CHAPTER EIGHT
Morgan leaned closer to the computer screen, watching faces flicker past in a digital parade of potential suspects. The lights of the FBI tech lab hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the monitor that seemed to distort each image into something slightly sinister. Her eyes burned from hours of focus, but she couldn't look away. Somewhere in this stream of faces was the man from the grocery store footage, the man who had confronted Emily Whitmore days before her death.
Derik's presence beside her was steady, grounding. His shoulder nearly touched hers as they watched the facial recognition program work, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne. The tech analyst, Sarah Munson, sat at the main terminal, her fingers dancing across multiple keyboards as she refined the search parameters.
"Hold," Morgan said suddenly, her hand shooting out to stop the progression. "Go back two."
Sarah reversed the sequence with practiced efficiency. A driver's license photo filled the screen—salt-and-pepper hair, lean face, intense eyes that seemed to look right through the camera. The name beneath read "Victor Hale." Something about those eyes made Morgan's instincts bristle.
"Agronomist," Derik read from the profile, his voice tight with interest. He leaned in closer, his suit jacket brushing against Morgan's leather one. "Specializing in historical agricultural practices and crop development. Current employment: private research consultant for multiple agricultural firms."
Morgan felt her pulse quicken. Emily had been found in a cornfield, arranged like some twisted harvest offering. Laura's body had been adorned with spring flowers in autumn. Now, they had a suspect whose entire career revolved around manipulating the natural cycles of growth and decay. "Previous employment history?"
Sarah pulled up additional records, the screens reflecting in her glasses. "Ten years at the Department of Agriculture, followed by private consulting work. Multiple published papers on ancient farming techniques and their modern applications. No criminal record, but..." She paused, frowning. "There are some interesting financial records. Large equipment purchases, specialized greenhouse facilities."
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she processed the information. "Greenhouse facilities... perfect for growing out-of-season flora. And equipment purchases could explain how he's transporting and staging the bodies."
Derik nodded, his brow furrowed. "It fits the profile. Someone with extensive knowledge of agricultural practices, access to specialized equipment, and the ability to manipulate plant growth cycles."
"We need to dig deeper," Morgan said, her voice tight with urgency. "Sarah, can you pull up any affiliations or organizations he might be involved with?"
Sarah's fingers flew across the keyboard once more. "Looks like he's a frequent guest lecturer at the University of Dallas Institute of Ancient Studies.”
"What else about academic background?" Morgan asked, leaning closer to read the scrolling text. The details of a life unfolded before them: degrees in agricultural science, research grants, conference presentations. A man dedicated to understanding—and perhaps controlling—the fundamental rhythms of growth and death.
"PhD in Agricultural Sciences from Texas A&M," Sarah replied, bringing up more documents. "His dissertation was on ancient harvest rituals and their relationship to modern farming practices. Specifically focused on the symbolic significance of seasonal transitions."
Morgan exchanged a meaningful look with Derik. The parallels were too precise to ignore. Their killer had staged his victims according to seasonal themes, using ritual elements that spoke of deep knowledge of agricultural traditions. And here was a man whose entire academic career centered on exactly that.
"What's his address?" Morgan was already standing, her body thrumming with the energy of a promising lead. She'd learned to read people's histories in their patterns, their choices. Hale's background sang with significance.
***
Twenty minutes later, they were pulling up to an impressive spread on the outskirts of Dallas, where suburban sprawl gave way to agricultural land. Fifty acres of cultivated fields stretched out before them, the sun painting the dying corn stalks gold. A cluster of modern buildings anchored the property, dominated by what appeared to be a state-of-the-art greenhouse operation. The glass panels caught the afternoon light like a wall of mirrors, nearly blinding in their intensity.
Morgan studied the layout with tactical precision, noting exits and potential cover. The main house was modern but modeled after traditional farmhouses, all clean lines and practical efficiency. Several work vehicles were parked in a neat row, including a dark SUV that made her think of the grocery store footage.
"Nice setup for a consultant," Derik muttered as they approached the main entrance. His hand hovered near his weapon, responding to the tension he could undoubtedly read in her posture.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they approached the house, each step carrying them closer to what Morgan hoped would be answers. But something about the scene bothered her—it was too perfect, too precisely aligned with their profile. In her experience, both as an agent and an inmate, reality rarely presented itself in such neat packages.
As they neared the front door, a sudden gust of wind swept across the property, carrying with it the scent of freshly turned earth and something else—a cloying sweetness that made Morgan's nose wrinkle. She paused, her hand halfway to the doorbell, and turned to Derik with a frown.
"You smell that?" she asked, her voice low.
Derik nodded, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. "Reminds me of—"
"The crime scenes," Morgan finished, her hand moving instinctively to her holster.
Before either of them could say more, the door swung open, revealing a tall, lean man with piercing eyes that matched the driver's license photo. Victor Hale stood before them, dressed in khakis and a crisp white shirt, looking every bit the academic researcher.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but guarded.
Morgan flashed her badge. "Mr. Hale, I'm Agent Cross with the FBI, and this is Agent Greene. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your work."
Victor Hale's eyes flickered between Morgan and Derik, a fleeting tension crossing his features before settling into a mask of polite curiosity. "Of course," he said, stepping back to allow them entry. "Please, come in."
As they crossed the threshold, Morgan's senses went into overdrive. The interior was a study in contrasts – modern furnishings juxtaposed against walls adorned with ancient agricultural implements. Her gaze caught on a sickle mounted above the fireplace, its curved blade gleaming dully in the afternoon light.
"Fascinating collection," Derik commented, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he scanned the room.
