FROZEN

CHAPTER I

No Smoking

A thin layer of smoke hovered around the heads of two men. Even though they were sitting at opposite ends of a reasonably sized table, it was clear that the man closest to the door was the tallest and easily the most built. His arms were folded across his chest defiantly; the sleeves of his blue collared shirt rolled up to hug his forearms, and an arrogant grin curled itself coolly around the cigarette wedged between his lips.

The man opposite was a thin, gangly man with wild straw-coloured hair that fell unevenly over his face. His tight, black shirt bore the letters: F.B.I.; and the Built-Man had to squint to read the text below them: Female Body Inspector. His skin was dotted with orange spots, and his eyes were sunken back into his head from many years of sleep deprivation. A condition which, Detective Stabler put down to A: lack of a life, and B: World of Warcraft three. But it wasn't his freckles or his aptitude for Star Wars trivia that had him pinned as a 'geek' to half the precinct – it was his wearing habit of sniffing nothing in particular every minute or so.

It was hard to believe, by any stretch of the imagination, that this man, who greeted his arresting officers with a Vulcan Salute, was their prime suspect in the current serial murder case.

Elliot Stabler had never been one to smoke, he had always found the behaviour disgusting and had been under the impression that only "horny, piss-weak parolees who don't know which way's up" became involved with. "There are cooler ways to die," Munch had said one quiet afternoon, and then leapt into an epic one-sided discussion about how the American Government is tracking addicted consumers by way of imprinting the tobacco signatures with… Elliot had stepped outside for a cigarette. The crisp, New York wind tickled his face and playfully prevented him from lighting his fix, and he was just about to toss the bud over the railing and onto the street below, when the door behind him opened and he heard a voice speaking above the cold wind, "I hope you're not planning on tossing that." He turned, and Olivia Benson walked towards him.

Together they leaned against the rail, and looked out over the city they were meant to protect. Olivia had never once told him to quit his new habit, when she did find out however, her only words of disapproval were, "Oh god, Elliot," coupled with a look down her nose before leaving the subject alone.

"How's Kathy?" Olivia asked with a sideways glance at her partner, hoping to catch an answer in his reaction before he actually spoke.

"At her mother's," he turned his back on the city, "she had an abortion."

Olivia stood for a moment, shocked, before turning her own back on the city – a symbolic gesture that neither of them noticed, yet both understood as they once more stood facing the same direction. She put a hand on his and said, "I'm so sorry El," and she needn't say more. He smiled gratefully at her and together they walked back down the stairs and resumed work as usual.

He extinguished the cigarette in an ashtray, and persisted staring at the man opposite him. The man, who had sniffed at a runny nose a good one hundred and twenty times by now, said nothing.

"Elliot?" said a voice from the corner.

"Yeah?" He replied, his eyes not moving an inch from his objective.

"I was thinking… you know that rope we found at the scene?" Elliot nodded, "Well, I bet the M.E. will be back with DNA from the perp any second," the last two words were drawn out, as if she didn't think Elliot would be able to understand her if she spoke at a normal pace.

Elliot turned around, and said to Olivia, "You know, I think you're right," and with that he pushed back his chair and stood, "I think we're done here," he said to the stunned suspect and together they made for the door.

"You won't find anything," he said, a mischievous grin widening on his face. This time, both Elliot and Olivia took their seats opposite their suspect, "And if there really is DNA, it'll only be your victim's."

"Oh come on, Peterson, a smart boy like you oughta know there's a 50/50 chance that that's your DNA we're gonna find," said Olivia, clasping her hands together on the table.

"First of all, it's not my DNA that'll be on it, and second of all, you've got the wrong man," Peterson said.

A soft knock and the door opened, Melinda Warner poked her head through, shaking it at the two detectives with a solemn look upon her face. As she backed out, the two faced Peterson enquiringly.

"Lucky guess," he grinned.