Title: Lifeboat

Author: Olivia Adams Smith

Character(s): Tim Bayliss, Frank Pembleton

Rating: PG-13 for adult themes, minor language and disturbing content

Category: Angst, romance, drama, hurt/comfort

Spoilers: I imagine this taking place during season 3, so if you haven't seen it yet, don't read this story.

Summary: While Tim and Frank investigate sadistic murders of a serial killer, Bayliss always felt alone, lost…until the unexpected happened.

Disclaimer: I don't own Homicide. I do own Ann Sheldon and a few minor characters.

Author's note: This is my second Homicide fic and since it's going to be a longer story, I would really like to know what you think. Any constructive criticism is always welcome.

Chapter one: Twenty-nine

Detective Stanley Bolander looked up. His partner, John Munch shuffled inside the squad room and stopped in front of Stanley's desk.

Munch breathed a frustrated sigh. "It's always the same thing."

"Phylicia? "

"Don't ask. I don't wanna talk about it."

"Alright, I won't ask and we won't talk about it."

Munch leaned forward onto Bolander's desk. "You know what she had the nerve to tell me?"

Bolander ignored his partner and busied himself with paperwork.

"You don't care about the lousy night I had?"

"Munch, you told me not to ask or talk about it."

"Since when you listen to me?"

Meldrick Lewis stood at Crosetti's desk, staring at it; still shocked about his partner's suicide…missing him terribly.

Kay Howard glanced with profound concern at her partner, Beau Felton sitting across from her desk. "Hey," she said to Felton holding his forehead. "You okay?"

A dejected Felton looked up, solemnly meeting her gaze. "I can't stop thinking about my wife and kids. I've gotta find them, Kay. I've gotta find them."

At the moment, despite the conversations and everything going on around him, Detective Tim Bayliss sat at his desk in deep thought while he anxiously puffed on a cigarette. Emma Zoole. He had been so certain she was the one the first time his eyes locked onto hers; so certain he was in love. Now Tim had been more confused and uncertain about love, about everything, even his job. His eyes fell to the picture he kept on his desk…the framed portrait of Adena Watson…the unsolved case. He hated feeling like a failure, and though he tried not to think about it, Tim hadn't been exactly successful at anything so far. Startled by the ringing of his phone, he blinked a few times as if jarred out of a trance. Hesitating to answer it, Tim stared at the phone…ringing, ringing until he grabbed the receiver.

"Homicide…Detective Bayliss."

Tim drove the white car while Frank sat beside him. Bayliss was not at all fond of speeding and as they neared Bank Street, the tires hobbled slowly over cobblestones. Tim gazed ahead at numerous police cars and an ambulance. Bayliss wondered if he should be the primary. What if this turned out to be like Adena? Another unsolved case…another failure for the rookie detective. He wasn't sure if he could handle it. And then Tim mentally shoved the negative, gloomy thoughts out of his mind and focused on what was crucial at the moment. Parking a few feet from the Baltimore City Police cars, Tim along with Frank hurried out into the chilly night air. Clad in their trench coats, they quickly headed inside an alley. Cops stood by. Pictures were taken of a naked body sprawled face down and wedged between garbage bags.

Tim said to one of the officers, "Sergeant Coleman? You wanna fill us in on what happened here?"

Sergeant Joe Coleman answered, "The deceased is a female, Caucasian. We got a call from her friend who found the body."

"Where's this friend?"

"She's over there," said Joe, nodding his head toward a young woman leaning against one of the police cars.

"What's her name?"

"Marissa Clearwater."

Both detectives slipped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt over the body. Tim clicked on his flashlight. Turning the body onto it's back, he studied it meticulously…the body sadistically beaten and marred with dry blood. Bayliss swallowed hard. His stomach rolled with nausea. Thinking to himself…

"Will I ever get used to this?"

He then noticed something else…where her hands had been and now, only bloody stumps. Disturbed at the thought of someone killing this woman so horribly, he shuddered but managed to shift his attention back to investigating the murder.

"Tim," said Frank, holding his flashlight close to the woman's forehead. "You see that?"

Bayliss' eyes narrowed as he studied it closer. "Yeah, I see it. It looks like the killer took a sharp object…a knife maybe and carved a—number?"

Frank looked up at his partner. "Twenty-nine."

Puzzled, Tim eyed the blood-crusted mark again and saw that it was indeed twenty-nine. "Twenty-nine?" He glanced at the victim's friend and while staring at her, he said to Frank, "Let's find out what she knows."

Yanking off the gloves and discarding them into a garbage can, they walked toward the woman with long, straight auburn hair and wearing a red sweater coat. Her arms clenched against her chest. She shivered, staring down at the ground.

