CHAPTER SIX

Morgan slumped deeper into the worn leather chair, the case files spread across the briefing room table like a fan of grim tarot cards. Derik leaned against the wall, his green eyes shadowed with fatigue. It was well past midnight, and the fluorescent lights hummed a lullaby for the weary.

"Elaine was hit with a rock—" she began, tapping a finger on the coroner's photos, "—in her own neighborhood. Gina, choked out on a sidewalk." Morgan's voice trailed off, but her brain raced forward. Two women, two sidewalks, two sentences cut short. “There has to be something to link these cases.”

Morgan's fingers danced through the scattered evidence photos and reports sprawled across the metal table, her eyes sharp. The sterile light of the briefing room accentuated the bags under Derik's weary gaze as he watched her sift through the remnants of Elaine Harrow’s final moments.

"Wait," she murmured, pausing on a photo glossed with the grim hue of the crime scene flash. A speck of white clung to the edge of the rust-red pool where Elaine's life had ebbed away—a stark contrast that seemed almost deliberate.

"Derik, did you see this?" Morgan's voice cut through the silence, urgent yet controlled.

He leaned in, squinting at the image. "It's fluff. Forensics tagged it as debris from the neighborhood kids."

"Did they now?" Her tone was laced with skepticism. She flipped through the folder for Gina's case, extracting another photo—the of fabric Morgan had found nearby. It was such an inconsequential detail that it could be easily dismissed. “What if the fabric I found earlier is connected?”

“I mean, that looked different,” Derik argued. “It wasn’t fluff. I read the report, they think the fluff just blew in and is not related.”

“Yes, but…” Morgan trailed off, wondering if she was really grasping at straws here. “I don’t know. We still don’t have the report on the fabric from Gina’s scene. Let’s go down to the lab, see what they can tell us.”

Their footsteps echoed on the polished concrete as they moved through the deserted FBI corridors, the stillness of the night pressing down on them. Morgan could see Derik's mind working, whirling with possibilities. She could tell he wasn’t convinced these cases were connected, but she appreciated him taking her side on this either way.

They reached the forensics lab's frosted glass door, and Morgan didn't hesitate, pushing it open with a force that matched the thrumming pulse at her temples.

"Harriet," she called out, scanning the room for the forensic tech. The hum of machinery was punctuated by the click of keyboards and the occasional murmur of technicians lost in their analyses, working overtime; the forensics department was the secret backbone of the FBI, often working far after hours to gather forensic information vital for agents to know during the regular working hours. Morgan had always been grateful to them.

A head popped up from behind a microscope, framed by wild curls. "Agent Cross," Harriet greeted, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. "I was just about to call you—"

"Show me," Morgan cut in, the impatience clear in her voice as she approached Harriet's workstation, Derik trailing behind.

Harriet gestured to the slide under her microscope. "The fabric you brought in from Gina Bellwood's scene—it's peculiar. So, initially, I thought we were looking at typical clothing material. But these fibers here," she pointed with a precision tool to the magnified image on her screen, "are indicative of something else entirely."

"Something else?" Morgan prompted, her arms folded across her chest, the ink from her tattoos seemingly pulsating with her rising pulse.

"Right. Small, synthetic, consistent with what you'd find in a child's plaything. Specifically," Harriet paused for effect, "a stuffed animal or similar object."

Morgan's breath hitched imperceptibly, her mind racing back to Elaine Harrows' case file. The fluff found there, innocuous as it had seemed, took on a new, sinister significance. "We found something like that at Elaine's scene too," she said, her voice a low growl of realization.

"Seriously?" Harriet seemed momentarily taken aback by the revelation.

"Yes," Morgan affirmed, with a gravity that left no room for doubt. She leaned closer to Harriet, her gaze piercing. "I need you to compare both samples, right down to the microfiber. We have to know if they came from the same object."

"Will do, Agent Cross." Harriet nodded with renewed vigor. She understood the implications as well as Morgan did—if these fibers matched, they were looking at a signature element of a serial killer's MO.

"Keep me posted, the minute you have something," Morgan instructed, turning to leave, the shadows of the lab seeming to press in around her.

"Absolutely," Harriet replied, already absorbed in the process, her hands deftly preparing the samples for comparative analysis.

***

Morgan paced the length of the briefing room, her dark eyes locked onto the fiber evidence photos pinned across the whiteboard. Each step was measured, a physical manifestation of the mental gears churning relentlessly in her mind. Derik stood nearby, his posture stiff with anticipation. Across from them, Assistant Director Mueller perched on the edge of the table, an immovable bastion of authority.

