Page 10

The harsh glare of headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating a modest one-story house on the outskirts of town. Morgan squinted as she took in the chipped paint and sagging porch, a stark contrast to the manicured lawns and pristine facades she'd passed on the way here. The silence of the night was oppressive, broken only by the faint chirp of crickets and the soft click of her car door as she shut it carefully.

Beside her, Derik's movements were less restrained. His shoes crunched on the gravel driveway as he strode towards the house, his impatience evident in every step. Morgan followed, her mind racing with the implications of what they were about to do.

As they climbed the creaking wooden steps to the front door, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her stomach. This visit couldn't wait, but she wondered if they were already too late.

"You think he's even awake?" Derik muttered, glancing at his watch.

Morgan shook her head. "Doesn't matter. We need to talk to him now."

She thought of Gregory Phillips, the man they'd come to see. The first of two surviving witnesses connected to one of the murders Whitaker had identified. Phillips had discovered Lucas Hayes's body eighteen years ago in an alley behind a bar. Now, he might be next on the killer's list.

"We're not just here to warn him," Morgan said softly, more to herself than to Derik. "We need information. Anything that could help us understand how the killer is choosing these targets."

Derik nodded, his jaw set in determination. "Let's hope he's in a talkative mood."

As they reached the door, Morgan hesitated, her hand hovering over the weathered wood. She thought of Rachel Martinez, of the man in Reverchon Park. Two witnesses, two deaths. How many more before they caught this killer?

"What if he doesn't want to talk?" she asked, voicing the concern that had been nagging at her since they'd left the station.

Derik's eyes met hers, a glimmer of his usual bravado showing through. "Then we make him talk. This isn't a social call, Morgan. Lives are at stake."

She nodded, steeling herself. Derik was right. They couldn't afford to be gentle, not with a killer who'd waited nearly two decades to exact his revenge. Morgan raised her hand and knocked firmly on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet night.

As they waited for a response, Morgan's mind raced through the possibilities. What if Phillips knew more than he'd let on eighteen years ago? What if he'd seen something, or someone, that could break this case wide open? And more importantly, what if the killer was already aware of what Phillips knew?

The porch light flickered on, startling Morgan from her thoughts. She straightened, adjusting her jacket to ensure her badge was visible. Whatever happened next, she was determined to get answers. They needed to understand this killer's motives, his methods. And Gregory Phillips might be the key to unraveling it all.

Derik's knuckles rapped against the weathered door, the sound reverberating through the still night air. Seconds ticked by with no response, and Morgan felt her partner's impatience radiating off him in waves. He pounded again, harder this time, his urgency palpable.

"Gregory Phillips! This is the FBI, please open up!" Derik's voice boomed, shattering the eerie quiet.

Morgan took a step back, her eyes scanning the darkened yard. The weak porch light cast long shadows, transforming ordinary objects into ominous shapes. A rusted truck sat in the gravel driveway, its dented frame a silent sentinel. Near the side of the house, a garden hose coiled like a serpent ready to strike.

"Something's not right," Morgan murmured, more to herself than to Derik. Her hand instinctively moved to rest on her holstered weapon.

She couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. If the killer was targeting witnesses, how close could he be? The thought sent a chill down her spine.

"Phillips might not be alone in there," she said, keeping her voice low. "We should consider the possibility that our suspect beat us here."

Derik nodded grimly, his own hand moving to his weapon. "You want to call for backup?"

Morgan hesitated. If they were wrong, they'd be wasting precious resources. But if they were right...

"No," she decided. "We can't risk spooking our killer if he is here. Let's proceed carefully."

She took another step back, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow. The flickering porch light created a disorienting strobe effect, and Morgan found herself wondering if the intermittent darkness could conceal a lurking figure.

"I don't like this, Derik," she whispered. "Phillips should have answered by now. Even if he was asleep, our knocking would've woken him."

Her partner's jaw clenched. "You think we're too late?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Morgan's mind raced through the possibilities, each scenario more grim than the last. Had they unknowingly led the killer straight to his next victim? Or were they about to walk into a trap?

A sudden flicker of light from within the house caught Morgan's attention, drawing her gaze to the narrow window beside the front door. Her muscles tensed, ready for action, as the sound of shuffling footsteps grew louder. The clink of a chain being undone echoed in the night air, followed by the creak of hinges as the door opened a crack.

