Page 7

Morgan pulled her sedan to the curb outside Marcus Rodriguez's apartment building, a weathered four-story brick structure that had seen better decades.

Santiago Heights stretched before her—a neighborhood where poverty and crime had become so intertwined they were practically indistinguishable.

Faded advertisements peeled from storefronts with metal security gates, and small clusters of young men watched from corners with wary, calculating eyes.

"Lovely part of town," Derik muttered as he exited the passenger side, adjusting his suit jacket to ensure his service weapon remained concealed but accessible.

Morgan said nothing, her eyes scanning the street with practiced efficiency.

She'd worked plenty of cases in areas like this, knew the unwritten rules—the way residents learned early to mind their own business, the way crime operated in plain sight because reporting it was more dangerous than ignoring it.

Santiago Heights had its own ecosystem, its own laws of survival.

Yellow police tape cordoned off the entrance to Rodriguez's building, a uniformed officer standing guard with the bored vigilance of someone nearing the end of a long shift. Morgan and Derik flashed their badges as they approached.

"Third floor, apartment 312," the officer informed them. "Detective Ramirez is expecting you."

The building's interior smelled of mildew and cheap disinfectant, with undertones of cigarette smoke that had permeated the walls over decades.

The elevator was out of service—a handwritten sign declaring it would be fixed "soon" looked yellowed enough to have been there for months.

They took the stairs, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

"Ramirez won't be happy we're here," Derik said quietly as they reached the second-floor landing. "Dallas PD hates federal involvement."

"Everyone hates federal involvement until they need it," Morgan replied, her hand instinctively brushing against her holstered weapon as they continued upward. The weight of it against her side was reassuring, a counterpoint to the unease that had settled in her chest since Cordell's visit.

Crime scene tape crisscrossed the door to apartment 312, and the distinct odor of death permeated the third-floor hallway—that unmistakable metallic smell that Morgan had encountered too many times to count.

A heavyset detective stood just outside the doorway, speaking in low tones to a crime scene technician.

He looked up as they approached, his expression souring slightly.

"FBI," he said, not a question but a statement tinged with resignation. "Ramirez." He extended a hand that Morgan shook briefly.

"Agents Cross and Greene," she replied. "Thanks for waiting for us."

Ramirez shrugged, his shoulders straining the fabric of his rumpled suit jacket. "Not my call. Captain says to give the feds full access, I give the feds full access." He gestured toward the open doorway. "Have at it. Just don't contaminate my scene."

The apartment was exactly what Morgan expected from the crime scene photos—a small, cluttered one-bedroom with the evidence of Rodriguez's criminal enterprise displayed openly.

A digital scale sat on the coffee table alongside small plastic baggies and rubber bands.

Pills of various colors and shapes were scattered across a side table, likely fallen from an open bottle nearby.

The place reeked of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne, and beneath it all, the sickly-sweet smell of decomposition beginning to set in.

"Body was found there," Ramirez said, pointing toward the coffee where a significant bloodstain had seeped into the wood.

Blood spatter patterns decorated the wall behind it, a crimson Rorschach test that told the story of Rodriguez's final moments.

"Single GSW to the back of the head, execution-style.

No shell casing recovered. Professional job. "

Morgan approached the table carefully, mentally reconstructing the scene.

Rodriguez seated, perhaps forced to his knees first, then allowed to sit to write his confession.

The killer standing behind him, gun pressed to the base of his skull.

The confession letter placed carefully on the table before him, directly in his line of sight as he died.

"The door was locked when officers arrived," Ramirez continued, watching Morgan catalog the scene. "Neighbor called in a welfare check after smelling something off. Had to break it down to get in. Deadbolt was engaged from the inside."

"Killer picked the lock to get in, then relocked it on the way out," Morgan said, examining the door frame. "Professional again. This wasn't an impulse killing."

Derik had moved to the window, peering out at the fire escape that ran along the building's exterior. "Any signs of entry here?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Window was locked from the inside, no signs of tampering. Killer came through the front door, same way they left."

"Witnesses?" Morgan asked, already knowing the answer.

"In this neighborhood?" Ramirez gave a humorless laugh. "Nobody sees nothing, nobody hears nothing. Especially when it comes to someone like Rodriguez. He wasn't exactly beloved around here."

Morgan turned her attention back to the bloodstained table. "The confession letter. Handwriting analysis confirms it was written by Rodriguez?"

"Yeah, pressure patterns indicate duress though. You can see where the pen nearly tore through paper in places." Ramirez crossed his arms over his chest. "He didn't write that willingly."

Morgan had seen enough interrogations to know what fear looked like on paper—the shaky letters, the increasing pressure as panic set in, the desperate attempts to appease the interrogator. Rodriguez's confession bore all those marks.

"What about the second victim? Rivera?" she asked.

"Same MO, down to the letter," Ramirez confirmed.

"Found in his apartment just a few blocks from here, single shot to the head, confession letter placed in front of him.

Rivera was a piece of work—did time for voyeurism, supposedly rehabilitated, but we had suspicions he was back to his old tricks after release.

Confession letter detailed how he'd been secretly filming women without consent, including placing hidden cameras in public restrooms."

"Information not in his official record," Derik noted.

"Exactly," Ramirez agreed. "Whoever killed him knew things that weren't public knowledge. Either they'd been surveilling him personally or—"

"Or they had access to information gathered during ongoing investigations," Morgan finished. The implications were troubling—suggesting their killer might have connections to law enforcement, or at minimum, access to restricted information.

