Page 44 of In Her Wake
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.”
