by Terence West
Chapter 18
"State your name."
"You know my name. It's right there on your damned report."
"I need you to state your name for the recording."
"You're recording this? You didn't say anything about a recording."
"Nervous?"
"Why should I be? I'm innocent."
"Then you'll have no problem stating your name."
Morgan sat back in her chair and stared across the small metal table at Montoya. "Morgan Lynn LeFay," she said finally. She leaned her elbows over on the table and began to run her fingers up her arm. She glanced about the small room. It had all the traditional trappings of any good crime movie. A lone table in the middle of a small room, a single light swaying from the ceiling, no windows, but one large mirror set into the wall behind Montoya. The walls were painted a bright white instead of the usual dingy gray or green. A solid blue stripe ran around the top of the wall, only broken in one place by a surveillance camera. Montoya was sitting quietly, jotting down notes in a small notepad.
"What are you writing?" Morgan asked.
"Notes," Montoya answered dryly without looking up.
"About me?"
"No, I'm working on my grocery list." Montoya looked up at Morgan with a cross expression on her face.
"This is driving me out of my mind," Morgan admitted after a moment. "Can we get started?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Montoya said sarcastically, "am I keeping you from an appointment?" She slowly folded her notepad shut and crossed her hands on top of it. She looked Morgan up and down once, sizing her up. "Are you ready to begin?"
"That's what I've been saying for the past five minutes!" Morgan shouted.
"Calm down," Montoya said casually, almost friendly. "It's my job to gather all the facts. I just want to get to the bottom of this crime."
"Good," Morgan said. "That's what I want, too."
"Then we should have no problems," Montoya suggested. "What do you do for a living," she paused and flipped open her notepad. After cycling through a few pages, she finally returned her gaze to Morgan, "Ms. LeFay?"
Morgan was getting annoyed. She knew damn well Montoya knew her name. She was trying to break her. Morgan leaned back in her chair with a wide smile on her face. She was on to Montoya. It wasn't going to work. "I'm a paranormal investigator."
Montoya shook her head. "All the nuts roll downhill to Florida."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Montoya shook her head. "Nothing. Just something I heard once." She lifted her pen from the table and began taking notes again. "What were you here investigating?"
"I was hired by Ghost Chasers, Inc. to help with this Halloween show of theirs. I was just supposed to go into the house, walk around for an hour, and tell them how I felt."
"Easy money."
Morgan nodded. "Bills start to pile up after a while."
Montoya laughed. "I hear that." Montoya lifted her pen from the pad. "Tell me about yourself."
"Why?"
"I want to know," Montoya answered quickly. "You don't have a very long paper trail."
"I don't think–"
Montoya shot up from her chair. "Answer the goddamned question!" She slammed her fist on the table. "This isn't an interview where you can pass on certain questions! If I ask you a question, you damned well better answer it! Do you understand, or do I have to throw your skinny ass back into your cell for another few hours?"
Morgan was shocked. She hadn't expected that kind of outburst. "I'm sorry," she said on the verge of tears. "I'm still just very upset."
"Then you better get your head screwed on right, or this is going to be a lot worse for you." Montoya slowly returned to her seat. "Now," she said, the rage completely absent from her voice, "tell me about yourself."
Morgan nodded. "Like I said, I'm a paranormal investigator. I work out of my home in New York, and I try to travel as much as possible."
"Why is that?"
"The ghosts don't come to me. I have to find them and I can't do that sitting in my office."
Montoya nodded. "Makes sense. Go on."
"I grew up just outside of Modesto, California. I guess I had a pretty normal childhood. My parents were one of the few not divorced out of my friends. I was fairly well adjusted, I guess as much as a Cali kid can be." Morgan adjusted uncomfortably in her seat. "I attended USC, where I attained a bachelor's degree in English. That's pretty much where I am."
"Why did you decide to become a paranormal investigator?"
