Page 13 of For Vengeance

The bar's interior hit them with a wall of sensory input as they entered—the smell of stale beer and decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the wood paneling, the sound of Waylon Jennings lamenting lost love from an ancient jukebox in the corner, the sight of mismatched furniture that had endured countless bar fights and spilled drinks. Despite local ordinances, a haze of cigarette smoke hung near the ceiling, and the management was clearly unconcerned with enforcement when it came to their regular clientele.

Morgan's eyes adjusted quickly to the dim lighting, scanning the room with practiced efficiency. She noted the exits (front door, rear hallway likely leading to a back entrance, possibly a fire exit behind the bar), potential threats (three men at a corner table whose posture suggested concealed weapons, likely off-duty officers), and finally her target. Walsh hunched over the bar, his broad shoulders curved inward as though carrying a physical weight, several empty glasses lined up before him like fallen soldiers. Even from across the room, Morgan could see he was several drinks in, though not completely inebriated.

At forty-six, Walsh still maintained the solid build of his police days, though less defined now—the beginning of a paunch visible beneath his untucked shirt, his once-military posture yielding to gravity and resignation. His close-cropped hair had begun to thin, and the harsh overhead lights of the bar revealed patches of gray that hadn't been present in his personnel photo. He nursed what appeared to be neat whiskey, staring into the amber liquid as though seeking answers in its depths.

"Follow my lead," Morgan murmured to Derik as they approached, weaving between tables with casual precision. "Let's see how he reacts to us."

Walsh sensed their presence before they reached him, the instincts of a veteran cop not dulled by alcohol or civilian life. He straightened slightly, shoulders squaring almost imperceptibly, eyes finding them in the smudged mirror behind the bar. Recognition flashed across his face—not of them personally, but of what they represented. FBI. Law enforcement. The system he'd abandoned. His reflection showed the momentary tightening of his jaw, the subtle shift in his posture from dejected to defensive.

"David Walsh?" Morgan asked, though she already knew the answer. She kept her tone neutral, professional but not confrontational.

Walsh turned slowly on his stool, taking his time as he assessed them with bloodshot eyes that nonetheless retained the sharp evaluating gaze of a cop. He wore three days of stubble and a faded Dallas Cowboys t-shirt beneath an open flannel shirt, casual attire that couldn't quite disguise the officer's bearing he still carried. The smell of whiskey emanated from him, but his gaze remained steady enough to suggest he wasn't as drunk as the line of empty glasses might indicate.

"Who's asking?" His voice was rough, either from the alcohol or from disuse, with the slight drawl common to native Texans who had tried to minimize their accent in professional settings.

They displayed their credentials simultaneously, a choreographed move practiced over years of partnership. The leather folios snapped open with twin sounds, badges gleaming dully in the bar's low light.

"Agents Cross and Greene, FBI," Morgan said, maintaining that neutral tone, watching carefully for Walsh's reaction. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Walsh's reaction was immediate and transformed his entire demeanor. His face hardened, features shifting from guarded curiosity to open hostility. His lips curled into a derisive sneer that exposed teeth clenched tightly enough to make the muscles in his jaw stand out. "The fucking FBI. Of course." He snorted, turning back to his drink with deliberate dismissiveness, as though they weren't worth his attention. "Harassing another cop while the real criminals walk free. Some things never change."

Morgan caught Derik's eye briefly—Walsh's reaction was stronger than expected for a simple inquiry, but not conclusively indicative of guilt. It could just as easily be the bitter response of a former officer whose career had ended poorly, whose disillusionment with the system extended to all forms of law enforcement.

Morgan positioned herself beside him, Derik flanking his other side, effectively blocking him between them and the bar. It was a subtle tactic, applying psychological pressure without physical intimidation. The bartender noticed the dynamic, drifting closer under the pretense of wiping down the already clean surface, keeping an eye on the interaction.

"We're investigating the recent deaths of Marcus Rodriguez and Anthony Rivera," Morgan said, watching as Walsh's hand tightened momentarily around his glass at the names. "We understand you patrolled that area before your resignation."

A muscle in Walsh's jaw twitched, a small tell that the names had registered. He took another swallow of whiskey before responding, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he set it down with more force than necessary. "Rodriguez and Rivera," he repeated, staring into his glass as though it contained more than alcohol. "Heard they got what was coming to them."

The phrasing caught Morgan's attention—not expressions of surprise at their deaths, not questions about how they died, but immediate moral judgment. "And what exactly was coming to them, in your opinion?" she pressed, watching his reaction carefully.

