Page 15 of For Silence

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.

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.

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