CHAPTER TWENTY
The autumn air bit through Morgan's leather jacket as she ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, frost crunching beneath her boots. Dawn painted the vineyard in shades of rose and gold, the vines stretching toward the horizon like soldiers standing at attention. She registered every detail: the way the morning light caught the ice crystals on the leaves, the subtle patterns pressed into the frozen soil, the heavy stillness that always seemed to gather around death. Above, a murder of crows circled the scene, their black wings cutting shadows across the frosted ground.
Detective Martinez's team had already erected portable flood lights, their harsh glare creating a bubble of artificial day in the pre-dawn gloom. The lights cast multiple shadows across Jessica Clarke's body, transforming the scene into something that belonged in a modern art installation rather than a crime scene. The chef hung suspended between two rows of vines, her body arranged with the same terrible precision Morgan had seen in their killer's other tableaux. Grapevines had been woven through Jessica's short dark hair like a crown of thorns, while others wrapped around her limbs in patterns too intricate to be random. Each twist and turn of the vines seemed deliberate, creating a macabre sculpture that merged the dead woman with the dying autumn landscape.
The vineyard stretched out around them, rows of carefully tended vines disappearing into the morning mist. The seasonal timing wasn't lost on Morgan - harvest season, when the grapes would normally be heavy and ripe for picking. Instead, this particular row had become an altar for their killer's twisted vision of transformation. The air carried the sweet-sour scent of crushed grapes mixed with the metallic tang of blood, a combination that made her stomach turn.
"He's getting more elaborate," Derik said quietly, his shoulder brushing against hers as he crouched to study the ground beneath the body. "The level of detail in these vine patterns..." He trailed off, gesturing to where the plants had been manipulated into complex geometric shapes around Jessica's suspended form.
Morgan nodded, her mind already racing to connect the pieces. She studied Jessica's chef's coat, now stained purple with what looked like grape juice – another deliberate choice, another layer of symbolic meaning in their killer's twisted performance. The stains weren't random splatters but carefully applied designs that mimicked ancient symbols she recognized from Woods' research materials.
The morning light strengthened, casting long shadows through the vineyard rows that seemed to point toward Jessica's body like accusing fingers. Crime scene technicians moved through the scene with practiced efficiency, their cameras flashing like lightning in the dawn light. Each burst of artificial light revealed new details of the killer's meticulous work - the precise angle of Jessica's arms, the way her hands had been positioned to mirror the shapes formed by the vines, the careful arrangement of frost-covered grapes scattered around her feet like offerings at a pagan altar.
"Four victims," Morgan said, counting them off in her mind. "Emily Whitmore, the art dealer. Laura Benson, the librarian. Hannah Smith, the gallery owner. And now Jessica Clarke, the chef. They all dedicated their lives to enriching others. Culture, knowledge, creativity, nourishment." Her voice carried the weight of recognition, of pieces falling into place too late to save another life.
"And he perverted those contributions," Derik added, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Turned their life's work into elements of their death. Emily surrounded by the art of nature's death, Laura drowned with the flowers of false spring, Hannah transformed into a living sculpture, and now Jessica..." He gestured to the elaborate display before them. "Bound by the very vines that should have produced wine."
Morgan moved closer to Jessica's body, careful not to disturb any evidence. The killer had positioned her with the same artistic precision he'd shown with the others, but something about this scene felt different. The vine patterns weren't just decorative – they formed specific shapes, repeated motifs that tickled the edges of her memory. Each twist and turn seemed to reference something ancient, something significant.
A gust of wind sent dead leaves skittering between the rows, their rustle almost like whispered conversations in the morning stillness. Morgan pulled her jacket tighter, though the chill she felt had little to do with the autumn air. The scene before her spoke of someone who saw death as transformation, who viewed murder as a form of artistic expression. It reminded her uncomfortably of the careful way Cordell had orchestrated her own frame-up, how each piece of evidence had been arranged with similar precision to tell a specific story.
"Look at this," she called to Derik, pointing to a particular configuration of vines near Jessica's right hand. "The way they're woven – it's not random. He's recreating something." Her eyes traced the patterns, picking up details others might miss. "These shapes... they're like the ones in Woods' diagrams. Ancient symbols for transformation, for rebirth through sacrifice."
She thought of Elliot Woods sitting in that interrogation room, his academic enthusiasm masking something darker that she couldn't quite define. Was he their killer, using his knowledge to create these elaborate death scenes? Or was he another carefully placed piece of evidence, like Diana Grove's greenhouse had been?
The sun climbed higher, burning away the morning frost and casting long shadows through the vineyard rows. Crime scene techs worked methodically, documenting every detail of the killer's latest performance. Morgan watched them photograph the precise arrangements of vines, the careful placement of frost-covered grapes, the way Jessica's chef's coat had been transformed into a canvas for the killer's purple-stained symbols. Each flash of their cameras seemed to emphasize the theatrical nature of the scene, how every element had been positioned for maximum impact.
"He's not just killing them," Morgan said, more to herself than to Derik. "He's transforming them. Each death is a statement about control, about power over life and death itself."
Morgan's eyes narrowed as she studied the intricate patterns woven into Jessica's hair. The vines formed a spiral that reminded her of ancient fertility symbols she'd seen in Woods' research materials.
“We need to find out more about Jessica,” Morgan said. “Let’s go talk to her family.”
Derik nodded, and they both walked away from the crime scene.
Somewhere in Dallas, their killer was probably watching the news, savoring the impact of his latest performance. Morgan studied Jessica's face, peaceful despite the horror of her death, and felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle across her shoulders. They were missing something – some vital connection that would make sense of this elaborate theater of death. Morgan had learned that the most dangerous predators were often the most patient, the most precise in their planning. Like Cordell, who had orchestrated her frame-up with surgical precision, their killer was playing a longer game than they'd initially assumed.
The morning breeze carried the scent of dying leaves and fresh-turned earth, along with the sweet decay of overripe grapes still clinging to untended vines. Each death in their killer's performance piece seemed to build on the last, creating a narrative about transformation and control that was leading toward some grand finale.
Time was running out to figure out the rules before he staged his next deadly performance. And Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that everything – Woods' convenient expertise, Diana's greenhouse, even the elaborate staging of each death – was part of a larger deception designed to lead them away from the truth. She'd learned the hard way how evidence could be arranged to tell whatever story someone wanted told. The question was: whose story were they really following?