Chapter Seventeen
Morgan had his plan for the day, and it was the strangest feeling returning to his high school. As he roamed the corridors, which he remembered being a lot wider, he stopped every few feet to examine the cabinets where artifacts of yesteryear were kept on display. Each cabinet skipped forward a few years to when the new national football tournaments were held. Morgan had been the quarterback—something his father had made him pursue—and his mouth turned dry as he got closer to his year. He remembered wanting to leave school and throw in the towel, climbing out of all that padding and chasing the life he wanted. Sports had always come naturally to him, but academia was his true path, and he’d known that from a very early age.
His year’s cabinet was close to the end, and although he wondered where later years would be held, his fullest attention was on the cup they’d won in that game. Below the cup was a faded photograph of their prom night, which Morgan leaned in to study. Even the best detective in the world would’ve had trouble finding him; he’d sported an afro, and Rachel’s braces were the focal point of her appearance. Gary was easy to find though; the only thing that’d changed there was that he now had a moustache and his hair was grayer.
Morgan smiled at the memory of those years, his heart aching with the nostalgia, but he was here to do a job, and he’d be damned if he wouldn’t do it. Sighing to shake off the sad realization of what life was truly like, he found his way to the office, which he was glad to see hadn’t moved. The young receptionist took his name and offered him a seat, telling him the principal would be with him shortly.
It felt like forever before Mr. Weir arrived. Morgan was shocked to see he was still working here after all these years, and he’d changed beyond belief. Maybe he was remembering it wrong, but the man who’d run the school all that time ago was no longer tall and well built; he was buckled over like a sagging doll, his thin hair now receding over his liver-spotted scalp. Those stern eyes searched the entire room before they found Morgan, and he waved him into the office. As Morgan followed him in and took the offered seat, he found it heartbreaking to see the transformation from strong superior to a victim of time.
Mr. Weir took a seat at his desk, lowering himself gently into it. “Mr. Young, I’m ashamed to say I don’t remember you. My assistant tells me you were the quarterback, and some old photographs didn’t help ring any bells.”
Morgan gave a kind smile. “I wouldn’t remember me either.”
“You remember me, son?”
“Very much, sir.” Morgan scanned the room, surprised to see everything more or less in the same place. The technology on his desk had changed a bit though; what used to be a typewriter was now a shiny new laptop. “I was in here a lot, especially at lunchtimes.”
Mr. Weir mouthed his name, scratching his temple. “Morgan Young. Morgan… Oh, yes, I think I remember you now.” His expression turned to one of delighted surprise. “You used to sit in here and discuss literature with that girlfriend of yours.”
There was something sweet about being remembered, and Morgan couldn’t help but grin at the mention of Rachel. He could hardly imagine what it must look like from the other side of the desk—there was probably a lot of sadness in the job, watching people start their lives and watching what they became. Morgan wondered if he had it better or worse. “That girlfriend is now my wife.”
“Oh, splendid. Any kids?”
“No kids.” Morgan shook his head, swiftly changing the subject. “Sir, as much as I’d love to sit here and discuss the Life and Times of Morgan Young, I’m here in a more official capacity. See, you may have read about the DC Carver in the news?”
Mr. Weir nodded, sighing. “I’m afraid so.”
“I’ve been hired by the police to investigate the murders,” he lied, staying as close to the truth as possible. “Carrie Whittle and Danielle Phillips were students here a long, long time ago. During your reign, in fact.”
“Those I remember.” Mr. Weir held up his finger like an exclamation point. “Although they had different names back then, the newspapers say.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“You didn’t know them?”
“Not that well. They were a couple grades above me.” Morgan had in fact missed most of the drama surrounding Gary’s relationship with Carrie. The age difference meant everything at the time, and although they later rekindled, the exciting new relationship had stolen Gary’s attention from their friendship. “Gary Lee dated Carrie—he sends his regards, by the way—but Danielle was more or less a stranger to both of us.”
Mr. Weir opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to change his mind. He rose from his chair and approached the window on shaky legs, placing his hands on his hips and staring out to the noisy football field. “My memory is a little foggy, but there was something of an altercation between those girls.”
“There was?” This was the first Morgan had heard of it.
“In the months leading up to their graduation, I gave them both detention almost every day. You know how young girls can be. Almost as bad as young boys. Anyway, the last thing I remember about those particular students was that they were fighting.”
“You mean like an argument?”
“I mean like a vicious attack. They were clawing at each other and screaming bloody murder down the halls during inspection week. I had them both in the office, as you would imagine, to investigate what exactly was going on.”
Morgan shifted in his seat and said nothing.
“It was… a boy. Can you believe it?”
“Actually, I can.” Although Morgan had been lucky and found Rachel at such a young age, he had very strong memories of what high school relationships were like for others. Everything was dramatic, probably thanks to the influence of TV shows, but nothing ever truly amounted to anything. All their woes were soon forgotten, and they went on to live their lives. The seriousness of earlier life was so easily left behind. “What about this boy?”
