The phone rang at 4:03 a.m.
Pocho grabbed it before the second ring.
"Yeah."
"Detective, we've got a body. Elm Street. Backyard. It's bad."
"On my way."
He hung up and sat on the edge of the bed for a second. His wife moved slightly but didn't wake up fully.
"You going in?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah."
She didn't ask anything else.
He got dressed, grabbed his coat, and left.
The streets were empty. A few streetlights were still on. It took him about ten minutes to get to Elm Street.
Two patrol cars were parked outside a small house. Yellow tape was already up.
An officer nodded at him.
"Backyard," the officer said.
Pocho walked through the side path without saying anything.
He could smell blood before he saw the body.
Rick Tomlin was lying on his back near the fence. His arms were bent in ways they shouldn't be. One leg was twisted outward. There was blood on the grass around him.
Forensics was taking pictures.
"How long?" Pocho asked.
"Midnight to one. Neighbors heard screaming around twelve fifteen."
"And?"
"They didn't call."
Pocho looked at the houses around the yard. Windows closed. No one outside.
He didn't comment.
He stepped closer to the body.
The face was swollen and damaged. Skull cracked. Teeth broken. Ribs crushed inward. It looked like someone had taken their time.
"What weapon?" he asked.
"Probably a steel pipe or crowbar. Heavy. Blunt."
No knife wounds. No gunshots.
Just impact.
Pocho crouched and looked at the hands. Fingers broken. Defensive injuries.
"He was alive for most of it," he said.
"Looks like it."
There were drag marks from the back door to where the body lay.
"Inside?" Pocho asked.
"No signs of forced entry."
Pocho stood up.
"Wallet still in pocket. Cash inside," the officer added.
"So not robbery."
"No."
Pocho walked toward the back door. It was unlocked.
Inside, the house was normal. Couch. TV. Kitchen table. Nothing broken.
Rick probably let whoever it was inside.
Or forgot to lock up.
Pocho walked back outside.
"Anyone see anything?" he asked.
"Just screaming. That's it."
He looked at the fence again.
This wasn't random rage.
It was controlled.
Whoever did this didn't panic. They didn't rush. They didn't leave anything obvious behind.
"Footprints?" Pocho asked.
"Too much blood. Too smeared."
Pocho nodded once.
He stood there quietly for a moment, just looking at the body again.
"Get full background on him," he said. "Work history. Friends. Exes. Anyone he argued with recently."
"Yes, sir."
Pocho turned and walked back toward the front of the house.
One of the neighbors was standing on her porch now, wrapped in a blanket.
She looked shaken.
"You heard screaming?" Pocho asked.
She nodded. "Yes."
"For how long?"
"I don't know. A few minutes."
"And you didn't call?"
She looked embarrassed. "I thought it was a TV. Or a fight."
Pocho stared at her for a second. Not angry. Just steady.
"If you hear that again," he said, "you call."
She nodded quickly.
He got into his car but didn't start it right away.
He sat there and looked at the flashing lights in the mirror.
Someone screamed for help.
People heard it.
No one acted.
He started the engine.
Back at the station, he began the report. The words came out flat and direct.
Male, 30. Severe blunt force trauma. Multiple fractures. No forced entry. No theft.
He paused halfway through writing and rubbed his eyes.
It was too controlled.
Too deliberate.
Not a bar fight.
Not a robbery.
Not heat-of-the-moment.
Someone did this because they wanted to.
That thought stayed with him longer than anything else.
At 6:10 a.m., Captain Morrison walked in with a coffee.
"How bad?"
"Bad," Pocho said.
"Media bad?"
"Probably."
Morrison sighed. "Keep it tight. We don't need panic."
Pocho didn't respond.
Morrison looked at him for a second.
"You think this is going to turn into something?"
Pocho closed the file and stood up.
"I don't know yet," he said.
But he had a feeling.
And he didn't like it.