For Wrath, page 10
Morgan's heart pounded in her chest as she considered the implications of Matt's revelation. She could feel the weight of the case pressing down on her, threatening to crush her if she didn't find answers soon. The sterile smell of the clinic seemed to intensify, suffocating her as she stared at Matt expectantly.
"Tell me more about Casey Waters," Morgan demanded, her voice firm and unwavering.
Matt shifted nervously in his seat, biting his lip before replying. "Casey came to us last year for a treatment – something minor, I think. But she insisted on paying under the table, said she didn't want anyone to know. Well, things went wrong, and she ended up with sepsis. She died not long after."
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she processed this new information. "And you're sure Dr. Blanchard was the one who performed the procedure?"
"Y-yes," Matt stammered, swallowing hard. "He was responsible, but it was an accident, Agent Cross. We had no idea that would happen. We let him go afterward, but I've been terrified ever since that it would come back to haunt us."
"Blanchard's name has come up in connection with other victims, too," Morgan revealed, her thoughts racing ahead as she tried to piece everything together. "People have complained about him before?"
"Uh, yeah," Matt admitted, looking even more uncomfortable. "There were a few complaints from clients, saying he botched their procedures or something. But nothing like what happened to Casey."
"Did you report any of this to the authorities?" Morgan asked, her tone accusatory.
"Agent Cross, please understand – we didn't want to bring further attention to the clinic. We were afraid of losing our business," Matt replied, anguish in his voice. "But I'll do whatever it takes to help you now."
"Good," Morgan said, her voice icy. "Because I need everything you have on Dr. Blanchard – files, records, client lists, anything that can help me find him."
"I'll get it for you right away," Matt assured her, practically sprinting to the back office.
As she waited, Morgan's thoughts whirled around Casey Waters and Dr. Blanchard. If he had caused her death, whether by accident or not, what else was he capable of? And what role did he play in the string of recent murders?
"Here's everything," Matt said breathlessly, handing her a file folder filled with papers. "I hope it helps you catch him, Agent Cross."
"Thank you, Matt," Morgan said, her eyes scanning through the documents as she prepared to dive deeper into the twisted world of Dr. Steve Blanchard.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Morgan's fingers tightened around the steering wheel as she stared at the address listed for Dr. Steve Blanchard. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the pristine lawn, giving the suburban home an eerie quality. She knew better than to trust appearances, but the quiet façade did little to reveal the secrets that lurked within.
"Time to see what you're hiding, Dr. Blanchard," Morgan muttered to herself, stepping out of her car and squinting against the sunlight.
As she approached the front door, she couldn't help but notice the sound of children playing in a nearby yard – a stark contrast to the grim business that had brought her here. She took a deep breath, steeling herself before rapping firmly on the door.
A woman with a kind smile and warm eyes opened the door, confusion etched across her features. "Can I help you?" she asked.
"Ma'am, my name is Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI," Morgan said, flashing her badge. "I'm looking for a Dr. Steve Blanchard. Is he here?"
The woman's confusion only deepened. "I'm sorry, there must be some mistake. No one by that name has ever lived here."
Morgan frowned, glancing down at the photo of Blanchard she'd obtained from Matt. The pale, bald man with a beard bore no resemblance to anyone she could see in the house. "Are you certain? This is the address I have for him."
"Positive," the woman replied, shaking her head. "My husband and I have lived here for years, and we've never even heard of a Dr. Blanchard."
As they spoke, the sound of footsteps approached, and a tall man appeared behind the woman, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "What's going on?"
"Sir," Morgan said, turning her attention to him and extending the photograph, "do you recognize this man—Dr. Steve Blanchard?"
The husband studied the image, then shook his head. "No, never seen him before. Who is he?"
"An individual of interest in an ongoing investigation," Morgan replied cryptically, her frustration simmering beneath the surface. She couldn't afford to waste any more time on false leads.
"Thank you for your time," she said, pocketing the photo and stepping back from the doorway. "If you hear anything about Dr. Blanchard or anyone matching his description, please contact me immediately."
"Of course," the woman said, still looking bewildered. "Good luck with your investigation, Agent Cross."
As Morgan walked back to her car, her mind raced with the possibilities. If Blanchard had gone to such lengths to conceal his true identity and location, it only made her more determined to uncover the truth. But where could she begin?
She gripped the steering wheel tightly as she pulled away from the curb. The road ahead stretched out before her, but the path to finding Blanchard felt as if it were shrouded in shadows. With only a fake name, a false address, and an ever-growing list of potential victims, Morgan knew she had her work cut out for her. And the longer it took to unravel this twisted mystery, the more lives hung in the balance.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, her determination fueling her resolve. She wouldn't let this killer claim another life, but so far, she'd had no damn luck in finding him. Steve Blanchard was a ghost, but Morgan had tracked ghosts before. She could do it again.
At least, she hoped she could.
***
Morgan sat in her car as the chill of the air conditioner seeped into her skin, replacing the oppressive heat of the Texas sun. She powered up her laptop, feeling the urgency of her task pressing on her shoulders like a heavyweight.