Morgan was trying to avoid that question. She knew if she answered truthfully, Montoya would think she was insane. How could Morgan tell her? "I was just," Morgan struggled for the words, "interested in the supernatural and the occult." She looked nervously across the table at Montoya. Would Montoya realize she was lying?
"Okay," Montoya said as she exhaled deeply. She jotted a few quick notes in her pad. "Why didn't you go into teaching?"
"It just wasn't for me," Morgan admitted. At least that was the truth. "I remembered how I was in high school and I didn't want to deal with that on a daily basis."
"I thought you said you had a normal childhood."
Morgan nodded. "I did, but every kid gets a rebellious streak in high school. I wanted everything my way, or no way at all. I was very headstrong."
Montoya smiled. "What kid isn't?" She flipped to another page in her notebook, "Tell me about Sam Peters."
Morgan paused. She had been avoiding that memory. She had kept her mind in check, not allowing herself to dwell on the image she saw that morning. "He," Morgan swallowed hard, "was my hero."
"Why?" Montoya asked softly.
"He was what young paranormal investigators look up to. He always stood by his statements. If Sam Peters told you he had seen and communicated with a ghost, then by God, he did. He was never one to back down from what he believed in." Morgan leaned forward on the table. "I saw him on television during my junior year at college. At first, I thought he was kind of spooky, but after I started reading his work and examining his findings, I found he was a genius."
"Why?" Montoya repeated.
"He kept meticulous field notes. He documented everything. I mean everything, from the color of the trim at a location, to the temperature and cloud cover. He let nothing slip through the cracks. That was very wise." Morgan sat back in her seat and flipped her black hair over her shoulder. "When you're in the profession we are, most people think you're a looney toon. They dismiss you out of hand without even listening to what you have to say. With Peter keeping the records he did, he was harder to dismiss. He had more proof than say the average person who says ‘I've seen a ghost'."
"I know exactly what you mean," Montoya said flashing back to her conversation with Enbaugh earlier in the week. She looked Morgan squarely in the eyes. "Why did you kill him then?"
Morgan recoiled in horror from the question. She knew this was coming, but she still wasn't ready for it. "I," she stuttered, "I didn't."
"Then who did?"
Morgan shook her head.
"Someone did," Montoya said, slowly raising her voice. "The man was gutted like a fish. That sort of thing just doesn't happen on its own!"
"I don't know," Morgan pleaded as a tear rolled down her cheek. She had hoped she would be stronger, that she wouldn't break, but it was too late for that now. "I didn't kill him."
"I have signed affidavits from guests at the hotel who said you had blood on your hands when you ran out of your room this morning."
"I touched the sheets. They were soaked with blood."
"We have photos of your hands, as well as samples of the blood. That alone will be enough to convict you." Montoya let the words sink in for a moment. She stood and walked to the far corner of the room. Turning around, she rested her back gently on the cool wall. "I need to know everything, Morgan." She pulled a piece of candy out of her pocket and popped it in her mouth. "Personally, I don't give a fuck if you get the chair for this. If I've done my j
ob correctly, then my hands are clean, but I need to know the truth." She spit the candy out of her mouth. She hadn't realized she'd grabbed a sour one. Folding it back into its wrapper, she tucked it into her coat pocket. "What happened between the meeting last night and this morning?"
Morgan was visibly shaking. She had wrapped her arms around her midsection and had begun to rock in the chair. "We had sex, okay?"
"Is that all?"
The question surprised Morgan. "What do you mean?"
"Did your activities include any alcohol, or possibly, drugs of any kind?"
"We had a few drinks, but that was all."
"That's odd," Montoya said. "I don't want to call you a liar, but I have evidence to the contrary."
Morgan sank in her chair. She had forgotten.
"We found a small amount of marijuana in one of your bags. There was also a pack of rolling papers in your purse, and," Montoya saved the best for last, "a partially smoked joint in an ashtray." She took a step toward Morgan. "You're lying to me."
"I'm not," Morgan argued. "I just forgot."
"Well, what else are you forgetting? Maybe that you eviscerated Sam Peters?"
