His fingers tap the table. “You think Aiden’s a part of this.”
“Yes. I’ve suspected him for a while now. In fact, I tried to confront him last night at his house. He ran from me before I could question him. But … you already know that, don’t you, Isaac?”
The dam has burst. I’ve all but accused him now. I don’t know if this is the smart move here, but I’m running out of options. Smart or not, it’s time to move.
Isaac tries to smile. It doesn’t work very well.
“Tell me more about this second killer,” he says.
I shrug. “He’s lasted this long, eight murders over five years, so he’s smart, and he’s able to function in society as a normal person. A classic psychopath. He could be anyone. He could be a construction worker. He could be a ditch-digger.”
I look Isaac squarely in the eye.
“He could be a cop,” I say.
“A cop? Interesting.” Isaac purses his lips. “Well, Murphy, it turns out we did find Aiden’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
“You have Aiden’s prints on file?”
“He was arrested once, long time ago, for retail theft. Shoplifting. His prints are in the database.”
“Did you run all the databases, Chief? Even the government employees’ database? Every cop in our department has their prints in that database. Did you remember to check that database, too? Or did it … slip your mind?”
My blood is boiling now. But the cops who are watching this interview need to hear this, all of it.
“You figure,” says Isaac, “that if we found another set of prints, we’d have the second person—Aiden’s partner.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Someone who can act perfectly normal in society. Like a construction worker.”
“Or a cop,” I say again.
“Yeah, you said that before,” he says. “A cop?”
“Why not? It’s the perfect cover. He could manipulate the evidence. He could influence the investigation.”
“True,” says Isaac. “That’s true.”
I open my hands. “What are you afraid of, Isaac? Check the government database. Or … are you worried that maybe your hand slipped, and your prints accidentally got on that knife?”
Now his smile comes on, full glow. He shakes his head.
“We did run the prints on the murder weapon through the government database,” he says. “And we got a match.”
He rises out of his chair and leans over the table, so he can whisper his next words.
“Aiden’s prints weren’t the only ones on that murder weapon,” he says. “We found yours, too, Jenna Murphy.”
96
I SPRING OUT of my chair. A slow burn through my chest.
“No,” I say. “No way.”
Chief Isaac Marks is suddenly enjoying himself very much. He sits back in his chair, crosses a leg. “I suppose now you’re going to claim that I manipulated the process somehow. Planted your fingerprints. Right?”
My mind racing, my throat full, everything moving too fast.
“Well, let me put you at ease, Murphy. I had no part in the gathering of the evidence or in running the prints. If you don’t believe me, you can ask your bestest buddy, Officer Ricketts.”
The walls closing in. The heat turned way up. This isn’t right. It can’t be right.
“You can’t possibly think …” My throat closes before I can finish the sentence.
“I can’t possibly think what?” he says whimsically. “That you had something to do with Annie’s and Dede’s murders? Well, let’s think about that. Have a seat, if you would.”
I put my hand against the wall to brace myself. My prints are on the murder weapon? That can’t possibly be right. Somebody, somehow, must have—
“I said sit the fuck down, Murphy.”
My legs unsteady, I find the seat and plant myself.
“So let’s think this through,” he says. “You have very persuasively argued that there were two killers—Aiden Willis and another person. You have also persuaded me that the second killer could be a police officer, that it would be the perfect cover for a psychopath.”
“I didn’t mean me—”
“So we have two girls who were murdered in the summer of 2007. Since we don’t know the exact day, or even the exact month of their death, it’s impossible to know your whereabouts at the time. You were a cop in Manhattan, but how easy would it have been to drive out here and do the deed, then drive back without anyone knowing? Very easy, I’d say.”
“No. No.” I push myself out of the chair, knocking it over with a clatter. “You can’t actually believe that. No.”
My pulse soaring. Sweat covering my brow. This is like a bad dream. This can’t be happening.
“You did this, Isaac. You think I don’t know what’s going on?”
“Oh, Murphy, I think you know exactly what’s going on.”
Two officers, uniforms whose names I’ve forgotten, step into the room. Isaac nods to them. Cool and collected, he is having the time of his life.
“Jenna Murphy,” he says, “you’re under arrest for the murders of Annie Church and Dede Paris.”
97