A man in his early 60s peered out, his face a roadmap of late nights and hard living. His graying hair stood up in unruly tufts, and his bleary eyes squinted against the porch light. Despite the late hour and unexpected visitors, he looked more annoyed than alarmed.

Morgan felt a mix of relief and frustration wash over her. Phillips was alive, but his cavalier attitude suggested he had no idea of the danger he might be in. She took a step forward, her hand still hovering near her weapon.

"What the hell is this?" Gregory Phillips muttered, his voice rough with sleep. "It's the middle of the night."

Morgan moved closer, fishing her badge from her pocket and holding it up for Phillips to see. The metal gleamed in the weak porch light as she spoke, her tone firm but urgent.

"Mr. Phillips, I'm Special Agent Cross, and this is Special Agent Greene. We need to talk to you. It's urgent."

She studied Phillips' face, looking for any sign of recognition or fear at their presence. But his expression remained one of irritated confusion, giving no indication that he understood the gravity of the situation.

Is he really this oblivious? Morgan wondered, her mind racing. Or is he hiding something? She glanced at Derik, seeing her own tension mirrored in his stance. They needed to get inside to make Phillips understand the danger he was in. But they also needed to tread carefully. If the killer was watching, any sign of alarm could set him off.

"Urgent, huh?" Phillips grumbled, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "What's so damn important it couldn't wait till morning?"

Morgan took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "Mr. Phillips, it's about a case from eighteen years ago. The Lucas Hayes murder. We have reason to believe you may be in danger."

She watched as Phillips' eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something—fear? guilt?—passing across his face before he schooled his features back into annoyance.

Phillips heaved a weary sigh, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "goddamn feds" under his breath. Despite his obvious reluctance, he swung the door open wider, revealing his rumpled t-shirt and pajama pants.

"You got a warrant?"

"No, sir," Derik replied, his patience clearly wearing thin. "But we strongly advise—"

"Then we can talk right here," Phillips interrupted gruffly.

Morgan fought back a surge of frustration. Every minute they spent on this porch was a minute wasted, a minute the killer could be getting closer.

"Mr. Phillips," she said, leaning in slightly, her voice low and urgent, "I understand your reluctance, but this is a matter of life and death. We believe you may be in serious danger. Please, let us come inside so we can explain."

She watched the internal struggle play out on Phillips' face—suspicion warring with curiosity, and underneath it all, a flicker of fear he couldn't quite hide. Finally, with a resigned grunt, he stepped back, gesturing them inside.

Morgan stepped into the cluttered living room, her eyes quickly scanning the space. The hunting rifle leaning against the wall caught her attention, a stark reminder of Phillips' earlier bravado. She chose her words carefully, knowing they needed to strike a balance between urgency and tact.

"Like I said, we're here about Lucas Hayes," Morgan began, watching Phillips closely. His posture stiffened, brow furrowing as if the name itself was a weight settling on his shoulders.

"Lucas Hayes?" Phillips echoed, his voice gruff with a mix of confusion and wariness. "What about him? That was eighteen years ago."

"Two witnesses connected to similar cases have been murdered in the last twenty-four hours. We believe you might be a target."

She watched Phillips' face, noting the flicker of fear in his eyes before it was quickly masked by skepticism.

Phillips let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "A target? Of what? I didn't even know the guy, I just found him in that alley." He waved a dismissive hand, but Morgan noticed it trembled slightly. "And anyway, I don't need your protection. I've got enough firepower in this house to protect myself just fine."

He nodded toward the hunting rifle, as if that settled the matter. Morgan felt a surge of frustration.

"Mr. Phillips, we're advising you to stay home, away from your usual haunts, until we apprehend this suspect."

Phillips scoffed. "So I'm supposed to just sit here all day? What about The Rusty Nail? I've been going there every night for twenty years. They know me there."

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "The Rusty Nail? Isn't that where you found Hayes's body?"

"Yeah, in the alley out back," Phillips confirmed with a casual shrug that didn't quite mask his unease. "But what's that got to do with anything? It's my favorite spot. Joe keeps my bourbon ready at the bar before I even sit down."

Morgan exchanged a significant glance with Derik. This could explain how the killer was finding his victims—through their established routines and haunts.

"Mr. Phillips," Morgan said firmly, "I strongly advise you to avoid The Rusty Nail for the time being. In fact, you should avoid all public places until this situation is resolved."

