DISCLAIMER: Neither "Law & Order: SVU" nor any of its characters belong to me. As you can see below, if they did, I would do things with them to which NBC would probably object. I'm not making any money from this story, which as it turns out is my first work of fanfic. I hope y'all enjoy it. The show and its characters belong to Dick Wolf, who apparently likes to make fangirls suffer and would never allow the following to transpire on network television.
NOTE ABOUT RATINGS: I went with "M", though it's going to vary by chapter. Some will be relatively tame whereas others certainly won't, whether it's because of disturbing scenes involving violence against children or steamy (I think so, anyway) scenes involving some lovin' between two of the hottest women on the planet. That's right, this one's for the A/O lovers.
TIMEFRAME: Three years after "Ghost," and happily ignoring the fact that "Conviction" ever happened.
-1-
Central Park, North Meadow
Thursday, 6:17 a.m.
Dean Moyer rounded a curve and finished his jog around Central Park's North Meadow, a ritual he had observed for more than ten years. He reached up and pushed his red hair off his forehead, exhaling slowly as steam from his breath rose into the dark morning. His left foot came down and slid on a stretch of ice that nearly felled him. "Whoa," he said reflexively, though no one heard him apart from his German shepherd, Bertie. The hour was too early and the weather too cold for all but the most dedicated of runners.
Steadying himself, Dean leaned over to catch his breath, and veered from the trail. Placing his knapsack on a nearby bench, he removed a Thermos full of coffee and checked his watch, deciding that he and Bertie had enough time left take on a slightly more aerobic walk up to the nearby ravine.
"C'mon, boy," he said, clapping a couple of times to get the dog's attention. For several minutes, they walked uphill in silence, and Dean allowed himself to relax into the morning, the coffee warming his chest as he drank.
Dean was startled by a low growl emanating from Bertie's suddenly-tense body. Turning to face the dog, he noticed that Bertie's entire body had grown stiff, his tail ramrod straight, his hackles raised. Bertie, who seldom wore an expression other than one of unadulterated joy, was on high alert. Dean stopped walking.
"Somethin' wrong, Buddy?" he asked, cautiously. He ran his eyes over the landscape before him, searching for an unknown danger. Reaching into his sack again, he quietly searched out the can of Mace he'd bought at least four years before, wondering if it was even still useful.
The dog lowered his nose to the ground, sniffing quickly and violently. Walking in small and then wider circles around his owner, he let out a series of quick barks. Finally, the dog took off in a sprint.
"Bertie!" Dean called, exasperated. He had anticipated a mugger; and it appeared as though the old dog had merely given chase to a squirrel or something equally innocuous. "What the hell's gotten into you?" he mumbled, finally seeing the dog about thirty yards in front of him.
As he got closer to the animal, Dean felt his chest constrict as his breathing came to a near stop. Barely visible on the ground was a motionless child, wrapped in a red jacket and lying beneath Bertie's protective gaze.
"Oh my God," Dean said quickly, kneeling before the boy. He had obviously been there long enough for small crystals of ice to form on his lips and long eyelashes. Dean reached out to see if there was a pulse, and feeling none, called out for help although he knew there was no one to hear. It was then that he noticed the ground around the boy's head was damp. Pressing his fingers against the leaves underneath the body, Dean realized that the dampness was blood, which also caked the small child's matted hair.
"Oh God," he repeated, backing up in fear. He felt his heart leap into his chest, and it wasn't until the dog walked over and nuzzled his leg, bringing him back into reality, that he located his cell phone and dialed 911. "Please," he mumbled into the receiver, unsure whether the noises he was making were words, unable to hear himself, overcome by nausea and terror. "I'm near the north ravine at Central Park… there's a dead little boy."
***
-2-
New York Police Department
16th Precinct, Manhattan Special Victims Unit
Thursday, 7:35 a.m.
