Johnny Blue Eyes

Summary: A burglar with a conscience sends DI Lestrade something obtained in a break-in: a box of homemade videotapes recorded by a paedophile with his victims. Sergeant Donovan, assigned to the case, thinks a child in one of the videos looks familiar. . . Warning: he's a paedophile, in case you didn't catch that.

Author's note: This story has been beta'ed and Brit-picked (aka tenderly ripped to shreds) by the lovely sevenpercent, and put back together much better than before. I am very appreciative of her input! If you haven't read her fantastic stories, you should!

This story is set about ten months after the end of His Last Vow. No AU, no pairings. There are multiple chapters, which I intend to post on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Chapter 1: Nothing good happens on a Tuesday

The box arrived on a Tuesday, just before lunchtime. D.I. Greg Lestrade was sitting at his desk, stomach grumbling, trying to convince himself to finish just one more report when he first heard the commotion down the hall. He tried to ignore it and focus on hunting and pecking at the keyboard of his ancient desktop computer, but his concentration was broken when D.S. Donovan stuck her head in the doorway.

"Suspicious package, sir," she said breathlessly. "They're evacuating the building."

Shit.

Lestrade fumbled with the mouse to save his work quickly before running out the door. He had worked hard on this report, and he didn't want to lose the almost finished product. The McClinchy homicide was the most important case he had had in at least six months. Lord Joseph and Lady Millicent McClinchy, murdered in their home with all the doors locked. No sign of forced entry. A neat, round bullet hole in the middle of Lord Joseph's forehead; signs of struggle from the wife, whose throat had been cut, no weapon to be found. Several post-mortem cuts on her arm, which looked random, but that Sherlock said were a pattern that meant something apparently only he understood. Endless chasing after leads, none of which had panned out yet. Sherlock said it was the work of Moriarty, or rather Moriarty's gang, as he was still convinced the man himself was dead. Lestrade wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but he was keen to solve this case so the papers would shut up about Scotland Yard being unable to do their jobs.

The computer was taking its sweet time saving, of course. It always did when Lestrade was in a hurry. Infuriating technology. Making everyone dumber.

Donovan's head popped around the doorframe again. "Boss?" she queried, eyebrows raised. "We gotta go."

"Yeah, yeah, ok. I'm coming." Lestrade followed her out the door, leaving the computer to finish saving on its own. With his luck, the package would turn out to be a bomb and the whole building would go up in flames, taking his unfinished report and all the evidence with it. That was about how his week was going. And it was only Tuesday.

They stood out in the rain for at least fifteen minutes, watching down the block as men in black jackets came and went, but no one told them a thing, of course. A few reporters showed up and stuck microphones in the faces of various officers, but of course none of them knew anything. Lestrade kept his head down and his mouth shut, and eventually the reporters packed up their gear and left disappointed.

As the rain was tapering off to a drizzle, a slight man with a sparse mustache and a dark blue anorak approached the group from the direction of NSY, hunched over against the wind. Lestrade saw him speaking to Sergeant Riordan, and then the sergeant turned and pointed his direction. So they finally figured out who was in charge. Maybe he could get some answers now.

The EOD officer walked up to Lestrade with his eyebrows raised. "DI Greg Lestrade?" God, he was young. Was he even old enough to be out of the academy? The mustache looked like it had been drawn on with an eyebrow pencil. A name tag pinned to his jacket said "Scotzia."

"That's me. What's going on?" He almost added "Laddie", but stopped himself at the last minute. The little sot probably outranked him.

"I need you to come with me please, and the rest of your men can go back into the building."

"So the bomb threat was a hoax?"

"Yes, sir. Sniffer dog ID'd traces of explosives on a package in the mail room, but we've x-rayed it and determined it's harmless."

Lestrade turned to Donovan, who had been standing beside him pretending like she wasn't listening in. "Tell everyone to get back to work. Oh, and can you check that my computer finished saving that report?"

"I'm on it, Guv," she replied. As Lestrade walked off with Scotzia, he could hear Donovan's raised voice in the background, directing everyone back into the building, and a couple of "Thank God!" and "'Bout time!" comments sounded in reply.

