For Wrath, page 6
Morgan stepped closer, reaching out to pick up the photograph. In it, a younger version of Bethany stood arm in arm with another woman. They shared a striking resemblance, their smiles wide and carefree as they posed for the camera.
"Could be a sister or a close friend," Officer Davis suggested, observing the photo over Morgan's shoulder.
Morgan carefully slid the photo from its frame and flipped it over. Scrawled on the back in neat handwriting were the words 'sisters Bethany and Mary.'
"Mary," Morgan whispered, her brows furrowing in thought. She knew she needed to find this sister and see if she could shed some light on Bethany's life and, ultimately, her death.
Morgan continued to study the photo, trying to glean any further insight into the sisters' relationship. But the only way she could know for sure was if she talked to Mary herself.
***
Morgan slid into the driver's seat of her car, the image of Bethany Good's lifeless body still heavy on her mind. She couldn't shake the image of the once-beautiful woman, now marred by a twisted facelift from hell. The similarities between Sheryl and Bethany were undeniable, and Morgan found herself gripping the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white.
"Focus," she muttered under her breath, letting go of the wheel and opening her laptop. As it whirred to life, Morgan pulled up Bethany's public records, scrolling through page after page of information. Wealthy, well-connected, and no immediate family to speak of - no children, no spouse, only her sister, Mary, who lived in Montana. A cold feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she realized how alone Bethany had truly been.
"Mary," she whispered, typing her name into the search bar and finding a phone number for her. With a deep breath, Morgan dialed the number, bracing herself for the conversation that was about to unfold.
"Hello?" came a cautious female voice on the other end.
"Hi, is this Mary? Mary, uh, the sister of Bethany Good?"
"Yes, this is Mary. Who is this?" The voice was guarded, and Morgan could practically feel the tension through the phone.
"Mary, my name is Special Agent Morgan Cross. I'm an agent with the FBI," she said, trying to keep her tone steady and professional. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you a few questions about your sister."
"Is something wrong? What happened?" Mary's voice wavered with concern, and Morgan found herself hesitating for just a moment before answering.
"Mary, when was the last time you saw or spoke with your sister?" she asked, deciding it was best to gather as much information as possible before breaking the news.
"It's been years, actually," Mary admitted, her voice tinged with sadness. "We grew apart. Why?"
Morgan steeled herself, knowing that there was no gentle way to deliver such tragic news. "I regret to inform you that your sister Bethany has been found dead. It appears to be a homicide." She paused, allowing Mary a moment to process the information.
The line went quiet, and for a brief second, Morgan wondered if Mary had hung up. But then she heard a soft, anguished sob on the other end. "Oh, God," Mary whispered, her voice choked with tears. "Who would do such a thing?"
"We're working on finding that out, Mary," Morgan assured her. "I promise we'll do everything in our power to bring her killer to justice. In the meantime, if you can think of anything that might help our investigation, please don't hesitate to reach out."
"Thank you, Special Agent Cross," Mary managed to say, her voice barely holding together.
"Mary, I understand this is difficult, but can you tell me more about your sister?" Morgan asked, her voice gentle but firm. "What was it that drove you two apart?"
There was a pause, and then Mary answered with a tremor in her voice. "Bethany became addicted to plastic surgery. It consumed her life, turned her into a vain, reclusive woman. We lost touch, but I had been planning on reaching out soon."
Morgan could hear the regret in Mary's voice and felt a pang of sympathy for the woman. Morgan wished she had been able to see her father again before he died. If she'd known he was going to die, she would have asked him to stay longer during his last visit to her in prison. There were a lot of things she would have said.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Morgan said, meaning every word. "I'll do everything I can to find out what happened to Bethany."
"Thank you," Mary replied, her voice steadier now. "It all went wrong when she met that damn consultant in Dallas."
"Consultant?" Morgan's interest was piqued. She gripped the steering wheel with one hand while holding the phone to her ear with the other. This could be a lead.
"Who was this consultant?" she probed further, her mind racing with possibilities.
"His name was Dr. Lance Friedman," Mary shared hesitantly, as if unsure whether or not to trust Morgan. "He's a plastic surgeon, and he convinced Bethany to undergo more surgeries than she needed. She got hooked."
Morgan's gut clenched with anger at the thought of a doctor taking advantage of someone's vulnerability for personal gain. But she kept her emotions in check, knowing that she needed to focus on the task at hand.
"Could you tell me more about this plastic surgeon?" Morgan asked.
"Sure," Mary replied, her voice wavering slightly as she collected her thoughts. "Bethany started out with minor surgeries, but a few years before we lost touch, she met this man who convinced her to get more and more procedures done. He was like a drug dealer, feeding her addiction. I remember she told me he was the only surgeon she'd trust with her face."
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she processed the information. She could practically hear the gears turning in her head, fitting together pieces of the puzzle.
"Thank you, Mary. You've been very helpful." Morgan's words were sincere, and she knew that the call must have been incredibly difficult for Mary. "I'm going to look into Dr. Friedman. Please take care of yourself, and if I have any further questions, I'll be in touch."
