Page 24 of For Vengeance

The capacity for violence when protecting his community was established, but something about Harrison's anger felt too overt for their methodical killer. The vigilante they pursued operated with cold precision, not the hot rage visible in Harrison's clenched fists and tightly controlled voice.

"Your service with the neighborhood watch," Morgan continued, changing direction again. "Sherry Vasquez speaks highly of your commitment. She mentioned you've been particularly focused since Rodriguez's death."

Harrison nodded, some of the tension leaving his frame. "Drug dealers targeting kids—that's a personal issue for me. My nephew died of an overdose fifteen years ago. Twenty-two years old, whole life ahead of him." Genuine grief flickered across his features. "The dealer who sold to him walked on a technicality. System failed, like it always does in Santiago Heights."

Morgan made a mental note to verify this detail—such personal motivation could explain the vigilante's mission. "Did you know Rodriguez personally? Any interactions with him before his death?"

"Confronted him once, about six months ago," Harrison admitted. "Caught him selling near the middle school. Told him to take his business elsewhere. He laughed, said he had protection from people who mattered." His expression darkened. "Always wondered if he meant cops on his payroll or rivals who valued his territory. Either way, he wasn't afraid of an old man like me."

The conversation continued for another thirty minutes, Morgan probing for inconsistencies or revealing details while Harrison remained consistently forthright about his contempt for the victims and his dedication to neighborhood safety. When she finally rose to leave, she had added several notes to her mental profile but reached no definitive conclusion. Harrison had means, motive, and opportunity. His physical capabilities and neighborhood knowledge made him perfectly capable of executing all three murders. Yet something didn't align completely—the calculated precision of their unsub versus the barely contained rage Harrison displayed when discussing certain criminals.

"Agent Cross," Harrison said as he walked her to the door. "Whoever's doing this won't stop until Santiago Heights is clean. Too many predators have operated here too long without consequences. You're looking for someone who believes they're delivering justice, not committing murder." He held her gaze steadily. "There's a difference."

"Justice has procedures, due process," Morgan countered. "What's happening here is execution without trial."

Harrison's laugh held no humor. "Tell that to the families who've watched the same criminals walk free time after time while their children suffer. In Santiago Heights, we learned long ago that official justice rarely extends to our streets." He gestured toward the window where the neighborhood spread out beyond his immaculate yard. "Out there, other rules apply."

As Morgan walked back to her vehicle, she felt the weight of Harrison's words. He remained their most viable suspect, with his combination of opportunity, neighborhood knowledge, physical capability, and moral justification. And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that something crucial was missing, some element that didn't align with the methodical, patient killer who forced confessions before execution. Harrison's aggression seemed too overt, his anger too visible for someone who had executed three men without leaving a single piece of evidence linking him to the crimes.

Still, in the absence of more promising suspects, Michael Harrison would remain at the top of their list. His weak alibi, demonstrated capacity for violence, and clear motive made him impossible to eliminate. As she drove away from Crestview Street, Morgan made a mental note to have Derik arrange surveillance on Harrison—discreet observation to track his movements and determine whether he might lead them to evidence of his potential crimes.

Three days and a handful of hours remained until Cordell's deadline. The pressures of both investigations pressed against her like physical weight, each demanding her full attention, each carrying potentially lethal consequences if she failed. Morgan forced herself to focus on one problem at a time—the vigilante killer now, Cordell's ultimatum after they'd resolved this case.

At least, that was the plan. But as sunset painted Santiago Heights in deepening shadows, she couldn't shake the feeling that these dual threats were drawing closer together, that time was running out on multiple fronts simultaneously. And somewhere in this neighborhood, their killer might already be planning his next execution.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Twilight descended over Santiago Heights, transforming its streets into a chiaroscuro landscape of sharp contrasts. Pools of light from streetlamps alternated with deep shadows, creating perfect concealment for both predator and prey. Morgan stood beside her car, waiting for Derik's arrival and observing the neighborhood's transition into its nighttime rhythm. Young mothers hurried children indoors. Metal security gates clanged shut over storefronts. On certain corners, different entrepreneurs emerged to replace the daytime shift, their postures alert and wary.

