The news cycle had moved on from the initial shock of Freeman's death to the grim details emerging from the Eastbrook Medical Center scandal. My days became a relentless cycle of reviewing evidence, coordinating with the District Attorney's office, and participating in the interrogation of terrified hospital administrators. Dr. Santos and her team worked tirelessly on the video files recovered from Freeman's safe. The content was horrific – irrefutable proof of his crimes, meticulously documented.
"It's worse than we thought, Blackwood," Santos said, her voice flat over the phone. "Dozens of victims. Spanning years. He wasn't just opportunistic; this was systematic."
"And the 'insurance' folder?" I asked, thinking of the files suggesting a conspiracy of silence.
"Just starting to crack that open," she replied. "Financial records, coded emails, photos... looks like a whole lot of palms were greased to keep Freeman's little secrets buried."
The department was buzzing with a mix of grim satisfaction at bringing down a powerful predator and nervous energy from the internal affairs investigation into the leak. Reeves had brought in Captain Miller from IA – a man with a reputation for being thorough and utterly ruthless. The air in the precinct was thick with unspoken suspicion. Who knew? Who talked? Every sideways glance, every hushed conversation felt amplified.
I kept my head down, focusing on the mountains of evidence from Eastbrook. My detailed notes from the Winters case, the interviews with Haynes and Rodriguez, the forensic reports – all provided a solid foundation for the official case against the implicated administrators. It was satisfying, in a detached professional way, to see the system finally churning, albeit only after a death forced its hand. This was the justice I worked for by day. Necessary, often slow, and sometimes circumvented by the very people meant to uphold it.
By night, my focus shifted. Walsh. He hadn't attempted to contact "Katherine" since my last non-committal text. Had the compound scared him? Was he reconsidering his options? I doubted it. Men like Walsh rarely let fear override their entitlement for long. I reviewed his financial records again, his public calendar, his social media – looking for any deviation from his established patterns that might indicate he was plotting a different course than the one I'd offered him.
He wasn't. His public persona remained carefully curated: the successful investment banker, the pillar of the community (at least, his community of wealthy elites). But his debt remained, a constant pressure point. He needed to maintain appearances. He needed his position at the firm. My terms – resignation and restitution – were designed to hit him where it hurt most, his ego and his wallet, while offering him an escape from utter public ruin. It was a form of justice, messy and outside the law, but aimed at forcing consequences he had successfully evaded through legal settlements.
I pulled up the coded confession Walsh had given me in the hotel room. Hearing his voice, stripped bare of arrogance by the compound and fear, confirmed every piece of research. He was a predator who used his power and influence as weapons, destroying careers and lives with the same casual disregard he might show for a losing stock. He saw people as commodities, to be used and discarded.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. I opened it carefully.
*Did you get my message? Compliance is key.*
It was from the burner phone I'd given Walsh. Simple, direct. He was acknowledging my terms. Good. Phase two of his reckoning was in motion. Monitoring. I needed to ensure he followed through. Anonymous restitution wasn't enough; his victims deserved some measure of financial compensation for the careers and peace of mind he had stolen. And his public humiliation, though avoided for their sake in my deal, was a consequence he still deserved to feel, albeit privately, through the loss of his status and income.
The internal affairs investigation was a constant low hum of anxiety in the background. Miller was interviewing everyone, asking pointed questions about who knew what, when. He even requested access to personal phone records and emails, citing the seriousness of a leak that could have jeopardized a major case and allowed a murderer to escape. I had nothing to hide *in* my official communications, of course. But the sheer invasiveness of it, the way colleagues looked at each other with suspicion, was corrosive. It reminded me that the system wasn't just flawed in its outcomes; it could be compromised from within. A dirty cop, or someone beholden to the dirty network Freeman had built, could easily expose me.
I double-checked my protocols. Burner phones disposed of immediately. Cash transactions only for operational expenses. No patterns in transportation or timing. Disguises and materials meticulously stored off-site in a secure location only I knew about. Nothing written down outside of my small, hidden notebook. The risks were inherent in the work, but they felt amplified now that the internal spotlight was on us.
Walking out of the precinct late that night, the city lights glittered, each window a tiny, unknown story. Somewhere out there, Charlotte Coleman was likely still searching for answers about her husband's death. Somewhere, the enablers from Eastbrook were facing the legal consequences of their choices. And somewhere, Gregory Walsh was starting to feel the walls close in, forced to dismantle the life he had built on the backs of others.
And I, Detective Elise Blackwood, would continue to ensure that justice, in all its forms, found its way.