“They fell in love with the same young lad, or so they said. They sat beside each other, insisting that the boy belonged to them. Neither of them could be bargained with. I really do wish I’d understood girls more at the time. It gave me an awful hard time.”
Morgan grunted, looking down at his hands and realizing he’d been squeezing his knuckles white. He released his grip and returned his attention to the principal, wondering if this drama was related to the murders. He doubted it.
“I wish I could tell you the boy’s name.”
“Anything on record?”
Mr. Weir shook his head. “Nothing helpful. I had him in detention once or twice, but we shred detention slips every six years.”
“Could you identify him from a photograph?” Morgan was thinking of the yearbook.
“I’m afraid it’s not like it used to be up here.” Mr. Weir tapped his head and turned around. “I’m terribly sorry I haven’t been much use, but my recollection of those girls is vague at best. Probably a good thing too, since now I don’t have to mourn them as others would.”
Morgan agreed but couldn’t help feeling disappointed. This trip down Memory Lane had been a strange form of pleasant torture. It had all the effects of a car wreck; it was ugly, sure, but you had to look… didn’t you? “Thank you for your time, sir.”
“Oh, it’s my pleasure. Do come back again someday.”
“Will do.” Morgan shook his hand and left with no intention of returning. After poisoning his mind with all the painful memories of his youth, he had no desire to stay a moment longer than necessary. And to go through all that without any progress on the case? Well, that was just another kick while he was down. So far, he’d had nothing but bad luck, and something told him that wasn’t going to change.
Chapter Eighteen
The very next night, Morgan found himself at the charity hall. He was not only redeeming himself for missing the previous speech, but it was exhilarating to see everything Rachel had done. People were filli
ng up the hall with great speed, making new friends at the snack bar, sharing information, and introducing foster kids to potential parents. Some even made an effort to say hello to Morgan himself, shaking his hand with wild enthusiasm and complimenting his wife to the highest regard. But they didn’t need to tell him how wonderful she was—he already knew, and the scene before him elevated his pride to new heights.
After putting out another couple of chairs and refilling the water jugs, Morgan spotted Gary and Hannah across the hall. Hannah was laughing at something their company had said, her blonde hair swishing around as her head jerked, but Gary stared at the floor in hard contemplation. It wasn’t difficult to see he was suffering the worst days of his life. Morgan just wished he could do something about it and vowed to catch him when he was less busy.
Minutes later, more people joined the hall. The air grew hot very fast, but Morgan made an effort to stand near the door and welcome the latecomers, some attending as couples or families, while others came alone to see what the fuss was all about. It made no difference to Morgan how they came, as long as his wife’s hard efforts were being respected. They clearly were, as evidenced by another new arrival declaring how much they liked her.
It was as if she’d heard her own name mentioned. Rachel came squeezing through the crowd in her black pantsuit, looking both stunning and respectable. But Morgan barely had time to appreciate her appearance before he noticed the woman she dragged by her hand. It would’ve looked suspicious, like they were engaged in a romantic relationship or something, had they not both been smiling from ear to ear.
“Morgan, honey, you’ll want to hear this.” Rachel yanked the hand with surprising strength, and a tired-eyed brunette with a little too much makeup stumbled to her side. “Tell me you recognize this woman.”
“Uh…” Morgan stuttered and laughed, his eyes dashing from one to the other. “You make it sound like we’ve been having an affair. Am I in trouble?”
The stranger laughed.
Rachel didn’t.
“Go on,” Morgan encouraged her.
“This is Emma Cole!”
There wasn’t a word to describe what happened to Morgan’s heart at that moment, but if there was it would probably be something along the lines of “glitched.” The name rang too many bells too fast, and blanks from his school years filled in automatically. It was a strong, familiar feeling that didn’t come without hope—the kind of hope that made you realize you’d been missing something all along. If only he could figure out what it was.
“I have another speech in five, so I’ll leave you to it,” Rachel said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek and then rubbing off the print left by her lip gloss. She raised a gentle hand to Emma’s elbow and grinned before fleeing into the distance, leaving him with the familiar face.
Now it was just the two of them, and all Morgan could think was how awkward it was.
“You know, I apologize,” Morgan said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I know your name, and I know your face. I even have a very vague memory of us kissing in kindergarten. But I can’t figure out much else. We were friends once?”
Emma laughed. It was a pleasant sound that didn’t match her harsh features. “No.”
“Sweethearts?”
That laugh again. “We shared some classes, but that’s it. I was talking to your wife—who’s lovely, by the way—about what’d happened since school. I guess she remembers me a little better than you do. Anyway, it came up that you’re an investigator of some kind?”
Morgan nodded, wondering where this was going. “A private investigator.”
“Right, and you’re investigating the DC Carver case?”
Now his curiosity was piqued. It wasn’t every day you were reunited with a classmate from over two decades ago, but when their first words fell in line with your current homicide investigation, you had to stop and ask questions. “Do you know something I don’t, Miss Cole?”