"Nothing useful from the security footage," Derik said by way of greeting as he approached, frustration evident in his voice. They'd arranged to meet at the community center parking lot to compare findings before continuing their investigation together. "Camera at the subdivision entrance was angled wrong to catch faces in vehicles. The nearest business with exterior surveillance had equipment that had been 'malfunctioning' for weeks, according to the owner."

Morgan wasn't surprised. Working surveillance cameras were rarities in neighborhoods like Santiago Heights, where businesses couldn't afford maintenance and residents often preferred that certain activities remained undocumented. "Harrison remains our most promising suspect," she replied, bringing Derik up to speed on her afternoon interviews. "Opportunity, physical capability, knowledge of the victims, and a demonstrated willingness to take justice into his own hands."

Derik listened attentively, leaning against her car beside her. The familiar scent of his aftershave provided momentary comfort amid the tension of the investigation. "Violent past, clear motive, weak alibi," he summarized. "Checks most of our boxes. But?"

She glanced at him, appreciating his ability to read her hesitation even when she hadn't explicitly voiced it. Their partnership had deepened over the years to the point where such intuitive understanding felt natural. "But his anger seems too hot," she explained. "When he talked about confronting the man who harassed his daughter, about Rodriguez selling to kids—there's rage there, barely controlled. Our vigilante has demonstrated cold precision, methodical planning. Perfect execution without witnesses, without evidence."

"Could be compartmentalization," Derik suggested. "People can channel rage into methodical action under the right circumstances. His military books might indicate tactical training or at least interest."

"Maybe," Morgan conceded. "We should put surveillance on him tonight, see where he goes during his patrol. If nothing else, we can eliminate him if he sticks to his assigned route."

For the next several hours, they conducted additional interviews with neighborhood watch members, gradually working through the list Sherry had provided. Each conversation yielded similar patterns—residents expressed minimal concern about the deaths of known criminals, patrol members provided alibis of varying strength, and everyone acknowledged the inadequacy of official law enforcement in Santiago Heights. By the time darkness had fully claimed the neighborhood, they had eliminated several names but added no new viable suspects to their list.

"What now?" Derik asked as they walked back toward their vehicles, their breath visible in the cooling night air. "It's nearly eight. We could set up on Harrison, watch his movements during tonight's patrol."

Before Morgan could respond, the distinctive sound of power tools cut through the evening quiet—a circular saw followed by the steady rhythm of a nail gun. The noise seemed out of place at this hour, especially in a neighborhood where construction typically occurred during daylight hours for safety reasons.

"Hear that?" she asked, already moving toward the sound, instinct pulling her toward the anomaly. "Construction this late?"

They followed the noise to a street two blocks east, where a two-story house stood partially renovated, plastic sheeting covering windows and scaffolding climbing one exterior wall. Unlike most properties in Santiago Heights, this renovation appeared comprehensive and expensive—new roofing materials, quality lumber stacked neatly, a dumpster filled with debris from gutted interiors. Work lights illuminated the front porch where a man in his forties worked alone, methodically replacing deteriorated boards with fresh lumber.

Morgan stopped at the edge of the property, studying the scene with professional curiosity. "Pretty ambitious renovation for this neighborhood," she observed. "Most homeowners here can barely afford essential repairs."

Derik nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Investment property maybe? There've been rumors about developers eyeing Santiago Heights for years—close enough to downtown to make gentrification inevitable eventually."

The man on the porch straightened, apparently sensing their presence, and turned toward them. Recognition flashed across Morgan's face as she identified him—Thomas Parker, assistant district attorney for Dallas County. She'd encountered him during her previous life as an FBI agent, before Cordell had orchestrated her wrongful conviction. Parker had a reputation for pursuing maximum sentences against repeat offenders and had been vocal about his frustration with the revolving-door nature of the justice system.

"Can I help you?" Parker called out, setting down his nail gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. Despite the manual labor, he maintained the confident bearing of someone accustomed to commanding courtrooms. Well over six feet tall with the lean build of a distance runner, he appeared physically capable of overpowering their victims. His dark hair showed premature gray at the temples, and wire-rimmed glasses gave him an intellectual appearance that contrasted with his current role as manual laborer.

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