CHAPTER NINE

 

As she took a sip of coffee, Riley wondered …

What do I do now?

Her head buzzing with questions, she’d driven to a fast food restaurant and ordered a hamburger and coffee. She had found a place to sit away from the other customers so she could think about her next move.

Riley was used to bending rules and working in strange circumstances. But this situation was new even to her. She was in uncharted territory.

She wished she could call Bill, her longtime partner. Or that she could talk things over with Jenn Roston, the young agent who’d also partnered with her on recent cases. But that would mean getting them involved in a situation that even she wasn’t supposed to be working on.

Was there anyone she could talk to locally?

I can’t very well ask Chief Stiles anything, Riley thought.

Of course there were a few people in other places that she sometimes turned to in unconventional situations. One was Mike Nevins, a forensic psychologist in DC who worked as an independent consultant on some FBI cases. Riley had asked Mike for help on many cases, including a few that she hadn’t exactly handled by the book. He’d also helped both her and Bill through bouts with PTSD. Mike had always been discreet, and he was also a good friend.

She flipped open her laptop, put in her earpieces, opened her video chat program, and called Mike’s office. Right away he appeared on her screen—a dapper, rather fussy-looking man wearing an expensive shirt with a vest.

“Riley Paige!” Mike said in his smooth and soothing baritone. “How nice to see you. It’s been a while. How can I help you?”

Riley was happy to see his face. Even so, she suddenly wondered …

How can he help me?

What should she tell him?

“Mike, what can you tell me about false confessions?” she asked.

Mike tilted his head curiously.

“Um—could you perhaps be more specific?” he asked.

“I don’t mean the ones who just show up after a murder and confess for the publicity. I mean the ones who really believe they’re guilty.”

“Are you on an interesting new case?”

Riley hesitated, and Mike chuckled.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “You’ve gone rogue again, haven’t you?”

Riley laughed nervously.

“I’m afraid so, Mike,” she replied.

“Are you actually breaking the law this time?”

Riley thought for a second. She was a little surprised to realize that she hadn’t broken any actual laws—at least not yet.

She said, “No, not really.”

Mike smiled a comforting smile.

“Well, in that case, I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me all about it. If you’re bending FBI rules again, that’s neither here nor there as far as I’m concerned. I’m not your boss, you know. I can’t very well fire you. And I don’t have any particular desire to tell on you.”

Greatly relieved, Riley filled him in on the whole story, starting with when she had first encountered Morgan Farrell back in February. She described how strongly she’d felt back then that the woman was being abused by her husband. Finally she told Mike about her trip to Atlanta and the conversation she had just had with Morgan.

After listening attentively, Mike asked, “And you’re sure Morgan is really innocent?”

“I feel it deep down in my gut,” Riley said.

Mike chuckled again.

“Well, you’ve got one of the most reliable guts in the business. I’m inclined to believe you. But still … I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a situation exactly like this. It’s rather atypical. A false confession usually unfolds rather differently.”

“How?” Riley asked.

Mike thought for a moment.

Then he said, “For one thing, Morgan Farrell seems to have been eager to confess right when she called you, before the police had even arrived. Suspects usually make false confessions after being put under considerable coercion and great duress.”

Riley understood what Mike was getting at.

Morgan had confessed with no coercion at all.

Mike continued, “For example, the average police interrogation lasts for thirty to sixty minutes. To provoke a false confession, cops usually have to hammer away relentlessly at a suspect for a long time—as long as fourteen hours. They have to wear down the suspect’s will. The suspect confesses just to get it over with, figuring they can straighten things out later. The circumstances don’t exactly fit your case … however …”

Mike paused for a moment, then said, “You mentioned that Morgan complained about not being allowed to sleep.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Her husband had been tormenting her by keeping her awake. She said it had been going on two or three weeks.”

Mike stroked his chin and said, “You probably already know that sleep disruption is a common torture technique—or as folks like to call it nowadays, ‘enhanced interrogation.’ That can lead to terrible confusion, even hallucinations. The subject winds up having no idea what’s real or what’s imaginary. They’ll say whatever they’re expected to say and might come to believe it themselves. They might even harbor some delusion that they’ll get to go free if they just confess.”

