CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The crime scene photos spread across Morgan's desk by morning. Hannah Smith's face looked back at her from multiple angles, spring flowers spilling from her lifeless mouth like some twisted parody of speech. The image blurred as Morgan's exhausted eyes struggled to focus, and she pressed her palms against her face, feeling the rough edges of calluses earned during her decade behind bars. She hadn't slept more than an hour since they'd found the body, guilt gnawing at her consciousness like a physical pain.
Empty coffee cups littered her desk, a caffeinated timeline of a night spent chasing leads that went nowhere. The sun was just beginning to paint the Dallas skyline in shades of gold, but Morgan barely registered its beauty through the office windows. All she could see was Hannah's red hair fanned out around her head, woven through with impossible blooms that defied nature's laws. The young gallery owner's death felt like a personal failure, another mark against her record since returning to the Bureau.
"You need to sleep," Derik said softly from his desk. The silver at his temples caught the morning light, and dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't rested either. His tie hung loose around his neck, and his normally pristine suit jacket was draped over his chair – small signs of the toll this case was taking on them both. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten beside his keyboard, evidence of another meal interrupted by urgent developments that led nowhere.
"I need to find this bastard before he kills someone else." Morgan's voice was rough from too much coffee and too little rest. "We had Diana in custody. We were so close, and meanwhile..." She gestured at Hannah's photos, unable to finish the sentence. The words stuck in her throat like thorns, bitter with the taste of failure.
The hum of the building's ventilation system provided a constant backdrop to their conversation, reminding Morgan of countless nights in her cell when that same sound had been her only companion. Outside, early morning traffic moved through downtown Dallas in waves, carrying people to jobs and lives that felt impossibly normal compared to the horror spread across her desk.
"The DNA results came back," Derik said, rolling his chair closer. "Same as the others. Nothing. Not a single trace. Even the flowers were handled with surgical precision – no skin cells, no hair, nothing we can use."
Morgan leaned back in her chair, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing against her shoulders.
She thought of Diana's passionate explanations about ritual significance, about sacred timing and natural cycles. The botanist had been wrong for the murders, but something about her knowledge nagged at Morgan's mind. She'd learned to spot patterns in chaos, to read the subtle signs that might mean the difference between life and death.
"We need to talk to Diana again," she said, already reaching for her jacket. The leather was cool against her skin, grounding her in the present moment. "She knows something – not about the murders, but about the rituals. About who might understand them well enough to perform them. There's a connection we're not seeing."
"After we accused her of murder?" Derik's eyebrows rose.
"She doesn't have to like us,” Morgan said. “She just has to want to stop this as much as we do."
"You think she'll even open her door?"
Morgan’s jaw clenched. “Only one way to find out.”
***
The drive to Diana's house took them through neighborhoods, still shaking off the morning chill. Frost glittered on dying grass, and bare tree branches reached toward a sky that promised another perfect autumn day. Morgan watched the city scroll past, her mind racing through possibilities. Every detail of their killer's methodology spoke of someone with deep knowledge of agricultural traditions, someone who understood the symbolic power of seasons and cycles.
They pulled up to Diana's modest craftsman home. The morning sun caught dew on her meticulously maintained garden, where late-blooming flowers defied autumn's advance. The contrast between Diana's careful cultivation and their killer's perversion of natural law wasn't lost on Morgan. Here, nature was nurtured and respected. Their killer sought to dominate it, to bend it to his will.
Morgan stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on the gravel driveway. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a reminder of the season's inexorable march. She approached the front door, Derik close behind, his presence a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of her thoughts.
Before she could knock, the door swung open. Diana stood there, her pale face drawn and wary. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she'd slept as little as the agents had.
"I saw you pull up," she said, her voice tight. "Come to accuse me of more murders?"
Morgan met her gaze steadily. "No. We're here because we need your help."
Diana's green eyes widened slightly, surprise breaking through her guarded expression. After a moment's hesitation, she stepped back, wordlessly inviting them in.
The interior of Diana's home was a stark contrast to the sterile crime scenes they'd been investigating. Potted plants lined every available surface, their leaves reaching for the sunlight streaming through large windows. The air was thick with the earthy scent of soil and greenery.
"What could you possibly need my help with?” Diana asked, her nostrils flared as they stood in the foyer.
Morgan understood Diana's anger on a level few could comprehend. She knew what it felt like to be accused of something horrific, to have evidence twisted against you, to be treated as guilty until proven innocent. The memory of her own arrest, of evidence arranged with surgical precision to ensure her conviction, was never far from her thoughts.
"I know we can't take back what happened," she said carefully, letting some of her own experience color her words. "But another woman's life depends on what you know about these rituals. Someone is out there perverting everything you study, turning sacred traditions into murder weapons. Help us stop him."
Something in Morgan's tone must have reached Diana, because her rigid posture softened slightly. She studied them for a long moment, then stepped back with a resigned sigh. The pruning shears lowered to her side, a small gesture of acceptance. "Come into the living room. But I want it on record that I'm only doing this for Hannah Smith's sake."
