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Morgan rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "Save it for the judge, Skipper. Let's go," she said, taking a step forward to grab his arm. But before she could make contact, Skipper jerked away, his eyes wild with fear.
"You can't take me in!" he exclaimed, backing away from her with his hands raised defensively. "I didn't do anything wrong, I swear! You have to believe me!"
Morgan frowned, her grip on her gun tightening. Something was off about this. Skipper was scared, that much was obvious, but his behavior was erratic, bordering on hysterical.
"You're high, aren't you?" Morgan said. Maybe whatever drugs he was on were causing him to act on his violent impulses.
Either way, Morgan was done playing games. In one swift motion, she tackled Skipper and cuffed him, despite his desperate pleas. They didn't matter now. He was caught--and he'd answer her soon enough.
***
Skipper's bloodshot eyes darted around the sterile interrogation room as he fidgeted in his seat, clearly agitated. He scratched at his scraggly beard and mumbled incoherently to himself, looking more like a trapped animal than a man. Derik leaned against the wall, arms folded, while Morgan sat across from Skipper with her hands clasped tightly on the table, her mind racing.
"Alright," Derik began, his voice firm and business-like. "Tell us what you were doing at Beverly McBridge's house."
"I-I don't know, man," Skipper stammered, averting his eyes. "I didn't mean... I wasn't..."
"Spit it out!" Derik barked, losing patience. "You were caught red-handed, trying to flee the scene of the crime!"
Morgan clenched her jaw, struggling to suppress her emotions. If she hadn't let this junkie slip away when they first met, would Beverly still be alive? The guilt weighed heavily on her conscience, but she couldn't let that cloud her judgment now. She had to stay focused and professional.
"Look, Skipper," she interjected, her voice softer but no less authoritative than Derik's. "We just want to understand what happened. Why were you at her house?"
Skipper hesitated, glancing between Morgan and Derik with uncertainty. His voice wavered as he spoke. "I... I heard there might be some stuff to... ya know, sell or trade for... whatever." He swallowed hard, avoiding their gazes. "But I didn't kill her. I swear."
"Then who did?" Derik challenged, leaning in closer. "Who left her body like that?"
"I don't know!" Skipper cried out, desperation creeping into his voice. "I didn't see anyone else, I swear!"
Morgan's mind raced as she tried to piece together the fragments of information. Skipper was an addict, desperate and erratic, but was he capable of such a gruesome crime? She couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the back of her mind.
"Let's say we believe you," she offered, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Why didn't you call the police when you found her?"
"Are you kidding?" Skipper scoffed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No one would believe me! I'd be locked up before I could even explain myself!"
"Like you are now," Derik pointed out dryly.
"Look," Morgan interjected, ignoring Derik's comment. "We need to figure out the truth, and we can only do that with your cooperation. Tell us everything you know, every detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem."
Skipper hesitated, then slowly began recounting his version of the events. As he spoke, Morgan listened intently, her mind working tirelessly to separate fact from fiction. If the killer was still out there, she couldn't afford to make any more mistakes – too much was at stake.
Morgan clenched her jaw, her eyes locked onto Skipper's hollow gaze. She needed to get through to him, to find the truth buried beneath his drug-fueled haze. "Alright, Skipper. I want you to explain yourself. Tell me everything."
Skipper swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It wasn't me. A friend told me that house would be an easy target, so I went in to grab some stuff. But when I found the dead lady... I freaked out and tried to get out as fast as I could. And then you guys showed up."
"Really?" Derik scoffed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "You expect us to believe that? That you just happened to stumble upon a fresh murder scene?"
"Swear to God," Skipper insisted, his bony hands shaking. "I'd never hurt anyone. I'm just trying to survive."
Morgan studied the frail man before her, noting the absence of blood on his clothing or skin. It didn't make sense. If he had brutally murdered Beverly McBridge and removed her teeth, there should be some trace of evidence on him. A gnawing uncertainty tugged at her gut.
"Derik," she muttered, her voice low, "I don't think it adds up. He's not covered in blood or anything."
"Come on, Morgan. He's lying through his toothless grin," Derik countered, his tone dripping with disdain. "He's our guy."
But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about this whole situation. As much as she wanted to pin the crime on Skipper, to bring justice to Beverly and ease her own guilt, she couldn't ignore the inconsistencies. She had to trust her instincts, even if it meant going against Derik's opinion.
"Maybe," she conceded, her gaze never leaving Skipper. "But we need to be sure. We can't afford any more mistakes."
