Beckett looked over the sixteen cops, clustered in loose groups near Esposito and Ryan's desks, all restlessly examining the murder board. (Far earlier that morning, she'd pulled out the whiteboard dedicated to Tyson from a narrow space in a storage closet, where it had been propped against a wall for the previous two months. Since it had been dragged back there, every week she would step back into the dark, constricted space and stare at the strangled women's faces. Despite the APBs, the patrols, the constant scans for similar strangulations, they'd had nothing new to add since Tyson had left Castle tied to a cheap motel chair.)
"This is going to be quick," she said, leaning slightly against her desk, her back to the murder board. Montgomery had turned things over to her, deferring to her intimate knowledge of the case (she was once again the lead, had never stopped being the lead, since no one had dared suggest that they let the case go cold again), and she usually ran quick and informal briefings. This particular meeting would be as short as possible. She, Ryan, and Esposito would bear the brunt of the case work for the immediate future, but Montgomery had wanted the whole division to be on top of the situation, and she'd agreed. It made her skin crawl - the last set of briefings on Tyson's activity had been too short a time ago, and she wasn't used to failing, not on anything, definitely not on anything this important. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't up to date on Tyson, and knowing how news travels around here, most of you have probably heard about our latest murder, which we now know happened between 1 and 2:30am this morning." While she spoke confidently when she gave everyone the bullets, she couldn't stop this lingering shadow of failure, the omnipresent, suffocating knowledge that she had allowed Tyson to kill again. (And it was worse, so much worse, because she knew that, this time, Castle was feeling the same thing.)
She gestured to the board, where a picture of the latest victim had been hastily tacked front and center. "Angela Branson, sixteen year old female, York Prep junior, found at 3:30am."
Beckett paused for a beat as she saw Castle walk out of the elevator. Haines and Garabaldi, his two shadows, followed him out but then hung back, both standing near the entrance to the bullpen. She allowed herself to clench her jaw for an instant – she much rather would have spoken to Castle privately, after the briefing, but there was no helping it. He smiled wanly at her as he walked up next to Ryan and Esposito.
"Lanie Parish confirmed an hour ago that the killer was almost certainly Tyson. There were no prints, but the strangulation pattern and rope fibers were identical. The only difference was some pre-mortem bruising around the wrists and ankles – she was tied up before she was murdered."
Even from across the room, she saw Castle deflate a little, and she could imagine him picturing Angela's last moments alive, full of terror, and thinking of Alexis in that same position.
"She was killed at the site where she was found, in an alley at the intersection of Broome and Crosby, which is directly across the street from the home of our resident writer." All eyes briefly turned to Castle. "Angela Branson is similar in age and physical appearance to Castle's daughter, so until further notice we're keeping sets of eyes on her, on his mother Martha Rodgers, on his partner Gina Cowell, and, obviously, on Castle himself. Given the situation in which we last saw Tyson, it's almost a guarantee that he's fixated in some way on Castle, so until further notice we're treating all of his family as potential victims."
Simmons shot up a hand and asked, leering, "Shouldn't you have protection, Detective Beckett?"
She fought the urge to bristle – most of the cops in the 12th had genuinely come to accept Castle as one of their own, but the older man's ribbing about her and Castle's relationship always had an edge to it that raised her hackles. "We're focusing on immediate family, Simmons, but if you're real concerned about people in danger you can be the third set of eyes outside Castle's apartment," she said, icily. He took the rebuke in stride, remaining quiet for the remainder of the briefing.
She wrapped up quickly, fielding a couple questions about canvassing logistics and reiterating the importance of keeping all ears open for anything that could relate to Tyson.
Castle beelined over to her as soon as the cops scattered back to their desks. "How're you doing?" she asked by way of greeting, accepting a mug of coffee that he'd somehow produced in the fifteen seconds she hadn't been watching him.
He shrugged. "Alexis doesn't much like it, but she's going to stay in the loft for at least today. She has a friend bringing over assignments later so she won't fall too far behind on her schoolwork. I brought up a trip to California with her and Martha and Gina, but they all flat-out refused."
"I thought they might."
"How were the parents?" he asked, his voice a little too flat.
Beckett hunched inward a couple of millimeters. "Upset," she replied, a vast understatement. She had informed too many parents of deaths, enough that she was used to the standard pattern of one person growing hysterical and one person remaining more stoic. This time, both had lost control, the mother becoming frenzied, the father becoming almost catatonic. It had only gotten worse when she'd mentioned the possible involvement of a serial killer, and she'd wound up sitting with them, perched on a too-expensive armchair, for over an hour, getting absolutely no questions answered, until the family therapist (called by the father in one of his more lucid moments before the potential of a serial killer had come up) showed up at the door and she'd finally been able to leave.
