CHAPTER NINETEEN

Morgan leaned forward, the cold metal table creating a barrier between her and Henry Caldwell. Beside her, Derik mirrored her posture, his green eyes fixed on the journalist with an intensity that matched Morgan's own. Photos of the victims lay scattered before Caldwell, their faces a mosaic of the dead.

"Recognize them?" Morgan's voice was sharp, slicing through the tension in the room.

Caldwell's gaze flitted across the photos. "Yes," he admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "I wrote about some of them. Tragic what happened."

"Tragic," Derik echoed, his tone suggesting skepticism. "But you claim to know nothing about how they met their ends?"

"Nothing more than what I've penned down for the public eye," Caldwell responded, his voice steady, but Morgan noted the slightest sheen of sweat on his brow.

She pushed another photo towards him, one of Mariana Torres. "And Judge Torres? Did you write about her too?"

"Torres?" Caldwell's eyes narrowed as he regarded the image. "I heard about her death. Another blow to the illusion of justice." His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the table.

"An illusion, you say?" Morgan probed, her mind racing, piecing together the man's psyche. She could see the obsessive glint in his eye, the fervor of someone who dug too deep into the world's ugliness.

"Absolutely," Caldwell spat out the word like it was poison. "The system is corrupt. People like her," he jabbed a finger at Mariana's photo, "they manipulate it to their advantage."

"Manipulate?" Derik interjected, leaning closer. "Like bailing out a brother from jail after a DUI?"

Caldwell shrugged, feigning indifference. "I didn't know about that. But am I surprised? Not in the least. More corruption from those who claim to hold the scales of justice."

Morgan's tattoos seemed to prickle under her skin, a silent testament to her own dance with injustice. She eyed Caldwell, seeing the outline of a man who might believe murder was a fair sentence for such corruption.

"Is that what you believe, Mr. Caldwell?" she asked, her tone deceptively soft. "That some are above the law, while others are buried beneath it?"

"Wouldn't be the first time the law failed to protect the innocent or punish the guilty," Caldwell said, his voice rising. "Look around, Agent Cross. It's everywhere if you're not afraid to see it."

"Believe me," Morgan replied, her dark eyes unflinching, "I'm not afraid to see anything."

Caldwell met her gaze, and for a moment, there was a silent acknowledgment of kindred spirits warped by different fates. Then he looked away, the connection severed as quickly as it had formed.

Derik shifted in his chair, the sound jolting the tension up another notch. "We're not blind, Henry. But we do believe in due process."

"Due process," Caldwell scoffed, shaking his head. "A pretty term for a dirty game."

Morgan leaned forward, her elbows resting on the cold steel table that separated her from Henry Caldwell. Her eyes, sharp as a falcon's, never left his face. "Where were you the past two nights, Henry?"

"Home," he replied, with a shrug that seemed to feign nonchalance.

"Alone?" Derik chimed in, his voice steady and probing.

"Yep." Caldwell's gaze didn't waver, but a bead of sweat made an escape down his temple.

"Anyone who can verify that?" Morgan pressed, her question hanging heavy in the silent room.

"Probably not," he admitted, a touch of irritation creeping into his tone. "But since when is being alone a crime?"

"Being alone isn't," Morgan shot back, her tone crisp. "But it doesn't make for much of an alibi either."

Caldwell's chuckle was dry, void of humor. "Well, Agent Cross, I hate to break it to you, but not having an alibi doesn't mean I'm guilty of anything."

"Maybe not," she conceded, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. His confidence seemed genuine, but so often the mask of innocence was the guilty's favorite guise.

She slid a photograph across the table—a scanned copy of the note sent to the FBI. The letters, jagged and taunting, spelled out a clear message: Back off.

"Seen this before?" she asked, the edge in her voice like the blade of a knife.

Caldwell peered at the image, his forehead creasing. "Never," he said after a moment, pushing the photo back toward her. "I've never seen that note."

"Interesting," Morgan remarked, her voice betraying none of the skepticism that churned inside her. The stationary was common enough, but the words... they had the cadence of someone who knew how to wield them like weapons.

"Is it?" Caldwell asked, an eyebrow lifted in mock curiosity.

"Very," Derik added, leaning back in his chair. "Especially considering it was written by someone who knows their way around words."

"Are you implying something, Agent...?" Caldwell trailed off, a challenge in his eyes.

"Greene," he supplied curtly. "And we're not implying anything. We're just doing our job."

"Of course," Caldwell said with a thin smile. "Just like I do mine. Now, I think I need a lawyer.”

Morgan studied Caldwell with a gaze as sharp as the edge of a knife. "So, you need a lawyer, Mr. Caldwell?" she inquired, her tone flat. The interrogation room felt smaller every second, tension coiling in the air like a spring.

Caldwell leaned back, a veneer of nonchalance failing to mask the quickening pulse at his throat. He met Morgan's eyes, his own glinting with a mix of defiance and fear. "This is going nowhere," he sighed, "I've told you what I know. Now, if we're done here, I'd like my attorney."

"Sure, Henry," Derik chimed in, standing up with Morgan. "We're all about due process. But remember, this isn't looking good for you."

"Is that supposed to scare me, Agent Greene?" Caldwell countered, but there was an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

"Let's go, Derik," Morgan cut in before the journalist could say more. She didn't want to give him any more ground than he'd already tried to claim.

They left Caldwell sitting there, alone with the weight of suspicion hanging heavily upon him. The door shut with an authoritative thud that seemed to echo along the quiet hallway outside the interrogation room.

