"The Fourteenth"
jenn amell
Chapter One
She remembers crime scenes in acute detail and can recall, viscerally, the sounds, the weather, the immediate expanse of menacing Manhattan buildings, the cast of shadows. Yet, most of all, she can recount the faces: the contortions in expression of sorrow, of horror, of anger, of loss. Detective Olivia Benson perhaps, most poignantly, remembers the faces of grief-stricken family members after she delivers the news that one of their loved ones has suffered an unimaginably horrible, violent end. This is what haunts her most.
Now, Olivia stands outside the rusted iron gate of a Brooklyn brownstone, shivering in the biting January wind and in the deadness of the night. She was waiting for her partner to arrive. Elliot had needed to 'tie up some loose ends' at the crime scene. Really, who thought it was a good idea to drive separately to the Boer household? She had been standing here for at least fifteen minutes in order to satisfy protocol, waiting to do the notification together. Notification... what a clinical term. She had already begun to sterilize the hardships that her job entailed. There was, however, nothing sterile about this particular duty. To watch people break again and again, to be virtually powerless to ease any suffering, is damaging to any degree. Her life was saturated with loss. Loss and absence had become commonplace to Olivia; in fact, these seeming objects were so littered throughout her life, that they had become a comfort to her. That's why this job was also rewarding, in a way. It seemed sick to Olivia, to hunger for the polarization, but it was a normality, and therefore strangely soothing.
Olivia adjusted her scarf, buttoned her slate grey pea coat, and tugged the collar closer to her neck. Her cheeks felt chapped, her hands numb at the fingertips. Then, she saw the headlights of Elliot's car in her peripheral vision. The navy sedan parked, the engine hummed as the ignition switched off, and the headlights receded into darkness leaving Olivia half-lit by the street lamp. Elliot's broad shoulder became visible first, the collar of his beige overcoat, then the thinning brown hair on the top of his head. As he walked over, he adjusted his shield on his jacket lapel, then halted at his partner's side. Neither of them spoke, just prepared for the task that lay ahead. Olivia always managed to try to abstract the news she had to deliver, to make it general and curt, sympathetic, but professional.
But, then, the images of Christine Harding and Erica Boer's naked, brutalized bodies swam into the foreground: The disgustingly pornographic staging of the women. Erica's limp hand shoved between Christine's legs at the apex. Blood, heavy and gelatinous on the bedspread. The jagged shape in the living room window which led to the fire escape, silhouetted by the florescent light from a bar on the corner. Shards of glass dotting the back of the couch, refracting the whirling blue and red light from the police detail outside into the adjacent hallway. The array of framed photographs that guided them from the foyer down the hall: One in particular featured the two women, arms jovially thrown over each other's shoulders, a rising snow-capped peak of a mountain behind them; it looked like the Himalayas. Another, the same two women faced each other, smiling broadly, in front of a colossal greying courthouse with its name written in French: Palais du Justice. The stifling, rotten, sweet smell of blood, of death.
"Ready?" Elliot asked, suddenly. Olivia nodded. The two detectives moved simultaneously, opened the gate, took the five steps up to the red-painted front door. Welcome, read the door mat. The irony stung Olivia and she waited for Elliot to raise one large fist and knock it against the cool, contracting wood. It was near two in the morning; the house was dark. Elliot banged on the door once more and an echoing light alit in an upstairs window, then the fixture in the foyer, and then the porch light winked into the night. The suddenness of this light did nothing but betray the mocking darkness that Olivia felt encroach at her heels.
"Who is it?" came a muffled male voice.
"NYPD, Detectives Benson and Stabler," Olivia called through the door. Both detectives unclipped their badges and put them up against the narrow strip of window on the left side of the door. It opened to reveal an elder man with grey, receding hair, clad in boxers and an oversized Mets t-shirt. His wife, with silver hair tied in a bun, had on a floral nightgown underneath an open housecoat.
"Mr. and Mrs. Boer?" asked Elliot. Mr. Boer nodded, looking confused, tired, alarmed.
