Page 23 of For Vengeance

As she left the library with the printed lists in hand, Morgan felt the weight of the case pressing down alongside Cordell's ticking clock. Four days remained until his ultimatum expired. Four days to protect her father and Derik while simultaneously hunting a killer who had appointed himself Santiago Heights' executioner. The uncomfortable parallels between her own quest for justice against Cordell and this vigilante's mission weren't lost on her. Both operated outside a system that had failed repeatedly, both targeted those who had escaped official consequences.

The difference—she reminded herself firmly as she walked back to her vehicle—was that she still believed in the possibility of justice within the law. Their vigilante had abandoned that hope entirely, crossing a line that Morgan, despite everything Cordell had taken from her, still wouldn't cross.

At least, she hoped that line would hold. Four more days would test that conviction to its limits.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Michael Harrison's home stood out on Crestview Street like a declaration of defiance against decay. While neighboring properties showed the inevitable wear of limited resources and harsh Texas weather, Harrison's modest single-story house gleamed with fresh paint, intact gutters, and a lawn so meticulously maintained it looked almost artificial against the patchy grass surrounding it. American and Texas flags hung properly illuminated beside the front door—not the casual patriotic display common throughout Dallas, but the precise arrangement of someone who knew and followed flag protocols to the letter.

Morgan parked her sedan across the street, taking a moment to observe the property before approaching. The contrast between Harrison's home and its surroundings spoke volumes about the man—someone who maintained strict standards despite his environment, who refused to yield to the entropy that claimed neighboring properties. The vigilance required to maintain such order in Santiago Heights aligned uncomfortably well with their unsub's profile.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the street as Morgan approached the front door. Before she could knock, the door opened, revealing Michael Harrison—a man whose physical presence commanded immediate attention despite being well into his sixties. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the muscular build of someone who had spent decades in physical labor, Harrison could easily have overpowered all three victims. His gray hair was cut in a military-style crew cut, and his weathered face bore the deep lines of someone who spent considerable time outdoors, likely working on engines or home repairs. Most striking were his hands—large, calloused, capable hands that had clearly seen decades of mechanical work and could certainly handle a firearm with precision.

"Figured you'd be coming by eventually," he said, his voice a deep rumble that matched his imposing frame. No surprise registered on his face at finding an FBI agent on his doorstep. "News travels fast in Santiago Heights. You've been asking about me."

Morgan maintained her professional composure, unsurprised that her inquiries had already reached him. Communities like this one had informal communication networks more efficient than any official channels. "Michael Harrison? I'm Agent Cross, FBI. I'd like to ask you some questions about the neighborhood watch program and recent events in Santiago Heights."

Harrison studied her for a long moment, his pale blue eyes sharp with intelligence and something harder to define—caution, perhaps, or calculation. Then he stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. "Might as well come in. No sense giving the neighbors more to talk about than they already have."

The interior of Harrison's home continued the theme established by its exterior—immaculately maintained, organized with military precision. The living room featured practical, well-kept furniture, family photos in simple frames, and bookshelves lined with an eclectic collection that immediately caught Morgan's attention. Law enforcement procedurals. Military tactics. True crime. Books about justice systems and their failures. The reading material of someone deeply interested in crime, punishment, and perhaps the methods required to implement both.

"Take a seat," Harrison offered, indicating an armchair while he settled onto the matching sofa. Nothing in his demeanor suggested nervousness or guilt, which could either mean innocence or the confidence of someone accustomed to maintaining composure under scrutiny. "I assume this is about Rodriguez, Rivera, and that car thief from last night."

Morgan noted his immediate acknowledgment of the murders without her mentioning them. "Yes. I understand you were on neighborhood watch patrol on the nights Rodriguez and Rivera were killed."

Harrison nodded, unapologetic about the coincidence. "I patrol three nights a week. Have done for years. Santiago Heights doesn't protect itself."

"Did you notice anything unusual on either night? Anyone who seemed out of place, any suspicious activity around the victims' residences?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Harrison replied, his posture relaxed but alert, like a predator at rest. "Though what counts as 'ordinary' in Santiago Heights might surprise you. Rodriguez dealt drugs from that apartment for years—different people coming and going at all hours was his normal. As for Rivera..." His expression darkened with undisguised disgust. "That pervert kept irregular hours anyway. Always out with his camera when women would be walking alone."

The contempt in Harrison's voice when speaking of the victims aligned with the vigilante's obvious moral judgment. Morgan watched his face carefully as she asked her next question. "How do you feel about what happened to them?"

Harrison didn't hesitate. "Honest answer? I'm not losing any sleep over either one. Rodriguez sold to kids—got the Menendez girl hooked on meth last year, nearly killed her. I watched her mother crying on the sidewalk while paramedics worked on her daughter." His jaw tightened visibly. "And Rivera? Made every woman in this neighborhood feel unsafe. My own daughter wouldn't use the public restroom at the park because of him."

"And Murray?" Morgan pressed, watching for micro-expressions that might reveal knowledge beyond what had been reported in the news.

Harrison shrugged his broad shoulders. "I didn't know him personally, but car thieves target hardworking people who can't afford to replace what they steal. No great loss to the world."

The casual dismissal of three human lives would have been disturbing from anyone, but from a suspect in their murders, it carried additional weight. Morgan changed direction slightly. "Where were you last night between midnight and two AM?"

"On patrol," Harrison answered without hesitation. "Eastern route, which covers Jefferson Park down to the community center. Nowhere near where that car thief was killed, if that's your next question."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

Harrison's mouth tightened briefly. "I patrol alone. More effective that way. So no, I don't have witnesses to my whereabouts, which I'm sure puts me squarely on your suspect list." His direct acknowledgment of his lack of alibi was either the confidence of innocence or the calculated risk of someone who knew exactly how much evidence existed against him—which was to say, none.

Morgan studied his home again, noting details that continued to build a concerning profile. A gun cabinet in the corner, locked properly but containing what appeared to be multiple firearms. Photographs of Harrison in various community settings—at church, at neighborhood clean-up events, standing proudly beside his immaculate classic car. The image of a man integrated into Santiago Heights at every level, invested in its welfare, perhaps to the point of taking extreme measures to "protect" it.

"If you had seen something—someone attacking Rodriguez or Rivera—what would you have done?" she asked, the hypothetical question carefully crafted to probe his boundaries.

Harrison considered this for a moment, his weathered face thoughtful rather than defensive. "Depends," he finally said. "If some random criminal was attacking them? I'd have intervened, called police. That's unnecessary violence, creates fear in the community." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "But someone removing predators who've escaped justice repeatedly? Someone making Santiago Heights safer for decent folks?" He spread his hands. "I might have looked the other way. Hypothetically speaking, of course."

The distinction he drew revealed a nuanced moral code that aligned disturbingly well with their unsub's methodology. Not random violence but targeted removals. Not chaos, but calculated justice as he defined it.

"You've had some trouble with the law yourself," Morgan observed. "An assault charge a few years back. Man who harassed your daughter?"

Something dangerous flashed in Harrison's eyes—a glimpse of the violence he was capable of when provoked. "He didn't just 'harass' her. He followed my sixteen-year-old daughter for blocks, describing what he wanted to do to her. Detailed enough that she came home shaking, couldn't sleep for weeks." His hands curled into fists on his knees. "When I confronted him, he laughed. Said there was nothing illegal about 'appreciating' young girls. So yes, I hit him with a wrench. Would do it again."

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