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Skipper's hollow eyes pleaded with her, desperation etched into his gaunt face. Morgan knew she had to tread carefully, to dig deeper without pushing him too far. The truth was tantalizingly close – she just needed to find the right path to uncover it.
A knock on the door interrupted their heated discussion. Morgan and Derik exchanged glances before stepping out into the hallway, leaving Skipper alone in the interrogation room.
"Agents Cross and Greene," began the cop, his expression tense. "We searched Beverly McBridge's house thoroughly, but we didn't find any tools that could've been used to remove her teeth."
Morgan felt a flicker of doubt begin to smolder as she processed this new information. She glanced sidelong at Derik, whose brow was furrowed in frustration.
"See?" Morgan said, her voice firm yet cautious. "How could Skipper have done the job without the tools? He's a frail crack addict, not a skilled surgeon."
Derik clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. "Are you seriously suggesting we let him walk, Morgan?"
"No," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I'm suggesting that we're missing something here. We hold him, but we need more evidence before we can call him the killer."
Morgan's thoughts raced as she considered the implications of this new development. If Skipper wasn't the murderer, then who was? And why had they targeted Beverly McBridge? There had to be a connection somewhere, a piece of the puzzle that had eluded them thus far.
Just then, Morgan’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
"Excuse me for a moment," Morgan said, stepping away from Derik and the cop as her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Carry, one of the forensic techs back at HQ. Her heart raced with anticipation; perhaps Carry had some answers regarding the teeth they'd received in the mail.
"Carry, tell me you've got something for me," Morgan said urgently as she answered the call, her gaze flicking over to the interrogation room where Skipper sat, still restrained and looking increasingly agitated.
"Actually, I do," Carry replied, her voice steady and professional despite the tension that crackled through the line. "We've managed to identify the teeth. We know exactly where they came from."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Morgan leaned against the cold metal table in the center of the briefing room, her eyes fixed on Derik as she recounted the conversation she'd had with Carry. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a sterile glow on the polished concrete floor beneath them.
"Carry said she got a hit on the teeth we sent her," Morgan began, taking a deep breath as the weight of the situation settled on her shoulders. "They came from a specific morgue here in Dallas. There was some trace blood on the teeth, that they ID'd as belonging to a woman who'd died at that hospital."
Derik's brow furrowed, his intense blue eyes searching her face for answers. "That's more than we had before. What else did she say?"
Morgan opened her laptop, which rested on the edge of the table, and pulled up the information Carry had sent her. She could feel the hard edges of her past pushing at the boundaries she'd built around herself. Ten years ago, someone had framed her for murder, and now she was back, chasing down murderers again. She couldn't afford to be wrong this time.
"Here," she said, pointing to the screen. "The teeth belonged to Mildred Bennett, a seventy-nine-year-old woman who died recently of natural causes. Died in the same hospital as the morgue, actually."
"Shit," Derik muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "So, what do you think? Someone at the morgue has access to the bodies, and they're using the teeth for... what? Some kind of sick trophy?"
"Maybe," Morgan replied, her voice steady despite the uncertainty churning inside her. "Or maybe it's just a means to an end. We know these killers have a twisted sense of humor – maybe they think it's funny to use a dead woman's teeth like this."
"Either way, it's messed up." Derik shook his head, his gaze never leaving the screen. "We should check out this morgue, see if we can find any connections."
Morgan's fingers tapped impatiently on her laptop, the weight of exhaustion settling in her bones. She glanced at Derik, who looked just as eager to get to the morgue, and made a decision. "Let's go," she said, determination coloring her voice.
"Are you sure you're up for this?" Derik asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "You look tired."
"Of course I am," Morgan snapped, perhaps a bit too harshly. "I'm fine." But even as she said it, she couldn't deny the truth – she was tired, running on nothing but caffeine and sheer willpower after last night's raid and the restless sleep that followed. Still, she refused to let that stop her; there was no time to waste.
"Alright then," Derik conceded, holding up his hands in surrender. "But at least let me drive."
"Fine," she relented, knowing that he had a point. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she fell asleep behind the wheel.
As they made their way out of the police precinct, the heat of the mid-morning sun hit them like a solid wall. Sweat beaded on Morgan's forehead, and she squinted against the glare as they approached Derik's car.
"Damn, it's hot," Derik grumbled as they reached his car.
Morgan's hand was on the car door handle when a familiar voice called out, causing her heart to seize in her chest. "Morgan! Wait up!"
She turned to see Thomas striding across the parking lot toward them, his brow furrowed with concern. The sunlight glinted off the metal frame of his sunglasses, and she felt a sudden wave of annoyance wash over her.
