Finally a new story. This whole story has been in the works since early spring. It has been researched, multiple episodes of CSI:NY have been watched over and over again to get try and get things correct. I worked on this for Nanowrimo and I have been waiting to publish this for a long time. I hope that it is enjoyed. I loved writing it and getting into all the characters heads. Happy reading.

Chapter 1

Thomas Larson, homicide detective out of the 41st in the Bronx stood in front of the wall in the conference room and stared at the case board. The coffee he poured not five minutes before steamed in a Styrofoam cup, but it was forgotten. He jiggled the change in his pocket mindlessly. His tired eyes wandered around the board from diagrams of the scene to hand written notes to time lines that had more theories than answers. Eleven photos of the victims stared back at him. Under each face, a list of information about each person got him no closer to answering the question of what happened over those three nights. The information made everyone feel better about the flow in details still coming in and not leaving the case at a complete standstill but it was still all a mystery.

A line of eleven 8x10 color photographs that were pulled from the DMV database represented lives of people who somehow came together under specific circumstances and died under specific circumstances. Those circumstances didn't make sense. Detective Larson stared deep into the eyes of each person hoping that the answers were written in what he saw but got nothing. After a week of investigation they had nothing.

"The whole thing's incredible." He stated agitatedly and talking to nobody in particular. The coffee burned a bit as he took a sip.

Fellow detective, Roger Maine, respectfully replied: "I know, sir."

Larson went on as if Maine hadn't said anything. "Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn't make sense." He shifted his weight from one foot to another and took another sip of the quickly cooling coffee.

"Incredible or not, it happened." As if to soften the blow of bad news.

"Somebody must have killed them."

"That's the problem we are having, there was no one left alive."

The lead detective turned from the board and pulled his hand from the depths of his pocket to pull at the bridge of his nose. Sleep was not a priority the past week and the few hours he got every so often hadn't done anything to help his ability to think clearly.

"What did the ME have to say about all this? Anything useful?"

"Nothing new sir, of the ten found, two were shot, two poisonings, one overdose, one sharp force trauma to the head, two blunt force; a drowning, and one hung. It wasn't a massacre or a suicide pact or anything."

Larson cringed at the memory of the scene as the causes of deaths were read. "Brutal business." He wanted to get the visions out of his memory and the faster they solved the case the faster he could start something new. He felt like they were so close, one small thing would answer all of the questions they had. "Who financed the weekend? Someone had to foot the bill."

"Victim number eleven, Terrance Davis. And we can't ask him anything because we found him dead also, seems a little too convenient.

"Do we know anything about him?"

"He used to be a drug runner and owned a night club a while back. The NYPD used to hit him up for information from time to time. He was never fully charged with anything because he was so savvy with his money, left no paper trail and his willingness to help out when pushed hard enough."

"And he was the mastermind for this whole weekend on the island?" Larson asked incredulously.

"I don't know if he was the mastermind but he dealt with all the money; everything from the sale, to the building of the house, to the delivery of the food, services, and help. He made it pretty clear to all he talked to that he was doing it for someone else who wanted to remain anonymous."

"And what name did you find in the financial paper trail?" Larson's eyes lit up like it was Christmas and he was hoping he was about to get the break that he had been waiting a week for.

"Nothing." Christmas didn't come and the serious detective slumped. "Davis could move money and bury any transaction. We have some of the best accountants looking over everything he touched and we cannot find a single entry anywhere showing money coming in or out to buy or pay for anything that he did or for the services. He covered his employer's tracks really well."

Larson sighed as he listened; not getting the answers he was looking for.

"It was Davis who made all the arrangements acting on behalf of 'Mr. Owen'. And it was he who explained to the people in the area that there was a reality show being filmed on the island and to ignore any distress signals that they might see or hear from the island. He assured people that there were emergency crews and personnel standing by on a neighboring island about five minutes away." Maine checked a file to make sure the information he was giving was accurate.

"And they bought it? Just shows you how gullible some people can be."

"You know how reality TV is these days. And the fact that a show like that was being filmed here in New York City on a deserted island was just too tempting. No one wanted to go out there and risk the production of the show. But after parents heard about the SOS signals from their boy scouts sons what they saw while they were on the other island on a nature hike, we got a few calls and rushed out there to see what was going on."

"And no one could have swum to shore?"

"Tapes pulled from Riker's show nothing and none of the ships that pass through there saw any kind of small vessel or person swimming, not that I would ever want to be out in that current…and there were a lot of people looking out that direction hoping to get a peek at what was going on."

