The sheriff stood when Morgan entered. Sixty-year-old Henry Colgate was just months away from retirement. He shoved a harried hand through the few wispy gray hairs left on his head.
“Ms. Dane.” Colgate gestured to the chair that faced his desk. Papers, file folders, and pink message slips littered the surface. “Please close the door.”
Morgan pushed it shut, then took a seat.
Narrowing his eyes at her face, he said, “I heard about what happened at the courthouse.”
Of course he had. In addition to regular law enforcement for all of Randolph County, the sheriff was in charge of the county jail and courthouse. It was an immense responsibility for a man who had publicly declared he no intention of running for the office.
“It looks worse than it is,” Morgan lied. Her face pulsed with pain. “I’m representing Haley Powell.”
Nodding, Colgate settled behind the desk. Technically, Colgate was the acting sheriff. He’d been the chief deputy when the prior sheriff had died back in November. Colgate had stepped into the position. The job was obviously wearing him down. The bags under his eyes were deep and dark.
Morgan reaching into her bag for her legal pad and a pen. As she leaned over, the room did a quick spin around her. She clutched the armrest and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
“Ms. Dane? Are you all right?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Morgan straightened. “Are you aware that my client has a serious medical condition?”
“No.” His mouth twisted in a skeptical frown. “She didn’t look sick when I talked to her, and she wasn’t wearing a medical alert bracelet.”
“Her mother was here this morning. She left a message for you.” Morgan gave the clutter on Colgate’s desk a pointed stare.
He sifted through the stack of messages. “I don’t see it.”
“Haley requires medication daily. She’s been without it for two days.” Morgan had no time to waste arguing. She made a note and moved on. “Has she been formally charged?”
Colgate shook his head. “Not yet, but I’ve been communicating with the prosecutor’s office. I have no doubt murder charges will be filed later today.”
“How long has she been here?”
“Since one p.m. Saturday.”
“And you questioned her personally?”
Colgate leaned back in his chair. The springs squeaked. “I did.”
“Without a lawyer present?”
“She didn’t ask for a lawyer.” He folded his hands on his small paunch. “And she didn’t say anything about being sick or needing medicine either,” he added in a defensive tone.
“How many times did you interview her?”
“Three,” he said. “At the scene, here immediately after we brought her in, and again this morning.”
Morgan checked her watch. “You brought her here at one p.m. on Saturday, and she sat in your holding cell for nearly two days. Did anyone else question her during that time?”
“No.” Colgate flushed. “We’re looking for a missing woman. We have limited resources.”
A number of deputies had quit in the four months following the former sheriff’s death. Colgate was shorthanded, and he was juggling two major cases. Any sheriff would likely have done the same under the circumstances. The rules for holding a suspect no longer than forty-eight hours were customarily extended when the time spanned a weekend. Technically, he could hold her another day.
Colgate hadn’t done anything illegal. But Morgan still wasn’t happy about the situation. Her young client had been sitting in a filthy cell without her medication for far too long.
The sheriff squirmed. “Haley Powell murdered Noah Carter. The arrest warrant will be here any minute.”
“Based on what evidence?” Morgan looked up. The sheriff’s department had to demonstrate probable cause before the prosecutor would issue an arrest warrant. Esposito might be overly aggressive, but his boss, District Attorney Bryce Walters, would tread carefully with a case as serious as murder. Bryce would make sure every technicality was addressed.
“Her fingerprints were on the weapon.” Colgate shifted his weight forward and began ticking facts off on his fingers. “She was covered in blood. The blood type matched that of the victim. She was seen leaving the club with the victim at approximately one a.m. Saturday morning. The club gave us surveillance footage of them exiting the building together. Multiple witnesses stated they were cozy all evening, and we found a used condom in the bathroom trash can.” Colgate folded his hands on his desk. “I’m pretty certain both your client’s DNA and that of the victim will be confirmed on the condom.”
“If she went home willingly with him, what was her motive?”
Colgate turned up a palm. “Who knows? She seems flaky. Maybe she changed her mind.”
Morgan pounced on the crumb he’d tossed her. “Are you suggesting he raped her, and she defended herself?”
“No.” Colgate pressed his lips together hard, clearly realizing his mistake. “I’m saying we don’t know what her motive was yet.”
Morgan leveled her gaze at him. “But it’s a possibility.”
Colgate exhaled hard through his nose. “Your client has not claimed self-defense. Nor did she say anything about being raped.” He opened a file and put on a pair of reading glasses. “In fact, what she said to the deputies who responded to the original call was, ‘What have I done?’ At no point has she accused the victim of doing anything or claimed to be injured in any way.” He looked at Morgan over the top of his glasses. “Once she got a hold of herself, she got quieter.”
No doubt Colgate thought sitting in the holding cell might inspire her to talk.
Morgan set down her pen. “Now I’d like to see my client.” She had more questions, but they would wait until she’d talked to Haley.
“One more thing.” Colgate opened a file on his desk.
Morgan braced herself for what she suspected was coming: crime scene and/or autopsy photos. This wasn’t her first rodeo. Stabbings could be particularly nasty. A knife could do more damage than a bullet.
The sheriff slid three photographs across the desk. In the first, a young man lay on his stomach, his arms stretched out ahead of him, as if he had been trying to pull himself though the grass. Photo number two was a long trail of blood, and the third picture was clearly where he had been killed.
Morgan had seen many photos of dead bodies, but the sight never failed to twist her heart into knots.
Colgate stabbed the photo of the body with a forefinger. “With three knife wounds, Noah tried to crawl for help, but he bled out before he was feet from the house.”
“Where did the knife come from?” she asked.
“The block on the kitchen counter.”
“Were there any other prints on the weapon?”
“No,” Colgate said in a satisfied tone.
“Not even Noah Carter’s?”
Colgate frowned. “No.”
Interesting.
“This morning, I had to go to Noah’s parents’ house and tell them their son was dead,” Colgate said.
“I’m sorry. That must have been awful for you, and I can’t even imagine their grief.” While she needed objectivity to do her job, Morgan never wanted to lose sight of the fact that cases were about people.
The sheriff’s brows lifted a millimeter, as if he were surprised by her comment. “Haley Powell killed Noah Carter.”
Morgan slid her notepad into her tote and stood. “I need to see my client.”
Colgate pushed off his desk and got to his feet. They left his office, and he led her to an empty interview room. “I’ll have Ms. Powell brought in.”
“Thank you.” Morgan set her tote on the floor next to a chair. She settled at the table with her legal pad and pen. A few minutes later, footsteps shuffled in the hall. Her first look at her client brought Morgan to her feet.
The petite girl wore a skimpy black dress. A blanket was draped over her shoulders, and her eyes were frighteningly blank. Flecks of dried blood dotted the skin of her upper arms and neck. Mascara ringed her eyes, and makeup smeared her face. Two nights in a holding cell would make anyone look ragged, but Haley didn’t look like a suspect. She looked like a victim.