The handwriting analysis confirmed my suspicions about Melissa Winters' suicide note.
"Not her handwriting," the lab technician explained, pointing to comparison samples. "Close, but the pressure patterns and letter formations don't match her known writing. Someone tried to mimic her style."
"Staged suicide," Alvarez murmured when I shared the report. "Freeman silenced her."
"We need more," I cautioned. "The handwriting gets us a reopened death investigation, but not enough to charge Freeman. We need physical evidence connecting him to her apartment."
Reeves approved our request to reexamine the Winters apartment, still untouched since her death—her parents couldn't bear to clear it out. Alvarez and I spent the morning there, conducting the thorough investigation Martinez should have performed initially.
"Found something," Alvarez called from the bathroom. She held up a barely visible partial fingerprint on the underside of the toilet tank lid. "Odd place for a print in a suicide."
We collected it carefully, along with several other samples Martinez had overlooked—fibers from the bedroom carpet, a water glass beside the bed containing residual fingerprints, hair strands from the shower drain.
"If Freeman was here," I said, "he left evidence. Martinez didn't look hard enough."
"Or deliberately didn't look," Alvarez suggested. "Hospital board has influence in this city."
The possibility hung between us—corruption protecting a predator. Another failure of the system I'd sworn to uphold by day and circumvent by night.
While waiting for lab results, we focused on building our case from another angle. Elena Rodriguez had provided her official statement. Nurse Haynes reluctantly agreed to testify about patterns she'd observed. We needed more.
"Hospital security footage," I proposed to Alvarez. "Freeman checked on specific patients after hours. There might be evidence of his movements, even if the recovery room cameras conveniently malfunctioned."
Judge Chen signed another warrant—broader this time, covering six months of security footage from hospital hallways, elevators, and stairwells. The hospital's legal team protested but ultimately complied.
Days passed in a blur of investigation. I reviewed hours of footage, tracking Freeman's movements, noting patterns. Alvarez coordinated with the medical examiner to reexamine Winters' toxicology results. We both interviewed additional hospital staff—careful questions that wouldn't alert Freeman to our investigation.
Walsh continued texting Katherine Pierce, growing increasingly frustrated by her unavailability. I maintained minimal contact, keeping him interested while focusing my energy elsewhere.
The breakthrough came unexpectedly, from a source I hadn't anticipated.
"Detective Blackwood?" The voice on my desk phone was hesitant, female. "My name is Sarah Freeman. Dr. Freeman's wife. I believe we need to talk."
We met at a coffee shop across town—neutral ground. Sarah Freeman was elegant, composed, but stress lined her face and her hands trembled slightly as she stirred her untouched tea.
"You're investigating my husband," she stated without preamble. "For assault. Possibly murder."
I maintained a neutral expression. "What makes you think that?"
"Lawrence mentioned detectives asking questions. Then yesterday, I overheard him on the phone with someone from the hospital board, discussing how to 'handle' the police inquiry." She met my gaze directly. "He seemed... concerned. More than an innocent man should be."
"Mrs. Freeman—"
"Please," she interrupted. "I need to know. Are there other women?"
The question carried weight beyond the investigation. This was a wife suspecting her husband's infidelity. But this wasn't merely adultery—it was sexual assault. Criminal behavior.
"We're investigating several incidents," I acknowledged carefully. "Women who reported inappropriate contact while sedated under Dr. Freeman's care."
She closed her eyes briefly, pain crossing her features. "I suspected... for years. Things he said in his sleep. Changes in behavior. But I convinced myself I was imagining things."
"Mrs. Freeman, why are you here?"
She reached into her purse, removing a small notebook. "Lawrence keeps detailed journals. Has for years. Professional habit, he claims. I found this hidden in his home office last week, after you visited the hospital. It's... disturbing."
I accepted the journal cautiously. "Did you read it?"
"Enough to know you need to see it." Her voice hardened. "I have two daughters, Detective. If Lawrence is what I fear he is, I won't protect him. Not even for their sake."
The journal contained coded entries—patients identified by initials, descriptions of "procedures" clearly not medical in nature. Freeman had meticulously documented his assaults, believing his code sufficient protection. More disturbingly, several entries mentioned "permanent solutions" for "problematic situations."
Including one dated the day before Melissa Winters died.
"We'll need your formal statement," I told Sarah. "This journal is significant evidence."
"I understand," she replied, shoulders straightening with resolve. "I'll testify if needed. But Detective... be careful. Lawrence has powerful friends. And if he suspects I've turned against him..."
"We can arrange protection," I assured her. "For you and your daughters."
Later that evening, Alvarez and I presented our evidence to Reeves and the district attorney—the journal, the handwriting analysis, the fingerprint from Winters' apartment that matched Freeman, the pattern of hospital visits documented in security footage. Enough for arrest warrants for multiple counts of sexual assault and one count of first-degree murder.
"We move at dawn," Reeves decided. "Full tactical team. Freeman is to be considered dangerous and flight risk."
I should have felt triumph—justice through the system I served. Instead, I felt hollow anticipation. Freeman would have expensive lawyers. Hospital connections. The ability to drag victims through painful testimony and character assassination.
True justice remained uncertain.
That night, I stood in my hidden room, studying Freeman's evidence board. The official investigation had succeeded where I expected it to fail—evidence had materialized, witnesses had come forward, the system appeared to be working.
For now.
My phone buzzed with a text from Walsh: "Katherine, it's been too long. I need to see you."
I felt momentary guilt for neglecting this thread of justice while pursuing Freeman. Walsh remained a predator targeting vulnerable women. His day would come.
"Soon," I texted back. "I promise."
As dawn approached, I prepared for Freeman's arrest. Detective Blackwood would execute the warrant, follow procedure, build the case meticulously. The system would be given its chance to deliver justice.
But if it failed—if Freeman somehow escaped conviction—my other self would be waiting. Justice, one way or another, would be served.