Page 20

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across Santiago Heights as Morgan walked its streets, observing the neighborhood with the trained eye of someone who had spent years reading urban landscapes.

Modest homes with barred windows stood alongside small businesses fortified with security gates.

Working families hurried along cracked sidewalks, shoulders hunched against more than just the autumn chill, while on certain corners, young men with watchful eyes conducted transactions that no one acknowledged.

It was a community of contradictions—hardworking residents trying to carve out decent lives alongside criminal elements who preyed on that very decency.

The uneasy coexistence was visible in every interaction Morgan observed: the way mothers pulled their children closer when passing certain houses, the deliberate avoidance of eye contact with men lounging on specific street corners, the calculated timing of errands to avoid certain hours when danger peaked.

She'd dressed deliberately for this canvas—jeans, a simple t-shirt beneath a lightweight jacket, her badge and weapon concealed but accessible—nothing that screamed federal agent, but nothing that attempted to mimic the neighborhood's style either.

Experience had taught her that pretending to belong in communities like this only raised suspicion.

Better to be obviously an outsider with honest questions than someone whose attempted camouflage triggered instinctive distrust.

"Excuse me," she said, approaching an elderly woman sweeping her front stoop despite the futility of keeping dust at bay in the Texas autumn. "I was hoping to ask you about some recent events in the neighborhood."

The woman paused, leaning on her broom as she assessed Morgan with shrewd eyes that had likely witnessed decades of Santiago Heights' evolution.

Deep lines etched her brown face, a testament to years under the harsh Texas sun and harsher life circumstances.

"You police?" she asked directly, no fear in her voice, just the practical need to categorize this stranger.

"FBI," Morgan replied, briefly displaying her credentials before tucking them away. "Agent Cross."

The woman nodded once, neither impressed nor intimidated. "Maria Santos. Lived here forty-two years." She resumed her sweeping, but her posture remained open enough that Morgan knew she hadn't been dismissed.

"I'm investigating the recent deaths in the area. Rodriguez, Rivera." She paused, watching for reaction. "James Murray, most recently."

Maria's sweeping rhythm didn't falter, but something flickered across her weathered features—not shock or grief, but something closer to grim satisfaction.

"Bad men, all of them," she said finally, her accent thickening slightly with emotion.

"Rodriguez sold poison to children. My granddaughter's friend, only fourteen, in the hospital because of him.

Rivera..." She made a sound of disgust. "Women couldn't even use the public library bathroom without wondering if he was watching. These men, they got what was coming."

The frank approval in her voice troubled Morgan deeply.

She'd encountered similar sentiments in other neighborhoods where criminal justice seemed to operate on a delayed schedule, if at all, but hearing it stated so directly highlighted the dangerous appeal of vigilante justice when legal remedies consistently failed.

"Do you know who might have wanted them dead?" Morgan asked, keeping her tone neutral, conversational.

Maria's sweeping slowed as she appeared to consider the question.

"In Santiago Heights? Everyone and no one.

" She shrugged. "We learned long ago—police come, take reports, nothing changes.

Courts release the same criminals back to our streets week after week.

After a while, people stop hoping for justice from outside. "

Morgan recognized the resignation in Maria's voice—had heard similar sentiments from inmates during her incarceration, had felt that same helpless rage herself when Cordell had stolen ten years of her life through a corrupted system.

The understanding created an uncomfortable kinship with both the residents of Santiago Heights and the vigilante they were hunting.

"Has anyone been talking about the murders? Anyone seemed pleased, or perhaps nervous afterward?"

Maria's laugh held no humor. "Agent, in this neighborhood, nobody talks about such things.

Not to each other, certainly not to FBI.

" She paused her sweeping, meeting Morgan's eyes directly.

"But I will tell you this—the streets feel safer with Rodriguez and Rivera gone.

Children play outside again. Women walk to the bus stop without looking over their shoulders every three steps.

Whatever your job requires you to do, remember that. "

The implicit support for a killer left Morgan momentarily speechless.

It wasn't just Maria—as she'd canvassed the neighborhood throughout the afternoon, she'd encountered similar sentiments, sometimes stated directly, other times conveyed through telling silences or the simple refusal to express any outrage over the murders.

The community had made its judgment: the vigilante's victims deserved their fates.

"One more thing," Morgan said as Maria resumed her sweeping. "I'm trying to understand how information flows through Santiago Heights—who might know about criminal activities that aren't necessarily reported to police. Are there community groups, neighborhood watch programs, anything like that?"

Maria's expression softened slightly. "You should talk to Sherry at the library. She started a neighborhood watch a few years back, keeps track of everything that happens here. If anyone knows this community's heartbeat, it's her."

Morgan thanked her and continued down the street, processing what she'd learned.

The tacit approval of the vigilante's actions created an environment where witnesses would be scarce, evidence probably deliberately overlooked by residents.

If Santiago Heights had collectively decided that the killer was delivering justice rather than committing murder, their investigation faced an uphill battle against community silence.

The Santiago Heights Public Library occupied a small, utilitarian building on Jefferson Boulevard, its exterior recently painted in a cheerful yellow that stood in stark contrast to the graffiti-marked businesses surrounding it.

