13 June
Observation Room
Casey turned the speaker back on as soon as Elliot shut the door to the Interrogation Room. His voice came thin and tinny through the ancient box.
Det. Stabler: Sgt. Wilkerson, we did the math. You were blackmailing approximately thirty people and bringing in over $300,000 a year….
"Three hundred thousand!"
John left the wall where he'd been leaning to join the group at the window.
"That's ten thousand a year per victim," he said. "Can you imagine handing over that much of your pay?"
Olivia chuckled. "You're safe, John—unless you've told her 'I do.' "
Sgt. Wilkerson: They weren't victims. They were self-selected. Had they kept their uniforms buttoned, they wouldn't have met my criteria.
"That's cold," Casey said. Cragen nodded his agreement.
Stabler: Yours or yours and Eristoff's?
Beale pointed at Stabler. "Good question, well-timed. It forces her to claim sole responsibility or share it on the record with Chuck Eristoff."
Judith Otten leaning against the back wall, feet braced to keep her back flat against the plaster, her arms folded across her chest. Her eyes faced the one-way glass, but she paid the interrogation no attention and ignored her partner's concerned stare.
How many bodies? Sixteen years in Homicide…hundreds of cases, hundreds of bodies…one more shouldn't bother me...but this one I killed…I've turned two living people into bodies…Jerome Rankin, who attacked his girlfriend with a filet knife back when I walked a beat...and Greg Lau today…two bullets, center chest… dead before I reached him….
The memory ran through her mind like a looped filmstrip.
Two muzzle flashes across the aisle…the sound of a bullet just above my right ear…aim and fire twice…just like practice at the range…Ed…same action at the same time…nothing but discharge noise and flash dazzle…then Elliot telling me Fin's inside—what if it's Fin?
She shuddered.
...but it was Lau…supine…still…no need to check his pulse…blood doesn't pool in a bullet hole when the heart is beating…two bullets...turned from a living human being into dead meat…by me….do you feel the bullet that kills you instantly?
"Hey, partner—"
No honor guard…no dress uniforms…no black bunting on his photo displayed at his unit...only whatever ceremony his family might arrange…no chance to say "Good-bye" or "I love you"…no chance for him to repent and make atonement…he can never ask forgiveness from his victims or make amends…I took that from him…
"Judith?"
…people feared him…paid blackmail to him… our captain hurt…Delgado and Henry dead… blackmailer… murderer… bad cop... crooked rat...he shot at Ed and me…two bullets fired by me…he saw the muzzle flash…knew I returned fire…two bullets… two hot stabs…piercing living flesh…no longer living….
"Judith, are you okay?"
A hand touched her shoulder—her partner, standing by her, searching her face, wondering how he could help.
"Yes," she said, "I'm—"
No…not 'fine'…enough lies today….
"—kind of a basket case right now."
Couch kept his hand on her shoulder while he hissed to get Olivia's attention.
"Judith," he said, "she's trembling. Shock?"
John peered over his shoulder at them. His blank expression offered no advice. Olivia nodded then leaned closer to Cragen.
"Vodka?" she whispered.
"No," he answered. "Not on an empty stomach; she didn't touch her sandwich."
Loud enough for Couch to hear, he said, "Why don't you and Judith head up to the lounge? Get some hot tea with sugar and take some time away from this."
Judith's head bobbed unevenly as her lips formed the words "Thank you." Olivia took a step toward her.
"I'll take care of the tea."
"Don't," Cragen told her. "I need you here."
Olivia glared at her captain. Behind him, Casey mirrored her annoyance at his order.
"In that case, I'll get the tea," she said sharply. "I'll met you two upstairs."
She barged through the door, followed by Couch and his partner, Judith walking with the unsteady gate of someone who needs support but won't use it. Everyone but Munch watched them leave. He observed Elliot's questioning of Wilkerson through the one-way glass.
Otten, falling apart…it's a real shame…that it hurts to smile at the thought…..
After they were gone, Olivia lit into Cragen.
