The Locust
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Criminal Intent , LO:SVU , Without a trace , or any other show mentioned here, but owe so many thanks to the people who created them. I'm making no money out of this whatsoever. Don't sue me, I have no money.
A/N: Even as I thought I could get this chapter done faster than the other… one scene got me stuck again. Thanks to Bammi1 for beta-reading and special thanks to Infinity Star for her great advise. To all of you thanks for reading and reviewing… and the patience. LOL Enjoy.
20
One Police Plaza
Major Case Squad
Eames and Stabler attracted attention when they entered the MCS bullpen in company with the Simon brothers, their arms loaded with boxes containing the case files. They went to the task room Benson and Stabler were sharing. The two SVU detectives stared at them, stunned. Eames put her two boxes onto the table and opened one.
"I think we will need these first," Rick said flipping through his own box.
"What's up now?" Stabler queried indignantly.
It took only seconds for Captain Deakins to appear under the door. "Eames?" Then he spotted someone else he knew. "Mr. Simon. Nice to see you."
A. J. turned to face the newcomer. "Captain Deakins," he said as soon as a name popped up. "The pleasure's mine. I do remember you saying you're in charge of Major Case."
Eames could not help but notice that his behavior switched to the more formal manner of an attorney.
"Alex?" Stabler pushed.
"That's right, Sir," Deakins said. "May I ask you…"
"What led me here?" A. J. smiled. "We hope to be able to support your investigation." With two steps aside he offered Deakins a better sight into the room. "I would like to introduce you to my brother. Rick? This is Captain Deakins. Captain, my brother, Richard Simon."
"Hello, sir," Rick said, touching the brim of his hat in greeting.
"Rick runs a well known office of private investigators in San Diego," A. J. explained. "He came to New York last night because he has reason to believe that a connection exists between one of his cases and the string of murders your detectives are investigating."
A cell phone played Dixie and Rick fumbled it out of its belt-cover. "My office," he said and dove into the far corner of the room.
"Will you tell me what kind of a case you mean?" Deakins demanded to know.
"A string of murders in San Diego, 1988," A. J. gave details. "That was before I finished law school. We were partners and investigated the case together."
"I do remember. You came to New York after you got married, didn't you?"
The lawyer smiled slightly embarrassed."Guilty as charged," he said.
"Folks," Rick made himself heard, "we're not here to discuss our family tree. There's a killer on the loose. We should concentrate on that!"
"He's right," Eames agreed. "We have a lot of work to do." While A. J. and the captain were talking she had picked up the file of the Berdella case. As she spoke she opened it. When she saw the first crime scene photo all blood drained from her face and the file fluttered to the floor. "I-I'll be… right back," she choked and stormed out of the task room, heading for the restrooms.
Barek saw her pass and followed her.
Eames was in the last booth on her knees, vomiting, shaking uncontrollably. Barek knelt down beside her, stroking her back in small circles. She did not try to talk. As she did not know what had upset her colleague so much, it was wiser not to voice reassurances. So she just crooned softly to soothe Eames' pain. When Eames finally ceased to heave, Barek tried to get her to sit in the corner between the booth and the washbowls. There they sat on the floor leaning against the wall, and Barek had her arm around Eames' shoulders.
"Oh, Carolyn, no," Eames whispered. "It's so horrible. I don't know if I can do this. But I have to. I can't let him down, not again, not again... Oh God…" Her voice faded into sobs.
"You want to talk?"
"No. Just don't leave me alone. Stay a moment with me and I'll be back in minutes. Promise."
"Okay," Barek sighed. She gently rubbed Eames' shoulder with her right hand. With the left she held both her hands.
Eames needed some time to regain her composure, or at least a semblance of it, before she tried to get to her feet. Barek helped her up and to clean herself. Then they went back to the bullpen.
In the task room everyone waited for them.
"We did not want to start without you, Detective Eames," A. J. said. He held the file in his hands and Eames flinched when she just read the name on the cover.
"Perhaps we should begin with this case," Rick added, taking the folder from his brother. His voice was low and soothing now. "Because it will show us that this guy isn't just interested in women."
Once more Eames flinched. Still she was pale and she looked like she would puke again anytime.
"Is it okay if I talk about this case?" Rick turned to her. "We could take another one."
"Let's just pretend you never asked that," she warded off indignantly. "Go ahead."
Rick nodded curtly, never showing his admiration of her tough-cop attitude, and went to the whiteboard where he hung up a carefully selected picture of a young man in his twenties.
