Jack McCoy looked up from his reading and wearily eyed the thick files that were piled on the conference table in front of him. His gaze shifted toward the door when Rubirosa came into the room carrying a couple of folders.

He waved his hand over the table. "All this information and nothing I can build a solid case on."

"Isn't the crime scene enough?"

"Yes and no. All it really proves is that he was there. I have to eliminate that reasonable doubt and convince the jury that this man is capable of such a violent crime. Right now it's going to be a very hard sell. What do you have?"

"I checked him for priors. Nothing. No DUI's, no assaults, no criminal complaints, nothing. I couldn't even find a parking ticket."

McCoy slapped the file in front of him. "Internal Affairs has investigated him a number of times, but they never filed charges." He indicated a smaller file to his left. "His partner has more officer-involved shootings than he does. She was cleared in every one, but that's neither here nor there." His hand rested again on Goren's file. "This cop uses words as his weapon. He prefers to talk down a suspect rather than have it out with him. What else do you have?"

"Family background. This will impress the hell out of you. His father was a gambler with a definite alcohol problem. Five DUI's and over a dozen assaults, mostly bar fights, over the last five years of his life. His brother followed in their father's footsteps as a regular at the racetrack, and he's had a handful of minor possession charges in the last three years, but none of them led to any time served. His mother died last year of lymphoma. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia in 1968 and was in and out of hospitals until he finally admitted her to Carmel Ridge in 1992, his rookie year with NYPD. His brother has a son who is bipolar and is currently a fugitive. He escaped from Tate's Correctional Facility upstate in October when Detective Goren went on an unauthorized undercover investigation that got him a two month suspension. Apparently, his investigation led to charges being brought against the warden at Tate's." She flipped a couple of pages. "A departmental hearing led to his reinstatement earlier this month, and a psychiatric evaluation determined him fit for duty. In his family, Jack, he's the normal one."

McCoy let out a slow breath at that statement. "I want the psychiatrist who evaluated him on our witness list."

"This wasn't his first evaluation."

"How many doctors have seen him?"

"Two. Skoda and Olivet, a half dozen times in the last fifteen years."

McCoy nodded. "Put them both on the list." He looked thoughtful. "See what you can find out about his mother's mental illness. With a family background like that...any indication he was abused as a child?"

"Nothing I have here."

He turned back to the open file in front of him. "See what you can dig up. Check old hospital records, doctor's records...where did he grow up?"

"Canarsie, in Brooklyn."

"Check with the schools and the local precinct. See if they have anything."

"From the sixties and early seventies?"

He looked up. "You never know until you ask, Connie. People in the old neighborhoods don't move around too much. Have Green and Lupo ask around and see if anyone remembers the Goren brothers."

Goren was laying on the couch in his apartment, lost in thought. Once his bail was posted, Eames took him home and stayed with him. That had been late the previous afternoon, and she was still there. He was glad she'd stayed; he wasn't up for being alone at the moment.

The room was quiet. Since leaving Riker's, they had not talked much. Several attempts by her to draw him into conversation had been met by grunts or single-syllable answers. He wanted her there but he really wasn't in the mood for conversation.

An empty pizza box lay closed on the coffee table along with two empty coffee cups and a couple of beer bottles. He hadn't had much appetite for lunch, but she'd coaxed him into eating a couple of slices. Eames had a pad of paper in her lap, taking an accounting of the things they knew for certain and the things they had to investigate. At the top of her list was the statement that her partner had not killed anyone. Beyond that, she had more questions than answers and she had to figure some way to draw him out or they would never be able to build a defensible case. She looked up every time he moved, but he remained quiet, so when he did speak, she was surprised. He held up the beer bottle he was holding in a mock salute and said, "Do you think if I drink enough of these, this will all go away like a bad dream?"

The look on her face softened. "Bobby..."

He didn't have to see her face to hear the emotion in her tone, and he interpreted it as pity, which set off a fire of resentment in his gut. "No! Don't...Eames, I can take a lot of shit, but I can't take pity. Not from you. Don't feel sorry for me."

"Feel sorry for you? Don't be stupid. I don't feel sorry for you, you horse's ass, but if you insist on being a jerk, I'll go home."

"No...please. Stay. I'm sorry. It was a lame joke."

"Very lame. Don't do that any more."

They were finally talking and she relaxed a little. When he spoke again, it was to ask the question she had been anticipating. "Eames...Why...why did your family do that for me, put up their homes for my bail? And how did Deakins find out what was going on?"

