Page 33 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The interrogation room felt colder than usual, though maybe that was just Sheila's exhaustion catching up with her.

Thorne sat across the metal table, his demeanor strangely calm for someone who'd just led them on a rooftop chase.

His camera and bags had been secured as evidence, but he kept glancing at them through the observation window as if more concerned about his equipment than his own situation.

"Let's start with why you ran," Sheila said. She'd taken off her jacket, still sweaty from the chase and climb. Her shoulders ached from catching herself on the roof's edge.

"I needed to protect the footage." Thorne's voice remained soft, measured. He had an artist's hands, she noticed—long fingers that kept making small gestures as if framing shots. "When the power went out, I knew they'd be coming for my equipment next. Had to get everything copied and secured."

"They?" Finn asked from his position by the door.

"Whoever's been staging these murders." Thorne reached for a water bottle, then stopped when he remembered his hands were cuffed. "I've been documenting strange behavior for weeks. People accessing the theaters after hours. Equipment being moved. Costumes being photographed."

"Documenting?" Sheila leaned forward. "Or planning?"

"You think I'm the killer." It wasn't a question. "That I staged those scenes, created those moments." He smiled slightly. "I understand why. The technical knowledge, the attention to detail, the theatrical elements. But you're misreading the narrative."

"Explain it to us then," Sheila said.

Thorne glanced at his equipment again. "It's all there, in the footage.

I started noticing things during 'The Winter Palace' production.

People watching the auditions too intently.

Making notes about specific performers. At first I thought they were just talent scouts, but.

.." He paused. "There was something predatory about their attention. "

"So you started filming them?" Finn asked.

"I film everything. It's what I do. But I started being more systematic about it.

Setting up cameras in overlooked places.

Documenting patterns." His hands moved again, sketching invisible frames.

"When Jessica Gregory died, posed exactly like that scene from 'Winter Palace,' I knew I'd been right.

Someone had been studying these performances, learning them. Planning them."

"And you didn't come forward because...?" Sheila let the question hang.

"Would you have believed me? A cameraman with an obsession for filming people without their knowledge?

" He shook his head. "I needed proof. Concrete evidence.

So I kept filming, kept documenting. Even after Thomas Rivera died, after Sarah Martinez.

.." He swallowed hard. "I should have moved faster. Should have seen the pattern sooner."

Sheila studied him carefully. His story made a certain kind of sense—a photographer documenting suspicious behavior, gathering evidence. But something nagged at her.

"The power outage this morning," she said. "You said you knew 'they' would come for your equipment next. Who is 'they'?"

"I don't know names. But there's someone else who's been filming.

Another cameraman, using different equipment.

More professional gear." His hands sketched another invisible frame.

"I caught glimpses in my footage—someone documenting the same events I was, but from different angles.

Like they were creating their own version of events. "

Could he be talking about Paul Wilson? But they'd already cleared Wilson. Then again, perhaps someone had accessed Wilson's cameras without his consent. Someone with darker motives than mere documentation.

"We'll need to see this footage," Finn said.

"It's all there." Thorne nodded toward his equipment. "Every file is dated and labeled. I was trying to create a timeline and understand the pattern. But this morning, when the power went out..." He shuddered slightly. "It wasn't an accident. They knew I was getting close. Knew I had evidence."

Sheila stood and walked to the observation window. Through it, she could see Thorne's camera bag, hard drives, memory cards—weeks or months of surveillance footage. If he was telling the truth, the killer's pattern might be hidden somewhere in those files.

If he was telling the truth.

"You understand how this looks," she said, turning back to him. "You ran. You had detailed knowledge of the murders. You were filming the victims before they died."

"I was filming everyone," he corrected. "Because I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know who to trust. The festival brings in dozens of film crews each year.

Anyone could have been involved." He leaned forward.

"But there's one thing I know for certain—the killer uses very specific equipment.

High-end motion cameras, professional-grade lenses.

The kind of gear that costs more than I make in a year. "

"And you can prove this?" Finn asked.

"It's in the footage. Reflections in windows, shadows on walls—you can see the shape of their camera rig. Much bigger than anything I use. The kind of setup documentary crews favor."

Something tickled at the edge of Sheila's memory. Something about documentary filmmakers, about expensive equipment…

But before she could chase down the thought, a knock at the door interrupted them. Deputy Neville entered, looking apologetic.

"Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff, but CSU needs you to sign off on some evidence forms. And the tech team is ready to start analyzing those hard drives."