"What's happened?" he asked, a frightened gurgle in his throat. A moment more, a brief, calculated explanation and Mrs. Boer is collapsed on the threshold of her home, and Mr. Boer has one hand planted on the frame, the other clutching his chest to keep his heart from falling out.
Elliot and Olivia turn their backs, overcoats catching in the wind, and exit like Angels of Death. They get in their respective vehicles and proceed to the Harding residence.
Later, at the precinct, the two detectives sat at their desks laboring over paperwork.
"God, what time is it?" Elliot wondered, stifling a yawn.
"Around four, I think," Olivia responded with another yawn. Just as the words were spoken, the elevator door dinged, then opened to reveal a very tired-looking woman carrying three coffees.
"Who called the ADA?" Elliot mumbled.
"Your superiors," Alex Cabot responded, setting two coffees in front of the detectives. Olivia accepted the much-needed caffeine with a tired smile. Alex looked incredibly worn out, blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, puffy eyes adjusting to the florescence of the office. She wore a pair of jeans and a heavy grey sweater under a brown tweed overcoat, rather than her usual stiff court-room attire. "He told me I'd have to get details as early as possible, said it had the potential to become a very high-profile case."
"And why is that?" asked Olivia.
"It's a suspected serial," she responded.
"What?"
"Cragen connected the specifics to a case dated back fifteen years or so. Two women, repeatedly stabbed, placed on top of one another. They were found in the common area of a dorm at Brooklyn College. Sound familiar?" Alex supported herself on the end of Olivia's desk. Regardless of the hour, she always looked so pert, so glacial when a case excited her. She pulled a pair of black-framed glasses from her pocket, and placed them over her severe blue eyes- the frame making them acute and sharp, even more severe. She swept off her jacket and draped it over a vacant chair, then took her place between the two detectives.
"Tell me everything," she said, retrieving a yellow legal pad from her attache. Alex produced a fountain pen and unscrewed the cap. The department had started a fund for a nice pen for their ADA, as she was consistently, albeit distractedly 'borrowing' pens from the desks of the detectives. Olivia had had to explain the joke to her later.
Olivia found Alex to be entirely perceptive and perplex, yet aloof in so many ways. Alex smiled rarely and spoke infrequently, unless it involved arguing a point. Detective Benson had a keen sense of observation, which afforded her the luxury of being able to figure people out, what their motivations were. And yet, Alex Cabot was the exception. She was simultaneously one and multi-dimensional- with no visible goal other than to be just, to be a good attorney. And she was. Alex was damn good at her job. No one would refute that. However, Alex's personal life was not talked about, or even mentioned in passing. It seemed, at least to Olivia, that Alex only existed in the arena of courtrooms, offices and precincts. That, otherwise, there would be a minor transfer of energy and Alex would disappear completely.
Elliot talked mostly, slumped over his notes and related the specifics to the ADA. Alex nodded and jot down, interrupted a few times. Olivia fell into the rhythm of their voices, gently letting her eyes close.
"Liv," a voice called her out of her reverie.
"Huh?"
"Go to the crib," Elliot said. Olivia rubbed beneath her eyes, attempted to shake off the sleep.
"No, no, it's fine," she protested.
"Come on, we're relatively finished," said Alex, "On second thought, go to my office. The couch in there is much more comfortable than those paleozoic bunks."
"You speak from experience?" chuckled Olivia. Alex's mouth merely twitched in response, then she reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a set of keys. She pointed to a small silver one and instructed that it was to unlock her office. Olivia took the keys gratefully and bid the two a 'good power nap'. She took a left outside the dusty wooden frame of the precinct, stepped into the elevator, then followed her feet in the short walk to 1 Hogan place. Once there, she wound her way through a series of greying hallways. Alex's office was the first on the right, an oak door marked with a small black plaque reading in gilt inlay:
ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY ALEXANDRA CABOT
Olivia smiled at the grandeur and let herself inside. The office was sparsely decorated, a wall of dark mahogany shelving housed sets of leather-bound books. In front of the shelves sat a modest, albeit handsome desk with neat stacks of files and legal pads sitting to one side, a small potted plant to the other, and a standard study lamp with a green glass shade. Olivia made her way around to the other side of the desk and picked up an ornate glass paper weight that sat next to the plant. At the core, the orb was a deep ocean color which seemed to radiate outward to an azure then maya blue, and into translucence. Its effect was calming; yet to Olivia its colors seemed oddly familiar. These colors belonged to Alex, as a sort of palette for her personality. Or perhaps... Olivia thought, just the color of her eyes.
