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Catherine again looked at her before speaking. “Excuse me?”
“Madelyn Jeffries. A little over three months. Her stepkids heard about it last week and pitched a fit, then showed up at the house while I was there and accused her of killing their dad.”
“And you still don’t consider her to be a suspect.”
“She loved him. She didn’t kill him.” Damn. Why couldn’t Kara keep her mouth shut to keep the peace? “You would come to the same conclusion if you sat down and talked to her.”
“Love and hate are often two sides of the same coin.”
“Yep. Not this time.”
“Psychological profiling is a lot more than a single interview, Detective Quinn.”
This conversation was getting them nowhere, and the longer it went on, the angrier Kara would get. Profiling was a tool in a cop’s tool chest. She often talked to the department shrink in LA, especially when she was working with CIs, to get a better sense of how far she could trust them. But it was atool. Nothing beat one-on-one interviews, assessing tone and body language and information from the witness or suspect, comparing that with evidence. Which was, Kara knew, a part of profiling. When she had traffic detail, reading a driver was essential in determining whether they were a threat or just ticked off about being pulled over. Wrong judgment could get you injured or worse.
So profiling—yeah, Kara appreciated it, but Kara wasn’t an idiot, and she would bet her badge that Madelyn had no part in killing her husband. Why Catherine couldn’t at least see that or acknowledge Kara’s experience and professional assessment, Kara didn’t know. She couldn’t quite read Catherine.
Yet.
But she would.
Catherine began typing on her laptop, and Kara walked over to the whiteboard and took pictures of the information.
The typing stopped.
“What are you doing?”
Kara took another picture.
“To study later.”
Catherine had no answer to that and went back to the laptop. Kara resisted the childish urge to stick her tongue out at the shrink.
The sheriff walked in, pushing a cart with two boxes and a computer. “The gas company said the house is clear. Your boss wanted me to bring these here, from Agent Devereaux’s house.”
Kara helped him unload the files. “Did they determine what happened?”
“Your guy, Kim, was right. Carbon monoxide poisoning. It’s an old house, don’t know why Neil didn’t have carbon monoxide detectors. But they’re still investigating the how, whether accident or not. Matt said he’d be here shortly.”
“How’s Deputy Redfield?” Kara asked.
“He’ll be fine. They’re keeping him overnight because his oxygen level was low. He was in the back of the house, searching closets and under beds, and carbon monoxide settles. I’ll let you all know when I know exactly what happened.”
“Appreciate it,” Kara said as the sheriff left.
She looked through the files just out of curiosity. Everything appeared to be about the Mowich Lake drownings, and there were a lot of sticky notes.
Marcy Anderson walked in. “Kara, here’s the information you wanted about Justin Jeffries.”
“Great, thanks,” she said.
“Now I’m really leaving. Time to hit the gym or I’ll never do it. Unless you need me?”
“We’re good, thank you.”
“Tomorrow morning, don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