"You don't need me here. Why shouldn't I help Couch? He hasn't any experience with post-traumatic stress. He's never shot anyone—hell, he never even saw a corpse before coming here. You really expect him to help Judith?"
"Yes, I do."
Cragen sat hunched forward, right hand cradling the cast, every line and edge of his body sagging from pain and weariness. His gaze, however, bore into hers with a demand that she listen and obey. Olivia cut off her complaint and stood straight before him.
"They aren't victims needing your help," he told her, "they're partners. Couch will listen and Judith will talk. Together, they'll mend things between them."
The first sentence stung, but what he said after it made sense.
"You're right," she admitted. "I just don't feel like I did enough today."
Cragen smiled. "You showed up when I needed someone. That counts."
They turned back to the interrogation. Beale, who had been listening to their conversation, spoke up.
"Vodka, Don?"
Cragen glanced at Olivia before answering. "No, thanks—AA."
She bit her cheek to keep from grinning. On the other side of the one-way glass, Elliot stood next to Tucker as Wilkerson told them how about selecting her blackmail 'subjects'.
"What's Fin reacting to?" she asked John.
"I don't know. It's not only Fin; Tucker looks like he wants to puke."
Next to her, Cragen fought his own nausea.
"It has to do with the Delgado and Henry murders," he said. "They were staged as though Delgado shot Henry then himself after they made love. If every couple broke up within two months of being blackmailed, then there's no good reason for those two to be in bed together. Wilkerson just held up a sign saying 'We arranged their murders.'"
Olivia examined the perp. Wilkerson was addressing Fin, her hands folded primly on the table between them.
She couldn't look more innocent...and she should never wear bright yellow….
"What's she trying to prove?" she asked.
Cragen sighed. "If we knew that, I'd be home sitting in a more comfortable chair."
"Whatever she want to prove, Beale said, "she seems to have rationalized this as good for the victims."
"And for her and her accomplices," Munch added. "Three hundred thou split four ways—"
"There's no evidence she took a cent of it," Cragen told him. "We don't know where her share went."
Munch, Benson, and Beale exchanged disbelieving glances.
"Let's keep that fact under wraps," Beale said. "A jury will consider it proof of her insanity."
Sgt. Wilkerson: Captain Cragen and Detective Otten had us all fooled. My compliments to them both.
Det. Tutuola: They'll be thrilled.
" 'Thrilled' isn't what I'm feeling right now," Cragen said.
John muffled a snicker. "Consider it a compliment. You were very convincing."
The hall door opened and Howie Brewster stuck in his head.
"Cap?"
"I meant it," Cragen snapped. "Go away."
"Cap—you need to know this. Chief Sullivan is in the house, asking the whereabouts of some lieutenants, Munch, and you. Sgt. Neville is stalling him at the front desk."
"Thanks, Howie. Now, go away."
Beale checked his watch. "What's he doing here? Isn't his big meeting in less than half an hour?"
"Yeah," Cragen answered. "This can't be good."
He turned to Munch and Benson and told them, "You two better leave the station house now."
Neither detective moved.
"That's an order. Get going."
Munch shook his head. "Olivia and Couch should be okay if they stay out of sight. Same with Otten; good little soldier that she is, Sullivan will assume she went home after being suspended."
For an instant, John's face went blank and his lips twitched as though they hated what he planned to say.
"But Sullivan will tear the place apart looking for me. He'll find everyone—Liv, Couch, Otten, maybe even Hoffa and Elvis. You're better off if I make it easy for him."
Cragen sagged against the one-way glass.
"I don't have time to argue, John. If you want to play Ronald Colman, go ahead. Olivia, go warn Judith and Couch to stay away."
She drew in breath to argue.
"Please, Liv."
The simple request halted her words of protest.
"I'm gone," she said. "Don't worry. We'll keep everything covered for you."
She spun around to face Munch.
"You're doing this because you don't want to hide upstairs."
"Damn right," he told her. "I hurt all over. If Don didn't outrank me, I'd take that stool and make him stand."
Olivia placed her hand on his arm and patted it.
