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"It's over, Thorne," she said, reaching for her handcuffs. "Stop fighting."
Thorne struggled for a few more seconds before going limp, the fight draining out of him. Sheila quickly secured the handcuffs, her heart still racing from the intense confrontation.
As she hauled Thorne to his feet, something caught her eye. A tuft of hair was sticking out oddly from his scalp. Frowning, Sheila reached out and tugged gently. To her surprise, the entire head of hair came away in her hand.
A wig.
He'd been wearing a disguise—just like Sheila believed the killer did.
***
Hours later, Sheila stood in the observation room, her eyes fixed on Ezra Thorne through the one-way mirror. He sat alone in the interrogation room, his face impassive, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. His hair—his natural hair, that was—was gray and tangled.
Francine Albright had described the priest as having gray hair, but she'd said it was 'very neat.' This man's hair didn't strike Sheila as neat, but then again, neat was a subjective descriptor. Neat to one person might be messy to someone else.
"What do you think?" Finn asked, coming to stand beside her.
Sheila sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know. It's hard to be certain about anything right now."
Finn raised an eyebrow. "You're having doubts? Sheila, this guy fits the profile perfectly. The religious angle, the connection to the theater, the disguises—it all fits. Not to mention his reaction when we showed up at the meeting."
"I know, I know," Sheila said, trying not to get frustrated. "But what if we're seeing what we want to see? What if we're so desperate for a break in the case that we're forcing the pieces to fit?"
Finn was about to respond when the door to the interrogation room opened. A woman in a sharp suit walked in, her heels clicking on the tile floor. Thorne's attorney had arrived.
"Damn," Finn muttered. "There goes our chance to question him."
Sheila nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. The arrival of the lawyer complicated things. They'd have to wait now, give Thorne time to confer with his attorney. And all the while, a nagging doubt gnawed at the back of Sheila's mind.
What if they were wrong? What if Ezra Thorne, for all his suspicious behavior, wasn't the Coldwater Confessor? The real killer could still be out there, perhaps even planning his next move while they focused on the wrong man.
The door to the observation room burst open, startling both detectives. Sheriff Hank Dawson strode in, his face a mask of barely contained stress.
"Stone, Mercer," he said brusquely. "What's the situation with Thorne?"
"The situation," Finn said, "is that his lawyer just arrived. Could be a while before we get the chance to talk to him."
Dawson glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. "Damn it. We don't have time for this. The mayor's breathing down my neck, demanding updates. The public is in a panic, and we need to give them something."
"Sir," Sheila said cautiously, "we're not sure yet if Thorne is actually our killer. We need more time to investigate—"
"Time is a luxury we don't have, Stone," Dawson said, cutting her off. "I've scheduled a press conference for an hour from now. I need you and Mercer there to share your findings on the case."
Sheila's eyes widened in disbelief. "An hour? Sheriff, that's not nearly enough time to—"
"It'll have to be," Dawson interrupted again. "People are scared, Stone—they're hiding in their homes, talking about canceling church services. They need reassurance. They need to know we're making progress."
"With all due respect, sir," Finn said, "if we go public with information that turns out to be wrong, it could jeopardize the entire investigation."
Dawson's shoulders sagged, the weight of his responsibility evident in every line of his body. "I understand your concerns. But right now, perception is as important as facts. We need to show the public that we're on top of this, that they can feel safe in their homes again."
Sheila opened her mouth to protest, but Dawson held up a hand. "I've already made my decision," he said. "I suggest you spend the next hour getting ready for what you're going to say."
With that, Dawson left the room. Sheila stared after him, feeling the pressure mounting. She had one hour—one hour to either prove Thorne's guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt or find evidence that exonerated him.
But where to start? The wig was suspicious, but not conclusive. Thorne's behavior at the meeting could be explained by simple paranoia or anti-government sentiment. They needed something solid, something that either tied Thorne definitively to the murders or ruled him out completely.
Sheila's mind raced, reviewing every detail of the case: the victims, the crime scenes, the religious symbolism, the theater connection...
