CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Pinecrest Police station hummed with afternoon activity.
Jenna shifted on a hard plastic chair, her cup of coffee cooling beside her as she watched uniformed officers move through the bullpen with the efficiency of people who knew exactly where they belonged.
Unlike her. This wasn’t her jurisdiction, wasn’t her station, and the man they had in custody might not be their killer.
Seeing that Jake was watching her from his own plastic chair, she commented. “Just wondering if we’re wasting precious time here.”
“While Morgan struts around like he’s solved the crime of the century? I know. Morrison has the skills, no question. But the state we found him in...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“Exactly. Could a man that incoherent plan and execute these murders?” Jenna took a sip of her lukewarm coffee and grimaced.
“And Morrison was barely able to stand up straight when we found him.”
“Though it’s true that addiction doesn’t preclude moments of clarity,” Jenna conceded.
Jake leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. "For what it's worth, I hope Morgan's right. If Morrison is our guy, this ends today. We can all go home knowing no one else is going to turn up, replaced by a mannequin with their face."
“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Jenna stared into her coffee cup. “If we’re wrong—if we focus all our attention on Morrison while the real killer is still out there—someone else is going to die.”
“Or so it seems likely,” Jake said. “Don’t forget, we don’t know that Kevin Torres is dead. Maybe he’s only been abducted.”
Another voice spoke, “Sheriff Graves.”
Jenna looked up to find Chief Morgan approaching, his face set in grim satisfaction. He’d removed his uniform jacket in the warm station, his badge gleaming against his shirt pocket.
“We’re ready for you,” he said. “Morrison’s lawyer is with him now. Public defender, fresh out of law school by the looks of him. But I should warn you—Morrison’s not exactly in a cooperative mood.”
"Is he coherent?" Jake asked as he and Jenna rose to their feet.
“More or less. We have him in holding. He’s coming down, but not happy about it.” Morgan’s expression hardened. “Spelling’s already in there. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
They followed Morgan through the bullpen, down a corridor lined with motivational posters that seemed almost comical in their forced optimism. The interview room was at the end of the hall—a windowless box with cinderblock walls painted the same institutional green as the rest of the station.
Inside, Colonel Spelling stood in the corner, his tall figure making the small room seem even more confined.
Morrison sat at the metal table, handcuffed to a metal loop embedded in its surface.
His attorney, a young man with nervous eyes and a suit that hung slightly too large on his thin frame, sat beside him, a yellow legal pad positioned squarely in front of him.
Morrison looked marginally better than he had at his house—someone had given him a clean shirt, and his face showed signs of having been washed—but the haunted look in his bloodshot eyes remained.
“Dr. Morrison,” Spelling began as Jenna and Jake took seats across from the suspect. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”
“Like I had a choice,” Morrison muttered.
“My client is here voluntarily,” the attorney interjected, his voice cracking slightly. “But I want to make it clear that he’s only being charged with possession at this point. Any questions about other matters are purely informational.”
“Of course,” Spelling replied smoothly. “Dr. Morrison, we’re investigating the disappearances of Marjory Powell and Kevin Torres. They were replaced with mannequins bearing remarkably lifelike replicas of their faces. Given your expertise in facial reconstruction …”
Morrison’s face registered genuine surprise. “Mannequins? What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday, between approximately one and three p.m.,” Spelling continued, ignoring the question, “where were you?”
Morrison frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. “Yesterday afternoon? I was... I think I was at home.”
“You think?” Jake pressed. “You don’t know for certain?”
Morrison’s attorney leaned forward. “My client has been under significant stress, and his medication regimen has been disrupted.”
“I was probably at home,” Morrison said, his voice less certain now. “The days blur together.”
“Can anyone verify your presence at home during that time?” Spelling asked.
"I don't think so. I live alone."
“What about last night, between nine and eleven p.m.?” Jake asked.
Morrison’s eyes darted to his attorney, then back to Jake. “I was... out, I think. Maybe. I might have gone to get something to eat.”
