Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

CHAPTER FIVE

The lights of the morgue cast harsh shadows across Dr. Chan's face as she pulled back the sheet covering Emily Whitmore's body. The coroner's practiced movements were gentle, almost reverent, but nothing could soften the brutality of what lay beneath. Morgan had seen countless bodies during her years with the FBI, but something about this one made her skin crawl. Perhaps it was the corn silk still tangled in Emily's dark hair, preserved by the morgue's cold storage—a grotesque souvenir of her final moments.

The chill of the examination room seemed to seep through Morgan's jacket.

"The ligature marks are identical," Dr. Chan said, gesturing to Emily's wrists. Her latex gloves squeaked against the steel examination table as she repositioned the victim's arm. "Same rope type as your river victim—three-quarter inch manila, treated for marine use. Not exactly something you'd pick up at Home Depot."

Morgan leaned closer, studying the deep bruising that circled Emily's wrists like macabre bracelets. Her own wrists ached with phantom pain, remembering the bite of handcuffs during her arrest ten years ago. The memory of cold metal against her skin, of being processed into the system like cargo, still haunted her dreams. "She fought hard."

"They both did." Dr. Chan moved to a computer terminal, pulling up side-by-side photos of both victims' injuries. The images were clinical, detached, but Morgan could read the violence in every detail. The technical precision of the documentation reminded her of her own case file—how every detail of her supposed crime had been meticulously recorded, each piece of manufactured evidence perfectly placed. "But here's where it gets interesting."

She zoomed in on Emily's neck, highlighting a series of marks that looked almost decorative. "See these? Ritual scarification, done post-mortem. Ancient agricultural symbols, from what I can tell. Laura Benson had similar markings, though the patterns differ slightly. His technique is evolving, becoming more refined."

Derik shifted beside Morgan, his cologne a grounding counterpoint to the morgue's antiseptic smell. "Any match in the database? Other victims with the same signature?"

"Nothing local," Dr. Chan replied, her fingers flying across the keyboard, bringing up more images. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, emphasizing the sharp angles of her face in the harsh lighting. "But I'm still waiting on responses from neighboring states. The level of sophistication in these markings, though—this isn't someone's first performance. The depth is consistent, the patterns precise. He has practice with a blade."

Morgan's gaze drifted to Emily's face. Even in death, something about her expression suggested surprise, as if she couldn't quite believe what was happening. The corn silk in her hair whispered against the metal table, stirred by the morgue's recycled air. Morgan had seen that same look of disbelief in her own mirror the day they'd arrested her—that moment when reality shifts and the world stops making sense.

"Cause of death?" she asked, forcing her mind back to the present case. She couldn't afford to let old wounds distract her, not with a killer still out there, planning his next performance.

"Asphyxiation, like Laura. But not from strangulation." Dr. Chan pulled up another set of images, these showing microscopic detail. The screen's blue light cast an eerie glow across her features. "Their lungs were filled with organic matter. Emily had corn silk and pollen. Laura had river water and flower petals. He held them under until they drowned, surrounded by whatever seasonal elements he'd chosen for them."

"How long?" Derik's voice was professional, but Morgan heard the tension underneath. After years of partnership, she could read the subtle signs of his distress—the slight tightness around his eyes, the way his fingers curled against his palm.

"Based on lung capacity and water temperature, I'd estimate three to four minutes for Laura. Emily's harder to pinpoint due to tissue decomposition, but likely similar." Dr. Chan's expression softened slightly. "They were conscious the whole time. He wanted them to experience it fully."

The ritualistic nature of the deaths made Morgan's stomach turn

"He's trying to tell us something with these seasonal tableaus," she said, studying the arrangement of marks on Emily's neck. The symbols seemed to dance, like ancient writing coming alive. "Making them part of some bigger picture. These aren't just murders—they're installations."

"Whatever message he's sending," Dr. Chan said, stripping off her gloves with a snap that echoed in the sterile room, "he's not done yet. The level of planning, the sophistication of the ritual elements—this is building to something. A crescendo."

Morgan thought of Cordell, of his carefully orchestrated destruction of her life, of how each piece had been positioned for maximum effect. Different monster, same methodical approach. The parallel made her skin crawl.

"Time of death estimate for Laura?" she asked, needing to focus on concrete details rather than the shadows of her past.

"Laura was killed between ten and midnight last night. Emily was also killed at night, as you’ll see in my report for her.”

Morgan nodded, her mind already racing ahead, piecing together the killer's timeline. "So he's operating under cover of darkness. Smart. Less chance of witnesses, easier to move bodies without detection."

"And the darkness itself could be symbolic," Derik added, his brow furrowed in thought. "Night as a time of transition, of transformation. It fits with the seasonal themes he's working with."

Morgan filed that detail away, adding it to the growing pattern. Moon phases, seasonal elements, ritual markings—their killer was working from a very specific playbook. Understanding it might be the key to preventing his next performance.

“I want to see Emily’s crime scene for myself,” Morgan said. “At least, what’s left of it.”

***

An hour later, Morgan stood at the edge of the cornfield where Emily's body had been found, the wind whipping at her jacket. The morning sun had burned away the mist, but a chill lingered in the air, carrying the scent of dried corn stalks and decaying vegetation. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered between the rows like tattered flags, marking where horror had invaded this peaceful place.

