"You have a visitor, Detective," the uniform behind the station house desk informed him. A nudge with his chin followed behind.

"Thank you, Constable," William replied, his gaze following the direction towards Brackenreid's office. "How long has he been here?"

"Only 5 minutes or so, sir. I thought it best if I had him sit with the boss."

William nodded his approval. "Very good."

He crossed the room, noting that George had yet to return, and rapped gently on the door before entering.

"Sir," he said, before resting his hat at the end of the leather couch. "You must be Detective Sommerville."

A man roughly the same age as William stood and extended his hand. "Yep. And you're Bill Murdoch. I've heard a lot about you. Hell, the whole city has."

William sidestepped the praise. "Yes, well. Thank you for coming; I know you must be wondering why I've called you here."

"I've filled him in on the gist of the situation. Bill." Brackenreid's face broke out in a grin.

Groaning inwardly, William invited Sommerville to sit down and then did the same. "Perhaps you could summarize what's been said?"

"Sommerville was Leo Fitzgerald's right hand man during the Padgett murders," Brackenreid replied. "We didn't get much further than that."

Murdoch appreciated his boss' courtesy. "What do you remember about the case?"

The detective shrugged. "Hell of a thing. Eight people murdered. I was only on the job for 6 months. Came up from patrol. Green as the grass."

"And what was your impression of Detective Fitzgerald?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you find him thorough? Capable? Fastidious?"

Sommerville frowned at the word. "Fastid- he was a good man. Good detective."

William shared a look with Brackenreid who gave a minute nod in return. "I'll get right to the point, Detective. At any time during the investigation, did Leo Fitzgerald feel a pressure to come up with a suspect?"

The frown remained. "Of course. Eight people murdered. The Chief Constable was all over Leo to find the killer. Then the papers. You know how it is. Everyone with their own agenda breathing down your neck."

"I do," William agreed. "But I've never fabricated evidence because of that pressure."

Clenching his jaw, the detective gritted out, "What exactly does that mean?"

Rather than reply, William stood, removed the crime scene photos from his file and laid them out on Brackenreid's desk.

Sommerville leaned over to look. "What am I looking for?"

"A knife," William said. "After all, that was the key piece of evidence used to arrest Henry Padgett."

He sat back and shrugged. "It was found under the bed. None of those pictures have the right angle."

"None of the bodies have puncture wounds, either."

Though he tried to hide his shock, it didn't go unnoticed by either William or Brackenreid.

"We dug them up," the inspector told him. "Imagine our surprise when the coroner couldn't find the wounds that were supposed to have killed them all."

Sommerville mustered a weak defense. "I've heard your coroner's a woman, so-"

Brackenreid saw the storm in William's eyes. "Murdoch," he warned.

Curbing his temper, William flatly replied, "Should we ignore Dr. Ogden's impeccable record and numerous achievements, it would take a blind man not to notice the glaring lack of knife marks that would normally be left behind after such frenzied action, wouldn't you agree?" His look dared the man to do otherwise.

Sommerville shrugged again. "You got all the answers; why don't you tell me?"

The nonchalantness set William's teeth on edge. "You were under pressure to come up with a suspect in a high profile case. The leads dried up, but the pressure mounted, so you planted the knife and lo and behold! A suspect emerged. Did you assume there wouldn't be enough evidence to hang Henry Padgett, or was that just a happy coincidence?" Sommerville opened his mouth to protest, but William held up a silencing finger. "You risked the life of an innocent man to relieve the pressure. How did you get the coroner to go along with it?"

The detective looked everywhere but at William. "He was under the same pressure we were. I think Leo might have sweetened the pot a little with some money, I don't know."

"I spoonful of honey helps the medicine go down, eh?" Brackenreid asked acidly.

"And once Henry Padgett was singled out as your suspect, there was no reason to investigate further, was there?" William continued. "If you had, perhaps you would have discovered the real killer."

There was something in William's tone that compelled Brackenreid to lean forward in his seat. The room waited for the other shoe to drop.

William lifted the family photo, showed it to Sommerville, then placed it down again. "Interesting footwear on Nicholas Padgett, wouldn't you say? He's the youngest one, here." He tapped the photo. "A very fine and observant constable told me the shoes indicate a foot deformity, most likely clubfoot."

"I don't see what this has to do with the murders," Sommerville stated.

"This is a photo of Nicholas Padgett at the crime scene," William went on, ignoring the interruption.

Both Brackenreid and Sommerville leaned forward to look at the picture. It was the inspector who saw it first.

"Ah, there it is," he whispered.

"I don't-"

"The foot, you bloody sod!" Brackenreid bellowed. "The foot!"

"I… I don't understand."

"I think you do," William replied, his voice clipped and terse.

Realization slowly dawned on the detective's face, and a decade of lies made him turn green. "Nicholas Padgett killed his family? He was only 8 years old!"

William nodded grimly. "An 8 year old with access to laudanum. Respiratory distress and hypoxia. It was the one correct thing the coroner put in his report."

Brackenreid shook his head. "He poisoned his family then bashed their heads in to hide the fact that one of them wasn't him."

"Only the father and whoever this boy is had extensive head injuries. According to Dr. Ogden, the others were much more superficial and not nearly enough to cause death."

The inspector pondered the idea. "Anger towards the father, a cover for the body switch, a misdirection for the rest."

Sommerville looked off, dazed. "I can't believe it."