"Marissa Clearwater," Tim mumbled. "Clearwater?" He frowned, looking at Frank.

Pembleton shrugged. "It's not a common last name but I've heard it before. Okay, for example…Clearwater, Florida."

"That's different. It's a city."

"What? A person can't have the same name as a city?"

"I'm not saying that, it's just…Clearwater…it sounds, y'know."

"You mean it sounds…nerdy, odd, strange for someone to have Clearwater as a last name."

"Well?"

"Tim, are we gonna find out what she knows or we're gonna continue this discussion about why her last name is Clearwater?"

Tim realized the conversation was inane and kept quiet until they stopped near the Clearwater woman.

Bayliss said, "Miss Clearwater?"

"Marissa," she answered in a shaky voice. "Don't call me Clearwater. I hate that name."

Tim peeked at Frank again and then his eyes darted back to the woman. With a pen and a small notepad in his hand, he asked, "Alright, Marissa. I'm Detective Bayliss and this is Detective Pembleton. Can you tell us anything about your friend? Her name, where she lived?"

She pushed herself to look up at the detectives. "I can't believe she's--," the woman hesitated. Taking a deep breath, Marissa went on. "Her name is Samantha Ashkin. I always called her Sam. She lived at 1425 Fountain Street."

"Did she live alone?

Marissa nodded.

"What about a boyfriend?"

"She didn't have a boyfriend. Sam was an artist. She spent most of her time painting and when she had time, we'd hang out together."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a waitress."

"Are you sure she wasn't dating anyone?"

Marissa nodded again.

Frank cut in. "What makes you so certain?"

"Sam would've told me. When she met someone, that's one thing she never kept secret."

Bayliss added, "Well, is it possible that maybe this time she wanted to keep it a secret?"

"No," Marissa insisted. "She would've told me."

Tim nodded and after finishing what he had written, he asked another question. "Did she have any enemies?"

"No. Sam was the sweetest person I've ever known. Who would wanna kill her--," she paused, pressing trembling fingers against her lips.

"Well, that's what we're trying to find out." Bayliss tapped his pen against the pad. He squinted, thinking, and then the tapping stopped. "How did you find her in the alley? I mean, you just happen to come along and find her there?"

"That's what I don't understand. It's strange."

Frank said, "What's strange?"

Marissa reached inside her sweater pocket, taking out a gold necklace and what appeared to be a small three-fold paper. She gave it to Tim. "I looked at the front of my car and saw this envelope sticking out of the windshield wiper. I opened it and inside was a note and this necklace with Sam's name on it, but she doesn't have a necklace like that. Then I read the note. It said, Samantha's in trouble and it was important I meet her in this alley."

Pembleton asked, "Have you seen this handwriting before?"

"No."

"Are you sure she didn't know anyone? She didn't have any male friends?"

"The only men she knew were acquaintances, not friends. Some are artists and neighbors."

Tim had taken his turn to ask the next question. "Do you have names of these acquaintances?"

Frightened, Marissa refused to answer.

Tim, noting her fear had wanted her to be as comfortable as possible. "Marissa," he said softly. "Whoever did this, it had to be someone Samantha knew. And this person also knows you."

Marissa huffed. "I'll give you names but I have a hard time believing they would do something like this. And if it's someone I know, Sam would've told me--,"

"Marissa," Frank interrupted. "You keep saying Sam would've told you. Were you around her every minute? I don't care how close you are to someone, they won't always tell you all the details of their life or what they're doing."

Offended at Frank's harshness, she rolled her eyes away from the detectives; and yet Marissa had known Pembleton was right.

"Uh, Marissa," Tim said gently. "We found something on Samantha's forehead."

"I know." She cringed, squeezing her eyes shut. A tear rolled down and when she opened her eyes again, Marissa angrily smeared the tear away. "What the hell is that? Why would someone cut twenty-nine onto her forehead?"

"How old was Samantha?"

"She was—Oh my God. Oh my God!" Marissa clenched trembling arms against her chest again. "She was twenty-nine."

While Tim and Frank headed back to the station, Pembleton said, "Twenty-nine. So, Tim, you think whoever killed Samantha is because of her age?"

"Yeah." He took his eyes off the road and shot a quick glance at Frank. "You think I'm wrong about this?"

"No, I think it's a possibility you may be right. The killer made sure the number was… 'tattooed' on her forehead and she was twenty-nine years old. It makes sense."

"The question is," Tim went on to say, "Why was she killed because of her age? And why were her hands cut off? The hands…it reminds me of the White Glove killer, except this time the hands are missing. And…why would the killer give Marissa a note along with a necklace so that she can find the body?"