With lack of sleep displacing her sensibilities, Olivia threw a look to the plush-looking couch. Another moment, and the detective was sound asleep with her jacket draped over her like a blanket.
"Liv," coaxed a gentle voice.
The detective remained sound.
"Olivia."
Her jacket shifted as she felt a weight settle itself at the edge of the cushion. Olivia felt a warmth emanating near her abdomen; and she moved closer to it, allowing herself to subtly curl her body. A soft, almost hesitant hand laid itself on her shoulder moving in a distinct way to draw her from sleep. At once, Olivia was awake, blinking up into a pair of bespectacled blue eyes. Olivia recalled the paper weight and the delirious effect it had. Alex smiled, led placidly from rarity.
"I hate to wake you," she said, "you look so irenic."
"Yeah, well..." Olivia mumbled, then remembered where she was, "God, what time is it?"
"Quarter after nine."
"I should have set an alarm. I've got to get down to the office."
"Elliot told me to let you sleep. He seems to think that you need to do a little more of it."
"Insomnia comes with the job."
"Agreed."
"You don't sleep either?" Olivia asked, curious to learn something personal about the ADA she'd known for years. Did Alex Cabot sleep?
"Not much. But when I do, it's usually on my couch in front of C-Span. I pass out too," She laughed a little. " 'Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth of all that irked her from the hour of birth...'" Alex quoted, sighing.
"That's beautiful. Who wrote it?"
"A poet, Christina Rossetti."
"I didn't know you liked to read poetry," Olivia replied, dumbly she thought.
"I don't have much time to read it now. There's no poetry in paperwork, in warrants or filing motions. But there is poetry in court." Olivia narrowed her eyes, unsure of what to think of Alex anymore. It was commonly known to those at the station that Alex was a beautiful woman. Men and women alike would discuss her beauty with both envy and lust. However, it was also commonly known that Alex was referred to as the Ice Princess, capable of overthrowing any argument with a posture-change, a look and few words. So, Olivia was in conflict, seeing an almost vulnerable, delicate side of the ADA.
"Anyway..." Alex began again, getting up from the couch. She walked to her desk and stepped around. She produced a thick file and waved it in Olivia's direction, breaching personal connection and was back, once again, to business as usual. For the first time Olivia was reticent to discuss the festering underbelly of criminal New York which thrilled and invigorated her so. What she really wanted, strangely, was to see Alex's mouth twitch into a half-smile and see, just try to see, if she could coax that genuine taut pull of her lips into a full smile, teeth showing and all.
"Huang came in at seven this morning. He put together a profile for our perp," Alex's deep, almost corse professional voice cut through to the detective. Olivia attempted interest.
"Lets hear it," she said, also standing up from the couch.
"We have a middle-aged, white male- engaged in Judeo-Christian pathos. Likely a religious fanatic, concerned with preserving his idea of morality, creating an example out of those he believes to be fallen or immoral-"
"Wait, wait. How do we know these are religion-based attacks?"
"Well, technically- we don't. In its purest terms, we're dealing with a deft, violent and fanatical homophobe, who is probably killing these people because he is trying to kill his own urges."
It finally occurred to Olivia what Alex was talking about. Her stomach churned. The staging of the two women was disgustingly pornographic and intendedly so- a moral message was being sent: This is what homosexuality is and how it should be punished.
"The two women..." Olivia began, "They were lovers. I remember seeing photographs of them in the foyer. There were two dressers in the master bedroom." The detective didn't know how she missed it- so blatant, and irrevocably scarring. That massacre-that last hateful act-had been what love was reduced to. Olivia felt the blood in her veins begin to writhe.
