He could go to the park as family.
He could make sure his son and grandson were safe.
But he could not personally control an investigation involving them.
The case would require independent supervision.
Evidence preservation.
Outside review.
And disciplinary procedures that would withstand scrutiny.
He understood all of that.
But beneath his professional restraint, another feeling was growing.
His grandson had been celebrating his seventh birthday.
And someone wearing a badge had turned that celebration into terror.
Thomas picked up his phone again.
"Arrange an independent investigative response. Notify the county professional standards unit. I want the involved officer separated from public contact pending appropriate supervisory review."
"Yes, Chief."
"And confirm that nobody touches the scene until it's documented."
He took a breath.
Then added quietly, "I'm going to see my grandson."
The black SUV arrived at Riverside Park at 1:43 p.m.
It moved slowly through the service entrance and stopped near the pavilion.
By then, the party had become a scene of stunned silence.
The music was off.
Several children sat with their parents.
The balloons still floated above the tables.
The handmade birthday banner moved gently in the breeze.
But nobody was celebrating.
The cake lay destroyed on the grass.
Its white frosting had mixed with dirt.
Broken candles and pieces of blue decoration were scattered around a deep boot print.
Marcus sat on a bench holding Caleb.
The boy had cried until he was exhausted.
His face was pressed against his father's shoulder.
His red cape hung limp.
Walsh stood several yards away speaking angrily into his phone.
Fletcher remained beside the patrol cruiser.
He had already begun documenting the scene.
When the black SUV stopped, Walsh looked toward it with irritation.
"Who's this now?"
The rear passenger door opened.
A tall Black man stepped out wearing a formal navy police command uniform.
Silver stars shone on his collar.
His polished shoes touched the pavement.
Behind him emerged two senior officers from the county professional standards unit.
Walsh straightened.
His expression changed.
He recognized the man immediately.
Chief Thomas Bennett.
A veteran law-enforcement leader whose name appeared frequently in regional training programs and disciplinary oversight meetings.
Walsh had attended one of his presentations three years earlier.
He remembered the chief's warning about officers who treated civilian questions as personal insults.
At the time, Walsh had dismissed the speech as political nonsense.
Now the man who had delivered it was walking toward him.
Walsh adjusted his vest.
"Chief."
Thomas did not answer immediately.
He looked toward the pavilion.
He saw the balloons.
The birthday banner.
The frightened children.
The ruined cake.
Then he saw Marcus.
And the little boy in the Superman costume.