A/N: Thank you all for the wonderful reviews!!! A lot of you guys asked what was up with the initials "B" and "R" on the note. Also, people keep asking about the mystery woman with Danny. Well, you'll just have to wait and find out. :P

Spot the Say Anything reference and win a cookie. Spot the "Firefly" reference and win a whole box of cookies. Especially since I didn't even realize it until Blue pointed it out to me.

Thanks again to Blue for the beta and Spunky for the gamma.

Chapter Two: The Short End of the Stick

Flack liked it when his job was easy. For crimes like this – crimes that were so heinous it made him question all of humanity – he wanted good solid witnesses. If at all possible, lots of them. People who not only saw something but remembered what they saw. Witnesses who were reliable, who would look good in court – witnesses a jury would believe. Stories that matched. Video surveillance would be nice. Something that would lead him to a viable suspect – preferably the person who did it. As long as he had something – anything – to go on, he was a happy detective.

Today was not going to be one of those days. Today was going to be one of those not fun days where all of his hours of interviewing would yield nothing other than a bad headache.

There were no real witnesses. Everyone who had been inside the bodega had been brutally murdered. People on the sidewalk who had been walking by at the time of the attack were the only people Flack could count on to learn what happened. They weren't much help. Their accounts all started similarly. They heard gunshots and screaming. They saw a guy run out of the bodega carrying a gun. The guy shot one more person on the sidewalk and then took off running east, towards the river.

Here was where the accounts varied. No one had apparently gotten a good look at the guy. Everyone's story was different – black guy, white guy, Asian guy, short, tall, skinny, fat, bald, long hair. Some people said he had a scar. In some of the stories, he had a tattoo. More than one person had mentioned he carried a knife in addition to the gun. One woman claimed that it was Elvis who had killed all those people.

"Elvis," Flack said, nodding. He did not get paid enough. "And, uh, why – why would it be Elvis?"

"He's pissed off," said the woman. She was obviously crazy. She was one of those crazy people who looked crazy – her hair was frizzy and stuck out in all directions, none of her clothes matched, her left eye twitched, and she smelled really strongly of cats. "He doesn't like that everyone thinks he's dead. He's making a statement."

"A statement." Flack bit the inside of his cheek in order to quell the sarcastic remark that his mouth was just dying to say. He was seriously afraid that if he mouthed off to this woman, she would kill him. She could probably kill him with her mind. "What statement is that?"

The woman just stared at him. Her eye twitched. "That he's not dead."

He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth hurt. "So, was it skinny Elvis or fat Elvis?" The woman blinked at him, and he tried to explain. "I just want to know which one I should be looking for."

She smacked him with her purse. He really did not get paid enough.

To add insult to injury, the tiny bodega had no surveillance equipment of any kind. He and his guys had scoured the entire store, searching for a camera, and found nothing. Flack scrubbed a hand across his face. He hoped Mac's team found something, because he was coming up with nothing. He hated when that happened. It made him feel so useless. He was a homicide detective – he should be able to add something to a homicide investigation.

They were going to have to canvass the neighborhood. Canvassing the neighborhood was probably his least favorite part of an investigation. He still remembered the fat guy in his underwear who looked like he couldn't wait to eat Flack for dinner. He was just doling out instructions to his guys when he happened to glance across the street and see the ATM.

He tapped the nearest officer on the shoulder and pointed to the ATM. "Has that always been there?"

The officer just looked at him. "No, sir. They must have installed it since this morning."

"Hey," Flack said, tossing the guy a wink, "I'm the only one allowed to make smart remarks around here."

The officer turned away without answering, but Flack could've sworn the guy rolled his eyes at him. Flack furrowed his brow. He wasn't used to getting this little amount of respect from the beat cops. He didn't expect to be treated like a god; he just wanted what he was owed. He hadn't been getting it recently. Goddamn Mac. Nothing had gone right since that damn paintball case.

Muttering to himself, he jogged across the street and examined the ATM. Sure enough, there was a camera mounted above it – a camera that was pointed directly towards the bodega.