Sheila nodded. "We'll continue this later," she told Thorne. To Finn, she added, "Stay with him. I want to hear more about this other cameraman."

As she followed Neville out, her mind kept circling back to that nagging memory. Something she'd seen, or heard, or…

The answer was there, hidden in plain sight. She just had to figure out what she was really looking at.

Just like the killer had been doing all along.

***

The evidence room hummed with electronics as the tech team began processing Thorne's hard drives. Sheila signed the forms Neville handed her, but her mind was elsewhere, turning over details from the case.

A documentary filmmaker using professional-grade equipment. Someone who understood both the technical and performance aspects of filmmaking. Someone who had been watching, documenting…

She froze, the pen hovering above the last form.

"Sheriff?" Neville asked. "Everything okay?"

"The film festival catalog," Sheila said. "I need to see it. Now."

Five minutes later, she was flipping through glossy pages in her office, scanning film descriptions and crew listings. There—"Echoes of Silence," Bradley Greenwald's documentary. The one that never got to premiere.

She pulled up the case files on her computer, specifically the notes about Jessica Gregory's movements the night she died. According to the taxi driver, Jessica had gone to the theater to check something. She'd been carrying a yellow envelope.

"What did you find?" Sheila whispered to herself, scanning the documentary's production credits. The director of photography was listed as James Morrison, with a biography noting his extensive work filming "intimate character studies" and "raw human moments."

She did another search, this time through the theater's security logs. Morrison had been given full access during pre-production, using high-end cameras to film behind-the-scenes footage of other productions. Including "The Winter Palace." Including Jessica Gregory's audition.

The pieces were starting to fit together. But she needed to be sure.

She pulled up Charlotte's photos again—the grainy security camera shots of someone going through costume records. The expensive watch was visible in one shot, but there was something else she hadn't noticed before: a camera strap, high-end, the kind used for professional documentary work.

Her phone buzzed—a text from Finn: Thorne says he has footage of someone filming Jessica the night she died. Tech team processing it now.

Sheila was already moving. In the evidence room, the tech team had multiple screens set up, processing Thorne's files.

On one monitor, timestamped footage showed the theater hallway the night Jessica died.

The angle was awkward—clearly one of Thorne's hidden cameras—but she could see Jessica walking quickly, clutching a yellow envelope. And behind her…

"Stop," Sheila said. "Go back a few frames."

The technician rewound slightly. There—in the corner of the frame, barely visible: someone following Jessica. Someone carrying professional camera equipment.

"Can you enhance that?"

The tech worked his magic, zooming and sharpening. The image was still grainy, but she could make out the camera rig—high-end, expensive. Documentary grade.

The kind James Morrison used.

"Pull up Morrison's festival credentials," she told Neville. "I want to know every building he had access to, every production he worked on."

She headed back to interrogation. Thorne was standing when she reentered, pacing despite his cuffs. Finn gave her a look that said he'd tried to keep him seated.

"Morrison," Thorne said before she could speak. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. But I needed to be sure you'd found enough to believe me."

"James Morrison," Sheila said. "Bradley Greenwald's cinematographer."

"More than that." Thorne finally sat, his hands making those framing gestures again.

"He's been filming everything. Every production, every rehearsal, every private moment.

Says it's for Greenwald's documentary, but.

.." He shook his head. "The angles he chooses, the moments he focuses on—it's like he's studying them. Learning them."

"Studying who? Who is he going after next?"

Thorne took a quick, hesitant breath.

"This isn't the time to hold out on us," Finn said.

"Morrison has this private studio above the Mountain View Hotel where he does his editing.

The film festival rents it for him. Anyway, two nights ago, I managed to get inside and take a look around.

I was planning to document everything, but I didn't have time—I heard someone coming up the stairs and got spooked. "

Sheila studied him, sensing he wouldn't have brought this up if he hadn't found anything. "So you didn't document anything," she said. "But what did you see ?"

"Just some of his editing notes. There's a sequence he calls 'The Final Performance.' He's been planning it for weeks." Thorne's hands finally went still. "And he already has his next actor picked out."

"Who, damn it?" Finn said.

"Bradley Greenwald." Thorne's voice dropped lower. "Morrison blames him for ruining his vision. Says Greenwald doesn't understand true cinema, true performance. The notes talk about making him part of the ultimate scene."

Sheila was already moving toward the door. "How sure are you about this?"

"I know what I saw," Thorne said. "But Sheriff?" She turned back. "Be careful. Morrison... he sees everything as a scene to be filmed. Everyone as actors in his production." He made one final framing gesture. "And he always gets the shot he wants."