"This case tells us very much about what this man is capable of. And this photo doesn't originate from any Berdella victim, this guy was killed by our man… we call him the Locust."
"The locust?" Barek asked.
"Because he's roaming through all the states. He's probably active abroad, too."
"What makes you believe that?"
"There are unexplained long periods between several strings," A. J. explained. "And as we don't assume that he was in prison for another crime or has stopped, we believe that he was abroad."
"So he copied the Berdella murders," Benson came back to the first topic. "What did he do exactly?"
Questioningly Rick looked at Eames again, but she just scowled at him. Don't dare to ask. I can take it, said this stare.
"Berdella was a homosexual sadist. He drugged his victims, tortured and raped them and buried their remains in his garden." Rick paused. "When one guy did escape, wearing only a dog's collar, Berdella was arrested in April 1988. The cops found two corpses and hundreds of photos in his house."
"Photos?"
"He documented his tortures by keeping a diary and making photos of the different stages…" Rick's voice trailed off.
Silence fell. Every single one of them was lost in his or her own thoughts.
"You said he would not copycat this time," Stabler finally stated. "What did you mean exactly?"
"When A. J. told me that a serial killer is on the loose here I searched the internet for information about him. Since I decided that it might be the Locust I did everything I could to figure out who he's copycatting… but I found nothing so far."
"So, that doesn't necessarily mean he isn't copycatting at all," Benson followed the trail.
"Yeah, I can be wrong there." Rick eyed the wall where the information was collected. "What is this?" he asked, pointing to the note that had been taped up there. "Don't keep searching. You won't find him. And as it comes to you, Detective Alex, you should be relieved to know that he agreed to take your place. Him? Did he change his MO in the middle of the string?"
The detectives felt uneasy with this question.
"I can distinguish between male and female," Rick said. "Especially as it says so in this letter. Who is him?"
They turned to their captain.
"Detective Goren, Eames' partner," Deakins replied softly.
It sent shivers down Eames' spine. She paled again and slowly retreated from the task room.
"And he's being held prisoner right now?" A. J. demanded to know when she was gone, followed by Barek.
"Yes." Reluctantly Logan produced a newspaper.
Taking it from the detective the attorney looked at it thoughtfully, then he handed it over to his brother wordlessly.
"Oh, shit," Rick mumbled. "And he first intended to take Detective Eames?"
"It says so in the note he sent us," Deakins said and prudently kept quiet about the tape they got together with the message.
Rick nodded and thought aloud, "He has played power games before. He likes to mess with the police. Sometimes I tend to believe that this is the main reason he's killing."
"There's something else that's bugging me," Stabler threw in. "The night before we were assigned to cooperate with major case we were called out to a scene with a male victim."
Benson exchanged a glance with him.
"As far as we know the guy was dragged into the alley where he was found later, the killer broke his neck and mutilated the body with multiple stabs and cuts before he cut off his reproductive organs to stuff them into his mouth."
Benson looked at him bewildered. Now he remembered that she did not know the ME's report.
"To top it off he raped him with a bicycle pump."
"Sounds like overkill," Logan said. "But where's the connection to our case?"
"That's what I wanted to discuss with these two," Stabler pointed out to him, then turned to Rick. "Can you show us the file again?"
The PI nodded and began searching. Once he had it he took it out and pinned the scene photo to the wall.
"Olivia?" Stabler asked.
She looked at it thoughtfully. So did all the others.
"This man wasn't killed… he was slaughtered." Benson shuddered. "You think this might be the same guy?"
"Maybe it would be best to let Huang field this question."
"Did I get it right that your squad's still on the other case?" Deakins wanted to know.
"Yes. Detectives Munch and Tutuola are working it."
"Then we should invite them for a brainstorming, too. Will you call them?"
"Yeah, of course."
"There's something that interests me," Logan turned to Rick again. "You said that this man has played power games before. In which way?"
"Sometimes he communicated with the police the same way the guy he copycatted did," A. J. answered instead. "One cop claimed that the killer pretended to be one victim's brother to get information from him."
"You're kidding!"
"No. I've spoken with him. I don't think that he was lying. And several months later the remains of said brother were found."
"So this Locust, as you call him, murdered the victim's brother to adopt his identity?" Eames asked. She stood under the doorframe, pale but alert. "Any hints that he did that before or later again?"
"We're not sure."
