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.

"Are you sure about this?" His green eyes, usually so clear and resolute, flickered with doubt. "Linking these murders—it's a bold move."

"Bold is what we need," Morgan replied without hesitation. "The clients are clean, families too. We're missing something, Derik, and I intend to find it. Trust me."

Derik searched her face, the lines around his eyes deepening. He nodded slowly, accepting her conviction as gospel. "Alright, Morgan. I'm with you." His words were a tether, grounding her in the storm of possibilities.

"Good. Let’s get back to it." She clapped him on the shoulder, feeling the reassuring solidity of an ally.

The room swelled with intensity as the hour crept by, the air heavy with concentration. Morgan's team filtered through transactions, compiling data with relentless precision. The list grew, name by name—a ledger of potential guilt.

"Got something," called out an agent, breaking the silence like a gunshot. Heads turned as he read out a series of names, each one a potential key to unlocking the mystery.

"Print it," Morgan commanded, and moments later, a sheet was in her hands. The paper felt like lead, each printed name a weight on her conscience. Credit card purchases—traceable, tangible threads in the vast web they hoped to unravel. But cash transactions remained elusive, hidden beneath layers of anonymity.

"Credit cards first," she decided, her mind racing ahead. "We'll dig into cash sales next. It's a longer shot, but we can't afford to miss anything."

"Understood," Derik affirmed, his tone steadying in the face of the unknown. "Let's start cross-referencing these with known associates of the victims."

Their gazes locked, a silent pact forged between them. This list was the beginning, a first step down a path that promised to twist and turn with the cunning of their quarry. Morgan felt the familiar thrill of the chase surge within her, the sharp edge of purpose honed by years of navigating the shadows of human malice.

Morgan scanned over the list, the names blurring into a morass of potential and suspicion. Her eyes snagged on a familiar one—Daniel Keen. The letters seemed to pulse with a dark energy, as if the man's reputation had imbued them with a life of their own.

"Keen," she muttered under her breath, her voice a low growl of recognition.

She’d heard of him before. His name was synonymous with courtroom warfare, a prosecutor who played in the gray, where right and wrong often became indistinct. She flipped open her laptop, the click of keys punctuating the tense silence of the room.

"Derik, look at this," Morgan beckoned with an urgency that made her partner pivot mid-step, his curiosity piqued. He leaned over her shoulder as the search results confirmed what she dreaded—Daniel Keen had faced off against both victims within the past year. Unrelated cases, but still, he was a connection.

"Always lost..." Derik's voice trailed off, echoing the incredulity that tightened around Morgan's chest like a vice.

"Keen has a pretty bad reputation for losing cases for his clients," Morgan said. "If he wanted to get rid of people like Gina and Elaine, it would make sense. They were good defense lawyers. They got a lot of people who looked very guilty free of charge. To be honest, a lot of people could take issue with people like that."

"Let's not jump the gun," Derik said, a note of caution coloring his voice. "There could be any number of reasons for his losing streak. Correlation, not causation and all that."

Morgan nodded, her mind a whirlwind of possibilities. "We can't rule it out, though. This is the first solid link we've had between the victims. Was Keen set to face off against either of them in the coming weeks?”

Derik turned back to his own laptop, fingers once again flying over the keys. "Let's see... yes. According to this," he said after a moment, "he was scheduled to go up against Gina in court next month."

Morgan clenched her jaw. The connection was tenuous, but it was more than they had before – a thread to pull on, a path to follow. And while Morgan knew better than anyone how dangerous assumptions could be, she couldn't shake off the feeling that they were onto something.

"Could be a motive," she mused aloud, "but we need more."

“Hold on,” Derik said, voice urgent as he frowned at the screen. “I’m on Keen’s file right now. His wife filed for divorce less than two weeks ago.”

“That could be a reason for your psyche to start crumbling,” Morgan said. “If he keeps losing to defense lawyers such as Gina and Elaine, then maybe he wanted to start taking them out, to boost himself. We don’t know what’s been going on in his marriage, but maybe his wife was tired of being with a lawyer who could never win a case.”

“So he’s trying to kill the competition,” Derik muttered.

A new intensity filled the room. Daniel Keen just might be the thread connecting these women.

“We should split up,” Morgan suggested. “You take Keen’s wife, I take Keen.”

Derik looked at her for a moment before nodding. "Right. I'll see what the ex can reveal about him. You be cautious, alright? This is only a lead, but if Keen is our man..."

"I've dealt with worse." Morgan interrupted, forcing a grim smile onto her lips.

Derik squared his shoulders, a glint of determination flashing in his eyes. "See you on the other side then."