"Of course, Agent Cross," Mary said, her voice stronger than before. "Thank you for telling me all this."
As soon as the call disconnected, Morgan felt an urgency to act. Dr. Lance Friedman was now a person of interest, and she needed to find out more about him. Her instincts told her that he might be the key to solving this case – or at least a vital piece of the puzzle.
She wasted no time in powering up her laptop, quickly searching for any information she could find on him. His practice had many five-star reviews—it seemed legitimate enough, although she was curious to know if there was more hiding under the surface. She filtered down to the one-star reviews, and there were only a few. The most recent was anonymous, and it said: This guy will pressure you into getting expensive and dangerous surgeries you don't need. Avoid!
Morgan frowned. That lined up with Mary's statement about the way Lance allegedly manipulated Bethany.
Morgan went into the FBI database and looked up Lance Friedman's file. Her search revealed that Lance had attended medical school at the prestigious University of Chicago, graduating with honors. He had no criminal record and a spotless professional track record, aside from those few allegations that he pressured clients.
Well, one of his clients was now dead. Morgan shut her laptop and turned on her car. It was time to pay him a visit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun was setting, casting an eerie glow on the pristine white exterior of Dr. Lance Friedman's plastic surgery clinic as Morgan pulled into the parking lot. She couldn't help but notice how the building stood out against the darkening sky, seemingly untouched by the chaos and horror that had been plaguing Dallas.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of her cell phone. Glancing at the screen, she saw it was the coroner.
"This is Cross," she answered.
"Special Agent Cross, I've just finished examining Bethany Good's body. The cause of death has been confirmed as heart failure, likely as a result of the trauma the victim was going through."
So it wasn't injections this time, Morgan thought. Maybe Bethany had died before the killer had the chance to inflict more pain upon her.
"Thanks for the update," Morgan said, her brow furrowing in thought. She wondered if the killer had caused the heart failure or if it had been a tragic coincidence that had occurred before their macabre handiwork began. But deep down, she doubted it was that simple.
"Keep me posted if you find anything else," she told the coroner before hanging up. Her gaze returned to the clinic, determination settling over her like a cloak. It was time to confront Dr. Friedman.
Stepping out of her car and into the fading light, Morgan approached the glass doors of the clinic. As she entered, she was struck by the sterile brightness of the reception area. The walls were adorned with unsettling photographs of smiling people, their faces unnaturally smooth and taut, a testament to the work done within these walls.
"Good evening," a chipper receptionist greeted her from behind a sleek desk. "How can I help you?"
"Hello," Morgan replied, flashing her FBI badge, gaining a surprised look from the girl. "I'm Special Agent Morgan Cross. I'd like to speak with Dr. Lance Friedman, please."
"Of course! Let me check if he's available." The receptionist typed something into her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced ease. "Dr. Friedman is in his office. I'll take you there."
"Thank you," Morgan said, her eyes scanning the unsettling images on the walls as they walked down a pristine hallway. The place seemed almost too clean, too perfect - just like the faces that stared back at her. As the receptionist led her to Dr. Friedman's office, Morgan steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. There was a chance she was about to come face-to-face with a killer.
The door to Dr. Friedman's office opened with a soft click, revealing a spacious room devoid of the unnerving photographs that adorned the hallways. Instead, it was filled with an array of diplomas and awards; each displayed prominently on the walls. Morgan stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over the sterile environment before settling on the man behind the desk.
"Dr. Lance Friedman?" she asked, her tone authoritative as she flashed her FBI badge.
"Y-yes, that's me," he stammered, his pale face gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his blond hair almost too perfect to be real. His skin was pulled tight across his face, making it difficult for Morgan to guess his age. It was clear he'd had his share of work done as well.
"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," she introduced herself, studying him closely. "I have some questions I'd like to ask you."
"O-of course," he said, trying to sound composed but failing to hide the nervousness in his voice. He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. "Please, have a seat."
Morgan sat down, her eyes never leaving him. She reached into her bag and pulled out two photographs. "Do you recognize this woman?" she asked, sliding the image of Sheryl Stewart across the table.
Friedman picked it up, scrutinizing the face in the picture. "No, I don't believe I've ever seen her before." His words were hesitant, but Morgan sensed no deception in them.
"Alright," she said, setting the first photo aside and presenting him with the second one, a photo of Bethany Good. "What about this woman?"
Recognition flickered in his eyes, and he nodded reluctantly. "Yes, she's a client of mine."
"Was," Morgan corrected him gravely. "She was found dead in her home yesterday. Much like the first woman I showed you, her face had been mutilated in a grotesque facelift."
Friedman's eyes widened in shock, and Morgan saw a hint of genuine concern beneath the façade that his own surgical alterations had created. "I... I had no idea," he whispered, his hands trembling slightly.
"Tell me about your relationship with Bethany Good," she pressed on, watching his every reaction carefully.
"Of course," Friedman said quietly, his voice barely audible. "Bethany was a loyal client for years. She came to me for various procedures but always trusted my judgment when it came to the specific treatments."
