Page 40 of For Silence

Caldwell leaned back, a veneer of nonchalance failing to mask the quickening pulse at his throat. He met Morgan's eyes, his own glinting with a mix of defiance and fear. "This is going nowhere," he sighed, "I've told you what I know. Now, if we're done here, I'd like my attorney."

"Sure, Henry," Derik chimed in, standing up with Morgan. "We're all about due process. But remember, this isn't looking good for you."

"Is that supposed to scare me, Agent Greene?" Caldwell countered, but there was an unmistakable tremor in his voice.

"Let's go, Derik," Morgan cut in before the journalist could say more. She didn't want to give him any more ground than he'd already tried to claim.

They left Caldwell sitting there, alone with the weight of suspicion hanging heavily upon him. The door shut with an authoritative thud that seemed to echo along the quiet hallway outside the interrogation room.

Morgan and Derik found Assistant Director Mueller waiting, his expression unreadable. "Well?" he asked, his voice carrying an expectation of results.

"His alibi is weak—nonexistent," Morgan reported, crossing her arms. "He knows the victims, wrote about them, and yes, he wanted a lawyer the moment we pressed him."

"Classic signs of consciousness of guilt," Mueller noted, nodding slowly. "The guy's got the same mindset as our killer. Obsessed with justice, or his twisted version of it. Plus, he had access to the stationery used in the note sent to us."

"Seems too neat," Morgan muttered, but she kept that doubt to herself. Mueller was already convinced they had their man, and Derik... well, Derik hoped for a resolution as much as anyone.

Mueller placed a firm hand on Morgan's shoulder, his grip almost reassuring. "You've both done good work today. He fits the profile, has the motive. It's only a matter of time before he cracks."

"Or lawyers up and shuts down," Morgan thought but held her tongue. She exchanged a glance with Derik, who offered a faint, weary smile.

"Let's wrap it up for now," Mueller decided, giving them a dismissive nod. "Resume first thing tomorrow. We'll get him."

Morgan’s gaze lingered on the interrogation room as Mueller's words echoed in her mind. The teddy bears—the incongruent detail that gnawed at her. Henry Caldwell, with his vehement tirades against the justice system and his knowledge of the victims, fit parts of the profile. But those childlike tokens of innocence? They seemed to speak a different language.

"Agent Cross," Mueller's stern voice cut through her reverie, pulling her back to the dim corridor. "Let it go for tonight."

She turned, facing him squarely, her dark eyes betraying her unrest. "And if he isn't our guy?" Morgan challenged. Her tattoos, usually symbols of her resilience, seemed to itch with the tension of the unresolved case.

Mueller, tall and unyielding as ever, met her stare. "We will find out," he assured her, but his certainty was not contagious. "But you've been running on fumes. Take a break."

Derik stepped closer, his green eyes softening in the fluorescents. "He's right, Morgan. We'll come back fresh."

"Sure," she muttered, though doubt clung to her like shadows as they moved toward the elevators.

"Go home, Agent Cross," Mueller commanded before turning away, his figure receding into the maze of the FBI headquarters.

Morgan's steps echoed hollowly as she broke away from Derik, the weight of the unsolved mystery urging her feet forward. She needed space—to think, to breathe. The city air was crisp as she pushed through the revolving doors, the night sprawling before her like a dark canvas.

Her mind raced, piecing together the fragments of evidence, replaying Caldwell's reactions, his denials. Yet, amid the cacophony of facts, the teddy bear detail whispered insistently. Henry had no children, no tangible sorrow to manifest in such trinkets. Why then?

***

Morgan's living room was steeped in tension, the only sound Skunk's rhythmic breathing as he lay sprawled on the cool hardwood floor. Morgan and Derik sat opposite each other, two figures carved from the same stone of determination, yet etched with different lines of thought.

"Lawyered up fast," Derik noted, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "Henry Caldwell’s silence is screaming guilt."

"Or fear," Morgan countered, her gaze lost in the dance of shadows thrown by the flickering candlelight. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, her dark eyes reflecting an internal struggle. "Caldwell's alibi is Swiss cheese – full of holes but not quite satisfying."

"Come on, Morgan," Derik said, trying to infuse some warmth into the chill that had settled between them. "We've got him. The guy writes about corruption, lives it, breathes it. He can't prove where he was the past two nights, and now he won't talk without his lawyer. That's not innocence; that's strategy."

She shook her head, a strand of dark hair falling across her face. "It doesn't sit right." Her fingers traced the intricate ink on her arm, a tactile reminder of past battles, both personal and professional. "The teddy bear parts... Henry has no kids. No nieces, no nephews. It’s too personal for him, too random."

"Maybe it's symbolic," Derik offered, but his words hung uncertainly in the air, like mist over a morning field.

"Symbolic?" Morgan scoffed lightly, despite the gravity of their conversation. "A grown man leaving behind fragments of a child's toy at murder scenes? We're missing something."

Derik sighed, leaning back against the worn leather of the couch. "You're the smartest agent I know, Morgan. If you think there's more to it, then there probably is." His green eyes held hers, a silent pledge of trust and support. "But for now, we caught the guy who's been killing these women. That's a win, isn't it?"

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