Hale's lips curved into a thin smile. "A hobby of mine. Each piece tells a story of how our ancestors understood the cycles of life and death." He gestured towards a seating area. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. What would you like to know about my work?"
“Actually,” Morgan said, taking a photograph out of her pocket, “do you recognize this woman?”
It was a photo of Emily Whitmore.
Hale’s eyes widened on it, the recognition clear.
“That’s… Emily Whitmore,” Hale said. “She passed away.”
“And you argued with her in the week before that,” Derik pointed out.
Hale swallowed hard. "Miss Whitmore and I had a professional disagreement," Hale said, his voice carefully controlled. A bead of sweat traced down his temple despite the chill. "Nothing more."
"Professional enough to confront her in a grocery store parking lot?" Morgan pressed, watching his reactions. Her hand drifted closer to her weapon, a movement born of years of experience. Behind her, she sensed Derik shifting to cover the side angle. "That seems personal."
Hale's eyes darted between Morgan and Derik, his composure cracking. "It was a misunderstanding," he said, his voice strained. "Emily was... interfering with my research. She didn't understand the importance of what I was doing."
Morgan took a step closer, her voice low and intense. "And what exactly were you doing, Mr. Hale? What kind of research requires confronting a woman in a parking lot?"
Hale's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his skin. “Look, I can’t help you. Please leave.”
“Actually, I would appreciate it if you’d come down to the station with us,” Derik said, his voice measured.
At that moment, Hale's composure cracked like thin ice.
He bolted toward the greenhouse with surprising speed, shoving past them with the desperate strength of cornered prey.
“Bastard!” Morgan shouted.
Morgan's instincts kicked in, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She sprinted after Hale, her feet pounding the gravel path leading to the greenhouse. Behind her, she heard Derik radioing for backup.
The greenhouse loomed before them, its glass panels no longer mirrors but windows into a world of verdant chaos. As Hale wrenched open the door, a wave of humid air thick with the scent of earth and decay washed over them.
Morgan burst through the entrance, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim interior. Row upon row of plants stretched out before her, creating a labyrinth of green. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, filled with an unsettling mix of floral sweetness and something darker, more primal.
"Hale!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the glass walls. "There's nowhere to run!"
A crash from her left sent her spinning, weapon drawn. She caught a glimpse of movement through the dense foliage and took off in pursuit. The narrow paths between the plant beds forced her to move carefully, aware that any misstep could give Hale an advantage.
The greenhouse was a maze of steel tables and hanging plants, the air thick with the impossible scent of spring. Grow lights created artificial daylight, casting strange shadows through the dense foliage. Morgan caught flashes of familiar flowers as she pursued Hale—daffodils, tulips, cherry blossoms. The same types of flowers found woven through Laura Benson's hair.
Steam rose from heating vents, creating an otherworldly atmosphere where seasons seemed to blur and merge. The humid air carried the scent of earth and growth, a contrast to the dying landscape outside. Morgan's senses registered every detail even as she ran: the precise arrangement of plants, the carefully maintained temperature controls, the meticulously labeled specimens.
"FBI! Stop!" Derik's voice boomed through the humid air, echoing off glass panels and metal frames.
Hale knocked over a cart of seedlings, sending dirt and plastic pots scattering across their path. Morgan vaulted over the obstacle, her boots finding purchase on the damp floor.
She cut down a parallel aisle, anticipating Hale's trajectory. Through gaps in the foliage, she caught glimpses of him—his salt-and-pepper hair dark with sweat, his face twisted with desperation. He was heading for a side exit, but she'd been in enough chases to know that desperate people made mistakes.
Morgan burst through a row of daffodils just as Hale passed, tackling him into a bed of spring flowers. They went down hard, scattering golden blooms across the greenhouse floor. She had him pinned before he could recover, her knee in his back, the move as natural as breathing.
"I didn't kill her!" Hale shouted as Derik moved in with handcuffs, the steel catching the artificial sunlight. "Emily was trying to discredit my research! She didn't understand the significance of the ancient techniques, the importance of the seasonal cycles!"
Morgan's eyes were drawn to a workbench nearby, taking in details that seemed increasingly significant. Leather-bound books on agricultural rituals lay open, their pages marked with colored tabs. A calendar on the wall was covered in precise notations, lunar phases carefully tracked. Dried herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles, each labeled in meticulous handwriting.
But something about the scene nagged at her—the same something that had bothered her about the property's initial appearance. It was too perfect, too precisely aligned with their profile. Like a stage set designed to tell a specific story, or a frame job orchestrated to point blame in a specific direction. She knew something about being framed, about how evidence could be arranged to create an illusion of guilt.
"Save it for the interrogation room," she said, hauling him to his feet. As they led him out, Morgan noticed something that cemented her doubts—a fresh receipt from Marshall's Market, dated after Laura's murder, sitting on the workbench. The same store where Emily had been confronted. It seemed too convenient, too deliberately placed. Like someone wanted them to find it.
They led Hale out into the sun, where the contrast between the greenhouse's artificial spring and the reality of the dying season was stark. Morgan caught Derik's eye over their suspect's bowed head. He gave her a slight nod—he shared her doubts. The greenhouse and its contents were suspicious, certainly, but almost too perfectly suspicious.
As uniforms arrived to process the scene, Morgan watched the greenhouse's glass panels reflect the afternoon light like a hall of mirrors. Inside, spring bloomed eternal while autumn died outside, a perversion of natural law that echoed their killer's methodology. But was Hale truly their man, or just another piece in a larger puzzle?
She thought of Emily in the cornfield, of Laura in the river, of the ritual elements that linked their deaths.