Hugo Bendi's notebook smelled faintly of old paper and antiseptic. Rosenberg noticed it every time she opened it. She sat alone in her office, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the city muted beyond the glass. The notebook lay flat in front of her, its spine worn from use, corners softened by habit. Bendi had written like a man who expected to return to his notes later. Nothing theatrical. Just information placed where it might matter.
She turned another page.
There it was again.
A name, written once in the margin.
Thomas Rell.
Facilities contractor. Temporary access credentials. Municipal rotation.
Rosenberg read the surrounding lines carefully. Bendi hadn't accused Rell of anything. He hadn't even described suspicion. He had simply noted where Rell appeared in relation to movement. From keys issued, locks serviced, and schedules adjusted.
According to Bendi's note, Rell wasn't connected to the victims. He was connected to places.
That was enough for Rosenberg to start.
She pulled Rell's file before midnight.
No criminal record. No flags. No internal reports. He worked across districts, subcontracted through three different firms, all legitimate. The kind of man who slipped through systems because he never stayed in one long enough to be noticed.
By morning, she had a list of sites Rell had accessed in the last six months.
Two of them were already familiar.
That tightened her focus.
She drove herself to the address listed on Rell's most recent contract.
A low concrete building near a service road. No signage beyond a faded company logo.
The air was cool and smelled of oil and dust inside.
Rell was older than she expected. Mid-forties. Broad shoulders. Hands marked by work. He looked up when she entered, eyes flicking to her badge with mild curiosity.
"Thomas Rell?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I'm Detective Rosenberg. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
He nodded, "About what?"
"Your work."
He wiped his hands on a cloth and gestured toward a metal chair, "Okay, go ahead."
Rosenberg didn't sit.
She asked him about his contracts. His schedule. His access procedures. He answered plainly, without hesitation. His timeline placed him near several locations she cared about, but never at the wrong time. Always before. Always after.
"Do you keep records of your movements?" she asked.
"Work orders," he said, "They're digital."
"Anyone ever ask you to alter one?"
"No."
"Anyone ever ask you not to log access?"
He shook his head, "That'd get me fired."
She studied his face.
No tension. No performative calm. Just a man used to being overlooked.
She left without arrest.
Back in her office, Rosenberg reviewed the body-site timelines again.
The killer arrived cleanly. No forced entry. No signs of struggle at the perimeter. Access had been possible.
Rell made it possible.
She requested additional surveillance footage from one of the earlier locations. A municipal storage annex. The footage was partial. Grainy. A figure entered through a side door late at night.
The height was close.
The build was close.
But close enough to move.
She brought Rell in that afternoon. And he noticed the difference this time.
The interview room was quiet. Rell sat straight-backed, hands folded on the table. Rosenberg placed a still image in front of him.
"Is this you?" she asked.
He leaned forward, squinting, "I don't know. Could be."
"You have access to that door."
"Yes."
"You were scheduled there that week."
"Yes."
"But you weren't scheduled that night."
"No."
She watched him carefully as she spoke.
"You understand why you're here," she said.
He swallowed, "I think so."
"Then tell me where you were."
He told her.
The alibi wasn't strong, but it wasn't empty either.
She pressed harder.
"Did you ever notice markings left behind at these sites?" she asked.
Rell frowned, "Markings?"
"A letter."
"No."
She slid another photo across the table.
The brand.
Rell stared at it longer this time.
"That's not mine," he said finally.
"You own equipment capable of making it."
"For livestock," he replied, "I used to work ranches."
"Do you still?"
"No."
Silence settled between them.
Rosenberg stood and walked behind him, not close enough to touch, just enough to shift the air.
"Someone with your access is killing people," she said, "Someone who understands movement. Timing. Control."
Rell's shoulders stiffened.
"I don't kill anyone, if that's what you need suggesting." he said.
She turned back toward him.
"I don't think you're reckless," she said. "I think you're careful. And careful men don't leave patterns by accident."
Something flickered across his face, but without sufficient evidence, she must released him.
That very same night, Rosenberg went back to Bendi's notebook. She reread the page where Rell's name appeared. She noticed something she hadn't before.
Bendi hadn't underlined the name.
He had written a single word beneath it.
Proximity.
Not suspect.
Not watch.
Just proximity.
Her phone rang from the medical examiner.
"Detective," the voice said, "we've re-evaluated one of the earlier victims. Time of death is narrower than we thought."
Rosenberg closed her eyes.
"How narrow?"
"Too narrow for Rell's work schedule to overlap," the examiner said, "He was documented elsewhere."
Rosenberg opened her eyes and stared at the wall.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
She ended the call and stood very still.
Across the hall, Rell sat alone in a holding room, waiting for a charge that wouldn't come.
Bendi hadn't pointed at him. He had simply written him down, because surely wrong answers still taught you something.
Rosenberg picked up the notebook again and turned the page.
There were more names.
She hadn't wanted to see them yet, but now she had no choice.