Phillips rolled his eyes. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but—"

Morgan leaned forward, her gaze intense. "Mr. Phillips, I need you to tell me everything you remember about the night you found Lucas Hayes. Every detail, no matter how small, could be important."

Phillips shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the side. "Look, I've told this story a hundred times. There's nothing new to say."

But Morgan wasn't about to let him off that easily. She pressed further, her voice steady but insistent. "I understand it was a long time ago, but please, try to recall. Did you notice anything unusual that night? Any strange noises, unfamiliar faces in the area?"

Phillips ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his irritation visible. "I told you, I didn't see anything special. Just found the poor bastard lying there."

Morgan watched him closely, noting the way his fingers twitched against his leg. He's hiding something, she thought. But what?

"Mr. Phillips," she said, her tone softer now, almost sympathetic, "I can't imagine how difficult it must have been to stumble upon a crime scene like that. It's the kind of thing that stays with a person. Are you sure there isn't anything else you remember? Anything at all?"

For a moment, Phillips seemed to deflate, the bravado slipping away. He looked suddenly older, more vulnerable. "I... there might be something," he admitted reluctantly. "But you gotta understand, I never meant to cause any trouble."

Morgan's heart raced, sensing they were on the verge of a breakthrough. "What is it, Mr. Phillips? What did you see?"

Phillips took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the floor. "When I first talked to the cops, I told them I saw someone running from the alley. Tall guy, dark hair, wearing a jacket. But later... I changed my story."

Morgan's eyes widened slightly, but she kept her voice calm. "You changed your story? Why?"

Phillips shrugged, a gesture that seemed more defensive than casual. "I'd been drinking that night. A lot. When I sobered up, I realized I couldn't be sure what I'd seen. Didn't want to point the finger at the wrong guy, you know?"

As he spoke, Morgan's mind raced, connecting dots. This was the third witness with an inconsistent story—not just inconsistent, but strikingly consistent with the testimonies of the two other recently deceased witnesses. All of them had first described the same man, then subsequently claimed they weren't sure. What were the odds? She knew there had to be more to it, but pushing too hard might make Phillips clam up entirely.

Morgan studied Phillips carefully, her keen eyes taking in every micro-expression that flickered across his weathered face. There was something about the way he held himself, a flicker of unease in his eyes that didn't match his casual demeanor. His explanation felt rehearsed, as if he'd repeated it to himself countless times over the years, trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince her.

She leaned forward slightly, her voice low and even. "Mr. Phillips, did anyone pressure you to change your story?"

Phillips shook his head quickly, almost too quickly. "No, no. Nothing like that." He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a nervous gesture that belied his words. "Like I said, I was drunk. I realized I got it wrong, so I told the cops the truth. That's all there is to it."

But Morgan wasn't so sure. Her instincts, honed by years of experience, were screaming that there was more to this story. She thought back to Rachel Martinez and Reeves, the victims they'd encountered in this new string of murders. They, too, had given inconsistent testimony about what they'd seen.

As Phillips shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, Morgan's mind raced. Three witnesses, three changed stories. All connected to cases our killer is revisiting. This can't be a coincidence.

"Mr. Phillips," she said carefully, "I understand you might be worried about the consequences of what you're telling us. But I need you to understand that your life could be in danger. We're here to protect you, but we can only do that if we have all the information."

Phillips's eyes darted to the hunting rifle leaning against the wall, then back to Morgan. "I told you what happened," he insisted, but his voice lacked conviction. "I made a mistake, that's all. Why are you pushing this?"

Morgan took a deep breath, weighing her next words carefully. She needed to push, but not so hard that Phillips shut down completely. "Because you're not the only one, Mr. Phillips. We've encountered two other witnesses who changed their stories about what they saw. And now, all three of you are connected to cases that someone is killing over."

"Mr. Phillips," Derik said, "we need you to reconsider police protection."

Phillips ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his earlier bravado faltering. "Look, I appreciate the concern, but I've got my guns. I can handle myself."

Morgan's frustration bubbled to the surface. "With all due respect, sir, your guns won't be enough against someone who's been planning this for nearly two decades. This killer is methodical, patient, and always a step ahead." She glanced at the cluttered living room, the stack of unopened mail. "You can't be on guard every second. Please, let us help you."

Phillips's jaw clenched. "I said no. I've lived with this for eighteen years. I'm not about to let some ghost from the past run me out of my home."