"Cragen mentioned a third case that went cold, around three years ago. Most of the MOs match up, although this time it involved two men found in a bathroom stall of a public rest room. One man's body was slumped over a toilet, the other was positioned behind him. Both were exposed," said Alex.
"Jesus," Olivia sank to the couch once again, putting her hand to her forehead. "This is going to generate a lot of media attention Alex."
The ADA nodded, looked somber. There was moment where neither spoke.
"When we get this guy," said Alex, her voice cold, "We can prosecute, at least, for first degree double homicide- but we can also prosecute for hate crimes. That amendment couldn't have come at a better time. This guy will be lynched."
Chapter Two
The day had been a long one. Detective Munch wandered in at the eleventh hour with Chinese take-out and the detectives sat around, chop sticks in hand, discussing the case, writing notes, yawning, scratching heads, stretching-and while exhaustion set in, the mood was still electric. The precinct was under a lot of political pressure, therefore they had to move forward with caution. Olivia had seen too many reporters crawling through the building hoping to catch the captain or ADA Cabot and attempt to sink their pens into the specifics of the case. Eventually, two uniforms were placed at the entrances of the precinct and any further inquiries stopped there. At six o'clock, Alex swooped into the office, eyes ablaze, jaw set. Everyone's attention turned to her.
"The D.A. is calling a press conference at eight am sharp. I need to confirm what to release," she said. Cragen shifted his weight and cleared his throat.
"We have a few leads, none remarkable. Phones have been swarmed with calls reciting everything from disgruntled church-goers to infuriated LGBT practitioners and organization leaders. We're starting at Brooklyn College-theological or religious students of fifteen years ago that fit the profile. It had to have been a student or a friend of one to get into the dorm building. Olivia and Elliot are to be dispatched at nine tomorrow to talk to the relatives of the bedroom murders: Erica Boer and Christine Harding..." Cragen continued to relay information to Alex, what to include, what to exclude about the murders. They agreed to release the fact that it was a suspected serial investigation. It would incite more information to surface having to do with the other murders as well as the current one.
Olivia watched Alex nod her head and reply accordingly; she could tell Alex was beginning to sweat. Once, Alex had confided that she hated press conferences. There was no room for error, the ADA had said, no room for error in a high-stress situation. And once a statement was made, once called to public attention, your words are set in stone. And you, only you, are held accountable- even to those who fed you what to say in the first place.
As soon as Cragen called it a day, the detectives milled around, itching to get their jackets on and go home to a night of, admittedly, little sleep. Elliot bumped Olivia's shoulder and looked grim.
"How about a drink, huh?" he asked.
"How about ten," Olivia replied. Elliot chuckled and made his way over to his locker to retrieve his coat. Olivia's eyes, once again, found Alex and followed her as she began to squirm in the sudden social atmosphere. She considered inviting her friend and made her way over to do so when an unfamiliar drop in her stomach made her stop. Was this nervousness? What had she to be nervous about? It was Alex. A woman she'd known for years. And suddenly, as if by instantaneous chemical reaction, the blonde seemed entirely unapproachable.
"Hey, Alex," Elliot called, "let Liv and I buy you a drink." Alex stared at him a little too long without answering, like she wasn't used to being invited places or even spoken to without pretense.
"Um..." she stalled. Olivia summoned enough courage and touched Alex's elbow.
"Don't pretend like you don't need it," she said. To the detective's surprise, the blonde softened and hid her- was it a blush?
"Ok, yeah. Sure," said Alex.
The three-Elliot, Olivia and Alex-walked in row down the block, hurriedly through the brisk January night. The cold made Olivia alert and giddy almost, wanting to laugh at the biting wind on her cheeks. She glanced to Alex, who despite the cold, held herself in that poised, affluent way. Her skin appeared paler and more porcelain, her cheeks flushed, her lips blushing red and chapped, slightly agape. Her eyes appeared bluer- Olivia frowned and averted her gaze. She knew what this was: a crush. Or maybe just admiration. She had felt that way once about Elliot when they first became partners. She had first noticed his strength, his no-bullshit attitude, the lengths he would go to for a victim, how he used his heart as the muscle it was. It developed into a crush- she also began to notice how his button-downs pulled taut over his biceps, or how brown his eyes were... But, it had dissolved into something familial the closer they grew. Elliot was like a brother to her. So, Olivia deduced, it would only be a matter of time until Alex became something similar- a woman whom Olivia would respect and care for and that would be that. She ceased worrying.
