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The evidence room at FBI headquarters was silent save for the soft rustle of paper as Morgan examined the confession letters under the harsh fluorescent lights.

The clinical brightness made the bloodstains appear almost black against the white pages, a stark reminder of the violence that had produced them.

She leaned closer, her fingers ghosting over the edges of the paper, careful not to contaminate the evidence as she studied the handwriting with practiced scrutiny.

The chill of the room raised goosebumps along her tattooed arms, but Morgan barely noticed, so intent was her focus on the documents before her.

The evidence room had always been too cold—a necessity for preservation, but uncomfortable for those who spent hours within its sterile confines.

The familiar scent of document preservation chemicals mingled with the faint metallic odor of the blood that had seeped into the fibers of the confession letters.

Rodriguez's confession revealed disjointed sentences and shaky penmanship, the physical manifestation of extreme fear.

Morgan could almost see him, trembling as he wrote, the barrel of a gun pressed against his skull.

She'd seen enough coerced statements during her law enforcement career—and enough genuine terror during her ten years in prison—to recognize the handwriting of a man facing death.

The letter detailed selling narcotics to minors, specifically targeting schools with product he knew contained dangerous cutting agents.

These weren't general admissions—they were specific crimes for which he had never been formally charged, down to the names of high schools and the chemical compositions of the adulterants he'd used to maximize profits.

"Look at this," Morgan said, sliding Rodriguez's confession toward Derik.

The fluorescent light caught the deep indentations in the paper where Rodriguez had pressed the pen with desperate force.

"The details about the cutting agents he used, the specific schools he targeted.

This information wasn't public. He mentions using fentanyl to cut heroin sold near Jefferson High specifically, and names three students who overdosed but never reported it. "

Derik nodded, his green eyes scanning the document with the methodical precision that had made him an excellent agent.

Dark shadows hung beneath those eyes—evidence of the sleepless night they'd both endured after Cordell's visit.

Yet his focus remained sharp, professional.

"Same with Rivera's confession," he replied, sliding the second document closer.

"Details about hidden cameras in the women's restroom at the public library, following three specific women home from the Santiago Heights Community Center.

" He looked up, meeting Morgan's gaze across the evidence table.

"None of that was in his official record.

He even gives the exact locations of his cameras—behind the air vent in the third stall, inside the paper towel dispenser.

Things only the perpetrator would know."

Morgan turned her attention to Rivera's letter, pulling it carefully toward her with gloved hands.

The voyeur's handwriting had deteriorated as he wrote, the letters becoming more erratic with each line, as if his fear had intensified with each admission.

The paper bore deep indentations where he had pressed the pen with excessive force—either from terror or from the killer applying pressure to his hand.

By the final paragraph, the writing was nearly illegible, the pen having torn through the paper in several places.

"Our unsub either conducted personal surveillance of these men," Morgan said, tracing the air above particularly damning passages without touching the paper, "or had access to information about their activities that wasn't public knowledge.

" She straightened, wincing slightly as her back protested the movement.

Hours bent over evidence tables had taken their toll, adding to the chronic pain from old injuries sustained during her incarceration.

"The level of detail here goes beyond what even most patrol officers would know. "

"Which suggests possible connections to law enforcement," Derik concluded, voicing what they'd both been thinking.

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, further evidence of their long night and the tension that had settled between his shoulders since Cordell's threat.

"Someone who had access to investigations that never resulted in formal charges.

Maybe a detective who built cases that were rejected by the DA's office for insufficient evidence. "

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Morgan considered the implications, the sound an irritating counterpoint to her racing thoughts.

Every few seconds, one of the tubes would flicker, casting momentary shadows across the evidence laid out before them.

She'd seen corruption inside law enforcement before—had been its victim when Cordell orchestrated her own wrongful conviction.

She still carried the scars of that betrayal, both physical and psychological.

The thought that their killer might be operating from within the system sent a chill down her spine, one that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

She absently traced one of her prison tattoos through her shirt sleeve—VERITAS, the Latin word for truth, inked during her third year behind bars.

A reminder of what had been stolen from her and what she now sought with relentless determination.

"We need to look at personnel records," she said decisively, straightening the cuffs of her shirt to cover the tattoo once more.

"Specifically, recent departures from Dallas PD.

Officers who worked in Santiago Heights or had contact with these victims. Maybe someone who left under questionable circumstances, someone with a heightened sense of justice that might have evolved into vigilantism. "

Derik nodded, already gathering the evidence to return it to its secure storage.

"I'll have the files pulled and set up in the conference room.

" He paused, studying her face with the perceptiveness that had made them effective partners.

"You okay? You've barely stopped moving since Cordell's visit. "

Morgan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of Cordell's name.

"I'm fine," she replied automatically, the response honed by years of deflecting concern.

Then, seeing the skepticism in Derik's eyes, she added more honestly, "As fine as I can be with Cordell's deadline hanging over us.

But we focus on what's in front of us right now. One problem at a time."

The conference room they commandeered quickly transformed into a temporary war room, its walls soon covered with victim photos, timelines, and maps of Santiago Heights.

Morgan had requisitioned a large whiteboard where she methodically listed potential suspects from the personnel files they'd requested.

The air grew stale as the hours passed, tinged with the aroma of cooling coffee and the faint scent of dry-erase markers that clung to Morgan's fingers.

For the next several hours, Morgan and Derik sifted through personnel files, the stack diminishing gradually as they eliminated candidates who didn't fit their evolving profile.

The rhythmic sound of turning pages and occasional notes being made provided the only soundtrack to their investigation.

Occasionally, one would pass a file to the other with a murmured observation, their years of partnership evident in the efficiency of their collaboration.

The search parameters narrowed gradually: officers who had resigned or been terminated within the past year, those with disciplinary issues, those who had patrolled the Santiago Heights area.

Morgan scrutinized each file with the laser focus that had earned her respect within the Bureau both before her wrongful conviction and since her return.

Her ability to detect patterns, to see connections others missed, had only been sharpened by her time in prison, where observing human behavior had been a survival skill.

The overhead light cast harsh shadows across their faces as afternoon stretched into evening, neither agent willing to pause until they had made significant progress.

Empty coffee cups accumulated at the edge of the table, physical evidence of their determination to push through exhaustion.

The stack of potential candidates dwindled until one name rose to the top, highlighted by both agents independently.

"David Walsh," Morgan said, tapping her finger on the file spread before them.

The personnel photo showed a man with unremarkable features, the kind that wouldn't stand out in a crowd but carried the hardened look of someone who had seen too much darkness.

"Former patrol officer, resigned eight months ago after multiple excessive force complaints.

His last incident involved severely beating a suspected drug dealer in Santiago Heights.

" She flipped through the disciplinary section, noting the escalating pattern of aggression.

"Three complaints in his first five years, five more in his last two.

He was on a trajectory toward termination when he resigned. "