here. Get off my property.”
Morgan stepped forward. “Morrison, open the damn door. This is official police business.”
The door stopped its inward motion, then swung open with unexpected force.
Timothy Morrison stood in the threshold, a ghost of the professional man he must have been.
His once-white shirt was stained and wrinkled, his hair unwashed and sticking up at odd angles.
Several days’ worth of stubble shadowed his jaw, and his eyes carried the hollow look of someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
“Official police business?” Morrison spat, his gaze fixed on Morgan. “Like ruining my career wasn’t enough for you? My reputation? My marriage? Now you’re here to what—rub salt in the wound?”
Jenna stepped between them. “Dr. Morrison,” she said, keeping her voice gentle but firm. “I’m Sheriff Jenna Graves. We need to ask you some questions about a case we’re working on. Your expertise might be valuable to us.”
Morrison’s unfocused eyes swung to her face, suspicion warring with a flicker of professional pride. “My expertise?” he repeated. “That’s rich. Ask him about my expertise.” He jerked his chin toward Morgan. “He made sure nobody in three counties would utilize my expertise ever again.”
“I understand there’s history there,” Jenna acknowledged. “But this isn’t about that. It’s about two people who have been killed. We need your help.”
The mention of deaths seemed to penetrate Morrison’s anger. He blinked several times, his posture softening slightly. “Two people?”
“Yes,” Jenna said. “May we come in? Just for a few minutes.”
Morrison hesitated, then stepped back, gesturing vaguely into the darkened house. “Whatever. Not like I have anything left to lose.”
As they crossed the threshold, the smell hit Jenna first—unwashed dishes, stale food, sweat, and something chemical and sharp underneath it all.
The living room was cluttered with empty fast-food containers, discarded clothing, and scattered papers.
But what drew her attention immediately was the coffee table—where a small mirror held lines of white powder, a razor blade, and a rolled-up dollar bill.
Morgan saw it at the same moment she did. “Well, well,” he said, the satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. “Looks like we’ve got possession of a controlled substance in plain sight.”
Morrison followed their gaze to the coffee table, his expression changing from confusion to resignation. “Shit,” he muttered. “I forgot about that.”
“Timothy Morrison,” Morgan declared, reaching for his handcuffs, “you’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.”
“Chief,” Jenna interjected, “maybe we should focus on questioning him about our case first.”
“No way,” Morgan replied, already moving toward Morrison. “He’s clearly impaired, and the drugs are right there. We’re doing this by the book.”
Jenna caught Spelling’s eye, hoping for support, but the colonel merely shrugged, his expression suggesting he agreed with Morgan’s assessment.
She understood the legal necessity—they couldn’t ignore drugs in plain sight—but she worried they were jeopardizing their ability to learn about Morrison’s potential connection to the mannequin murders.
“Jake,” she said quietly, “let’s look around while they handle this.”
They moved deeper into the house as Morgan recited Miranda rights to a passive Morrison, who didn’t resist as handcuffs were secured around his wrists.
The kitchen was a disaster zone of unwashed dishes and take-out containers.
The bathroom contained prescription bottles with labels from multiple doctors—potential evidence of doctor shopping.
The most interesting room, however, was at the back of the house.
What had likely been intended as a second bedroom had been converted into a workshop.
Despite the chaos in the rest of the house, this room maintained a semblance of order.
Professional-grade equipment lined the walls—precision tools for sculpting, high-end 3D scanning technology, boxes of specialized clay and silicone in various flesh tones.
A half-finished facial reconstruction sat on a workbench, its features eerily lifelike despite being incomplete.
“This is serious equipment,” Jake said, examining a shelf of reference books on anatomy and sculpture techniques. “Worth thousands.”
Jenna moved to a computer workstation where detailed digital models of human faces rotated slowly on the screen. The level of precision was extraordinary—individual pores, the texture of skin, the subtle asymmetry that made faces uniquely human.
“These are incredible,” she murmured. “The artistry, the attention to detail...”
They continued their search, finding portfolios of Morrison’s previous work—documentation of facial reconstructions he had done for various law enforcement agencies. The photographs showed his progression from clay models to finished reconstructions, each one remarkable in its lifelike quality.
When they returned to the living room, Morgan was leading Morrison toward the front door. The former forensic sculptor’s shoulders were slumped in defeat.
“We’re taking him to headquarters for processing and questioning,” Morgan announced. “Meet us there.”
Spelling followed them out, pausing briefly to address Jenna. “Find anything relevant, Sheriff?”
“His work is exceptional,” Jenna replied. “But we didn’t see any direct evidence linking him to Torres or Powell.”
Spelling nodded. “We’ll dig deeper during questioning.”
“What do you think?” Jake asked as he and Jenna walked back to their cruiser.
Jenna sighed, fishing her keys from her pocket. “I think Morrison has the skills, certainly. And his life has clearly fallen apart. But I’m not convinced.”
“No mannequins in the house,” Jake pointed out. “No photos of the victims. Morgan’s rushing this because of their history.”
“Maybe we’ll learn more when we get a chance to ask questions,” Jenna said. “But right now, I’m not at all sure we’ve got the right man.”