Page 14 of For Silence

"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.

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