"So you're speculating this crime was committed by another serial killer."

"I hope not, Frank, but the way she was killed--," He stopped, careful of being hasty about the possibility it could be another serial killer. Tim hadn't said another word as the car veered the corner of a dim-lit street.

--

Inside the squad room, Tim stared at the board of victim's names. Some red, some black. Unsolved. Solved. It still haunted him, seeing 'Watson' in red. Fighting the tears that crept their way into his eyes, he composed himself and wrote: 219 Ashkin.

--

The next morning, after Bayliss had his coffee, he joined Frank inside Lieutenant Giardello's office. Lieutenant Megan Russert was also there, sitting at the desk while Gee stood nearby; both waiting for more news about Samantha Ashkin.

Tim stood by his partner. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Samantha was not only beaten to death…she was raped…repeatedly. The M.E. found traces of semen and multiple vaginal tearing."

Russert asked, "Any luck with the names Marissa gave you?"

"We questioned everyone and well, right now it's a dead end. I—uh--," Tim let out a frustrated sigh.

Gee said, "Go on Bayliss, spit it out."

"Sir, I don't believe this is an isolated case."

"Because," Gee calmly and confidently added, "The number twenty-nine on her forehead and she was twenty-nine years old. You're thinking this person could be another serial killer."

"Yes, that's what I think. The way she was killed. The note and necklace…it fits the pattern of a serial killer."

"Tim," Russert interrupted. "Yes, it's possible this may not be an isolated case but for now, all we have is Samantha Ashkin. Keep working on it."

Tim and Frank left the office. Standing outside, Frank said to his partner, "We should talk to Marissa again."

"You think she's not telling us everything?"

"Yes, I do."

Lewis marched up to the detectives. "Hey, Bayliss, you better answer your phone. It's been ringing for the past five minutes and driving me crazy."

Tim hurried over to his desk and answered it. "Homicide, Detective Bayliss. What?" He flipped open his notepad and quickly jotted down information. "Alright, we'll be there." Tim rushed back to Pembleton sitting at his desk. "Frank, we got another body."

Tim shook his head while driving.

Frank looked at him. "What?"

"I keep thinking about what the M.E. said…the marks around Samantha's ankles; rope marks. Her hands were most likely tied while he raped and beat her but we can't find the hands. There was nothing she could do, Frank. Nothing. What is the world coming to, huh? I mean, how can the mind get so perverted to do something like that?"

"Evil," Frank simply stated. "Evil, like a cancer in the killer's mind. It keeps spreading and spreading until it's out of control. No regrets. No remorse. I've seen it in their eyes…darkness…lost souls."

Tim briefly watched Frank who at times left him speechless. He found himself awed by the hard-edged Pembleton. They were so different. Who would have ever thought they could be partners, and yet Frank was his partner and his friend, though he had never told him that…not yet.

The white car came to a short stop. Again the detectives bolted toward the crime scene…another body, another alley, but this time behind row houses. A crowd of tenants stood behind the yellow crime scene tape. Some tried to sneak their way to the front. Some peeked and obviously frustrated at those blocking their view, as if watching a dead body had been the 'in' thing…the new entertainment.

Tim knelt over the body covered with a white sheet. He lifted the sheet, observing pale nakedness, more blood, more bruises. There were the same marks that circled her ankles. The hands, amputated and on her forehead, another 'twenty-nine' etched deeply into the skin. He stood and approached by a female officer.

"Detective Bayliss," she said, "This man found the body."

A tall, burly man stepped up to the detectives. Tim asked him, "What's your name?"

"Robert Carpenter."

"Did you know the deceased?"

Distraught, he replied, "Yeah, she was my girlfriend."

"Do you have a note and a necklace?"

Surprised at what Bayliss had known, the man with dark, curly hair said, "Yeah." Robert reached inside the pocket of his red plaid jacket and took out an envelope. "That's how I found her. Someone told me she's in trouble and I should meet her here."

Tim opened the envelope. Inside was the same three-fold note and a gold necklace. He studied the name. "Sheila?"

"Yeah, that's her name…Sheila Monroe, but I never gave her that necklace."

Frank peered around at the body. His hands tucked inside the pockets of his beige trench coat. Thinking for a moment until looking at Robert again. "How old was Sheila?"

"Twenty-nine."

At that answer, Tim eyed Frank while showing him the note written in small, unscripted letters. He then lifted the necklace that gleamed in the sunlight. "An isolated case," Bayliss mumbled. "Not anymore."

TBC