Riley flashed back to something that Morgan had said …

“I’d really like to go home now.”

As weird as it had seemed to Riley at the time, that comment made sense now.

Riley said, “What you’re saying is that Morgan was subjected to procedures often used to get to a confession, even though it wasn’t for that purpose.”

Mike nodded and said, “That’s right. The drugs and alcohol she’d been consuming surely added to her confusion. You said she told you to read her confession if you wanted to know what happened. To make that confession, she probably got a lot of coaching from cops who didn’t realize they were coaching her at all. They were just talking her through a plausible series of events. By the time she signed it, everybody believed it was true, including her.”

Riley also remembered Morgan saying …

“The police asked me questions until I didn’t know which end was up.”

Her mind was reeling now.

“Mike, what am I going to do about this?” she asked. “Even Morgan thinks she’s guilty. So does everybody else. Besides, I’m not even supposed to be here doing all this.”

Mike shrugged.

“If I were you, I’d start by talking to her lawyer. If he’s good at his job, he won’t care that you’re not exactly playing by the rules. All he’ll care about is doing his best for his client.”

Riley thanked Mike for his help and ended the chat.

She remembered Morgan refusing to say who her lawyer was. Well, it wouldn’t be hard to find out.

She got online and looked over the media coverage concerning Andrew Farrell’s murder. The killing had caused a predictable public sensation, and there was a lot of tabloid speculation about why Morgan had gone crazy and killed her husband. So far, Morgan’s lawyer hadn’t stepped forward to say anything about his client.

But his name was there in the news: Chet Morris, a partner in the Atlanta law firm of Gurney, Dunn, and Morris. Riley took out her cell phone called the firm’s number. When a receptionist answered, Riley asked to speak with Chet Morris.

“May I ask what this is about?” the receptionist asked.

For a second, Riley wasn’t sure what to say. After all, she wasn’t here on official FBI business.

But then she reminded herself of what Mike had said about Morgan’s lawyer …

“If he’s good at his job, he won’t care that you’re not exactly playing by the rules.”

She said, “I’m Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. I’ve got some urgent information for him about his client, Morgan Farrell.”

The receptionist put Riley on hold, and a few moments later she heard a man’s voice.

“This is Chet Morris. How may I help you?”

Riley introduced herself again.

Morris said in a bland voice, “Oh, yes. The name is familiar. Didn’t my client call you right after she killed her husband? I believe you were the person who first contacted the police.”

Riley said, “I’ve got very good reason to believe that your client is innocent of murder.”

A silence fell. For a moment Riley wondered if the call had gotten disconnected.

Finally Morris said, “I really don’t understand what this is all about, Agent Paige. I’m sure you’re aware that my client confessed. Due to her cooperation alone, I’m confident that I can keep her from getting the death penalty.”

Riley was puzzled.

Doesn’t he understand what I’m saying?

She decided to be more forthright.

She said, “I met Morgan last February at her home when her husband was still alive. I suspected at the time that he was abusing her, and I offered my help if she wanted it. As you know, she called me right after her husband was killed. Then last night I got a call from an Atlanta cop. I’d rather not mention his name, but he was part of the team that showed up at the crime scene. He told me that he didn’t believe Morgan had killed her husband.”

“And you believed him?” Morris asked.

“I didn’t know what to believe. I came to Atlanta—I’m here right now. I have just visited Morgan in her cell and talked with her.”

Morris let out a grunt of dismay.

He said, “Agent Paige, I’d really rather you hadn’t done that without checking in with me first. Frankly, I wouldn’t have allowed it if I’d known.”

Riley felt another flash of confusion.

She said, “Mr. Morris, I’m not sure you understand. I’m all but certain that she’s innocent.”

“Is that what she told you?” Morris asked.

“No, but—”

“Then why do you think so?”

Riley was truly perplexed now. This call wasn’t going at all like she’d expected.

She said, “I just talked to an expert forensic psychologist. He explained all the reasons why she might have given a false confession. Look, if I could just come by your office, we could discuss—”

Morris interrupted, “I think not, Agent Paige. And I really don’t appreciate your harassing my client and further confusing her. She’s already traumatized enough by what she’s done. I’ll thank you not to meddle in this matter any further. If you do, I’ll have no other recourse but to report you and perhaps even press charges.”