Fifty minutes later, Captain Donald Cragen was debriefing Detectives Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler at the sixteenth precinct. "DB is an unidentified little boy in Central Park," he said, his face registering concern but otherwise impassive. Cragen had been in charge of the NYPD's sex crimes unit for more than a decade, and while his daily exposure to violence had not desensitized him, he always masked his own reactions long enough to develop an investigation. "Munch and Fin are tangled up in Kieran Douglas, so this one's all yours. Sorry about your day off, Olivia."
Benson nodded, a short lock of brown hair falling over her eyes. She had been told to take the day to herself after having worked more than two solid weeks pursuing a serial rapist, but Cragen's emergency call had come half an hour earlier.
"It's okay, Cap," she said, her voice soft. The truth was, Olivia was grateful to be called in. Too much time to herself meant too much time to think, too much time to focus on the past. This weekend, that was the last thing she needed to be doing. "Elliot, let's go."
Gulping down the lukewarm coffee that her partner had brewed entirely too weak for her taste, Olivia grabbed her long brown leather jacket and pulled it over her tight red sweater, wrapping a tobacco-colored scarf around her neck.
As the detectives left the station and got into Elliot's unmarked Pontiac, he studied Olivia's face from his position in the driver's seat. Despite the fact that she'd left work on time the day before, her deep brown eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as though she had not slept well, or at all. Her face, unarguably beautiful, looked almost harsh in its gauntness. She had lost weight in the last month; he had suspected it and confirmed it this morning when he had helped her into her coat. Her shoulders seemed so slight beneath his hands. The strongest woman he'd ever known, a woman whom he'd never once thought of as frail, seemed to be shrinking before him. Her customary swagger had been replaced with a stooped walk; her bright smile graced her face only rarely.
"How ya feelin', Liv?" Elliot asked gently as he drove toward the park.
The brunette was quiet for a moment, staring out the passenger-side window. "Huh?" she finally replied, rubbing the remnants of her rough sleep from the corners of her brown eyes, realizing that Elliot had addressed her and was waiting on some type of response.
He was quiet, unsure if his honest concern about Olivia's well-being would be interpreted as crossing the unspoken, undrawn line into unjustified nosiness about her personal business.
"Look, maybe it's none of my business, and tell me if it's not," he began, hoping that disclaimer would excuse him if his next question fell on the wrong side of that line. "But are you doin' okay? Something I can help with?"
Olivia glanced at Elliot. He had been her partner for nearly ten years, and Elliot knew her better than anyone else. It would not have done their relationship justice to say that he was a brother to her; nor would it have been accurate to simply call him her best friend. Olivia entrusted her life to Elliot on a daily basis, as he did with her. No other relationship compared.
"You're right," she affirmed, shifting in her seat, sipping the lousy coffee. "I know I've been off my game lately. I'm…" Her voice trailed off as she searched for the words that would express to him what she had been going through. A minute later, she finally said, "This weekend. It's been three years."
He didn't need to ask what she meant.
It had been three years since Alexandra Cabot, the beautiful and brilliant Assistant District Attorney who had worked with the Special Victims Unit for almost four years, celebrating their victories and sharing their losses, had unexpectedly returned to their world and then once again had been ripped from it.
Five years ago, drug lord Cesar Velez ordered Cabot killed for prosecuting a rapist in his employ. Elliot and Olivia were walking Alex home when one of his men fired a bullet into the lawyer's chest. Elliot futilely started to run after the car, and when he turned around, the image before him was heartbreaking. Olivia crouched over Alex's body, cradling her, whispering in her ear. It was Elliot who pulled Olivia away from Alex when the ambulance arrived, who told her that it was okay to stop trying to stop the blood from spilling from the other woman's chest.
The feelings that had for so long percolated under the surface of their relationship were finally made wrenchingly clear. Hours later, at the hospital, a doctor solemnly announced that his team had been unable to save Alex. As Olivia realized that she had lost the love of her life before her feelings were expressed, her body collapsed against Elliot's as he tried and failed to find words of assurance.
