Page 36

THIRTY-FIVE

SHERIFF HUDSON

Chief Deputy Olson finishes tacking photos of the two missing women onto the corkboard in the briefing room. Stacy Howard and Carissa Brooks stare back at me, smiling, both with at least fifty years of life still ahead of them... hopefully. Their pictures now hang in a place no one ever wants their photo to end up. The evidence we have on their disappearances so far is minimal—a busted-up salon; two abandoned cars, one empty, the other containing a cell phone; Bob Miller’s business card; and blood we’re still waiting on the results for. It’s a shame we didn’t have a tail on Bob the night Carissa went missing. That would have really helped, but we’re short-staffed and we’ve got too many fires to put out.

My on-duty deputies slowly trickle into the room, and I wait for them to get seated and settled.

“All right, everyone, busy Tuesday; we have a ton of groundwork to do and we’re running out of time, so let’s get started.”

I walk over to the corkboard and point at the photos of Stacy and Carissa hanging in suspension, much like their well-being.

“Stacy Howard and Carissa Brooks. These two names should be very familiar to you. Missing person cases are some of the most time sensitive we deal with, and I don’t need to tell you all that every second counts. What do we have so far? Unfortunately, very little. There have been no updates on the Howard case since the last briefing, and we’re still waiting on the forensics results from the crime scene at the salon.” I clear my throat. “Like the Howard case, BCI has facilitated putting out a critically missing adult alert for Carissa Brooks as well as a media release and social media posts. We’re hoping we’ll get a solid tip from the public.”

I grab a photograph from the table in front of me and pin it up on the corkboard beside the two missing women. “Bob Miller,” I say, pointing to the professional headshot we pulled from the Williamson, Miller & Associates website, “is a person of interest in both cases. According to our findings, he’s the last person to have had contact with either woman prior to their disappearances.”

“Why isn’t he in custody then?” Sergeant Lantz asks. As usual, he’s leaned up against the back wall with his arms folded over his chest.

“We don’t have enough to charge him yet. At this point, everything is circumstantial. Olson and I brought him in for questioning this morning, but his lawyer stonewalled much of it, and Mr. Miller didn’t offer up anything of substance. He did admit that we would find his blood in the salon, but he had a somewhat plausible story for why it ended up there. However, we still have to wait on lab results from the scene anyway.”

A deputy raises a hand before speaking. “What do we know about Carissa Brooks? Aside from being Bob’s hairstylist, how else is she connected to him?”

“That’s actually a perfect segue.” I step aside and hold an arm open. “Olson, could you fill us in on the background check you pulled on Carissa Brooks?”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.” She steps forward and opens the folder in her hand. “Ms. Brooks had a permanent protective order in place against her ex, George Carrigan. That PPO expired less than two years ago, but an extension was granted. However, it came too late because George attacked Carissa in the interim and ended up putting her in the hospital. He was sent to prison for battery but served only a third of his sentence. He received early release due to good behavior three weeks ago.”

“When’s the extended PPO set to expire?” I ask.

Olson flips a page. “Next month.”

“Do we know if Carissa filed a motion requesting to extend the order?” I furrow my brow.

She shakes her head. “I couldn’t find anything filed with the court.”

“Has Carissa’s ex had any recent contact with her?” Lantz asks.

Olson and I exchange a look but neither of us has an answer.

“I feel like that guy is suspect numero uno,” Lantz adds.

The door of the briefing room opens, and Nagel slips in wearing a pleased look on his face, like he’s got something good to share.

“You’re right, Sergeant Lantz. Given his history with Ms. Brooks, George Carrigan is a person of interest, so we’ll need to bring him in for questioning.”

“Already ahead of ya, boss.” Nagel steps forward. “Several of Carissa’s employees and friends mentioned her ex, so I contacted his parole officer and informed her of the situation. George is sitting in Interrogation Room One as we speak.”

“Excellent work. Before we adjourn, any updates on the Stevens case?” I ask.

“No, sir, unfortunately not,” he says. “We’re still conducting interviews with those who made death threats toward Ryan online, and we’re in the process of reviewing traffic cams in the area surrounding the hospital. But with Stevens’s murder, Howard’s disappearance, the reopening of the Summers case, and now the Carissa Brooks investigation, we’re stretched really thin.”

There are nods all around, and I take in the faces of my officers. Most of them sport dark circles and heavy bags around or under their eyes. They all have cups of coffee or energy drinks set out in front of them.

“I know you’re all exhausted. Believe me, I am too, but we’ve got people’s lives depending on us. So, try to push through, just for a little longer. BCI is assisting on the Stevens, Howard, and Brooks investigations, but we are the lead on them. I’ll see if I can get us more support. I appreciate all your hard work. Keep it up. Let’s get these cases solved, and let’s bring Howard and Brooks home.”

The entire room erupts, and much of the energy we’ve lost due to exhaustion and lack of progress is back, at least for now. Chairs scrape across the floor as my team gets to their feet. There are cheers and chants of let’s do this and we got this , along with high fives and pats on the back . It’s exactly what we need right now.

I turn to Olson. She smiles, pleased with my little motivational speech. “Wanna come with me and have a chat with George?”

“I think I’d like to do more than just chat with him,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

I feel the same way. Men who lay their hands on women are the scum of the earth, and it’s going to take everything in me not to do to him what he did to Carissa.

Through the two-way mirror, we can see George Carrigan sitting at the table in Interrogation Room One, dressed in a white tee, ripped jeans, and a pair of combat boots. A black leather jacket is hung on the back of his chair, and his blond hair is pulled into a tight ponytail.

“Someone here fancies themselves a big tough biker,” I say to Olson.

