For Now, page 11
"Freeze! FBI!" she shouted, training her weapon on him with unwavering precision. The man hesitated, his leg caught in the fence slats, and turned to face her.
Time seemed to slow down as Morgan took in the sight before her. That unmistakable, hollow, toothless grin sent a shiver down her spine. It was Skipper – the squatter from the abandoned dentist clinic.
The one she had let get away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Skipper," Morgan muttered under her breath, her mind racing with questions. What was he doing here? Was he the killer? She couldn't deny that this was far too coincidental, and she mentally cursed herself for letting him get away. If he was the killer, she'd never forgive herself for this oversight.
But as she studied Skipper's face, she saw something that didn't quite fit with the cold, calculated murderer she had been hunting. There was fear in his eyes, a trembling in his limbs that suggested he was just as terrified as she was. It didn't make sense.
"Get down on the ground!" she barked, her gun still trained on him. Skipper obeyed, dropping to his knees and raising his hands above his head. "What are you doing here?" Morgan demanded, moving closer to him but keeping her weapon at the ready. "Answer me, Skipper."
"P-please," he stammered, his voice shaky and desperate. "I didn't do it. You gotta believe me."
She tightened her grip on her gun, her finger hovering over the trigger. Her instincts screamed that there was more to this than met the eye, but the facts were staring her right in the face. He was at the scene of the crime, trying to escape. Yet something about his fear-stricken expression gave her pause.
Morgan lowered her gun slightly, but kept her guard up. "Why were you running?" she asked, her voice low and steady. "Why were you in that house?"
Skipper's face contorted in anguish as he struggled to form the words. "I was just...looking for a place to sleep. I didn't know anyone was here, I swear."
Morgan studied him for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception. But all she saw was raw fear and desperation. It didn't add up. "You're telling me you broke into a random house to sleep?" she asked skeptically.
Skipper's eyes darted around nervously before he met her gaze again. "I'm homeless," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know where else to go. You blew my cover at the clinic--"
"Bullshit!" Morgan spat, and Skipper flinched. Morgan took a step closer to Skipper, her gun still pointed at him. "Why were you running?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous. "You know you're not supposed to be here. This is a crime scene. Tell me why you're really here."
"I--I was just--I don't know!" he shouted. Morgan had had enough. She inched toward him with her handcuffs out, ready to take him in.
"Fine," she said, "if you're not going to answer me here, you can do it down at the police station."
Skipper began to panic, his eyes darting around frantically as if searching for an escape. "No, wait, you can't do that!" he protested, scrambling to his feet. "I didn't do anything wrong! You have to believe me!"
Morgan rolled her eyes, her patience wearing thin. "Save it for the judge, Skipper. Let's go," she said, taking a step forward to grab his arm. But before she could make contact, Skipper jerked away, his eyes wild with fear.
"You can't take me in!" he exclaimed, backing away from her with his hands raised defensively. "I didn't do anything wrong, I swear! You have to believe me!"
Morgan frowned, her grip on her gun tightening. Something was off about this. Skipper was scared, that much was obvious, but his behavior was erratic, bordering on hysterical.
"You're high, aren't you?" Morgan said. Maybe whatever drugs he was on were causing him to act on his violent impulses.
Either way, Morgan was done playing games. In one swift motion, she tackled Skipper and cuffed him, despite his desperate pleas. They didn't matter now. He was caught--and he'd answer her soon enough.
***
Skipper's bloodshot eyes darted around the sterile interrogation room as he fidgeted in his seat, clearly agitated. He scratched at his scraggly beard and mumbled incoherently to himself, looking more like a trapped animal than a man. Derik leaned against the wall, arms folded, while Morgan sat across from Skipper with her hands clasped tightly on the table, her mind racing.
"Alright," Derik began, his voice firm and business-like. "Tell us what you were doing at Beverly McBridge's house."
"I-I don't know, man," Skipper stammered, averting his eyes. "I didn't mean... I wasn't..."
"Spit it out!" Derik barked, losing patience. "You were caught red-handed, trying to flee the scene of the crime!"
Morgan clenched her jaw, struggling to suppress her emotions. If she hadn't let this junkie slip away when they first met, would Beverly still be alive? The guilt weighed heavily on her conscience, but she couldn't let that cloud her judgment now. She had to stay focused and professional.
"Look, Skipper," she interjected, her voice softer but no less authoritative than Derik's. "We just want to understand what happened. Why were you at her house?"
Skipper hesitated, glancing between Morgan and Derik with uncertainty. His voice wavered as he spoke. "I... I heard there might be some stuff to... ya know, sell or trade for... whatever." He swallowed hard, avoiding their gazes. "But I didn't kill her. I swear."
"Then who did?" Derik challenged, leaning in closer. "Who left her body like that?"
"I don't know!" Skipper cried out, desperation creeping into his voice. "I didn't see anyone else, I swear!"
Morgan's mind raced as she tried to piece together the fragments of information. Skipper was an addict, desperate and erratic, but was he capable of such a gruesome crime? She couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the back of her mind.
