This is my first L&O fic, but I've been a fan of Jesse L. Martin for a while and a fan of crime dramas even longer. Feedback is appreciated!

Four shots.

"That's it, we're going in."

The ESU officers rushed the door, and I followed. Distantly, I saw Vorgitch back up against the blackboard, but I wasn't looking at him. I was looking at the girls--some of them crying, some too terrified to do anything. Four of them were shot, blood soaking their shirts, dead or dying. One of the officers knelt and took the pulse of a girl not two feet away from me. The officer shook his head and directed his attitude to the living hostages. I felt my jaw clench, every muscle tensing.

The officers grabbed Vorgitch and turned him around, ready to lead him out. I stopped them, raising my gun and aiming right at where his heart would be. 'If you get a shot, please, take it.'

"You can't shoot me. I'm unarmed," he said lazily, completely unfazed. I didn't care. I wanted answers.

"Why'd you have to shoot them?" I demanded quietly. My voice was rough; I was trying not to cry or fly into a rage, and it was difficult. If I had still been Lennie's partner, I would have, but I was in a whole new role now. Senior detective, Nina Cassady's guide and partner. I couldn't afford to lose her respect. Besides, if Lennie was here, we would have caught this son of a bitch yesterday.

"Why not?" Vorgitch replied, shrugging and grinning. He was taunting me again, daring me to kill him.

I called his bluff. My finger tightened around the trigger. I wanted to get revenge. Revenge for the people he had killed, for the family he had left grieving, for myself because he was still here, laughing at me.

The room was silent. Outside, sirens rang and people yelled, but inside, nobody made a sound. They should be trying to reason with me or offer instructions to the hostages. They were just watching me, hoping I had the courage. Vorgitch was smirking at me, still not believing anything. I hated him, and I was going to kill him.

Why? A little voice asked. It sounded like Lennie. He had become my conscious since the first day Nina started working. You're destroying your career and turning yourself into a murderer in one stroke, so you better have a damn good reason, Ed.

Because he took the lives of four children. Because he didn't care. Because everybody, including his own mother, wanted him dead. Because I wanted to. Because… why not?

Why not?

I lowered my gun, feeling exhausted. It had only been thirty seconds since I entered the room. "Get him out of here."

The man deserved to die the slowest, most painful death possible and burn in the deepest, darkest chasm of hell. But I refused to stoop to his level. I couldn't shoot a man in cold blood, no matter how much I wanted to. I was a detective, not an executioner.

"I would have shot him," Nina admitted, eyeing a blonde girl lying facedown with a bloody hole in her body. I smiled weakly.

"Of course you would have. That's why you're not in charge."

(---)

I sighed, feeling incredibly tired, and put down my pen. Finally, all of the paperwork was complete. I had sent Nina home hours ago, and the long day was taking its toll.

"Ed." I turned to see Lieu leaning against the doorframe of her office, arms folded. I had forgotten she was here; in addition to the formal paperwork, she had to prepare a damage control piece for the press conference that the DA scheduled tomorrow morning. Thank God I didn't have to be there.

"Hey, Lieu. What's up?" I yawned.

"Heard you almost shot a man point-blank today," she said conversationally.

"Yeah, I did." I didn't try to deny it. That would definitely lower Lieu's respect for me, and considering her opinion of Nina… she might just start investigating every single case herself.

"What made you stop?"

I shrugged. "I'm not a murderer."

Van Buren smiled fondly, and patted my shoulder. Not like a 'job well done' pat--nah, we both know that this case was a failure. It was a sign of respect, like she'd been there and understood where I was coming from. A rosy glow spread through my tired limbs. Seven years in homicide, and I finally knew what I was doing. It didn't matter if I couldn't be perfect. I had coworkers--friends--who loved and valued me, and they trusted that I could do the right thing. I wasn't a murderer. I could do this.

For nine months, three weeks, and six hours, that was true. Then, on February eighth at eleven-thirty PM, everything changed. I shot a man point-blank, and I became an executioner, and I lost the respect of my partner and my lieutenant. Everything I thought I knew about myself was challenged.

But on that night, I didn't care what the future held. I wanted to go home, have a couple of beers, and go to sleep. And I did.

Why not?