Page 14 of For Vengeance

As Walsh moved to leave, he deliberately shouldered past Morgan, the contact firm enough to qualify as assault on a federal agent. It was a rookie mistake from someone who should have known better, a clear indication of how far alcohol and bitterness had corroded his professional judgment.

Morgan reacted instinctively, her body responding with the muscle memory developed through years of training and honed during her decade in prison, where physical confrontation had been a constant threat. She pivoted smoothly, grasping his arm and using his own momentum to press him against the bar. The movement was fluid, economical, executed with the precision of someone who had learned that wasted motion could mean the difference between walking away and being carried out.

"That was a mistake," she said quietly, maintaining control of his arm in a hold that threatened pain without delivering it yet. Despite her controlled exterior, Morgan felt a flash of the old anger rising within her—the rage that had sustained her through years of wrongful imprisonment, the fury at a system that had failed her so completely. She tamped it down, refusing to let personal emotions interfere with professional duty. "Assaulting a federal agent carries serious consequences."

The bar went completely silent, all pretense of disinterest abandoned as every eye focused on the confrontation. Even the jukebox seemed to cooperate, the song ending at that precise moment, leaving only the sound of Walsh's labored breathing and the distant hum of refrigeration units behind the bar. The bartender's hand remained beneath the counter, though he made no move to intervene—wisely recognizing that federal agents had jurisdiction that superseded his authority in his own establishment.

Walsh struggled briefly against her grip, testing her control before freezing as Morgan applied slight additional pressure to the joint. Beneath her hands, she could feel the rage radiating from him, the barely contained violence vibrating through his muscles. This was a man accustomed to using physical force to solve problems, a man whose anger simmered constantly just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to erupt.

Yet something in this interaction didn't align with their vigilante's profile. Their killer had demonstrated cold calculation, methodical planning, patience in selecting targets and executing them with precision. Walsh seemed too volatile, too uncontrolled, his emotions too close to the surface. His hatred for criminals like Rodriguez and Rivera was palpable, visceral in its intensity, but did he possess the discipline their unsub had shown? The methodical nature required to plan and execute the murders without leaving evidence?

"David," Derik said, his voice calm and reasonable, providing a counterpoint to the physical tension between Morgan and Walsh. He moved slightly, positioning himself where Walsh could see him without turning his head, a tactical choice that allowed him to make eye contact while Morgan maintained physical control. "We can continue this conversation at the station with your attorney present, or we can resolve it here. Your choice."

The tension stretched for several long seconds, every patron in the bar holding their breath, waiting to see which way the confrontation would break. Walsh exhaled heavily, some of the fight leaving his body in that single breath, shoulders sagging slightly within Morgan's hold. "Fine," he muttered, the word barely audible even in the silent bar. "Station it is. But I want my union rep. I know my rights."

Morgan maintained her hold as she glanced at Derik, a silent communication passing between them with the ease of partners who had worked together for years. The brief exchange conveyed volumes—Walsh's reaction was suspicious, but not necessarily incriminating. Was his anger that of a guilty man caught, or of an ex-cop bitter about being suspected by the very system he once served? The evidence remained circumstantial at best.

"Your union rep can meet us there," Morgan confirmed, gradually easing the pressure on Walsh's arm without fully releasing him. She had learned long ago that the moment of apparent surrender could be the most dangerous, when cornered suspects often made their most desperate moves. "You'll be afforded every right."

As they prepared to escort Walsh from the bar, Morgan noted the reactions of the other patrons—the mixed expressions of curiosity, concern, and in some cases, satisfaction at seeing the belligerent ex-cop taken down a notch. She recognized several off-duty officers among the crowd, men and women who had likely worked with Walsh, who had perhaps witnessed his descent from dedicated cop to embittered civilian. None made a move to intervene, their silence speaking volumes about Walsh's standing among his former colleagues.

The autumn air outside felt shocking after the stuffy warmth of the bar, the temperature having dropped further during their time inside. Morgan guided Walsh toward their vehicle, maintaining a professional grip on his arm that was both control and support as his alcohol-impaired balance faltered slightly on the uneven pavement.

As they settled Walsh into the back seat of their sedan, Morgan felt the weight of Cordell's countdown pressing against her thoughts, an ever-present timer ticking away the hours. Five days left until his ultimatum expired, and now this case demanding her full attention. Time was slipping away on multiple fronts, the pressure building from all directions. She caught Derik's eye over the roof of the car before sliding into the driver's seat, seeing in his expression the same concern that gnawed at her—that while they pursued this vigilante, Cordell was moving his pieces into position for whatever endgame he had planned.

Two predators, two hunts, and the uncomfortable knowledge that, in some ways, she understood them both all too well.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The interrogation room at Dallas PD felt like a homecoming of sorts for Walsh. Morgan observed the subtle shift in the ex-cop's demeanor as they entered the precinct where he had once worked—the almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders, the flickering recognition in his eyes as they passed officers he had served alongside, the mixture of defiance and shame that colored his expression when former colleagues averted their gaze rather than acknowledge him. The building itself hadn't changed much in the years since Walsh's resignation—the same institutional green paint peeling in corners, the same fluorescent lights casting everyone in an unflattering pallor, the same scent of industrial cleaner barely masking the underlying notes of stale coffee, sweat, and desperation that permeated every police station Morgan had ever entered.

