By 9 a.m., the station was fully awake.
Phones ringing. Officers moving in and out. Coffee cups everywhere.
Pocho had already been there three hours.
Rick Tomlin's file sat open in front of him.
Thirty years old. Worked at a hardware store for six years. No criminal record. Divorced three years ago. No kids. No known enemies.
Boring life.
The kind of life that shouldn't end in a backyard like that.
Detective Harris walked over and dropped a folder on the desk.
"Preliminary forensics."
Pocho opened it.
Blunt force trauma confirmed. Multiple fractures in both arms. Ribs crushed inward. Skull fractured in two places. Defensive injuries on hands and forearms.
Estimated attack time: eight to ten minutes.
That was the part that stuck.
Eight to ten minutes is long.
Long enough for screaming. Long enough for someone to call.
Long enough for someone to stop.
"Anything useful?" Harris asked.
"No fingerprints. No weapon found. No clear shoe impressions."
Harris leaned back in the chair.
"So what are we thinking? Personal?"
Pocho shook his head.
"Wallet still in pocket. Cash inside. House not trashed."
"Maybe he knew the guy."
"Maybe."
But something about it didn't feel personal.
Personal crimes are messy. Emotional. Sloppy.
This was controlled.
"Neighbors?" Harris asked.
"They heard screaming. Didn't call."
Harris sighed. "Figures."
Pocho closed the folder.
"Let's pull his phone records. Last calls. Last texts. Work schedule. Anyone he argued with."
"Already requested."
Pocho nodded once.
Captain Morrison stepped out of his office.
"Media's asking questions," he said. "We keeping this contained?"
"For now," Pocho said.
"For now?" Morrison raised an eyebrow.
"We don't know what this is yet."
Morrison studied him for a second.
"Let's not jump ahead."
Pocho didn't answer.
He wasn't jumping ahead.
He was paying attention.
---
At noon, Pocho drove to the hardware store where Rick worked.
The manager, a tired-looking man in his fifties, met him near the front counter.
"This doesn't make sense," the manager said. "Rick wasn't trouble."
"Did he argue with anyone recently?" Pocho asked.
"Customers argue all the time. But nothing serious."
"Anyone come in asking about him?"
"No."
"Did he ever mention being followed? Threatened?"
The manager shook his head. "No. He kept to himself."
Pocho walked around the store slowly. Aisles of tools. Pipes. Crowbars. Steel rods.
He stopped near the plumbing section.
Heavy steel pipes stacked neatly.
Anyone could buy one.
Cash. No ID needed.
He didn't say that out loud.
He just stood there for a few seconds.
The manager watched him.
"You think someone used something from here?" the manager asked.
"It's possible."
The manager swallowed.
"That's not good for business."
Pocho looked at him.
"A man's dead," he said calmly.
The manager didn't speak after that.
---
Back at the station, another update came in.
Forensics confirmed tool marks on the bones consistent with a cylindrical metal object.
Repeated impacts. Same angle.
Right-handed attacker.
Strong.
Methodical.
"Doesn't look like a random fight," Harris said.
"No," Pocho replied.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the whiteboard.
Rick's name written at the top.
Nothing else under it yet.
Blank space.
He didn't like blank space.
His phone buzzed.
His wife.
He hesitated for half a second before answering.
"Yeah?"
"You didn't come home after the scene," she said.
"I went straight to the station."
"You could've texted."
"I was busy."
There was a pause.
"Are you coming home tonight?"
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
Another pause.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He ended the call and put the phone down.
Harris glanced at him.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
He wasn't lying.
Not yet.
---
At 5:40 p.m., a patrol officer walked in fast.
"Detective."
Pocho looked up.
"We've got another one."
The room got quiet.
"Alive?" Pocho asked.
"Barely. Female. Grocery store parking lot. Same kind of injuries."
Pocho stood immediately.
"Let's go."
As they walked out, Morrison stepped into the hallway.
"Tell me this isn't connected."
Pocho didn't slow down.
"I'll tell you when I know."
But inside, something settled.
One brutal attack could be anything.
Two in less than twenty-four hours?
That was something else.
He didn't feel anger.
He didn't feel panic.
Just focus.
And that focus was starting to tighten.