Page 68 of Not This Night

“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.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Rachel could still feel her adrenaline rushing where they now stood outside the coroner’s office, their discovery of the killer’s identity racing through her mind.

It was still only theory. Miguel hadn’t been seen.

But she had the scent now. She knew she was finally on the right trail.

Gravel crunched under Ethan's boots, his voice a low growl into the radio. "Suspect is Miguel Ortiz, mid-thirties, has a scar across his left cheek. Might be driving a red Ford F-150, license plate unknown." He glanced at Rachel, his brow furrowed with concern.

Rachel's hand gripped the car door handle, the metal cool and firm under her touch. She swung it open, the sound crisp in the morning air. "Ethan," she called, her tone clipped, "let's move."

He nodded, ending the transmission with a curt, "Morgan out."

Sliding behind the wheel, Rachel watched Ethan stride towards her, the lines of his face set in grim determination. In the driver's seat, her posture was straight, alert. The engine hummed to life beneath her fingertips.

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