The suspension started at 8 a.m.
Pocho was told not to enter the station unless called.
Badge still his.
Gun still his.
But no authority.
No access to files.
No active participation.
He went home instead.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
His wife was still at her sister's.
He stood in the kitchen for a minute.
Looked at the empty table.
Then he grabbed his laptop.
If he couldn't investigate officially, he would do it unofficially.
---
He started with something simple.
The silence period.
Four days of nothing.
That wasn't random.
He pulled public business permits inside the radius.
Auto shops. Machine shops. Metal fabrication. Construction yards.
He wasn't looking for muscle.
He was looking for access.
Access to tools.
Access to oil.
Access to quiet hours.
He cross-referenced businesses with night shifts.
Then narrowed it further.
Which ones were within walking distance of his house?
That list got smaller.
Three auto shops. One industrial storage facility. One closed metal yard.
The metal yard had shut down six months ago.
No active staff.
Mostly abandoned.
That caught his attention.
---
He drove there.
No warrant.
No badge flash.
Just observation.
The yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence.
One side bent slightly inward.
He parked down the block and walked.
The place smelled faintly of oil and rust.
He stepped through the bent section.
Inside, it was quiet.
Stacks of scrap metal.
Old pipes.
Broken machinery.
He moved slowly.
Not because he was scared.
Because he was thinking.
If he were the killer, this would work.
No cameras. No traffic. No employees.
He walked deeper into the yard.
Near the back, there was a small office building.
Door locked.
Window dusty.
He looked around the ground.
Tire tracks.
Recent.
He crouched.
Hard to tell how recent.
But not old.
He stood again.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He stared at it.
Then answered.
"You shouldn't be there," the killer said.
Pocho froze.
He didn't look around immediately.
He didn't give the satisfaction.
"You talk too much," Pocho said calmly.
"I told you," the voice replied. "You're watching the wrong door."
Pocho stepped slowly toward the office building.
"You think I need buildings?" the killer asked.
"Where are you?" Pocho said.
"Close enough."
Pocho's eyes scanned rooftops.
No movement.
"You're suspended," the killer continued. "You don't listen well."
"You attacked my wife."
"Yes."
"And you think I'll sit still?"
"I think you don't know when to stop."
Click.
Silence.
Pocho lowered the phone.
His heart wasn't racing.
It was steady.
Which meant something else was happening.
The killer knew he was here.
Which meant either:
He was physically nearby.
Or he had predicted the move.
Both were bad.
Pocho stepped back out through the fence.
He didn't run.
He didn't search wildly.
He just left.
Because if the killer was watching, chasing blindly was exactly what he wanted.
---
Back home, Pocho reviewed something he hadn't before.
Hospital records.
He pulled public injury reports from the past year.
Unrelated assaults.
Broken bones.
Blunt trauma.
Not fatal.
He found two.
Different parts of the city.
Months apart.
Both unsolved.
Both similar fracture patterns.
He leaned back.
If those were him, then this wasn't new.
This wasn't escalation.
This was evolution.
He had been practicing.
That changed the timeline.
Which meant he wasn't just strong.
He was patient.
---
At 6:12 p.m., Harris knocked on his door.
"You're not supposed to be working," Harris said.
"I'm not."
Harris stepped inside anyway.
"You went to the metal yard."
Pocho didn't look surprised.
"You're being watched," Harris said.
"Yes."
"By us and by him."
"Yes."
"You're not thinking clearly."
"I am."
"No, you're obsessed."
Pocho finally looked at him.
"He called me when I was there."
Harris went quiet.
"He knew."
"Yes."
"That means he predicted you."
"Yes."
"That means you're reacting."
Pocho didn't argue.
Because Harris wasn't wrong.
But reacting didn't mean quitting.
It meant adjusting.
He walked to the whiteboard in his house.
He had redrawn the radius there.
He added two older unsolved cases.
Harris stared at it.
"You think he's been active longer."
"Yes."
"You think he's escalating toward something."
"Yes."
"What?"
Pocho paused.
Then said it clearly.
"A finale."
Harris frowned.
"You think he's building to a statement."
"Yes."
"And you being suspended?"
"Part of it."
Harris looked at him carefully.
"You're not just hunting him anymore."
"No."
"What are you doing?"
Pocho answered without hesitation.
"I'm finishing this."
And for the first time, Harris looked worried.
Not about the killer.
About Pocho.