Renata Ocampo

You wave Hendricks over from across the bullpen. He crosses, coffee in hand, eyes tired but focused.

"I need you to pull travel records for Thomas Vance. Flights, trains, rental cars, toll passes — anything that shows movement between Portland, Seattle, Phoenix, and Denver over the last three years."

Hendricks sets his coffee down. "You think he's been rotating through the clinics?"

"If he's running this operation, he's not doing it from a single desk. He's visiting, checking in, making sure the money flows and the silence holds." You tap your keyboard. "Start with Portland and work outward. If he's got a pattern, I want to know it."

Hendricks nods and heads for his terminal. You turn back to your screen, the Crestwood records still open, the scope of the case expanding with every new lead.

Your phone buzzes. Harrow: Federal warrants are being drafted for all four locations. ETA 6 AM. Coordination call with Duvall at 7. Be there.

You glance at the clock. 11:47 PM. Six hours until the warrants land. Six hours to build the case airtight.

You pull up the digital copies of the Portland safety deposit box documents and begin cross-referencing names against the Crestwood payment records. The task is painstaking — handwritten notes, faded photocopies, medical jargon that blurs after the first hour.

But patterns emerge.

A name appears in both the Portland and Seattle records: Elena Vasquez, 14, admitted to St. Jude's Portland in 2021, transferred to Seattle in 2022. Outcome: Deceased. Another: Marcus Chen, 16, Portland 2020, Denver 2021. Outcome: Deceased.

You create a new spreadsheet, logging each name that appears in more than one city. By 2 AM, you've identified twelve patients who were moved between St. Jude's locations before their deaths. Twelve children shuttled across state lines like inventory.

Your phone buzzes. Hendricks: Found a pattern in Vance's travel. He flies commercial, always first class, always under the name "T. Harrison." Round trips between Portland and each clinic city every six to eight weeks. Last trip was Denver, ten days ago.

You lean back. Ten days ago. Before Maya died. Before Cross was arrested. Before any of this broke open.

He might still be in Denver.

You pull up the Denver field office number from your contacts and dial. The call routes through a switchboard before a sharp voice picks up.

"Denver FBI, Agent Torres."

"This is Detective Renata Ocampo, Sacramento PD. I'm working a multi-state case involving St. Jude's Palliative Care. We have reason to believe the network's operator, Thomas Vance, may be in Denver. He was last seen there ten days ago, and we have federal warrants being drafted for St. Jude's locations in four cities including Denver."

A pause. "St. Jude's. We've had complaints about that clinic. Nothing that stuck."

"Because he's good at burying things. I need you to put the Denver location under surveillance tonight. Don't approach, don't tip them off — just watch. If Thomas Vance is there, I need to know before he slips away."

Another pause, longer this time. "I'll put a team together. Keep me updated on those warrants."

"Will do."

You hang up and stare at your spreadsheet. Twelve children moved between cities. A man who flies under a fake name. A network that spans four states.

Your phone buzzes. Hendricks: Found something else. Vance's travel pattern — he always visits Denver in the third week of the month. Every time. Like clockwork. Today is the 19th.

You cross to Hendricks's terminal, your voice low. "Check the dates. The twelve transferred patients — cross-reference their dates of death against Vance's Denver visits. I want to know if there's a pattern."

Hendricks's fingers move across the keyboard. The screen flickers as he pulls up the records side by side. You watch over his shoulder as the data populates.

His hand stops. "Got one."

He points to the screen. Elena Vasquez — transferred to Denver February 2022. Date of death: March 22, 2022. Hendricks scrolls to Vance's travel records. T. Harrison — Denver visit: March 18-21, 2022.

"She died the day after he left."

You scroll further. Marcus Chen — transferred to Denver June 2022. Date of death: July 19, 2022. Vance's travel: July 15-18, 2022.

Same pattern. Each of the twelve patients died within days of Vance's departure from Denver. Every single one.

Hendricks leans back. "He's not just visiting clinics. He's there when they die."

You dial Torres's number, your heart hammering. She picks up on the first ring.

"Torres."

"I've got a pattern. Twelve patients transferred to Denver — all died within days of Thomas Vance's visits. Every single one. He's not just administrating — he's there when they die."

A sharp breath on the other end. "You're saying he's personally involved in the deaths."

"I'm saying he's present. Whether he's administering the drugs or just watching, I don't know. But the pattern is undeniable." You pause. "I need Denver PD ready to move on St. Jude's tonight. If Vance is there and patients are at risk, we can't wait for the warrant to clear."