The Dallas skyline was barely visible on the horizon, its glass towers catching the morning light. Morgan thought of Cordell somewhere in that urban maze, plotting his next move. One monster at a time, she reminded herself. Focus on the killer you can catch.

"The file says Emily's car was never located," Morgan said, flipping through the case notes. The paper crackled in the cold air. "But Laura's car was found at the library where he took her. Why the difference?"

Derik scanned the horizon, where golden corn stalks swayed against a steel-gray sky. His dark hair ruffled in the wind, and Morgan caught herself watching the way the sun brought out the silver at his temples. Even after everything—her imprisonment, his betrayal, their slow journey back to trust—these moments of noticing him still caught her off guard.

"You think he used Emily's car to transport Laura?" he asked, turning back to her. His green eyes were sharp, analytical, the way they always got when they were closing in on something important.

"No." Morgan closed the file, her mind racing through possibilities. Every choice had meaning, especially with killers this methodical. "Laura's car was left near where he took her—a message, a signature. But Emily's car had to be useful to him somehow. Important enough to hide."

Understanding dawned in Derik's eyes. The same look he'd had years ago, before everything fell apart, when they'd been in perfect sync as partners. "You think it's still here somewhere."

They split up, moving through the corn rows in a grid pattern they'd perfected over years of partnership. The dried stalks rustled around them, creating a whispering symphony that set Morgan's nerves on edge. Her boots left prints in the soft earth, and she thought of Emily's final walk through this same field. Had she known what was coming? Had she seen the ritual madness in her killer's eyes before the end?

Morgan pushed deeper into the cornfield, her senses on high alert. The rustling stalks seemed to close in around her, creating a maze of golden walls that stretched in every direction. She fought back the claustrophobic feeling, reminding herself that this was just another crime scene, another puzzle to solve.

A glint of metal caught her eye, barely visible through the dense foliage. She pushed aside the corn stalks, revealing the chrome bumper of a car, carefully concealed beneath a makeshift cover of dried vegetation.

"Derik!" she called out, her voice carrying across the field. "I've got something!"

She heard his footsteps approaching as she began to clear away more of the camouflage. Emily's sedan emerged from its organic cocoon, leaves and corn husks falling away to reveal a vehicle that looked eerily pristine.

Derik arrived, slightly out of breath. "Good eye. I better call this in, get forensics down here.”

As Derik called in their discovery, Morgan studied the vehicle without touching it. Even from here, she could see the care that had gone into hiding it—branches arranged to break up its silhouette, its position chosen to keep it invisible from the road. The killer hadn't just dumped it; he'd curated it, like everything else in his deadly exhibition. It stood out to her, too—because Laura's car had been left in the open, why did he bother to hide Emily's? Maybe Emily was his first, and he was nervous, but now he was getting bolder.

"Forensics team is en route," Derik said, pocketing his phone. His breath fogged in the chilly air. "Twenty minutes out." He paused, studying her face with the kind of attention that came from years of partnership. "What are you thinking?"

Morgan's eyes remained fixed on the car, her mind assembling the pieces of their killer's pattern. The corn stalks swayed around them, their whispers now seeming less like weather and more like secrets.

"I'm thinking this isn't just about hiding evidence," Morgan said, her eyes narrowing as she circled the vehicle. "This car is part of his ritual. Look how meticulously it's concealed—it's almost... reverent."

Derik nodded, following her train of thought. "Like it's being preserved. But for what?"

Morgan crouched down, examining the ground around the car without touching anything. "No tracks leading away. He covered his own footprints when he left." She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. "This killer, he's not just disposing of bodies. He's creating something. Each scene, each victim, they're all components in some larger... performance."

A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down her spine. She'd seen ritual killings before, but this felt different. More deliberate. More patient.

"He's building something," she said finally. "Each death is a piece of some larger ritual. The seasonal elements, the timing with the moon phases, these agricultural symbols—it all means something to him."

"A calendar of death," Derik suggested, his voice grim. The wind carried the distant sound of traffic from the highway, a reminder that normal life continued just beyond this field of horrors.

"Maybe." Morgan thought of the flowers in Laura's hair, spring blooms in autumn's dying light. Of Emily's corn silk crown, harvest symbols carved into cooling flesh. "But I think it's more than that. He's not just marking time—he's trying to reshape it. Bend the seasons to his will."

She turned in a slow circle, taking in the field, the hidden car, the steel-gray sky above. Somewhere in this vehicle were clues to their killer's identity—and possibly hints about who he planned to take next. Because there would be a next victim. Everything about these crimes, from the seasonal symbolism to the careful staging, suggested a larger pattern still unfolding.

Looking back toward the cornfield, Morgan could almost see the killer moving through the rows, leading Emily to her fate. The sun caught the dried corn silk, turning it golden, like the flowers in Laura's hair—beauty twisted into horror, seasons transformed into instruments of death. Whatever ritual their killer was performing, it was far from over.

And Morgan intended to stop him before he could complete his grotesque calendar of death. She hadn't survived ten years, hadn't fought her way back to the Bureau, just to let another monster continue his reign of terror. She knew too well how it felt to be powerless, to be at the mercy of someone else's twisted designs.

Never again.

The wind picked up, sending a shower of dead leaves skittering across the ground between them. Each one seemed to whisper of secrets yet to be uncovered, of horrors yet to unfold. But Morgan had faced worse demons and survived. This killer, for all his ritual and symbolism, was just another monster in need of stopping.

And stopping monsters was what Morgan Cross did best—now more than ever.