Trigger Effect. Maggie Price
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only added to his looks.
Good-looking or not, he was an arrogant jerk, she thought as she strode past rows of occupied tables toward the front of the classroom. She knew exactly what type of man lay behind that pretty-boy face. Her reportedly sexy-as-hell rodeo-riding father had blown into Dallas like an ill wind and claimed her mother’s heart. The minute Sara Sue Carmichael breathed the word, “pregnant,” Daddy Dear saddled up and rode out of town, never to be heard from again.
Twenty years later, having learned zilch from her mother’s experience, Paige got hitched to her own bad-boy charmer. And three years ago today she had found out how wrong Mr. Right had been. Now, here she was, barely avoiding a face-plant over a cop with a shit-eating grin that brought her ex all too clearly to mind. Paige’s mood shot all the way to surly.
She settled her briefcase, purse and coat on the table beside the speaker’s podium. When she’d called ahead, she asked the secretary to have the mix of twenty-five cop and civilian investigator attendees fill out a seating chart with their name and agency. Paige saw the chart on the podium. Her gaze focused on the list of names on the back row. The shit-eating grin belonged to Sergeant Nate McCall, Oklahoma City PD Homicide.
She’d shown her tomcat husband no mercy, she thought with grim satisfaction. And she would bet the bank that during her three-day workshop she’d have the opportunity to use Sergeant Lothario’s own words to take him down a notch.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, scanning the attendees. There were three men for every woman in the workshop; more commissioned law enforcement officers than civilians from local security firms.
As usual for the first day of a workshop, they were all sizing her up.
A few seemed to regard her with outright skepticism. The majority studied her through unreadable eyes. Having worn a badge for eight years, Paige knew that everyone—especially cynical, seen-it-all cops—would take tons of convincing before they bought into the idea that forensic statement analysis was a viable investigative technique.
Not a problem. She’d taught the subject for more than two years and she was up for the challenge.
She pulled a legal pad from her briefcase and announced, “I’m Paige Carmichael. Your manual lists my background information. I’ll fill in any blanks if you’ve got questions about my credentials.”
A burly man with gray at his temples and carrying the no-nonsense air of a veteran cop spoke up. “Why’d you quit the Dallas PD?”
Paige had been asked the question more times than she could count. As always, it settled a hard knot of regret inside her. In law enforcement circles, a huge difference existed between ex and retired cops. Retired cops had served their full time. Ex meant there was some reason a person didn’t have what it took to stay on the job.
“This is why.” Paige held up her right hand, exposing the scar that extended from her knuckles to her wrist. The scar looked smooth and shiny, like a latex snake, and stayed perpetually numb due to nerve damage. She’d considered—then discarded—the idea of having cosmetic surgery. Instead, she wore the scar as a reminder of the havoc a charming son of a bitch could wreak in a woman’s life.
“In the last homicide case I worked we had a string of five victims. All prostitutes. It took my partner and me nearly a year to zero in on a psychiatrist named Edwin Isaac. When we closed in on him, he squeezed off one shot before we took him down. That shot ended my ability to squeeze a trigger. A perpetual desk job wasn’t what I wanted, so I resigned.” Paige didn’t add that the bullet had also sent the dominoes tumbling, unearthing her husband’s betrayal and turning her life upside down.
“Tough way to lose your badge,” the older cop commented. “The good news is you nabbed the killer shrink.”
“The bad news is Isaac escaped two weeks ago, and is still on the lam.” Paige saw a few cops exchange alarmed looks. “Now that you know about me, it’s my turn to learn something about each of you.”
She stepped to the closest table and handed the pad to an attractive female cop with a heavy black braid looped over one shoulder. “Tear off one page and pass the pad along. I want each of you to write down everything you did yesterday, from the time you woke up to the time you went to bed.
“Don’t put your name on the page. You’ll turn it in anonymously.” She glanced at her watch, then retrieved a pen that had been left on the podium. “I have to check in at the commander’s office, so you’ve got half an hour to complete your assignment. And don’t think you can get by without turning one in.”
She retraced her steps along the center aisle. When she reached the back row of tables, she dropped her pen on purpose behind Nate McCall’s chair. Leaning down, she swept up the pen, pausing to zero in on his paper. It took only seconds for her to commit his handwriting to memory.
A half hour later, Paige was back at the podium, the assignment sheets stacked on the nearby table.
“Over the next few days you’ll learn to view statements by suspects, victims and witnesses in an entirely different way. This technique is hard for a lot of investigators to accept at first because you’re conditioned to believe a person with something to hide is going to lie.”
“Get a clue, lady,” the man sitting next to McCall said. “They do lie.”
The comment garnered a slew of laughs. Paige checked the seating chart for the name of the man who looked something akin to an Italian playboy. Hugh Henderson, OCPD Homicide. The jerk quotient for that particular division just rose.
“You’re right, Sergeant. If you back a guilty suspect into a corner and demand to know, ‘Did you kill the convenience store clerk?’ you’ll probably be told a lie. But since your job is to find out the truth, operating that way won’t help solve your case.
“Instead, have that same suspect write down what happened on the day the convenience store he was seen at got robbed. He’ll probably choose not to lie because doing so causes stress. Instead, he’ll tell you the truth, omitting anything that’s incriminating to get you to believe he’s innocent. The key to statement analysis is to pay attention to every word a person uses, and to believe what they tell you. Never assume someone is lying.”
Paige knew from experience she had to dish up solid proof if she hoped to start making converts.
“When you received your enrollment confirmation, you were asked to bring a statement from an actual case you’ve closed. Did you bring one, Sergeant Henderson?”
“My partner’s got it.” Henderson glanced at the affable-looking sandy-haired man sitting on his left. “You remember to bring it?”
“Yeah.” The toothpick stuck in the corner of the man’s mouth bobbed with the word. While he reached inside his sport coat, Paige checked her chart. Steve Kidd. He pulled out a piece of paper, passed it to a cop at the table in front of him.
Paige moved around the podium to take the paper. “Sergeant Kidd, give me a quick summary of who wrote this statement.”
“A guy called 911, claimed he got home from work and found his wife dead,” Kidd said around the toothpick. “This statement is all we got before he had an emotional breakdown and his doctor had to sedate him.”
Paige unfolded the paper. The statement was just ten lines. She read the statement, using a pencil to circle certain words, underline and connect others, and drew a box around specific ones.
When she finished her analysis, she said, “Again, I’m approaching this with the belief that the husband is telling the truth. I’ll read his statement out loud, then give you my take on what happened.”
“Sure thing,” Henderson said, then shot McCall a smug look. Paige noticed the look was wasted, since McCall was intensely focused on her.
Paige began to read.
“‘I came home. I noticed that the house is very quiet. I kept wondering where Mary was. I knew she had to be somewheres. I started