"And I can't believe two officers of the law would plant evidence to frame an innocent man," Brackenreid retorted, "and yet, here we are."

Very nearly at the end of his composure, William gritted out, "And if we find Nicholas Padgett had anything to do with two current murder investigations, I'll see that every one of your convictions is re-examined." He all but threw the photos back into the folder and snatched up his hat. "If you don't mind, sir, I have work to do."

Brackenreid simply nodded and watched William storm out of the office. He was glad the door remained open; he didn't think the glass could handle William's wrath. He had poured himself a drink and had the glass up to his lips before realizing Sommerville was still rooted to his chair. With a glare that could have peeled paint, he snarled, "Well? Sod off!"

…..

He dropped into his chair with a sigh, angry at himself for losing his self-command, angry at an injustice that hid itself for over a decade, and angry that, in the end, it got him no closer to solving the murders of Virginia Blakemore or Elizabeth Turnbull. He was rubbing his forehead in frustration when George appeared in the doorway. Wearily, William looked up.

"What have you, George?"

"Sir, I took the liberty of tracking down a hunch. We couldn't connect the two victims through mutual similarities, but I wondered about our killer; I wondered about his habits. You know, you try new things but really, you just end up going back to your favourite places. I suppose that's why they're called 'haunts'. We're like ghosts who just linger around and never leave."

"George?"

"Oh, right. So I went around some of the local entertaining establishments, thinking if I were trying to lure a young woman to something sinister, I might take her somewhere nice first. Butter the bread, as it were."

"If you're not careful, George, I may start to look at all of your romantic encounters in a completely different light."

The constable couldn't hide his grin. "Anyway, I showed pictures of the two ladies at The Golden Quail, and sure enough, one of the waiters recognized them both."

William perked up. "That's brilliant, George! Were they able to identify their dinner companion?"

"I'm afraid not. Just your general description." George flipped open his notepad. "Brown hair, brown eyes, average height. Nothing remarkable about him. The waiter seemed to think he might have had a limp, if that means anything."

William closed his eyes and groaned. "That's what my brain's been trying to tell me all morning."

"Sir?"

"The workmen we had in for interviews, George. One of them had a limp." He scoured his memory. "Nichols. Carl Nichols. He told me he was injured on the job. We had him, George."

"We can get him again, sir," he replied. "I still have his boarding house address in my notes."

"Take Higgins with you."

"Yes, sir."

"And George?" The young man turned in the door. "Be careful. We have every right to believe this is Nicholas Padgett."

"One of the murdered victims?" His expression was of absolute confusion.

Realizing he hadn't shared the afternoon information with his constable, William shook his head. "I'll be sure to give you all the details when you come back, George. Just know, he's a suspect in not only the murders of Virginia Blakemore and Elizabeth Turnbull, but his family as well."

…..

"I love how you tell that story as if you were there," Jane said.

After an hour in Hugo's Boutique, 45 minutes of which Jane shielded her eyes from the product, the women sat down for lunch and made a vow to talk about anything other than work. The conversation was filled with memories of Europe and childhoods and geographical attractions. When Julia mentioned Bill Hickok and his travelling circus, Maura shared the story of Jane besting Annie Oakley.

"Just because I wasn't there doesn't mean I can't be proud of you," Maura protested, leaning into Jane. "Besides, Zeke is such a wonderful storyteller, I felt like I had."

Julia enjoyed the ease between the pair. "Zeke?"

"Ezekiel Black," Jane replied. "Little sprout who wanted to be a lawman, and somehow latched on to me." She smiled and shook her head. "Guess I can't really call him that anymore - he's in his twenties. I've known his family forever but he seems to have grown up in a day."

"Time does get away from you if you're not careful," Julia agreed. Hesitantly, she said, "If I might ask - children?"

Jane turned her head to the side, as if trying to decipher Julia's question. "Oh, you mean us. Us and kids."

"I'm sorry. It's not my place to ask."

"No, it's okay. Most people just don't bring it up." Another smile from Jane softened her words. "We thought about it once, but…" She shrugged.

"We'd have to adopt," Maura finished, "and while I have nothing against the practice, being adopted myself, we've just felt we weren't in a position to do it properly."

"I think you'd make marvellous parents," Julia said.

"It's not that," Jane replied. "It's expecting someone to grow up in a world that looks down on their parents." Maura reached under the table and took Jane's hand in hers. "Don't get me wrong, Beybeck's fine, but most people's idea of accepting is by pretending not to notice. And that's with the people I've known for decades. There's a whole world out there I'd want him or her to experience. It's tough enough without saddling them with baggage from the start."

Maura squeezed her hand. "How about you, Julia?"

"Oh, I don't believe children will be in my future. At least not right now."

Though there was a finality in Julia's voice that tempted Jane to explore, she decided to let it go in favour of humour. "Well, if you change your mind, the Blacks have 11 kids to choose from. I'm sure they wouldn't notice if one went wandering off." The comment got the laugh she intended. "Now, I know from experience it's the ones who look the most innocent that get into the most trouble. So what's your story? Filled the classroom lock with soap? Switched sugar for salt? Got caught swimming in the nude?" Jane pointed at Julia's red cheeks and laughed uproariously. "That's the one!" She softly ribbed Maura. "This is gonna be good!"

…..

A/N: We find out in earlier seasons that Julia is sterile. It's one of the things (she thinks) stops William and Julia from being a couple.