In the dingy cop dive, once they hung their overcoats and scooted into a booth-Olivia making it a point to sit next to Elliot- fatigue set in. The conversation between them was limited to ordering drinks.
"We're not usually this dull," said Olivia to Alex, beginning to feel uncomfortable. In the quiet, it was increasingly hard to keep her eyes from wandering over Alex, especially when considering their proximity across from each other: It was a small booth.
"I'd gathered that this invitation was not social but strictly on a need-basis for alcohol," said Alex. Olivia laughed too hard. Alex wasn't normally the comic life of a party, but she did have a dry, deadpan sense of humor. Suddenly, Elliot's phone rang. Olivia's shoulders sank; it was work, had to be, and she was simply too tired.
"Stabler," he answered, then grew red, "I'm sorry, I know. I didn't call..." He was talking to Kathy, his wife. Olivia exhaled. Alex seemed to notice; she reached across the table and put one long-fingered, ivory hand on Olivia's arm.
"Relax," she said, "No more work tonight." Olivia was only able to grunt in response, suddenly aware of Alex's touch. Her hand was cool, electric almost, eliciting a strong response in the other woman. Before briefly moving her thumb across Olivia's skin, Alex removed it; the action remained only friendly, meant as comfort, and nothing more. Olivia's arm tingled for a long time afterward.
Elliot lowered his phone and flipped it down, mumbled, "Kathy misses my presence".
"Imagine that," said Olivia, coyly. Elliot laughed.
"I'm going to have to leave you two ladies. You'll be okay getting home?"
"Of course," said Alex, "I won't let her drink too much." Olivia blushed, cursing her obviousness. She was suddenly terrified of being alone with the attorney. Elliot fit a folded five dollar bill under his empty glass and reaffirmed plans with Olivia to pick her up in the morning to head to the press conference together. He donned his jacket, then walked purposefully, squaring his shoulders until he disappeared out the door.
"He's in the dog house," said Olivia.
"You can tell?"
"Oh yeah. Kathy only calls when he hasn't been home in a while. And I'm sure drinks after work don't sit well when she has five kids at home missing their dad."
"Five kids... Jesus," Alex contemplated, "I can barely take care of myself, let alone five others. You though, you would be a great mother." She seemed oblivious to the flicker in Olivia's eye. "Have you ever thought of having children, Olivia?" she continued. Olivia swallowed. Then, Mrs. Boer's face projected itself in her thoughts: Stricken, wide eyes, color draining from her cheeks- a deadness that eerily match her daughter's complexion.
"Olivia?" Alex countered, softly. And there she was, this beautiful, complexly alive person. Blue eyes sincerely imploring: "Are you okay?".
"Of course," Olivia answered too quickly. She couldn't let go of the sight in front of her. She watched as a blush fluttered like rose petals beneath Alex's skin, as polished mahogany light and sticky, TV-intoned residue from the table reflected in paper-weight eyes. Red-swollen lips, wet from her beer. The pulse point thudding at the base of her neck at the V where a white blouse met white skin. The smooth shoulders of a slate grey blazer, blonde hair falling and curling outward at the tips. The taut pull of her shirt as air is inhaled, then the loosening when exhaled. And the long line of an arm, moving at the joint in the elbow and that hand cool and hesitant and delicate once again on Olivia's arm. Then, a quick retraction of touch.
"It's been a long day," Alex said suddenly, rooting around in her purse. She threw a twenty on the table, "My treat".
"Oh, Alex you don't have to do that. We invited you," Olivia recalled herself, finally, deeply embarrassed.
"You didn't, Elliot did," she deadpanned.
"I was going to, Elliot just beat me to it," which was true.
"I'm sure," Alex said, facetiously.