Torres is quiet for a moment. "I'll coordinate with Denver PD. We'll have a team staged within the hour. But Ocampo — if we move without a warrant, anything we find could be thrown out."

"Then we find a reason to enter legally. Fire alarm. Wellness check. Anonymous tip. I don't care how — just get eyes inside that building tonight."

Another pause. "Understood. I'll call you back."

The line goes dead.

You dial Harrow, the spreadsheet of death dates still burned into your vision. He picks up on the first ring, his voice rough with exhaustion.

"Ocampo. It's almost 3 AM. This better be good."

"Twelve patients. Transferred to Denver. All died within days of Thomas Vance's visits. Every single one." You pause, letting that land. "He's not just running the network. He's present when they die. I need the federal warrants escalated to emergency status. If Vance is in Denver right now, patients could be at immediate risk."

The line goes silent. You hear Harrow breathing, processing.

"Twelve patients. Same pattern." He exhales slowly. "I'll call the U.S. Attorney's office. Get the warrants flagged as life-safety emergencies. Should have them signed within the hour."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Just get me something I can take to a judge." The line goes dead.

You lower the phone and stare at the spreadsheet. Twelve names. Twelve dates. One man at the center of all of them.

Hendricks looks up from his terminal. "What's the play?"

You dial Torres back. She picks up on the first ring.

"Torres."

"Warrants are being escalated to emergency status. Life-safety. Should be signed within the hour." You pause. "I need Denver PD ready to move the moment those warrants hit. Have your team staged and waiting."

"Already done. I've got two units positioned near St. Jude's Denver. Plainclothes, eyes on the front and rear exits. No movement yet, but it's 4 AM — the place should be empty except for overnight staff."

"Vance's pattern puts him in Denver this week. He could be inside right now."

A pause. "If he is, he's not leaving without us seeing him. I'll call you the second the warrants are signed."

"Thank you."

You hang up and turn to Hendricks. "Warrants are coming. Torres has Denver under surveillance. Now we wait."

Hendricks leans back in his chair. "You think Vance is there?"

You look at the spreadsheet. Twelve names. Twelve deaths. One man at the center.

"I think he's been there for every one of those deaths. I think he's there right now." You meet his eyes. "And I think when we find him, we're going to find out exactly what he did to those children."

The bullpen settles into a tense quiet. The only sounds are the hum of the vending machine, the distant clatter of a keyboard from the night shift desk, and the occasional crackle of the police radio. You lean back in your chair, phone in hand, screen glowing.

Hendricks brings you a fresh coffee without a word. You nod your thanks.

Minutes crawl past. Four-thirty becomes four-forty-five. The spreadsheet of dead children glows on your monitor. Twelve names. You've memorized every one.

Your phone buzzes. Not Torres — Harrow.

Warrants signed. Federal. All four locations. Sending copies to your email now. Torres has been notified. Denver team is moving in.

You're on your feet before you finish reading.

Your fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up the secure feed Torres patched you into earlier. The screen splits into three angles — front entrance, rear alley, and a wide shot of the street. The building is dark except for a single light on the second floor.

A black van pulls up to the curb. Agents spill out, silent, moving with practiced precision. You spot Torres in the lead, hand raised, counting down on her fingers.

Three. Two. One.

The front door goes down with a hydraulic ram. The feed fills with motion — agents streaming inside, flashlights cutting through the dark, shouted commands echoing off tile floors.

The second-floor light flickers. Goes out.

Torres's voice crackles through your earpiece. "Second floor, east wing — someone's moving. We're in pursuit."

The feed shows an agent kicking open a door. A figure in a dark suit bolts across the room — silver hair, broad shoulders. Thomas Vance.

He's heading for the fire escape.

You dial Harrow while keeping your eyes locked on the feed. Vance is at the fire escape now, throwing the window open.

"Vance is running. Fire escape, east side of the building. I need Denver PD to set up a perimeter three blocks out — if he gets past Torres's team, we can't lose him."

Harrow doesn't hesitate. "On it. I'm calling Denver dispatch now. Stay on the line."

The feed shows Vance drop onto the fire escape landing, metal clanging under his weight. He's fast for a man his age — practiced, like he's done this before. He hits the alley running, coat flapping behind him.

Torres's voice crackles through your earpiece: "He's on the ground, east alley. Units converging."

The wide-angle feed catches a flash of movement — Vance cutting between two dumpsters, heading for the street. A black-and-white squeals around the corner, lights flashing, blocking his path.

Vance skids to a stop. Raises his hands.