"Try not to get too jammed up."
She strode out of the room, changing to a sprint for the stairs as soon as she cleared the door. That left no one to deflect the force of Cragen's baleful gaze.
The captain fished his bottle of Ibuprofen from his pocket and handed it to John.
"Here—you might want these before turning yourself over to Sullivan's goons."
Munch indicated the interrogation with a jerk of his head.
"I'll buy you as much time as I can then I promise to follow every order to the letter. I'm not looking to get knocked around any more than I've already been."
He took two of the pain pills as Beale turned off the speaker.
"You act like this is the O.K. Corral at high noon," he said to Cragen. "You really think it is?"
Cragen stood up. Beale winced in sympathy as he stretched stiff muscles then slid his cast inside a suspenders strap to support its weight.
"If Tommy recommits to justice for Delgado and Henry," Cragen answered, "I'll go home happy. But he only wants to bring down deMichelis. I can't get behind that or what he did to Ed Tucker. I have to try and stop this."
"Okay, Don. I can respect that..."
Beale then looked up at Munch. "... but you're a complete fruitcake."
The hall door opened before John could wipe the shock from his face. He snapped his jaw shut just as Chief Sullivan, his aide, and four uniforms from the Fifth Precinct entered the room. Sullivan had changed into his uniform, its buttons glistening and his rows of citations neatly displayed. He closed the door behind him and swept the room with a haughty glare that brushed over Cragen.
Not worth your attention any more? You just wait...
Lt. Simms and two of the uniforms walked over to Munch.
"Detective John Munch?" Simms asked.
Munch stared down his nose at the lieutenant. Cragen heard him mutter something.
Sounded like "Who let Barnfather spawn?"
"I'll take that as a 'Yes,'" Simms said. "Did you participate in an altercation with Lieutenant Jonas Cutler late this afternoon."
"Yes, I did."
"Please describe this altercation."
John tipped his head as though his broken glasses were still there to be peered over.
"Lt. Cutler decided that his fist needed to be inside my skull. Since Lt. Cutler did not appear to understand any intellectual form of communication, I responded in kind."
"Did Lt. Cutler end up on the floor as a result of your 'response'?"
The non-purple side of John's face formed a proud smirk.
"He certainly did."
"Did you in any way provoke Lt. Cutler?"
"Lt. Cutler happened to overhear some instruction that I was giving another detective. I don't know why he took offense at what he heard."
Lt. Simms opened the portfolio. "Did your instruction include the following?"
He cleared his throat and read from the report before him.
"You need to be more direct, more pointed, more personal. For example: 'Look—it's Ol' Soft Serve, the man voted least likely to achieve wood in his freshman year three years running. During his last physical, the doctor rated him a minus-three on the Erection Assessment Scale—in other words, to get him inside her, Mrs. Cutler has to use a funnel. I heard that his only successful penetration of a woman was a female silhouette at the firing range and, even then, he shot blanks and missed.' "
Beale cut loose a long, hearty guffaw similar to the one Cragen was choking back. Sullivan and Simms ignored them while Munch raised an eyebrow and grinned at their appreciation.
"So you admit to having provoked Lt. Cutler's attack?"
The grin vanished. "I admit," John said, "to having used him in an example of the proper way to commit invective."
Sullivan stepped between his aide and Munch.
"Enough mincing your words. Cutler filed charges against you. Hand over your badge and hardware then turn around."
John compiled then he stood still while Simms fumbled with his cuffs.
"If you want to learn how to cuff a perp," he told Simms, "try working with real cops. We'll show you what you ought to know."
Simms gave the cuffs a hard downward yank. John winced and Cragen lunged at the aide.
"Don't you ever do that—"
Simms fended him off with one hand.
"You're in no position to threaten anyone, Captain."
Don't dismiss me...it's not a threat...you have John roughed up, I'll take you apart myself and let Fin stomp on the leftovers….
A uniform took Munch by the arm.
"Gently," Sullivan warned him. "Show respect for the elderly."
