A/N I need to sleep, so I'll make this brief! To avoid confusion, the "PART ONE" bit refers to the section of the story, once its goes to the first of the many chance meetings between Elliot and Casey, it shall become "part two".
Hope it makes sense, if not, it probably will when you see it written down!
Anyways, review if you have a moment, it probably won't put hairs on your chest, unless you want them of course. It has a complex algorithm ….
PART ONE
2006
Vendetta
THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT SQUAD ROOM
Mulling it over on the way back to the one six, Olivia still couldn't figure out what had turned their incumbent ADA into an uncompromising zealot. She arrived in the emptying squadroom, slinging her tan leather jacket onto the tall, nearly nude coat-rack and joining her partner at their double desks.
"That went well," Olivia announced wearily when simply flopping down into her desk chair opposite Elliot and a few loud, deliberate sighs didn't elicit the question she desired.
"You went to see Casey?" Elliot surmised, palms rubbing at the dark stubble growth coating his cheeks, he looked distracted. And tired.
"She won't budge," Olivia shrugged, "this case has really got her rattled."
"I didn't think she would," Elliot said.
"I don't get it, we've both spoken to Marissa, she's not a cold blooded killer, she was terrified he was going to kill her, and her daughters, and he probably would have if she hadn't done what she did, what options did she have?"
"Police, womens refuge, family members…" Elliot began to check off on his fingers.
"El, we both know that it doesn't always work out that way," Olivia said softly.
Elliot nodded in agreement, "I know, I just think you need to look at it from Casey's point of view."
Olivia thought back to her conversation with the ADA, brows scrunching in confusion, "I don't get it; why is Novak so invested in this?"
"I've never told you about the first time I met Casey, have I?" Elliot asked, rising from his chair with a theatrical, wide-armed stretch, the contagious sort; like a yawn causing echoes from all in the vicinity. Olivia found herself knitting her fingers together, stretching her hands out in front and working her stiff shoulders.
"Yeah, you did, you played softball with her when she was still in white-collar," Olivia said, joining Elliot by the coat rack. He had shrugged on his own black wool-blend duffle and presently held out her own still warm leather number, ready for her to slot her arms into, which she did. Olivia took a moment to neaten up her collar before asking,
"Where are we going?"
"It's late, figure we could both use a drink, and besides, this is a long story, but that wasn't the first time I met Casey, it wasn't even the second time." Elliot said, with an ominous smile. Now Olivia was intrigued, she couldn't believe Elliot had never mentioned this before, they were partners, and they spent a hell of a lot of time together. During particularly arduous stakeouts, car trips or wait-arounds, they had discussed things epically mundane, just to keep conversation going, neither had ever really perfected the art of comfortable silence. In the two years Casey Novak had been the squads go-to-gal for all things great and legal, Elliot had never thought it might be interesting to know that the two had some sort of history, one that required drinks and an evening nightspot to discuss.
As Olivia followed Elliot out of the squad room, rapt, he began his story,
"The first time we met, was back in 92'. I'd just made Detective, and Kathy was pregnant with the twins…"
PART TWO
1992
Blame
Embraced by a duvet and bathed in dark, serene was the appropriate word to describe the young Detective, sleeping contently next to his wife upon crisp, meadow scented sheets.
That is, until his fucking phone blared angrily, a cacophonic flare intruding upon the idyllic night,
"Stabler?" Elliot mumbled, phone pressed to his ear, barely able to articulate his own surname. He'd managed to grab the receiver before the shrill ring woke his wife, who was laid next to him. Kathy was presently expecting twins, and whilst Elliot was thrilled to be adding to his brood, at eight months, his wife's moods had turned somewhat volatile. Hormones. He had grown used to them after her first two pregnancies which had yielded his two daughters. He knew what would happen if he'd let the call awaken her, and over the years, Elliot had grown rather attached to his testicles.
