“Maybe, maybe not,” Jake answered. “But the fact remains, the only things tying her to the case is that she met Adam the night of his abduction and lives close to the body’s dump site. That’s not enough to make her a murderer.”
“Maybe I’m just working a hunch,” Walcott declared.
“Maybe you’re just punishing her for her father’s sins,” Jake hissed. “The autopsy results.” He flung the manila envelope down on the desk angrily. “Adam’s bones were missing, just like the case from twenty years ago.”
The chief curled his fingers around the envelope, a clammy sweat breaking out on his neck. He swallowed, his throat giving a loud clicking sound as he stared at the sealed report. “Just like before,” he whispered, more to himself than Jake.
“Was Olivia’s father a suspect in the original murders?” Jake pressed as he placed his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned in.
“That’s not your concern,” the chief stated blankly.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not working the Miller case.” He leaned back in his seat, staring at Jake. “Your friendship with Miss West compromises your objectivity.”
“And your obvious preoccupation with her father compromises yours,” Jake countered.
“Be very careful, Deputy,” Walcott warned. “Or you may just end up with a suspension for insubordination.”
Jake straightened, his jaw tense as he glared at the chief. “If that’s all, sir,” he ground out the word, “my shift is over.”
Walcott nodded, his calculating gaze following Jake as he left the office.
Jake clicked the door closed with deliberate calmness when all he wanted to do was slam it like a surly teenager who’d just been grounded.
Things were worse than he thought, and he was worried. The chief seemed firmly fixated on Olivia as a suspect in Adam’s murder, and now this connection between Adam’s death and an old cold case just seemed to make matters worse. He needed to get a look at the original case files somehow.
Jake pulled out his phone as he began walking to put as much distance between himself and the chief’s office as he could. After several rings, he was about to hang up when a sleep-roughened voice answered.
“Hey, Erica.” Jake glanced around to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I need a favor.”
9
The Morley Ridge psychiatric hospital was one of the few remaining Victorian-era sanatoriums left. It was a dark, imposing sort of building that was rumored to have had a very unsavory past and an alarmingly high death toll amongst its inmates.
It had been spared the fate of many of its contemporaries. Most had simply been left to rot, becoming dank, creepy abandoned buildings that gave birth to many urban legends. Not Morley Ridge. It had been repurposed, refitted, and dragged, with the ghostly echoing wails of its previous inhabitants, mournfully into the twenty-first century. Despite its modern facelift, it still retained an air of foreboding.
Not that Davis paid it much mind. He passed through the security checks with an unconcerned air, signing the visitors log with efficient practicality as he waited patiently before the heavy metal bars of the internal security door.
He lifted a hand and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his crisp gray suit, while he waited for a bored-looking security guard to check his briefcase. When the guard found nothing of note, he snapped the case shut and handed it back. Davis inclined his head in acknowledgment as the door buzzed loudly, followed by a heavy clunk as the door swung open.
Davis stepped into the sparse white corridor. Another guard was waiting to lead the way. He gave Davis a cursory glance and set off at a brisk pace, his boots squeaking against the floor. Davis followed the now familiar route until they reached a small, private visiting room. Davis’s penetrating gaze missed nothing as he glanced through the open doorway. The room was plain and sparsely furnished with whitewashed walls and a barred window, which let in the pale early morning light. A metal table and chairs sat bolted to the floor in the middle of the room.
One was empty, the other was not.
Charles Connell sat silently, his eyes vacant. He wore his usual lurid orange jumpsuit with neatly tied white canvas sneakers and white sports socks. His ankles were chained to the seat, as were his wrists. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed, and his deep brown hair, which was graying at the temples, was neatly combed.
Despite the fact that he had been the unwilling guest of several mental institutions over the past twenty years, he had not aged badly. His face was freshly shaved, and his skin a smooth and pleasing color, not the pallid, sickly complexion of someone who rarely saw the outside of his cage.
All in all, Charles Connell had endured his captivity well, with one minor inconvenience. Charles’s head drooped to one side, his mouth hanging open. His eyes stared at the wall.
“You couldn’t have waited to medicate him until after I had spoken with him?” Davis spoke directly to the guard, his face hard and his voice full of censure.
The guard smirked and shrugged his shoulders as he tugged at the belt tucked under his paunch. “It was the Doc’s call.”
“I see.” Davis replied, his expression cool.
“I’ll be outside when you’re done. I’m guessing it won’t take long.” He smirked again and headed toward the door.
