Chapter 19
The polygraph tech rigged Tiffany up to the machine in the interrogation room.
Hooked to a small laptop, the device measured changes in heartbeat, respiration, blood pressure, galvanic skin response, along with sensors to detect movement.
It was a state-of-the-art machine that rarely saw any use.
More of an intimidation tactic than anything else.
They weren't admissible in a court of law.
Still, sometimes they could scare someone into the truth.
Video cameras captured the session. JD and I sat across the table from Tiffany, along with the technician. The sheriff watched from the observation room.
I asked a series of control questions to establish her baseline response to known answers. “Is your full legal name Tiffany Madison?”
“Yes. Well, Tiffany Elise Madison, if you want to get technical.”
“Are you at the Coconut County Sheriff’s Office?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yes or no, please.”
“Yes.”
“Are we in the state of Florida?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever lied?”
She laughed. “Who hasn’t?”
“Try not to laugh. It could affect the results.”
“Aye-aye, Captain. I’ll keep it serious.” She pretended to put on an intense expression.
“Have you ever lied?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever lied to any law enforcement officers?”
“I’m sure I have.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
These questions were designed to provoke a small stress response.
“Have you ever lied to me?”
She looked me dead in the eye. “No.”
“Have you ever thought about hurting a family member?”
Her brow wrinkled like the notion was absurd. “No.”
“You ever think about killing anyone?”
“Only when in traffic.” She smirked.
I gave her a stern look.
“Sorry. Could you repeat the question?”
I did.
“No.”
The fluorescents buzzed overhead, and the tiny room felt even more claustrophobic with all of us in there. The machine that could supposedly see into the dark recesses of your soul made it all the more suffocating for her. So far, Tiffany handled it well. Calm and composed.
"How did you meet your husband?" I asked, knowing what the answer should be.
"Like I said, I met my husband through Charlotte Beaumont."
I glanced at the laptop, looking for any indication of anomalies.
All the waveforms held steady and stayed in the range of normal, according to her baseline.
"Did you love your husband?"
"Very much."
"Yes or no?”
"Yes. A thousand percent yes."
Again, the waveforms on the computer held steady.
“Did you get into any arguments or disagreements with Brock Madison on the day of his death?”
“No.”
"Did you kill your husband?”
"No. Absolutely not.”
"Did you hire someone to kill your husband?”
“No.”
“Did you make any arrangements or plans to have him killed?"
"No.”
Nothing went haywire.
The waveforms remained consistent. I stared at them for a long moment, waiting for some type of blip or deviation—something to indicate deception. A momentary elevation in heartbeat or an increase in galvanic stress response. An elevation in blood pressure.
Nothing.
She was either telling the truth or she had complete control of her emotional response. Not impossible, especially for sociopaths and psychopaths. The machine could be beaten. Some of us knew how. But it was a rare day.
“Did you tamper with any evidence at the crime scene the night of your husband’s death?”
“No.”
“Did you secretly wish for your husband’s death?”
“No. What kind of question is that?”
“Did you conspire with anyone else to kill your husband?”
“No.”
I asked all the pertinent questions again in several ways to the point of annoyance. She always responded with some variation of the same answer.
Never once did the machine indicate deception.
"Do you know who killed Brock Madison?"
"No. I do not."
Again, the waveforms indicated a truthful response.
"Take me through that evening once again,” I said. “Be as detailed as possible. Don't leave anything out.”
Tiffany took a deep breath, recalled the event, then recounted the details to me just as she had done a few times before.
Nothing about her story changed.
Her vital statistics remained calm and steady.
More and more, I was coming to the belief that she didn't kill her husband. The fact that the financial incentive had been removed from the equation dropped Tiffany to the bottom of my suspect list.
“Do you stand to profit in any way from the death of Brock Madison?”
“Not in any meaningful way, as far as I’m aware.”
I kept trying to elicit something from her. After about an hour in the interrogation room, I was done, and so was she.
I told her we'd be back before stepping out for a moment. The technician unhooked the device as we joined Sheriff Daniels in the hallway.
"You know, when this whole thing began, I would have put good money on her as the killer,” the sheriff said.
"I think I would have been right with you," I said.
He exhaled a deep breath. "Find out who killed Coach Madison. And do it quickly,” he said before ambling down the hallway.
I pulled open the door to the interrogation room. With the equipment disconnected, Tiffany was ready to go. She smiled at me. "What's the verdict? Am I a free woman?”
"The machine did not indicate deception. I think you’re in the clear."
A relieved smile curled her lips. "It's just what I’ve been telling you all along.”
"We just try to do our jobs. You understand.”