"Is there any proof that this really is one and the same guy at all?" Deakins still was skeptical.
"No physical evidence. The theory is based on his modus operandi, copycatting other serial killers," A. J. explained.
"Rick," Eames said. "What about Las Vegas? Didn't you tell us that they have DNA?"
Rick nodded.
"Why are you so excited?" Logan asked confused. "We don't have physical evidence."
Thinking hard, Eames crossed her left arm over her chest, supporting the other, right hand over her mouth.
Logan and Barek stared at her incredulously. When Deakins noticed their aghast looks he turned and did the same.
"What?" Now Eames was confused. "I didn't say anything."
"No, you didn't," Barek replied. "And you didn't have to. You just looked like your partner." She bit her lip, but it was already out.
Once more tears shot in Eames' eyes. She choked them back as good as she could.
xxx
unknown location
Goren woke up to incredible pain. It centralized in his shoulder and spread through his entire body. He felt dizzy at first but then his mind cleared and the memories flooded back.
Kirkpatrick, this filthy little piece of shit.
He remembered how the damned guy was hovering over him, watching him struggle and waiting for him to say the magic word.
Part of him did regret to have begged. The other part suspected that he would not have had the strength to resist any longer.
Some of the lights were still on. He turned his head and saw the bruise in the hollow of his right arm. He thought of the medical equipment, Kirkpatrick had been busy with.
Can't be any drug, he thought. Still he felt dizzy but that was not caused by drugs. These bags… Has he drawn my blood? Why?
He was thinking for a moment. To place phony traces? To make Alex and the others believe that I'm dead?
It was the only plausible explanation he could imagine.
Reflexively he lifted his right arm to touch the hurting shoulder only to recognize with surprise that the chain was long enough to do so. Then he noticed a piece of paper that lay on his chest. It read:
I'm no brute. Have something to eat. It might give you the energy to last some hours longer – always hoping and praying your colleagues might find you (chances are 1:99 I guess).
He crumpled the note and threw it away only to find that the swing of his arm was intercepted by the damned chain.
With some effort he got up into a sitting position. As he did, the chains were clanking and the sound sent shivers down his back. For the first time he could actually see the shackles that enclosed his ankles and the right wrist. His left arm was free but virtually stunned and paralyzed due to the pain in the shoulder.
Slowly he tried and turned away from the cameras. To know that Kirkpatrick was probably watching him right now made him feel sick. He remembered his captor to say, that everything was recorded. This thought almost made him throw up. It was impossible to hide from the staring lenses. He just could turn his back on them.
Even though he did not want to look, his view was drawn to his right hand. In a slow motion he stretched it with wide spread fingers to clench a fist then. He closed his eyes to block out the sight of the metal, dyed with this fluorescent paint. It was not only that the chains rendered him immobile. They made him feel vulnerable and humiliated.
The same applied to his nudity. Stripped of all his clothes, he was not left with the least protection. Not only against touches of any kind but also against stares.
And Kirkpatrick already had humiliated him, deeply. The talk about his former partner, the way he chained him up after his escape, the nail…
For a moment he just sat there, trying to block out everything. He wanted to focus on the things that gave him stability and security. To his concern it did not work. Every peaceful picture he was trying to imagine withdrew from his mind.
Even Alex, he sobbed inwardly. Why can't I take hold on such thoughts?
As if it wanted to answer the unspoken question his stomach rumbled.
Yeah, might be one reason, he thought. I'm not surprised that I'm hungry after all the time that has passed and after he has drawn my blood.
He almost had forgotten the note and its implication. He looked around.
Next to him sat the tray, this time with a plate, an apple, two sandwiches and a bottle. He eyed the water suspiciously. There was no way to tell by sight if there would be anything else in the clear liquid.
He took the bottle and jammed it between his thighs to unscrew it. There was no strange scent and a tentative sip did not reveal any unusual taste. It seemed to be plain water. Anyway, he just took several sips and put the bottle aside. If there was no reaction he could drink more.
In the same way he examined the food, took some bites of the sandwiches and ate the apple.
Curiously he waited for a reaction. When nothing did happen, he consumed the sandwiches, too, and had more water.
Then he lay back and tried to relax. There was nothing else he could do. He just could wait for his captor to come back.
And as much as he hated to be alone in this place, he dreaded the return of Kirkpatrick… because he was afraid of what this man would do to him. What definitely was no help was that he knew the case files, the scenes where the bodies were discovered, the photos, and the autopsy reports. If he imagined that Kirkpatrick would do the same to him…
To me. If it hadn't been for my conversation with Mike it would be Alex who's trapped here. I would not want her to suffer anything. And Kirkpatrick is right: She won't quit.
