Aftermath (21 page)

C
hris showed
his badge to the guy manning the front desk at the Intercontinental hotel.

"Detective Delaney, I need to know what room Annabel Morrison is in."

It was mid-morning and based on GFU findings from the Morrison house the night before, they’d been given authorization to bring in Annabel Morrison for questioning about Ian Cross.

The kid was pushing twenty, had shortly-trimmed black hair and a baby face. The sight of the badge startled him.

"Is... is there a problem, detective?" he asked nervously looking between Chris and Kennedy.

"Nothing to worry about, we just need to take her in to ask a few questions," Kennedy told him.

"Oh, yes, of course. About the... uh … right. She's in Room 206. Should I call ahead?"

"Please don't," said Chris and the two of them went to the lift.

They stopped at the second floor and found Annabel's room.

Chris knocked without hesitation, "Mrs. Morrison, Detective Chris Delaney. Please open the door."

There was rustling inside, and then Annabel opened the door to her suite. Even though it was almost midday, she was still wearing a nightgown, last nights’ make-up and holding a large glass of water. Must’ve been a late one at Lillies, Chris thought.

"What is it? Something wrong?" she asked, generally unconcerned but confused.

"Mrs. Morrison, you are under arrest for the murder of Ian Cross."

"
What?
" she screamed, dropping her drink. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You do not have to say anything," continued Kennedy. "But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely upon in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"Are you out of your mind! My husband was brutally attacked and you're arresting me for Ian Cross? He died in a car accident twenty years ago! What in God’s name is going on? I want my solicitor. Get me Flanagan right
now
."

"You have that right, of course," said Chris. "Now please come with us without incident. I don't want to have to summon a uniform and put you in handcuffs. You are above that."

"This is utterly outrageous. I will have your head on a pike for this. You will be discharged from service. You'll be driven out of this city in disgrace."

"I'm willing to take that chance, Mrs. Morrison. Now please, let's not make this an incident. Come along."

The woman glared intensely at Chris before flicking her eyes to Kennedy and back again.

"I'll go along with this charade … for the moment, but I'm not saying another word without Mr. Flanagan present."

"I understand, you can call him from the car. Now, let's go," he said calmly.

Annabel followed them out without incident.

The car drive was deadly quiet, save for her brief and ice-cold conversation with Flanagan in the back seat, using Chris’s phone.

"I'm being detained. Suspicion of murdering Cross. Yes. Yes. I know. Okay. You'll know where to find me."

Chris thought it was quite interesting and worth noting, that Annabel didn't have to explain to her solicitor who Ian Cross was.

T
he interview room
was completely silent. It had been that way for twenty minutes. Annabel Morrison sat in a chair and glared across the table at the detectives, who had several folders piled neatly in front of them.

The interview started with, "I'm not saying a word without my solicitor."

So there they sat, the detectives on one side of the glass, Reilly and Inspector O’Brien on the other. No ordinary solicitor would do. She needed Cormac Flanagan. The one man that could get her out of this mess.

The one elusive pain in the ass Reilly had been dealing with in one way or another since she’d set foot in the Morrison house on Friday night.

And Cormac Flanagan was taking his sweet time.

Annabel didn't even fidget. She just sat there, stone-faced, still and quiet.

For a while, Kennedy tried small talk. He mentioned the heat, thanked her for her cooperation, even tried giving her the latest about Josh from the ICU, which wasn't much. Everything that was said was deflected by cold, unblinking eyes.

Cormac Flanagan at last did arrive and not a moment too soon.

"I need a few minutes with my client," he said without preamble.

“I really hope you’re sure about this, Steel,” said O’Brien from alongside her. “If there's nothing to book her on, we're sending her home. And then I’m sending
you
home. We can’t afford any more cock-ups.”

Of course that was everyone’s initial reaction when Reilly laid out her suspicions as to what had happened at the Morrison house at the party that night, but the song would be very different when they were done with this interview. Annabel would be going to prison.

