For Silence, page 4
She stood up, pacing the room now, her mind racing, her tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves like silent witnesses to her intensity. "Think about it—vigilantes, fanatics, individuals burned by plea deals gone wrong. The list goes on. Men and women who've watched someone walk free when they believed they should've been locked away."
"Speculation isn't evidence," Mueller cut in.
"True." Morgan stopped pacing, fixing him with a stare that bore all her years of chasing shadows. "But speculation founded on logical patterns has led us to killers before. If we wait for concrete proof, it might be too late for the next victim. We need to get ahead of this, and that means considering every angle, no matter how much it challenges our assumptions."
"Your argument is compelling, Agent Cross," Mueller admitted, his voice betraying a hint of respect that was as rare as it was fleeting. "But compelling isn't synonymous with conclusive. We have two victims, two different methods of execution. That doesn’t scream serial killer—it whispers coincidence."
Morgan tensed, the muscles in her jaw tightening. She knew better than to let frustration seep into her tone. "Understood, sir. But if we consider the killer's psychological profile—"
"Profiles are built on evidence, not suppositions," he interrupted. His gray eyes were sharp, dissecting. "However," he continued, lifting a hand to stall her rebuttal, "the fact that both women were defense attorneys and their online presence made them accessible... it could merit further investigation. I will consider your request to transfer jurisdiction over to the Bureau."
"Thank you, sir." The words were succinct, as much an acknowledgment of Mueller's concession as they were a verbal handshake sealing an unspoken agreement.
Mueller stood, towering over the desk that served as his command center. "I’ll make some calls. See what strings can be pulled without drawing too much attention. We do this quietly until there’s something concrete."
"Understood." Morgan rose, her posture rigid with purpose. Every cell in her body was alert, ready. "I'll await your instructions."
"Good. Don't get ahead of yourself, Cross." Mueller's gaze held hers for a moment longer before he turned away, dismissing her with the finality of a closing door. "You'll hear from me soon."
As Morgan exited the office, the sense of urgency that had crackled in the air settled into a simmering determination. The game was on, and she wasn't just a player—she was the hunter. With Derik at her side, matching her stride for stride, she felt the old, familiar thrill of the chase. They had a narrow window, and she intended to shatter it wide open.
***
Morgan's office was a chamber of restless energy, the air charged with the static of anticipation. She remained seated, her eyes darting across the computer screen where secrets waited to be unearthed. Although s he was anxious to hear if they’d been given the attorney case, Morgan took some time to follow up on the other lead she needed to chase: Richard Cordell.
The glow of the monitor cast harsh shadows on her face, accentuating the lines of determination etched into her skin. Years in prison had honed her instincts, sharpened her senses, and now she wielded them like weapons against the invisible adversary who haunted the edges of her life.
She found it, an article headlined with Cordell's name, accompanied by a grainy photograph that captured his confident smile. His career sprawled before her in black and white—the celebrated cases, the commendations for bravery, promotions rising like stepping stones to power. He'd been a titan within the Bureau.
The scrolling continued, past accolades and official portraits, until she landed on an article about his retirement event. It was a gala affair, the pageantry of law enforcement's elite bidding farewell to one of their most revered figures. In the sea of faces, Morgan's gaze snagged on one in particular—Mueller, looking younger, his hair less gray, but no less imposing.
He was there, amidst the high ranks, a part of the world that had once been Cordell's domain. And while they had celebrated, she had been confined behind bars, her name tarnished, her life unraveled by the very institution she had sworn to serve.
A bitter taste curled at the back of her throat, a reminder of betrayal's sting. Each revelation was a foothold, a piece of the puzzle she was determined to solve. The connection between Mueller and Cordell was tenuous, perhaps nothing more than the obligatory attendance of bureau politics—but she filed it away. Every detail mattered. Mueller had known her father too, as John Christopher, but Morgan still didn’t know if he had any idea that Morgan was his daughter.
Just then, a knock at the door. Mueller’s wide frame filled the space, and she exited the article.
"Cross. You're on the case."
Morgan's pulse quickened. All her instincts as an agent surged to the forefront, ready for the hunt. Recognition of the gravity of their assignment washed over her.
"Two days," Mueller continued, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "That's all you've got to link these murders before it reverts back to local jurisdiction."
"Understood, sir," Morgan replied, rising from her chair. “Thank you.”
The Assistant Director gave a brief nod in return before turning on his heel and departing, leaving behind a silence that throbbed with unspoken urgency.
Morgan allowed herself a moment, a fleeting pause for breath. Then she reached for the phone.
"Derik," she said as soon as Derik picked up, "We're on. Two days to link the cases."
In the background, she heard the faint rustle of paper and the hurried shuffle of movement. After being her partner for years, Derik had learned to match her pace.
"Two days?" She could hear the strain in his voice, mirrored by her own tension. "That's not a lot of time, Morgan."
"No, it isn't," she admitted, “but we can do it.”
“If they even are related, Morgan.”
“We’re going to find out if they are. First thing we should do is go to Gina’s crime scene. I want to see it for myself now, in the daylight. Be ready to go in five.”