"No," Morgan cried. "Why would I do that? I loved him."
"Like an obsessed fan?" Montoya shot back. "You realized you couldn't have him all to yourself and you killed him. I can see it all clearly now. You got him stoned, fucked him, then killed him in a fit of jealousy."
"That's not what happened at all," Morgan wailed.
"Then what did happen?"
"We went back to my room after the meeting," Morgan sobbed, "and we had sex. We had a few drinks during and smoked the joint, but then we went to sleep."
"And?"
"I woke up a few hours later with a headache, had another drink, and we had sex again. Then we went back to sleep. Nothing else happened."
"Until you killed him, right?"
"No!"
"You're not going to tell me that you just woke up and found this bloody corpse lying next to you, are you?"
Morgan nodded. "That's exactly what happened. When I woke up, he was dead. I broke down and ran into the hall screaming. I needed someone to help me."
"To get rid of the body?"
Morgan shot up out of her seat and into Montoya's face. "What the fuck is wrong with you? The man was my hero. I didn't hurt a fucking hair on his head!"
"That's not the way I see it," Montoya smiled. "I think this is a pretty open and shut case. It's all a matter of a fanatical young woman who killed her hero. It's not completely unheard of. You'd rather he was dead than have to share him with the rest of the world."
"I idolized him."
Montoya nodded politely. "That's part of the problem, my dear." Moving away from Morgan, she swiped her notepad off the table and headed for the door. She stopped just short. "An officer will be in shortly to take you back to your cell." Montoya reached down and grabbed the door handle. "Don't take too much time getting used to that. You're going to be seeing bars for a long time."
Montoya left, leaving Morgan a shaking mess. Morgan ran her hand up to her face, then into her hair. She tried to choke back the sobs, but she couldn't. She was going down with the ship, and it looked like there was nothing she could do. Looking over at the mirror, she rushed toward it and began to pound on it with her fists. "Did you get all of that, you bastards?"
Turning away, she slowly sank down to the floor and buried her head between her knees. She felt nauseous, and with good cause. Without looking up, she heard the door burst open and two officers enter. She could hear the jingling of their handcuffs as they approached her.
****
"All right," Carrie said quickly, "you're next, Mr. Bishop."
Bishop looked up at the redhead standing before him. She was shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot. Lifting himself off the stoop in front of the house, he followed her inside. A maze of cables snaked across the hardwood floors into the living room. Several bright lights had been set up in front of the fireplace and were shining brightly on one of the leather couches. Two cameras were positioned strategically to capture a subject's every nuance as they recorded. Chloe sat in a small wooden chair in the middle of the room with her crew flanking her on either side. A small row of video equipment sat in front of her with two monitors showing what each of the cameras was recording.
Chloe was jotting down several notes on a clipboard as Trent and Jackson made their final adjustments. Chloe looked up from her notes. "Ready?"
Bishop nodded. "I've never done anything like this before. I'm a little nervous," he admitted.
"It's all right," Chloe assured him as she stood. "Don't even think about the cameras, just talk to me." She guided Bishop to the first couch and began adjusting his attire. She quickly brushed a bit of dust off of his shoulders. Taking a step back, she assessed her work, then returned to her seat.
"What are you going to ask me?" Bishop asked.
"Just a few standard questions like name, qualifications, how long you've been doing this, and so on." Chloe looked over at Chris, "Sound?"
Chris nodded. "We were getting a really weird hum a minute ago, but I think I tracked it down."
"Camera?" she asked again.
Trent looked out from behind one of the large black cameras. "Ready."
"All right," Chloe said, making one final note. "Quiet on the set."
Jackson stepped out from behind the camera and repeated Chloe's order. He lifted the black and white clapperboard in front of Bishop's face and held it open.
"Sound?"
"Speed," Chris answered.
"Camera?"
"Rolling," Trent barked.
Chloe nodded at Jackson.
"Ghost Chasers, Inc., Nick Bishop interview, mark." He snapped the clapperboard shut and quickly jumped out of the frame.