Before Riley could say another word, Morris ended the call.

Riley sat staring at the phone, flabbergasted.

She remembered something else Mike had said about Morgan’s lawyer …

“All he’ll care about is doing his best for his client.”

But that didn’t seem to be true at all.

Chet Morris seemed to be completely indifferent to the possibility that his client was innocent.

What’s going on here? she wondered.

All she knew for sure was that she needed someone else’s help. She reminded herself that she couldn’t involve any of her usual allies at Quantico. But it occurred to her that she knew someone she could turn to in situations like this.

Last January, when she was on a case in Seattle, she’d met a very intelligent FBI technical analyst. Since then, he’d been willing to help her again, and under somewhat unorthodox circumstances.

She looked up the number and dialed, and soon heard Van Roff’s gruff, husky voice.

“Agent Riley Paige, as I live and breathe. What kind of trouble are you going to make for me today?”

Riley smiled as she imagined the overweight, socially inept technician noticing her name on his caller ID.

“I need your help, Van,” she said.

“Nothing to do with the fiend I will not name?”

Riley was startled. The only research Roff had ever refused to do for her had involved a criminal mastermind named Shane Hatcher.

“No, he’s still in prison.”

“Is it something legitimate?”

“Not exactly, I’m afraid.”

Van Roff let out a snort of approval.

“Then count me in,” he said. “Things have been pretty boring out here lately.”

Riley filled him in on the whole story so far. When she finished telling him about her conversation with the lawyer he said, “Wait a minute. Are you sure you didn’t call the prosecuting attorney by mistake?”

“I’m sure,” Riley said.

“What’s wrong with that guy?”

“I was hoping you could help me figure that out. There must be some reason why Chet Morris is acting this way.”

Van Roff fell silent for a moment. Then Riley heard his fingers rattling over his keyboard.

Finally he said, “Huh. This is kind of interesting.”

“What have you got?” Riley asked.

“Chet Morris’s law firm—Gurney, Dunn, and Morris—represented Andrew Farrell when he was alive. All three of the lawyers used to work on cases for him. What do you make of that?”

Riley felt a sharp prickle of interest.

She said, “So Morgan Farrell’s defending attorney used to represent the murdered man himself. That’s kind of weird.”

Riley heard Roff’s fingers rattle some more.

Then he said, “Here’s something else. The Atlanta DA, Seth Musil, is prosecuting the case. He also used to work with Gurney, Dunn, and Morris. While he was there he also worked on cases for Andrew Farrell. So the prosecuting attorney had a cozy professional relationship with the defending lawyer. How suspicious is that? Do you think maybe we’re looking at some kind of conspiracy?”

Riley thought for a moment.

“No, I doubt that,” she said. “It’s not completely surprising that Morgan would use the same law firm as her husband. It’s not at all smart of her, though. There might be plenty of reasons why Gurney, Dunn, and Morris want to wrap up this case without a lot of fuss. They have reason to be perfectly happy with Morgan’s confession.”

Her mind boggled at the whole idea. Morgan Farrell’s fate lay in the hands of a bunch of her husband’s cronies. And a misogynist like Farrell might very well have vented to them about the frustrations of his current marriage. They weren’t likely to be the most sympathetic people in Morgan’s life.

Roff said, “It sounds like we’re dealing with some serious professional incompetence, if not malpractice.”

“It sure does,” Riley said. “The thing is, what am I going to do about it? I’m not exactly in a position to set things right.”

Roff let out a low rumbling chuckle.

“Heh. I wouldn’t say that. Just fix things the old-fashioned way. Catch the real killer. So what if you don’t have permission? That’s never stopped you in the past.”

Riley was pleased. She’d definitely called just the right guy for help.

She thought for a moment, then said, “Van, I’ve got an idea—”

Roff interrupted, “Yeah, and I think I’ve got the same idea. Give me just a minute.”

She heard his fingers rattling again.

Riley smiled.

It felt good to be working with someone so completely on her own wavelength.

Just a few minutes later, she heard Van Roff’s triumphant chuckle.