"What about the record that we found on the record player." Larson went back to the board and looked at the photos of the evidence that was taken away from the island.

"It took a few of the younger detective a few minutes even to identify what it was. After figuring out what it was and how to use it, we listened to its contents and it helped identify the victims. I followed some advice and checked around with the companies that provide props and such to the theaters and found that the recording was supplied by a company who does sound effects. It was sent to U.N. Owen, Esq. c/o Terrance Davis. The company gave me a copy of the order form and script that was sent in. They were under the impression that it was for some play being produced somewhere out of the city." Maine trailed off knowing that it was another dead end. They came to so many of them in the investigation of this case so far. Each piece of evidence only went so far and then stopped.

"And what of the subject matter?"

Maine again looked into the stack of notes that had accumulated over the last seven days and found the photo copy of the script that he made notations on. "I was just getting to that." It was a long list of accusations and he cleared his throat in preparation. "I've investigated the accusations that were made on the recording as thoroughly as I could and they have all turned out to be true."

"And Davis is dead? When did he die?" To Maine it sounded as if he was a lawyer trying to figure something out.

"He died on the 8th, the night before everyone arrived on the island. He took an overdose of sleeping something or other. It was in his system but no prescription bottles were found in the house prescribing what was found. It is currently listed as an unknown cause of death; could have been accident or suicide."

Larson tossed the now empty cup into the wire basket in the corner and folded his arms across his chest in frustration. "The whole thing's fantastic…impossible…unthinkable. Ten people killed on an island in one of the most populated cities of the world and nothing is noticed – and we don't know who did it, or why, or how."

A little timid, Maine got up and approached the board. "We do know some information. Four people kept notes, or journals about what happened and when. Plus those on the island figured that they were being punished for things that happened in their lives that maybe they were punished enough for or even at all. There were ten people to be killed. They were executed, the 'host' accomplished his task and then somehow he flew away."

"Maine, there must be some sort of explanation." Frustration was building in the lead detective's body by the moment.

"We have the journals…"

"But the ME doesn't agree with what they eyewitnesses recorded. The journals say the guests died in one order and then the ME's report says another. On top of that we have three people left after the last journal entry and how did it end. There is no logical order for it to happen and still have the chair end upright against the wall." A firm finger landed on the photo of a white chair against the wall in one of the upstairs bedrooms. "We all think that Ms. Meyer killed herself as the last act on the island, but that chair seems to say someone else was on the island after she was dead or the chair would still be kicked over in the middle of the floor." He paused for a long time. Running over all the different options in his brain again and again to see if there was a flaw in his thinking. "Is there anything else for us to go on? Any connections between the victims?"

"Not that I found so far."

"What about their crimes that were mentioned on the recording?"

"I have cross referenced the hell out of these cases and I have found nothing in the credit card, motives, locations, causes of death, nothing." Again he flipped his notes around as he spoke to check things he was saying. His daddy always told him to have backup; both in the street and on paper.

"Well that at least eliminates…"

Maine interrupted his superior, hoping it wouldn't cause too much trouble. "However I am starting to see a pattern as I look into the original cases. The same names of investigators keep showing up. Not the same one over and over, but the same group of people in different investigative teams out of the crime lab, and then the name Sid Hammerback shows up on almost all of the coroner's reports in these files."

"Looks like I need to place a call into the crime lab in Manhattan and talk to the supervisor there and maybe a call into Mr. Hammerback."

Maine held out a sheet of legal paper with the names of the people from the crime lab that he saw over and over to Larson. The victim's names were also listed, just in case. Larson pulled it from his partner's fingers and walked to his office to make a phone call. He hoped it wouldn't be too late in the evening to call.

**

Stella Bonasera was trying to close up from a busy day. She had to get that file done for the feds so that it could be brought up for trial. A double body dump in a hotel swimming pool was slowing her down and her team was stretched to its limit. Her body barely eased into the chair when the phone rang, Hawkes rushed in and she knocked over a stack of unsolved files on the corner of the desk all at the same time.

Damn the files, it was a routine that Mac started and she couldn't get out of. Those unsolved cases represented promises to specific people. If things got too close to home and she couldn't close a case, the file would sit on the corner of the desk and she would go through them once every other week or so to see if anything new had moved forward. New technologies, stupid people, more information and connecting crimes sometimes came up to help solve things. She would get a huge boost, a pat on the back and a glimmer of hope of things might one day get better for these people.

"Bonasera." She answered, picking up the phone. She motioned for Hawkes to come closer and she tried to multitask by listening to the phone and Hawkes at the same time, but failed. Hawkes was in front of her handing her yet another file for the case she had to summarize and that was the priority. She nodded to him in understanding and he took his leave.

