Victor Ramirez lived in a worn apartment complex on the east side, the kind of place where neighbors minded their business and security cameras were perpetually "broken." Perfect for someone with something to hide.
"Maintenance supervisor says he called in sick today," Alvarez said as we approached his unit. "Third time this month."
I studied the building's layout, noting the fire escape along the back wall. "You take the front. I'll cover the rear exit in case he runs."
She nodded, and I circled around to position myself at the base of the metal stairs. The alley reeked of garbage and urine, discarded needles glinting in the afternoon sunlight. I kept one hand near my holstered weapon, eyes fixed on the third-floor window of Ramirez's apartment.
My radio crackled. "Blackwood, he's not answering. I can hear movement inside."
"Maintain position," I replied. "I'm still at the rear."
Seconds later, the window slid open. A figure emerged onto the fire escape—male, medium build, dark hoodie. Ramirez. He froze when he spotted me in the alley below.
"Victor Ramirez," I called, badge raised. "NYPD. We just want to talk."
He hesitated only a moment before bolting down the metal stairs, taking them two at a time. I positioned myself at the bottom, blocking his escape path.
"Don't make this worse, Victor," I warned as he reached the last landing.
Instead of surrendering, he launched himself over the railing, attempting to bypass me entirely. His landing was awkward, ankle twisting beneath him. Before he could recover, I had him pinned, knee in his back, cuffs clicking into place.
"Running looks like guilt, Victor," I said, hauling him to his feet as Alvarez arrived in the alley. "Innocent men don't flee out fire escapes."
"I got rights," he snarled, wincing as he put weight on his injured ankle. "You got no warrant."
"We just came to ask questions," Alvarez replied. "Now we're bringing you in for evading police officers."
At the precinct, Ramirez sat in Interview Room 1, sullen and defensive. The department attorney stood outside, waiting to be called if Ramirez requested representation. So far, he hadn't.
"Three women, Victor," I said, spreading photos of the victims across the table. "All attacked in parking structures. All with connections to Eastbrook Medical Center, where you work. Quite a coincidence."
"I don't know nothing about that," he muttered, avoiding the images.
Alvarez leaned forward. "Blue fibers matching your work uniform were found on the second victim. Your timecard shows you working late shifts on all three nights when the assaults occurred. And you have a history of violence against women."
"That case was dropped!" he protested.
"Because she was too afraid to testify," I countered. "Which makes me wonder what you threatened her with."
His eyes darted between us, calculating. "I want a deal."
Alvarez and I exchanged glances. "A deal for what, Victor?" I asked carefully.
"I seen things at the hospital. Things I wasn't supposed to see. People getting hurt. Not by me."
This wasn't the confession I'd expected. "What are you talking about?"
"That doctor. The one everybody thinks is so great. Dr. Freeman. I seen him hurting patients. Women patients. When they're sedated. He thinks nobody's watching, but I was fixing a light in that hallway."
I kept my expression neutral, but inside, my mind was racing. A deflection tactic? Or something more? "We're not here about Dr. Freeman, Victor. We're investigating assaults in parking garages."
"I'm telling you, you got the wrong guy!" His voice rose. "Check the security footage from two nights ago. I was at the hospital all night. Flooding in the basement. Ask anybody."
"We will," Alvarez assured him. "But that doesn't clear you for the other attacks."
His eyes narrowed. "You don't care about what that doctor's doing? Three complaints filed against him. All disappeared. Administration covers it up."
I made a note. This could be misdirection, but even predators could identify other predators. "We'll look into it, Victor. Now back to the attacks in the parking garages..."
Two hours later, we had nothing concrete. Ramirez maintained his innocence, offering alibis for two of the three attacks that we would need to verify. His revelation about Dr. Freeman, while potentially concerning, seemed primarily designed to divert our attention.
"What do you think?" Alvarez asked as we watched Ramirez being processed for holding on the evasion charge. "Is he playing us?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But his alibi for the most recent attack checks out. Maintenance logs confirm the flooding emergency."
"So either he's innocent, or he's only guilty of some of the attacks." She sighed. "And what about this Dr. Freeman business?"
I considered this carefully. If Ramirez was telling the truth, there was another predator to investigate—one with institutional protection, targeting vulnerable women. The kind of man who'd never face justice through legal channels.
The kind of man who might eventually find himself on my list.
"We should look into it," I decided. "Discreetly. If there's something there, it's not just a distraction tactic."
Alvarez nodded. "I'll pull Freeman's personnel file, check for any complaint patterns."
"I'll talk to hospital administration tomorrow," I added. "See if they get defensive about their star doctor."
As Alvarez headed back to her desk, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Looking forward to seeing you again next Thursday. -Greg."
Walsh. Right on schedule. Despite the complications of the Coleman case and the new direction of the assault investigation, the hunt continued. My justice continued.
I texted back as Katherine Pierce: "Perhaps. If my schedule allows."
Let him think he was pursuing me. Let him believe he was the predator.
He would learn his mistake soon enough.