CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Gravel crunched under the tires of the unmarked sedan as it pulled up to the coroner's office. Rachel Blackwood killed the engine, her hands tightening on the wheel. She glanced at her partner, Ethan Morgan, his profile stoic in the dimming light.

"Still no answer?" she asked, glancing at her phone for the umpteenth time.

"Nothing," Ethan confirmed, checking his own device with a frown. The silence from Dr. Simmons was getting under their skin.

With a huff, Rachel shoved open the car door and stepped out into the cooling Texas air. Ethan followed suit, his tall frame unfolding from the passenger side. They approached the building, eyes scanning for any sign of life.

It was nearly evening again. The return drive had taken an hour less than the GPS had estimated, but still, it galled Rachel to go to and from across the country.

But they needed the report—needed to establish the information regarding the only double homicide.

"Unbelievable," Rachel muttered, pacing before the darkened windows. Her gaze snapped to the parking lot—empty except for their lone vehicle. "It's like everyone just vanished."

"You… know it's the weekend, right?"

She blinked owlishly. "What?"

"Rae, it's Saturday," Ethan reminded her gently. "Office hours don't apply."

"Oh… yeah. Okay. Right." Rachel's jaw clenched. She knew the drill, yet the oversight spiked her irritation. Cases didn't pause for weekends. Neither did she.

"Let's go back to the station; we'll get the warrant first thing Monday morning," Ethan suggested, his voice calm, always trying to be the level-headed one.

"The evidence won't wait for paperwork, Ethan." Rachel's voice carried an edge, her piercing eyes reflecting a steely resolve. "We need answers now."

Rachel strode to the front entrance, her boots crunching on the gravel. The glass doors loomed, reflecting their frustrated images in the twilight. She rattled the handle—locked. Her nostrils flared as she scanned the perimeter for another way in.

"Damn it," she spat out. Ethan stood a few paces behind, watching her with an uneasy expression.

"Maybe we should—" he started, but Rachel cut him off.

"Help me up to that window," she said, pointing to a small opening high above them. It was a long shot, but Rachel's mind buzzed with the need to push forward.

"Rae, that's breaking and entering," Ethan protested, his voice laced with both concern and caution.

"Then consider it entering to create a break in the case," she retorted without missing a beat.

Ethan sighed, recognizing the unyielding tide that was Rachel Blackwood on the trail of a predator. He interlaced his fingers, offering them as a step. With a determined grunt, Rachel placed her boot in his hands and hoisted herself up. Her fingers gripped the cold window ledge, muscles tensing as she pulled.

"Careful," Ethan murmured from below, his hands steady, ready to support her or catch her fall.

Rachel grunted back, dangling precariously as she tried to leverage herself higher. Her breaths came out in short bursts, fogging the air as dusk settled around them. Every second counted.

She wouldn't wait. Not now. Time was slipping.

Ethan gave a final boost, propelling her upward until she could peek through the dusty pane into the dim interior of the coroner's office.

Rachel's fingers clenched around the window's edge, her boots scraping against the brick as she pushed and shoved. The stubborn frame wouldn't budge—an unanticipated adversary in an already fraught night.

"Damn it," she hissed between gritted teeth, giving the window one last aggressive rattle. It remained sealed, mocking her efforts with its immobility.

"Anything?" Ethan called up from below, a hint of worry threading through his otherwise calm demeanor.

"Jammed tight," Rachel replied, her voice edged with frustration.

Ethan frowned, thoughts racing for another way in. But Rachel was already descending, her movements brusque and urgent. Her boots hit the ground with a thud that echoed her mounting impatience.

"Let's circle—" Her words cut short as the sharp buzz of her phone broke the silence. She snatched it from her belt, eyes scanning the screen.

"Simmons," she muttered, thumbing the message open.

"Can't make it tonight. Family event. Will be in first thing tomorrow. - Dr. S"

"Tomorrow?" Rachel's voice spiked, disbelief and anger warring for dominance. "He picks now for family time?"

"Rae," Ethan started, but she was already typing a response, her thumbs a blur of motion.

"Unacceptable. This is urgent." She hit send, the blue bubble of her text floating in the digital void.

"Maybe he'll reconsider," Ethan offered, though the uncertainty in his voice suggested he didn't believe it any more than she did.

"Maybe pigs will fly," Rachel snapped, shoving the device back onto her belt. Her mind raced, every second wasted gnawing at her resolve like acid.

Muscles tense, Rachel scanned the area, her eyes locking onto a hefty rock nestled under the gnarled branches of a live oak. With swift strides, she closed the distance, snatching the rough stone in one fluid motion.