And they would have gotten to the bottom of not only Josh's attack, but an age old homicide. It would reveal flaws in the system.

Problems with the protocol.

No, today they were going to nail this, and reveal to the country precisely the type of person Annabel Morrison was.

Chris returned to the interview room.

A haughty-looking Flanagan was seated next to Annabel, squinting his Steve Buscemi eyes. The suspect also looked smug. Her impeccably beautiful face, exaggerated with each gesture, stared down her nose at the person she viewed as an insect, or more specifically, a pest.

She had no idea how bad her situation was, thought Reilly. Stick it to her, Chris. Get it out of her. Show the top brass--they'd all be watching later.

"Ian Cross," Chris began, opening a folder with a strategically placed photo of him posing with the 1991 Leinster team.

“No wonder you haven’t found my husband’s attacker yet - when you’re wasting time investigating incidents that happened twenty years ago. Josh was stabbed multiple times for Christ sake!”

"I know how many times your husband was stabbed Mrs Morrison. Defensive wounds too. He also had countless lacerations from falling through the glass table, but who's counting."

"You insensitive bastard," Annabel snarled.

"Detective Delaney, are you here to upset my client," said Flanagan, "or is this an interview?"

"Ian Cross," Chris said again pointing to the photo. "You remember him?"

"Of course I remember him, we were very close."

"How close were you?"

"What is this about? Cormac, do I have to answer this twat?"

Flanagan raised his eyebrows, "Always best to cooperate. You have your innocence to maintain, of course."

"We were very close," she said gritting her teeth.

"Were you sleeping with him?"

"This is ridiculous!"

"Really, detective," said Flanagan. "How is this relevant?"

"We can come back to that if the conversation makes you uncomfortable."

"You accusing me of being a murderer and an adulteress, what else do you have in that folder? Blind submission to a genocidal cult?"

"You were with Mr. Cross on the night he died?” Chris proceeded without responding.

"Yes, of course I was. You know I was. I was interviewed by police. Two decades ago! Now I really don't understand why this is coming out now."

Chris sighed and then said dully, "You really are hung up on the fact I'm talking with you about Ian Cross."

"Of course I am! It's outrageous. You should be focused on my husband's attacker, not on this tripe."

"Mrs. Morrison, if it will help us get past this emotional block you have about talking about Ian Cross, I am happy to talk about Mr. Morrison's attempted murder and logically bring you to the point we arrived at. Which involves Ian Cross."

Flanagan outright laughed, "This is a hoax. You must be joking. Are you suggesting my client has anything to do at all with her husband’s brutal attack? Annabel Morrison?"

"I'm not suggesting it no, Mr. Flanagan. Absolutely not. The evidence is."

That struck both of them quiet. Chris opened another folder.

"Since you were arrested under suspicion of homicide I had naturally assumed you would want to talk about that, but since you are so paralyzed by the topic, we can start with your husband's attack."

"I would prefer that," she said with a barely controlled rage.

"Our investigators found no evidence of forced entry and no valuables missing. Mr. Morrison was slashed from behind as he was preparing tea. The impact knocked him off balance at first, but then he tried to defend himself, and grabbed the knife. There was a struggle, but then the attacker thrust the knife deeply into Mr Morrison’s stomach.This quite strongly suggests the attack was an emotional and vengeful one. That it was personal."

"That is conjecture," said Flanagan.

"No, it is analysis. A burglar would have slashed just enough to scare Mr. Morrison and then run--and, indeed would have broken into the place in the first place. The depraved and sadistic killer-for-fun would have ensured he was dead before disappearing. Only the emotionally and personally invested person would lash out uncontrollably in a fit of rage, and take off without ensuring the end result was death. Can we move on?"

Flanagan said nothing.