"Tell us a little about yourself," Chloe asked.
Bishop adjusted himself and then looked at Chloe. "Which camera am I supposed to be looking into?"
"Neither," Chloe said quickly. "Just look at me."
"Okay," Bishop said nervously. "You can edit that out, right?"
"Yes," Chloe replied impatiently. "Now tell us about–"
"Because I don't want to look like an idiot on camera. I mean, I am a professional, after all." Bishop was babbling nervously. Even he knew it.
"Cut." Chloe said in frustration. She placed her clipboard on the floor next to her and glared at Bishop. "I realize you're nervous," she said sympathetically, "but the show must go on. If you make a mistake, don't dwell on it, just go on. We can edit it out."
"I'm sorry," Bishop started.
"It's okay," Chloe said with a sigh. "Let's try it again." She lifted her clipboard off of the floor and settled back into her chair. "Sound?"
"Speed," Chris said again.
"Camera?"
"Rolling," Trent confirmed.
She nodded to Jackson again.
"Ghost Chasers, Inc., Nick Bishop interview, take 2, mark." He snapped the clapperboard again.
Chloe lifted her gaze to meet Bishop's. He was fidgeting uneasily in his seat. "Calm down," she instructed him.
Bishop nodded and took a deep breath. "Okay."
"Tell us a little about yourself."
Bishop drew in a second deep breath and slowly exhaled. "My name is Nick Bishop, and I am an investigator with the Office of Paranormal Research, or better known as the OPR."
"Talk to us about your first paranormal experience," Chloe prompted.
"Well," a large smile crossed Bishop's face, "when I was a kid, probably around eleven or so, I lived in this house I was sure was haunted. It was my parent's place out in Arizona. A huge three story house that was probably older than the state itself." Bishop was slowly starting to loosen up. "I used to hear the strangest bumps and noises in the middle of the night, so I decided to try and get a photo of this supposed ghost." He had become completely animated, regaling the crew like a child talking about his first Christmas. "
I spent weeks staying up with my little Polaroid camera, just waiting for it to walk by."
"Did you ever get a picture of your ghost?" Chloe asked.
"No," Bishop chuckled, "but I did scare the hell out of my parents quite a few times."
A subdued laugh ran over Chloe and the crew. Chloe scribbled a note on her pad, then returned her gaze to Bishop. "Why did you choose a career in the paranormal?"
"I want to prove these things are real," Bishop stated emotionally. "Have you ever seen something you just couldn't explain? You go talk to your mother or father, and they have no answers. You talk to your priest, or teacher, and they can't explain it." Bishop bit his lip, then continued. "I want to be the one who explains it. I want to tell people ‘No, you're not crazy. You really did see something', and this is what it is."
"Why?" It was a deceptively simple question.
"There's too much finger pointing. Every time someone sees something they can't explain, their colleagues instantly label them as ‘crazy', or ‘unstable'. They are laughed at if they try and convey what they saw. I want to change that. I want to be the person that says ‘I believe you'." Bishop stopped, then smiled. "There are stranger things in Heaven and Hell than even man can imagine."
Chloe smiled. "Great answer. Cut."
"That's it?" Bishop asked.
"That's it," Chloe said with a smile. "We just needed a little background on you."
"Great." Bishop stood up off the couch. "How was I?"
"You were fine," Chloe assured him.
"Thanks."
"Oh," Chloe called after Bishop as he walked toward the door, "can you send in Mr. Cane next?"
Bishop nodded. "Sure." Stepping outside, he was met with a small splatter of rain. Looking up, he could see the dark gray clouds had returned. It wasn't going to be long until the storm returned as well. It was barely sprinkling, but it was enough to be noticeable.
Glancing around the front of the house, Bishop spotted Cane and Dawn standing against the garage door on the far side of the house. They were being sheltered from the rain by a small overhang. Bishop quickly moved toward them. "Cane," he called out, "they're ready for you in there."
Cane glanced over at Dawn, "Into the fire."