“Maybe. And it’s Mrs.”
“Oh. You weren’t always a Cole?”
“I was. I just didn’t change my name when I married.” Emma grinned—an excitable grin of somebody on the cusp of solving one of life’s big mysteries. “Anyway, I was remarking to my husband about the two victims and how sad it was that somebody would do that to them. They could be bitches, sure, but does anyone really deserve to die? I don’t think so, and certainly not like that.”
There it was again—that glitching of his heart. It was like it stopped and raced at the same time, cutting off his blood flow while racing it through his body. It made Morgan dizzy, his knees weak. “You knew them? Both of them?”
“Sure. We were best friends.”
Morgan’s mouth hung open in shock at the wealth of information he could salvage from this woman. It was perfect, like she’d come from nowhere to save the day—Supergirl in all her glory. “So then, I’m guessing we should—”
The lights dimmed, and everyone’s voices fell to whispers. The only light that remained was on the stage where Rachel walked to the center. Each click of her heels silenced another viewer until the room was in complete tranquility. It was a confusing time for Morgan, having to bury his excitement and replace it with pride. At least temporarily.
“We should talk,” Emma finished for him. “After this?”
“Definitely,” Morgan whispered without removing his loving stare from Rachel. “I’d really love to pick your brains about this. Maybe meet me out front when this is over?”
Emma patted him on the shoulder as she passed. “I’ll be there.”
Now that his luck was changing for the better, Morgan stepped back and closed the door, shutting out the cold air. He then rested against one of the tall marble pillars and watched his wife give the most engaging speech he’d ever heard. Every word she spoke felt like she truly believed she could make a difference. And maybe she could—he sure had faith in her.
But it wasn’t just the event that made him smile.
Morgan had found some common ground between the victims. A stranger from the past, stopping by as if from nowhere to offer some insight as to why these murders were linked. Between that and watching Rachel on stage, knowing that everyone in the room adored her, how could he have been any luckier? It felt too good to be true.
And it was.
Chapter Nineteen
The killer couldn’t have been more surprised to find the black detective at the charity event. At least not until the redhead kissed him on the cheek after introducing him to his next victim. It was then that he noticed their wedding bands: plain, but very telling.
When Rachel Young—the hostess of tonight’s overly glamorous event—took to the stage and all fell quiet, the killer watched from across the room as Mr. Young leaned against the pillar, his arms folded and an oh-so-smug grin on his face. What was the smile for, the killer wondered; was it pride? Self-satisfaction? Whatever it was, it stirred something inside the killer that made his temples itch, causing grave irritation.
The young woman, however, took a nearby seat and adjusted her dress. Her eyes swept from left to right as if she wondered who was watching her. It was typical, really; everyone was here for a children’s charity event, and this bitch was only thinking about herself.
Scoffing, the killer turned his attention to the stage.
Rachel Young traipsed toward the center, the room hushing around her. The microphone rang as the first words fell from her mouth, and then it settled to suit her soothing voice. “First of all,” she said, a flutter of nervousness creeping through her tone, “I want to thank you all for being here tonight. Everybody here has played a huge part in making this happen, and I’m so incredibly grateful for your contributions. They’ll go a long way toward changing lives.”
While the audience applauded, the killer turned his head back to Emma Cole. There weren’t enough words to describe how much he wanted to hurt her—to do to her what he’d done to the others. But the truth of it was that he found it boring. Too soon.
Twisted expressions and suppressed screams were one thing, but those moments fleeted way too fast. For Emma Cole, he’d need some extra time in a quiet place. His home, perhaps? Sure, but first he’d have to get her past that bitch he called a mother. Pathetic excuse that she was.
Again, the audience applauded, bringing the killer to realize that Rachel Young had been talking again. He checked his watch: ten minutes past. His appetite for murder had taken over him, turning twenty minutes into what felt like twenty seconds. It was lucky he’d zoned in at just the right moment to get a name…
“And once again, you’ve all been fantastic. I want to thank you all, and especially my husband, Morgan Young, who’s been at my side since the very beginning. I love you.” Rachel gestured toward the back, turning heads and gaining a final applause as the detective lowered his head and grinned with embarrassment.
Chairs soon scraped against the wooden floor, people shuffling out of their seats. Across the hall, Emma Cole stood and swooshed her hair to one side—a mannerism that riled the killer to no end—and headed for the exit. Wasting no time, the killer shot out of his seat, pulled the hat farther down on his head, and followed her to claim his next victim.
Chapter Twenty
The event had been long but not tedious, with people cheering and clapping, kids laughing and making new friends. It was everything Rachel had been working for, and although she insisted on giving Morgan some of the credit, he declined it. She’d made it on her own, and for that he was incredibly proud of her.
Over the course of the presentation and the multiple short breaks between, he’d lost sight of Emma Cole. His attention had been held captive by his beautiful red-haired wife and her accomplishments, and taking his eye off the woman had probably been a mistake. It wasn’t much of a problem though—he knew where to find her.
Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection Page 53
