Dr. Lawrence Freeman's credentials were impeccable—Harvard Medical School, residency at Mayo Clinic, published in prestigious journals, chief of neurosurgery at Eastbrook Medical Center by age forty. His official hospital portrait showed a handsome man with salt-and-pepper hair, confident smile, compassionate eyes. The perfect façade.
I'd seen such façades before. My father had worn one—respected professor, loving husband, community leader. All while systematically destroying our family from within.
"Dr. Freeman has an opening at 11:15," the administrative assistant informed me when I arrived at Eastbrook. "He can give you fifteen minutes."
"Thank you," I replied, showing my badge. "I appreciate his cooperation."
I spent the waiting time observing the neurosurgery department. Staff moved with practiced efficiency, speaking of Freeman with obvious respect. Whatever Ramirez had alleged, Freeman clearly commanded authority here.
His office was exactly what I expected—awards lining the walls, degrees prominently displayed, family photos arranged on the credenza. A wife, two teenage children, even a golden retriever. The complete package.
"Detective Blackwood," Freeman greeted me, rising from behind his desk. His handshake was firm, appropriately brief. "How can I help the NYPD today?"
"I'm investigating the recent assaults in the area," I explained, taking the offered seat. "One of your maintenance employees, Victor Ramirez, is a person of interest."
Freeman nodded. "I heard he'd been arrested. Terrible business. Those poor women."
"Ramirez made some... counterallegations during questioning. Hospital policy requires that I follow up on them."
A flicker of something—annoyance? concern?—crossed Freeman's face before his professional mask returned. "What sort of allegations?"
"He claims there have been complaints against a doctor here. Complaints that were suppressed by administration." I kept my tone casual, watching for his reaction. "Specifically against you, Dr. Freeman."
He laughed, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Classic deflection tactic. When caught, point the finger elsewhere."
"So there have been no complaints?"
"In my position, Detective, occasional complaints are inevitable. Patients upset about outcomes, family members grieving, staff conflicts. All thoroughly investigated and dismissed."
I nodded, making a note. "I'll need to see those complaint files."
"You'd have to speak with hospital administration about that. Patient confidentiality laws are quite strict." His smile remained fixed. "But I assure you, there's nothing to find."
"Ramirez specifically mentioned incidents with sedated female patients."
Freeman's expression hardened. "That is an absolutely baseless accusation. I am never alone with sedated patients. My surgical team, nurses, anesthesiologists—there are always multiple staff present."
He was good—indignant but not overly defensive. Either genuinely innocent or very practiced at deflection. I couldn't tell which yet.
"I'm sure it will all be cleared up quickly," I said smoothly. "But I do need to be thorough. Would you mind providing the names of your surgical team members from the past three months? For elimination purposes."
"I'll have my assistant compile that for you." He glanced at his watch. "Was there anything else, Detective? I have patients waiting."
"Just one thing," I said, rising. "Do you know any of these women?" I showed him photos of our three assault victims.
He studied them briefly. "The one on the left was my patient about two years ago. Minor procedure. The others, I don't recognize, though they may have been treated elsewhere in the hospital."
I left with the promised list of names and more questions than answers. Freeman had been calm, cooperative, yet something felt off. My instincts—the same ones that helped me select deserving targets for my night work—were signaling caution.
I met Alvarez in the hospital cafeteria.
"Administration stonewalled me on the complaints," she reported. "Said they need a warrant for personnel files. But I did manage to speak with a nurse who worked with Freeman until last year. She was... hesitant."
"Hesitant how?" I asked.
"Chose her words very carefully. Said Freeman was 'respected but feared.' When I pressed about complaints, she suddenly remembered an appointment and left."
I considered this. "Fear suggests there's something to Ramirez's claims."
"Or just a demanding boss who makes people nervous," Alvarez countered. "We need more before we shift focus from Ramirez."
She was right, of course. Evidence, not instinct, drove investigations. Still, as we left the hospital, I found myself wondering about Freeman. If Ramirez was telling the truth, here was another predator hiding behind respectability. Another man causing harm while protected by systems designed to shield powerful men.
Perhaps a name to add to my other list. But not yet. Not without certainty.
Back at the precinct, we learned that Ramirez's alibi for the second attack had also checked out—security footage from a corner store placed him across town when the assault occurred.
"So either he's clean, or he's only responsible for the first attack," Reeves summarized when we updated him.
"Or someone else wearing similar work clothes is responsible," I suggested. "The blue fibers are still our strongest physical evidence."
"What about this Freeman angle?" Reeves asked.
Alvarez shrugged. "Nothing solid yet. Hospital administration is protecting him, which could be standard policy or something more concerning."
"Keep digging," Reeves ordered. "But don't lose focus on the assaults. I want the primary perpetrator, whatever other crimes we might stumble across."
After Reeves left, Alvarez sighed. "What do you think, Blackwood? Is Ramirez playing us, or is there something to his accusations about Freeman?"
I considered my answer carefully. "I think we need to pursue both angles. Ramirez for the first attack, where his alibi is weaker. And discreetly look deeper into Freeman."
"Agreed," she nodded. "I'll work the Ramirez angle. You want to keep pulling the Freeman thread?"
I did, very much. If Freeman was what Ramirez described—a respected doctor victimizing sedated women—he was exactly the type of predator who would never face justice through official channels. The type who would eventually find himself in a hotel room with "Katherine Pierce," making a full confession before justice was delivered.
"I'll handle Freeman," I confirmed. "Starting with finding that nurse who ran off on you."
That evening, I prepared for my next encounter with Gregory Walsh. The black dress, the wig, the persona of Katherine Pierce all waiting for Thursday. But my mind kept returning to Freeman. Another potential target. Another predator hiding in plain sight.
Justice had many faces. Mine was simply one of them.