Page 66 of A Game of Deception
Tara stepped forward. “Detective Morrison? My name is Dr. Tara Swanson, and this is Alexander McCrae. We’d like to speak with you about a case you worked on twelve years ago in Palo Alto.”
The transformation was instant. At our names, Morrison’s entire demeanor shifted. His spine straightened, his jaw tightened,and those assessing eyes turned cold and distant. I’d seen that look before—on opponents across the pitch right before they committed a brutal foul. The look of someone about to do something they knew was wrong.
“Not interested,” he said flatly, already moving to close the door. “Good day.”
I reacted on instinct, my hand shooting out to block the door. “Please,” I said, keeping my voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through me. “Five minutes. That’s all we’re asking.”
Morrison’s eyes flicked to my hand on his door, then back to my face. For a second, I thought he might try to force it closed anyway. Instead, he let out a sharp exhale through his nostrils.
“Five minutes,” he conceded with visible reluctance. “Then you fucking leave, and you don’t come back.”
He stepped back, allowing us entry into a living room that looked like it had been assembled from a catalog labeled “Retired Bachelor.” Beige walls, beige furniture, a few generic landscapes on the walls. No personal photos, no mementos. The room of a man who either had no past or was deliberately trying to forget it.
“Sit,” he instructed, gesturing to a sofa that looked barely used.
Tara and I sat side by side, close enough that I could feel the tension radiating from her body. Morrison remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, making it clear this was not a social call.
“You’re here about the Swanson boy,” he said, not bothering to frame it as a question. “James. The crash.”
“Yes,” Tara confirmed, her voice steady despite the slight tremor I could see in her hands. “My brother.”
Morrison’s expression didn’t change. “It was more than a decade ago. Tragic accident. The report is public record. I have nothing more to say.”
“With all due respect, Detective,” I said, leaning forward, “the public report is why we’re here. It’s... incomplete.”
Morrison’s jaw ticked.
“The report never explicitly states who was driving the car,” Tara pressed. “Don’t you find that odd for an official accident report?”
A muscle worked in Morrison’s cheek. “As I said, the report contains all relevant information.”
“All relevant information?” I couldn’t keep the edge from my voice. “I was seventeen years old. I was told I killed my best friend. I’ve carried that guilt ever since, Detective. Don’t you think whether I wasactuallydriving the car is relevant?”
For half a second, something darted behind Morrison’s eyes—a flicker of shame, maybe—before his face locked back into place.
“What happened that night was a tragedy,” he said, his voice flat. “But the case is closed. The report stands.”
Tara’s voice had taken on a dangerous edge. “Was your job to write a deliberately vague report that allowed my father to use that ambiguity to destroy Alexander’s life?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, Dr. Swanson,” Morrison’s expression hardened, “but I suggest you be very careful.”
Something snapped in his carefully maintained facade. His face flushed, and he jabbed a finger toward Tara.
“I filed the report based on the evidence available!” he barked, defensive heat replacing his cold detachment. “The official report was the final conclusion. It’s not my fault if my original notes suggested something different!”
The room went still. Morrison froze, his face draining of color as he realized what he’d just admitted. Tara and I locked eyes, the same realization hitting us both.
Original notes.A second, unredacted version of the truth existed.
“What did your original notes say, Detective?” I asked, my voice quiet but intense.
Morrison’s expression shuttered. “I misspoke,” he said, his voice an icy rasp. “I think your five minutes are up. Get the hell off my property before I call the cops.”
I placed a gentle hand on Tara’s arm. We’d gotten what we came for. A lead. We walked out into the oppressive Florida heat, the door slamming shut behind us.
“Original notes,” she whispered as we reached the car, her eyes bright with a mix of anger and triumph.
“Original notes,” I confirmed, gripping the steering wheel. I yanked the car away from Morrison’s neighborhood, desperate to get some space before I completely lost my shit. We drove without talking for a good five minutes, both of us crushed by the bomb that asshole had just dropped on us.
