The third victim, Melissa Chen, sat across from me in the hospital cafeteria, her face still showing the yellowing bruises of an attack two weeks old. She clutched her coffee cup with bandaged hands.
"I've already told three different officers everything I remember," she said, fatigue evident in her voice.
"I know, and I'm sorry to make you go through it again," I replied, keeping my tone gentle. Victims needed handling different from suspects. Compassion rather than pressure. "Sometimes with a little distance, new details emerge."
Alvarez sat beside me, notebook ready. "Just walk us through it one more time. Anything you can recall, no matter how small."
Melissa sighed. "I was leaving work late, around 10 PM. The parking garage was nearly empty. I remember thinking I should've used the buddy system like security recommended, but I was in a hurry."
"Where do you work?" I asked, though it was already in the file.
"Eastbrook Medical Center. I'm a lab technician."
"Go on," Alvarez encouraged.
"I heard footsteps behind me, but before I could turn around, someone grabbed me from behind. He never said a word, just started hitting me. Face, stomach, chest." Her hand unconsciously touched the fading bruise on her cheekbone. "I tried to fight back, but he was strong. Then suddenly he just... stopped. Ran off. Didn't take my purse, my phone, nothing."
I leaned forward. "Did you see his face?"
She shook her head. "It was dark, and he wore a hood. Medium build, maybe six feet tall? I couldn't tell you much more."
"Any unusual smell? Cologne, alcohol, cigarettes?"
Melissa paused, brow furrowing. "Actually... yes. Something medicinal. Like that antiseptic smell, but stronger than what we use in the lab."
I exchanged a glance with Alvarez. This was new information. "Anything else you remember? Any detail at all?"
"His hands," she said slowly. "When he grabbed me, his hands felt rough. Like calluses or something."
I made a note. "Thank you, Melissa. This is helpful."
After we finished the interview, Alvarez and I walked back to her car.
"Medicinal smell, rough hands," Alvarez mused. "Could be anyone from a doctor to a janitor."
"But it's something," I replied. "And it connects to your theory about someone familiar with these locations." I paused at the car. "Let's go look at the garage where it happened."
Eastbrook Medical Center's parking structure was six levels of concrete and fluorescent lighting, half-full on a weekday afternoon. We took the elevator to the third floor, where Melissa had been attacked.
"Security camera there," I pointed to a device in the corner, "but it's been broken for months according to the report."
"And the stairwell door has no camera at all," Alvarez noted. "Perfect spot for an ambush."
I walked the scene, mentally placing myself in the attacker's position. Where would I hide? How would I choose my victim? What escape route would I plan?
"He waits here," I said, indicating the shadowed area near the stairwell. "Watches for a woman alone, follows her to a secluded spot between the cars, attacks, then escapes down the stairs where there's no camera coverage."
"But why?" Alvarez asked. "No sexual assault, no robbery. What's the motive?"
"Control," I replied immediately. "Power. It's not about money or sex. It's about dominance."
I understood predators better than anyone. The satisfaction wasn't in what you took from the victim, but in the act itself. The moment when they realized they were powerless. The fear in their eyes when they understood judgment had come.
We returned to the precinct to compile our findings. The antiseptic smell, the rough hands, the careful selection of locations—it wasn't much, but it was more than we'd had that morning.
Back at my desk, I updated the case file, then discreetly opened a browser tab to continue my research on Gregory Walsh. His social media showed a man obsessed with status—designer clothes, exotic vacations, beautiful young wife posed like a trophy in every shot. Behind his carefully curated image, financial records revealed a different story. Three mortgages on their Westside home, credit card debt mounting, investment losses he was hiding from his current wife.
A man living beyond his means to maintain an illusion of success. A man who would be receptive to attention from a seemingly wealthy woman. A man who would break his vows for the ego boost.
A perfect target.
I checked the time. Six PM. If I hurried, I could make it to the Bristol Hotel by seven, observe Walsh during his regular Thursday night ritual.
"Heading out?" Mercer asked as I gathered my things.
"Following up on a lead," I replied. Not technically a lie.
At home, I transformed quickly. The black dress, subtle makeup, blonde wig styled in an elegant updo. By 7:15, I was seated at the Oak Room's bar, sipping a virgin martini, watching Gregory Walsh hold court at his usual table.
Another predator, another hunting ground. But in this game, I was the apex predator. And justice was inevitable.