AUTHOR'S NOTES: First off, thanks for all the reviews and story alerts and author alerts. I really appreciated that and it really encouraged me. Now, some other stuff about the story:

Ages: I am going off Tim DeKay's age for Peter. Tim DeKay was born in 1963.

Location: It was said in "Burke's Seven" that Peter was from Upstate New York. I chose Ithaca and more specifically Cayuga Heights as Peter's hometown. Ithaca is also where Tim DeKay was from. I would like to say now that I have never been to these places and definitely have no idea what they were like in 1979. I won't be doing much describing beyond the typical American suburbs so please take no offense if I make a mistake if you are from these areas. I apologize ahead of time. Also, names of places in Cayuga Heights such as a hospital or school are completely made up as well.

Peter's Past: All that has been said about Peter's past so far in the show is that his father was a bricklayer. And in one episode I swear I saw a baseball trophy in Peter's office. From this, I have deduced that Peter was a part of a middle class family and was a baseball player. Since he said that he was "an athlete good at math" I deduced that he was a good baseball player and a smart guy too. Well, we know he's smart. He's frickin' Special Agent Peter Burke, the guy who caught Neal Caffrey twice! Duh, he's smart! Anyway, that's all the back-up I got. Hopefully there aren't any episodes that delve more into Peter's past until I'm finished with this story. Personally, I would love to hear more about his past on the show, and that's why I wrote this story.

Lastly, hope you enjoy!

P.S.—was that a kick ass episode last night or what?

It wasn't difficult for Peter to sleep in the following morning. In fact, he found that the only blessing from last night's events was that it had occurred on Friday night. Therefore, he didn't have to get up and go to the diner he worked at on weekday mornings during the summer. He woke up because the light was finally coming in through the windows at an angle that put it right into his eyes. Rolling over, he tried to go back to sleep.

It had taken him long enough to get to sleep the night before. Every time he had closed his eyes he could see the people being shot dead only right across the street from him. He could see the killers' faces and their eyes; how cold and heartless they were. It unnerved him. He kept thinking that they would suddenly appear in his room to finish him off. Paul had tossed and turned throughout the night as well.

But when he woke up, Paul was already downstairs. It was close to 10 and Peter decided it was time to get up. He shuffled to the bathroom where he pulled off the bandage over his stitches and cleaned around it. But he didn't even bother getting out of his pajamas as his stomach steered him to the kitchen. He stood for a moment between the kitchen and den. Anne was on the sofa eating eggs and sausage with Tom and Jerry for company on the television. She turned around when he heard Peter.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said. "Paul made sausage and eggs. He left them on the stove for you."

Peter looked around. "Where is he?"

"He went to go get your bikes," replied Anne, turning back to the television.

Peter just nodded and made himself a plate and joined Anne to watch the Saturday morning cartoons. On the coffee table lay that day's newspaper. The front page was about the previous nights' murders. The second page was a follow up story about the boys who had witnessed it and that two of them had been hit by the car driven by the murderers. There were no pictures or names, however. Peter couldn't help but be grateful. He wasn't a fan of attention on himself. He especially would not enjoy it in something as large as this. His father's comment before was accurate: a murder (this one a double-murder) was unheard of in Cayuga Heights and would no doubt be the talk for the next week or so.

Peter read the front page story. The two men who had been killed had just moved into the area as roommates in an apartment complex. They were co-owners of a car shop they worked themselves. The paper said nothing about why they may have been killed, but Peter's gut was telling them there was more to their story. He found it hard to believe that the murderers had just decided to go out and kill two random people. Leastways, Peter had never heard of anything like that before.

He went up for seconds, and only after making sure that everyone had eaten breakfast that morning, he took some more. This time he sat down and tossed aside the newspaper so he could actually watch the cartoons. Still, his mind continued to work. His father and mother would most likely be well into their jobs now. Paul sure was taking his time retrieving the bikes.

"What's wrong," asked Anne.

"Nothing," said Peter. "Just thinking."

"You shouldn't think so hard," said Anne. "It's giving me headache."

Peter smirked as he finished his second helping. He picked up their dishes and went to put them in the sink. "It's kind of hard not to after last night."

"Well then get your mind off it," said Anne. "You should go see Jimmy. He called earlier. He's back at home."

Peter smiled. That would certainly be something to do. "I'll wait for Paul to come back."

"Oh yeah," said Anne. "Just reminding you that Paul is taking me up to Grandma's to stay till Tuesday. He'll be gone all afternoon."

Peter swore silently. He had been hoping that everyone would just stay home today. H really had no desire to be home alone today. He turned on the water and started washing off their dishes.

"I heard that," said Anne. "You should try washing your mouth out more often."

Peter looked up. How had she heard that?

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"Nope."

"Yeah you did."

"I never forget."

"Peter, this is a lost cause."