For a few seconds this thought energized him. Alex would not quit. She would not give up on him. And Mike, Caro and Deakins certainly would not let him down either.
But they will need time to find him as well as time to nail him. So, he's right again. I will have to get them as much time as possible.
At once his insides churned again. Time. As Einstein already had said, time's relative. A few hours might not be much time for his colleagues out there in Manhattan, searching for him. But for him a few hours could stretch to a whole lifetime. So… time.
It will possibly mean that I'll have to play his game. His stomach churned by this thought. In the end this will mean that he'll torture me. And that he will… His train of thought stopped dead and shudders swept through his body. Don't go there, Bobby. Trust Alex and the others to get him before he can…
He held his breath.
He told me to keep talking as well. The question is in which way he will let himself be influenced. He will be very cautious not to be diverted from his plans. I can't judge him. I don't know him this well. Whatever I do I can either be right or I can be wrong.
This was not very encouraging either. What might help was that Kirkpatrick supplied him with food and water, even though it was meant to torture him, too. Kirkpatrick knew Goren had to eat and if he left something his victim would take it. That was part of the survival instinct.
And that would provide Kirkpatrick with a strengthened victim, ready to take more of his perverted games.
xxx
One Police Plaza
Major Case Squad
"What is it, Alex?" Barek gently asked. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm trying to remember if he left any DNA here, on a coffee mug for example," Eames replied.
"You're right," Logan agreed. "He was here. He was talking with us that son of a bitch! He may have left a trace."
Involuntarily Stabler was reminded of the bar where he had met the fake Kirkpatrick. There he had been drinking… but it was impossible to find this very glass now, not to mention that it was washed already and certainly more than once.
If I were psychic I could just have snatched that glass and brought it to CSU for a DNA check… but I'm not psychic.
"It's quite unlikely to find any evidence here holding DNA," Barek murmured. She eyed Eames compassionately. "But we'll find him. We'll just take another path."
"Which path?"
"His profile… these files together with what we have should give us enough information."
"Do you already have a thought you could share with us, partner?" Logan wanted to know.
"Hmmm… a thought… yes. A finished profile, no."
"Then tell us what you think, Barek," Eames pushed. "You can still do a more detailed profile."
"Okay…" Barek stepped closer to the wall holding the information. For a moment she stared at it thoughtfully. With a sigh she started to speak, "The man we're searching is, not surprisingly, highly intelligent. His actions are well organized, an assumption that is equally easy to make. As he operated in different cities and states he has to be well organized or he would not have been as successful. While he acts quite self confident he actually is very insecure. He copycats famous murderers because he doesn't trust himself to invent his own modus operandi. In everyday life he can be even charming, but with an understated coolness. He will put on his mask of confidence, even arrogance, in situations which are demanding for him. He possibly will seek such situations but will be easily offended if the events don't turn out like he imagined. Being verbally or physically attacked or degraded he won't be able to play it down but will overreact. A simple look, a harmless remark… that might be all it needs to trigger an uncontrolled attack that you, Mr. Simon, called his counterbalance."
"That already sounds quite detailed," Stabler said, thinking of George Huang, the psychiatrist they were often working with. Some of what Barek had said he remembered from profiles the FBI agent had made.
"But certainly won't suffice to describe him correctly. This guy's so complex and contradictory that it may take days or weeks to figure him out and even then the profile might not be complete."
"Who did he copycat in Atlanta?" Eames turned to Rick Simon again. "If we can't locate him here, maybe we can find a lead in Atlanta."
The brothers exchanged a glance, then Rick opened another box to get a file out.
"Mark Ford Brady," he said. "On death row in Pennsylvania since 1992."
"Brady? Who's that? What did he do exactly?" Deakins wanted to know.
"He's sentenced for the rape and murder of seven women, four of them killed in Pennsylvania. MO: he attacked single mothers he found while working as a freelance photographer, raped and strangled them."
"Charming," Benson mumbled, looking at the photo Rick pinned up.
"Actually, yes, Brady is quite charming. He knows how to manipulate his victims and pursuers. Didn't help him then, though."
"And that's who our guy copycatted?" Eames tried to get them back to the question on hand.
"Yeah."
"Barek, do you think it could be helpful to talk with Brady to get to know our guy better?"
