IV

Leaving Finn to take Damon to booking, Munch headed for the locker room. He'd change into his own familiar black clothing, maybe freshen up the old deodorant, then it was back upstairs to interrogate the slimy little miscreant.

Except that he'd ended up on his knees in a stall, gripping porcelain with both white-knuckled hands and puking his guts out like a rookie faced with his first stiff. He could hear his own smiling voice telling Damon how he preferred boys, eleven to thirteen.

Gag

Damon didn't blink, bragging about the orphanage that supplied children as young as five.

Wretch

Finally he slumped back on his heels, trembling and wiping at his streaming eyes. He flushed the toilet and rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. Enough with the dramatics, he told himself. Rinse your mouth, change your clothes and get the hell back to work.

Standing in front of the sink, he rinsed and spit into the basin. When he straightened, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and froze.

Who the hell was that god damned pervert in the mirror? The strangely parted hair, the cheesy polyester sports coat, the beady eyes all belonged to a sick bastard who preyed on kids. For a second he thought he'd be sick again, his stomach spasming, then he clenched his jaw and reached for the pale, ugly tie. He tore at the strange clothes, desperate to rid himself of every last vestige of his assumed identity. 'John Blackmun' had to die.

He practically ran to the shower and stood under the hot water, scrubbing until his skin was scalded red and raw. It took a long time, but eventually he calmed down , turning the water temperature down and leaning heavily against the wall. Another few moments and some deep breaths, and he shut the water off.

Wrapped in a towel and still dripping, he looked in the mirror again. It's you, he thought. Just John Munch, acting like a total jackass. Sighing, he retrieved his glasses from where he'd thrown them – I threw them in the sink? Brilliant – and headed for his locker to dress. He didn't keep much in the way of clothes at the precinct, so he settled for a long-sleeved black shirt and casual pants.

Once he'd combed his hair into its usual neat style, he finally felt like he was back in his own skin. A quick gargle with the viciously strong mouthwash he favored and he was ready to face Damon.

It wasn't until later, when the last of the pedophiles had been booked and the reports were being completed, that Munch found himself sitting across the desk from his captain.

"You did good work today, John. We'll have to get you some more undercover work, you have a knack for it."

"No thanks, Cap. Actually…" he trailed off, sighing, then forced himself to meet Cragen's gaze. "I think I'm done here. I want a transfer."