CHAPTER FOUR
The Trinity River stretched before them like a serpent in the light, its murky surface reflecting the steel-gray sky above. Morgan's boots crunched on gravel as she made her way down the embankment, Derik close behind. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, creating a stark border between the ordinary world and the horror that waited at the water's edge. The morning air carried the crisp bite of fall, mingled with the river's perpetual organic decay.
The weight of her badge pressed against her hip, a constant reminder of everything she'd lost and fought to reclaim. Freedom still felt fragile sometimes, like a dream that could shatter at any moment. But here she was, back on the job, despite Cordell's threats, despite the corruption she knew lurked in the Bureau's shadows. The irony wasn't lost on her—hunting killers again while trying to expose the ones who'd framed her.
The dock creaked beneath their weight as they approached the cluster of personnel gathered at its end. The wood was still damp from yesterday's rain, and Morgan caught the lingering scent of wet timber. She fought back the memory of Cordell at the cemetery, of his black umbrella and cold smile. Focus on the case. One monster at a time.
Scattered around the crime scene were the familiar tools of investigation—numbered evidence markers, photographers documenting every detail, techs in white coveralls collecting trace evidence. The routine of it was almost comforting, a dance she'd performed countless times before prison. Before everything changed.
A woman of commanding presence with her raven hair pulled back into a severe bun greeted them. Her sharp, hawk-like eyes were underscored by dark circles - a telltale sign of the long hours she had been on the case since the body's discovery. Her police uniform was immaculate despite the grueling scene, and her badge gleamed under the harsh daylight. "Agents Cross and Greene," she said in a tone laced with exhaustion but also relief at their arrival, "I'm Detective Sarah Martinez. I appreciate you coming out here."
Morgan noted the slight tension in Martinez's shoulders, the way her eyes lingered on Morgan's visible tattoos. She was used to it by now—the subtle double-takes, the unasked questions. Let them look.
"What do we have so far?" Morgan asked, scanning the scene. Even without the body—already lifted onto a gurney and draped in black—the dock told a story. Dark stains marked where Laura Benson had been suspended, and scattered flower petals still dotted the water's surface like pale stars. Each detail spoke of planning, of ritual, of someone who saw murder as art.
"Victim's car was found abandoned nearby," Martinez said, flipping through her notes. The pages rustled in the morning breeze. "Security cameras were conveniently out of order. CSI's processing the vehicle now, but initial sweep shows it was wiped clean. Too clean."
Morgan knelt near the metal cleat where the rope had been secured, studying the worn surface. The metal was old but well-maintained, sturdy enough to hold significant weight. She thought of the prison yard's exercise equipment, how even the simplest objects could become tools of violence in the right hands. "Professional job?"
"Looking that way." Martinez gestured to a forensics tech photographing the scene. Camera flashes punctuated her words like artificial lightning. "No prints, no hair, no fibers so far. Even the flowers were handled with care—not a single stem shows signs of being touched with bare hands."
The level of precision reminded Morgan of her own case, of how meticulously she'd been framed. Different circumstances, different perpetrator, but the same attention to detail. The same choreographed perfection.
Derik crouched beside Morgan, his suit pants gathering moisture from the dock. His presence was steady, grounding, a reminder that not everything in her life had been poisoned by betrayal. "Speaking of the flowers—any ID on the species yet?"
"That's where it gets weird." Martinez pulled out her phone, showing them a series of photos. The screen's blue light reflected in her tired eyes. "They're spring bloomers—daffodils, tulips, cherry blossoms. Nothing that should be growing naturally right now."
Morgan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air. The deliberate choice of out-of-season flowers spoke of resources, of planning, of symbolic meaning that went beyond mere decoration. "Greenhouse grown?"
"Has to be," Martinez confirmed. "We're checking local suppliers, but..." She shrugged, letting the sentence hang. They all knew how these searches usually went—too many possibilities, too few concrete leads.
Standing, Morgan walked the length of the dock, letting the scene play out in her mind. The wooden planks creaked beneath her feet, each sound echoing across the water. The killer would have needed time, privacy, and enough strength to manipulate a struggling victim. The ritualistic elements—the flowers, the positioning—suggested planning, possibly rehearsal. Nothing about this felt impulsive or amateur.
A splash in the distance drew her attention. A fish breaking the surface, or perhaps just debris carried by the current. The river kept its secrets well. But unlike the river, crime scenes eventually gave up their truths. You just had to know how to read them.
"Detective," she called, pointing to a section of railing. "Was this damaged during the struggle?"
Martinez joined her, squinting at the worn wood. Strands of her dark hair escaped her ponytail, dancing in the breeze. "Don't think so. Why?"
"Because it's not damaged—it's worn." Morgan ran her gloved finger along the groove. The indentation was smooth, polished by repeated use. "Someone's tied rope here before. Multiple times, probably."
Derik's eyes narrowed as he examined the mark, his investigator's instincts sharpening. "You think he's used this location for practice?"
"Or for previous victims we haven't found yet," Morgan said grimly. The river could hide a lot of sins, as she well knew. She turned to Martinez. "We need Laura's body processed as quickly as possible. Full autopsy, complete toxicology panel. And I want to review Emily Whitmore's autopsy results, talk to the coroner who dealt with her scene. We need to send Laura to the same coroner to help us connect these two crimes.”
Morgan felt the pieces starting to align in her mind, a pattern emerging from chaos. The staged scenes, the ritualistic elements, the calculated risk of appearing in public—this wasn't just about killing. This was performance art, meant for an audience. She thought of her own frame-up, how carefully it had been orchestrated, how every piece had been positioned for maximum effect.
"Detective Martinez," she said, turning back to the dock. A gust of wind carried the scent of river water and decaying leaves. "I need everything you have on Emily Whitmore's crime scene. And we need to talk to the medical examiner who handled her autopsy before they start processing Laura."
Martinez nodded, already pulling out her phone. "I'll call ahead, let them know you're coming."
As they walked back to their vehicle, Derik's hand brushed Morgan's arm—a subtle gesture of support that spoke volumes. His touch was warm through her jacket sleeve, a reminder that not everything good in her life had been lost during those ten years inside. "You're thinking there are more victims we haven't found."
"The worn rope marks, the complexity of the staging—this isn't his first performance." Morgan paused at their car, looking back at the river. The morning sun had burned away some of the mist, but shadows still clung to the water's surface like secrets waiting to be revealed. "He's been practicing, perfecting his technique. The question is, how long has he been rehearsing?"
"And who's his intended audience?" Derik added, sliding behind the wheel. The car door closed with a solid thunk that seemed to punctuate his question.
Morgan thought of the flowers in Laura's hair, spring blooms in autumn, beauty twisted into horror. Everything about the scene felt deliberate, choreographed. A message meant for someone specific. She'd seen enough staged scenes in her career to know when someone was trying to communicate through their crimes.
"Let's find out what Emily Whitmore can tell us," she said, closing her door. As they pulled away from the river, Morgan caught a glimpse of scattered flower petals still drifting on the current, like pale ghosts in the morning light. Their delicate beauty seemed obscene against the backdrop of violence they represented.
In the distance, Dallas's skyline pierced the sky, its glass towers reflecting the sun. Somewhere in that urban maze, a killer was already planning his next performance. And Morgan intended to make sure his final act came sooner rather than later.
First, though, they needed to understand his opening number. Emily Whitmore's death had been just the beginning—the overture to whatever twisted symphony their killer was composing. And Morgan had learned long ago that to catch a monster, you had to learn to read their music.