"Rae, hold on," Ethan's voice came from behind, tinged with caution. "We can't just—"

"Can't what, wait for Simmons to finish his pot roast?" Her words were clipped, sharp as flint.

The glass door loomed before them. Rachel's heart drummed a warrior's rhythm against her ribs. There was no turning back now. She hefted the rock, feeling its weight, solid and real in her hands.

Ethan stepped closer, his tone a mix of plea and reprimand. "Dammit, Rachel, slipping a window is one thing, but this is—"

Before Ethan could object further, Rachel swung the rock. The crash of shattering glass cut through the night, shards cascading like crystal rain. An alarm began to blare.

"Darn it, Rae." Ethan's whisper barely reached her over the ringing in her ears.

"Help me clear this," she commanded, already pulling away the jagged edges with gloved hands. The cool night air rushed through the newly formed breach, carrying with it the sterile scent of antiseptic and death.

"Fine," Ethan grumbled, stepping forward to assist. "But we're gonna have one hell of a report to write after this."

Rachel didn't respond. All that mattered was the path forward—the search for a killer that had just taken an unexpected detour through a broken doorway.

Ethan's footsteps echoed Rachel's as they crossed the threshold, glass crunching under their boots. His brow furrowed, a silent question about the path they'd just taken. She knew it was wrong, but necessary. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow on the stainless steel that lined the morgue's interior.

"Rae, if we're caught—" he started.

"We won't be," she cut him off, her voice laced with iron.

Rachel strode forward, every step purposeful. They passed empty gurneys and closed office doors, the hum of refrigeration units growing louder as they approached the core of the coroner's sanctum. Her heart thumped, not from fear, but from the anticipation of what lay beyond the steel doors of the refrigerator compartments.

She paused, glancing back at Ethan. His eyes met hers, a tumult of concern and commitment within them.

The cold metal handle chilled her palm as she pulled open the first door. A rush of frigid air escaped, carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of death. Inside, a body lay shrouded in white—a still, pale form that once breathed, laughed, lived. Lucy Thompson.

"Lucy," Rachel murmured, acknowledging the victim with a solemn nod.

Ethan stood by her side, his face a mask of professional detachment, but his eyes betrayed a hint of that unembarrassed empathy that Rachel and grown to appreciate in her tall partner.

Moving to the next, Rachel gripped the handle and braced herself. The door swung open to reveal another body, this one larger, more imposing even in repose. Miguel Ortiz.

"Damn," Ethan exhaled, the single word heavy with implication.

Rachel leaned in closer, the harsh overhead light casting deep shadows over the body's features. Something gnawed at her gut—a detail out of place. She squinted, scrutinizing the corpse of Miguel Ortiz.

This was why they'd come all this way. It had been nagging at her since they'd left…

The thought she'd had about Scott Hawkeye. He'd burned, and briefly she'd wondered if perhaps the body had been a decoy. If Scott had escaped.

But she'd missed the obvious. The charred remains of Scott… His face obscured.

The same with Miguel, though. She hadn't received a confirmation of his identity. It was a simple request. A necessary one.

And she couldn't wait until Saturday.

She pulled the gurney from inside the compartment, scanning the scars on the cold skin. So many cuts… the violence had been rageful.

But postmortem. That's what the coroner had said… No, no quite. In Lucy's case postmortem. But in Miguel's case? He died horribly.

She scanned the roots of his hair. Dark.

Her eyes moved towards his fingernails… no defensive marks on his hands. No blood under his fingernails. He'd been struck hard.

She scanned the body meticulously, cataloguing each mark. "Did Miguel have any tattoos?" she asked.

"Unknown."

She frowned, checking his forearms. His wrists. His legs…

Nothing.

Rolled down the collar. Rolled up the pant legs. More cuts.

She grimaced at the gaping flesh.

She reached down, carefully rolling back the stiff cuff of the body's shirt, exposing the wrist. A faint blue ink peeked from beneath the pale, lifeless skin.

"Bingo," she whispered.

"Here," she called Ethan over with a jerk of her head, her pulse quickening.

He stepped closer, peering down at the small mark—a tattoo, no bigger than a quarter.

"Significance?"

"I don't know," She murmured. "Any photos of Miguel with this tattoo?"

"I can check…" he trailed off, frowning.

"What is it?"

He leaned in, staring at the tattoo. It was of a clock. A simple clock with the twelve numbers circling the face.

"Hang on," Ethan whispered.

"What's that?"

"This… tattoo."

"You know it?"

"It's a prison tattoo. See? Clock with no hands. It means he did time."

Rachel paused now, frowning. "Miguel didn't do time, did he?"

"Not that I saw."

"A wannabe gangster?"

