So Brian told him. The confrontation, the veiled threats, the way Webb had stood there in broad daylight like he owned the sidewalk. The words that kept echoing in his head: People get hurt when they walk away.
"Son of a bitch," Colby muttered. "He actually said that? Right to her face?"
"He said a lot of things." Brian's jaw was so tight it ached. "All of it carefully worded. Nothing that would hold up as an explicit threat. He's a psychologist. He knows exactly where the line is."
"Doesn't matter where the line is if we make him cross it," Colby said.
"That's not how we're handling this." Hank's voice was calm but firm. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all."
Diaz's patrol car pulled up to the curb, and she stepped out with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had seen many situations and learned that rushing rarely helped. Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual neat bun, and her eyes moved over the group with quick assessment before settling on Tessa.
"Ms. Callahan. You okay?"
Tessa nodded, though the tremor in her hands said otherwise. "He approached us. Right here on Main Street. Broad daylight."
"Walk me through it."
They moved to Diaz's car, leaning against the hood while Tessa recounted the conversation. Brian filled in the parts she glossed over, the parts where Webb had smiled that knowing smile and talked about observation and study and consequences. By the time they finished, Diaz's expression had gone from professional neutrality to something harder.
"I ran his name this morning," she said. "Before you called. I wanted to know who we were dealing with."
Brian straightened. "And?"
"Marcus Webb. Licensed psychologist, or he was. His license was suspended eighteen months ago after complaints from three different patients. The board found evidence of boundary violations, inappropriate contact, and obsessive behavior toward clients he'd fixated on."
"Christ," Colby said under his breath.
"It gets better." Diaz pulled out her phone and scrolled through something. "I talked to a detective in Chicago this morning. Webb has been connected to harassment cases in three other cities over the past five years. Minneapolis. Detroit. Cleveland. Same pattern each time. He identifies a target, usually a woman in a helping profession, and he...studies her. His word. He calls it research."
"Research," Tessa repeated. Her voice was flat. "That's what he called it today. He said he was observing me. Documenting."
"The previous cases never resulted in charges. He's careful. Stays just inside the line, as you said." Diaz met Brian's eyes. "But this time is different. He's violated a restraining order by following her across state lines. That's federal. I've already reached out to the FBI field office in Charleston."
"How long until they can act?" Brian asked.
"They're reviewing the case now. Could be a day, could be a week. Federal wheels turn slow, but they turn heavy." She looked at Tessa. "In the meantime, I want you to stay visible. Go about your life, but don't be alone. The more witnesses to his behavior, the stronger our case."
"You want her to be bait," Brian said. The words came out harder than he intended.
"I want her to be documented." Diaz didn't flinch from his tone. "Every time Webb shows his face, I want it on record. Times, dates, witnesses. We build a pattern that even the best lawyer can't explain away."
"She's not wrong," Hank said quietly. "The more public he is, the more rope he has to hang himself."
Brian wanted to argue. Every instinct he had screamed to put Tessa somewhere safe and stand guard until this was over. But he'd spent enough time in emergency services to know that Diaz was right. Documentation mattered. Patterns mattered. You couldn't fight what you couldn't prove.
“His brother?" Tessa asked. "His brother died in my ER."
Diaz nodded. "Daniel Webb. Died nine months ago at Chicago General after a car accident. Multiple traumas, catastrophic injuries. The medical examiner ruled it unsurvivable." She paused. "You were the attending surgeon."
"I remember him." Tessa's voice was barely above a whisper. "I remember all of them. But Daniel... there was nothing anyone could have done. His aorta was shredded. He was gone before he hit the table."
"The medical records support that. So does the ME's report." Diaz's voice softened slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Ms. Callahan. Webb's grief doesn't change the facts. It just gives him someone to blame."
Brian reached for Tessa's hand, threading his fingers through hers. She held on tightly, her grip almost painful.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"Now?" Diaz tucked her phone away. "Now I put out a BOLO on Webb's vehicle. I've got his license plate from the Chicago records. If he's still in the area, someone will spot him. And I'm going to have a little chat with the hotel where he's been staying. See if the staff have noticed anything useful."