Morgan and Derik found Assistant Director Mueller waiting, his expression unreadable. "Well?" he asked, his voice carrying an expectation of results.

"His alibi is weak—nonexistent," Morgan reported, crossing her arms. "He knows the victims, wrote about them, and yes, he wanted a lawyer the moment we pressed him."

"Classic signs of consciousness of guilt," Mueller noted, nodding slowly. "The guy's got the same mindset as our killer. Obsessed with justice, or his twisted version of it. Plus, he had access to the stationery used in the note sent to us."

"Seems too neat," Morgan muttered, but she kept that doubt to herself. Mueller was already convinced they had their man, and Derik... well, Derik hoped for a resolution as much as anyone.

Mueller placed a firm hand on Morgan's shoulder, his grip almost reassuring. "You've both done good work today. He fits the profile, has the motive. It's only a matter of time before he cracks."

"Or lawyers up and shuts down," Morgan thought but held her tongue. She exchanged a glance with Derik, who offered a faint, weary smile.

"Let's wrap it up for now," Mueller decided, giving them a dismissive nod. "Resume first thing tomorrow. We'll get him."

Morgan’s gaze lingered on the interrogation room as Mueller's words echoed in her mind. The teddy bears—the incongruent detail that gnawed at her. Henry Caldwell, with his vehement tirades against the justice system and his knowledge of the victims, fit parts of the profile. But those childlike tokens of innocence? They seemed to speak a different language.

"Agent Cross," Mueller's stern voice cut through her reverie, pulling her back to the dim corridor. "Let it go for tonight."

She turned, facing him squarely, her dark eyes betraying her unrest. "And if he isn't our guy?" Morgan challenged. Her tattoos, usually symbols of her resilience, seemed to itch with the tension of the unresolved case.

Mueller, tall and unyielding as ever, met her stare. "We will find out," he assured her, but his certainty was not contagious. "But you've been running on fumes. Take a break."

Derik stepped closer, his green eyes softening in the fluorescents. "He's right, Morgan. We'll come back fresh."

"Sure," she muttered, though doubt clung to her like shadows as they moved toward the elevators.

"Go home, Agent Cross," Mueller commanded before turning away, his figure receding into the maze of the FBI headquarters.

Morgan's steps echoed hollowly as she broke away from Derik, the weight of the unsolved mystery urging her feet forward. She needed space—to think, to breathe. The city air was crisp as she pushed through the revolving doors, the night sprawling before her like a dark canvas.

Her mind raced, piecing together the fragments of evidence, replaying Caldwell's reactions, his denials. Yet, amid the cacophony of facts, the teddy bear detail whispered insistently. Henry had no children, no tangible sorrow to manifest in such trinkets. Why then?

***

Morgan's living room was steeped in tension, the only sound Skunk's rhythmic breathing as he lay sprawled on the cool hardwood floor. Morgan and Derik sat opposite each other, two figures carved from the same stone of determination, yet etched with different lines of thought.

"Lawyered up fast," Derik noted, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "Henry Caldwell’s silence is screaming guilt."

"Or fear," Morgan countered, her gaze lost in the dance of shadows thrown by the flickering candlelight. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, her dark eyes reflecting an internal struggle. "Caldwell's alibi is Swiss cheese – full of holes but not quite satisfying."

"Come on, Morgan," Derik said, trying to infuse some warmth into the chill that had settled between them. "We've got him. The guy writes about corruption, lives it, breathes it. He can't prove where he was the past two nights, and now he won't talk without his lawyer. That's not innocence; that's strategy."

She shook her head, a strand of dark hair falling across her face. "It doesn't sit right." Her fingers traced the intricate ink on her arm, a tactile reminder of past battles, both personal and professional. "The teddy bear parts... Henry has no kids. No nieces, no nephews. It’s too personal for him, too random."

"Maybe it's symbolic," Derik offered, but his words hung uncertainly in the air, like mist over a morning field.

"Symbolic?" Morgan scoffed lightly, despite the gravity of their conversation. "A grown man leaving behind fragments of a child's toy at murder scenes? We're missing something."

Derik sighed, leaning back against the worn leather of the couch. "You're the smartest agent I know, Morgan. If you think there's more to it, then there probably is." His green eyes held hers, a silent pledge of trust and support. "But for now, we caught the guy who's been killing these women. That's a win, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Morgan murmured, pushing to her feet. She paced before the cold fireplace, each step a testament to her restlessness. "We've got a cage, Derik, but I'm not convinced we've got the right beast."

Morgan's fingers drummed against the side table, a rhythmic pulse that mirrored the tumult of thoughts crashing through her mind. Derik's assurance seemed to fade into the walls, his presence just another shadow in the dimly lit room. She was about to turn off the lamp when the piercing shrill of her phone cut through the silence.

"Cross," she answered briskly, her voice steady despite the late hour and the undercurrent of fatigue.

"Agent Cross, it's Officer Smith." The line crackled with urgency. "We've got a situation. A woman just came into the ER, critical condition. Hit and run."

Morgan straightened, the weariness momentarily forgotten. "Details, Smith."

"Mid-thirties, no ID. But that's not the odd part." There was a pause, a breath taken on the other end that hinted at the gravity of what was to come. "She had a teddy bear arm stuffed in her jacket pocket."

The words hit Morgan like an icy blast, chilling her from within. Her hand tightened around the phone. "I'm on my way." She hung up without another word and met Derik’s concerned eyes. “He’s still out there.”