"Did he seem like that… you saw his house."

"No, he didn't," Rachel admitted, a rising sense of unease mingling with her frustration. The dimly lit morgue seemed to close in around them, the hum of the refrigeration units a haunting undertone to their revelations.

She fixed her gaze back on the body, her mind racing. She had worked enough cases involving gang members, and more than once had she seen prison tattoos inked on their bodies. A secret language, hidden in plain sight.

She ran her gloved fingers over the soft flesh of the man's inner wrist again, tracing the blue outlines of the clock tattoo. A symbol of time served, but did it also hold another meaning?

"Check his records," she ordered Ethan, her tone sharp and unyielding as she refocused on her task. "Please," she added, simply because it was Ethan.

"Alright," he muttered, pulling out his phone and beginning to type swiftly. His brows furrowed in concentration as he navigated through law enforcement databases.

Meanwhile, Rachel continued her meticulous examination of the body before her. Her trained eye caught every bruise, every cut, and every scar that marred its skin—but no other tattoos.

"It's not him," Ethan declared with a shaky exhale. "Like I said. Miguel served no time. It's not him. And see, here?" He held up an online photo of Miguel standing next to Lucy, both of them on a boat somewhere, smiling happily.

Miguel's forearm was displayed.

"That's not a new tattoo," Ethan said.

"What do you mean?" Rachel asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I mean, tattoo ink fades, right? This clock is clearly faded, probably a decade or more old. Unlike mine—" In his enthusiasm to explain, Ethan lifted his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a single feather.

Rachel blinked, and Ethan caught her expression, suddenly freezing as his brain caught up with what his hands had done.

"It's–erm–the ink, I mean. See how it's darker? Cleaner on the edges too…" Ethan's voice drifted as he looked between his exposed tattoo and Rachel, expectation and anxiety clear on his guileless face.

"It's a hawk feather," Rachel said softly, just a little stunned at the beautifully rendered design on her partner's arm.

"It is." Ethan smiled and in the dim light his cheeks began to blush. He let out a nervous chuckle as he let out a quiet cough to clear his throat. "It's like the one in your hat."

Rachel nodded. She felt a flicker of amusement at his suddenly embarrassed expression.

"I thought you might… you know, like it," Ethan added.

"Really?" Rachel felt a smile creeping on her mouth now too. "Any particular reason you got this design?"

Ethan mumbled something, shaking his head, looking truly embarrassed now. She took a brief moment to give him a wink. "It's okay, Ethan. Really. Cool tattoo."

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes, both smiling a little awkwardly, both silent, but neither one really minding. And then the two of them took a quick breath, letting out soft laughs and looking away from each other as if some spell had just been broken, freeing them to refocus on the task at hand.

"Miguel has no tattoos," Rachel said, shaking out her hair and taking a quick breath. "And like you said, he couldn't have gotten it recently. This tattoo is old."

"Right… so… who the hell is this?"

Rachel scowled, feeling troubled now. Then, suddenly, it clicked. her eyes widened, and she took an actual step back.

"What is it?"

"Miguel didn't spend time in prison… but Charlie did."

"Our suspect?"

"Yeah. Look up his prison records. Any photos of tattoos."

Ethan nodded hurriedly.

He started typing, his face illuminated by the glow of the screen. The suspense settled like a heavy fog into the sterile cold of the morgue.

"They're not exactly prison records," Ethan muttered after a minute, "But I've found his arrest records."

Rachel leaned over, her gaze fixed on the screen. There were photos: mug shots, profile shots. A younger Charlie staring defiantly into the camera, his eyes hard beneath a mop of dark hair. His file was thick with reports detailing petty crimes and aggravated assault charges.

"Go to his body shots," she instructed tersely.

Ethan scrolled down and clicked open another file with a sense of trepidation, revealing the full-body shots taken at the time of Charlie's arrest. The man's figure was splayed out for inspection, every mark on him documented for posterity.

"Ethan," Rachel breathed, pointing at the screen. There on Charlie's wrist, plain as day, was the exact same clock tattoo they had just found on the corpse in front of them.

Rachel felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. They had been chasing the wrong man all along.

"Charlie isn't our killer," she concluded quietly. "He's our victim."

There were no words as they both sank back in stunned realization. The silence echoed ominously around them, broken only by the hum of the refrigerators and their own ragged breaths.

For once, Rachel felt lost. She looked at Ethan; his face mirrored her own shock and disbelief.

"So… who is the killer, then?" Ethan whispered.

"Think about it. Who's missing? Who's the one person with a connection to all the victims?"

Ethan and Rachel held each others' gaze, and then both spoke simultaneously.

"Miguel."