Olivia spent that night mourning the woman who had meant something to her that had never been identified until the night she died. Even then, it had never been acknowledged. "I'm in love with you," Olivia whispered into the empty air, wondering if Alex was aware of the confession.
The next night, the detectives learned that Alex had survived the shooting, but was being taken into Witness Protection. Though such allowances were typically forbidden, she refused to leave without seeing Olivia.
Their farewell was not the private moment they deserved. It was attended by Elliot and a handful of federal agents. They were told that with the exception of the people there, nobody knew or could know that Alexandra Cabot was not dead. Alex sat in the back seat of a dark SUV, her neck hidden beneath a scarf, one arm in a sling against her chest.
Olivia stared at Alex, disbelieving. Torn between joy at knowing Alex lived and the torture of knowing that she may never see her again, that Alex was being torn from her life a second time, Olivia could not form words. Finally, she choked out, "Your funeral is tomorrow."
Alex tried to calm Olivia, saying that this was her choice, and it was the right thing. Alex's free hand subtly covered Olivia's, her thumb tracing the detective's hand in wordless acknowledgement that the love Olivia felt was understood and returned.
"How long?" Olivia asked, hoping that somehow Alex would be able to assure her that a day would certainly come when she could return, when they would be able to finally explore their love for one another.
Alex was quiet, her blue eyes locked on Olivia. A tear fell down her cheek – it was the first time Olivia had ever seen Alex cry, and it was all she could do not to put her arms around the attorney and kiss the tear from her face. Leaning in, Olivia's lips grazed Alex's cheek, and Alex responded by tightly squeezing Olivia's hand. Olivia looked at Alex's beautiful face, and noted the smallest of nods – all that Alex could give to her before the agents whisked her away to God knew where for God knew how long.
When the vehicle was out of sight, Elliot held Olivia steady as violent, wrenching sobs overtook her muscled body.
At the request of Alex's mother, Olivia delivered a eulogy at Alex's funeral the next morning. She invoked Alex's courage and lauded her rest easy in her place among the wealthy and well-born. "Alex believed that, from those to whom much is given, much is expected," Olivia eulogized the woman she adored; the woman she knew was alive.
In the months that followed, Olivia refused returning to any part of her life outside work. The fact that she and Alex had never been an actual couple hardly seemed to matter. Olivia felt, and the squad treated her as though she was, a grieving widow.
***
-3-
Central Park, North Meadow
Thursday, 8:13 a.m.
When the detectives arrived at the crime scene, reporters and cameramen were already congregating around the edge of the yellow "Crime Scene" tape placed by the two young cops who had been the first to respond to the emergency call. The cameras rolled on the dead boy and the ruddy-faced jogger who had discovered him, and the reporters' questions were lost in the surrounding noise. Olivia and Elliot walked past the tape. She moved her long leather jacket away from her belt, showing her badge as she addressed the officers. "Have an ID yet?"
The handsome one with curly black hair nodded. "We're getting close. Some folks woke up and found their nine-year-old missing this morning. Based on their description, this could be their son. They'll be at the morgue when the body gets there, see if they can identify him."
Olivia nodded, turning her attention to the small body. She had been present at hundreds of crime scenes and seen dozens of dead children, but her physical response to such horrors had not changed with time. Her stomach still flipped nervously toward her throat, her eyes still tried to focus on something else, anything else. She felt Elliot's presence behind her, and knelt to get a closer look at the boy, willing herself to keep her eyes trained on his lifeless form.
The boy's red jacket was thrust open, his arms stretched open. His face was bruised, this dark hair caked and matted with what Olivia recognized as blood. Her stomach clenched when she saw that his jeans were unzipped.
"Hey, look at this," Elliot said, inspecting the ground around the boy's body.
Olivia stood and walked toward him and saw that was standing over three wooden splinters, light in color and about four to six inches in length.