"I see," Morgan replied, her mind racing with questions and doubts. Though he claimed not to know Sheryl Stewart, there was something unsettling about Dr. Lance Friedman. And as the pieces slowly began to fall into place, she knew she would need to dig deeper to uncover the truth behind these gruesome crimes.
"Dr. Friedman," Morgan said, her tone serious but not unkind, "I have information suggesting that you may have pressured Ms. Good into undergoing more surgical procedures than were necessary."
"Pressured?" Friedman exclaimed, indignant. "No, absolutely not! I only ever did what Bethany wanted, what she felt would make her happy. She was very particular about her appearance, Agent Cross. But I never forced her into anything."
Morgan studied his face, the unnatural smoothness of his skin, and the too-perfect curve of his eyebrows. It was hard to gauge his true emotions under the mask that surgery had provided him. She knew she couldn't let her guard down; she had to push for the truth.
"Dr. Friedman," Morgan began, choosing her words carefully, "your work is certainly impressive. But I have to ask: are there any procedures you recommended to Bethany that might have been... excessive? Anything that could have put her in danger?"
"Agent Cross, I assure you, everything I did for Bethany was within the bounds of professional ethics and with her best interests at heart," he insisted, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "I'm a doctor, after all. My priority is my patients' well-being."
Morgan took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the investigation pressing down on her. She'd seen the carnage left behind by this killer, and she knew that if she didn't find the truth soon, more lives could be lost. But as she looked into Friedman's eyes, she found it difficult to ascertain whether he was being entirely truthful or if there was something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. Sheryl wasn't one of his clients, but Bethany was. She wanted to talk to someone else who knew him.
"Before I go, Dr. Friedman," Morgan said, her voice steady and assertive, "I'd like to speak with one of your current clients. Could you provide me with a list?”
Friedman hesitated for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered her request. Finally, he relented. "Very well," he said. “My receptionist will print you off a list. You can grab it on your way out.”
"Thank you," Morgan replied. "And remember, don't leave town." Her tone was more warning than request.
"Understood," Friedman murmured, his gaze locked onto hers.
On her way out of the office, Morgan stopped by the receptionist’s desk. Lance lurked behind her and said, “Please print the agent off a list of our most recent clients, the past six months or so.”
The receptionist quickly did as she was told, typing on her computer before the printer behind her buzzed to life. Morgan watched as a sheet rolled out, and the girl handed it to her. Morgan took the warm paper, glancing down the list of clients with their names, phone numbers, and addresses. The top one was a woman named Patty, who had come in just yesterday.
Morgan shot Lance and his receptionist a look before she nodded and left the clinic, her mind buzzing with thoughts and theories. The pressure was mounting; she could feel it in every tense muscle and furrowed brow. Sliding into her car, she started the engine and began driving toward Patty’s address.
As she weaved through the traffic, the radio announcer's voice cut through her thoughts. "In breaking news today, authorities have confirmed that two women have been murdered, both victims found with their faces mutilated in a gruesome fashion that has prompted the name 'the Plastic Surgeon Killer.' Police are urging anyone with information to come forward."
Morgan gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening. The story was out, and now there would be a media frenzy. The killer needed to be stopped before more lives were lost, and she couldn't help but feel the weight of that responsibility bearing down on her.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Focus, she thought. Find the connections, find the motive, and you'll find the killer. That's what her training had taught her, and she had to trust in herself now.
As she pulled up to Patty's house, Morgan steeled herself for the conversation ahead. She needed to gather as much information as possible and quickly. The clock was ticking, and the killer was still out there.
"Alright," she whispered under her breath, "let's do this."
Morgan stepped out of her car and took a moment to assess the modest, well-kept home in front of her. The lawn was freshly mowed, and the cheerful yellow siding seemed to defy the seriousness of the investigation at hand. This house wasn't like the opulence of Sheryl or Bethany's homes. She straightened her jacket, preparing herself to face yet another person whose life might have been touched by this killer.
As she approached the door, she could hear the faint sound of laughter coming from inside. This simple, happy sound struck a chord within her—it had been a long time since she'd heard such carefree joy, and it reminded her just how much was at stake here. With a determined knock, she waited for an answer.
The laughter stopped abruptly before the door swung open, revealing a woman with wavy brown hair and a tentative smile. "Can I help you?" she asked, eyeing Morgan's badge with curiosity.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Special Agent Morgan Cross with the FBI," she introduced herself, meeting Patty's gaze with a solemn intensity. "Are you Patty?"
"Uh, yes, that's me," Patty replied, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. "Is something wrong?"
"I'm investigating a case, and I understand you're a client of Dr. Lance Friedman's." Morgan kept her voice steady, watching Patty's reaction carefully.
"Uh, yeah, I am," Patty confirmed, her brow furrowing as she tried to figure out where this was going.
"May I come in? It's important."
"Of course," Patty said, stepping aside to let Morgan enter.
Just then, a man appeared in the hallway behind Patty, his brow creased with concern. "Hey, babe, what's going on?" He looked from his wife to the agent, trying to piece together the situation.
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