He grinned. Maybe today wasn't going to be so terrible after all.

Two hours later, as he waited in the lobby at the headquarters of the bank that owned the ATM, he realized that he had, once again, spoken too soon. He had been waiting for more than forty-five minutes to talk to the president of the bank about obtaining the footage from the camera. He hoped that flashing his badge at the girl behind the teller line would go a long way into getting him to talk to the president, but she had just clicked her tongue and told him he was going to have to wait.

Sometimes, he really hated New York.

And wait he had, in one of the most uncomfortable chairs known to man. He had already read every magazine on the little table beside him and gone through all the ringtones on his phone. He was about to storm into the president's office, protocol be damned, when the guy came out to see him.

"Mr. Flack?" he said, extending his hand. "I'm Roger Harrison, president of New York National Bank. What can I do for you today?"

Flack brandished his badge and gestured at the girl who had given him attitude. "For starters, you can fire that girl for impeding with a murder investigation."

Mr. Harrison balked. "Murder investigation? What are you talking about?"

Flack adjusted the sleeves of his button-down. Somehow, he had known that the little witch behind the counter hadn't explained the reason behind his visit. "There was a robbery/homicide near 30th and Park. The only video surveillance in the area is one of your ATMs across the street. I need the footage."

"Of course," Mr. Harrison said, who immediately began stammering out an apology. "Anything for the police department. I'll have an employee run it over as soon as we recover it."

If the girl behind the counter was a representation of the other employees at the bank, Flack wasn't about to trust them with something as sensitive as the only key piece of evidence in his multiple homicide case. He shook his head and flashed his best smile. "I'd rather wait."

Over the years, Lindsay had become rather adept at interpreting the different types of silences. It was a skill that rarely ever came in handy, but she was quite proud of it. Not many people were that intuitive as to be able to do that.

The silence that had fallen between her and Danny as they processed the sidewalk outside of the bodega could only be described as tense. She guessed they were both on edge because of the case. At least, that was what had her so frazzled. And while she knew that the case was affecting Danny, he seemed distracted, as though he had something else on his mind. She wondered if it had anything to do with the reason he'd been late to work that morning.

She debated bringing up the subject again but decided against it. He didn't look like he was in the mood to talk, anyway.

So they processed. She took photographs – overalls, close-ups, in black and white and color – of every inch of that sidewalk. She was careful to avoid the blood as she walked up and down the pavement. When she reached the crime scene tape, she ducked under it and continued to the corner. Mac wanted them to be thorough, and thorough she would be. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to find. She noticed a couple of fibers, which she bagged. Logically, they could be from any of thousands of people who had been on that street for the past several months, but she collected them all the same. Better safe then sorry.

She glanced over at Danny. "Finding anything?"

He looked up from his position, crouched over a blood pool. He took a sample, stuck it in a vial, and tucked the vial into his kit. "Not really," he said, standing. He shifted at the waist, leaning backwards, she assumed to crack his back. "You?"

She shook her head. "A few fibers. Probably nothing probative."

He picked his way through the pools of blood to join her at the perimeter. "Yeah, I know what you mean. I found some trace, but there's no way to tell if it's from this morning, or yesterday, or six months ago." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up – more so than it already had been. "I've got to tell you, Lindsay, I don't think we're going to find anything."

She pursed her lips. "I don't think so, either. But Mac said not to miss anything."

He laughed shortly. "Oh, believe me, I didn't miss a goddamn thing. But whether or not all this shit I collected is going to make one fucking bit of difference is a completely different story."

Lindsay's eyes widened. Danny was not one to mince words, but she'd never heard him be this vulgar at a crime scene before. After hours, it was different. Once he had one or two beers in him, he would let loose a string of curse words that would make even her father blush. Something was definitely going on with him, and she knew it was something more serious than just not getting any sleep. "Okay, what's wrong?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

She could tell he was lying. He generally went on the defensive when she tried to confront him about something. So she tried to keep it light. "You're extra moody today. Are you sure it isn't something that you want to talk about?"

