by David Archer
“Thanks,” Sam said, and took a seat in one of the plastic chairs along the wall. A moment later, a female jailer came to get him.
“Mr. Prichard? If you'll follow me, please?” Sam got up and followed her down a hallway to the interview room he'd been in before with Jimmy Smith. “You're seeing Mr. Morris?” she asked, and Sam nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “He wants to talk about how I might be able to find out why he killed his family.”
The jailer nodded. “He's kind of an enigma,” she said. “He's probably one of the nicest men we've ever seen here, but what he did—it's just terrible. Though, some of us wonder if he's been framed; he just doesn't seem the type, you know what I mean?”
Sam nodded again. “I know exactly what you mean, and I can say there are things about the case that bother me. I'm hoping he can clear some of them up for me.”
She led him into the interview room, and left him alone there. It was about five minutes later when Morris was escorted into the room by another jailer, a man, and handcuffed to the table. The jailer left and closed the door behind him.
Sam looked Morris over. The man was not terribly tall, standing about five nine, but he was quite muscular, and it was apparent that he must work out regularly. His face was broad and serene, the face of a man who was comfortable with who he was and not worried about what others might think.
“Mr. Prichard,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I know that this sort of a case is hard for anyone to deal with, but I can assure you that you can't possibly think worse of me than I think of myself.”
Sam looked at him for another moment before replying. “Mr. Morris, at this point, I'm not sure what I think. I did some research on your case, and frankly, there are things about it that bother me. Apparently someone knew that your family was dead and tipped the police. Do you have any idea who it could have been?”
Morris shook his head. “The police have asked me that a dozen times,” he said, “but I have no idea. It's the one thing I wish I knew, because that person may know what really happened that night. I just want to know how and why I could have done this. They're saying they want to go for the death penalty, and I don't blame them, but I'd like to know the answers to those questions before I go into that room for the injections. Then I could go to my Maker in peace, I think.”
Sam cocked his head. “You sound like you're certain that you did this, Carl. Have you considered the possibility that you may have been framed?”
Morris looked down at the tabletop. “I've had thoughts like that,” he said, “but I cast them out when they come. I couldn't bear to let myself believe that, and then find out that I really did do it. It's better to just accept the responsibility and deal with that, I think.”
“Carl, the police say someone tipped them off that they'd find your family dead in that house, even though it was locked from the inside. I don't know yet where that tip came from, but it seems to me that there is at least a chance that you were drugged, your family was murdered, and then you were put into place to look like you did it.”
“My prints, my bloody prints, were on the tomahawk,” Morris said. “I had my wife's and children's blood on my hands while I was holding it, while I was hacking them to death with it.”
Sam shrugged. “It's possible that you didn't. Your hand could have been smeared in their blood after they were dead, and then wrapped around the handle, so that it would leave your prints there, and...”
“Mr. Prichard, I don’t want to hear theories about how it might have happened, how I might be innocent. I was the one there, and there's nothing to suggest anyone else did this. What I want you to do, sir, is find out how I ended up drunk and drugged. If someone did that to me, then maybe some of the guilt is not mine, but as far as the police are concerned, and as far as I'm concerned, I am the one who held that tomahawk and killed my family with it. Now, if you'll do that for me, then I will be happy to pay whatever you want.”
Morris was looking Sam in the eye, and the feeling that went through him was eerie. It was as if Morris wanted to be guilty of this heinous crime, but wanted someone else to be responsible for that guilt. Sam had never seen such a thing before, and it spooked him.
“Very well,” he said. “Then that's what I'll do.”
Morris smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “If you'll go to see my attorney, Carol Spencer, she'll pay your retainer and fees. Please let me know about anything you find, as soon as you are able.” He lowered his eyes to the table once more.
“Before we get to that,” Sam said, “tell me about the last couple of days before the murders. What was going on in your family that last couple of days?”
Morris looked him in the eye again. “Not much, nothing out of the ordinary. We had a party a couple nights earlier, had most of the neighbors over, and after that everything was normal. I went to work, my wife went to her job, the kids did whatever they do. The night it happened, I came home like always and Elana, my daughter, asked me to help her move her bedroom furniture around, so we did that, and then I went down to watch some TV with my wife. I don't remember drinking anything at all, but the next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital, chained to the bed, and there were four cops standing guard over me. They told me what had happened, and I sort of lost it, and then that detective came in and made me look at pictures they took before they even moved me. There I was, covered in their blood.” He suddenly had tears streaming down his face. “Mr. Prichard, I had their blood all over me, even on my face. It was on my lips, as if I'd been kissing them while I was killing them. What kind of monster does this kind of thing?”
Sam shook his head. “I don't know the answer to that, Carl,” he said, “but I can promise you I'm gonna find out. I'll let you know what I learn as I learn it. Call me whenever you need to, and especially if you remember anything that you think will help.”
Sam knocked for the jailer, and the man came to take Morris back to his cell. A moment later, the woman returned to escort Sam out of the secure areas of the detention center.
“See what I mean?” she asked. “When you talk to him, you just can't quite believe he did this, can you?”