She was ready with the answer, which was the honest truth. "My parents like you, and they wanted to help. The same with my sister. I know that's hard for you to believe right now, but they do. Deakins contacted me. He saw the news, and he wanted the truth about what was going on. I didn't ask him; he offered."

The only way she was going to find the answers they needed was to ask and hope he would continue to talk to her. She was afraid he was going to shut down on her, but the questions had to be asked. Keeping her voice neutral, she said, "Tell me about Lorraine Hodges."

He shrugged. "There isn't much to tell. I met her my rookie year. She worked the secretarial pool. We had common interests, and we liked spending time together. She'd go to the shooting range with me and I'd go to watch the Rangers play with her."

"So you dated her?"

"No. We never dated. She paid her way and I paid mine. That was how she wanted it. She made it very clear that she wasn't interested in sex outside marriage, and I was equally clear that I didn't want to get married. The boundaries were established and we never crossed them."

"How often did you see her?"

He tucked his arm under his head. "I don't know. A couple of times a month, maybe. About the same as I saw my other friends. It was nothing special, Eames. She was just a friend."

"But you had a falling out."

"Not really. I already went through this with Green and Lupo."

"So run it down with me now."

He let out a sigh of deep frustration and annoyance, but he did not turn them on her. Calmly, he explained, "I was working narcotics when she started dating Dennis. Apparently, he thought it was beneath her to be friends with a cop, especially one involved with drug dealers. He was elevating her station in life and if she wanted to continue being with him, there were certain elements of her life she needed to leave behind. Her cop friendships were near the top of his list of undesirable attributes, along with her job, so she walked away from that part of her life, including her friendship with me. I haven't seen her since."

"You sound...bitter."

"No, I'm not. I was glad she was happy. I didn't care for the fact that he was dictating who she could be friends with, but that was her decision and I respected it."

"Did you argue with her about it?"

"Not that I remember, no."

"But you were at her place Saturday night."

His hand came to rest over the healing knife wound in his side and he scratched it. "So says the evidence, yes."

She sighed. "Stop that; it'll get infected." She flipped through the pages on the pad in her lap. "Logan is pulling your phone records and hers. We're treading very carefully because this is not our case and we don't want to step on any toes. We have a serious conflict of interest here. Ross gave us the go-ahead, but he told us to be careful. One call from Van Buren and he'll shut us down."

"Eames, don't stick your neck out for me. Let Moredock do his job."

"He is. We're just giving him a hand." She hesitated. "Where were you on Saturday, Bobby?"

He tipped his head and studied her for a moment, consciously reminding himself that she only wanted to help him. "I went to Brooklyn, to visit my mother's grave. I stopped for lunch at a pub in my old neighborhood. The bartender knew my dad; he'll remember me. After that, I went home. I got here around six, broke out a beer and spent the evening watching television and drinking. That was it."

"What about Mr. Bergeron's claim that Lori was having an affair with you?"

"He can say whatever he wants, that doesn't make it so. I have not seen Lori for about eight years, not even in passing. Hell, I haven't even thought about her for years. She was married. I don't date married women. And the Lori I knew would never have had an affair, no matter how unhappy her marriage was. Maybe she changed; it happens. But I wouldn't know."

"Would she have called you if she was in trouble?"

"After all this time, why would she?" He closed his eyes for a moment before he sighed wearily. "Have you seen the crime scene report?"

"No."

"So you don't know if they recovered the murder weapon?"

"I heard that they did, but nothing more."

"Mr. Moredock is entitled to that report. I want to know if my prints are on that weapon."

She shuffled through some papers, pulling out a single sheet. "He hasn't gotten it yet. I'll see what I can do."

"Just...don't get yourself in any trouble on my behalf, Eames."

"Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself."

He returned his attention to the ceiling. After a long while, he asked, "Do you think I could have done it?"

She waited until he looked at her, wanting him to see her face. "No," she replied honestly. "I don't."

"Why not?"

"You don't have the nature of a killer."

"Come on, Eames. You know that people can't be predicted. We all have it in us somewhere to become...primal. Anger, rage...those are primal emotions."

"I've seen you angry, Bobby, sober and drunk. I still can't see you killing someone, particularly not a woman you once called a friend."

He shrugged. "And yet she's dead."

"But not at your hand. Trust us. We'll find the evidence we need to get the guy who really did it."

He sat up suddenly. "Tomorrow, I want to see Dennis Bergeron."

She pointed a finger at him. "That's not a good idea, Bobby. Logan and I will go to talk to him. He won't be as defensive or angry talking to us."

Frustrated, he leaned back against the couch, but he nodded. "You're right." He grabbed a pad of paper from the coffee table and began to write. "There are a couple of things I want to know..."