Whilst Elliot had been delighted to make Detective, it had definitely meant taking on a greater commitment. As a beat cop, he did his rounds, filed his paperwork, and went home, job done. But now, his cases were a personal responsibility, and he worked in the special victims unit, where there was no such thing as a simple open and shut case. He listened as his Partner detailed a newest case to him, already on his feet, stretching to work the kinks out of his spine.
One-year-old. In a coma. Major head injury. Perp was most likely the babysitter, some high school kid, presently in custody.
Elliot glanced at the photos on the bedside, one was of his eldest child, Maureen, mere hours after she had been born. Her red complexion and scrunched up little face, minuscule hands which he had marvelled at when they had first reached up and curled around his finger. He felt a familiar simmering start in his veins, as he hung up the phone, sifting through his wardrobe for a clean shirt. This high school punk was in for a whole world of trouble.
THE SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT SQUAD ROOM
At 3am, the traffic was a breeze, and Elliot quickly found himself in his departments squad room. His Partner, Senior Detective George Harley, a portly older man with a quickly retreating shock of silver hair, was reclining at his desk, contentedly sipping a coffee as he paged through a tabloid sized paper.
"The kid's in there, thought you'd want to take the first run," Harley said, thumbing in the general direction of the station interview rooms. In truth, Detective Harley was a lazy ass, attempting to ride out the time until his retirement by delegating all his work to Elliot, which was fine. Elliot preferred to take the hands on approach.
"What do we know about this kid?" Elliot asked, shrugging off his suit jacket and rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, as was his custom prior to an interrogation. Not that he planned on roughing the kid up, it was more the implication. He meant business. Plus the large marines seal tattoo adorning his forearm did add a certain je ne sais quoi.
Harley shrugged his heavy shoulders, not deigning it necessary to draw his eyes from the periodical, "local kid, sixteen, got a mouth on her alright. Babysits for the Harrisons twice a week, they say they've seen her get rough with baby Connor before. Open and shut."
Elliot hoped it was that simple, "have you called the kids parents yet? You know how ADA Donnelly hates it when we interview a kid without parental consent."
Harley rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed that Elliot was keeping him from his paper, "Parent's are divorced, Dad lives out of state, Mom's busy, said we can talk to the kid."
Elliot sighed, he clearly was not going to get any useful information out of the Senior Officer, "okay, what's the kids name?"
"Oh, she's called Casey… Kovac, or Novac. Something weird and Czech sounding. Its on the paperwork."
Elliot raised his ample, dark eyebrows, "you booked her already?"
Harley shook his head, his bulldog like jowls wobbling a little, making Elliot involuntarily cringe, "nah, you know me and forms, I was hoping maybe…"
"Fine, I'll do it later," Elliot called back over his shoulder as he made his way to the interview room.
*****
The second Elliot entered the room, he was confronted by Casey Kovacnovacorwhatever. She was tall, maybe five seven or so, with an awkward lankiness that suggested the teen had yet to properly grow into her height. She had milk pale skin and shoulder length hair, red in a shade dark enough that it was close to brown, cut with bangs that fell slightly over her green eyes, which were presently pinning him in a surprisingly disconcerting, intense glare.
"I thought I was supposed to get a phone call?" The kid snapped, attempting to sound authoritative, but coming off precocious.
"You would, if you were under arrest, which you're not," Elliot said, finding the teen's simultaneous childish foot-stomping and bold assertiveness rather entertaining, "we're just having a little chat. I'm Detective Stabler."
"If this is just a 'chat'," Casey made over exaggerated air quotes, "then I'm free to leave," she said, challenging him by stepping toward the door. Elliot caught her by the upper arm, steering her back toward a the desk. She shrugged him off angrily, nailing him with a scowl that could sour milk from several hundred yards. He was faintly concerned for the squad room coffee supplies.
"We just have a few questions we need to ask you, and if everything checks out, you're free to go. How does that sound?" Elliot said, setting himself down in the seat opposite Casey. She shrugged heavily, likely realizing this 'chat' was mandatory, and no amount of sullenness would extricated her from the ugly situation.