“Where?” Jenna asked. “Which restaurant?”
“I don’t remember exactly.” Morrison rubbed at his face with his free hand. “Maybe the burger place on Center Street? Or was that the night before?”
“My client clearly cannot provide reliable information about his exact whereabouts,” the attorney cut in. “And I fail to see how this connects him to the cases you’re investigating.”
“The connection,” Morgan said, stepping forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall, “is that your client has the exact skill set needed to create the mannequins we found. Facial reconstruction. Materials knowledge. Artistic ability.”
“Other people have those skills,” the attorney countered.
“Not in this area,” Morgan replied. “Not at this level.”
Something shifted in Morrison’s expression—a flicker of professional pride cutting through the fog of his addiction. “You think I made mannequins of real people?” he asked. “Why would I do that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Spelling said.
“I haven’t made anything in weeks,” Morrison muttered. “Can barely hold my tools steady anymore.”
“Yet your workshop was the one area of your home that remained relatively organized,” Jenna observed. “Despite the chaos elsewhere, that room showed care.”
“Of course it did,” Morrison snapped. “It’s the only thing I have left that matters. The only part of my life that still has any value.” His gaze shot to Morgan, anger flaring in his bloodshot eyes. “Or it did, until he made sure nobody would hire me.”
“Dr. Morrison,” his attorney warned. “Let’s stay focused on answering only the specific questions—”
“No,” Morrison said, his voice rising. “You want to know why my days blur together? Why I can’t tell you where I was yesterday? It’s because every day is the same goddamn nightmare since Chief Morgan here decided to destroy my career!”
“Tim—” the attorney began, but Morrison was beyond hearing.
“Do you know what it’s like?” He leaned forward as far as his handcuffed wrists would allow, eyes locked on Morgan. “Twenty years building a reputation, becoming the best at what I do, only to have it all taken away because of one mistake?”
“You compromised an active investigation,” Morgan said flatly.
“I gave an interview! I didn’t realize some details weren’t cleared for release yet!” Morrison’s free hand slammed against the table. “For that, you made sure I’d never work for law enforcement again. You blacklisted me!”
“My client is upset,” the attorney said, placing a restraining hand on Morrison’s arm. “Perhaps we should take a break—”
“I’ve tried everything,” Morrison continued, shrugging off his attorney’s hand.
“Everything to keep a roof over my head. Funeral homes—did you know they need facial reconstruction sometimes? For open-casket viewings when the deceased is too damaged? It’s delicate work, restoring a face so a family can say goodbye. ”
The room fell silent. Jenna found herself thinking of the bodies she’d seen throughout her career—the damage that violent death could inflict. The thought of someone meticulously restoring those faces for grieving families held a strange nobility.
“But there wasn’t enough demand for reconstruction in these small towns.
” Morrison continued, his voice quieter now.
“So I started making figurines—little sculptures for craft fairs, online sales. Tried to get commissions for portrait busts from historical societies, local patrons with money to spend on vanity projects.” He laughed bitterly.
“But who wants to commission art from a man with shaky hands who reeks of desperation?”
“Dr. Morrison, I must insist,” his attorney said, more forcefully this time. “This isn’t helping your case.”
“My case?” Morrison looked at his attorney as if seeing him for the first time. “What case? Possession? That’s the least of my problems.” He turned back to the officers. “You want to know if I killed those people and made mannequins of them? I didn’t. Couldn’t. Can barely function most days.”
“I think we’re done here,” the attorney declared, rising to his feet. “My client has been cooperative, but he’s clearly distressed, and I don’t believe this line of questioning is productive.”
Spelling nodded. “We appreciate your time, Dr. Morrison. If you recall anything about your whereabouts during the times in question, please let us know.”
Morrison didn’t respond, his gaze now fixed on the table in front of him, shoulders slumped in defeat. An officer came to escort him back to his cell, and the attorney gathered his legal pad and briefcase, offering a curt nod before following them out.