"Why did you need to talk to me?" he asked the EOD officer as they headed down the block to the back delivery door of NSY.

"Package was addressed to you, sir. Looks like video cassettes."

Scotzia opened the door, then stepped back to let Lestrade enter first. Lestrade grumbled to himself at that. The Goddamn kid was holding the door open for him like he was an old man.

The box was ordinary-looking, tan cardboard, about 18" deep by 15" wide by 12" long. Lestrade's name was written with block letters in black marker across the top, along with the address of NSY. There was no return address, but the postmark was the Croydon district of South London.

"Look familiar?" asked Scotzia hopefully.

Lestrade shook his head. "Nope. I don't know anyone in Croydon, as far as I know."

Scotzia held out a penknife with the blade pulled out, handle pointed toward Lestrade. "Would you care to open it?"

Lestrade hrumphed, dug in his pocket and pulled out his own penknife. "I've got it." He pulled on a pair of gloves, then carefully slit open the packing tape and used the tip of the knife to lift the top flap. Inside he saw stacks of chunky videotapes, each encased in a tagboard cover: some white, some yellow and black. Whatever was on these tapes, they were not commercially produced. Someone had recorded these at home. The top videocassette had a letter, "M" and a number, "1978" written neatly on the spine. The handwriting was distinctly different to that on the outside of the box.

When he lifted the other flap, Lestrade discovered a sticky note attached to the top tape. In block letters, the note said simply. "I pickd these up in a burglery last week dont remember whare I got them but I had to pas them on." It wasn't signed. Picked them up in a burglary? What was on these tapes that caused an illiterate housebreaker to suddenly grow a conscience?

"What about the explosives?" he asked Scotzia.

"Just a trace on the outside of the box, apparently. Looks like homemade black powder. The sender of the package could have had some on his hands when he sealed it up and it would register."

When the door to the mailroom opened, Lestrade looked up to discover that Donovan had apparently tracked him down. As soon as he made eye contact, she came and stood next to him with her arms folded, but didn't say anything, although Lestrade was sure she wanted to. He could almost feel the waves of curiosity rolling off her.

Lestrade eased the top cassette out of the box and turned it over in his hands. The rest of the cover was blank. The tape itself was also marked "M 1978", on the spine in the same handwriting. When he slid the tape out of the case, he could see no other marks on it.

"Have we got a player for these?" he asked Donovan. She nodded.

"Media room down the hall."

Lestrade nodded at her to lead the way. The Media Room was not exactly one of his usual haunts. He found all of those knobs and dials a bit intimidating, to be frank. Donovan shot him a knowing grin and headed out, with Lestrade close behind and Scotzia hot on his heels.

In the Media Room, Lestrade scanned the banks of equipment with his brow furrowed. There were so many machines that he didn't recognize and had no idea of the purpose for—ah! There, that one looked familiar, right size slot.

"This one, sir," Donovan said with a smirk, pointing at the machine he had been heading for anyway.

"I knew that."

"Course you did, sir," she responded promptly, causing him to wrinkle his nose at her.

He slid the tape into the machine, and Donovan tapped some mysterious combination of dials and switches to make the telly in the corner flicker to life. At first it was only static, then a scratchy image appeared on the screen. Donovan played with one of the dials and the image resolved itself into a sitting room, with an old-fashioned yellow and green flowered sofa and green shag carpeting. The colors were a bit faded but still recognizable. It was obvious from the hideous décor that the number on the front of the tape, 1978, was the year the recording had been made.

After a few seconds, there was movement across the screen: a man in a brown suit, visible only from the shoulders down, crossed the room and opened a door in the background. Three people entered: a woman, with a baby on her hip, and a boy, about aged eight or nine, who was carrying something large and black in his hand. There was no sound, but it was obvious that the man was greeting him. He shook hands with the woman and then the boy in turn. A minute later, the woman left with the baby, and the man led the boy to a chair on the right side of the room. The boy sat and put the thing he had been carrying on his lap.

"Violin case?" Scotzia guessed. At that moment, the man leaned over with his back to the camera, opened the case, and pulled out a child-sized violin and bow. He lifted it up, out of camera range. They couldn't see or hear what he was doing, but the boy's head was tipped up and he was obviously watching carefully.

