CHAPTER TWELVE

The auditorium buzzed with anticipation as Morgan and Derik slipped into their seats, the crowd chattering excitedly around them. On stage, the podium stood solitary under a harsh spotlight, waiting.

Morgan scanned the room, her dark eyes taking in the sea of faces. So many people, all here to hear the once great Victor Harmon speak. She wondered how many of them knew the real story behind the man.

Beside her, Derik leaned in close. "Quite the turnout," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Morgan nodded, distracted. Her mind was still churning over the case, the bodies piling up, each one marked with those strange notes. Violin music for Lila, the prodigy who fell from grace. Mathematical equations for Simon, consumed by his gambling vice. Computer code for Evan, the tech mogul battling the bottle. A morbid calling card from a killer obsessed with brilliance turned to ash.

And now, Victor Harmon. The literary genius, the celebrated author, reduced to a gaunt shell of a man by his own demons. Was he their killer, punishing those who couldn't conquer their addictions like he claimed to have done? Or just another link in the chain, leading them further down the rabbit hole?

The lights dimmed, and a hush fell over the crowd as Victor Harmon took the stage. Morgan leaned forward, studying him intently.

He was a wreck of a man, wasted away to skin and bone. His suit hung off his skeletal frame, his skin sallow and papery thin. His once bright eyes were sunken and haunted, darting nervously over the audience.

He gripped the podium with trembling hands, the shake in them visible even from Morgan's seat. Battle scars from his war with addiction, she thought grimly.

"I want to talk to you today about the price of genius," Harmon began, his voice a raspy whisper in the microphone. "About the toll it takes on the mind, the body, the soul."

As he spoke, his words painted a brutal picture. The dizzying heights of his early success, the awards, the accolades, the money pouring in. The pressure building, the expectations mounting.

And then the fall. The late nights turned to lost weekends. The drinks needed to steady his hands became the drugs needed to quiet his mind. His gift turned against him, the words drying up, the deadlines slipping away.

"Addiction stripped me bare," Harmon said, his voice cracking. "It took my talent, my dignity, my relationships. It damn near took my life. And look what it left me with."

He held up his quivering hands, splaying the ruined fingers.

"Nerve damage. I can barely hold a pen now, let alone write my own name. All those pretty words, lost to me forever. Because I thought I could beat the bottle, beat the pills. I thought I was stronger than the monster inside me. But it won in the end. It always does."

Morgan watched him, her heart twisting in her chest despite herself. This was not the portrait of a man capable of cold-blooded murder. This was a broken shell, a cautionary tale in the flesh.

And yet, the puzzle pieces still didn't fit. If not him, then who? Who was leaving these taunting clues, these markers of destroyed potential?

As if sensing her thoughts, Derik's hand found hers in the dark, squeezing gently. She squeezed back, drawing strength from his touch.

They would figure this out. They had to. Before the body count climbed any higher. Before more lights were snuffed out by this shadow of a killer.

For now, all they could do was watch. And wait. And pray that Victor Harmon's tragic tale was the end of it, and not just the beginning.

The applause was thunderous as Victor Harmon concluded his speech, his frail frame nearly swaying from the force of it. Morgan and Derik remained seated, their eyes locked on Harmon as the crowd began to disperse around them.

Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. Harmon's story, while tragic, didn't align with the brutal nature of the murders. His hands, so visibly damaged, seemed incapable of wielding a knife with the precision the killer had shown.

But she had to be sure. She had to look him in the eye to see if there was anything lurking beneath the surface of his shattered exterior.

As the last of the audience trickled out, Morgan and Derik made their way backstage. The narrow corridors were dimly lit, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sweat and desperation.

They found Harmon in a small dressing room, slumped in a chair before a vanity mirror. He was dabbing at his forehead with a towel, his hands shaking with the effort.

When he saw them, his eyes widened, his body going rigid in the chair. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice thin and reedy.

Morgan stepped forward, her badge already in hand. "Mr. Harmon, I'm Agent Cross and this is Agent Greene. We're with the FBI. We were hoping to ask you a few questions."

Harmon's face drained of color, his hands clenching around the towel. "The FBI? I don't understand. What is this about?"

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, noting the sudden shift in Harmon's demeanor. The man was nervous, that much was clear. But was it the nervousness of a guilty man or simply the shock of being confronted by federal agents?

She kept her tone even, her eyes never leaving Harmon's face. "We're investigating a series of murders in the area. Your name came up in the course of our inquiry. We were hoping you might be able to shed some light on the situation."

Harmon's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, his eyes darting between them. "Murders? I don't know anything about any murders. I'm just a recovering addict, trying to help others. I don't understand why you would think I would be involved in something like that."

Morgan leaned in closer, her gaze sharpening. "We never said you were involved, Mr. Harmon. We simply want to ask you a few questions."

Harmon's hands were shaking harder now, the towel fluttering to the floor. "I...I need some water. Please, just give me a moment."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Without waiting for a response, he stumbled past them, heading for the door.

Morgan's instincts screamed at her, every nerve in her body suddenly on high alert. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

She turned to Derik, seeing her own suspicions mirrored in his eyes. Without a word, they moved to follow Harmon, their footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway.

The chase was on, and Morgan could only pray that it wouldn't end in more blood. More death. More shattered lives left in the wake of a killer's twisted game.

Morgan's heart pounded as she followed Harmon down the hallway, her footsteps light and quiet against the worn carpet. Derik was right behind her, his presence a reassuring constant in the midst of the chaos.

She approached Harmon's dressing room door, noting the sliver of light peeking out from the crack. It was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry.

