Chapter 73: Two Fronts
[Mid-Wilshire Station — November 24, 2019, 8:23 AM]
The serial case had consumed the department.
Every available resource was dedicated to the investigation—additional personnel, overtime authorization, task force support. Normal operations continued in skeleton mode, covering essential calls while the hunt for the killer dominated attention.
For Armstrong, this was opportunity.
I noticed it during morning briefing, when Grey assigned patrol priorities and case reviews. Armstrong had volunteered to cover several overflow investigations, positioning himself as a team player who stepped up when others were focused elsewhere.
My lie detection screamed through every helpful offer. False concern. Calculated assistance. Every word designed to mask intent.
He was using the distraction to accelerate his plans against Lopez.
After briefing, I found a moment alone with my laptop, pulling up the evidence logs I'd been monitoring. Armstrong had accessed four of Lopez's cases in the past week—all during hours when the rest of the station was focused on serial case developments. Two of those cases now showed chain of custody irregularities. One had evidence moved to a different section without proper authorization.
The pattern was unmistakable. Armstrong was building his frame-up while everyone watched the serial killer.
My phone buzzed. Tim: Witness follow-up in thirty. Meet at the car.
I closed the laptop, buried the anger, and went to be a cop.
Lopez — 11:47 AM
I found her in the break room during lunch, frustration evident in every line of her posture.
"Three cases stalled," she said without preamble. "Three. Because everyone's focused on the serial and nobody has time for the 'ordinary' crimes."
"Which cases?"
"The Mendez assault, the Carter prosecution we already lost once, and the Jimenez domestic." She stabbed at her salad. "Six victims total who aren't going to see justice because we're all chasing one killer."
My recall pulled up each case, cross-referencing with Armstrong's recent activity. All three were on his access list. All three had shown irregularities in the past week.
"Have you noticed any issues with the evidence on those cases?" I asked carefully.
"What do you mean?"
"Missing documentation. Chain of custody problems. Things that weren't problems before but suddenly are."
Lopez's fork stopped mid-motion. "The Mendez case. The DNA results came back inconclusive, but they were solid when I first submitted them. Lab said something about contamination, but the evidence was clean when I logged it."
"Did you report the discrepancy?"
"To who? Everyone's drowning in serial case work. I mentioned it to Grey, he said we'd review after the major case closes." She set down her fork. "Why? What are you thinking?"
I couldn't tell her. Not yet. Telling Lopez about Armstrong would mean explaining how I knew, which would mean explaining two years of surveillance, which would mean questions I couldn't answer.
But I could plant seeds.
"I'm thinking that major cases create opportunities for people who want to cause problems without being noticed." I held her gaze. "Keep documentation on anything unusual. Timestamps, witnesses, anything that establishes chain of custody independently. Just in case."
"Just in case of what?"
"I don't know yet. But I've learned to trust my instincts."
Lopez studied me with the sharp attention of an experienced detective. "You know something you're not telling me."
"I suspect something I can't prove. That's different."
"Not by much." She picked up her fork again. "Fine. I'll document everything. But Mercer, if you figure out what's going on, you tell me first. Not Grey, not IA. Me."
"Deal."
Serial Case — 3:23 PM
The math connection had proven significant.
Williams's cross-reference confirmed it: all four victims had some form of teaching experience in mathematics. Different levels, different contexts, but the common thread was undeniable.
"She's selecting victims based on their connection to math education," Williams explained at the task force meeting. "The question is why. What does math teaching mean to her?"
"Personal connection," the profiler suggested. "Someone who taught her, inspired her, betrayed her. Mathematics as a symbol of something from her past."
"Or mathematics as a skill she values," I offered. "If she sees herself as precise, logical, methodical—math represents her approach. Teachers who do it poorly might be offensive to her sense of order."
"That would suggest she's evaluating their teaching before killing them," Williams said. "Observing, judging, then executing."
"Consistent with her surveillance behavior. She watches before she acts. Studies her subjects before selecting them."
The meeting continued, strategies discussed, assignments distributed. But underneath the professional discussion, a darker thought was forming.
The killer collected protégés. She selected people who met certain criteria, who demonstrated potential she valued.
What criteria was she using? What potential was she seeking?
And if she'd been photographing me specifically—if I was in her surveillance files—did that mean she saw something in me that interested her?
That Night — Ethan's Mansion, 11:47 PM
Files spread across every surface of my study. Serial case on the left, Armstrong on the right. Two threats, one person, not enough hours.
The serial killer was intelligent, patient, and playing games. Armstrong was corrupt, calculating, and accelerating his timeline. Both required attention I couldn't split.
I had to prioritize.
The serial case was urgent—lives at immediate risk, seven-day kill cycle approaching, a monster actively hunting in Los Angeles. Armstrong was critical but slower-moving, building toward something that hadn't happened yet.
I couldn't fight both battles simultaneously. But maybe I didn't have to.
I pulled up the encrypted Armstrong file, found the cloud backup information I'd established months ago. The account Lopez could access if something happened to me. The evidence I'd gathered, incomplete but damning.
An idea formed. Risky, but potentially effective.
If I shared the Armstrong file with Tim—not the cloud backup for Lopez, but direct partnership—he could monitor the corruption while I focused on the serial case. Two sets of eyes instead of one. Division of labor.
But sharing meant explaining. Explaining meant trust. And trust meant vulnerability.
Emma's words echoed: The secrets are piling up. Eventually, they'll get too heavy to carry alone.
I picked up my phone, typed a message to Tim: Can we talk tomorrow? The thing you said about listening—I'm ready to share some of it.
His response came almost immediately: Whenever you're ready.
I set the phone aside, stared at the files, and made a decision.
Tomorrow, I would tell Tim about Armstrong. Not everything—not the powers, not the transmigration, not the meta-knowledge that made all of this possible. But the corruption. The evidence. The two-year investigation that had brought me this far.
One secret shared. One burden divided.
It wasn't everything. But it was a start.
2:34 AM
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I almost ignored it—spam calls at odd hours were common. But something made me check the screen.
A text message. No sender information. Just words:
You're warm too, Officer Mercer. Getting warmer every day.
My danger sense exploded into maximum alert, the sharp spike of immediate, focused threat cutting through exhaustion and fatigue.
She had my number. The killer had my personal phone number.
I stared at the screen, pulse racing, mind cataloguing implications. She knew who I was. She'd been watching me specifically. The photographs in the warehouse hadn't been random surveillance—they'd been deliberate, personal interest.
She was recruiting.
And I was on her list.
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