The door closed, leaving Jenna, Jake, Spelling, and Morgan alone in the small room.
Morgan broke the silence first. “He’s our guy. No question.”
“Based on what evidence?” Jenna asked. “He can’t account for his whereabouts, but that’s hardly proof of guilt.”
“The skill set matches perfectly,” Morgan insisted. “And that outburst—that’s a man with a grudge, with a reason to kill.”
“Against you, maybe,” Jake pointed out. “But what’s his connection to Marjory Powell or Kevin Torres? What motive would he have to target them specifically?”
Morgan waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe they were just convenient. Or maybe there is a connection we haven’t uncovered yet. Point is, we’ve got a suspect with the exact skills needed to create those mannequins, with no alibi, and with a clear psychological break from his former life.”
Jenna exchanged a glance with Jake, seeing her own doubt mirrored in his eyes. “I think we need to keep all options open,” she said carefully. “Including having someone keep an eye on Marcus Langley.”
“The photographer?” Morgan frowned. “Why? Because he took pictures of the victims? That’s circumstantial at best.”
“It’s a connection,” Jenna insisted. “And his alibis should be verified.”
“So verify them,” Morgan said. “But I’m not wasting officers to surveil a man based on nothing but the fact that he took some photos. We have our killer in custody.”
“We have a suspected drug user in custody,” Jenna corrected. “One who, by his own admission, can barely function most days. The murders we’re investigating required planning, precision, and a steady hand.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “I know Morrison. I worked with him for years. When he’s clearheaded, he’s capable of extraordinary detail work.
” He took a step closer to her, his voice dropping.
“I appreciate your assistance, but the final decisions are still mine. We’re building a case against Morrison.
We’re going to prove he’s guilty, and we’re going to find out what happened to Kevin Torres.
If you want to chase photographers on your own time, be my guest.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room, the door swinging shut behind him with a decisive click.
“Well,” Jake said into the silence that followed, “that went about as expected.”
Spelling sighed, leaning against the wall. “Morgan’s always been... territorial. But I share your concerns, Sheriff. Morrison doesn’t feel right for this.”
“So what’s our next move?” Jake asked. “Keep investigating other angles while Morgan builds his case against Morrison?”
“Exactly,” Spelling nodded. “You should go back to Trentville, see what else you can find out about what happened to Marjory Powell. I’ll stay here, continue to work with Morgan’s team.
See if any evidence materializes that definitively links Morrison to the crimes.
Or, equally important, if anything emerges that exonerates him. ”
Jenna’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, grimacing when she saw the caller ID. “Mayor Simmons,” she said to Jake before answering. “Sheriff Graves.”
The mayor’s voice came through sharp and clear. “Sheriff, I need you in my office immediately.”
“Mayor Simmons, I’m in the middle of an active investigation—”
“An investigation that has apparently prompted you to issue a public warning that has my phone ringing off the hook with panicked citizens,” Claire cut in.
“Business owners are calling to complain that foot traffic has dropped to nothing. The Founder’s Day planning committee is threatening to postpone next week’s celebration.
I have the Chamber of Commerce president sitting in my office right now demanding answers. ”
Jenna closed her eyes briefly. “The warning was necessary given the circumstances—”
“Which you will explain to me in person,” Claire said, her tone brooking no argument. “My office. One hour.”
“I can’t be there that soon. I’m in Pinecrest.”
“Pinecrest? What are you doing in Pinecrest? Never mind. You can explain everything when you get here.”
The line went dead before Jenna could say anything else. She slipped the phone back into her pocket with a sigh. “Duty calls,” she said to Spelling. “Our mayor wants explanations about the public warning we issued.”
“Politics,” Spelling grumbled, his expression sympathetic.
Jenna and Jake hurried to their cruiser. Since they had no immediate leads to follow here in Pinecrest, they would go and talk with the Trentville mayor. But somewhere out there, Jenna felt certain, the real killer was probably already crafting the perfect face of his next victim.