CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead in the interrogation room, casting stark shadows across Theodore Nash's gaunt face. Morgan studied him from across the table, her dark eyes narrowing as she gauged his every twitch and scowl. Derik stood behind her, a silent sentinel, his green eyes fixed on Nash.

"Let's get one thing straight," Nash spat out, breaking the silence, "I didn't kill anyone."

"Is that so?" Morgan replied, her voice even, betraying none of the skepticism churning inside her. She slid a photograph across the table—Gina Bellwood, lifeless, a noose around her neck. "You expect us to believe that's just a coincidence?"

Nash's eyes flickered to the photo before returning to Morgan, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I work at the courthouse, Agent Cross. You think I'm the only one with grievances?"

"Where were you the past two nights, Theodore?" Derik interjected, leaning forward. His tone was softer, almost coaxing, but the hard edge of an experienced interrogator lingered beneath the surface.

"Like I said, not killing anybody." Nash sneered, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

Morgan leaned in, her tattoos peeking out from under her sleeves as she folded her arms. "Funny, considering your... history with women. Seems like you have more than enough motive."

"Having a crappy divorce doesn't make me a murderer," he shot back, defiance etched into the lines of his face.

"Three women are dead, Nash. All connected to cases similar to what you went through," Morgan pressed, her gaze unwavering. "And here you are, working where all the details are kept. It's not looking good for you."

"Coincidences and bad luck, that's my life story," he retorted, but there was a hint of uncertainty now, a slight falter in his brash facade.

"Enough games, Nash," Morgan's voice was steel. "We found marine rope at Gina's scene—the same kind you have access to at the pier. Care to explain that?"

"Rope is rope," Nash shrugged, but sweat had begun to bead at his temples.

"Your aggression towards me during your arrest didn't help your case," Derik added, circling the table to stand beside Morgan.

"You got in my way," Nash retorted, tilting his chin defiantly.

"Seems to be a pattern with you," Derik murmured, exchanging a glance with Morgan.

Morgan watched Theodore Nash's gaunt face twist into a sneer, the corners of his mouth pulling taut over clenched teeth. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

“Where were you last night?” Morgan asked.

"Alone," he spat out, "like every damn night since she left me."

"Who left you, Nash?" Morgan pressed, tapping her pen against the metal table for emphasis.

"My wife! Sandy!" His voice cracked, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Took my little girl and ran off. What do you think I've been doing? Hosting wild parties?"

"Loneliness can drive people to do extreme things," Derik chimed in, skeptical.

"Ah, so now I'm a killer because I miss story time with my kid?" Nash's blue eyes were icy as they met Morgan's gaze. "That it?"

"Patterns emerge, Nash," Morgan countered. "People seek substitutes."

"Substitutes?" Nash scoffed. "You think I'm replacing my daughter with... what? Murder?" He shook his head, mocking pity painted on his features. "You agents really have your heads screwed up."

"Where does this leave your ex-wife in all this?" Derik asked.

"Call her!" Nash shot back, defiant. "She'll tell you. Even after all the crap between us, she knows I'm no murderer."

"Your relationship with her—"

"Complicated," he interrupted, his tone softening ever so slightly. "We fight like hell, but Sandy, she knows me. She knows despite all my flaws—and I got plenty—I'd never lay a hand on another person like that. Not in violence. I'm an asshole, but not a psycho."

"Assholes can be killers, too," Morgan remarked dryly.

"Sure, but not this one," Nash said firmly. "You want an alibi? You want someone who hates my guts to clear my name? Call her. She's the best you got because I got nothing else for you."

"Is that right?" Derik leaned forward, elbows on the table, locking eyes with Nash. "Just an innocent man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

"Story of my life," Nash muttered, looking away. "But you go ahead, dial her up. See what she has to say about good ol' Teddy Nash."

Morgan eyed Theodore Nash across the cold metal table, the fluorescent light casting stark shadows on his gaunt face. His blue eyes held a defiant gleam as she circled like a predator closing in on its prey.

"You knew the victims, Nash," Morgan stated flatly, her dark hair framing her intense gaze.

"Knew of them," he corrected quickly, a sneer edging his voice. "Heard about it on the news, overheard lawyers yapping at the courthouse. That's it." Theodore sighed, exasperation bleeding through his false bravado. "I mop floors, empty trash cans. I'm not exactly in the social circle of attorneys and judges."