"Interestingly, Mr. Morrison had already started his tea. He turned on the hob to heat up the water in a kettle. We know this because during Mrs. Morrison’s 999 call, the kettle begins to whistle. This presents us with one of three scenarios: Mr. Morrison started the tea after he had been stabbed - unlikely. Mrs. Morrison started the tea before calling 999. Or, Mr. Morrison started the tea, was viciously attacked and Mrs. Morrison called 999 after the attack."

“This is all conjecture, where is the evidence?" Flanagan barked.

“Furthermore, we do know for certain that someone, either Mr. Morrison or Mrs. Morrison reset Mr. Morrison's phone messages to delete all data six minutes following the 999 call. And since Mr. Morrison was on his way to bleeding to death, we can only deduce it was Mrs. Morrison who did so."

The table was silent.

"We reserve comment on that," said Flanagan after a moment.

"I thought you might, but it doesn't matter. That particular detail will not hold up the interview. As you see I have a few questions about other aspects of this case."

Flanagan sat back and exchanged a brief glance with Annabel, who up until this point had not changed expressions from the lofty narrow-eyed anger she continued to project.

"Our team understandably wondered what Mrs. Morrison might be hiding. After reviewing many of the witness transcripts, it became clear that everyone seemed to think the Morrisons had a supernaturally perfect marriage. We suspected that perhaps something was being covered up.

"Some cursory exploration of the matter uncovered the drunk driving accident twenty years ago, so we began looking at the incident. What we found was rather disturbing. You see, when the police at the time went to the accident site, they had no reason to suspect foul play. But when you look at the same case with our more informed lens you'll find some troubling details."

He pulled out a photo of the wrecked car.

"Our analysis has proven that it was impossible for Ian Cross to have flown from the driver's side of the vehicle."

"What?" Annabel barked.

"Ian Cross had to have projected from the car from the passenger side in order for the windscreen to fracture in this way. That suggests Mr. Morrison was driving this car before it crashed into the wall. That also suggests Mr. Morrison covered up the fact he was driving this car, by pulling himself from the wreckage before the authorities arrived."

"That is truly terrible," said Flanagan cutting off Annabel who was about to burst out with another exclamation. "And I commend you for your police work, but what does this have to do with my client? If what you are suggesting is true then there’s an easy explanation. Josh didn't want to be arrested for drunk driving and manslaughter. It would have destroyed his career. I'm not condoning it, but that's what the evidence suggests, isn't it?"

Reilly was momentarily speechless. She had never heard a solicitor so readily incriminate his client than Flanagan did in that moment.

He’d deliberately thrown Josh Morrison under the bus with that statement and he had to know that fact. There was no reason in the world for him to provide that conjecture--well, there was one reason.

To protect Annabel. He knew where this was going. She knew it too.

"There's more," Chris said and then showed the tire tracks. "Mr. Morrison did not accidentally crash into the wall. These tracks indicate that he stopped, backed up the car and then drove at top speed straight into the wall. He drove into it on purpose. Why do you suppose he would do that?"

The two had no comment, so Chris proceeded.

"And there's more," he said, and pulled out the gruesome picture of Ian Cross at the scene. Annabel averted her eyes and Flanagan partly covered his.

"Please, detective," he said.

Chris put it back in the folder.

"The photo that is so difficult for you to look at is of Ian Cross’ shattered body after Mr. Morrison's purposeful crash."

They still stayed silent.

"However, the life-ending blows to Mr. Cross' head were not a result of a high-velocity impact to a brick wall, but from something else."

"Do you think Josh killed him?" Flanagan said, squinting.

"No," Chris said flatly.

He opened up another folder and showed Annabel a picture of a high-heeled shoe.

Reilly saw it, then. Ever-briefly. Her face fell. It regained composure immediately, but there was a sliver of a moment when something broke through the hard shell exterior and penetrated.

They had her. And she knew they had her. That shoe could only mean one thing and Annabel knew what that thing was.

She was busted.

"
O
ur forensic investigators
found wounds on the coroner's photos consistent with blunt force trauma."

"What are you getting at, detective?" Flanagan asked.

And now for the kill.

