CHAPTER FIVE

The stench of stale liquor wafted from Daniel Keen's slack-jawed mouth as he slumped in the metal chair. The interrogation room was cold and sterile, but the man before Morgan seemed oblivious to the chill, his consciousness ebbing like the tide. Morgan leaned forward, her dark eyes sharp as flint.

"Mr. Keen," she began, her voice slicing through the haze of alcohol that enveloped him. "I need you to focus."

Daniel's eyelids fluttered, a slow grin spreading across his face, incongruent with the severity of the situation. "Agent... Cross, is it?" he slurred, his words a jumbled mess. "You're here 'bout Debby, right? Can't leave a guy to drown his sorrows in peace?"

Morgan's patience was a thin veneer over her frustration; time was a luxury she couldn't afford. "This has nothing to do with your wife, Mr. Keen. Your recent purchases have brought you under scrutiny."

Confusion flickered across Daniel's reddened features, his mind struggling to keep up. "Purchases? What are you—Debby?" His thoughts were a tangled skein, knotted and frayed.

"Focus, Daniel," Morgan pressed, her tone sharpening like the blade of a knife.

Morgan flicked the two glossy images across the scarred steel table, their corners skidding to a stop inches from Daniel Keen's slack fingers. One imagine of Elaine Harrows, smiling and alive. Another of Gina Bellwood, looking stoic.

"Recognize them?" Morgan's voice sliced through the haze of alcohol emanating from Keen like a knife.

Daniel squinted at the photos, his focus wavering before locking onto the faces. "Yeah," he slurred, the word dragging out into a sneer. "Screwed my clients over... more times than I can count."

"Good," Morgan replied, a cold satisfaction settling in her chest. She leaned forward, tattoos stretching along her arms as she braced herself on the table, dark eyes boring into him. "Because this isn't about your petty grievances, Keen. This is about murder."

"Murder?" The scowl etched deeper across Daniel's face, a wrinkle of confusion between his furrowed brows. He pawed at the photos, a clumsy attempt to align them better with his blurred vision. "Elaine? Sure, heard something happened to her. But Gina?" His voice wavered, disbelief and alcohol blending into a potent cocktail of denial.

"Dead," Morgan confirmed, letting each letter drop like a stone into the growing pit of realization in Daniel's gut. "Both of them. And not by accident."

"Is this some kinda sick joke?" Keen's laugh was hollow, a sound that didn't reach the bloodshot desperation in his eyes. He tried to prop himself up, but his limbs betrayed him, as unsteady as the rest of his crumbling defense.

"This is very real." Morgan's words were as sharp and precise as the blade she'd once been accused of wielding. "Sober up, Keen. I need you clear-headed. We're talking life and death here—yours might just hang in the balance."

Daniel's gaze faltered, flickering between the photographs and Morgan's unwavering stare. Somewhere beneath the liquor and loss, a spark of sobriety ignited. "I'm tryin'," he muttered, forcing the words out like they were dredged from the bottom of a bottle. "Tryin' to take it seriously."

"Try harder," Morgan snapped back. She leaned in, her eyes unblinking as she studied the man across from her. The interrogation room was suffocating, the air thick with the tang of alcohol that seeped from Daniel's pores. She had seen many a suspect unravel in these confines, but Keen seemed on the precipice of collapse without a nudge. "Let's talk about Gina Bellwood's last case," Morgan said, her voice steady. "She defended a man accused of attempted assault on his child with a noose. Ring any bells?"

Keen's gaze was distant, his thoughts adrift in a liquor-fueled haze. He shook his head, strands of disheveled hair clinging to his forehead. "Don't... don't know what you're getting at," he slurred, squinting to focus on Morgan's face. "Never paid her cases any mind 'less they crossed mine."

"Is that so?" Morgan pressed, sensing the veneer of indifference was just another layer she'd peel back. She knew Keen's type—prideful to a fault, yet crumbling under the weight of their own failures.

"Cross my heart," Daniel muttered, a sardonic grin twitching at the corners of his mouth before dissolving into nothingness.

"Sure, Daniel," Morgan replied, her tone dry as desert sand. She made a mental note of his denial, filing it away as she shifted her approach. "Earlier this week, you purchased a marine rope," she began, watching as Keen's bloodshot eyes widened slightly, a flicker of awareness cutting through the fog. "A rope similar to the one used in Gina's murder."

"Rope?" The word escaped Keen's lips like an expelled breath, a ghost of recognition passing over his features. Daniel's defenses were up now, the mention of the rope a spark that ignited something within him.

"Care to explain why you needed such a specific item?" Morgan asked, her voice edged with the sharpness of a blade.

Daniel hung his head low in shame. “Yeah… I can explain it.”

***

Derik stepped through the threshold of The Rusted Inn, scanning the dimly lit corridor. A sense of urgency propelled him forward, each step carrying the weight of the unsolved murders that had consumed every waking moment of his life recently. Behind him, a team of officers moved with practiced efficiency, their footsteps a silent march through the worn carpeting.

"Room 204," Derik muttered to himself, the number etched in his mind like a bad omen. He led the way up the narrow staircase, his tall frame moving with a hidden grace despite the tension knotting his shoulders. The warrant felt heavy in his pocket, a tangible reminder of the legal line they walked on.

Reaching the second floor, Derik paused before the room's door, the flimsy brass numbers offering no resistance to what lay beyond. With a nod, he signaled to the officer beside him. The door yielded easily to the master key, swinging open to reveal a scene of mundane chaos.

"Let's gut it," Derik commanded, his voice low but clear. The officers sprang into action, pulling drawers from dressers, flipping mattresses, and sifting through the debris of a life unraveling at the edges.