Inside, the space was clean and well-organized, though the limited collection of books spoke to years of budget constraints.

Half a dozen computer terminals were occupied by users of various ages, and a children's area in one corner featured a teenager reading aloud to a small group of elementary school children.

Morgan approached the circulation desk where a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked black hair was checking in returned books, her movements efficient and practiced.

"Excuse me," Morgan began. "I'm looking for Sherry?"

The woman looked up, pushing reading glasses higher on her nose as she assessed Morgan. "That's me. Sherry Vasquez. How can I help you?"

Morgan introduced herself, keeping her voice low out of respect for the library environment. "I understand you coordinate the neighborhood watch program. I'd like to ask you some questions about that."

Sherry's expression shifted from professional courtesy to personal interest. "My break's in ten minutes. Why don't you wait, and we can talk more privately in my office?"

Morgan nodded, using the time to observe the library's patrons and staff.

She noted the well-worn children's books, the carefully maintained periodical section featuring both English and Spanish language publications, the battered furniture that had been meticulously cleaned.

The space reflected the same duality she'd observed throughout Santiago Heights—limited resources paired with fierce pride and determination to create something worthwhile despite those limitations.

Ten minutes later, Sherry led Morgan to a small office barely large enough for a desk and two chairs. The window overlooked a small courtyard where someone had planted flowers in pots—splashes of color amid concrete.

"So, FBI," Sherry said once they were seated, folding her hands on her desk. "This is about the murders, I assume?"

"Yes," Morgan confirmed. "I'm trying to understand the community dynamics in Santiago Heights, particularly how information about criminal activity spreads. Maria Santos suggested you might have insights through your work with the neighborhood watch."

Pride straightened Sherry's shoulders. "I started the program four years ago after my sister's apartment was broken into for the third time in a month. The police response times in Santiago Heights..." She shook her head. "Let's just say we learned we needed to protect our own."

"How many members do you have?" Morgan asked.

"Officially, about thirty. People who attend meetings, share information, keep eyes open.

But only about a dozen who actually conduct patrols.

" Sherry reached for a file folder in her desk drawer and opened it, revealing neatly organized schedules and contact information.

"We coordinate with Dallas PD when we can, but mostly we focus on prevention—being visible, reporting suspicious activity, documenting patterns. "

Morgan studied the patrol schedules, noting the careful organization. "Were patrols conducted on the nights Rodriguez and Rivera were killed? And Murray, most recently?"

If Sherry was surprised by the directness of the question, she didn't show it.

"Yes, we maintain nightly patrols, especially on weekends.

" She tapped the schedule. "Michael Harrison had the route that covered Rodriguez's area that night.

He's been with the program since the beginning—retired mechanic, lives over on Crestview, takes the safety of this neighborhood very seriously. "

Morgan committed the name to memory. "What can you tell me about Harrison? How well do you know him?"

Sherry hesitated, the first crack in her composed demeanor.

"Michael is... passionate about protecting Santiago Heights.

His family has lived here for generations.

He takes it personally when criminals target the neighborhood.

" She adjusted her glasses, clearly weighing how much to share.

"He's had some trouble in the past. A few years ago, his teenage daughter was harassed by some man making vulgar comments following her home from school.

Michael confronted him, ended up assaulting him with a monkey wrench. Nearly killed him."

Morgan's interest sharpened. "What happened with the case?"

"Charges were eventually dropped. The man had a record himself, decided not to cooperate with prosecution.

" Sherry sighed. "It showed a side of Michael I hadn't seen before—how far he'd go to protect what he cares about.

He's controlled that temper since then, channeled it into the watch program instead. "

"I'd like a list of your night patrol members, especially those who were on duty during the timeframes of the murders," Morgan said, keeping her tone professional rather than accusatory.

"And I'd appreciate any other information you think might be relevant—members with law enforcement or military backgrounds, anyone who's expressed strong views about Rodriguez or Rivera specifically. "

Sherry seemed to struggle internally for a moment, her loyalty to the watch program clearly conflicting with her civic duty.

Finally, she nodded. "I'll print you what I have.

But Agent Cross? These people are trying to make Santiago Heights safer, not more dangerous.

They're filling gaps the system left open. "

"I understand," Morgan replied, and she did—perhaps too well.

The vigilante they hunted likely believed the same thing, had simply taken that mission to its extreme conclusion.

"Just one more question—has anyone in the watch program seemed different lately?

More agitated, more focused on certain criminals, perhaps withdrawn or secretive? "

"Not that I've noticed," Sherry answered, but her eyes flicked away briefly—a subtle tell that she wasn't being entirely forthcoming. "Though Michael has been more... intense since Rodriguez's death. He had strong feelings about drug dealers targeting kids."

Morgan added that observation to her mental profile as Sherry printed the requested information.

Michael Harrison had now earned a prominent place on her list of potential suspects—he had opportunity through his night patrols, knowledge of the neighborhood's criminal elements, and had already demonstrated a capacity for violence when protecting his community.

Whether that made him their vigilante remained to be seen, but it was the most promising lead they'd developed since James Murray's body had been discovered in that midnight-blue Mustang.

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.