Sam shrugged his shoulders. “You just don't know what people can do, sometimes,” he said, “but in this case, I have to agree. Something just doesn't fit, and I'm gonna do my best to find out what it is.”
She looked at him. “We're afraid he's going to hurt himself. He's on suicide watch, already, because they always put people who kill loved ones on it, but somehow I don't think that would stop him.”
Sam looked at her and smiled sadly. “He won't,” he said, “not until he knows the answers to his questions.” He nodded once more and left the building.
When he got to his car, it was only twelve-thirty, so he called Indie to let her know he was coming home and could ride with her and Kenzie to rehearsal.
“Good,” she said. “I want to show you something about Carl Morris, anyway, and I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
“Okay, babe, I'll be there in twenty minutes.” He started the car and pushed it a bit to get there on time.
3
“I was able to find a couple of things about Carl Morris that are interesting, but I'm not sure they're related,” Indie said when Sam got home. “I tracked down his Facebook, and from that he seems like a pretty normal guy, so I looked at his friends list, and check this out.” She clicked on a link and another Facebook profile popped up. “Look familiar?” Indie asked, and Sam let out a low whistle. The profile that came up was for Jimmy Smith, the talent agent who had been framed for murder a few weeks earlier.
“That's curious,” Sam said. “Probably not related, but we'll check it out. And it's doubly curious because Juliette Connors said Jimmy recommended me to her. I wonder if he told Carl to get hold of me, too.”
“No way to tell, from this, but you might want to ask him the next time you talk to him. I mean, if Jimmy's sending you business, that's cool.”
; “True. You said you found a couple of things, so what else was there?”
She did a half shrug. “Well, everyone says he's Mister Mellow, but Carl Morris has a history of violence. Back in ninety-seven, he was arrested for beating a man severely in an argument at a gym, charged with 'assault with a deadly weapon.' The deadly weapon in this case was his hands! He got probation, went to anger management, and hasn't been in any trouble since then, but I thought you should know about it. Other than that, I can't even find a rumor of any problem around him. Pillar of the community type, he is.”
Sam nodded. “So I see. Even the jailers think he must have been framed, and frankly, I'm halfway leaning that direction already. The only ones who really think he did are the cops and himself, but it just bugs me that someone tipped the police and had to have known about it, but they aren't even taking that into consideration.”
Indie shrugged. “They might be,” she said. “Just because it isn't in the newspapers doesn't mean they aren't looking into it. Is there anyone you can call and ask?”
Sam looked sad, suddenly, and Indie regretted her question, but then he said, “I can try the detective in charge of the case—he's with the sheriff's office. I'll give him a quick call, and then we've got to head for rehearsals.” He took out his phone and called the sheriff's office, asking for Detective Kennedy. He was put through almost instantly.
“Kennedy,” the man answered.
“Detective Kennedy, this is Sam Prichard,” he said. “If you've got a minute, I'd like to ask you a couple of things about the Carl Morris case.”
Kennedy sighed. “Somehow I just knew I was gonna be talking to you again soon, Sam Prichard. What do you need?”
“Well, I've talked to Carl and been hired, but he's not asking me to prove he didn't do it—he wants me to find out how he got the alcohol and drugs in his system, because he thinks that's what made him do this.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kennedy said. “Sad thing when a man does something like this, isn't it?”
“Yeah, it is, but there are a few things bothering me. From what I've read and been told, someone called in an anonymous tip the night his family was killed, telling you guys what you'd find there. Do you have any idea who it was, and if not, are you doing anything to try to find out?”
“Well, we don't know who it was, no, and the reason we get anonymous tips is because they come in on an anonymous tip line. That line doesn't record the numbers of incoming calls. That's why people are willing to call in on it. As for trying to find out who it is, of course we are. Whoever it was had knowledge of a felony, and failing to come forward and provide further information they might have is a felony in itself.” He sighed. “Now, if what you're really asking is whether we've considered the possibility that whoever made that tip may have been the actual perpetrator, the answer is a very precise 'maybe,' and I say that off the record, got that? There's things about this case that are bothering me, too, like the fact that there is no trace of Adivol in that house, anywhere, not in Morris's car, or anywhere else associated with him. You'd think that if he were taking it at all, there'd be some more around someplace, right? I would, and since I know that you’re an ex-vice cop, I know you’re thinking that's strange, same way I do. And by the way—sorry about Dan Jacobs. I know he was your partner, and even if you're not on the force anymore, I know it hurts.”
Sam swallowed. “Thanks,” he said, “and yeah, that strikes me as odd, too. What else is bothering you?”
Kennedy seemed to lean closer to the phone and speak more softly. “Okay, again, this is off the record, but you may be able to do something with it that I can't. Morris was being stalked by a woman, and he'd tried to get her to leave him alone without involving police, because she was married and he didn't want to ruin her life. She was following him around, even showing up at his house in the middle of the night and trying to get him to come out and talk to her. I only know about this because he'd confided in one of the neighbors, but he told me about it when I asked. The funny thing is, it all came to a sudden stop a few months ago, and when I got to digging, I found out that the reason it stopped is because the woman who was stalking him disappeared, herself. Denver PD is running the investigation, but they seem to think her husband did her in and got rid of the body.”
