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"Let's hopeso," Morgan replied, her voice low. "We're not just chasing a killer,Derik—we're racing against him."
When the sessionended, they had a sketch: a man with a crooked nose, deep-set eyes, and a gauntface. It wasn't much, but it was something tangible in a case built on shadowsand whispers. Morgan knew the next steps would unfold rapidly; the sketch wouldbe released to the public, and the city would become a sea of faces, each one apotential match to the one on paper.
"Let's getthis out there," she said, determination fueling her words. "Someoneknows him. And it's time we did too."
CHAPTER FIVE
Morgan leanedforward, her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the police sketch pinned to theilluminated board. The hollow-faced man with unkempt, curly hair seemed tosneer back at her from the paper, his features an enigma that held secretsMorgan was determined to untangle. She had been down these roads of shadows andsuspicions before, the dark ink on her skin a tapestry of her own complexhistory with crime and punishment.
"Gotyou," she muttered under her breath. Her fingers danced over the keyboard,inputting commands with a seasoned ease born from years of tracking down ghostsin the machine. Sarah Thompson's stalker—if that’s what he was—was about tobecome a name and a face she could hunt in flesh and blood.
The facialrecognition software churned through databases, lines of code cascading downmonitors in a hypnotic waterfall of green. Morgan's jaw set firmly, herpatience a thinning thread. Each second that ticked by was another where thestrangler could slip further into the abyss of the city.
Then, thecomputer beeped—a chorus to Morgan's silent prayer. The screen flickered,replacing the monotonous flow of data with a single image. Joe Wright. Hisphoto was a stark contrast to the sketch: less menacing perhaps but undeniablymore real. In his 40s, the man wore time on his face like a badge of dishonor,his eyes dull with hardships untold. He frequented the community center whereSarah had volunteered, his presence there as unremarkable as his disheveledappearance.
"JoeWright," Morgan's voice was a whisper, a signal flare launched into thedark caverns of her mind. She studied the photograph, memorizing the curve ofJoe's jaw, the archaic slump in his posture, the tired resignation etched intohis face. Was this the face of a killer? There was no certainty in his eyes,just the mundane weariness of a man who had seen better days dissolve into themire of life's cruelties.
Morgan printedout the photograph, the machine humming softly in the otherwise silent room. Asthe image slipped into her grasp, she felt the familiar surge of adrenaline.This was the lead they needed—the connection to the ground, the scent for thehounds to follow. She clenched the photo in her hand, its edges crinklingslightly under the pressure.
"Derik,"she called without turning, knowing her partner would be hovering close,"we've got a match." The urgency in her tone was enough to erase anylingering doubts; this was the break in the clouds they were desperate for.
"JoeWright," Derik echoed as he approached, peering at the photo now laid outbefore them.
Morgan's fingersdanced across the keyboard with a predator’s grace, tapping into databases thatharbored the darker truths of humanity. Joe Wright's file bloomed on thescreen, an electronic rap sheet that painted a grim portrait. Assault chargesleered back at her from years past, each one a sordid tale that ended withdropped charges and victims silenced by fear or frustration. The man hadn'theld a legitimate job in over a decade, his life's sustenance drawn from themeager teat of the welfare system.
"History ofassault," she muttered under her breath, the tattooed lines on her armsshifting with the tensing of her muscles. "Unemployed, getting by onscraps." The profile fit too well, like a knife sliding smoothly into awound. Morgan knew the type all too well—fringe dwellers who wore theirgrievances against the world like armor. In her mind, the hollow face from thesketch began to fill out with the flesh of possibility.
Joe Wright—he wasno longer just a sketch, but a man with a history that suggested violence livedclose to his heart. Could this be the connection they needed? The thoughttethered itself to her, heavy as the shackle she once wore around her ankle inprison. She had learned to recognize the scent of guilt; it was a stench thatnever quite washed away.
With the photoclutched tightly, a physical manifestation of a suspect profile, Morgan strodeinto the briefing room. It was time for confirmation, for reality to meet thesketches and suppositions head-on. Sarah's coworker—the anxious-looking manwith tired eyes—sat upright as Morgan entered, her gaze flicking up inanticipation.
"Take a lookat this," Morgan said, laying the photograph down before the coworker likea card dealer revealing a critical hand. Her voice was steady, but inside, theinferno of pursuit was being stoked into a blaze.
The coworker'sreaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, a hand flying to cover his mouth,and then a slow, definitive nod. "Yes, that's him. That's the man I sawlurking around Sarah."
"Are yousure?" Derik asked, his tone gentle but insistent. The weight of thesituation pressed upon them all.
"Positive,"the coworker whispered, his conviction slicing through the uncertainty.
Morgan exchangeda look with Derik, a silent conversation passing between them. This was it—theverification they required. Joe Wright had just solidified from a shadowyfigure into a tangible suspect, and the hunt took on a new ferocity. Theyneeded to move fast; every second wasted could mean the difference betweenjustice served or another victim's story ending in silent tragedy.
***
Morgan's grip onthe steering wheel was ironclad, her knuckles white beneath the cuffs of herdark leather jacket. The urgency of the manhunt thrummed through the car asthey navigated through the city's tangled arteries. Derik sat beside her, hisgreen eyes scanning the environment with a sharpness that betrayed no hint ofthe weariness she knew he fought. They were two hunters, laser-focused on thetrail of their prey.
The addressscribbled hastily on a sticky note stuck to the dashboard led them to aneighborhood where hope seemed to have packed up and left years ago. Thecommunity center, a place Sarah had poured her heart into, loomed in therearview mirror—a beacon of light in an otherwise dim world. But it was thesmall, ramshackle house just a stone's throw away that drew their attentionnow.
"Looks likethe kind of place you'd forget," Derik muttered as Morgan parked theunmarked sedan across the street. She didn't respond, her mind churning withthe profile of Joe Wright: unemployed, a history of violence, a life skirtingthe fringes of society. A strong suspect. Every detail from his file etchedinto her memory, stoking the coals of determination that had been ignited whenshe was wrongly accused and locked away years before.
They approachedthe faded front door, the wood peeling and the porch creaking underfoot like asigh. Morgan rapped sharply, the sound stark against the quiet desolation ofthe house. Moments passed, each one stretching out like the shadow cast by thesetting sun.
Then, a timidshuffle from inside, and the door cracked open ever so slightly. A pair ofwide, hollow eyes peered out at them. Joe Wright's face was as the policesketch had depicted, but seeing him in flesh was different—like the differencebetween reading about war and standing in its ruins. His curly hair was amatted tangle framing the gaunt cheeks, his posture hunched, his presenceexuding a disheveled shyness that almost contradicted the criminal recordMorgan had seared in her brain.
"JoeWright?" Morgan’s voice was steady, but not unkind. It was impossible forher not to remember that sometimes, the ones who looked most broken were simplylost, not dangerous.
"Y-yes?"His response was barely above a whisper, a tremor lacing his words.
Derik remainedsilent, allowing Morgan to take the lead. This was her element—sifting throughthe layers of a person, searching for truth amidst the façade. She could feelthe weight of the tattoos under her clothes, each one a scar from her past; areminder that appearances could be deceiving, that justice was never black andwhite.