He opened another folder and revealed the separation documents.

"Where did you get those?" Annabel yelled. She stood, completely out of control. "This is finished. This is over. I'm not saying another word. You can go to hell. Where did you get that?"

"Evidence we found in Mr. Morrison's desk. We got it from your house, Mrs. Morrison."

Flanagan didn't need to look at it, he knew quite well what it was.

"Do you recall the provision about disclosure in this?" Chris asked.

"It's none of your business."

"What were you so worried about Josh disclosing, Annabel?"

"None of your goddamned business! I don't want him all over town talking to the media about our marriage."

"About your perfect marriage? Built on affairs, murder and cover ups? That marriage?"

"Detective, you are out of line," said Flanagan. "If you want my client's cooperation, you will need to speak in a civil manner."

Annabel was pacing like an agitated panther at a zoo.

Chris began to lose his temper, "Do you remember Tricia Sullivan?"

Annabel stopped and glared at him.

Yes, that's right, Reilly thought. You know exactly who he’s talking about.

Chris continued. "She was at the party, Annabel. She saw what you did, but she was prevented from telling the truth. Cut out of Josh's life, and left to stay silent because no one would believe her."

Annabel continued to glare at him, so Chris continued.

"Ian wanted you to break up with Josh, didn't he? He wanted you all to himself, but you couldn't do that. Ian didn't have the cachet Josh did. He didn't have the prospects. You were fine with an affair as long as nothing got out of hand. Well it got out of hand that night, didn't it? It was all out in the open. Your imperfect life finally exposed.

"And that put everything into jeopardy, didn't it? You’d just given birth to your first child and your perfect life was compromised. What if Josh left you over this? So you lost it, Annabel. You lost your mind. You beat Ian Cross to death and you sent Josh off to stage an accident.

"We picked up latent blood evidence in your house yesterday. Mere yards away from where your husband lay bleeding, you bludgeoned a man to death. And now that the divorce is coming, you can't risk the secret getting out, can you?

"But that plan didn't work. Josh wasn't budging this time. He wasn't going to sign that provision. So you had to get rid of him. And you had to do it in the only way you know how."

The room was deathly silent. They both stared at Chris, wide-eyed.

Reilly could feel the tension like molasses in the room watching from behind the mirror. This was it.

Annabel Morrison was going down.

Then she and Flanagan looked at each other for a moment, and in a gesture impossible for anyone to predict, they both started laughing.

Not just chuckling, full on laughter. Annabel laughed so hard she had tears running down her cheeks.

Chris flushed, anger and embarrassment rising volcanically through his voice. "I'm having a hard time seeing what is so funny," he said.

Flanagan went first. "Tricia Sullivan? We put out a restraining order on that nutcase years ago. She’s been harassing my clients for years. She’s a stalker, detective. There is an official track record a mile long. She's clinically schizophrenic. The courts had her in a halfway house for five years. The only five years she wasn't trying to break into my clients’ house. And she didn't do it to steal, oh no. She was caught and arrested on several occasions stealing my clients clothing, her lingerie! She was in custody for two months for stalking my client at her work, posing as a camera person.

"Detective, Tricia Sullivan is bat-shit crazy and has a long--very easy to locate--psychotic record. I'm assuming, and for your sake - hoping - you heard the same account from some other witness, before you decided to arrest my client during one of the darkest periods of her life."

Oh God …

Reilly was speechless. Check and mate. They hadn't done enough due diligence. She and Kennedy had just taken the woman's word as gospel. Especially when so much of the evidence corroborated her story….

"It sounds to me, detective, that you might have a case against Josh Morrison, and I look forward to defending him in due course. But at this juncture, I hope the next words out of your mouth are 'you are free to go,' followed by an apology."

Just then, the interview door opened and Reilly knew it was over.

It was O’Brien.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Morrison. You are free to go."

Annabel smiled at Chris as she left, like a spider about to lurch onto prey, "We'll meet again soon, detective I’m sure. In court."