EPILOGUE
Three days later
"Are you ready to do this?" Derek asked as they stood outside the prison interview room.
"Yeah." Alison was more than ready. The entire time she had been in Missoula, she had only been able to think about getting back to talk with Morris Bridges and find out what he knew about her sister.
"Let’s do it," Derek said. He nodded to the prison guard on the door.
The guard opened the door for them. "I’ll be right outside. Just holler if you need me."
Morris Bridges was already at the table, his hands cuffed to the metal ring in the middle of the metal surface. The entire room, except for the table and three chairs, was off-white. The paint wasn’t chipping, but it was also dull, as if it had been applied a decade ago.
She tried to calm down and control her heartbeat as she walked to the table. It might be another dead end, and she couldn’t get her hopes up for them to be dashed.
"Morris Bridges, I’m Dr. Alison Payne," Alison introduced as she sat down. "Thank you for taking the time to speak with us."
Is he her killer? Did you kill my sister?
Morris Bridges was in his late fifties. He had long hair that hung past his shoulders, once black, now grey.
He looked gaunt, with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and wispy hair on his chin.
And his eyes looked dead. The blue in them looked like they might have once held light, but that light had been switched off a long time ago. His hands shook.
"What do you want?" His voice was quiet and gravely.
"I want to know what you were doing twenty years ago. You worked construction back then, didn't you?"
"I did a lot of things back then," he replied. "A lot of things." Morris didn't look them in the eye as he spoke, and looked off to the side as he thought about the things he had done.
"You were arrested for harassing joggers," Derek said. "You assaulted one of them."
"Yeah, I did. I did my time for that. What does that have to do with anything?"
"Granton Park?" Alison asked. "You ever go there?" It was where her sister was murdered, and she was dressed up in her swimming gear.
"I don't know, probably," he replied. "What’s this all about? When I say I did a lot of things back then, I mean a lot of, you know, stuff. My memory is not great of that time. I was on a lot of things. I don't remember a lot of stuff."
Alison didn't buy it. It felt like he was hiding something, and he was using the drugs as an excuse. He still wouldn’t meet her eye as she spoke with him.
Weathered was the best word to describe him, followed closely by guarded.
The boot print was very shaky evidence at best, with only a sketch from an old detective.
No one else had seen it before it washed away.
There was no point in bringing that up to Morris.
It meant nothing. There was no way to connect it with him, and it wasn’t like he would come out and admit that the print was the exact match for the boots he wore at the time.
How many people actually knew what their prints looked like?
Instead, she took out a picture of Emma. She placed it on the table and slid it across to Morris.
He didn't look at Alison, but he did look at the photograph, and when he did, his eyes lingered on it. There was a slight twitch as his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and for the first time since they walked in, he looked at Alison. It was only brief, a split second as he studied the photo.
"I don't know who that is," he claimed, sliding the photograph back across the table, as far as he was able to with the handcuffs and chains.
Alison slid it straight back. "Her name is Emma Payne. She’s my sister, and she was murdered in Granton Park on her way home from a swim meet. Take another look."
Morris couldn’t look at the photo this time.
"I told you, I don't know her, and I didn't kill anyone. You have the wrong guy." If he were able to stand up and leave, he would have done so by now.
Morris swallowed hard, licking his lips quickly. His brow was slightly furred, and a bead of sweat threatened to run down his face. His eye twitched again.
"I think you know something," Alison told Morris. "I think you’re hiding something from us. I can see it all over your face: guilt, fear, and shame. What are you hiding, Morris?"
Morris looked at her again, but he held her gaze this time. He took a beat before he spoke. "I don't know who she is, okay? And I certainly didn’t kill her. Look, I'm sorry she’s dead, but I haven’t seen her before in my life. I can't help you, so please just leave me alone."
"Morris—" Derek started.
Alison put her hand on his forehead to stop him. "We’re done here for now. We know where to find you when we want to speak to you again, Morris. I hope that you choose to help us."
Derek didn't look happy to leave, but he did so when Alison got up from the table.
When they were back in the long hallway leading to the prison exit, he asked, "He’s lying to us."
"He’s hiding something," Alison admitted. "Why is that? I don't know. But I do know that he’s scared to talk to us. He wasn’t ready to talk to us in there. I want to give him a while to stew and think about it, and in the meantime, I want to find a way to put pressure on him from our side or find out how to relieve the pressure from the other side. I don't think he’s my sister’s killer, but I don't think he’s a dead end either. "
"We’ll get the truth from him," Derek said. "I promise."
She patted him on the arm as they left the prison.
Alison still tried not to get her hopes up too much, but Morris knew something. They were on the right track. If he knew something about her sister and was too scared to share what he knew, then that was something worth knowing.
Derek was right. They would get the information from him.
She would take the time to gain his trust and find out what he was frightened of, and then she would get the information from him.
He might be her sister’s killer. He might know who had killed her sister.
She was sure he knew something. She’d waited over twenty years, so she could wait a little longer.
But not much longer.
I will bring you justice, Emma.