"Explain," Mueller's voice broke the heavy silence, his tone commanding yet expectant.

"Two women, both defense attorneys, both dead," Morgan began, her words crisp as she pointed to the images of Gina Bellwood and Elaine Harrows. "Different methods of killing, but the same twisted signature—items related to their previous cases used to murder them.”

"Coincidence isn't your style, Agent Cross," Mueller observed, his scrutinizing gaze never wavering.

"No, it's not," Morgan conceded, turning to the crucial piece of evidence. She tapped a finger on the enlarged photo of the fluff—a seemingly innocuous detail that had been the key to linking the murders. "Teddy bear fibers found at each crime scene, confirmed by forensics to originate from the same object."

Derik chimed in, "It's like the killer's leaving a calling card, only it's subtle, easy to overlook."

Mueller leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. "And because of this, you're certain this is the work of a serial killer?"

"Without a doubt," Morgan affirmed. "This is orchestrated, deliberate. He's targeting these women because of what they represent to him—not just for what they've done."

Mueller's expression shifted; the slightest upward twitch of his lips signaled a rare approval. "Impressive work," he said, standing tall, his presence filling the room. "You two have managed to connect the dots where others saw only random points."

"Thank you, sir," Derik replied, relief evident in his tone.

Mueller's nod was curt, businesslike. "This gives us the grounds we need. You’re right—we have a serial killer at large." His voice hardened with the gravity of their task. "Find him before he takes another life. We can't afford to let this predator roam free any longer."

"Understood, sir," Morgan responded, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders like a mantle. Her mind raced with strategies and next moves, the hunt now officially sanctioned and more pressing than ever.

"Time is of the essence," Mueller added, his steady gaze locking onto Morgan's. "I expect regular updates. Stay sharp, agents."

As Mueller exited the room, his footsteps echoing a silent urgency, Morgan turned to Derik. "We've got the green light, and now it's a race against the clock," she stated, determination etched into every syllable.

Morgan hunched over the stark whiteboard, scrawling notes with a fervor that betrayed her inner turmoil. Beside her, Derik watched, his own countenance grave as they confronted the task ahead. "We need to alert them," she said curtly, tapping the marker against the list of potential targets—women in law who might as well have bulls-eyes painted on their backs.

"Agreed." Derik stepped closer, his green eyes scanning the names. "A media release is risky, but necessary."

"Exactly." Morgan's voice was clipped, efficient. "It'll scare people, but better scared than dead." She capped the marker with a decisive snap and turned to him. Their gazes locked, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of the situation.

"Let's draft it. We'll need to be careful with our wording, cautious not to incite unnecessary panic," Derik suggested, reaching for a laptop.

"Keep it factual. Stick to the evidence we have." Morgan leaned in, her tattoos shifting with the movement of her muscles, a vivid contrast to the sterile environment of the FBI office.

"I'll handle the press release," he assured her, placing a steady hand on her shoulder. "You focus on coming up with a profile.”

"Thanks, Derik," Morgan replied, the burden lightening ever so slightly at his words. She watched him go, the set of his shoulders telling her he felt the weight of their mission just as heavily.

Alone now, Morgan allowed herself a moment to breathe, her gaze resting on the empty chair where Mueller had been. Gratitude mingled with a relentless drive; she had linked the cases, a victory in its own right. Yet the taste of success was bitter, laced with the knowledge that somewhere out there, a killer prowled the streets of Dallas.

Her dark eyes flickered to the board where the names of Gina and Elaine stood out starkly against the white. It was for them she fought, for justice that seemed elusive in the creeping darkness of the city. The game was afoot, and Morgan was no stranger to the hunt.

"Time to get to work," she murmured to the silence, rolling her sleeves up past the ink that adorned her arms—the marks of her past, her pain, and her unwavering resolve. This was no win, not yet. But it was a start, and Morgan would follow it to the end, wherever it led, whatever the cost.

First thing was first—she needed to build a psychological profile based on what they knew. They knew he was targeting women in law. He knew they were defense lawyers, and he was killing them the same as some of her clients had been accused of. There was clearly some sort of justice—or revenge—there, but not connected to the actual cases themselves.

And the teddy bear fibers… what could they mean?

Had the killer lost a child, perhaps?

And how did that play into the victims he chose?

As the questions swirled, Morgan forced herself to slow down, drawing on every psychological profiling technique she'd honed over years of experience. These were more than crimes; they were statements, a chilling narrative woven through each victim's fate.

Gina Bellwood. Elaine Harrows. Both career women, young, successful.

Why had the killer chosen them?

And more importantly, who would he choose next?