Where are you hiding, Blanchard? she wondered, her fingers flying over the keys as she logged into the FBI database. Her search for Steve Blanchard came up empty, confirming her suspicions that the name was nothing but a fabrication.
"Damn it," she muttered, her frustration flaring. He wasn't going to make this easy.
Her eyes scanned the screen, searching for any clue, any connection that might lead her closer to the truth.
Then it hit her - his client list. Maybe there was something there that would reveal a pattern or even just a single piece of information that could help her track down this elusive killer.
"Okay, let's see who you've been treating, 'Dr. Blanchard,'" she said to herself, opening the file containing the names of his former clients. Ella Van Sant and Sheryl Stewart were both there, their names standing out like neon signs. But there were others too; women whose lives had unwittingly become intertwined with a monster.
Who else had he heard? Morgan wondered, her heart aching for the potential victims. She knew she had to act quickly before any more lives were destroyed by this madman's twisted obsession with beauty.
As she scrolled through the list, her mind raced with possibilities. Were these women all connected in some way? Did they share a common thread that made them targets? Or was it simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time?
But as the minutes ticked by, the connections remained elusive, and Morgan felt as if she were chasing shadows. And time was running out.
With a renewed sense of purpose, Morgan began to delve deeper into the lives of the women on Blanchard's client list, searching for any detail, no matter how small, that might lead her closer to the truth. She knew that she was racing against the clock - not only to uncover the identity of the man behind the mask but to save the lives of the innocent women who had become entangled in his twisted web.
Maybe some of these women on the list still saw him and still got work done by him, wherever he is now.
Morgan's fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel, her gaze locked onto the digital glow of her laptop screen. She needed to make a move and fast. Her heart raced as she dialed one of the numbers from the client list - a woman named Lucy.
"Hello?" a hesitant voice answered on the other end of the line.
"Lucy?" Morgan asked in a low, urgent tone, her eyes scanning the shadows outside her car. "This is Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI. I need to ask you about Dr. Steve Blanchard."
"Dr. Blanchard?" Lucy repeated, confusion lacing her voice. "Yes, I saw him last month, but I haven't heard from him in a while. He's not returning my calls." She paused for a moment before adding, "I even went to his clinic recently, and it looked like it had been abandoned."
Morgan's grip tightened on the phone, her knuckles turning white. "Where is the clinic located?" she demanded, her voice edged with steel.
"Um, it's at 928 West Elm Street," Lucy replied, the uncertainty in her voice growing more pronounced with each passing second.
"Listen to me, Lucy," Morgan said, her voice firm and commanding. "Two of Blanchard's clients are dead. I need you to lock your doors and not let anyone in. Do you understand?"
"Dead?" Lucy gasped, her voice trembling. "Yes, yes, I understand."
"Good," Morgan said, her tone softening slightly. "Stay safe, and if anything happens, call 911 immediately. We're working to find this man before anyone else gets hurt."
As Morgan disconnected the call, her mind churned with grim determination. She couldn't shake the image of Ella Van Sant's mutilated body, her youthful beauty twisted into something grotesque. This monster had to be stopped, and Morgan vowed that she would be the one to bring him down.
But there was one more thing she had to do first.
Morgan's fingers flew across her phone screen, selecting Derik's number without hesitation. The call connected, and she heard the faint beeping of hospital machines in the background.
"Morgan--"
"Derik," she said, her voice urgent. "I have a job for you while you're in the hospital."
"You serious?" Derik said. "Lay it on me, Cross. I'm ready."
"Good. It's important." Morgan's eyes scanned the street as she spoke. "I'm sending you a list of names and numbers. I need you to call them all and warn them about a man named Dr. Steve Blanchard. He might be dangerous."
"Whoa, hold on," Derik said, his voice suddenly serious. "What's going on?"
"I don't have time to explain everything now but trust me, it's urgent," Morgan insisted, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Can you do this for me?"
"Of course," Derik agreed, his voice filled with determination. "Just send me the info, and I'll get started right away."
"Thanks, Derik," Morgan said before ending the call. She snapped a photo of the client list and texted it to Derik, but not before he sent her a text that read: Hope you can explain this soon...
She would, soon enough. But she had to focus on finding Blanchard, and his abandoned clinic was the first place she had to start.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The abandoned plastic surgery clinic loomed before Morgan. Its windows were dark, the glass reflecting back the hazy image of Morgan's car as she parked out front. Morgan stepped out of her car, her shoes crunching on the concrete beneath her feet, littered with stones. As she approached, she couldn't shake the sense of dread that settled over her like a heavy fog.
Peering through the dusty windows, she saw only darkness, the ghostly outlines of medical equipment shrouded in shadow. Yet, despite the emptiness, she couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister lurked within.
With a deep breath, she steeled herself for what lay ahead. The abandoned clinic may have appeared lifeless, but Morgan knew that there was more to this case than met the eye. And she wouldn't rest until she had unraveled every last thread of the twisted mystery.
Circling around to the back of the building, Morgan spotted a door that appeared to have been forced open before. The worn and splintered wood seemed to beckon her in, a silent invitation to explore the secrets hidden within.
