"Hell no!" Morrison told her. "He'll kill me as soon as look at me."
"No he won't," Megan argued. "If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it by now. He's obviously had the chance, and the forethought, to rig a bomb to at least one thing out here. He wants you to confess – on tape – to what you did to his mother and brother."
"I didn't do a damn thing to them!"
"We're not saying you did, Sheriff," David chimed in. "But if you're willing to go in and confess, then he'll release the hostages."
"This isn't the FBI's normal way of doing business," Andrew pointed out. "You don't normally cooperate or give into the suspect's demands. What gives this time?"
"I'm a profiler," Megan explained. "And from all the evidence and background I've seen on this guy, I can tell you that he's not a threat as long as he gets what he wants."
"And you expect me to risk my life on your theory?" Morrison spat. "No thank you."
"I'm willing to risk my two friends' lives on it," she responded. "We have a couple of hours before I get the camera set up down here. Just think about it, Sheriff Morrison."
Megan nodded at her fellow agents and they followed her back behind their SUV. "Run some more details down on his wife and son's death," she whispered.
"You think that'll help?"
"I think Morrison is so comfortable with his new life here, that if we can show him it's going to be over, he'll have nothing to lose." She met their doubtful expressions. "Look, he was willing to sit here without notifying anyone else of the situation in hopes that it would just go away. That kind of irrational thought pattern demonstrates just how bad of a pinch he thinks he's in. Trust me – we can break him as long as we have the proper ammunition. Plus, promise of a court conviction may win the son over without having to send anybody else inside the store."
"Sounds good to me," David nodded.
"You're the profiler," Colby conceded. "I trust your judgment."
--
"Charles!"
The young professor stalled his friend by holding up an index finger as his father's voicemail picked up. "Yeah, Dad, it's me. I thought you two were leaving this morning, so I was trying to catch you. I guess the fishing was that good or you're still somewhere with no cell reception. Anyway, the conference ran late so we're on a later flight. Is there any way you can get there to pick me up? I should land around eleven thirty. Remember, I lost my cell so you can't call me. I'll just try you again when we get to Dallas. Bye." Charlie hung up the pay phone and looked at his friend. "What is it, Larry?"
"I was attempting to notify you of our most recent flight change."
Charlie groaned. "Another one?"
"I am afraid that we will not be arriving until one-thirty am."
Charlie sighed and dug in his pocket for more change. "I hate pay phones," he groused.
"Well if you hadn't left your cell phone at the terminal in Dallas-"
"Or if you carried a cell phone," the younger man cut him off in frustration.
"I have no intention of exposing myself to such technology when we can't accurately quantify the potential long term effects of-"
"Larry!" Charlie snapped.
"Yes, Charles?"
"Would you mind being quiet so I can leave my father another message?"
--
Chris quietly entered the office and stared at his hostages. The Fed was asleep in his father's arms, his face having lost the bright red flush from earlier. The father was sleeping with his head on top of his son's, and their fingers were intertwined. He couldn't help the small smile that came to his face as he imagined what life could have been like with a father like... He suddenly realized he'd never asked the old man's name.
Alan's eyes blinked open and he smiled at the blond man. "His fever's down. Thanks for the help."
"You did it," Rutherford pointed out.
"But you brought me what I needed," Alan gently pointed out. "Thank you for that."
"I may have even better news," Chris told him. "I talked to some FBI chick and she's trying to make a compromise with me about my demands. It's one that I'd be willing to accept, too."
Alan's heart soared – that probably meant that Megan was here! "That's good," he nodded encouragingly.
"Yes, you'll get to get your son some help, and I'll get to bring my father to justice." Chris smiled. "Win-win situation, right?"
"Sounds like it."
"Well, I'm going to go wait for her call. Let me know if he gets any worse, okay?"
"I will, Chris. Thanks." Alan watched as the gunman left the room and leaned his head against the wall. He would never in a million years have thought that he would wind up chit-chatting with their captor, but it seemed to be helping Don, and that was all that mattered to Alan. Truth be told, he did have an ounce of pity for the younger man, because he sensed his father had really mistreated him and Gerald.
Alan was drawn from his thoughts as Don squeezed his hand. "Dad?" he gasped.
Alan's blood ran cold at the panic in his son's voice. "What is it, Don?"
"Chest... hurts."
The older man placed a hand right over Don's heart and began rubbing slow circles. "Just hang in there a little longer for me, okay?"
"Hard... to breathe," Don panted.
"Shh, don't talk," Alan told him. "Just try to relax. We'll be out of here soon." I hope, he added silently.
--
"Hey, Megan." David jerked his head for her to come over.
"What's up?" she asked as she joined him.
"We got more info on the wife's death."
"Yeah?"
He nodded, checking to make sure Colby was keeping the sheriff distracted. "She was shot with Morrison's personal weapon in their kitchen. The official report is that Morrison was cleaning his gun, got up to get something from the living room, and Gerald picked it up off the table. He was playing with it and his mom surprised him and he accidentally pulled the trigger."
"But…" she prodded.
"I managed to get one of the original investigators on the phone. He's retired now, but he remembered every detail about the case. Said when they got to the scene there was very little blood on the kitchen floor, and the living room carpet smelled strongly of cleaner. Morrison said his wife had cleaned the carpet the day before, and it was still drying. Back then they didn't have Luminol, so they really couldn't counter his story."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. He said that Ms. Rutherford had an odd bruise that ran across the front of her throat, almost as if someone had pinned her up against a wall. He had a theory about why it was there. Said that Morrison planned to make it look like Gerald had done it all along, but to get the angle of entry right, he would have needed to have the bullet enter her body from a lower angle."
"So by pinning her up against something, he could fire and make it look like shot was fired from a shorter person," Megan concluded. "That's pretty clever."
"Yeah. He said if we got the chance to nail this guy, we should let him know so he can come cheer on the prosecution at the trial."
"Does he know anything about Gerald's death?" Megan asked.
"No, he was already retired by then. I'm still trying to get that investigator on the phone."
Megan glanced at her watch and frowned. "We don't have too much time left before the camera equipment gets here. See what you can do to speed this up." Her gaze rested on the sheriff's car. "I may just have to bluff him into agreeing to this."
Megan slid into the passenger seat next to the sheriff. "So, I've got some news," she offered.
"You going to get your hot shot HRT boys out here and fry the little creep?" he grumbled.
"No, not exactly. This news is a little older." She paused for emphasis. "About twenty years older."
Morrison met her eyes and she could see the fear in their depths. "What are you talking about?" he asked nervously.
"About an accident," she answered. "Only it wasn't."
"I don't know what you're trying to pull..."
"Of course you do, Sheriff. We know that you killed your wife. We know that you pinned her against the wall while you shot her. There was a bruise on her neck that was discovered during her autopsy. The medical examiner was very thorough back then. He took lots of pictures. Right now, I've got a team of agents going over every crime scene photo of your house, looking for the source of that bruising. Don't think we won't find it."
"You can't prove any of this," he scoffed.
"Not yet, but we will. And your life here will turn into a joke. Think about it, Sheriff. You're far too old to start fresh anywhere else."
"What do you want from me?" he growled.
"I want you to go in there and face your son. Confess your crimes to him on camera so he'll release those hostages."
"I didn't-"
"We both know you did," she cut him off. "But I could care less about that now. My main concern is saving my friends. Got it?"
Morrison just nodded as he stared down at the badge on his chest. "I am a good sheriff," he meekly whispered before realizing that she had left him alone in the vehicle.
TBC