"There's a few drops of blood on this one," Elliot said, grimacing as he gestured toward one of the splinters with the toe of his boot. "Perp probably used whatever it broke off to beat him, the twisted fuck."
"Let's bag it up as soon as Melinda's done," Olivia said, walking around the body.
Melinda Warner, the medical examiner, had arrived on the scene and was bent over the small corpse, speaking into a hand-held cassette recorder. "Victim is a white male, four feet six inches, approximately ten years old. Weight about seventy pounds." She slipped latex gloves onto her hands and gently lifted his head. "Massive contusions along the parietal and occipital regions. Mandible appears fractured. Nasal cavities show trauma." She paused, and then held up a small tooth. "It appears there was at least one major blow the back of the head, but lacerations and bruising around the face and about the chest area indicates a prolonged beating with several individual blows."
"Can you estimate a time of death?" Elliot asked, wincing.
"It's hard to tell," Warner admitted. "I can tell you the body's been out here in the cold long enough for his body temperature to drop considerably. It's harder to estimate the time of death when you have external factors contributing like that, but my best estimate is three, maybe four hours ago. It's probably a safe assumption that the cause of death was the head trauma. His jaw's broken, and he's missing some teeth. This poor little guy suffered a lot before he went."
"The jeans are-" Olivia started.
"I'll run a rape kit and a tox screen at the lab, get back to you," Warner said, finishing Benson's thought. They had been working together long enough to have fallen into a sort of cryptic rhythm.
Olivia exhaled deeply, taking another long look at the boy. "Christ," she murmured, her tone low. "We'll get back to the precinct. Call us when you know more?"
"Of course," Warner nodded, turning back to the body and opening her medical bag.
***
-4-
New York Police Department
16th Precinct, Manhattan Special Victims Unit
Thursday, 2:43 p.m.
Sitting at her desk, Olivia could feel Elliot's presence as he stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.
"If I didn't know better," she said in a low voice, "I'd swear you were putting a hex on me." She turned to face him, one eyebrow raised curiously. "What? You tryin' to sneak a peek at me balancing my checkbook?"
"I'm just worried about you, is all," he said, casually. "Wanna come over for dinner with me and Kathy and the kids?"
Olivia frowned. Elliot was trying a little too hard. "Thanks, El, but I'm okay. I'm a big girl. It's just a hard weekend."
"That's why you shouldn't be alone," he pointed out, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"I'm not," she pointed out. "My weekend just got a lot busier, unless we can find the child killer this afternoon."
The door to the squad room opened as Detectives John Munch and Odafin Tutuola walked in, carrying brown bags that smelled strongly of burgers and fries. "We come bearing gifts," Munch said grandly, stopping at Elliot's and Olivia's desks to present them with lunch.
"Hey, guys," Olivia greeted them. "How was your trip to Hell's Kitchen?"
Fin rolled his eyes. "Kieran Douglas is one seriously disturbed old dude."
Elliot smirked. "It took two detectives to arrive at that conclusion? We're slipping."
"I dunno if he's disturbed," Munch said sagely, taking a bite. "He views himself as an altruist – after all, who else is gonna feed the pigeons?"
"But why's he gotta do it in a thong? In the middle of winter?" Fin snorted.
"Cut him a break, Fin. He said he had no idea the thong was on backwards until the little girl told him."
"Guess he couldn't feel the breeze on his wrinkly ol' balls, then," Fin mumbled, taking a long drink from his soda.
Olivia rolled her eyes and grinned for the first time that day as Elliot chuckled.
"What's new with you two?" Fin asked, trying to ignore his partner.
"While you were visiting senile exhibitionists, Liv and I were at Central Park looking at a little boy who'd been beaten to death," Elliot answered, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he took the first bite of his burger. His cellular phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking a look at it, he turned to Olivia. "It's Warner."
"Stabler," he said, sitting down at his desk and opening a notepad.