"You already think I did it, don't you?" Casey said, folding her arms with a sigh and continuing to focus on the less than inspiring graffiti indelibly etched onto the surface of the battered old table.
"Why don't you tell me what happened, in your own words?" Elliot said. The kid looked physically harmless, however, her temper was evident, even from the uneasy way in which she sat, at odds with stillness, reversing the cross of her arms, tapping one foot to an uneven rapid beat.
"I went to baby sit for the Harrisons, like I do every Wednesday and Friday night. Connor was already in his crib. He got up a few times, I fed him, changed him, and that's it. I left at about eleven, when they came home. Something must have happened after," Casey said, "they're saying it was me, aren't they?"
"No one's saying anything," Elliot said, remaining non-committal.
"Bullshit," Casey muttered, shaking her head.
"What makes you think they're blaming you?" Elliot asked, rising from his seat and circling the teen, taking up station directly behind her, leaning against the cool grey-green wall. She didn't even bother turning to face him. She wasn't jumpy. In Elliot's experience, not jumpy generally meant not guilty, though that was far from a hard and fast rule. Sometimes it just meant they were good at playing the game. It seemed probable it was the latter in this case. From Elliot's initial appraisal of the situation, he gathered it was most likely the baby had been screaming, kid loses temper, strikes the baby, it shuts up, she figures that quietened it down, no harm done, until the parents come home, realize the baby's sleeping that little bit too soundly, they discover the head wound, call the cops. And now the kid was trying to play it cool and pass it off as a frame job.
*****
"Because I'm the only other person who was there, and they aren't exactly going to tell you they did it, are they?" Casey said, stating the obvious and letting the Detective hear her frustration. Casey thought Police detectives were meant to be intelligent, but this one was decidedly dense. Densely packed too. She couldn't help but notice his biceps straining his pale blue shirt as he crossed his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. He was actually kind of cute. Stupid, but cute.
Whether or not he had a nice body or eyes the colour of the sky on a clear day was irrelevant though.
What was pertinent was that she was presently being falsely accused of harming the Harrisons baby, and it seemed there was little recourse. She knew how this was going to go down. Affluent, well liked, cosmopolitan couple vs. latch-key kid from the rougher side of town, with no criminal record yet, putting her amongst the minority in her block. No prizes for where the fingers were going to be pointing.
She was up shit-creek without a paddle and a leak in her fucking canoe.
"Where's my Mom?" Casey asked. It made her feel incredibly juvenile, asking for her 'mommy', but she was scared, and even though Casey's grand plan was to go to Law School once she graduated, all her present knowledge of law came from watching procedural crime shows and her elder sibling's copious run-ins with law enforcement.
"She's busy, but she said we could talk to you for a little while," The Detective said.
"I doubt that," Casey said, shaking her head. Casey was one of five kids and she was the good daughter. The one that put her head down, got good grades, did well on the softball and soccer team, got an after school job to help her mother out with the bills. She very much doubted that she would leave her to fend for herself.
"You want me to double check with my partner," Detective Stabler asked, pacing back into her field of vision. Casey nodded mutely.
"Alright," He shrugged, ducking out the muddy green door.
*****
When Elliot left the interview room, he was immediately confronted by a young, uniformed officer with close cropped hair. She appeared flustered,
"Sir, I've got a lady in reception, mad as hell, insisting she needs to speak to Detective Harley."
"He's not at his desk?" Elliot asked, glancing across the bullpen.
"No sir," She said, taking her hat off, looking worriedly over her shoulder.
"I've not seen you around here, you new?" Elliot asked.
"Officer Benson, just graduated the academy Sir," She said, straightening up to her full height proudly. Elliot loved enthusiastic rookies, how they swelled with pride at being granted the privilege of guarding the reception desk.
"Alright Officer, send her up, I'll see what I can do," Elliot nodded. The Officer gave a curt nod and turned on her heel, an academy fresh march taking her back down the hall.