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"Wha—how?" Chet stammered, confusion clouding his handsome features.
"Listen," Morgan said, her eyes sweeping the room and noting the ears that had perked up at the mention of the FBI. "Can we go somewhere more private to talk?"
"Uh, sure," Chet acquiesced, though reluctance weighed down his words. He gestured for her to follow him through a door behind the bar, the macaw squawking insistently as they passed.
Once inside the small, dimly lit backroom, Morgan eyed the bird suspiciously. "What kind of parrot is that, exactly?"
"Actually, it's a macaw," Chet corrected her, a hint of pride warming his voice. "But I get why people might think it's a parrot, what with the name of the bar and all. It's not my place, I'm just the bartender."
Morgan nodded thoughtfully, images of Melissa's lifeless body flashing through her mind. She clenched her fists to keep her emotions in check, reminding herself that she needed answers, not vengeance.
Morgan forced herself to focus, banishing the macaw's squawks and Chet's concern from her thoughts. "Do you know a woman named Melissa Grayson?" she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
"Melissa?" Chet's eyes widened as he recognized the name. "Yeah, she's a regular here. Bit of an oddball, but harmless... is everything okay?"
"Tell me about the last time you saw her," Morgan pressed, her dark eyes fixed on his face, searching for any sign of deception.
Chet scratched his chin thoughtfully, his expression troubled. "I dunno, maybe three days ago? She comes in pretty often. Is Melissa okay?"
"I'll get to that," Morgan said. "Did you notice anything... different about her that day?" she probed, hoping for a clue to work with.
"Nothing too out of the ordinary," Chet admitted, raking a hand through his tousled hair. "Though I've been getting the feeling she's got a crush on me." He grimaced, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I'm thirty-eight, so it's not like we have much in common. Plus, I've been seeing... someone else."
"Chet," Morgan said softly, steeling herself for what came next, "Melissa was found dead this morning. Murdered."
The color drained from Chet's face, leaving him pale and shaken.
Morgan watched him closely, looking for any sign of guilt or panic. But he appeared genuinely shocked and horrified by the news.
"Murdered?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Oh my god. That's terrible. How did it happen?"
Morgan hesitated, not wanting to give away too much information just yet. "We're still investigating," she said carefully. "But there was a feather found in her hair that matches the color of that bird out there."
Chet's eyes widened in shock. "You think I had something to do with this?"
"We're just trying to piece together what happened," Morgan reassured him, her voice gentle. By all accounts, Chet didn't seem like a murderer. But most murderers were good at flying under the radar.
Morgan went into her phone and opened up some of the evidence photos she had. She showed a clear image of the feather found at the crime scene.
"If it's no problem," Morgan said, "I'd like to see a feather from that bird you have out there."
Chet swallowed hard before nodding slowly. "Sure, yeah, of course," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let me just grab him."
Morgan watched carefully as Chet went back out into the main area of the bar, picked up the bird on his arm, then came back into the room with the squawking macaw perched on his forearm. The bird seemed agitated, repeating "Morgan Cross, FBI" in a high-pitched voice as it eyed Morgan suspiciously.
"Sorry buddy, this won't hurt," Chet murmured to the bird, carefully plucking a single feather from its wing. The macaw let out an indignant squawk and flapped away, landing on a nearby shelf.
Chet approached the table where Morgan had laid out the photograph of the feather found at the crime scene. He placed the newly plucked feather next to it, and they both leaned in for a closer look.
Morgan examined the feathers closely, comparing the two side by side. They looked remarkably similar, but there were slight differences. The feather from the bar had a bit more of a curve to it, while the one from the crime scene was straighter. Morgan wondered if it was possible that the feathers didn't match, or if the differences were too insignificant to rule Chet out as a suspect.
But the closer she looked, the more she saw it: they were just too different to be from the same bird.
"See?" Chet said, a note of desperation in his voice, "The shapes are totally different. It couldn't have come from my macaw."
Morgan studied the two feathers. As much as she'd hoped to find a solid connection here, she had to admit he was right. The shape and curvature were distinctly different – they simply weren't from the same bird. A frustrated sigh escaped her lips as another lead seemed to slip through her fingers.
"Listen," Chet began, his gaze fixed on Morgan's face, "I didn't have anything to do with Melissa's death. I swear. In fact," he hesitated, then continued, "I was with my boyfriend last night. There was really no reason for me to be interested in her like that."