"Let's say we believe you," she offered, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Why didn't you call the police when you found her?"
"Are you kidding?" Skipper scoffed, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No one would believe me! I'd be locked up before I could even explain myself!"
"Like you are now," Derik pointed out dryly.
"Look," Morgan interjected, ignoring Derik's comment. "We need to figure out the truth, and we can only do that with your cooperation. Tell us everything you know, every detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem."
Skipper hesitated, then slowly began recounting his version of the events. As he spoke, Morgan listened intently, her mind working tirelessly to separate fact from fiction. If the killer was still out there, she couldn't afford to make any more mistakes – too much was at stake.
Morgan clenched her jaw, her eyes locked onto Skipper's hollow gaze. She needed to get through to him, to find the truth buried beneath his drug-fueled haze. "Alright, Skipper. I want you to explain yourself. Tell me everything."
Skipper swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It wasn't me. A friend told me that house would be an easy target, so I went in to grab some stuff. But when I found the dead lady... I freaked out and tried to get out as fast as I could. And then you guys showed up."
"Really?" Derik scoffed, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "You expect us to believe that? That you just happened to stumble upon a fresh murder scene?"
"Swear to God," Skipper insisted, his bony hands shaking. "I'd never hurt anyone. I'm just trying to survive."
Morgan studied the frail man before her, noting the absence of blood on his clothing or skin. It didn't make sense. If he had brutally murdered Beverly McBridge and removed her teeth, there should be some trace of evidence on him. A gnawing uncertainty tugged at her gut.
"Derik," she muttered, her voice low, "I don't think it adds up. He's not covered in blood or anything."
"Come on, Morgan. He's lying through his toothless grin," Derik countered, his tone dripping with disdain. "He's our guy."
But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about this whole situation. As much as she wanted to pin the crime on Skipper, to bring justice to Beverly and ease her own guilt, she couldn't ignore the inconsistencies. She had to trust her instincts, even if it meant going against Derik's opinion.
"Maybe," she conceded, her gaze never leaving Skipper. "But we need to be sure. We can't afford any more mistakes."
Skipper's hollow eyes pleaded with her, desperation etched into his gaunt face. Morgan knew she had to tread carefully, to dig deeper without pushing him too far. The truth was tantalizingly close – she just needed to find the right path to uncover it.
A knock on the door interrupted their heated discussion. Morgan and Derik exchanged glances before stepping out into the hallway, leaving Skipper alone in the interrogation room.
"Agents Cross and Greene," began the cop, his expression tense. "We searched Beverly McBridge's house thoroughly, but we didn't find any tools that could've been used to remove her teeth."
Morgan felt a flicker of doubt begin to smolder as she processed this new information. She glanced sidelong at Derik, whose brow was furrowed in frustration.
"See?" Morgan said, her voice firm yet cautious. "How could Skipper have done the job without the tools? He's a frail crack addict, not a skilled surgeon."
Derik clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. "Are you seriously suggesting we let him walk, Morgan?"
"No," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I'm suggesting that we're missing something here. We hold him, but we need more evidence before we can call him the killer."
Morgan's thoughts raced as she considered the implications of this new development. If Skipper wasn't the murderer, then who was? And why had they targeted Beverly McBridge? There had to be a connection somewhere, a piece of the puzzle that had eluded them thus far.
Just then, Morgan’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
"Excuse me for a moment," Morgan said, stepping away from Derik and the cop as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Carry, one of the forensic techs back at HQ. Her heart raced with anticipation; perhaps Carry had some answers regarding the teeth they'd received in the mail.
"Carry, tell me you've got something for me," Morgan said urgently as she answered the call, her gaze flicking over to the interrogation room where Skipper sat, still restrained and looking increasingly agitated.
"Actually, I do," Carry replied, her voice steady and professional despite the tension that crackled through the line. "We've managed to identify the teeth. We know exactly where they came from."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Morgan leaned against the cold metal table in the center of the briefing room, her eyes fixed on Derik as she recounted the conversation she'd had with Carry. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a sterile glow on the polished concrete floor beneath them.
"Carry said she got a hit on the teeth we sent her," Morgan began, taking a deep breath as the weight of the situation settled on her shoulders. "They came from a specific morgue here in Dallas. There was some trace blood on the teeth, that they ID'd as belonging to a woman who'd died at that hospital."
Derik's brow furrowed, his intense blue eyes searching her face for answers. "That's more than we had before. What else did she say?"
Morgan opened her laptop, which rested on the edge of the table, and pulled up the information Carry had sent her. She could feel the hard edges of her past pushing at the boundaries she'd built around herself. Ten years ago, someone had framed her for murder, and now she was back, chasing down murderers again. She couldn't afford to be wrong this time.
"Here," she said, pointing to the screen. "The teeth belonged to Mildred Bennett, a seventy-nine-year-old woman who died recently of natural causes. Died in the same hospital as the morgue, actually."