Sam's blood ran cold. “Don't tell me—Annie Corning?”
Kennedy sounded surprised that Sam knew the name. “How did you know that? Did he tell you?”
“No,” Sam said. “But her husband hired me this morning to try to find out what happened to her.”
“Well, you don't need to look at Morris for that one,” Kennedy said. “I checked it out thoroughly, and the day she disappeared, he wasn't even in town, he was in a bodybuilding competition in California in front of thirty thousand people. He couldn't have had anything to do with it.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Anything else you can tell me? Like, what was the actual tip message, can you tell me that?”
Kennedy was quiet for a moment, but Sam could hear papers rustling. “Here it is,” Kennedy said. “It said, 'Some people are being murdered at sixty-four ninety-two West Garvin Court in Aurora.' That was all. The voice was garbled, like it was run through a computer, but our tech guys think it was a male voice. They're trying to unscramble it, but they say they don't know if they'll be able to or not.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “There is one more thing. There's a girl, a teenager who hung out at their house a lot. We think she had a crush on Morris, but I don't think that's related. The thing is, she says there was no possible way Morris would ever hurt anyone, that she knows because she'd seen him deal with some serious stuff, and he never, ever lost his cool. When I asked her what kinds of things, she got evasive, but said that one of them was when he found out his wife had been having an affair a year or so back. All he did was ask her to give him another chance to be a better husband, and they'd been doing great since then, I guess. I know she's just a kid, but I have to agree with her that a man like that doesn't sound like a killer.”
Sam nodded into the phone, and said, “Yeah, I agree. Something about this just isn't adding up. Listen, thanks for talking to me, and if I do get anything, I'll return the favor as soon as I can.” He ended the call as Indie came walking up to him.
“Get anything?” she asked, but Sam just shook his head.
“A lot,” he said, “but we'll talk about it later. For now, let's go make some music and I'll let it all roll around back in that black hole I call my mind.”
“Sounds good,” she said, and then she kissed him. “I love it when you sing, you know.”
“Good, cause I'm singing for you! Other people can listen if they want, I don't care, but I'm singing for you, babe!”
They finished getting ready, made sure Samson wasn't getting out of the house, and climbed into the truck to go to Stan's place. It was about a forty minute drive through city traffic, and they got there a little early. The band was all there, though, and Candy and Janice were delighted to see them after they'd been away for so long. None of them knew the details of Sam's involvement in stopping the terrorist attack, and had been told that Sam was wounded while stopping a robbery he'd stumbled upon. They all let him know how glad they were that they weren't looking for yet another new lead singer.
“Okay,” Chris said, while Stan was showing Kenzie where the new bag of M&M's was hidden, “we're opening at the Casino this weekend, debuting our new full country show. Sam, I hope you've got some songs ready, Buddy.”
Sam grinned. “I do,” he said, “I just hope you guys can stand them. These are some of the ones we used to do when I was in college, but I've dressed 'em up a little. I think I'm a better songwriter now than I was back then, anyway.”
“Just let us have 'em, man,” Chris said. “We'll make you sound good, don't you worry!”
“Okay, well, somebody gimme a guitar, and we'll see.” Stan handed him an acoustic, and Sam settled onto the stool they kept there for him because of his bad hip.
“This one was always fun. It starts off with a riff from Elvis's big comeback show, you know, da-da-dah, da-da-duh, da-da-dah, da-da-duh. Then we go into a thumping beat. It goes like this.”
He began to play, and Chris joined in instantly, following along. Stan was next with the drums, then Candy and Janice caught up. They ran through the melody once, and then Sam said, “You got it, now let's do it!” (Click to listen)
Woke up this mornin’ and the sun was shinin’ in, and I just knew the day was gonna be a good’un!
Kicked off all the covers, started getting’ outta bed, when I heard a voice say “Boy, I wish you would’n’,”
So I looked around the room, it was just as I had thought, there was no one there but me, I grabbed my head!
I was standin’ there a-wond’rin’ if I mighta lost my mind, when this girl crawled out from underneath my bed!
Hadn’t happened in a while, so I looked her in the eye, and I asked her, "What're you doin’ under there?"
She cried out, "Oh, you don’t remember," and she broke down into tears, I was so surprised all I could do was stare!
Then she raised her little hand, and she waved it in my face, and I saw this pretty shiny diamond ring!
She said, "You flew us out to Vegas and you married me last night!" How do I get myself into this kinda thing?
Oh my goodness, won’t somebody tell me what to do, I got married in the Elvis Room last night!
I’m sure I musta thought it was a good idea back then, but this mornin’ something just ain’t seemin’ right!
I guess this is the reason Momma used to tell me, "Son, don’t be hangin' out in bars and gettin’ tight!"
But it’s a little late to listen to what Momma told me now, I got married in the Elvis Room last night!
She stormed out to the kitchen and I followed her and tried to talk the sitchy-ation over sensibly,