Several hours had passed since the confrontation at the bar. They had processed Walsh through the system with deliberate thoroughness—booking, fingerprinting, allowing him a phone call to his union representative—all by the book. The time had served dual purposes: it had given Walsh an opportunity to sober up, the alcohol gradually releasing its grip on his judgment, and it had provided Morgan and Derik a chance to review his file more thoroughly and consult with Mueller about their approach.

Walsh had sobered considerably during the wait, his earlier belligerence fading into a wary cooperation that spoke of years spent on the other side of the table. The red flush of anger and alcohol had receded from his face, leaving behind the pallid complexion of a man who had spent too many years working nights, drinking through days, and avoiding the sunlight that might illuminate what he had become.

The room itself was standard issue for urban police departments across America—beige walls marred by decades of scuff marks and mysterious stains, a metal table bolted to the floor that wobbled slightly despite its anchoring, uncomfortable chairs designed to increase the psychological pressure on suspects, and the ever-present two-way mirror that everyone knew concealed an observation room. The overhead light buzzed intermittently, threatening to fail but never quite following through—much like the justice system itself, Morgan thought with bitter irony.

Walsh sat with his back straight, hands folded on the table, the posture of someone who had been on the other side of this equation countless times. His eyes tracked Morgan and Derik as they entered, assessing and calculating in the way only experienced law enforcement could. His union representative, a sharp-featured woman in her fifties named Alvarez, sat beside him, her expression professionally neutral but vigilant.

"I want to apologize for my behavior at the bar," Walsh began before either agent could speak, surprising Morgan with his directness. His voice had lost the slurred edge of intoxication, replaced by a clarity that suggested careful consideration of his position. "The alcohol, hearing those names... I reacted poorly." His eyes, bloodshot but lucid, met Morgan's directly. "It was unprofessional and unwarranted."

Morgan studied him, looking for signs of deception beneath the apparent contrition. Her years of interrogation experience—both conducting them as an agent and enduring them during her wrongful imprisonment—had honed her ability to detect the subtle tells that betrayed dishonesty: the unconscious shift in eye contact, the micro-expressions that flashed across a face too quickly for most to notice, the slight changes in breathing patterns that signaled stress. Walsh displayed none of these. His apology seemed genuine, or at least strategically sincere—the calculated move of a former officer who had recovered his professional demeanor and now recognized the precariousness of his situation.

"Let's start over then," she suggested, settling into the chair across from him. The metal was cold even through her clothing, a minor discomfort designed to keep interrogators alert during long sessions. "Your whereabouts on the nights in question."

Walsh nodded, his expression clearing like a sky after a brief storm. "I've been working security at Eastfield College for the past six months," he explained, his voice taking on the matter-of-fact tone of someone providing an alibi they knew to be solid. "Night shift, 8 PM to 4 AM, including both nights of the murders." His voice took on a practical tone, that of one law enforcement professional to another, a subtle reminder that despite his fall from grace, he still considered himself part of the fraternity. "The campus has extensive camera coverage. Every entrance, parking lot, and hallway is monitored. Those cameras would show me making my rounds throughout both nights."

"We'll verify that," Derik said, making a note in the small leather-bound notebook he preferred to electronic devices during interviews. The scratch of his pen against paper was audible in the quiet room, deliberately so—another psychological tactic, suggesting that Walsh's words were being recorded verbatim, worth documenting.

"You will," Walsh agreed confidently, leaning back slightly in his chair. The movement was casual, almost relaxed, suggesting the confidence of someone providing an alibi they knew would check out. "Because I didn't kill them, though I won't pretend I'm sorry they're dead." His eyes met Morgan's directly, unflinching in their intensity. "Rodriguez and Rivera were predators. Rodriguez sold to children, knowing exactly what those drugs would do to them. Rivera made every woman in that neighborhood feel unsafe, violated. The world is better without them in it."

Morgan noted the conviction in his statement—not the false bravado of someone constructing a lie, but the genuine belief of someone expressing a deeply held truth. The distinction was important. Guilty suspects often overcompensated, expressing moral outrage they didn't feel to distance themselves from crimes they had committed. Walsh's condemnation seemed to come from a place of genuine disgust, though that alone didn't exonerate him.

Morgan leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table. "If you understand their crimes so well, why didn't you stop them when you were on the force?" The question was deliberate, designed to probe the frustration that might have driven Walsh beyond the boundaries of legal justice.

Walsh's jaw tightened visibly, a muscle flexing beneath the stubble that shadowed his face. His eyes darkened with remembered frustration, and his union representative shifted slightly beside him, preparing to intervene if his response veered into dangerous territory.

"I tried," Walsh said, each word carrying the weight of years of futility. "God knows I tried. Arrested Rodriguez seven times over three years. Seven times I collected evidence, filed reports, testified in court." He held up seven fingers, then closed his hand into a fist that he lowered slowly to the table. "The longest he spent in lockup was three days before he was back on the street. Budget cuts at the DA's office meant cases like his weren't priorities. Overcrowded jails meant nonviolent offenders got released first." His voice took on a bitter edge. "Do you know what it's like to arrest the same dealer three times in a month, while the kids he's poisoning are wheeled into emergency rooms?"

---