“Got it,” Derik said.
Morgan ended the call, her gaze lingering on the dark screen. She looked out the office window at the sprawling cityscape beyond, her keen eyes picking out the surreal landscape beneath the morning sun. She had two days to dig for answers, to expose a killer's hidden truth beneath the glaring light of justice.
***
The suburb Morgan had been in last night looked different in the fresh light of day without the swarms of police officers around it. On a corner of the sidewalk, crime scene tape created a barricade; there were still some officers there, guarding the scene, when Morgan drove her car up to the curb with Derik in the passenger seat.
“So this is where it happened?” Derik asked.
“Yeah,” Morgan said. “I saw here there, last night… Gina.”
“What are you hoping to find here now?” Derik asked. “The cops have already done a sweep of the area.”
“I know, and we’ll go see what they have too. But I want to see it for myself. They could’ve missed something.”
Derik sighed, the sound tinged with resignation and a hint of admiration. "Right. Lead the way, Cross."
Exiting the car, Morgan took a moment to analyze the scene before her. The quaint suburban house projected an air of innocence that belied the horror that had taken place within. The lawn was neatly trimmed, flowers blooming in a riot of colors by the porch — a stark contrast to the somberness of death that hung in the air.
"Let's do this," she said, striding toward the sidewalk where Gina Bellwood had been found dead. A uniformed officer met them halfway, his eyebrows furrowing in recognition upon seeing them. Morgan flashed her badge, her face set in a stone-cold mask as she introduced herself.
"I'm Agent Morgan Cross, and this is my partner, Derik Greene. We've been assigned to review this case."
The officer, a young man with a smudge of dirt on his uniform, eyed them warily before giving a curt nod. "Everything's pretty much the same as last night. Crime scene guys didn't find anything new this morning."
As they stepped onto the sidewalk, her eyes immediately began surveying the area. Derik stayed on her heels, his own gaze scanning their surroundings.
"Want to share your thoughts?" he asked.
Morgan chewed on her lower lip, a rare sign of uncertainty. "I'm not sure yet." She knelt down, studying the ground and running a gloved finger across the cement where traces of dried blood still lingered. The rope had strangled Gina, but the roughness of it had caused some bleeding too. The brutal reality of Gina Bellwood's end. "But we're going to find out."
She moved to the grassy patch next to the sidewalk, crouched low, and squinted at something there.
"Derik," she called, never taking her eyes off the ground. When he approached, she pointed at a small object nestled amongst blades of grass—a piece of fabric. It was black and almost blended with the shadowy patches on the lawn.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Fabric," she replied curtly, retrieving a plastic bag from her pocket. With careful precision, she picked up the tiny scrap using tweezers and placed it in the bag. "We need to get this back to forensics."
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You think this is related?”
“I don’t know yet,” Morgan said as she stood. “But anything could be the smoking gun here. I want to get this to forensics, then see what the police have on their end.”
"Agreed," Derik said, a note of admiration in his voice. "Let's get to it, then."
CHAPTER THREE
Morgan stepped out of the car, her boots clicking on the precinct's asphalt like a metronome. Derik closed the passenger side door with a soft thud, then caught up to her in two long strides. They exchanged a brief glance, a silent agreement passing between them; this case was theirs now, and every tick of the clock mattered. Morgan needed everything she could get from the police if they were going to do this thing right.
The precinct doors swung open to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the undercurrent of radio chatter. Morgan's eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the room before settling on Officer Smith. He stood by a desk cluttered with coffee cups and case files, his posture straightening as he recognized her approach.
"Agent Cross," Smith greeted, eyebrows knitting together in surprise. "Didn't expect to see you so soon after last night."
"Time's not on our side, Officer," Morgan replied curtly, her voice carrying the weight of urgency. She glanced at Derik, who nodded subtly, his green eyes reflecting the gravity of their task.
Smith shifted, discomfort etching into the lines of his face. "Heard you got the case transferred to the FBI. Figured the local PD was doing a decent job..."
"Two defense attorneys, both killed within a week," Morgan cut through the niceties, her words crisp and unyielding. "There's a pattern here, and it's not just the local scene anymore."
Smith rubbed the back of his neck, conceding with a reluctant nod. "I can see why you'd think that. So, what do you need from us?"
"Everything you've got," Morgan said, locking eyes with him. It wasn't a request—it was a demand. They were running against time, and she needed Smith to understand the stakes.
Smith pulled out a thick folder, the word 'Bellwood' stamped across it in red. As he handed it over, his gaze lingered on Morgan's tattoos, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of her dark blouse—a tapestry of ink that told stories of her past battles. "Here's the rundown," Smith began without preamble as he handed over a sheaf of documents. "The acquitted client, the one Gina got off the hook? We checked him out—solid alibi. He was out of state when it happened."
"Any other suspects circle back?" Morgan's voice was a cool blade cutting through the ambient hum of the precinct.
"None that stand out. It's like the killer ghosted in and out." The frustration in Smith's tone mirrored the tension etched in the lines of his face.
"Forensics? What have they got?" Morgan inquired, her mind racing ahead, meticulously piecing together the scant evidence.
