Page 15 of For Vengeance

His frustration resonated with Morgan more than she cared to admit. The system's failures weren't theoretical to her—they were etched into the tattoos that covered her arms, into the decade stolen from her life, into the nightmares that still woke her regularly. She knew intimately the helpless rage that came from watching justice fail, from being its victim rather than its agent. The kinship she felt with Walsh's disillusionment was uncomfortable, a reminder of the darker impulses she had fought during her imprisonment, the temptation toward vengeance that sometimes still whispered to her when cases like Cordell's pushed against the boundaries of legal recourse.

"And Rivera?" she prompted, keeping her own experiences carefully contained behind a professional facade. Empathy was a tool in interrogation, not a vulnerability to be exposed.

"After his first conviction, he was smarter about hiding the evidence," Walsh explained, spreading his hands in a gesture of frustration. "We knew he was still at it—women reported seeing him hanging around restrooms, following them. But we could never catch him with the cameras, never get enough for a warrant." His hands clenched into fists on the table, knuckles whitening with suppressed emotion. "You know what it's like telling a terrified woman that you can't help her until after she's been victimized in a way you can prove? Until after he's violated her privacy, her security, her peace of mind?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication and shared understanding between law enforcement professionals who had faced similar limitations. Morgan did know that particular helplessness. She'd experienced it as an agent, bound by legal constraints while predators remained free to hunt. She'd faced it from the other side as well, as a wrongfully convicted prisoner watching real criminals operate with impunity within the system meant to contain them.

Walsh leaned forward, closing some of the distance between them across the table. His voice dropped lower, as though sharing a confidence between colleagues rather than participating in an interrogation. "Did I ever think about crossing that line? Taking justice into my own hands?" he continued, answering the unasked question that hung between them. "Sure. What cop hasn't? Show me an officer who says they've never fantasized about delivering street justice to some predator the system keeps releasing, and I'll show you a liar." His next words came slower, more deliberate, weighted with sincerity. "But thinking and doing are different worlds, Agent Cross. I never crossed that line. Not even when I wanted to more than I've wanted anything in my life."

Morgan studied his face, searching for the tells of deception she'd learned to identify over years of interrogations. Walsh met her gaze steadily, his eyes clear now that the alcohol had worn off. There was anger there, certainly—a simmering rage at the system's failures—but also something like resignation. The look of someone who had accepted his powerlessness to change things, who had made his peace with the limitations of legal justice. It wasn't the expression she would expect from a vigilante who had found release and purpose in taking matters into his own hands.

"How'd you end up in security?" Derik asked, shifting the conversation slightly. The change in direction was strategic—easing the tension while gathering additional background that might reveal inconsistencies in Walsh's account.

Walsh shrugged, the gesture somehow encompassing the decline of his career and the constrained options that followed. "Not many options after the way I left the force," he admitted, a flash of shame crossing his features before being quickly suppressed. "The excessive force complaint, the official reprimand in my file. Security firms that hire ex-cops usually want clean records, references from former superiors. I had neither." He exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping slightly. "I had bills to pay. Eastfield needed someone with police experience for their night shift. It's quiet work, pays the rent. Mostly I walk around empty buildings making sure doors are locked, watching cameras that never show anything more exciting than the occasional student trying to sneak into the lab after hours."

His description painted a picture of mundane security duties far removed from vigilante justice—a life circumscribed by financial necessity and diminished prospects rather than driven by a mission to cleanse the streets of criminals. Yet Morgan had interviewed enough suspects to know that the most convincing lies were those built around substantial truths. Walsh's security position could provide both alibi and cover, depending on how one viewed the evidence.

As the interview continued, Morgan found herself understanding Walsh's position all too well. The frustration of witnessing justice fail repeatedly. The rage at seeing the same offenders victimize communities without consequence. The helplessness when constrained by a system that often protected the guilty at the expense of the innocent. These weren't abstract concepts to her, but lived experiences that had shaped her own view of justice and its limitations.

Her own experiences with Cordell and the FBI's corruption had left her with similar scars, both visible and hidden. Ten years in prison for crimes she didn't commit, watching her life and career crumble while the true culprits remained free to continue their corruption. How many times during those long years behind bars had she fantasized about delivering her own brand of justice to those responsible? How many nights had she fallen asleep planning exactly what she would do to Cordell once she discovered his role in framing her?

The line between justice and vengeance had blurred for her during those years—a distinction that sometimes still wavered when she encountered cases where the system failed its most vulnerable. This recognition made Walsh simultaneously more suspect and more relatable, a paradox that complicated her assessment of his potential guilt.

Walsh's voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the present interrogation. "Whoever is doing this, they won't stop with Rodriguez and Rivera," he said soberly, lowering his voice as if sharing a professional assessment rather than defending himself. "Santiago Heights has no shortage of criminals who've slipped through the system's cracks. If this person sees themselves as delivering justice where the courts failed, they're just getting started."

The warning hung in the air, its implications settling over the room like a physical weight. Morgan exchanged a glance with Derik, knowing they had reached the same conclusion in their profile development. Their vigilante had established a pattern, a mission—one that would continue until they were stopped or had exhausted their list of targets.

