Sorry it's been a while since the first chapter. I wrote this one almost immediately after, but I wanted to make sure it was in line with my plot (which is essentially the same as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's). Also, I haven't been using my writing computer lately, so all recent adventures to the internet have been fanfic free (sniff). I hope to have the 3rd chapter up tomorrow. Thanks!

Oh! I almost forgot! Disclaimer! I hereby own nothing related to Law & Order: Criminal Intent, though I wish I did, and these old-school attempts to get my fix by writing my own stories are nothing more than the wanderings of an obsessed mind... by reading this disclaimer, Dick Wolf hereby waives his right to sue.

We stepped into the room. It was a small, well furnished room. Jaime had obviously made his ridiculously high bail- but then again, he was being charged with murder, so high bail seems logical... however, when I looked at him, it was one of the few times my gut told me there was no way this boy was a murderer- he looked far too anguished. Rarely do I get such a gut feeling, but I got the feeling this time.

"Jaime Urzo, This is Detective Eames and I'm Detective Goren," Bobby said as he closed the door behind me, his arm extended over my head. I felt shorter than ever, as he had recently brought the subject up. On the ride over he proceeded to point out how the length of my stride in relation to my height proved that my feet were smaller than normal- so, not only am I short, I have small feet too. Thanks, Bobby.

I looked to Bobby, then the boy. He stepped forward to shake my hand, then went back to the chair he had been occupying. He looked so young, his green eyes pleaded earnest innocence and his short curly brown hair seemed positively juvenile, despite the fact that it all summed one particularly handsome man. I kept these thoughts to myself. Perhaps if Bobby felt he needed use of them I might mention them.

"You have a very well connected friend," I said, sitting down in the plush chair across from Jaime. Bobby paced behind me. "We don't usually play the role of defense attorney."

"I didn't do it!" he immediately began. "I left and came back again. And I found him-"

"Whoa," I said, holding up a hand. "Slow down there."

"From the beginning," Bobby said, still pacing. He seemed unaffected by all that I had noticed. He may notice things (and I'm sure he noticed what I did), but sometimes I doubt if he feels them.

"I came home the afternoon of the 15th around 2pm." I raised an eyebrow. "I had to change for a dinner party with my father. I remember because I knew exactly how much time I had to get ready- 2 hrs. I was supposed to meet Alice- my neighbor- for coffee and then go straight to the dinner."

"What changed?" Bobby asked.

"Rita, the housekeeper, said that my dad wanted to talk to me. She said he had headed to the fitness room when I asked where."

"You were arrested with your gun on you, and it had been recently discharged. It's also the same type of gun that killed your father."

"I was at the shooting range before I came home."

"Why do you need a gun?" I asked, inferring, you're to innocent looking and too wealthy to need a gun for pretection.

"I'm just used to shooting. I've been hunting with my dad since i was a boy." Great, I thought, he's a mountain momma's boy- that's why he's so cute. "I had my gun with me because I had just gotten home from the range," he repeated. "My lawyer can tell you- i'm not sure what you need to know to confirm that..." he mumbled. My pity increased.

"I already know," Bobby said.

Jaime looked taken aback, although I knew Bobby meant no personal attack, I could see where it could be interpreted as one. I leaned forward to regain control of the conversation. "So, what happened then?"

"Well, like I said, I found my dad in the fitness room- he- we started fighting. I ended up punching him, so I left," he said, hanging his head in shame. "Then a few minutes later, as I was getting into the elevator to go back downstairs, I heard a gunshot... and I ran back, and tried to pick him up, but he was limp and..." he stopped short and buried his face in his hands to keep from crying. He looked up again.

"What were you arguing about?" Bobby asked.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head as though rationalizing.

"It might be important-" I began, but I was cut off, not by Bobby, as I might have expected, but Jaime, who said shortly, "it's not, because I didn't kill him, and there's no way the bastard who killed him knew what we were fighting about."

"What makes you say that?" Bobby asked.

"Because- nobody knew! But- it doesn't matter, and I don't want to talk about it."

"I think," Bobby began slowly, "that there's every possibility the killer knew what you were arguing about, because of his proximity to you at the time- having shot your father only moments after you finished arguing."

Jaime's eyes widened and he sat up straight, then, just as quickly as it had happened, the look was gone. I knew Bobby had caught it too. "I can't tell you," he said, anguished.

I gave my partner a significant look before getting up to leave the room.