Munch tensed and shot Sullivan a glare of pure hatred as the uniform turned him around and guided him to the door. He looked back over his shoulder at Cragen and Beale. Without the dark lenses to conceal them, they saw the anxiety in his eyes, the fear that he kept it from his voice for his parting comment.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do," he said, "than a fruitcake has ever done."
Sullivan pointed to where Stabler was perched on the table questioning Sgt. Wilkerson.
"One down. Tucker, Stabler, and Tutuola are next."
"They're busy, Tommy," Cragen told him. "You and me—we'll go take care of this…."
Sullivan ignored him. He caught Lt. Simms' attention and nodded. Before Simms could move, Beale stepped between him and the door.
"Don's right; they're busy. You can wait your turn."
"I have no intention of waiting. Mark, go get them."
Beale leaned a hand on the door jamb.
"Forget it, Sullivan. SVU detectives doing SVU business are the responsibility of the SVU Bureau Chief—that's me and my chain of command doesn't run through NYPD's hawse pipe. You want them, you can wait until I'm done with them or you can see if the D.A. feels like overriding my authority for you."
"This isn't SVU business."
"Hmm…adulterers being blackmailed, murder-suicide as the result of a lover's quarrel or two killings staged to look like it—sounds like sex crimes to me. Even if they aren't, I'm here and I'm not budging."
He turned his back to Sullivan, missing the flush of anger that reddened his face and neck.
"Yes, but Tucker's not SVU. Mark, go get him."
Beale had opened his mouth to refute Sullivan's next argument. The truth of the statement left him without comeback.
Cragen spoke up. "Yes, he is. You were there when Paul deMichelis told him to report to Detective Stabler for this operation. If he's reporting to an SVU detective, then he's in the SVU chain of command and that makes him Beale's."
Beale gave Cragen a quick smile and nod. Sullivan glared at both of them before waving Simms back to his side.
"Beale, you send those men to me the second this interrogation is over. Donnie, where are Benson, Sofarelli and Otten?"
"I don't know. They left a while ago."
Sullivan studied him carefully then said, "Mark, take the men and look around. If you don't find anyone, send them back to the Oh-Five and meet me in Donnie's office."
And, if you do find anyone, they will leave in cuffs the way John did...that's the implied threat...you're hoping I'll fold if you take my people away...
Cragen denied that hope with a shake of his head. Sullivan's studious stare shifted to a friendly grin. He clasped Cragen on the shoulder and gave him a push toward the door.
"You look like hell, Donnie. Why don't we head to your office and give you a chance to sit down, take it easy?"
Wood shed time….
"Sure thing, Tommy," Cragen replied. "We both have a lot to talk about."
He gritted his teeth and walked out of the Observation Room and into the squad room. Brewster, the shift detectives, and the staff all attended to their papers and computer screens, but Cragen felt the pressure of their curiosity as he walked among the desks.
Sullivan made a detour to the coffee pot.
"Donnie, you still take yours regular?"
You don't give a damn about my coffee…you just want to look good in front of the troops...after you impress them, then it's me alone with you...your word against mine...maybe you'll come to your senses…yeah, and under the pile of crap, there's always a pony….
He reached Elliot's desk, last one before his office, when quick footsteps sounded behind him and a hand grabbed his arm. He twisted to see Casey staring gape-mouthed as if she hadn't seen him twenty minutes before.
"Good God, Don—" Casey said. "Are you okay?"
Her hand slid down his arm to his hand. He felt a ball of something crumpled pressed against his palm.
What the hell?
"Judith's wire," she whispered. "We're taping."
He folded his fingers around it and shoved the wire between his cast and his shirt sleeve just as the chief approached with two mugs of coffee.
"We're fine, Ms. Novak," Sullivan said with a hearty smile. "Thanks for asking. Donnie...shall we?"
He used a mug to indicate the office door.
"It looks worse than it feels," Cragen told her.
Like hell it does...
"Thanks."
He held her gaze and repeated the last word silently and with genuine gratitude before letting Sullivan guide him into his office.