"I'm sorry, this is Detective Bonasera; what can I do for you?" She went to pick up the files on the floor and set them on the corner again.

"Detective, this is Thomas Larson from the 4-1 in the Bronx. I am working a case here that I am stumped on and I need some help from you and some of the investigators you have there."

"I am working on the North Brother Island homicides and I have eleven dead bodies and the only connections they have in regard to each other are ties to your lab and the investigators. I'd like to come down in the morning and talk to some people and see if they can shed any light onto our case and move us forward."

"You want my people to help you with your case exactly how?"

"I think they can help give my partner and me some insight to who the victims were and help shed some light on the case. Maybe make some ends meet that we cannot. Maybe someone has seen one of these people recently."

She furrowed her brow in confusion and asked the first question that came to her mind. "Are you accusing one of my people of something?"

"No ma'am." He had a mama bear on the line defending her cubs and he needed to get out of the cave quickly. "I just need to ask some questions."

"Who do you need to see?" She was still suspicious of the man on the phone and didn't like the way this conversation was going.

Larson moved papers around his desk to find the sheet that Maine had made up for him. He panicked when it was nowhere to be seen among the empty cups, case files and other paper stuffs on his desk, but then turning around in his chair, he found in on another part of his desk. "Alright, I would like to talk to Sheldon Hawkes, Adam Ross, Danny Messer, Lindsay Messer…huh, interesting, they related somehow or just coincidence?"

"Married…go on." She tried to hurry the call along so she could get back to working.

"Stella Bona…wait that's you. Um, I have two NYPD detectives here; Don Flack and Jessica Angell. And then lastly Sid Hammerback."

"Do I need to have an interrogation room ready?"

"No, it will be informal."

"You want them all together or one at a time?"

"All together is fine…is 9 too early?"

Stella looked at the clock and saw that it was already pushing ten. It would be an early and long shift for her tomorrow if she didn't get out of there soon. "That's fine, I will send out a message and get the team here early in the morning." She sent the message as she spoke to the man on the other end of the line. An e-mail alert showed up on his computer showing that she carboned the message to him when she sent it out to the people on the list. "You said there were eleven victims; the news has been reporting ten and there has not been any other details released other than the case is ongoing and more information will come."

"We found another body away from the main scene in an apartment that we have tied to the case."

"Is there any way that I can have the names of the victims so that I can jog my memory tonight about the cases?"

"Yeah, I have that list right here; tell me when you are ready."

She still had the pen in her hand from when he gave her the list of detectives that were needed to meet with him. "Go ahead."

The man's deep voice started reading off names. They were names that she hoped she would never hear again. She wrote name after name as the detective carefully read it out. It was unbelievable that all these people were on that island, it was unthinkable that all these people were not in jail, it was impossible that all these people were dead. The list got longer and longer. Number six, seven, eight… "Wait, could you repeat that last name again?" She was trying to keep up and did not know if she heard things right. But she finished the list with an automatic hand and could hardly believe she wrote what she did.

"Okay, we will see you tomorrow." She stated in a voice barely above a whisper and hung up.

Thomas Larson looked at the phone in his hand with question once the dial tone came back to it. She hung up on him. Her tone changed in the matter of seconds. Confused and hoping that she was distracted, he replaced the handset and went back to the office to box everything up for the next day.

Stella stared at her phone for a long time. Surely he didn't just tell her what she thought she heard. There was no way. If it were true, her life was going change because of listening to a list of names. Her life changed just by picking up the phone. The world did not seem to hold much joy and it was hard to just sit there in the chair. She itched to move. She pushed away from the desk and went to the window. Horizontal blinds covered part of the glass but she pulled the cord and listened to the plastic slats collapse against each other at the wall and opened the view of the city up as wide as it would go, she needed some space, but didn't trust herself to leave the office just yet.

Her palm pressed against the glass and she rested her forehead against the back of her hand. Her eyes closed automatically when the first tears threatened to fall. She wasn't going home that night; she wasn't leaving the office that night. If she had, she would have to explain to the first familiar face why she was going to be breaking down into hysterics very shortly. If she stayed in the office maybe professionalism would help keep the tears away until after this case was closed. Then in the privacy of her own home, in bed and under the comforter she could break down because the name next to number 8 on that list was 'Mac Taylor.'

Breath in, breath out. I know what you are thinking...well maybe not, but things will be explained I promise. Let me know what you are thinking. Please. I beg you. I need to know what you think.