"Elliot," Warner said, "we have a positive ID. The boy is Mason Ferrars, nine-year-old son of a hedge fund manager and former underwear model on the Upper West side. His parents identified the body and were completely cooperative. They've already given me blood and DNA samples that I'll run against Mason's clothing and other items at the scene. I doubt they had anything to do with this, for what it's worth."
Elliot whistled. "What else do you know?"
"I can confirm the cause of death as trauma to the back of the head with a wooden object."
"Wood? So the pieces on the ground…"
"Probably. The lab's still running tests to determine the nature of the object that I think killed him – the source of those splinters. Those results will take at least another day. The contusions indicate the use of a cylindrical object – which came down on his head at a downward angle, the way a person would swing a nightstick or a baseball bat. I found several splinters embedded in the boy's hair and skull, so we'll run tests on those as well as the larger pieces you identified."
"What else?"
"We'll have the results from the rape kit by the end of the day, but the tox screen won't be complete for a couple of days."
"OK," Elliot said, waving Cragen over as the older man stepped out of his office. "Thanks, Doc." He flipped the phone shut, and replaced it in his jacket pocket, relaying the conversation to the others.
***
-5-
Ferrars Residence
Upper West Side
Thursday, 4:13 p.m.
Cragen dispatched Elliot and Olivia to the Ferrars' Park Avenue home. The parents proclaimed themselves ready and willing to cooperate in the investigation to catch their son's killer. The media, for their part, seemed ready and willing to turn the case into a spectacle. By the time Olivia and Elliot arrived on the scene, there were already at least a dozen cameras and twice as many reporters with microphones lining the sidewalk in front of the attractive old brownstone.
Elliot pulled into an empty spot half a block from the building, and he and Olivia walked toward the front door quickly with their heads bowed. Neither particularly enjoyed the spotlight, and with the exception of an occasional case, managed to avoid its harsh glare. Still, as they approached the door, several of the reporters noticed their badges – Elliot's worn on the lapel of his overcoat, Olivia's clipped to the black leather belt that also supported her phone and gun.
"It's the police!" someone yelled, and Olivia became suddenly aware of the many cameras trained on her and Elliot.
"Are the parents suspects?" shouted one hysterical-sounding female voice.
"Was it a kidnapping?" asked another.
"Who did it!?!?" several shouted.
Olivia glanced at Elliot, who was looking at his shoes as he bounded up the stairs. Once inside, she sighed. "That's just great. Next time I walk the paparazzi gauntlet, remind me to at least brush my damn hair," she griped.
Elliot shook his head, not going near that one. He pressed the call button for the elevator, and a moment later he and Olivia were on their way to the Ferrars' apartment on the sixth floor. They stepped out of the elevator, and entered a long, marble hallway. Doors on the left and right were labeled "A" and "B." Elliot reached into his pocket to confirm the apartment letter, and knocked on "B."
Moments later, the door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man Olivia placed in his mid-thirties. He wore grey slacks and a cashmere sweater over a white dress shirt. His watch was Cartier.
"Jordan Ferrars?" Elliot said. The man nodded, gesturing to the living room as he opened the door wider. A woman Olivia recognized from an old Calvin Klein billboard sat on the couch, a hand covering her mouth. Olivia understood this reaction; often, it was her presence that made unexpected deaths seem real.
"I'm Detective Elliot Stabler. This is my partner, Olivia Benson," Elliot was saying as Olivia glanced around the room, taking in the expensive and tasteful décor. "We appreciate your meeting with us so soon after learning about your son."
Jordan Ferrars nodded, his voice shaking. "It hasn't really hit me yet," he admitted. "Look, detectives, I don't want to waste any time. What do you need to catch the bastard who killed my son?"
A low moan escaped Paula's throat when her husband mentioned the Mason's murder. "Oh, God…" she said softly, her hands forming a tight grip on the pillow she now held between her hands. "This isn't happening…"
Olivia's heart went out to the woman. She had always been able to empathize with victims' families, but now every time she had to face someone whose loved one had been brutally killed, she identified with them in a way she'd never been able to before. She also felt a rush of guilt. The murder victim in her life had come back to her twice. The first time had just been to say goodbye; and the second hadn't been nearly enough. Still, she had something that Paula Ferrars would never have again – cause to hope.