The closet stood ajar, its darkness beckoning. Derik approached, his curiosity mingling with a growing sense of unease. The smell of stale whiskey hung heavily in the air, a ghost of Daniel Keen's presence. Inside the closet, amidst the scattered suits and crumpled shirts, something caught Derik's eye—a coil of thick marine rope.

"Hey, forensics!" Derik called out, his heart rate quickening as he reached for the rope. It was loosely fashioned into a shape resembling a noose, an amateur attempt at best.

Forensics crowded into the small space, their cameras clicking as they documented the find. The flash of the camera cast eerie shadows on the walls, turning the innocuous hotel room into a tableau of potential guilt.

"Be careful with that," Derik instructed as one of the forensic technicians gingerly lifted the rope. As if in response to the warning, the poorly tied knot unraveled, the rope slithering to the floor like a lifeless serpent. "Damn," Derik exhaled, the pieces of the puzzle stirring restlessly in his mind. He watched as the rope was bagged and tagged, evidence of something yet unknown.

Derik ran a hand through his slick black hair, the stray ends sticking to his forehead in his agitation. "Keen couldn't even tie a proper noose," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else in the cramped hotel room.

One of the forensic technicians paused, her gloved hands holding the now limp rope. "You think he was trying to?"

"Looks that way." Derik's voice was flat, his mind racing ahead. Keen bought this rope, but the clumsy attempt suggested he wasn't the one who crafted the deadly noose used on Gina Bellwood. Was this a rehearsal gone wrong? A drunken fumble? A distraction? "Okay, people, let's double down here!" His authoritative tone cut through the murmur of activity. “I’ll be right back—I need to talk to the hotel staff. Something’s not adding up here.”

With that, Derik slipped out of the hotel room. He needed to know more about what Daniel Keen was doing the night Gina Bellwood died.

***

Morgan's gaze didn't waver as she watched Daniel Keen fumble with the cuffs linking him to the cold metal table. His breath still stank of liquor, his eyes red and unfocused, yet there was a sharpness there—a prosecutor's mind trying to claw its way out of the haze.

"Daniel," she began, her voice steady as steel, "focus on me. Why did you buy the rope?”

“I… well…”

But before he could muster a coherent response, her phone vibrated against her hip. She glanced at the screen—Derik. As much as she didn’t want to leave this room yet, Derik wouldn’t call unless it was important. She excused herself with a nod.

Stepping into the hallway, the change from the stifling interrogation room to the openness felt like a splash of cold water.

"Talk to me, Derik," Morgan said, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Found the rope Keen bought," Derik's voice came through, laced with fatigue.

Morgan's brow furrowed. This was unexpected. She leaned against the wall, the gritty texture grounding her. "Explain."

"It's a mess," he continued. "Looks like he tried to tie a noose but couldn't figure it out. It fell apart in our hands."

"Any chance he left his room the night Gina died?" Morgan asked, the gears in her head turning rapidly.

"Checked with the hotel staff—no footage of him leaving. Chances are slim he's our guy."

"Damn it." The words slipped out, tinged with frustration. They were running out of time, and this lead was crumbling to dust.

Morgan's thumb lingered on the red button before she pocketed her phone, the digital conversation ended but the real one just beginning to unravel in her mind. Keen—a dead end. She exhaled sharply, the breath fogging the air of the sterile hallway. She had hoped for an easy solve; a neat package of motive and opportunity tied with the bow of forensic evidence. Instead, she had a drunk prosecutor and a knot that wouldn't hold.

She shook her head, clearing it of the cobwebs of frustration. Time wasted was a luxury she couldn't afford—not with a killer at large and the clock ticking down on FBI jurisdiction. The weight of the badge pressed against her chest, a constant reminder of duty and the promise to seek truth amidst chaos.

Pushing off the wall, Morgan strode back into the interrogation room. The door closed with a definitive click behind her—a sound that resonated with finality. Keen looked up, his bleary eyes searching hers for some hint of his fate. Despite his pitiable state, Morgan held onto a sliver of empathy. Desperate men were dangerous, yes, but not always guilty.

"Keen," she started, the name dropping like a stone in still water, "I've got good news and bad news. The good news is, you're probably too inept to have pulled this off."

His mouth opened, then closed, words failing him as he processed her blunt delivery. Morgan continued, unyielding.

"The bad news," she said, leaning forward with hands flat on the table, "is that while you've been drowning your sorrows, someone out there is making a mockery of justice—killing people who do what you can't seem to: win cases."

A flicker of anger crossed Keen's face, and for a moment, he seemed sobered by indignation rather than alcohol. Good. Anger could be useful—it could lead to slips, to truths unintentionally revealed.

"Who else knew about the rope, Keen? Who did you talk to about your little purchase?" Morgan demanded, her voice taut as a wire.

He shrugged, a sloppy gesture. "No one… no one knew.”

“Do you know anyone else in your field who may have bought it? Did someone recommend it to you?”

“No,” Keen slurred. “No, I was just… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Morgan sighed. Although she knew Daniel Keen was far from innocent—the physical violence against his wife being his biggest crime—she pitied him. In all honesty, right here was the best place for Daniel.

“Daniel, you assaulted a federal agent,” Morgan said. “We’re going to keep you here.”

“I never meant to hurt anyone,” Daniel muttered. “I just… when I’m drunk…”

"Actions have consequences, Daniel," Morgan cut him off. She was tired, too tired to babysit drunkards and lend them comforting words. She stood up, smoothing down her dark clothing. "It's time for you to sober up and face them."

Morgan left the room without another word. Although Daniel Keen would face what he’d done, the killer was still out there. She still had to link the two crimes together—she needed to look more into Elaine’s crime scene. Maybe there was something they’d missed.