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "I told you this morning, it's nothing. I just had a rough night."

She didn't know why she expected him to suddenly open up to her. Their relationship had been strained ever since she'd returned from Montana. Actually, things between them had been awkward for much longer than that. She'd told him, not long after the Holly case, that she needed to be by herself for a while. Truth be told, she felt she had been by herself long enough. She'd been alone for far too long. She didn't want to be alone anymore.

But she didn't know how to bring the subject up with Danny. After everything she'd put him through over the past couple of months, she wouldn't be surprised if he didn't want to be with her anymore. She was half-surprised he was still speaking to her. She knew she hadn't been the easiest person to be around.

Near the end of September, she'd received a call from the city of Bozeman, informing her that they had apprehended a suspect in a ten-year-old multiple homicide case. As the only surviving witness of the attack, her testimony was required at the trial. Until then, she had managed to keep all those residual feelings buried, but that phone call brought everything to the surface. She had retreated into herself, pushing away everyone that cared about her when they tried to reach out to her. Testifying had helped her start to put the past behind her. Now, she felt as though she was finally able to move on.

And now Danny was pushing her away.

Okay, universe. You made your point.

"Danny," she said, but she couldn't think of a way to finish that sentence.

Instead, she cautiously reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, he covered her hand with his own. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just want to get this son of a bitch."

She nodded, her jaw set. She wanted to nail this guy's ass to the wall as much as he did, if not more. She hated these kinds of crime scenes. She hated them more than anything. She rarely saw them, but every time, they reminded her of the horrible ordeal she had suffered through in high school. Last year, the Endecott case had her at her wit's end. She was just thankful that she and Danny had arrived at this scene after the bodies had been removed. The sight of all that blood was still chilling, but not nearly as much as it would have been had she seen the bodies. She was getting better at dealing with the memories, but she still had trouble sleeping some nights. She probably always would.

She took a deep breath and held up the camera. "Then we should probably get Stella and get this evidence back to the lab."

He smiled sheepishly and gnawed on his bottom lip. "Lead the way, Montana."

Mac liked autopsy. He didn't look forward to them, the way one would anticipate a holiday, but it was his only chance to really get to know the victim. Or in this case, victims. He would absorb every detail Sid told him – their scars, their tattoos – in an attempt to learn as much as he could about them before he set out to find their killers. It sometimes helped to motivate him if the victim was more than just a faceless identity. Also, the whole process of investigating crime scenes was hectic, chaotic. Everything moved at such a fast pace, because there was often a time limit on their evidence. Autopsy was a chance to breathe, to collect his thoughts before he buried himself under mountains of evidence.

This autopsy, however, was one he was definitely not anticipating. There were rarely ever this many corpses in autopsy at once, let alone all on the same case. Sid had asked for as much help as he could muster to assist him. He had apparently called in a great deal of favors. Peyton gave Mac a shy wave when he entered the morgue with Hawkes. Even Marty Pino, who usually worked nights, had crawled out of bed to lend a hand. Medical examiners were everywhere, bustling around, trying to stay out of each other's way. For once, autopsy was just as chaotic as the rest of the crime lab.

Mac preferred it the other way.

He and Hawkes approached the first table, where Sid was waiting for them. He removed his glasses and let them hang around his neck. "My day started out well," Sid said, leaning forward to examine the Y-incision he'd already performed. "I woke up early. I had a good breakfast. And then I come here, and all hell breaks loose." He glanced up at Mac. "I blame you."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "Sorry to ruin your day."

Sid shrugged. "Can't really complain. These people had a far worse day than I did."

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we, Sid?" Mac asked, nodding at the body on the slab before them. "COD?"

"Close contact gunshot wound," Sid said. "They all suffered the same cause of death, though preliminary examination reveals that the shooter was at a different distance for each victim."

"Probably indicates their location in the bodega," Hawkes said.