Morgan opened her mouth to argue further, but Derik placed a hand on her arm, a silent signal to back off. She took a deep breath, reining in her emotions.

"Fine," she said, her tone clipped. "But I need you to be extremely cautious. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know. Keep your phone on you at all times. And if you see or hear anything suspicious, call us immediately." She handed him her card, which he took reluctantly.

As they walked back to their car, Morgan's mind raced. The cool night air did little to calm her churning thoughts. How could the killer possibly know about the inconsistencies in the witnesses' testimonies? These weren't public knowledge – they would have been buried in police reports, forgotten by most.

She glanced at Derik as he unlocked the car. "There has to be a connection we're missing. How is the killer accessing this information?"

Derik's face was grim in the dim light. "You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you? Someone with access to the original case files?"

Morgan nodded, sliding into the passenger seat. "Or someone connected to the investigations themselves. It's the only way they could know about these changed testimonies."

As Derik started the engine, Morgan stared back at Phillips's house, a sense of dread settling in her stomach. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were racing against an invisible clock, and time was running out.

Morgan's eyes swept the darkened street as Derik pulled away from Phillips's house. The yellow glow of streetlights cast eerie shadows, making every parked car and overgrown bush seem like a potential hiding place for their elusive killer.

"You're thinking about the pattern, aren't you?" Derik's voice cut through her troubled thoughts.

Morgan nodded, her brow furrowed. "It's not just random," she said, her voice low and intense. "The witnesses who changed their stories—there's a reason the killer's targeting them. We just don't know what it is yet."

She turned to face Derik, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He felt it too—the pressure, the weight of lives hanging in the balance.

"What if," Morgan began, her mind racing, "what if the killer somehow knows which witnesses lied? Maybe they were there that night, saw something themselves, and now they're... what? Punishing the ones who covered it up?"

Derik's jaw clenched. "It's possible. But why wait eighteen years? And if these witnesses were covering up for someone by changing their stories—saying they couldn't remember clearly—why would that person now be killing them? They helped them evade capture."

Morgan shook her head, frustration evident in every line of her body. "You're right. It doesn't make sense. If they all started by describing the same person and then recanted, saying they couldn't remember... they were protecting someone. Why would that someone now be hunting them down?"

The car's engine rumbled as Derik accelerated, the streets of Dallas sliding by in a blur of neon and shadow. "We'd better figure it out fast," he said, his tone grim. "If Whitaker's right, we're not dealing with someone who's done after a few kills. They've been planning this for nearly two decades. They're not stopping now."

The weight of his words settled over them like a shroud. Morgan's mind raced, trying to connect the dots, to see the larger picture that she knew was there, just out of reach. She thought of Rachel Martinez, of Reeves, of Gregory Phillips's reluctant admission. Each piece was important, she was sure of it, but how did they fit together?

"We need to go back through every file," she said suddenly. "Every interview, every scrap of evidence. There has to be something we're missing, some connection we haven't seen yet."

Derik nodded, his eyes never leaving the road. "Agreed. And we need to get protective details on every surviving witness, whether they want it or not. We can't risk losing anyone else."

Morgan's fingers tightened on the case files in her lap, her knuckles whitening as the streetlights flashed by outside the car window. The rhythmic thrum of the engine seemed to match the pounding of her heart, each beat a reminder of the urgency of their situation.

"It's not about revenge at all," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the car's ambient noise.

Derik glanced over, his brow furrowing. "What did you say?"

Morgan turned to face him, her eyes bright with the intensity of her realization. "This killer, Derik. It can't be about revenge. Why would someone kill witnesses who helped them by lying about what they saw?"

She paused, her mind racing. "Think about it. The victims—all three changed their stories. They all initially described the same person, then claimed they couldn't remember clearly. Why? What were they hiding? And why is our killer so intent on silencing them now, after all these years?"

Derik's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "You think there's more to their testimonies than what's in the official reports?"

"I'm almost certain of it," Morgan replied, her voice low and intense. "But what I can't figure out is how the killer knows. These inconsistencies, they weren't public knowledge. They'd be buried in police files, forgotten by most."

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration evident in her gesture. "It's like they have inside information, Derik. But how? And why wait nearly two decades to act on it?"

As they drove through the quiet streets, Morgan's mind whirled with possibilities. Each theory seemed more outlandish than the last, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial, something that was right in front of them.