Diana's living room was exactly what Morgan would have expected from an academic botanist – walls lined with leather-bound books, pressed flowers in elegant frames, carefully positioned plants soaking up sunlight through large windows. The space smelled of old paper and organic matter, a combination that reminded Morgan of the prison library where she'd spent countless hours during her incarceration. A desk in the corner held stacks of academic papers and a laptop displaying what looked like research notes.
"Tell me about who taught you," Morgan said, remaining standing while Diana settled into an armchair. Instincts kept her alert, aware of exits and angles even in this peaceful academic setting. "About who passed down this knowledge of agricultural rituals and seasonal ceremonies."
Diana's fingers played with a pendant around her neck – a silver representation of some kind of flower that Morgan couldn't identify. "You think my teacher might be your killer." It wasn't a question. Her academic precision extended to her logic, cutting straight to the heart of their visit.
"We think someone with deep knowledge of these practices is perverting them," Morgan corrected, watching Diana's reactions with the careful attention she'd developed during years of reading other inmates. "Using them to justify murder. Creating tableaus that mock everything these traditions stand for."
Something dark flickered across Diana's face – recognition, perhaps, or memory. "Elliot Woods," she said after a long pause, the name carrying weight in the sunlit room. "He was my professor at the university – a historian specializing in ritualistic killings and pagan customs. His research focused on bringing ancient practices into the modern world."
Morgan exchanged a quick look with Derik, who was already pulling out his phone to run the name. Her pulse quickened with the familiar surge of a promising lead, though experience had taught her to temper hope with caution. "Tell me about him. About how he thought, what drove him."
"Brilliant but... intense." Diana's hand moved to a book on the coffee table, its spine cracked with frequent use. The title referenced ancient agricultural practices and their ritual significance. "He believed these old rituals held real power, that modern society had lost something vital by abandoning them. He was particularly obsessed with the concept of sacrifice and renewal." She paused, her green eyes growing distant with memory. "The way he talked about it sometimes... he was particularly interested in renewal and transformation. He felt science had enabled us to cheat death, and in doing so, we’d lost a vital, beautiful part of what it meant to be alive.”
Morgan felt her skin prickle with recognition. The description resonated with everything they'd seen – the careful staging, the seasonal elements, the transformation of death into grotesque art. Each crime scene had been a performance, a ritual enacted for some greater purpose they were only beginning to understand.
"When was the last time you saw him?" Morgan asked, her mind already racing ahead to next steps, to search parameters and database queries that might lead them to Woods.
"Years ago. Last I heard, he’s still at the university." Diana's fingers tightened around her pendant, a tell that suggested there was more to the story. "But his ideas stayed with me. The legitimate parts, about understanding natural cycles and agricultural traditions. Not..." She gestured helplessly at the case file visible in Morgan's bag. "Not this perversion. Not this twisting of sacred knowledge into something monstrous."
Morgan leaned forward, her instincts on high alert. "Did Woods ever show any signs of... taking his research too far? Anything that made you uncomfortable?"
Diana's gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers still worrying at her pendant. "There was... an incident. Near the end of my time studying with him. He invited a small group of us to participate in what he called a 'practical demonstration' of ancient harvest rituals."
Morgan felt Derik tense beside her, both of them sensing they were on the verge of something crucial.
"What happened?" Morgan pressed gently.
Diana took a shaky breath. "It started normally enough. We gathered in a field outside the city at dusk. There were candles, chanting, all the theatrical elements you'd expect. But then..." She swallowed hard. "He brought out a lamb. Said it was time to complete the cycle, to offer blood to ensure a bountiful harvest."
"Jesus," Derik muttered.
"We all thought it was some kind of metaphor," Diana continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "But he brought out this knife.”
Morgan held her breath, waiting for the conclusion of the story.
“The thing is, he didn’t kill the lamb,” Diana finished. “He just wanted to see our reactions, and he didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with that. In fact, no, it was more like, he was angry and disappointed with us , because we didn’t appreciate his stunt.”
Morgan leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Diana. "What happened next?"
Diana's fingers trembled slightly as she continued. "One of the students – Sarah, I think her name was – she stepped forward and grabbed the lamb. She ran off into the darkness with it. The rest of us just... stood there, frozen. But Woods, he..." She shook her head. "He just kept telling us not to overreact. It was as if he had this brilliant mind, but some crucial part of him was missing."
Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik. This was the break they needed, a glimpse into the mind of a man who might be capable of the horrors they'd witnessed.
"Did you ever see Sarah again?" Derik asked, his voice gentle but probing.
Diana shook her head. "No. She dropped out of the program shortly after. Other students contemplated it. Perhaps I should have too, but Woods… he was odd and cold, but he was brilliant too."
Morgan nodded, taking it all in. Perhaps someone odd and cold and brilliant was exactly who they were looking for.