Page 8

The harsh glare of the living room lights cast long shadows across Morgan's face as she hunched over the coffee table, her fingers tracing the edges of a weathered photograph. The image of Maria Santos splayed in that haunting X-shape, seemed to burn into her retinas. Morgan blinked hard, trying to shake the eerie similarity between Santos and Rachel Martinez's crime scenes.

"We're missing something," she muttered, more to herself than to Derik. Her partner sat on the couch, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled after hours of intense focus. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms tensed with frustration.

Derik leaned forward, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe we need fresh eyes. We've been at this for hours."

Morgan shook her head, her jaw set with determination. "No, it's here. We just need to look harder." She spread out more photos, creating a macabre collage on the table. "Rachel Martinez knew something. She had to. Why else would the killer target her after all these years?"

"Revenge?" Derik suggested, but his tone lacked conviction.

Morgan's mind raced, piecing together fragments of information. The hospital connection, the similar M.O., the twenty-year gap. It was like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

"It's more than that," she insisted, her voice tight with growing certainty. "This isn't just about tying up loose ends. It's... it's like the killer is trying to tell us something."

Derik raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Morgan hesitated, struggling to articulate the nebulous theory forming in her mind. She fell silent, her fingers drumming against her thigh as she lost herself in thought. The room seemed to fade away, leaving only the puzzle before her. Morgan's analytical mind, honed by years of FBI training and an innate drive to seek justice, worked overtime to connect the dots.

"What if," she began slowly, her eyes fixed on the crime scene photos, "what if Rachel wasn't just a witness back then? What if she knew more than she let on in that interview?"

Derik leaned in, intrigued. "You think she was hiding something?"

Morgan nodded, the pieces starting to fall into place. "It would explain why the killer waited so long. Maybe Rachel finally decided to come clean about what she really saw that night, and someone wanted to keep her quiet."

"But why now?" Derik pressed, his brow furrowed. "Why wait twenty years?"

The photograph of Rachel Martinez's body slipped from Derik's fingers, landing on the coffee table with a soft thud. Morgan's eyes snapped to it, drawn by the stark contrast of the victim's pale skin against the cold concrete of the parking garage.

"It has to be someone from the hospital," Derik said, breaking the silence. He leaned forward, his usually jovial face etched with concern. "Someone who was there twenty years ago when Santos was killed and is still there now. Maybe someone who knew both of them."

Morgan watched as Derik's mind raced, his detective instincts kicking into high gear. She could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.

"It could be about control," he continued, his voice low and intense. "Celebrating some twisted anniversary, maybe. It's too specific to be random."

The theory made sense, Morgan had to admit. It aligned with the facts they had, the eerie similarities between the two murders separated by two decades. Yet something nagged at her, a persistent itch at the back of her mind that she couldn't quite scratch.

She turned her attention back to the crime scene photos, methodically flipping through them. Each image was a brutal reminder of the lives cut short the families left behind. Morgan's brow furrowed as she examined them, searching for some hidden clue, some overlooked detail that might crack the case wide open.

"It makes sense," she said after a moment, nodding absently. The hospital was indeed the common thread, the nexus point that connected all the pieces. "The hospital is the common thread."

But even as she spoke, Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial. Her mind drifted back to their conversation with Whitaker, the haunted look in the retired detective's eyes as he shared his theory.

"But there's something about Whitaker's theory I can't shake," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Derik leaned forward, his eyes searching Morgan's face. "What is it?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Morgan took a deep breath, her gaze still fixed on the scattered files. "Whitaker was convinced there were other murders," she said, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. "That Maria Santos wasn't the only victim, even back then." She looked up at Derik, her eyes intense. "If he's right, this isn't just someone celebrating an anniversary—it's a serial killer. Someone who's been dormant for twenty years and has suddenly started again."

The weight of her words seemed to settle over the room like a heavy blanket. Morgan watched as Derik processed this information, his brow furrowing in concentration. She could almost see the gears turning in his mind, reassessing everything they thought they knew about the case.

"A killer coming out of retirement?" Derik exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he leaned back against the couch. His tie, already loosened, now hung askew, a physical representation of their disheveled theories. "Why now? What would trigger that after two decades? Was he in jail for something else, maybe?”