“Nah. Check out the ponytail, wouldn’t fit under a helmet.” She smirks.

We enter the room, and I let Chief Deputy Olson take a seat across from the man while I stand in the corner. He has a history of abusing women, so I want to see how he handles being interrogated by one.

“Morning, George. Thanks for coming in to talk with us,” Olson says.

“Part of my parole requirements are that I cooperate with you people anytime you ask, so I didn’t have much of a choice.” He glares at her.

“Well, we appreciate it all the same.” She’s keeping the tone light... for now. “When was the last time you had contact with Carissa Brooks?”

George leans back in his chair, squinting his left eye and curling his lip. “I’m not allowed to talk to her or be near her, otherwise they’ll throw me right back in jail.”

“Yes, we’re aware of the restrictions concerning the protective order against you. Care to tell us more about that?”

“No.”

Olson turns and briefly looks over her shoulder at me. There’s always a point in an interrogation where you can tell if the person you’re questioning is going to be helpful or not, and we just got our answer.

“Have you spoken to or seen Carissa recently?” Olson asks again.

“I just told you I’m not allowed to.”

“Right, but not allowed to and not doing are two different things, aren’t they?”

George juts his chin forward, and the early signs of a scowl form across his face. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Why? Did you do something worth being accused of?” She angles her head to the side.

George points a finger at her. “Don’t you start with your bullshit cop games. I didn’t do anything, all right?” He holds his finger steady in the air as if the longer he points, the better chance he has of ending all of this.

“Then just answer the question,” she says. “When was the last time you had any contact with Carissa?”

“A few weeks ago. But she’s the one who texted me, okay? I didn’t break the rules.” George’s voice cracks in a panic, the tough-guy act fading like the leather of his jacket.

“Why did she text you?” I ask, my arms crossed in front of me as I lean my back against the wall.

He snaps his head in my direction, surprised, as though he forgot I was still in the room. “She asked if I was really out.”

“Now, why would she go and do something like that? Especially after you put her in the hospital, and then she went through all the effort to get a protective order against you, not once but twice?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe she still cares about me.”

“Right. And what else was said?” Olson asks.

“Nothing. I answered her question. I told her I got early release, that I was sorry, and that I wasn’t the same man that went into prison. I told her I loved her and that I always would.” George glances down at his lap.

“Came on a little strong, don’t ya think?” Olson says.

He doesn’t respond.

“And did Carissa reply to your text?” she adds.

“No, she didn’t.”

“Must have made you real mad to get rejected again? Especially after pouring your heart out and making all those changes while spending months behind bars. You must have been enraged.”

George’s finger is back in the air, pointing at Olson. “I know what you’re fucking doing. Shut your mouth...”

I step forward out of instinct.

“Or what? You’ll hit me?” Olson cocks her head.

“No! I’m not gonna... ugghh... See, this is what you cops do. You get people to?—”

“Lose their temper? Show their true selves?” she says.

“I’m not losing my temper!” George slams his fist against the table, the ring of metal reverberating in the room.

The sound dies out into an air of total silence, save for George’s labored breathing. His eyes dart between me and Olson, the look on his face changing from rage to shock to embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hanging his head and rubbing the underside of his fist with his other hand.

Olson leans forward, placing both of her hands on the table. “Where were you Sunday night, between the hours of nine p.m. and two a.m.?”

“At home.”

“Can anyone verify that?” I ask.

“Yeah, I can.” George lifts his head, meeting my gaze.

“Anyone else?”

“No. Does someone need another person in their house for them to be able to just relax?” he challenges.

“To relax? No,” I say. “But to verify someone’s whereabouts? Yeah, it would help.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. I was at home with a frozen pizza and a six-pack.”

Olson takes out her notepad and jots down a few lines. “You didn’t leave your house at all between nine p.m. and two a.m. on Sunday night?”

He shakes his head.

“What’s this about anyway?” George’s voice becomes angry again, his patience wearing thin. “I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me why the hell I’m here.”

Olson looks back at me, lifting her brows to ask, Should we? I nod, giving her the go-ahead.

“We received a call yesterday morning reporting a break-in at Carissa’s salon. But when we got on scene, it appeared to be more than just a standard burglary.”

A wave of red flushes across his neck and face. “What do you mean? Is she all right?”

“We’re not sure, because she’s missing.”

His gaze intensifies, flipping between Olson and me. “Why are you here talking to me then? You should be out there looking for her!”

“You said it yourself, Mr. Carrigan, you would never stop loving her. When she didn’t reply, did you take matters into your own hands? Ensure that if you couldn’t have her, no one else could?” I slowly walk toward the table.

He pulls his head back. “You think I did something to Carissa?”

“I don’t know, did you?”

George narrows his eyes and stands quickly from his chair. “Are you detaining me?”

“No. We’re just talking,” I say.

“Am I being charged with anything?”

“Not yet,” Olson replies.

“Then, I either want a lawyer or I’m leaving.”

Olson and I exchange a frustrated look. He knows his shit because he’s been through this several times before.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Carrigan. But we’ll be in touch,” I say, stepping aside.

George stomps toward the door and grabs the handle, pulling it down but with no success. He struggles with it for a few seconds before I intervene.

“You need a card for that,” I say, retracting mine from my utility belt as I cross the small room. “It’s a safety measure.” I scan the card and the lock clicks.

George wears a look of annoyance mixed with fear. He pushes the door open and bolts out of the room without another word.

I turn to Olson as she stands. “So, what do you think?”

“I think he’s an asshole, but other than that, I don’t know.”

I sigh and shake my head. “At least we’re on the same page.”