The side door opened and Paul walked in, hanging up the keys to their pick-up.

"'Bout time you woke up," he told Peter. "Look at you, doing the dishes. Remember—"

"You're taking Anne up to Grandma's," finished Peter. "I remembered."

"Not until a minute ago," Anne put in. She laid down the newspaper on the kitchen table. "And just so you know, I did the crossword puzzle on the newspaper."

"What?" Paul and Peter glared at her.

The crossword puzzle was unique piece of the Burke children. Their father had always done crosswords of all sorts, telling them that he wanted to broaden his vocabulary. They followed his lead and soon enough were ardently solving it each day. It was, of course, more difficult when they were younger because they didn't know a lot about the content of the puzzles they attempted. But as they got older and more knowledgeable, it was more fun. Of course, there was only one newspaper which brought up trouble. Marie, ever the mediator between the children, came up with a simple solution: they simply write their answers down on a separate piece of paper. At first, there was some confusion because it then became more difficult for them to see how words fit. But Marie knew her children. They would see it as a challenge; a challenge for themselves individually and also between their siblings. So, there were no complaints towards the compromise. They simply got to it and started working. John and Marie were both proud of how willingly their children tackled the problems; not to mention how efficiently they would get over any obstacle. "They're smarter than I ever was," John told Marie one night. "But I have nothing against that. I want them to go as far as they want to and to never be limited by what they don't know or understand."

Paul and Peter could never stare down Anne.

"Well," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Peter slept forever and then Paul left. I thought you guys would've forgotten about it."

"I was looking forward to that," muttered Peter, turning back to the dishes.

Anne rolled her eyes. "Don't pout like a little girl Petey."

Peter mumbled something under his breath and glared out the window as he kept working on the dishes. Paul just picked up the newspapers and dumped them in the trash.

"I wouldn't care to see today's paper anyway," he said.

"Well, I read it," said Peter.

Anne cast her eyes down. "I did too." She sighed. "I'm sorry you guys had to see it."

There was an awkward silence. Peter turned off the water. "Look, I'm gonna go get dressed and ride over to Jimmy's house. How's my bike?"

"It's fine," said Paul. "But Jimmy's is messed up. I dropped it off at his house."

"I'll work on it," said Peter.

The doorbell rang and the three kids looked up, wondering who it would be. Anyone that they knew would've gone to the side door.

"I'll get it," said Anne.

"No," said Paul, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I will. You two stay here." He stalked out of the kitchen.

Peter sighed. "He's in protective mode."

Anne smiled. "He said he felt guilty about what happened last night. He said that he was supposed to always watch out for us, and that he shouldn't have let you get hit by that car."

"What? He knows better. There was nothing he could've done."

Anne was about to reply, but they heard Paul returning. Paul entered the kitchen with a man in tow.

"This is Lt. Cooper Stoval," said Paul. "He's from the police department. Lt., this is my sister Anne, and my brother Peter."

The two younger Burkes shook his hand. He looked to be in his late forties or early fifties. He was dressed in black slacks and a dress shirt but wore no tie. There was a badge and handgun on his belt. He had calloused hands and a worn down look to him, but still looked strong and firm. His eyes were gentle and kind as well, making the children feel comfortable around him.

"I'm going upstairs to get packed," said Anne.

She left and Cooper looked around. "Going somewhere?"

"She's going to our grandparents' for a few days," replied Paul.

"Can I get you any coffee, Lt.," asked Peter, reaching for a mug.

"No thanks, son," he said. "I came here to get your story from last night. I've already spoken to the other two boys. For records' sake, I need your statements, but I understand that one of you actually saw the shooters."

Peter nodded. "I did."

"Do you think you could sit down with a sketch artist and describe them," asked Cooper.

"Sure," said Peter. "I even recognized one of them."

"You did," asked Paul. "You never said that."

"You were upset enough when I said I saw them," shot back Peter.

Paul locked his jaw in mild irritation, and Cooper smiled. "How about we sit down?" He gestured to the table, and they sat down.

"First," said Cooper. "Both of you just tell me what happened." He set a tape recorder on the table. "This will be running the entire time." He turned it on and they each told their story from their point of views. Peter told from when he and Jimmy were crossing the intersection until the killers drove off. Paul did the same, explaining what he had seen from fifty yards off.

When they were finished, Cooper stopped the tape. Anne crossed through the den to the back porch; it was obvious she had been listening to their accounts. Paul and Peter shared a look, telepathically deciding they would have a talk with her.

"Ok," said Cooper. "That's basically the same story as the other boys gave—give or take a few details. Peter, yours is obviously more helpful since you saw the shooters. Your friend, James—"

"Jimmy," corrected Peter quickly. Paul nudged him in the ribs with his elbow, but Peter ignored it. "He hates it when people call him James."

