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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? "
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.