"I do, and I'm grateful for your effort. I know you will pursue this with all available resources.”
"Indeed.”
I held the door for her as she stepped into the hallway. She fanned herself. "Is it just me, or is it hot in there?"
"They don't call it the hot seat for nothing," I said.
"I bet you do that on purpose. Turn up the heat to make people sweat."
"I can neither confirm nor deny," I said with a wink.
"I'm hungry. I’m having a craving for the Five Fathoms. Would you gentlemen care to join me? My treat?”
I hesitated. "I'm not sure that would be appropriate.”
Her brow knitted. "I fail to see what would be inappropriate about that. I'm no longer a suspect, am I? I'm just a widow helping deputies solve my husband's murder. Perhaps there’s something we missed. Some connection can be found. It would almost be negligent not to have lunch with me.”
I shared a look with JD.
"As much as I'd like to, I think the press would have a field day with that. Deputies fraternize with widow days after husband's death."
She laughed. "You're probably right.” Tiffany paused. “But if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that the press will say anything.
They have no regard for the truth.” She paused.
"I don't want to give you the wrong impression.
I have no ulterior motives. I'm just looking for a social connection right now.
I don't really like being alone. My true friends are few and far between.”
“I understand.”
She took a breath. "Perhaps another time?”
"Perhaps."
We escorted her outside. Jack offered to give her a ride, but we all decided that was probably a bad idea since there was a horde of media waiting in the parking lot, Paris Delaney among them.
Reporters shouted, and cameras closed in.
"Tiffany, are you still a suspect?”
"Did you kill your husband?”
"Was this a murder-for-hire plot?”
I stepped in frame and said, "Tiffany Madison is no longer a person of interest at this time."
Another onslaught of questions came at me, but I declined to answer.
Another deputy gave her a ride back to the Seven Seas in a patrol car. The cameras all filmed as they drove out of the lot.
Paris asked me on camera, "Deputy Wild, who is your primary suspect now?”
Isabella buzzed my phone. I stepped out of frame and answered the call. "What have you got for me?"
"You asked me to look into a lot of people. It's taking a little time to sort through all this, and I've got my hands full with a few of the things, so forgive me if I'm slow to respond.”
I smiled and meandered away from the reporters for some privacy. "No worries. Anything you can do is appreciated.”
"I‘ve got some interesting tidbits here and there and a possible suspect. Hunter Madison's cell phone is off the grid during the time of the murders. The last position I have for that is aboard his boat in the marina. It goes off-grid about 6 PM. Comes back online the next morning around 10:00 AM.”
"Could be a dead battery.”
"Always a possibility. Colt Ralston currently lives in Los Angeles. From what I can tell, his phone attended a concert at the Hollywood Bowl at the time of the murder. I can't say with absolute certainty, but I think you can cross him off the list.”
"Good to know. What about Gavin Carver?"
"Well, his cell phone was at his apartment, then a few bars on Oyster Avenue. He made a late-night trip down to Dowling Street, stayed down there for 15 to 20 minutes, then came back to his apartment."
"What about the widow of the cyclist Coach Madison killed?”
"Well, here's where it gets a little tragic and interesting. Judging by her finances, it looks like she's already burned through the settlement. As far as I can tell, she's answering phones in a dental office right now, handling scheduling.”
"Is she still living in Pineapple Bay?”
"Yes. I'll text you her address and her employer.”
"What about the cyclist?”
"From what I was able to find about him online, he was training for a triathlon at the time of the accident.
As you can imagine, because of Brock Madison's involvement, there were a lot of online articles.
He made a living as a commercial pilot. He's got a younger brother who lives in Coconut Key. Here’s where it gets interesting.
The brother runs a high-end landscaping company.
Services posh neighborhoods like the Platinum Dunes, Stingray Bay, and—“
"Palm Haven," I said, finishing her sentence.
"Exactly. His cell phone records put him in Palm Haven the day of the murders. His phone goes off the grid around 7:00 PM and doesn't pop back up until after midnight.”
"That's just a little too coincidental," I said.
"Even more coincidental is the fact that he was working on the yard across the street from Brock’s residence earlier that day."
Things were beginning to solidify in my mind. "He’s there, working on the lawn. Probably saw Brock. Came back that evening with a pair of pruning shears and got revenge for his brother.”
"If the trophy wife didn't kill Brock, which you say she didn't, then my vote is for Randy Williams.”
I grinned. "You're the best."
"And don't you forget it.”
"How could I ever?”
I thanked her again and ended the call. I filled Jack in on the situation, and Isabella sent a text with all the details moments later.
JD and I hopped into the Porsche and set out to find Randy.