"Violin lessons? Why did our burglar feel the need to pass these on to the police?" Lestrade said.

Donovan, apparently not picking up on the fact that he had intended it as a rhetorical question, answered, "There must be more to it than just violin lessons."

"Yeah, obviously. Donovan, keep watching these and tell me what you come up with."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "I was just about to get my lunch."

"All right, fine. After lunch then. Get me something too; I'm starved." With that he headed back to his office to check on the status of his report. Whatever was on those tapes, it paled in comparison to the importance of the McClinchy case.

An hour later, Sergeant Sally Donovan stuffed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth, wiped her hands on her trousers, and opened the door to the Media Room with a sigh. The Bomb Disposal team had finished fingerprinting the videotapes and had brought the whole box to the Media Room for her, and she had run out of reasons to put off the task of going through them. She had a feeling she knew what was on them, and she was not looking forward to having her suspicions confirmed.

She slid the first tape, "M 1978", back into the player and fast-forwarded past the section they had already watched. When she got to a section that showed a clear view of the boy's face, she paused the playback and studied him closely. A little chubby, with short, sandy-brown hair and bluish-gray eyes. There was a splash of freckles across his pointy nose. He definitely hadn't hit puberty yet, with traces of baby-fat still clinging to his jawline. She pulled out her DSLR and took a photo of the screen, which she saved as "M 1978". She jotted a description of the boy on her notepad, then continued the playback.

For the next several minutes, the man on the screen (whose whole face was frustratingly always just out of camera range) showed the boy how to hold the violin and scrape the bow across the strings. He moved the boy's fingers into position for a few notes, which the boy obligingly copied. Donovan made a note on her notepad and ran the tape forward some more.

The next time she slowed the playback, the man was seated behind the boy, who was standing between his knees. The man's hands were over the boy's, holding them in the right position. The boy's head blocked her view of the man's face. Still nothing alarming, although the boy looked uncomfortable with the physical contact. She hit the fast-forward again.

A few minutes later, the scene flickered, and suddenly the boy was wearing different clothing, gray trousers and a green blazer with a crest above the left pocket. A school blazer, obviously. She paused the playback and took a photo of the crest, then ran the video forward a bit more and took another shot of his face as well. This was tedious to say the least.

On the screen, the boy put down the violin and took off his blazer, his head tipped up to the man who stood beside him. Then the man sat in the chair and pulled the boy in front of him again. He moved the boy's fingers to the right position for the notes and corrected the angle of the bow.

A few seconds later, the man's hands released the boy's and slid down, fingers trailing, to his belly. The boy stared straight ahead, but Donovan could make out that his cheeks and the tips of his ears had gone red. She didn't blame him. She could feel her own face heating up as she realized where this was going. When the man's hands slid lower in what was a clear violation of the boy's personal space, Donovan slammed her hand on the pause button and squeezed her eyes shut. This was why their burglar had suddenly grown a conscience. The man was a bloody paedophile.

After a long moment with her hands over her face, Donovan shut off the telly and trudged down the hall to Lestrade's office, feet heavy.

She knocked on the frame of the partially open door. "Boss?"

"Yeah?" he said without looking up from his computer screen. His face was scrunched up into a little frown. He was probably having technical difficulties and hadn't yet come to the realization that he wouldn't be able to solve it on his own.

Donovan stepped around his desk and peered over his shoulder. He was working on a report, but the formatting was different, and he clearly didn't know how to fix it. She reached around him and hit the correct function key to toggle back to the correct format.

He grunted "Thanks," and sat back in his chair. "Need something?"

"Yeah, um, I think you ought to see this."

"Those videotapes? What is it?"

She leaned back against the edge of his desk with her arms tightly folded. "He's a paedophile," she said flatly.

"Oh, Jesus." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. "How many videotapes are there?"

"Thirty-two. I'm only half-way through the first one."

Lestrade sighed. "Ok, I'm assigning this case to you. Keep at it. Take notes."

"All the videos?"

"Yes."

"Sir, I can't—you want me to watch thirty-two videos of little kids getting interfered with?"