"Thank you," said Olivia, getting up. She retrieved her jacket from the hook on the side of the booth, then reached for Alex's, desperately searching for a way to salvage her dignity. Alex made a move to take her coat, but then realized Olivia's intentions.
"You're such the gentleman, Olivia," she said, melting slightly, putting one arm into the silky pink lining of the tweed coat. Olivia helped her with the other arm.
"Well, I let the lady pay. It's the least I can do," she said. Alex was so close, her scent was off-setting, floral and musky at once, but entirely alluring. Without thinking, Olivia put the tips of her fingers to the nape of Alex's neck and untucked her long blonde hair from the collar, letting it fall down her back. Alex turned, their faces only inches apart.
"Thank you," said Alex, averting her eyes and taking a step back. They walked through the bar, almost in a daze, and out the front door to the street. The cold surprised Olivia, settling the heat she felt arise in her body.
"Let me walk you home," said Olivia.
"While I admire your excessive chivalry, it's freezing and I've walked home by myself plenty of times."
"Alex, if you saw what I see on a daily basis, you would never want to be alone in this city." Alex looked unconvinced. "Come on," said Olivia, "assuage my tendency to worry." The blonde nodded and led the way. They walked in silence up three blocks and over two.
Alex stopped in front of grey stone slab building tucked between two much larger buildings, fire escapes zig-zagging their way up to the roof. She turned toward her companion.
"Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow-" Olivia was cut off.
"Forgive my bluntness, Detective. I blame my profession..."
"Yes?" Olivia said warily, her heart palpitated achingly.
"Have I offended you in any way?" Her breath was on the air.
"What? No. Why would you think that?" sputtered the detective.
"You've been acting strangely. I don't know..." And for once, it seemed, Alex Cabot was without accurate language.
"Come on. If I was angry with you, would I have walked you home?"
"That's just how you are. You're gracious, caring, even when you don't want to be," Alex replied. How, Olivia thought, does she know how I am? She narrowed her eyes at the other woman, then abruptly decided to start acting like an adult, not a lovesick teenager. She put a cautious, gloved hand on Alex's forearm, drawing the attorney subtly closer.
"You didn't do anything to offend me. It's the job. It's always the job. Lack of sleep. I'm sorry, Alex," she related sincerely. Alex shifted her weight, let her eyes betray a hint of weakness. Like the paperweight, her blue eyes lightened, looking clearer and watery. Olivia then had an idea why this attorney's win ratio surmounted that of her loss: It seemed impossible to deny anything to this woman.
"Okay. You would tell me though, right? If anything made you think differently of me?" she asked. Olivia averted her eyes, retracted her hand.
"Of course. Get some sleep. You're going to need it for the press conference in the morning".
"Right," Alex groaned. "Well, I'll wait while you flag a cab."
"Don't be silly-"
"Assuage my tendency to worry," Alex argued. Olivia opened the lapel of her coat and flashed her badge.
"I'm a cop. I'll be fine."
"Hmm... I think I'll wait."
"I'm taking the subway."
A look of disgust played across the attorney's features. Then, abruptly, Alex stepped off the curb and waved a long, tweed-clad arm to beckon a taxi over. One blew past her, the next swung over two lanes of traffic without a look in either direction, and stopped a few feet ahead of the two women.
"Alright," Olivia put her hands up in defense, chuckling, "take care, Alex". She couldn't help mask the deflating breath it took her to say goodbye to the blonde woman. An unfamiliar weight settled in as she began to turn toward the impatiently waiting cab, when all at once there was that scent of lilacs, of sweat, of dust and Alex was hugging her, and then her lips, cold, full and briefly on her cheek.
"Thanks for inviting me tonight, Olivia. Even if you didn't actually," said Alex and turned to walk into her building. When the detective swept into the backseat of the cab, her firearm catching on the cracked upholstery, she looked out the back window to watch Alex open the door and disappear inside.
"Hey lady," said the irritated cabby. Olivia reluctantly turned around and delivered her destination, then once more glanced out the window at Alex's building. It sunk in row with all the other tall Manhattan complexes, then disappeared entirely when the cab rounded the corner.
