Vincent didn't leave his house for two days.
Surveillance reports came in clean.
Work. Home. Gas station. Back home.
Nothing else.
Harris dropped the file on Pocho's desk.
"We've got nothing," Harris said.
"He's careful," Pocho replied.
"Or he's not him."
"He is."
Harris stared at him.
"You don't know that."
Pocho didn't respond.
Instead, he grabbed the file and walked toward the holding area.
"Where are you going?" Harris asked.
"Bringing him in again."
"For what?"
"Questioning."
"We don't have probable cause."
"We'll find it."
Harris followed him.
"This isn't how this works."
Pocho didn't slow down.
---
Vincent was brought in again.
This time he looked irritated.
"You kidding me?" Vincent said. "Third time?"
Pocho didn't sit right away.
"You went near Maple Street three nights ago."
"No."
"You were seen."
"No, I wasn't."
"You think I don't know?"
Vincent leaned forward.
"You don't know anything."
That did it.
Something snapped.
Pocho slammed both hands on the table.
The sound echoed in the room.
"Don't play games with me!" he shouted.
Vincent flinched.
"You think this is funny?" Pocho continued, voice rising. "Three people in hospital, one dead, my wife attacked — and you're sitting there acting bored?"
"I didn't do anything!" Vincent yelled back.
Pocho stepped closer.
"You smell like oil. You work with pipes. You live in the radius. You match the build. You think that's coincidence?"
"Yes!"
"You think I'm stupid?"
"No!"
"Then stop lying!"
Vincent stood up suddenly.
"I didn't touch your wife!"
Pocho grabbed him by the shirt collar.
Harris rushed in immediately.
"Pocho!"
Pocho shoved Vincent back into the chair.
"Confess," he shouted. "Just say it!"
"I DIDN'T DO IT!"
The room was silent except for heavy breathing.
Harris pulled Pocho back.
"That's enough," Harris said sharply.
Pocho tried to step forward again.
"Sit down!" Harris barked.
Vincent looked shaken now. Angry. Frightened.
"I want a lawyer," Vincent said.
"Good," Harris replied. "You're getting one."
Pocho stood there for a few seconds, breathing hard.
Then he turned and walked out.
---
The hallway felt smaller than usual.
Morrison was waiting.
"What the hell was that?" Morrison demanded.
Pocho didn't answer.
"You assaulted a suspect."
"I didn't hit him."
"You grabbed him!"
"He's lying."
"Or he's innocent!"
Pocho turned toward him.
"You want to wait for another body?" he said loudly.
"This isn't about that!"
"It is to me!"
"You're out of control!"
"No," Pocho snapped. "I'm the only one pushing!"
Morrison stepped closer.
"You are not the only detective in this department."
Pocho didn't respond.
He just stared at the floor for a second.
Then he said quietly,
"He's playing us."
Morrison exhaled slowly.
"You're suspended for seventy-two hours," he said.
Pocho looked up.
"Fine."
"This isn't optional."
"I said fine."
---
He left the station without arguing.
But the silence inside him was worse than the yelling.
Because part of him knew.
Vincent didn't react like a killer.
He reacted like a man being cornered unfairly.
And the killer's voice replayed in his head.
You're chasing the wrong man.
You want to punish someone.
He got in his car and sat there.
Hands on the steering wheel.
Not shaking.
Just still.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He stared at it for three rings.
Then answered.
"Yeah."
The voice was calm.
"You finally broke," the killer said.
Pocho didn't respond.
"I was wondering when that would happen."
Silence.
"You don't scare me," Pocho said.
"I'm not trying to."
"Then what?"
"I wanted to see how far you'd go."
Pocho's jaw tightened.
"You grabbed the wrong man," the killer continued.
"Shut up."
"You're destabilized."
"Shut up."
"You're not thinking anymore."
Pocho's voice dropped low.
"When I find you, I'm not hesitating."
A short pause.
"I know," the killer said softly.
Click.
The line went dead.
---
Pocho sat in the car for a long time.
He replayed everything.
The shove.
The shouting.
The look on Vincent's face.
The killer wasn't attacking randomly.
He was isolating him.
Separating him from the department.
From procedure.
From balance.
And now he was suspended.
Wife injured. Marriage hanging. Department shaken. Wrong suspect nearly charged.
The killer hadn't broken bones this week.
He broke structure.
And Pocho helped.
For the first time, he didn't feel focused.
He felt unstable.