Sid furrowed his brow, obviously confused. Mac explained. "There were smears in the blood on the floor. It looked like some of the bodies had been moved before we got there. What else can you tell us?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." Sid reattached his glasses and gently picked up the first victim's arm. Mac stared at the victim – a young boy who looked to be no older than fifteen. He looked a little like Reed, Claire's son. Mac's stomach clenched painfully. "This is Nicholas Cooper. He was shot to death, like the others, but I only extracted one bullet from his abdomen."

Mac looked up. "And that's odd how?"

Sid cocked his head to the side. "He was only shot once – right through the heart, point blank range. The bullet nicked his aorta and lodged in his esophagus."

"And the others?" asked Hawkes.

"Multiple gunshot wounds – at least two each. One of the victims, a young lady whose identity has yet to be confirmed, would have survived any of her wounds. It was the combination of the three of them that killed her. She bled out."

Mac's eyes drifted off towards the side as he considered this information. If some of the victims didn't die immediately, it could explain the unusual blood trails they'd found at the scene.

Hawkes voiced the same thing he had just been thinking. "That's probably where the smears in the blood came from. They were pointed towards the counter, where the phone was. She must have tried to call for help."

"Were you able to confirm time of death?" Mac asked.

Sid nodded. "They all died at approximately the same time – 11:30 this morning."

Hawkes turned to face Mac. "Eyewitnesses claim they heard the gunshots around the same time."

"Do you have the bullets?"

Sid used his head to gesture towards a row of evidence envelopes, all labeled and sealed in the medical examiner's immaculate cursive. "Only a few of the rounds were in any kind of usable condition. Several of them bounced off rib bones, damaging the bullets. But everything we pulled from the bodies is over there."

Mac nodded slowly, then went over to collect the envelopes. "Hawkes, you stay here with Sid. I'm going to take these back to the lab and get started." He pointed to Sid. "I want copies of all your reports when you're finished."

Sid's eyes widened. He looked taken aback by the insinuation. "Of course."

They were bogged down with evidence. Danny didn't think they had ever processed this much evidence on one case. Of course, he couldn't remember this large of a body count at a single scene before. Nine victims – it was mind-boggling. Even Henry Darius had only killed seven teenagers at the Endecott place last year. There was a certain sense of urgency when they arrived back at the lab. Mac and Hawkes were still in autopsy, but Stella took control and immediately doled out responsibilities. She took the trace she'd collected inside the bodega, Lindsay was to work on the fibers collected outside on the sidewalk, and Danny was given the job of running through all the fingerprints.

He had definitely gotten the short end of the stick. There were several dozen fingerprints to scan and enter into the computer, and only one print could be run through the system at a time. Danny would be running prints the rest of the day, and probably all of the next day as well. Matching prints in the database wasn't an instantaneous process. It sometimes took hours just to come up with one match.

Also, the fingerprint lab was across the hall from the trace lab, where Lindsay and Stella were busy working. Every time Danny glanced up from the computer, his eyes were drawn to Lindsay. The simplest actions had him riveted. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, and his fingers itched to do it as well. She stretched to ease her tired muscles, and all his blood ran south. She leaned over to examine something more closely, and it took all his willpower not to see if he could sneak a peek down her shirt.

It only took him about ten minutes to realize that this was not going to work. So he left the print to run by itself and made his way towards the locker room to take a shower – a nice, cold one. He hadn't gotten the opportunity to shower this morning, and he was starting to feel grungy. Plus, he just needed the cold water. He was once again have less than platonic thoughts about his partner, and it was either a cold shower or a quick jerk in the bathroom – which he had learned early on was not a good idea. A guy only needed Mac walking on him once to never do that again.

The locker room was empty, but Danny wasn't surprised. He grabbed his change of clothes out of his locker and headed for the showers. He chose the one all the way on the end – the one with the shitty water pressure – because he knew no one would fight him for it, in the event the other showers got full up. He was free to take as long as he wanted; those fingerprints weren't going anywhere.

