Fletcher looked toward the balloons.
"Birthday party."
"Big one."
"Looks like it."
Walsh slowed the cruiser.
"Did they get a permit?"
Fletcher shrugged.
"No idea."
Walsh stared at the pavilion.
A group of Black families occupied most of the picnic tables.
Music played from a small speaker.
Children were running on the grass.
Parents laughed and talked near the coolers.
Nothing about the gathering appeared dangerous.
But Walsh had already decided he disliked it.
"Probably didn't," he muttered.
Fletcher looked toward the recreation office.
"Want me to check?"
Walsh opened his door.
"I'll handle it."
Fletcher hesitated.
"We haven't received a complaint."
Walsh turned.
"Did I ask you whether we received a complaint?"
"No."
"Then let's go."
He stepped out.
Fletcher followed.
At that moment, nobody at the birthday party knew the officers were approaching.
The children were preparing for a game.
Caleb was standing beside his father, waiting for Marcus to announce the next activity.
The cake stood untouched on the table.
Its seven candles had not yet been lit.
Walsh approached the pavilion with his shoulders squared.
He did not begin by greeting anyone.
He did not ask who had organized the party.
He did not inquire whether assistance was needed.
Instead, he pointed toward the decorations.
"Who's responsible for this mess?"
The music seemed to grow quieter as people turned.
Marcus looked toward him.
"Excuse me?"
Walsh swept one hand toward the balloons and tables.
"This gathering. Who organized it?"
"I did."
"Name?"
"Marcus Bennett."
Walsh looked him up and down.
"Permit?"
Marcus nodded.
"Yes, sir."
"Let's see it."
Marcus reached into his back pocket.
Caleb stood beside him, holding the edge of his father's T-shirt.
Marcus opened his phone and located the permit confirmation.
He had saved it as a PDF because he knew large public gatherings occasionally required documentation.
"Here you go."
Walsh barely glanced at the screen.
"That's not enough."
Marcus frowned.
"What do you mean?"