Chapter Three
Olivia was awoken by the dissident ring of her cell phone; Elliot's name alit on the screen. She then cleared her throat and flipped it open.
"El?" she said groggily.
"I'll be at your place in ten minutes," he replied. She could hear the sound of traffic, a crunching under his foot in the background. It must have snowed during the night. "And I've got coffee," he finished.
"Thank God," Olivia glanced at the clock beside her bed. It read: 7:15 AM. "See you then, I've got to jump in the shower."
"Cap wants us in blues," he said, almost as an afterthought. Olivia grimaced.
"Okay. Hope I haven't put on weight."
"Yeah. Right." Elliot hung up. Olivia disentangled herself from her sheets and gasped at the temperature of her apartment. She kept the thermostat low, as the cost of heating during the winter always managed to astound her. It took approximately five minutes for Olivia to get in and out of the shower and to dig in the back of her closet for her dry-cleaned and plastic-wrapped NYPD uniform. She hated public statements for just this reason. Once into the rough material of dark slacks, clad in a tucked-in white undershirt and an unbuttoned dress shirt with her name, rank and the shield icon of the New York Police Department emblazoned on each side, pins on the collar, she heard the buzzer for the front door signaling her partner's arrival. She buzzed him in and a few minutes later, opened the door to admit and convincingly handsome Detective Elliot Stabler in his own navy blues.
"Looking good," he teased.
"I hate looking so professional," she said, gesturing to her disheveled appearance. He handed her a coffee, which she set on the kitchen table in favor of continuing to dress. Once they both agreed on Olivia's looking presentable, they ventured downstairs and into Elliot's double parked vehicle. Perks of being one of New York's finest.
"So," Elliot began, weaving through traffic toward the precinct, "how was alone time with the ADA?" He waggled his eyebrows.
"Shut up, Elliot. She doesn't bite," Olivia returned.
"That's surprising," he made a left turn, "Did you finally get to see where the Ice Princess' castle is?"
"It's a glass palace," she retorted sarcastically, "Anyway, who is giving the statement today?"
"Cragen said he'd be there. You and I are to look pretty. Alex is doing most of the talking, though, I think."
Olivia shrugged and settled in to her seat, sipping acidic coffee through a stirring straw. A moment later and the detectives pulled up to the station; cameramen and journalists stood scattered about, preparing for the press conference. One woman, whom Olivia recognized from a local news channel, was smoothing her hair and adjusting her scarf in the window of a patrol car. As Olivia exited her own car, and donned her police cap, she recognized the Boer couple and the single, distraught profile of Mrs. Harding. Olivia had found out that Mr. Harding had left his wife close to a year ago. He had yet to answer or acknowledge the recent death of his daughter. The Boers clung to each other, standing close to Mrs. Harding, nobody appeared to be saying anything. Suddenly, Olivia felt a hand on her arm.
"Good morning detectives," said Alex Cabot. She was in a black suit, heels, pearl earrings, a cream-colored pea coat and a pinkish scarf knotted loosely around her neck. In one hand, she carried a leather attache. She looked, it seemed, approvingly at Elliot and Olivia's uniforms.
"Morning," Olivia stuttered. How did Alex manage to look this good at a quarter to eight in the morning? At that moment, Cragen opened the door to the station and started down the stairs. His face was grim as he moved toward the Boers and Mrs. Harding. Olivia, Elliot, and Alex went over to join them.
"Mr. and Mrs. Boer, Mrs. Harding," Cragen gestured to the arriving company, "You remember Detectives Benson and Stabler?"
"How could we not?" said Mrs. Harding softly. Olivia shifted her glance.
"This is Assistant District Attorney Alexandra Cabot, she is standing legal counsel and will be prosecuting the assailant once we find him," said Cragen.
"I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, but under these circumstances, let me just say that I am here to assist you in any way that you may need," replied Alex. The Boers seemed to shrink under her gaze, Mrs. Harding looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole. Alex was never good at comforting people; it wasn't her language, but rather her poise and intensity that generally made people nervous. Elliot made a signal to the Captain that the camera crews were ready to go. Mrs. Harding looked bewilderingly at Olivia.