The first blast of icy water was a baptism. It cleared the cobwebs from his brain. Last night was still a blur – shotglasses and skin, mostly. Some aspects of the evening were still fuzzy – like why they had gone to her place, all the way uptown. His was closer to the bar. Or why he had suggested they do tequila shots when he knew he couldn't handle tequila. Other aspects were all too clear. He distinctly remembered suggesting their late night activities. He also remembered the look on her face when he suggested it. Danny never wanted to forget anything more than he wanted to forget that look he had put on her face.

Nevertheless, she had agreed. He wondered why. They'd decided, a long time ago, that their mutually beneficial arrangement was no longer mutually beneficial – that it was starting to get too complicated, and it was best if they cut the sex part out of their relationship. And it worked, for the most part. They'd only slipped once, on her birthday. But for nearly a year, they were able to just stay friends – without the 'benefits'. Their reasons remained unspoken, but he suspected hers had to do with the guy she ended up dating about three weeks after they stopped sleeping together. His reasons, of course, all revolved around his fast-developing feelings for the plucky, no-nonsense import from Montana.

And then… Then Lindsay had gone undercover and everything had gone to hell. He realized, as he sat in the van only able to listen as she risked her life, that he was in love with her. And he knew, when he saw her in the cloud of dust, alive and unharmed, that he had been in love with her for a long time. He had never been in love before, but he assumed that was what this unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his chest was – this all-consuming ache that threatened to cripple him, the overwhelming desire to curl up beside her and hold on for dear life. God help him, but he was in love with Lindsay Monroe.

But after she stood him up, after she gave him hope and then snatched it away, after she told him that she liked him – a lot – but she couldn't be in a relationship with him, his heart shattered. He usually had girls scrambling to go out on dates with him – being stood up was a new experience. He tried to talk to her, convince her that he just wanted to spend time with her, that he didn't want a relationship with her. He did – he wanted everything and more – but he would gladly suffer through the hell of being just friends if it meant getting to see her every day. But she left him standing in the hallway, his heart on his sleeve, and walked away from him.

He waited to see if Lindsay would come around, to see if whatever was frightening her so badly – which he now knew to be her attack, back in Montana – would go away so that they could be together. But the longer he waited, the less hopeful he got, until finally he just couldn't take it anymore. And then she left for Montana, and she didn't say goodbye in person. He watched, tears in his eyes, as she hugged Mac and Stella and then walked past him without even noticing.

She left him a card. And she signed it 'Montana'. He smiled, and he felt his chest swell with hope again. So he anxiously waited for her to return. He called her a couple times a week, to check on her, and also to hear the sound of her voice. They spoke for hours on the phone, and their conversations were the highlight of his week. He assumed, once she came back, that they could pick up where they left off.

Unfortunately, they did. And where they left off was not a damn thing happening. He wanted to ask her out again as soon as he saw her, but he refrained. He didn't want to push her into something she may not be ready for. So he waited as long as he could, about three weeks, and then he asked her to dinner. She turned him down, saying that she still wasn't ready.

And in a moment of weakness, he resurrected the arrangement.

He rested his forehead against the tile and took a deep breath. One of these days, his self-destructive behavior was going to catch up with him. He just hoped it wasn't today.

When his skin became numb to the water, he shut it off. He remained in the shower a few more moments, letting his body drip dry, before he toweled off and got dressed. He ran his fingers through his still wet hair as he meandered through the hallways and back to the fingerprint lab, where to his surprise, the computer screen was blinking.

Match found.

He raised his eyebrows. That had to be a record. He sat down and typed his clearance in the window that had popped up, trying to open the file.

Access denied.

Danny frowned. That was odd. He entered his clearance again, thinking he had mistyped – wouldn't be the first time. But again, he was denied. He tried once more, and this time, another message appeared.

Records sealed. DIRUS0291. Must be GS-14 or above to access file.

"GS-14?" Danny said to no one in particular, as he was the only one in the room. That was a pretty high clearance. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and hit number two on the speed dial. He didn't even wait for the person on the other end to speak before he started talking. "Hey, it's me. Listen, something came up during a fingerprint search that I think you should know about."