Page 45 of In Her Wake
As they crossed the threshold, the smell hit Jenna first—unwashed dishes, stale food, sweat, and something chemical and sharp underneath it all.The living room was cluttered with empty fast-food containers, discarded clothing, and scattered papers.But what drew her attention immediately was the coffee table—where a small mirror held lines of white powder, a razor blade, and a rolled-up dollar bill.
Morgan saw it at the same moment she did.“Well, well,” he said, the satisfaction in his voice unmistakable.“Looks like we’ve got possession of a controlled substance in plain sight.”
Morrison followed their gaze to the coffee table, his expression changing from confusion to resignation.“Shit,” he muttered.“I forgot about that.”
“Timothy Morrison,” Morgan declared, reaching for his handcuffs, “you’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.”
“Chief,” Jenna interjected, “maybe we should focus on questioning him about our case first.”
“No way,” Morgan replied, already moving toward Morrison.“He’s clearly impaired, and the drugs are right there.We’re doing this by the book.”
Jenna caught Spelling’s eye, hoping for support, but the colonel merely shrugged, his expression suggesting he agreed with Morgan’s assessment.She understood the legal necessity—they couldn’t ignore drugs in plain sight—but she worried they were jeopardizing their ability to learn about Morrison’s potential connection to the mannequin murders.
“Jake,” she said quietly, “let’s look around while they handle this.”
They moved deeper into the house as Morgan recited Miranda rights to a passive Morrison, who didn’t resist as handcuffs were secured around his wrists.The kitchen was a disaster zone of unwashed dishes and take-out containers.The bathroom contained prescription bottles with labels from multiple doctors—potential evidence of doctor shopping.
The most interesting room, however, was at the back of the house.What had likely been intended as a second bedroom had been converted into a workshop.Despite the chaos in the rest of the house, this room maintained a semblance of order.Professional-grade equipment lined the walls—precision tools for sculpting, high-end 3D scanning technology, boxes of specialized clay and silicone in various flesh tones.A half-finished facial reconstruction sat on a workbench, its features eerily lifelike despite being incomplete.
“This is serious equipment,” Jake said, examining a shelf of reference books on anatomy and sculpture techniques.“Worth thousands.”
Jenna moved to a computer workstation where detailed digital models of human faces rotated slowly on the screen.The level of precision was extraordinary—individual pores, the texture of skin, the subtle asymmetry that made faces uniquely human.
“These are incredible,” she murmured.“The artistry, the attention to detail...”
They continued their search, finding portfolios of Morrison’s previous work—documentation of facial reconstructions he had done for various law enforcement agencies.The photographs showed his progression from clay models to finished reconstructions, each one remarkable in its lifelike quality.
When they returned to the living room, Morgan was leading Morrison toward the front door.The former forensic sculptor’s shoulders were slumped in defeat.
“We’re taking him to headquarters for processing and questioning,” Morgan announced.“Meet us there.”
Spelling followed them out, pausing briefly to address Jenna.“Find anything relevant, Sheriff?”
“His work is exceptional,” Jenna replied.“But we didn’t see any direct evidence linking him to Torres or Powell.”
Spelling nodded.“We’ll dig deeper during questioning.”
“What do you think?”Jake asked as he and Jenna walked back to their cruiser.
Jenna sighed, fishing her keys from her pocket.“I think Morrison has the skills, certainly.And his life has clearly fallen apart.But I’m not convinced.”
“No mannequins in the house,” Jake pointed out.“No photos of the victims.Morgan’s rushing this because of their history.”
“Maybe we’ll learn more when we get a chance to ask questions,” Jenna said.“But right now, I’m not at all sure we’ve got the right man.”
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.