Cooper smiled. "Right. I'll remember that. Well, he insisted on telling me all the way from the time he saw a possum crossing the road to when a paramedic in the ambulance jabbed him too hard with a needle."

Paul rolled his eyes while Peter smirked. "Yessir, that's Jimmy."

"Well," said Cooper. "What you can now do is tell me about the man you recognized. Where do you think you've seen him before? Oh, and I'm turning the tape recorder again."

"Yessir," said Peter. "The guy I recognized, he was the passenger. He was the one who pointed the gun at me. I know I saw him at this Christmas party—just this past Christmas."

"The Bardwells' Christmas party," asked Paul.

"Yeah," said Peter. He looked to Cooper to explain. "Mark Bardwell is on our baseball team—or was. He graduated with Paul this year. Anyway, he invited the team to this formal Christmas party at his house."

"Wait a minute," said Cooper. "Bardwell? As in Judge Clayton Bardwell?"

"Yessir," answered Peter. "That's Mark's father."

"And you saw this guy from the car at that party?"

"Right. I'm sure of it. I remember because I went to say hello to Judge Bardwell and he was standing next to him. He had gone to Ithaca High and was telling me to lessen up for that game or something."

"You don't remember a name," asked Cooper. "Hear anything else about him that night?"

Peter shook his head. "Sorry, no. I never heard his name. But he was there as long as I was if not longer. He's obviously a friend of Judge Bardwell's or a friend of the family."

Cooper smiled. "That's right. Which might help us. If I could find a picture of him you would be able to identify him?"

"You think you know who he is," asked Paul.

"No, I don't have any idea," replied Cooper. "But he's associated with the Judge."

"And there are plenty of pictures of him," finished Peter. "But that's a lot of pictures I'd have to look through."

"Willing to do it to help catch a killer," asked Cooper.

Peter nodded. "Yessir. Anytime."

()()()()()()

"To catch a killer…So, you identified them?" Neal was working on his second beer.

"Yep," said Peter. "I looked through photos for an hour before I found him. He was an old buddy of the Judge's. They went way back; their fathers were good friends. They went to college together then separated ways. The Judge—well he went to law school and the other guy came here to New York City. Anyway, his name was Christopher Winters. He was back in town because he was going to help the Judge in the upcoming campaign for a seat on the state's Supreme Court."

Neal whistled. "So what about this other guy? The driver?"

"I sat down with a sketch artist, and described him as best as I could," said Peter. "His defining feature was that he had a scar pretty much down the middle of his face." Peter drew his finger from the point between his eyes, down the right side of his nose and over the right corner of his lips to his chin. "That was what gave him away. His name was Terry Dixon. The Lt. had a file on him: he was a drug dealer from New York. When he moved into Ithaca, NYPD sent all the local police a warning and his records."

"So what were a drug dealer and a campaign advisor to a judge doing shooting up the neighborhood," asked Neal.

"That's the question the Lt. had to start investigating," replied Peter. "And that was what blew the roof off it all. I'm sure you can see how this became controversial."

"Right," said Neal. "A judge who is looking for a spot in the state Supreme Court is now connected to a killer who was with a drug dealer. This doesn't look good for him."

"It brought a lot of heat his way," said Peter. He took another swig from his bottle. "And that heat went to us who had seen it all. Though our name hadn't been in a paper or anything, everyone knew it was us who had seen it."

"Did anyone know it was you that identified them, though," asked Neal.

Peter shook his head. "No, not yet. But eventually our identities came out. The next day, somehow—"

"Reporters always find a way," put in Neal.

"Exactly," said Peter. "Anyway, they got our names and the next day there was a story on us being there. Also, that same night, after I identified Winters and Dixon, the Lt. went and picked up Winters. (Dixon was conveniently out of town.) So, the same day our names came out in the paper, another article ran about one of us identifying Winters."

"So the shit hit the fan," said Neal. "Pardon mon français."

"Well, you're right," said Peter. He turned the page to show the two articles. The first title was obviously a front page: Judge Bardwell's Right Hand Man Identified as One of the Cayuga Height Murderers. There was a picture of the man, flanked by his lawyers. The other article said: Baseball Champions Paul and Peter Burke, Andrew Jennings, and James Levi Are Witnesses. There was a yearbook picture of each boy. The article restated the known details about the shooting and then had something on each boy and their accomplishments on the baseball team that previous school year. It mentioned Paul and Andrew's scholarships to Cornell as well as mentioning that Peter had been awarded the district's student athlete award for spring sports.

"Wow, Peter, that's impressive," said Neal. "Only a sophomore and already a mathalete."

"You can call it whatever you want to call it," said Peter. "I was just good at math and also a good athlete."

"Yeah, yeah," Neal waved him off looking at the pictures. "So what happened next?"

Peter shrugged. "We took the heat."