"You don't have to be here, if you don't want to, Mrs. Harding," Olivia said tenderly.
"I wish you all would stop calling me that," she replied. Olivia was taken aback.
"Oh. Well, I apologize. What should we call you?"
"Fisher, that's my maiden name. Call me Julianne."
"Well Julianne, I can take you up to the precinct. I understand if you don't want to be here," said Olivia. The Boers turned toward her, looking like one faint pinprick of light had once again alit in their eyes.
Alex watched as Olivia talked softly to the victims' family members. She couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but it didn't matter. Alex watched as Olivia stepped closer, talking with her palms up in front of her, an open gesture somehow pleading with her audience to trust her, please. Alex always felt in good hands with Olivia; the detective had this way in which she communicated to you. Olivia would lay part of her hand, just the fingertips on your arm, take half a step closer, meet your eyes fully, talk softly, rationally, until you were calm and you could understand and be persuaded by her. This is how she won arguments. Alex had never thought to level with someone to win an argument. Arguing was Alex's craft, what she staked her salary on; arguing, yes, and winning. Her intelligence was a fine-pointed tool which allowed her to chisel away at any defense; she sifted through logical fallacies, dug in her heels on minute details, stepped back and assessed the big picture. Yes, her mind was an engine. But, Olivia, Alex thought, she approached everyone with humility, with trust, with respect. When that detective held your gaze, you had to believe her, because nothing else could be true.
The Assistant District Attorney saw her detective put a gentle hand on the small of Mrs. Harding's back, glance at the Boers, and they all followed her like lost children up the stairs of the station and inside the heavy wooden doors. Alex made a few steps to follow too, but then realized where she was, what she had to do. And all of a sudden, a microphone was shoved in her face and the grating voice of a reporter demanded to know why the family members had disappeared. Alex managed to avoid this question when six others streaked by her with cameras, booms, men with earphones, women with microphones all pointed at her like a firing squad. She hated the media.
"Miss Cabot, what leads, if any does the Special Victim's Unit have at this moment?"
"Miss Cabot, is there any reason why the two other cases have gone cold for five years until someone realized the connection? Why didn't the police pick up on this sooner?"
"Are you at all concerned about the political repercussions of this case?"
"Is the LGBT community threatening any lawsuits for this gross negligence?"
Alex recovered within a moment, bringing her shoulders square and tightening her grip on her briefcase. She chose one camera to focus on: "The politics associated with these cases are being handled with special sensitivity. The NYPD and the District Attorney are working steadily, with an even hand, trying to work out a lead-"
"So you are admitting that this is being treated as a serial investigation," said one man, with a windbreaker zipped up to his chin.
"Yes," said Alex, "two other homicides have been linked: the Parker, Christian case of '85 and the Schwartz, Potter casein 1997. As to the timeliness of this connection, I cannot say-"
"You mean to say that the Department of Corrections is not taking responsibility for their tardiness?" This got a few snickers from the fellow journalists. Alex set her jaw.
"The police department is doing their best to connect and analyze evidence as it comes to them. Again, I am not here to sooth the public or brush over any negligence, conscious or otherwise, by the Department of Corrections. I am simply telling you the facts. We have just begun this investigation, and are working toward a break with as much dedication and perseverance as this department is known to possess."
"And that's why we need your help," she felt Captain Don Cragen's hand briefly on her elbow, "We need to incite as much information as possible from the public. So, if you have any information on these homicides please reach the Special Victim's Unit at one of our designated tip-lines. To get in touch with us, please dial..." Alex faded through the small crowd, taking a step back from the cameras. She felt someone standing directly behind her, then noticed the scent of perfume she knew well. Alex glanced back and saw Olivia, standing royally, military-like in her uniform and cap. Don turned his back on the cameras and started his ascent up the stairs, the mob lurched further, their voices staccato gunshots. Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Elliot put a large hand on Don's shoulder and hurry him up the stairs. Then, an arm drew faintly across her back and rested briefly on her opposite shoulder, a hand pressing her forward. Olivia's side pressed against her side and they walked through the belligerent people up to the door and escaped through.