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"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."

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.