"Shit," Derik muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "So, what do you think? Someone at the morgue has access to the bodies, and they're using the teeth for... what? Some kind of sick trophy?"
"Maybe," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the uncertainty churning inside her. "Or maybe it's just a means to an end. We know these killers have a twisted sense of humor – maybe they think it's funny to use a dead woman's teeth like this."
"Either way, it's messed up." Derik shook his head, his gaze never leaving the screen. "We should check out this morgue, see if we can find any connections."
Morgan's fingers tapped impatiently on her laptop, the weight of exhaustion settling in her bones. She glanced at Derik, who looked just as eager to get to the morgue, and made a decision. "Let's go," she said, determination coloring her voice.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Derik asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "You look tired."
"Of course I am," Morgan snapped, perhaps a bit too harshly. "I'm fine." But even as she said it, she couldn't deny the truth – she was tired, running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower after last night's raid and the restless sleep that followed. Still, she refused to let that stop her; there was no time to waste.
"Alright then," Derik conceded, holding up his hands in surrender. "But at least let me drive."
"Fine," she relented, knowing that he had a point. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she fell asleep behind the wheel.
As they made their way out of the police precinct, the heat of the mid-morning sun hit them like a solid wall. Sweat beaded on Morgan's forehead, and she squinted against the glare as they approached Derik's car.
"Damn, it's hot," Derik grumbled as they reached his car.
Morgan's hand was on the car door handle when a familiar voice called out, causing her heart to seize in her chest. "Morgan! Wait up!"
She turned to see Thomas striding across the parking lot toward them, his brow furrowed with concern. The sunlight glinted off the metal frame of his sunglasses, and she felt a sudden wave of annoyance wash over her.
"Thomas?" Morgan asked sharply. "What are you doing here? How did you find me?"
He stopped in front of her, panting slightly from the heat. "I heard you were working this case and around this precinct," he said, his voice tense. "I thought we had plans, remember?"
Morgan's confusion deepened. She didn't recall making any plans with him, and the last phone call they'd had left her feeling furious and betrayed. She narrowed her eyes at Thomas, taking in the lines of worry on his face, and wondered what game he was playing now.
"Plans?" she repeated, crossing her arms defensively. "We had no plans, Thomas. And even if we did, I'm not sure I'd want to see you after our conversation last night."
Thomas's expression faltered, and for a moment, Morgan saw something like hurt flash in his eyes. But then he straightened his shoulders and met her gaze squarely. "Morgan, I know things got... heated between us," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But I'm here because I care about you, and I want to help."
Derik's face hardened as he looked at Thomas, his protective instincts kicking in. "You need to back off," he told him, his voice firm and unwavering.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Thomas shot back, taking a step towards Derik, his fists clenched at his sides. The tension between them crackled like an electric wire, filling the air with danger.
"Derik, Thomas, please—" Morgan began, but her words were drowned out by their growing anger and frustration.
"Stay out of this," Derik warned Thomas, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "This isn't your case, and it isn't your place to be here."
"Like I said, I'm here because I care about Morgan," Thomas retorted, his voice full of venom. "More than you ever could."
"Enough!" Morgan shouted, stepping between the two men just as their tempers threatened to erupt into something physical. She felt the heat radiating off their bodies, their muscles tense and coiled like springs. Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline making her senses sharp and focused.
"Both of you, just stop. This is not helping anyone, and we have more important things to focus on right now." She looked at Thomas, her expression resolute. "Thomas, I appreciate that you want to help, but I've got this under control. You need to leave."
For a moment, Thomas seemed ready to argue, but then he let out a long, frustrated breath and stepped back. His gaze met Morgan's, a mixture of hurt and determination in his eyes. "Fine," he said, his voice low and steady. "But this isn't over, Morgan. Not by a long shot."
With one last lingering look, Thomas turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty parking lot. Morgan watched him go, her chest tight with a mix of emotions she couldn't quite untangle - anger, guilt, and something else that made her feel even more uncertain.
"Are you okay?" Derik asked quietly, his concern evident in his tone and the way he studied her face.
Morgan nodded, forcing herself to let go of the tension coiled within her. "I'm fine," she said, though the words felt hollow even to her own ears. "Let's just focus on the case."
As they climbed into the car and began their drive to the hospital, Morgan couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever be able to truly escape the tangled web of her past, or if it would always find a way to ensnare her when she least expected it.
***
The car hummed beneath them, the low rumble of the engine filling the silence that stretched between Morgan and Derik. The sun cast long shadows across the dashboard, and Morgan watched as they slowly crawled along with the car, her thoughts a tangled mess she couldn't quite unravel.
"Thomas was lying," she said finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of anger and frustration rippling beneath the surface. "We had no plans to meet up. I'm not with him."
Derik glanced over at her, his eyes softening with understanding. "I figured as much," he admitted, keeping one hand on the wheel as they wove through the traffic. "And I just wanted to say...it's none of my business what you do with Thomas. I was out of line before, trying to interfere like that. After everything I did... I don't have any right to comment on your life."
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