Thoughtfully Barek looked at the board again, reluctant to answer straight away. Might it help? She shrugged.
"To be honest, I don't know." She could sense that this was not the answer the others wanted to hear. They were eager to find a lead, any lead. "It's possible that Brady can tell us something that helps us to understand this guy better, but it's also possible, and more likely than not, that we would waste our time."
Tense silence settled over the task room until Deakins made his decision.
"Barek, you and Logan will go and pay Brady a visit. Even if it might be a slight chance, I don't want to miss it."
xxx
unknown location
Exhaustion had made him drift away into rare sleep. When Goren woke up again he was still alone. The pain in his shoulder had worn off. A deceptive condition which lasted only as long as he did not move.
Meanwhile his body was hurting from the concrete floor he was lying on. He slightly shifted his position. In the same second pain stabbed his shoulder, then faded to a throbbing sensation.
He lay as still as possible, trying to hold on to positive memories.
When he finally heard the key turning, his heart skipped a beat. The waiting had an end. And what would happen next?
He saved himself the trouble to look who was coming. Who else than Kirkpatrick should it be?
"Hey, Bobby," Kirkpatrick greeted casually. "Did you miss me?"
Goren just snorted. He doesn't really expect an answer, does he?
"I truly cannot imagine why you don't talk with me. You're known for talking away and now an oyster would be more talkative."
Cautiously staying out of reach, Kirkpatrick shortened the chains that held Goren's legs to prevent him from kicking.
Goren stared at the ceiling. High above he heard the wheel turning and the clanking of the chain as Kirkpatrick approached. From his left he stepped into his field of vision.
"Give me your hand, Bobby," he ordered, not in the least surprised when Goren did not react at all. Even as the detective did not turn his head to face him, Kirkpatrick could read in his features the pain and the anger as well as defiance.
"C'mon, Bobby. Your sulky attitude only causes you trouble." He gestured him to lift up his left arm. When he did not give in, he grabbed the wrist, pulled it up and closed the shackle. He was well aware that the detective sucked in a sharp breath and grimaced with pain but ignored it completely.
"Give me your right hand, too," Kirkpatrick commanded. When Goren did not comply with this order he let out a sigh. Indifferent to any bad reaction, he lay his hand on his captive's shoulder.
Even the light touch hurt but was not enough to trigger a response. Goren closed his eyes.
"Defiance is not a solution, Bobby," Kirkpatrick reproached and pressed his hand harder on Goren's shoulder. He made him groan.
"So, c'mon now, Bobby."
A wicked smile curled his lips, when he watched Goren finally obeying the order very slowly. Still, he made no eye-contact. Kirkpatrick attached the second shackle to the chain. Then he got up again to undo the bondages on the ankles and the long chain to the right wrist.
Goren swallowed. Now he knew that he would have to stand up and to bear standing in the same position as before, his arms lifted high over his head. But this time his shoulder would certainly kill him.
Once again Kirkpatrick crouched beside him.
"I don't know what I shall do. Shall I shout at you like your former drill instructor? I can't remember Deakins yelling at you. Though, you obey his orders. I wonder why."
Slowly Goren turned his head and looked up at him. If looks were bullets, Kirkpatrick would have been dead in less than a heartbeat, sieved by his stares.
"Must have something to do with respect," Goren whispered in a voice hoarse by anger.
Kirkpatrick grinned. He lived on fear and rage. To see the detective like that cheered him. He nodded.
"You should respect the fact that I can still harm your precious partner," he said amused. "You know what I said, Bobby. It was an exchange. You're here in her place. If you don't keep me in good temper I'll probably make up my mind and invite her to join us."
He saw rage flash in the dark brown eyes. The next second he was hit by a knee. He evaded another kick and grabbed the chain. When he pulled it, he stretched Goren's arms and the detective cried out due to the sudden impact. So Kirkpatrick let go of the chain and took hold of the right shoulder instead to pull him to his feet. As soon as Goren was standing, Kirkpatrick put his forearm over his throat from behind and dragged him to his chest. The detective reared but the grip was inexorable. He was forced to step backwards until the chain was tight and he had barely a chance to move.
"I want you to listen carefully, Bobby. You will obey my orders. You don't surrender… Well, then I have to punish you… which might include actions against Detective Alex. So you will do whatever I tell you to do, whenever I tell you to do it. You got that?"
There was no answer. Kirkpatrick could feel the tension that ran through the body.