Morgan's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice quiet and distracted. The question gnawed at her, adding another layer of complexity to an already Byzantine case. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, began tracing the edges of the crime scene photos spread before her.

She stopped on an image of Maria Santos in the parking garage, her body arranged in a chilling X. The stark geometry of the pose sent a shiver down Morgan's spine. Her eyes drifted to the next photo: Thomas Burke curled in a fetal position in Reverchon Park. The contrast was jarring, from spread eagle to tightly wound.

Then came the next: a woman posed on her couch, hands folded in prayer. And another: a victim in what looked like a child's pose. Each image burned itself into Morgan's mind, a grim gallery of horror and mystery.

As she stared at the photos, a nagging feeling began to grow in the pit of her stomach. There was something here, something just beyond her grasp. Morgan's mind raced, trying to connect the dots, to see the larger picture that these gruesome puzzle pieces formed. She could feel Derik's eyes on her, waiting, sensing that she was on the verge of... something.

Morgan's stomach tightened as the realization hit her. The patterns weren't obvious at first glance, but something about the way the victims were posed tugged at her subconscious. It felt deliberate, like a puzzle she hadn't yet solved.

"The posing," she murmured, almost to herself. "Maybe it’s not so much about what they say individually, but what they say as a whole."

Derik leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "You think the poses mean something, like a sentence being strung together?"

Morgan met his gaze, her eyes alight with the spark of a potential breakthrough. "They have to," she said, her voice firm now, the gears in her mind turning faster.

She began spreading the photos out on the table, arranging them side by side. The X. The fetal position. Child's pose. Prayer. Each one is unique, specific, and yet somehow connected. But connected how?

"Look at this," Morgan said, gesturing to the gruesome display. "Each victim is positioned in a distinct way. It's like... like the killer is trying to tell us something through their bodies."

Derik stood up, moving around the table to get a better view. "What could it mean? Some kind of symbolic language?"

Morgan's fingers hovered over the photos, tracing the lines of the posed bodies without touching them. "Maybe. Or maybe it's more personal than that. What if each pose represents something about the victim? Or about the killer's relationship to them?"

She stared at the arrangement, her thoughts racing. The X-shaped pose of Maria Santos seemed to scream of exposure, vulnerability. The fetal position of Thomas Burke spoke of regression, of retreat. The prayer pose and child's pose... protection? Innocence?

"It's like he's categorizing them," Morgan muttered, more to herself than to Derik. "But into what? And why?"

She could feel the answer hovering just out of reach, tantalizing and terrifying in equal measure. The killer wasn't just taking lives; he was crafting a message, a twisted work of art. And Morgan knew that if they could decipher it, they might just find the key to stopping him before he struck again.

Morgan's phone buzzed on the table, shattering her concentration. She glanced at the screen, her brow furrowing as she saw the caller ID. James Whitaker. Her heart rate quickened as she snatched up the device.

"Whitaker? What's going on?" Her voice was sharp with curiosity and a hint of trepidation.

On the other end of the line, Whitaker's voice was tense, his words clipped. "Morgan, I know I'm retired, but I've still got friends in the department. They keep me in the loop on the cases I care about."

Morgan's gaze flickered to Derik, who was already watching her closely, sensing the shift in tone. His eyebrows raised in silent question, and she gave a small shake of her head. Not yet. She needed more information.

"What are you saying?" she asked, her free hand curling into a fist on the table.

As Whitaker spoke, Morgan felt a chill creep up her spine. Her mind raced, connecting dots she hadn't even realized were there. The poses, the timing, the location - it was all falling into place with sickening clarity.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice steady. "Are you absolutely certain about this, Whitaker?"

Derik leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Morgan's face. She could see the concern etched in the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw clenched in anticipation of bad news.

Morgan listened intently, her heart pounding in her ears. This changed everything. The case they thought they were working on had just expanded, morphing into something far more sinister and complex.

"We'll be there as soon as we can," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for letting us know."

As she ended the call, Morgan stared at the phone in her hand, her mind reeling. How had they missed this? How had they not seen the pattern forming right before their eyes?

She looked up at Derik, her expression grim. "We need to go. Now."