"Here goes nothing," she muttered under her breath, pulling on a pair of gloves to protect her hands from any unseen dangers. She wedged her fingers into the small gap between the door and frame, using her strength and determination to force it open with a low groan.
Once inside, Morgan was immediately struck by the cold sterility of the abandoned clinic. The air was thick with the scent of disinfectant and dust, a mixture that sent a chill down her spine. The darkness engulfed her, adding an eerie sense of foreboding to the already unsettling scene.
Was this where the killer was working?
Was he here?
Okay, Blanchard. Where did you run off to?
As she carefully stepped through the darkened halls, her eyes slowly adjusted, revealing the clinic's true nature. Abandoned medical equipment lay strewn haphazardly across the floor as if left behind in a hurried escape. The faint echo of her footsteps seemed to emphasize the emptiness of the place, a reminder that she was truly alone.
His patients were paying him good money for these procedures, Morgan thought, trying to make sense of the situation. Why would he just up and leave everything like this? There had to be something more going on.
As she continued her exploration, a wave of unease washed over her. It felt as though the very walls of the clinic were hiding some terrible secret, one that she was determined to uncover. The thought of what could have driven Blanchard to such desperate measures gnawed at her mind, propelling her forward despite the growing sense of dread.
The weight of the possibility settled heavily on her shoulders, making it difficult to breathe. But Morgan knew that she couldn't let herself be swayed by fear or doubt. She had a job to do, and she wouldn't let anything stand in her way.
Morgan crouched low, her eyes adjusting to the darkness that enveloped the clinic. She crept forward, scanning the room with a keen eye. Her heart pounded in her ears as she navigated the abandoned space, every shadow threatening to conceal some unseen danger.
She had to find something. Anything that would give her a lead. Morgan couldn't stomach any more failures.
As she moved deeper into the clinic, Morgan's fingers grazed the cold metal of an empty file cabinet. She pulled open the drawers one by one, hoping to discover a hidden clue or a forgotten document that might reveal Blanchard's true identity or his whereabouts. But each drawer was just as barren as the last, offering her nothing but the echo of her own disappointment.
"Damn it," she hissed, slamming the final drawer shut with a satisfying clang. "He really wiped this place clean."
She turned her attention to the abandoned equipment that littered the room, her gaze falling on a discarded scalpel that glinted menacingly in the dim light. The memory of Ella Van Sant's mutilated face flashed before her eyes, sending a shiver down her spine.
"God, what did you do to those women?" she asked the empty room, her words swallowed by the silence. "And why, Blanchard? Why?"
A sense of urgency welled up inside her, fueling her determination to bring this guy down. She refused to let him slip through her fingers, to hide in the shadows while others suffered at his hands.
With a deep breath, she plunged back into the darkness of the clinic, her eyes scanning every corner, her mind working overtime to piece together the puzzle that was Dr. Steve Blanchard. The truth was out there, lurking in the shadows, and she wouldn't stop until she dragged it into the light.
Just then, Morgan's pulse quickened as she registered the sound of shuffling coming from the adjacent room. A mixture of adrenaline and dread coursed through her veins as she quietly drew her gun, her fingers gripping the cold metal with practiced ease. Years of experience told her that in moments like these, hesitation could be fatal.
She advanced cautiously toward the source of the noise, her footsteps silent on the cold linoleum floor. The sound was clearer now – glass bottles clinking together, drawers being rifled through.
Someone else was here.
As Morgan peered around the corner into the next room, she caught sight of a man crouched by an overturned supply cabinet. His back was to her, but it was evident that he wasn't Steve Blanchard; this man had a full head of hair. Morgan's initial assumption was that he was a meth head scavenging for supplies, but something about his movements seemed too deliberate, too methodical.
"Freeze!" Morgan barked, leveling her gun at the intruder. "FBI! Put your hands where I can see them!"
The man jerked in surprise, and as he turned to face her, Morgan took note of his most striking feature: a mask that obscured his features, leaving only his eyes visible. This was no desperate drug addict – this was someone with purpose, someone who didn't want to be recognized. But his form was also very different from the man she'd seen lurking by her car earlier--wasn't him either.
"Who are you?" Morgan demanded, her voice steady even as her heart hammered in her chest. "What are you doing here?"
The man's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape route. Morgan tightened her grip on her gun, ready to give chase if necessary. She couldn't let him get away; he might have information on Blanchard or even be an accomplice in his crimes.
"Answer me!" Morgan growled, taking a step closer. "You have one chance to explain yourself before I bring you in."
The man's gaze flicked back to Morgan, a glint of defiance shining in his eyes.
Then, the masked man bolted, his footsteps echoing through the abandoned clinic like the sharp crack of a whip. Morgan's blood surged with adrenaline as she gave chase, her gun raised and her senses on high alert. She had no time to dwell on who he was or why he was here; all that mattered now was capturing him before he slipped through her fingers.
"Stop!" she shouted, her voice straining with the intensity of the pursuit. The man only increased his pace, ducking around corners and weaving through the maze-like corridors of the clinic. Frustration gnawed at Morgan's resolve, but she refused to let it slow her down.
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