Walsh drained his whiskey and signaled the bartender for another with a raised finger. The motion was fluid, practiced—the gesture of a man who spent considerable time in this establishment. "Rodriguez sold to kids," he said, his voice dropping lower, intensity replacing some of the belligerence. "Not just weed—the hard stuff. Meth, oxy. Didn't care who he hurt as long as he got paid." His voice thickened with contempt that seemed to come from somewhere deep and personal. "And Rivera? That pervert made women in the neighborhood afraid to use public restrooms. Afraid to walk alone. I arrested him three times. Three." He held up three fingers, jabbing them toward Morgan for emphasis. "And each time, he was back on the streets within days."

The bartender delivered another whiskey, casting a wary glance at Morgan and Derik before moving away, remaining within earshot but giving them space. Walsh took a long swallow, wincing slightly as the alcohol burned its way down, though whether from the strength of the liquor or the bitterness of his memories was unclear.

"Where were you on the night of October 15th, between 10 PM and midnight?" Morgan asked, the timeframe of Rodriguez's murder. She kept her tone conversational, though the question was anything but casual.

Walsh's shoulders tensed visibly, his posture shifting from aggressive to defensive. His eyes, which had been fixed on his drink, snapped up to meet Morgan's. "Am I a suspect?" he demanded, voice rising slightly. "Is that what this is?"

"We're just gathering information," Derik replied smoothly from Walsh's other side, his tone reasonable, almost friendly—the good cop to balance Morgan's more direct approach. "Standard procedure when investigating homicides with potential connections to law enforcement. You know how it works."

"Bullshit." Walsh's voice rose enough that heads turned at nearby tables, conversations pausing momentarily before resuming with greater interest. He half-turned to face Derik, gesturing emphatically with his glass, whiskey sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "This isn't 'standard procedure.' You're here because I'm an ex-cop who had run-ins with those scumbags. Because I expressed my frustrations with a system that lets predators like them roam free. That makes me your prime suspect, doesn't it?"

The rising volume of his voice, the increasingly aggressive body language, suggested a volatility that didn't align with the controlled, methodical nature of their unsub. The vigilante they were hunting had demonstrated patience, planning, precision. Walsh displayed none of these qualities in his current state. Morgan filed this observation away, neither eliminating him as a suspect nor removing him from the top of their list.

Morgan held his gaze steadily, unflinching in the face of his growing agitation. Her time in prison had inured her to far more threatening behavior than Walsh's alcohol-fueled indignation. "Your whereabouts, Mr. Walsh?" she repeated, her voice calm but insistent.

The use of "mister" rather than "officer" seemed to strike a nerve, a deliberate reminder of his fallen status. Walsh's face flushed deeper, alcohol and anger combining to darken his complexion to a dangerous shade of red. The vein at his temple visibly pulsed as he leaned forward, invading Morgan's personal space in a way that would intimidate most people. "I don't answer to you or any other fed who abandoned these streets to criminals," he growled, droplets of spittle flying with the force of his words. "Where were you when Rodriguez was selling poison to thirteen-year-olds? Where was the FBI when Rivera was installing cameras in women's bathroom stalls? Where were you when mothers in Santiago Heights were begging for someone to make the neighborhood safe again?"

Several conversations around them quieted entirely as heads turned toward the increasingly heated exchange. The bartender set down his rag, hand moving beneath the counter to what Morgan suspected was either a baseball bat or a shotgun—standard equipment in establishments like this one. The tension in the room ratcheted higher with each passing second, the other patrons sensing the potential for conflict.

Morgan remained outwardly calm, her prison-honed instincts detecting the escalating tension before it manifested physically. She didn't blink, didn't back away from Walsh's aggressive proximity, but her muscles coiled in readiness, prepared to react if his anger transformed into action. Ten years behind bars had taught her to read violence before it erupted, to recognize the moment when words would give way to physical aggression.

"Mr. Walsh, we're simply asking for your cooperation in a federal investigation," she said evenly, her voice dropping lower rather than matching his volume, forcing him to pay closer attention to hear her. "Your whereabouts during the timeframe in question?"

The strategic de-escalation might have worked with someone more sober or less aggrieved. Walsh, however, seemed beyond the reach of such tactics. He stood abruptly, the barstool scraping loudly against the worn wooden floor, the sound harsh and jarring in the now-attentive bar. He towered over Morgan by several inches, using his size in a calculated attempt at intimidation that might have worked on someone without her experiences.

"I'm not answering another question without a lawyer," he declared, his voice carrying throughout the now-silent establishment. He reached into his back pocket, extracting a worn leather wallet and throwing several bills on the bar with enough force that they scattered across the damp surface. "We're done here."

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