"What do we have?" Detective Fusco walked up to the crime scene, carefully studying his surroundings. The patrols on the scene had cleared the area and set up the tape perimeter. CSI were already cataloging the evidence and everything looked under control. As he listened to the young patrolman list of what little they knew, he scanned the small gathering of onlookers and was relieved when he didn't see John skulking about in the background.

It was a double homicide in a known drug trafficking neighborhood - a neighborhood that Fusco had once done a lot of business in. He'd have to watch himself, when he started poking around because there would be some people who might still carry a grudge or two about how things were handled back when he was working with Stills and his thugs.

There'd been a time when Fusco wouldn't have even touched the case. Back when he'd first been blackmailed into working with "the man in black". Back when he didn't want to face what he'd done or admit what he'd become while he'd been with Stills. Things were different now, although he couldn't quiet put his finger on when they'd changed.

In a lot of ways he was as much a criminal now as he was back then. He still did things off book, he still managed to line his pocket with a little extra cash here and there, he still broke regulations on an almost daily basis, and he still took orders from a man that he feared and respected with equal measure. Even if what he'd done while with Stiles would never come to light, almost anything he was doing now could get him put away for the rest of his (probably very short) life.

The difference was he now considered himself a good cop. When he'd been with Still's he knew he was dirty. He knew that he was one of those cops that gave the NYPD a bad rap and made life hell for those men and women who really tried to make a difference. It made it hard to get up in the morning. It's what broke apart his marriage. It was why he'd stopped spending extra time with his son. As if what he was, the monster he'd become, would somehow taint that one, good thing he still had.

Now he was finding some kind of redemption. As if all the things he did now somehow made him better. It was foolish, he knew that. Actions were actions, right? The things he did now weren't any better than the things he did before, but they felt better. He felt better, less evil, less dirty.

He knew that this was all going to end badly. He'd started writing letters to his son, for him to have when that day finally came. He wrote it all down, everything, the good and the bad and all the reasons why he did what he did. Fusco didn't know if it would ever make a difference or even if his boy would ever read it. He wasn't even sure if it would make any real sense to anyone who read it because it really didn't make sense to Fusco, either

The patrolman finished his summary of facts and Fusco thanked him and focused his attention back on the case. This was another thing he could do: he could find out what happened here and bring a small bit of justice to the neighborhood. He could do it the way he was supposed to - with solid police work. Something, surprisingly enough, he was quite good at. It reminded him of what it was to be young again, when he'd first joined the force in order to do good and to help people.

It wasn't possible to change who he was, he knew that. He couldn't change or make up for the things he'd done. He knew someday he was going to have to pay for all those things. But he could, with this glorious, confusing second chance, be better – a better cop, a better person, a better father. He didn't know if anyone would notice. He didn't know if it would matter if they did.

He just knew he had to try.