"The fibers are definitely from a uniform," Dr. Santos explained, showing us the microscope images. "Industrial grade polyester blend, treated with chemical-resistant coating. Common in janitorial or maintenance uniforms."
Alvarez, Captain Reeves, and I stood in the lab, examining the evidence from our assault victims.
"That matches with the medicinal smell the third victim reported," I noted. "Could be industrial cleaner."
"Maintenance staff would have access to all these parking structures," Alvarez added. "And knowledge of the security camera blind spots."
Reeves frowned. "That still leaves us with hundreds of potential suspects across the three locations."
"We cross-reference," I suggested. "Look for anyone who worked at multiple locations, or had access to all three."
"Already on it," Alvarez replied. "IT is pulling employment records now. Should have a list of overlapping employees by this afternoon."
"Good," Reeves nodded. "Blackwood, what about the victim interviews? Anything new?"
"Nothing significant. All three describe roughly the same physical attributes—male, medium to large build, hooded. No one saw his face clearly."
Back at my desk, I reviewed the case files again, looking for patterns I might have missed. Three victims: a nurse, a pharmaceutical sales rep, and a lab technician. All women, all attacked in parking structures after dark, all employed in healthcare-adjacent fields.
Wait.
I pulled up their employment histories again. The connection wasn't the parking garages—it was the victims themselves. All three had worked at Eastbrook Medical Center at some point in the last five years, though not simultaneously.
I called Alvarez immediately. "I think I've got something. All three victims have a connection to Eastbrook Medical."
"Shit, you're right," she said after checking the files. "How did we miss that?"
"Because they didn't all work there at the same time, and only one still does. But that's our connection point."
"I'll redirect IT to focus on Eastbrook maintenance staff first," Alvarez said. "Good catch, Blackwood."
After hanging up, I felt the familiar rush of solving a puzzle piece. This was why I had become a detective—the intellectual satisfaction of connecting dots, of seeing patterns emerge from chaos. If circumstances had been different, perhaps this role alone would have fulfilled me.
But circumstances weren't different. My mother was still dead. My father had still escaped any real consequences. And men like Gregory Walsh still destroyed lives with impunity.
Speaking of Walsh, I needed to prepare for our second "chance" encounter next week. I opened his file, reviewing his habits, preferences, weaknesses. His financial troubles made him particularly vulnerable—he was maintaining an expensive lifestyle to impress others while drowning in debt. A man desperate to maintain appearances would take risks, make mistakes.
My desk phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.
"Detective Blackwood," I answered.
"It's Charlotte Coleman." The widow's voice was strained. "David's toxicology report came back. They found something... unusual in his system. The ME says it's not conclusive, but..."
My pulse quickened slightly. "What did they find, Mrs. Coleman?"
"Some medication he wasn't prescribed. They're saying it might have interacted with alcohol, contributed to his heart attack."
I kept my voice neutral, professional. "That's not uncommon, Mrs. Coleman. Many people take over-the-counter medications or supplements they don't disclose to their doctors."
"But David was meticulous about his health," she insisted. "He wouldn't take something without researching it thoroughly."
"Perhaps it was given to him by... someone else." I let the implication hang in the air. "We'll look into it, but at this point, there's still no evidence of foul play."
After reassuring her that we'd investigate any credible leads, I hung up and immediately pulled up the ME's report in our system. The toxicology had detected trace amounts of a vasodilator—not enough to be lethal on its own, but combined with alcohol and sexual exertion, potentially contributory to cardiac arrest.
A complication, but not a crisis. The compound would have metabolized quickly and was common enough in certain supplements that its presence wasn't automatically suspicious. Still, I would need to be more careful with future targets. Perhaps a different method.
I typed up a supplemental report, acknowledging the toxicology findings but concluding they didn't alter the cause of death determination. Natural causes during sexual activity with unknown partner. Case status: inactive, pending new evidence.
By afternoon, Alvarez had our list of Eastbrook Medical Center maintenance employees who had access to all areas of the facility during the periods when our victims worked there. Seven names. Seven potential suspects.
"We'll start interviews tomorrow," Reeves decided during our update meeting. "Background checks on all of them tonight."
"I can take the first three," I volunteered. "Alvarez, you take the next three, and Mercer can handle the last one?"
"Works for me," Alvarez agreed.
As the meeting dispersed, my phone vibrated with an email notification. Charlotte Coleman had sent a message to my official account: "Found strange texts on David's phone. Need to talk."
Another complication. I would need to meet with her, see exactly what she'd found, determine if it threatened my cover. I messaged back, setting up an appointment for the following morning.
On my drive home that evening, I found myself thinking about patterns. How we all fall into them, become predictable. How that predictability becomes vulnerability. The assault suspect, targeting women connected to one hospital. Walsh, with his Thursday night ritual. David Coleman, with his business trips that weren't really business trips.
Even me, with my careful selection and systematic elimination of deserving targets.
Patterns created safety but also risk. I would need to vary mine, perhaps. Take longer between targets. Use different methods.
Different hunting grounds.
The game was evolving. I needed to evolve with it.