Cautiously, Morgan peered inside, her breath catching in her throat at the sight that greeted her.

Harmon wasn't getting water, as he had claimed. Instead, he was frantically grabbing his coat, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and his eyes held a wild, desperate look that sent a chill down Morgan's spine.

He was heading towards the back exit, his intentions clear. He was trying to flee.

Morgan's mind raced, piecing together the clues. Harmon's sudden change in demeanor, the panic in his eyes, the way his hands shook even more than before. It all pointed to one thing - guilt.

But guilt for what? Was he truly the killer they had been searching for? Or was there something else, something deeper and darker lurking beneath the surface?

She couldn't take that chance. She couldn't let him escape, not when they were so close to the truth.

Morgan burst through the door, her voice ringing out in the small space. "Victor Harmon! FBI! Stop right there!"

Harmon froze his hand on the doorknob. For a moment, he seemed to waver, torn between fight and flight.

Then, with a speed that belied his frail appearance, he yanked the door open and bolted, disappearing into the daylight.

Morgan cursed under her breath, adrenaline surging through her veins. She glanced back at Derik, seeing the determination etched on his face.

They had to catch him. They had to end this, once and for all.

With a nod, they took off after Harmon, plunging into the darkness that awaited them beyond the door.

The cool autumn air hit Morgan's face as she sprinted down the dimly lit alley behind the auditorium. Her footsteps echoed off the brick walls, mingling with the sound of Derik's heavy breathing beside her. Ahead, she could see Harmon's silhouette, his thin frame stumbling and weaving as he tried to escape.

"Stop!" she shouted again, her voice raw and commanding. "There's nowhere to run, Harmon!"

But he didn't listen. He kept running, his movements growing more erratic with each passing second. Morgan pushed herself harder, closing the gap between them. She could see the desperation in his body language, the way his arms flailed and his legs seemed to buckle under his own weight.

And then, it happened. Harmon's foot caught on an uneven patch of pavement, and he pitched forward, his body slamming into the ground with a sickening thud. Morgan skidded to a stop, her hand instinctively reaching for her weapon.

But there was no need. Harmon lay there, his chest heaving, his face pressed against the cold concrete. Morgan approached cautiously, Derik right behind her.

"Victor Harmon," she said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. "You're under arrest."

She reached down, grasping his arm to pull him up. He was shaking violently, his skin clammy and pale. As she hauled him to his feet, she couldn't help but notice how light he was, how his body seemed to be nothing more than skin and bones.

They half-dragged, half-carried him back to the dressing room, depositing him in a chair. He slumped forward, his head in his hands, his entire frame trembling.

Morgan stood over him, her arms crossed. "Start talking, Harmon. Why did you run?"

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and haunted. "I thought... I thought you were here to arrest me. Or to drug test me."

Morgan's brow furrowed. "Drug test you? What are you talking about?"

Harmon let out a shaky breath. "I haven't been entirely honest," he whispered. "About my sobriety. I've been... I've been microdosing. To help me cope with the pressure of being on stage."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up. This wasn't what she had expected. "You've been using drugs? While preaching about recovery?"

He nodded miserably. "It's the only way I can do it. The only way I can face those crowds, night after night, and tell my story. I know it's wrong, but I... I can't stop."

Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik. This complicated things. If Harmon was still using, still in the throes of addiction, could he really be their killer? She studied his shaking hands, the way he could barely keep himself upright in the chair.

No, she realized. He couldn't be. The murders required a steadiness, a precision that Harmon simply didn't possess. He was a broken man, a shadow of his former self.

Those were questions Morgan intended to answer, no matter what it took. She leaned in closer, her voice low and intense.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. The tremors in Harmon's hands, the way he could barely hold the bottle - it was clear that years of substance abuse had taken their toll. His hands were severely damaged, the nerves and muscles weakened by the constant assault of drugs.

"I... I'm sorry," Harmon mumbled, setting the bottle back down. "I know I'm a fraud. I preach about recovery, but I'm still using it. I just... I can't face the crowds without it."

Morgan leaned back in her chair, studying him. Harmon's confession made one thing abundantly clear: while he was guilty of concealing his drug use, he was not their killer. The precision and force required to commit the murders they were investigating would be impossible for someone in his condition. He could barely hold a pen, let alone wield a knife with the skill and strength necessary.

She glanced at Derik, who met her gaze with a slight nod. He'd come to the same conclusion. Harmon, as tragic as his story was, was not physically capable of being the person they were looking for.

"Mr. Harmon," Morgan said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We're not here about your drug use. We're investigating a series of murders. And while I understand your situation, I need to know why you ran when we tried to question you."

Harmon's eyes widened. "Murders? I... I don't know anything about any murders. I swear. I ran because I thought... I thought you were here to arrest me for the drugs."

Morgan leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "Are you sure about that? Because if you're holding back information..."

"No!" Harmon's voice cracked. "No, I promise. I have nothing to do with any murders. Please, you have to believe me."

Morgan held his gaze for a long moment, then sat back. Her instincts told her he was telling the truth. Harmon was many things - an addict, a liar, a man desperate to protect his image. But he wasn't a killer.

She stood, Derik following suit. "Alright, Mr. Harmon. We'll be in touch if we have any more questions."

As they walked out of the dressing room, leaving a shaken Harmon behind, Derik glanced at her. "Another dead end?"

Morgan nodded, frustration simmering beneath her skin. "Another potential lead ruled out. We're back to square one."

But as they stepped out into the crisp autumn air, Morgan's resolve hardened. They would find the killer, no matter how many dead ends they hit. She wouldn't rest until they did.