"Zilch on DNA. No prints, no fibers that don't belong to Gina herself. Whoever did this was thorough." Smith's eyes flickered with a mix of admiration and disdain—a professional recognizing the skill level of an adversary.
"Rope used in the murder—it's still with forensics?" Morgan pressed.
Smith nodded. "Yeah, but it's like everything else. Clean. Almost too clean." He gestured vaguely toward the direction of the forensics lab. "You wanna take a look? Be my guest."
"Thanks," Morgan replied curtly, her mind already shifting gears to the next phase of the investigation. “Our lab at the FBI is processing a piece of fabric I found at the scene too. Not sure if they’re related yet… but we’ll find out.”
Smith nodded. “Head downstairs. You’ll wanna talk to Lisa, our lead forensics expert.”
“Thanks, Smith.” With a determined stride, Morgan and Derik moved towards the lab, the possibility of a new lead igniting a familiar fire within her. Each step was purposeful, each thought honed to a razor's edge. In the sanitized silence of the lab, she would confront the silent witness to Gina's final moments—the rope that had snuffed out a life. It was there, in the intricate fibers of the seemingly innocuous object, that Morgan hoped to find the whisper of a clue that could scream volumes about the shadow they were chasing.
Morgan's boots echoed on the linoleum as she and Derik approached the forensics lab, a sterile chamber of cold fluorescence and stainless steel. The air was thick with determination, each inhale drawing in the scent of chemicals and latent answers. She nodded briefly to the lab technicians, her gaze settling on the table where the rope lay coiled like a silent serpent.
"Agent Cross, Agent Greene." Lisa's voice cut through the quiet. She was young, but her eyes held the weary knowledge of someone who'd seen too much. She gestured toward the murder weapon. "I was told to expect you. This is what you're here for, right?"
"Show us," Morgan said tersely, stepping closer to examine the rope. It looked deceptively simple, its weave tight and unfrayed, betraying nothing of its violent use.
"Marine-grade line," Lisa explained, pointing out the intricate braiding. "It's used for boating—strong, designed to resist water and weather. This one had no signs of wear; it must've been purchased recently."
"Could be a red herring," Derik chimed in, his tone cautious. "Killer might want us chasing boat owners."
Morgan considered his point, her fingers grazing the rope, feeling the roughness that had choked the life from Gina Bellwood. "Maybe," she conceded, her mind churning. "Or it's a mistake. They could have underestimated our ability to track purchases."
"Either way," Lisa added, "it's a clue. Whoever bought this wanted something reliable, something that wouldn't fail during... you know." Her voice trailed off, the gravity of the situation pressing down upon them all.
"Thanks, Lisa," Morgan said, giving the tech a nod of gratitude mixed with resolve. She knew the significance of every trace element, every choice the killer made. A rope with no past, purchased with a deadly future in mind—it was a thread, however thin, that Morgan intended to follow. "Let's go," she instructed Derik, already mentally cataloging marine supply stores, harbors, and sailing clubs that they would need to canvas. The killer had left a trail, however faint, and Morgan was determined to follow it wherever it led.
***
Back at HQ, Morgan stood before the briefing room's stark whiteboard, her dark eyes scanning over the hastily pinned photographs and scribbled notes. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting an unnerving glow on the faces of her small but attentive team. Derik leaned against the wall, his green eyes sharp with focus despite the shadows of fatigue that clung to him like unwelcome companions. They were already partway through their first day, and they needed to prove these crimes were linked fast.
"Alright, people," Morgan stated, her voice a controlled blade slicing through the tension in the room. "We have two dead defense attorneys, both killed within days of each other, both with acquitted clients for similar crimes. Elaine Harrows was killed with a rock found near the scene." She tapped a finger against the board next to Gina Bellwood's photo. "And we have our murder weapon for Gina Bellwood, A rope." Her hand moved to reveal the image of the rope, coiled and sinister even in its stillness. "It's boating rope. No wear, likely bought for the job." She paused, letting her words sink in. "Which means we could trace it."
The team leaned forward, their expressions etched with anticipation.
"Derik and I are going to track down where this rope came from. We need to know who bought this type of rope in the past week."
"How many outlets are we talking about?" asked one of the agents, his pen hovering over a notepad.
"Every marine supply store, sports shop, and hardware store that could carry it," Derik interjected.
"Start with credit card transactions." Morgan's gaze swept across the room, locking onto each pair of eyes in turn. "I want names, and I want them yesterday."
Her last command echoed off the walls as the team sprang into action, fingers flying over keyboards, phones pressed against ears. The air crackled with the electricity of the hunt, the chase for a ghost hidden in transaction records and mundane purchases.
As the cacophony of the room escalated, Morgan turned to Derik, her face set in grim determination. They had a lead, fragile as it was, and every second counted. This killer was methodical, calculating—qualities Morgan despised and respected in equal measure.
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she watched her team tear through the digital labyrinth, each click and keystroke a step closer to the truth. The hum of computers blended with the murmur of hushed conversations, creating a soundtrack to their search for justice. She paced behind them, a spectral overseer, until Derik's voice drew her aside.
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