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"Hey, Morgan. Just wanted to let you know that Sam's alibi checked out. He's not our guy. The cops are taking him in for the illegal bird deals, though."
"Thanks for the update, Derik," Morgan replied, her mind racing with possibilities. "I just found out from Marsha that the feather we found on Melissa's hair is from a rare Brazilian parrot. We need to figure out how the killer could've accessed such an exotic bird."
"Agreed," Derik said, his voice steady. "We should explore all angles. Maybe start by talking to someone who knows more about these birds."
"Alright, Derik, I'll let you handle Sam. In the meantime, I'm going to see if there are any exotic bird shelters or experts in the area. Maybe someone here knows something about these rare parrots." Morgan's voice was firm and resolute, her eyes flickering with determination.
"Good luck, Morgan. Keep me posted on what you find," Derik replied before ending the call.
Morgan put her phone back into her pocket and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the investigation on her shoulders. This was no ordinary case; the strange circumstances surrounding Melissa's murder demanded answers, and she wouldn't rest until she found them.
She walked through the bustling FBI headquarters, her mind racing with thoughts as she passed by other agents, focused on their own cases. The scent of fresh coffee drifted from the break room, mixing with the ever-present smell of ink and paper. She could hear the distant hum of printers and photocopiers, the tapping of keyboard keys, and the low murmur of voices discussing leads.
But despite the cacophony, Morgan remained singularly focused on the task at hand – finding out more about the mysterious Brazilian parrot and its possible connection to Melissa's killer. As she made her way to her office, she couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of unease. Was someone watching her? Was it Thomas playing games, or perhaps her fractured psyche playing tricks on her?
She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Now wasn't the time for distractions.
Morgan found her way to her office, grateful for the solitude. Sitting down at her desk, she opened her computer and started searching for local exotic bird shelters and avian experts. Her fingers flew across the keys, her eyes scanning the screen for any promising leads.
"Come on, there has to be someone who knows about these birds," she muttered under her breath, her frustration mounting as she sifted through pages of search results.
But then, a small glimmer of hope appeared – an article about a nearby wildlife sanctuary that specialized in exotic bird rehabilitation.
"Gotcha," she whispered to herself, her pulse quickening.
Morgan quickly jotted down the address and phone number of the sanctuary before grabbing her things and rushing out of the office. She made her way to the parking lot, her mind racing with anticipation. The wildlife sanctuary might be the break she needed to solve the case and catch Melissa's killer.
As she drove to the sanctuary, Morgan couldn't help but think about the rare Brazilian parrot. She wondered how someone could have gotten their hands on such a bird, and what connection it had to Melissa's murder. She knew she had to be careful and tread carefully. Whoever killed Melissa was dangerous and unpredictable.
Thomas snuck back into Morgan's mind. He was also dangerous and unpredictable, and Morgan had no hope of controlling him. But this case--she could get ahead of it. She could find the killer and stop him. Whatever message he was trying to send, she would decipher and prove to him that he wasn't nearly as clever as he thought he was.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dimly-lit room was a macabre symphony of meticulously arranged bird carcasses, their glassy eyes fixed in eternal vigilance. He moved among them with the grace and precision of a maestro conducting his orchestra. He reached out to stroke the lifeless head of a magnificent emerald-feathered parrot, its vibrant colors still as vivid as they had been in life.
"Ah, my dear friend," he whispered, plucking a single green feather from the bird's cold body. "You're exquisite, but I need someone special to match your splendor." He held the feather up to the light, admiring its iridescent sheen. Turning his attention to another display, he approached a small brown bird. There was something endearing about its simplicity, an understated elegance that called to him. He plucked a brown feather from it and sighed. "And you too... You deserve a counterpart."
He walked over to his desk, covered in notes and photographs, and placed the feathers next to an already sizable collection. They didn't know what he was planning; they couldn't possibly understand his vision. He ached to complete his nest, but the subjects he'd chosen lately hadn't satisfied his exacting criteria.
"Patience," he murmured to himself, thinking back to the woman he'd left in the alleyway. "She wasn't the one. An honest mistake." But his careless disposal had attracted unwanted attention. The FBI was on his trail now, and he couldn't afford any more mistakes. He needed just one more – one more perfect specimen to match the feathers he'd selected.
A sinister grin spread across the man's face as he considered the trail of feathers he would leave behind. He imagined FBI agents examining the scene, puzzled by the colorful plumage left with each discarded subject. Would they appreciate the beauty? he mused. Will they ever understand?
"Please," he whispered to his avian companions, "bring me someone who understands." The man let out a bitter laugh, knowing that, ultimately, the only understanding that mattered was his own.
Pacing back and forth in his dimly lit sanctuary, he struggled to focus. There was only room for one more addition in his nest, and it had to be perfect. The red-haired woman had seemed so promising, but when he looked into her eyes, he realized she was just like the others. Ordinary. Unworthy.
"Damn it!" he cursed, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Dallas is filled with people, yet finding that special one... it's like searching for a needle in a haystack."
The man paused, taking a deep breath and steadying himself. His obsession with perfection was both his greatest strength and his most crippling weakness. It had driven him to create this collection, but it also threatened to consume him.
Enough! he commanded himself, shaking off his doubts. I didn't come this far to fail now. Somewhere in this city, there's a soul that matches these feathers, someone who will complete my masterpiece.
His determination renewed, the man strode purposefully across the room, stopping before his favorite bird – a resplendent parrot with vibrant green and brown plumes. Its glassy eyes seemed to bore into his soul, challenging him to rise above his insecurities and claim the prize that was rightfully his.
"Thank you," he whispered, tracing a finger along the curve of the parrot's beak. "I won't let you down."
CHAPTER NINE