"Did you notice anything amiss this morning, other than Mason's disappearance?" Olivia asked. "Any signs of a break-in, anything like that?"
"Yes," Jordan Ferrars said quickly. "Let me show you something." He led the detectives into a small library. The walls were decked out in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built into the walls, boasting expensive-looking volumes on economics and investing. Amidst the family portraits and art prints were several glass cases. Inside of each container sat a different piece of sports memorabilia. One boasted a baseball signed by Whitey Ford, another housed what appeared to be an authentic pin-striped Yankees jersey embroidered with the number 7. Next to it, a case sat empty.
"Someone stole my bat," Jordan said. "But didn't touch anything else."
"Your bat?" Olivia asked, thinking immediately of the object that had probably killed Mason.
"Yeah. One of the bats Joltin' Joe DiMaggio used in his 56-game hitting streak. Not many exist in that condition." Jordan shook his head. "Until this morning I'd have told you that bat was my prized possession. But it doesn't even compare…" He brought his hands to his face, choking up. "I just want my boy back."
"Mr. Ferrars, who had access to the bat?" Elliot asked as Olivia put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "It looks like they came in and removed the bat without breaking its container. Had to be someone who knew how to remove it quietly." She paused. "I'm sure the ME explained to you that we suspect the killer used something like a baseball bat to… to do it."
The man shook his head. "We have a boarder. Billy Grant's his name. He's a live-in tutor for our older boy, Chip. But I can tell you he's not mixed up in this. He's been at his other job today – he works as a waiter at Chauncy's while Chip's in school and at baseball practice."
"We'll need the address for Chauncy's," Elliot said, gently.
"Of course. I'll get that for you right now, but again, I think you're going to have to look elsewhere. Billy's not a killer. I'm sure he'll be happy to speak with you himself. I wish he was here right now. We haven't told Chip – he's at school." Jordan grimaced.
"You're going to want to send someone for Chip," Olivia said. "This story's already getting national momentum. He needs to hear it from you and Paula."
Jordan nodded. "Of course. I'll send someone. How else can I help, detectives?"
"We need permission to search your house." Elliot's request was simple.
"You have permission. Just tell me while you're wasting time here, someone else is out looking for this guy," Jordan said, losing patience.
Olivia chose to ignore his words as the byproduct of grief and frustration. She certainly understood those feelings.
"I'd like to start with Billy's room," Elliot said. "Can you lead us there?"
Minutes later, Ellit and Olivia were standing in the Ferrars' guest room. It was sparsely decorated, with a poster showing the periodic table of elements on the wall. Olivia opened his underwear drawer and rifled through piles of t-shirts and socks.
"Whoa," she whistled, her hands finding a small Ziploc bag stashed away beneath his shorts. Pulling it out of the drawer, she looked to Elliot. "Look at this." Inside the bag were several white pill, a small packet of white powder, a lighter and a spoon.
"Billy was into more than your basic high school chemistry," Elliot deadpanned, walking over to his partner for a closer look at the drugs.
Paula Ferrars, who had gotten up from the couch to join her husband and the detectives in Billy's room, looked shocked. "Those can't be Billy's," she said, her tone low. "He wouldn't have brought that into our home. Jordan?"
Her husband looked as though someone had just punched him in the gut. "We had no idea," he sighed. "Still, it doesn't mean he's a child killer."
"No, it doesn't," Elliot said, placing the drugs into an evidence bag marked with his initials. "But he had access to the bat and the boy, and clearly there are a few things about Mr. Grant that you don't know about." He looked at his partner. "Liv, let's get to Chauncy's. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars, thank you for your cooperation."
"Come back if you need to," Jordan volunteered as the detectives left. "We'll feel better if we're helping."