"Yet here we are," she shot back, unmoved by his attempt at innocence.

Theodore's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "Yeah, here we are."

"Let's take five," Derik interjected, catching Morgan's eye. She nodded once, her thoughts a swirling vortex of doubt and suspicion.

Stepping outside the interrogation room, Morgan felt the weight of the case pressing down on her. Derik leaned against the hallway wall, his green eyes searching her face for an inkling of her thoughts.

"Something doesn't add up," Morgan admitted, tapping her fingers against her arm—an old habit when uncertainty crept in. "No alibi, sure, but Nash doesn't strike me as our guy."

"His type is all too common, though. Lonely, angry, feels wronged by the world—and his wife," Derik pointed out, his voice tinged with the weariness of too many cases, too many faces.

"True," Morgan conceded, her gut twisting as she mulled over Nash's words. "But anger doesn't always mean guilt. We'll see what Sandy has to say."

"Still," Derik said, rubbing the back of his neck, "the lack of remorse, his history at the courthouse... He fits a certain profile."

"Profiles aren't proof," Morgan countered, her mind racing as she considered every angle. "And we can't afford tunnel vision."

"Agreed," Derik replied, offering a small, supportive smile. "Maybe Sandy's insight will shed some light."

"Maybe." Morgan chewed on her lip, feeling the familiar pull of intuition tugging her in an uncertain direction. She was about to speak again when an agent burst down the corridor, urgency etched on his face.

Morgan pressed the phone's speaker button with a deliberate thumb, the click echoing in the stillness of the corridor.

"Sandy Nash?" Her voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside her.

"Speaking," came the cautious reply, tinged with the hum of domestic life—a television droning in the background, the clink of dishes perhaps.

"Agent Morgan Cross, FBI," Morgan introduced herself, her gaze on Derik who stood nearby, arms folded, his eyes sharp with anticipation. "I'm calling about Theodore—your ex-husband."

There was a beat of silence, then a muted gasp. "Theo? What's he done now?"

"We're questioning him regarding the recent murders of three women linked to the courthouse," Morgan said, choosing each word with care, watching Derik’s reaction closely.

"Murders?" Sandy's voice pitched high with incredulity. "You think Theo killed those women? The defense attorneys and that judge? I don’t live in Dallas anymore, but I read about that…"

"Right now, we're exploring every possibility," Morgan replied, her voice as neutral as she could make it.

Silence crackled over the line before Sandy spoke again, her words laced with a bitter edge. "Look, I won't lie—Theo can be a real piece of crap. He cheated on me, lied, made my life hell... But murder? That doesn’t sound like him."

"Are you certain?" Morgan pressed, her instincts alive with the dance of suspicion and doubt.

"God, I don't know." There was a shakiness now in Sandy's voice, a vulnerability that Morgan knew well—the fear of uncertainty. "I thought I knew him once, but after everything... You never really know what someone is capable of, do you?"

Morgan felt a flicker of empathy for the woman on the other end of the line. "No, you don't," she agreed quietly. But that flicker was quickly snuffed out by the pressing need for answers. "Was there anything in your time together that might suggest he was capable of violence?"

"Nothing more than the usual anger when he drank too much or we fought," Sandy admitted, her tone resigned. "But to strangle someone, to kill... No. I just can’t see it."

"Thank you, Sandy. Your insight is invaluable," Morgan said, her mind racing to fit this new puzzle piece into the ever-growing picture. She ended the call, the click sounding final in the quiet hallway.

Derik met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Well?"

"She's thrown, but she doesn't believe he could do it," Morgan relayed, the same uncertainty from the call reflected in her own voice now. "But she admitted the possibility, given their past. Not exactly a ringing endorsement."

"Still leaves us with no solid alibi for Nash," Derik remarked, the lines of his face tightening.

"Doesn't clear him either," Morgan added, feeling the weight of responsibility bearing down on her. Every decision, every hunch, could mean the difference between catching a killer and condemning an innocent man. And somewhere out there, the real murderer was watching, waiting.

"Interrogation round two?" Derik suggested, his eyebrows knitting together in contemplation.

"Let's turn up the heat a little," Morgan replied, her mind already strategizing the next move.

They were about to re-enter the interrogation room when the sudden urgency in the footsteps of Agent Ramirez sliced through the tension. Ramirez's face was flushed as he caught his breath.

"Cross, Greene, you need to see this," he said breathlessly.