"You don't have to watch the whole thing, just enough to get photos of the kids and collect evidence of sexual assault. Please, Donovan. I can't do it. Makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it."

Donovan sighed and heaved herself off the edge of his desk. "Yes, sir. I'll get on it."

"Good. And thank you."

She waved off his thanks on the way out the door. She would do it, but she didn't have to like it.

First Donovan watched the rest of the video she was in the middle of. A few minutes in the boy's clothing changed again, and then she was forced to watch the man put his hands down the boy's trousers. While it was happening, the boy continued to play his violin with tears rolling down his freckled face, eyes squeezed shut. Then the first video abruptly ended.

When the screen went to static, Donovan let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. She swallowed hard and made some notes, stomach churning, then pulled the video out of the player and slid the second one out of its case. This video was labeled "R 1979" on the spine, which Donovan listed on her notes.

The second video started like the first, with the man greeting a boy and his mother at the door. Donovan fast-forwarded and found a good view of the boy's face. He was a gangly preadolescent, blue-eyed and blond, with a pronounced overbite. She took a photo of his face and started fast-forwarding again. About 20 minutes in, the man was touching him inappropriately too. Jaw clenched, Donovan made a note of it without slowing down the fast-forward.

This tape was longer, and after more than an hour of video (which she fast-forwarded through), the man led the boy to the sofa and started unbuttoning his shirt. The boy began to cry, and the man paused long enough to tip up his chin and gently wipe away his tears. Donovan hit the stop button and put her hands over her face. She couldn't do this. She knew what was coming next and she couldn't watch. In her mind she saw her own younger brother Alex, all dark curls, wide brown eyes and caramel skin. If someone had hurt him like that, she could not be held responsible for the consequences.

With eyes blurring, Donovan ejected the tape and ran her finger over the label. Who was this kid, and why didn't he ever tell his parents? Or tell anyone, for Christ's sake? Obviously he hadn't, because this monster had never been caught.

She numbly slotted the video back into the box with the others. Thirty-two videotapes, with dates ranging from 1978 to 1992. Thirty-two little kids. What happened to all of them? They were adults now. And they had never told a soul.

She skimmed the next two tapes (L 1980 and J 1981), just enough to document the offense and take screenshots of their faces. The boy in tape four (sad green eyes, ginger hair with an unruly cowlick that caused his hair to stand up in front) was wearing a green jumper in the same shade as the blazer on the first boy, with a similar gold insignia. She took a photo of the jumper and the crest, which was unfortunately too blurry to make out properly. She could have Constable Fadil do some research later on primary schools that used that color combination. He was good with computers and eager to please, which was an excellent combination in her book. Those skills were going to be exploited by someone; it might as well be her, she thought cynically.

The fifth video was labeled S 1982. Donovan put it in the player and rested her hand on the fast forward, intending to follow the same procedure. The boy in this video was tiny, only about five or six years old, the youngest of the victims so far. He had a mass of wild black curls that hung down over his forehead, and clear, pale skin.

As soon as his mother left, the boy strode right up to the camera and leaned in with an unbecoming scowl on his narrow face. It startled Donovan so much that she sat back in her chair, blinking hard. It was almost as if he were looking right at her.

On the screen, the boy was saying something, but without sound, she didn't catch what it was. She paused the playback, took a photo (very close-up) of the boy's face, then ran it back to try to figure out what he was saying. Maybe. . . "There's thumb finger on wif. ." But that didn't make any sense. She ran it back and watched it again. On the third time through she realized that he had a lisp, so the 'th' was really meant to be an 's'. So maybe he was saying. . . "There's something wrong with. . ." What? "With the bonsai"? What could that mean?

The boy was looking directly into the camera. None of the other boys had even glanced at the camera, so Donovan doubted they knew it was there. But this little chap had gone up to it immediately. Could the camera be hidden in a bonsai plant, and somehow he had spotted it when the others hadn't? Or maybe known there was something wrong, but not realized what he was looking at?

Donovan paused the playback again and studied his face. Rounded jaw, sweet little lips shaped like a perfect pink cupid's bow. Odd eyes, sort of a mix of bright blue and green. . .

Donovan stared transfixed, mind whirring. Those eyes. . .

Author's note: Reviews = love :-)