Castle just shook his head, undoubtedly imagining himself in their place, and Beckett felt a fresh wave of frustration crash over her. "Castle," she began, but then her phone rang and she looked away and jerked the receiver up to her ear.
"Beckett," she snapped, feeling vicious.
"Detective Beckett, this is Eric Jenkins with the 21st Precinct. I'm calling about a body we discovered earlier this week, a young woman named Marisa Harrington."
His voice was young, tentative, and the worry in it set Beckett even more on edge. She took a deep breath before responding. "How can I help you, Officer Jenkins?"
There was another, longer pause. "My C.O. – he's not sure this is really a productive use of our time, and I'm not even a part of the senior team that's working the homicide…" Jenkins trailed off.
"Just give me the facts, and I'll decide what is and isn't productive." She felt Castle's eyes on her, but when she glanced up at him, he was staring at the phone with a burning intensity.
"The APB you re-released this morning. We don't have anything on the guy – on Tyson – but the strangulation pattern, it looks identical. Our ME says the rope was a quarter inch, twisted, green and white nylon."
Beckett sucked in a breath. "When was she killed?"
"Two days ago."
"I'll be there within the hour," Beckett said, already starting to gather papers from the desk.
"The thing is…" Jenkins trailed off. Becket drummed her pen against her thigh. "We got a suspect almost immediately. Her boyfriend. And it's, I mean, we have him dead to rights. He basically confessed."
"So why'd you call?"
"It's just – I'm sorry, I'm usually more coherent. I know I've been on the job for all of a couple months, but it just doesn't seem right."
"I'll see you within an hour. Let me worry about your C.O."
Jenkins paused a beat, and she couldn't tell whether he was concerned or relieved about her imminent arrival when finally said, "I'll be waiting."
She hung up and immediately walked over to the Captain's office, Castle trailing behind. She briefed Montgomery quickly and watched his body tense. He'd been in an awful state all day.
"How is it possible that this guy killed another woman, another woman in New York City, another woman in New York City two days ago, and we didn't know about it?" he growled after she'd summarized what Jenkins had told her.
"I don't know, Sir, and that's why I'm heading over to the 21st. I want Ryan and Esposito to keep digging into Angela Branson's afternoon – we still don't know how he found her or how he got her to that alley, and there's got to be a witness out there somewhere. If we can pull Kennedy and Jones full-time for the day, they can start crosschecking any of Tyson's possible connections to Angela Branson and our potential other vic."
He squinted at her for a beat, and she spent a fervent second hoping that she hadn't overstepped – she loved Montgomery as a Captain because he let her do what she had to to solve a case, but she rarely had to ask for more manpower than was easily available, and everyone had been working heavy loads lately.
"Anything else?" was all he asked in the end. She shook her head sharply. "Alright then," he said, and turned his attention back to the file he'd been holding.
She walked back to her desk, grabbed her jacket, and spun to face Castle. "Road trip?" she asked. She wasn't sure why it sounded so wrong, but, when she thought about it, she couldn't remember the last time she'd asked instead of ordered Castle go to with her. Somewhere along the way she'd started thinking of him like a partner on the force; she'd started to forget that all of it was optional for him.
He hesitated, and she wondered if perhaps she should have told instead of asked, if breaking the pattern wasn't making it worse, or if maybe she shouldn't have asked at all, if she should have just sent him home to his family, to Alexis and Martha and Gina. "Or maybe you should get back home," she added softly.
Castle shook his head. "No, I'll come. If I need to get back I can grab a cab."
Beckett rolled her eyes. "If you need to get back, you can catch a ride with Haines and Garabaldi."
He glanced toward the elevator, where the two cops were still standing with their arms loosely clasped behind their backs. "But I'll be with you," he whined. "You have a gun and some seriously kickass skills. Bad enough that they forced me ride with them on the way over here."
"You don't like Haines and Garabaldi?" Beckett asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"I don't think they're entertained by me," Castle said. "They don't even talk. They're like angry, boring robots, always scanning the horizon."
Beckett smiled a little at him. "As happy that I am at the faith you place in me, you're stuck with your shadows for now. I'll have them take their own car in case you want to get back, though." She didn't mention that separate cars were less efficient. She didn't mention that, if they really wanted Haines and Garabaldi close, they all should have ridden together. She absolutely didn't mention that, while his safety was the most important thing, she wanted him to feel less like a prisoner in his own life. (And she didn't mention that she wanted some time alone with him, that she missed him, that she was lonely, because she didn't want him and she didn't miss him and she wasn't lonely, simple as that.)
X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X
Well, I finished this a little earlier than expected, due to a recent tryptophan-and-review-fueled bout of writing. I love reading your comments, suggestions, theories, and encouragement - thanks guys!