One of the Boys.

I have always been one of the boys. Always. I was the girl who played baseball, the girl who got into fights after school with the neighborhood boys, the girl who never went to prom because she wasn't "girly" enough. I was the one that my mother worried about, the one that other mothers regarded with strange glances because I didn't like wearing dresses or playing with dolls.

I've changed a little since then. But some of my tomboy antics have stayed with me. For instance, I still rise to every challenge that comes my way. I still feel the need to prove myself to the guys at One Police Plaza.

I look down at the paperwork on my desk. This new case is costing me several nights' worth of sleep. But I can't quit now—I'm gonna nail this son of a bitch.

Word on the street is that my perp is uncatchable. That I won't be able to get him. I beg to differ. I play hardball. I do not take "no" for an answer—I will not back down until this guy is behind bars.

These pimps and pedophiles think they can scare me. They think they can act all macho and make me cower in the corner like the weak, defenseless woman they mistake me to be.

I give a slight smile as I think about earlier today. I spent the majority of the morning in the interrogation room, listening to countless drug heads and small-time thugs tell me how impossible it would be to find this guy. At first, they thought they could remain cool, that they could somehow out-fox me. But I came out swinging. I got in their face and I didn't back down. And before the interview was over, they were telling me everything they knew. Once again, I won.

People say I'm a bitch—they don't say it to my face, but I've heard the whispers as I've left the room. That's fine. I may be a bitch, but I'm a bitch that gets the job done—and I sleep just fine at night. I go to bed with a sense of accomplishment. I know I've done something good; I know I have made a difference in the world—even if it is only a small difference, it is still a difference.

"Casey?"

The soft cadence of Olivia Benson's voice causes me to look up. She is peering around the edge of my door, as if she is hesitant to disturb me.

I smile. Perhaps it is because Olivia is the only other person in SVU with two X chromosomes, but I have always felt an odd sense of camaraderie towards her.

I motion for her to come in. I suddenly realize that she is not alone—Elliot Stabler's broad shoulders emerge from the hallway, filling my doorway like the angel of death. He's a good guy, but sometimes he scares me. I may be tough, but I'm not stupid. I know stronger mettle when I see it.

"How's the search for Thomas Myers coming along?" I ask brightly. I am certain that we will find him soon.

"He's dead," Elliot states flatly.

I feel a slight rush of anger. Our perp knew we were coming for his right-hand man, so he had Thomas killed.

"We know our guy did it," Olivia's voice remains low and composed. Her sense of calm is almost unnerving. Her brown eyes meet mine, "We just need a warrant."

I glance at the clock. It's past midnight. I begin to mentally run through the list of judges, looking for one who owes me a favor and hopefully is a night owl.

I give a curt nod. "Give me an hour. I'll get you what you need."

The two detectives leave the room as I pick up the receiver and begin dialing. I am fuming, but I concentrate on the task at hand. I'll get this guy. I swear to God I will.

~Le Fin