She crouched near the table, examining the spatters of blood on the linoleum floor. "Time of death?"

"ME puts it between ten PM and midnight, two nights ago," Ramirez replied. "No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. He knew it was over."

Morgan nodded, piecing together Rodriguez's final moments. The unexpected intruder, the gun, the forced confession. The drug dealer had likely realized quickly that bargaining was useless, that whoever had come for him wasn't interested in his money or his product. They'd come for judgment.

"We need copies of both confession letters," she said, straightening up. "And full autopsy reports, ballistics, everything you have on both scenes."

"Already compiled for you," Ramirez said, gesturing to a folder sitting on a countertop away from the main crime scene area. "Captain's orders. Full cooperation."

His tone suggested he wasn't entirely happy with those orders, but was professional enough to follow them. Morgan appreciated the efficiency, regardless of the sentiment behind it.

"Anything else you think we should know?" Derik asked, having completed his examination of the apartment's perimeter. "Any odd connections between victims, beyond the methodology?"

Ramirez considered the question. "Nothing obvious connecting Rodriguez and Rivera personally. Different criminal enterprises, though both operating here in Santiago Heights." He paused. "The only commonality is they were both scum who got what was coming to them, if you want my honest opinion."

Morgan caught the subtle approval in the detective's voice—not uncommon among law enforcement when predators met violent ends.

She'd felt that satisfaction herself often enough, that visceral sense that justice had been served even if not through official channels.

But she'd learned the hard way where vigilante justice ultimately led.

Her own wrongful conviction had taught her the danger of shortcuts in the justice system.

"One more thing," Ramirez added as they prepared to leave. "The gun was pressed directly against Rodriguez's skull when fired—contact shot. Same with Rivera. Killer wanted it quick, clean. Professional."

Morgan nodded, filing away the detail. "We appreciate your cooperation, Detective. We'll be in touch."

As they descended the stairs back to street level, Derik kept his voice low. "So we're looking at a vigilante with access to non-public information about criminals, tactical training, and a methodical approach to execution. Sounds like someone with a law enforcement background."

"Or military," Morgan agreed, pushing open the building's main door and stepping back onto the street. The morning sun had risen higher, burning away some of the neighborhood's shadows but none of its inherent danger. "Maybe both."

"Serial vigilante," Derik mused as they walked toward their vehicle. "Targeting criminals who he believes have escaped justice."

"Or who never faced it in the first place," Morgan added, thinking of Rodriguez's detailed confession, the crimes for which he'd never been formally charged.

Back at FBI headquarters, they commandeered a small briefing room, transforming it into their war room for the case. Morgan pinned crime scene photos to the bulletin board while Derik created a timeline on the whiteboard, marking the known movements of both victims in their final days.

Morgan stepped back, studying the images of Rodriguez and Rivera side by side.

Two very different criminals with two very similar ends.

The signatures were identical—same paper used for the confessions, same pressure points in the handwriting analysis, same execution style.

Both killed in their homes where they felt safe, both forced to acknowledge their crimes before death.

"We're dealing with someone who sees himself as delivering justice where the system has failed," she said, thinking aloud. "He targets specific criminals, not random victims. He's studied them, knows their crimes in detail, tracks their habits well enough to surprise them in their homes."

Derik added another note to the timeline. "And he forces confession before execution. That's key—he's not just killing them, he's making them acknowledge their guilt. It's ritualistic."

Morgan nodded, her mind building a preliminary profile of their unsub. "He's methodical, patient. Likely middle-aged, intelligent, with some kind of tactical training. He considers himself morally superior to his victims, justified in his actions."

"And he won't stop with two," Derik concluded, voicing what they both knew to be true. "This pattern suggests a mission-oriented killer. He's just getting started."

Morgan studied the photos again, the two dead men's faces staring back at her from the board. Rodriguez, eyes closed in death, blood pooled beneath his head. Rivera, the same. Two criminal lives ended by someone who had appointed themselves arbiter of justice.

She couldn't help but feel the weight of irony—here she was hunting a vigilante while simultaneously fighting against corruption in the very system meant to deliver legitimate justice.

Part of her understood the killer's motivation, the frustration with a system that too often failed its most vulnerable.

After ten years wrongfully imprisoned, she knew better than most how broken the machinery of justice could be.

But she also knew where vigilantism led—to chaos, to innocent victims caught in the crossfire, to the erosion of the principles that separated civilization from anarchy. However flawed the system might be, abandoning it entirely was never the answer.

"We need to identify potential targets," she said, turning away from the board. "If our killer is targeting criminals in Santiago Heights who've slipped through the cracks of the system, we need to compile a list of who might be next."

Derik nodded, already reaching for his laptop. "I'll pull arrest records for the area, focus on individuals with multiple arrests but few convictions. Especially violent offenders or those who prey on the vulnerable."

"And I'll reach out to local patrols, see if they have confidential informants who might have heard something," Morgan added. "In neighborhoods like this, someone always knows something, even if they're reluctant to share it officially."

As they settled into the familiar rhythm of investigation, Morgan felt the pressure of dual threats bearing down on her—Cordell's ultimatum ticking away like a countdown clock in the back of her mind, and this new killer, methodically eliminating the criminals of Santiago Heights.

Two very different dangers, both requiring her full attention.

Six days left until Cordell's deadline. An unknown number of days until their vigilante killer claimed another victim. Time was running out on multiple fronts, and Morgan couldn't afford to fail at either task. Too many lives—including those of the people she cared about most—hung in the balance.