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“Because the match is to a shoe we found in Ms. Murdoch’s room.”
Thorn felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He didn’t believe Jessica had done it—not even for an instant, but he knew he’d have to clear her of that with evidence, not his growing feelings for the woman.
“Show me.”
He followed Kenny back to Jessica’s room, where the forensics team was bagging the shoe.
“Here’s the cast of the print. You can see they’re a match. And we found the same kind of sand and turf mixture in the tread of one of the guest’s shoes as we found the print.”
Thorn nodded. Kenny was right. They appeared to be an exact match. Thorn was convinced that there was some other explanation, but he would need to find it. In the interim, he needed to follow procedure and take Jessica into town to the local police office for a more official chat.
Instead of returning to DeeDee’s office, Thorn walked directly to Jessica. “Ms. Murdoch, I’d like to take you down to the station to answer a few more questions.”
Concern flashed across her face—not the concern you usually saw with guilty people, but more as if she felt he’d let her down. There was no way to tell her he felt the same way. The problem was he knew the best way he could help her was to be at his best and prove it wasn’t her.
“Am I under arrest, Detective Wilder?” she asked, looking up at him.
The cool tone and use of his title and last name rankled more than it should. Professional. Professional and good at what I do.
“No, but if you’d like, you are welcome to call an attorney.”
“Do I need an attorney?”
“I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that.” The chill in his own voice made him sick to his stomach.
“I’ll pass for now, but I reserve the right to ask for my attorney.”
“You have an attorney?”
“Yes, for copyright and intellectual property matters, but I assume he’d know of a good criminal attorney if it turns out I need one.”
“Do you think you’ll need one?” he asked.
Jessica stood slowly and looked him square in the eye, “Not if you’re even half as good a detective as I think you are. For the record, Detective, I had nothing to do with Gregory Thompson’s murder.”
“Duly noted,” he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the police SUV waiting outside.
“Thanks. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my car.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The forensics team is going over it now.”
The hurt look that crossed her face almost did him in. He’d never wanted to throw his arms around a potential suspect and tell her everything was going to be all right the way he did now. He walked her to the SUV, helping her in.
“For what it’s worth, Jess, I don’t believe you had anything to do with this,” he whispered.
“Then why?” she asked, working hard to keep her voice from cracking.
“Procedure. If I ignore what they found, people will wonder why, and it might actually be more damaging to you if this ever comes to court.”
She started to say something, seemed to think better of it, and sat back. Closing the door to the SUV, he got into the passenger side front seat, and they drove to the almost Mayberry-looking police station. It looked like something right off a movie or television set. It was cute and its design fit right in with the look of Main Street.
There was nothing that gave away its function except for the sign over the columned portico proclaiming it to be the Badger’s Drift Police Station. It was a single-story building made out of red brick with more than its share of windows. The front door was unlocked and seemed almost welcoming. He helped Jessica out of the SUV and escorted her inside.
Most of the walls were of painted brick with some interior walls being made of what he suspected was lathe and plaster with the lower half covered in wainscoting. Each of the desks had its own L-shaped, heavy post and railing attached to the brick wall, giving the illusion of private space without detracting from the open and airy feeling of the main room. Along one of the side walls was a fridge and a counter that held a pod-coffee maker, a microwave, a hot plate and a box of donuts. He could see a conference or de-briefing room, a locked gun rack, flags for the United States and Maine, and two interior doorways.
“The door on the left is to the cells. We have two. The door on the right is to the interrogation rooms. We have two of those, as well,” said the cop who’d driven them into town, leading them back through the door on the right.
“Any difference in the interrogation rooms?” Thorn asked.