The door opened, and an officer entered with a folder, interrupting the moment of silent communication between the partners. He leaned close to Derik, speaking quietly before departing again, leaving the folder in Derik's hands.

"Eastfield security has confirmed your presence during both timeframes," Derik informed Walsh after scanning the contents. "Camera footage shows you making rounds throughout the campus during the hours in question, checking in at security stations at regular intervals. The timestamps align with your work logs."

Relief flickered briefly across Walsh's face before he nodded, the confirmation vindicating his earlier confidence. "Told you," he said simply. The absence of smugness or excessive celebration at this exoneration noted another mark in favor of his innocence—guilty suspects often overplayed their reactions to alibi confirmation, while Walsh's response suggested the matter-of-fact acknowledgment of something he had never doubted.

Ms. Alvarez, Walsh's union representative, who had remained silent throughout most of the interview, now spoke up. "I assume my client is free to go, then?" Her tone was professional but carried the unmistakable edge of someone prepared to assert rights if necessary.

Morgan nodded, gathering her notes. "For now," she confirmed, leaving the door open for future questioning if new evidence emerged.

As they prepared to leave, Walsh stopped them with a final observation. "You should know something about Santiago Heights," he said, his voice taking on the tone of a veteran officer sharing crucial information with colleagues. "It's a community that's been abandoned by the system for decades. People there don't trust cops, don't trust courts. They've learned to handle problems themselves." His expression darkened, the overhead light casting shadows that emphasized the concern in his eyes. "Whoever's killing these men, they might be seen as a hero by folks who've given up on official justice. You won't find many witnesses eager to help you catch them."

The assessment aligned with Morgan's own understanding of the neighborhood dynamics, gained through years of working similar communities. Areas like Santiago Heights developed their own codes of conduct when official justice failed them repeatedly, their own methods of maintaining order when police presence proved inadequate or untrustworthy. Walsh was right—their investigation would face the additional hurdle of community silence, perhaps even active interference if residents viewed the killer as delivering a form of justice long denied to them.

Outside the interrogation room, Morgan paused in the hallway, processing Walsh's words and her own conflicted response to them. The institutional green walls seemed to close in slightly, the harsh fluorescent lights emphasizing the fatigue that had settled into her features after the long day. Derik watched her quietly, understanding without words the struggle playing out behind her composed exterior. Their partnership had deepened over the years to the point where verbal communication often proved unnecessary—he could read the tension in her shoulders, the furrow between her brows that appeared only when cases touched too closely on her own experiences.

"I get it," she finally admitted softly, when they had moved far enough down the hallway to ensure privacy. "Not just Walsh's frustration—the killer's motivation too." The confession cost her something to make, an acknowledgment of the darkness she carried within her, carefully controlled but never fully exorcised. "After what happened to me, after seeing what Cordell and his people did to the system I believed in..." She paused, searching for words that wouldn't compromise her professional integrity while still honoring her truth. "The line between justice and vengeance gets awfully thin sometimes."

Derik nodded, his expression troubled but free of judgment. The green of his eyes appeared darker in the poor lighting, shadows emphasizing the concern etched there. "That's what worries me," he replied, keeping his voice equally low. "You understand this unsub in ways most agents couldn't. You know how justice can fail, how the system can be corrupted from within. You've lived it."

The unspoken question hung between them: Was that understanding an advantage in hunting the killer, or a dangerous empathy that might cloud her judgment? Could she maintain the necessary objectivity when pursuing someone whose motivations mirrored impulses she had fought within herself? Morgan had no answer, only the uncomfortable awareness that somewhere in Santiago Heights, someone had obliterated the line she still struggled to maintain.

The weight of Cordell's ultimatum pressed against her consciousness as they walked toward the exit, the countdown ticking relentlessly in the back of her mind. Five days remaining to find a solution, to protect her father and Derik from a man whose reach extended into the highest levels of the Bureau. Five days in which she also needed to stop a vigilante killer before they claimed another victim. The parallel pressures threatened to crush her between them, testing the compartmentalization skills she had developed during her prison years.

"One thing at a time," Derik murmured beside her, as if reading her thoughts. His hand brushed against hers briefly, a fleeting contact that conveyed solidarity without drawing attention from the officers they passed. "Walsh gave us a starting point, even if he's not our unsub. We know our killer has intimate knowledge of Santiago Heights criminals, access to non-public information about their activities, and the tactical skills to execute cleanly."

Morgan nodded, focusing on the immediate investigation, pushing Cordell temporarily to the background of her thoughts. "We need to expand our search parameters," she agreed. "If not a former cop, then someone else with access to criminal intelligence. Court employees, civilian staff at the precinct, possibly even medical personnel who might have encountered victims of Rodriguez or Rivera."

As they stepped out into the night, the autumn air felt clean and clarifying after hours in the sterile environment of the police station. Stars punctuated the dark Texas sky, visible despite the city lights that typically obscured them. Morgan took a deep breath, steadying herself against the dual threats that demanded her attention.

One predator at a time. She would find this vigilante, understand them without becoming them, bring them to proper justice. And then she would turn her full attention to Cordell, to protecting those she loved from a man whose corruption had already stolen ten years of her life.

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