"Stop struggling," he barked. "Freeze."
This time Goren did as he was told but gnashed his teeth. Kirkpatrick could hear it and grinned viciously.
"When I let you go, you will step forward and kneel down. You understand?"
Goren nodded slightly and was released. For a moment he just stood there but then proceeded forward. Kirkpatrick followed him, sure that he had won. All of a sudden Goren exploded. The attack came so fast that Kirkpatrick was totally caught by surprise. Goren could grab the man's neck in return and they fought both for their balance.
It was a pointless attempt. Once Kirkpatrick managed to retreat towards the wall, his advantage became obvious. He was free, and Goren was not. Kirkpatrick took advantage of the restriction by the chain and wriggled out of the grip, out of reach. He turned to face his prisoner.
Their stares locked. For some time they just stood there, watching each other. Kirkpatrick was acutely aware of the rage that burned inside the detective. He could have even sensed it with closed eyes. But he gloated over the sight of the tightened muscles, the set to the jaws, slightly bared teeth and the narrowed brows over the fiery eyes.
Slowly he approached again, not breaking eye-contact. For several seconds he kept the unspoken threat. With his left he then grabbed Goren's throat, painfully burying his fingers right beneath the joints of the lower jaw.
"You did not listen for a single second, did you?" he spat.
He saw the brown eyes widen just a fraction a split second before he jammed his right fist into the other man's stomach. As Goren writhed with pain he released his grasp, only to hit him again. He literally beat his brains out, cautiously avoiding doing serious damage but hurting as much as possible, before he swung for a final blow.
Goren never knew what it was but it hit him right between the shoulder blades with an impact that turned his world glowing white and he screamed out in agony before he collapsed to the ground.
His vision stayed blurred as he lay there, paralyzed, feeling nothing but pain. At first he thought his head was spinning but then realized that Kirkpatrick turned him to lie on his back again.
"With this idiotic heroism you lost the chance to come to an amicable settlement," Kirkpatrick stated. "I take it that the reason was that you didn't want to be chained up again. Am I right?"
He did not expect an answer but went to pick something up from the floor. Then he waited patiently until the brown eyes cleared enough to recognize him.
Goren still felt dizzy, but he saw Kirkpatrick bow down to him, a big iron ring in hands, grabbing for his neck again. For an instant panic hit him as he identified the ring as over dimensional cuff. He felt the cold metal close around his neck, the ends being secured by a handcuff. His hands were forced to his chest and Kirkpatrick threaded the other half of the cuff through the chain links. Tied up this way he was rendered virtually immobile.
"You make interesting choices," Kirkpatrick said.
"As if I could make any choice here," Goren grumbled.
"Of course you can," Kirkpatrick contradicted. "You made a choice by defending yourself against the chains. You did not know what to expect instead but you made a choice all the same. Now you have to accept the consequences of this choice. I'm relatively certain that you won't like this either."
With that he seized the short chain of the handcuff and pulled Goren to his feet to shove him through the room to a corner.
Goren had seen the cage standing there before but did not realize its function. He tensed up and tried to plant his feet, but that did not help in any way. Kirkpatrick just had to take hold of the cuffs to force him forwards. With his shin Goren hit the bars. Then he was knocked down on his knees and Kirkpatrick pushed him head first through the opening into the cage. His legs were squeezed in, too, and the flap was slammed shut and locked.
Goren closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing when he was suddenly hit by a hard jet of icy cold water.
"To cool down your temper," Kirkpatrick was laughing.
He watched Goren winding in the cage which was way too small for a man of his size and laughed even wilder. Then he turned off the water.
"Perhaps you'll be in a better mood when I'll return," he said.
Once again Goren was left in total darkness, shivering with cold and fear.
xxx
One Police Plaza
Major Case Squad
Barek and Logan were on their way to Pennsylvania. Carver had pulled out all the stops to get an appointment with the warden and the correctional facility's psychiatrist before they were going to interview Mark Ford Brady.
The rest of the team was analyzing the cases Rick and A.J. Simon connected to the Locust. It was hard to flip through all the files and try to make sense of the differences and similarities between them.
Charts were pinned up on the board as well, with lists beneath each victim's name defining their profiles. Stabler had shoved his chair into a corner and put his feet on the table, brooding over files. His partner leaned heavily on the tabletop, resting her head on the wrist of her propped up left arm while reading.
Eames was sitting at the table, too, staring at a file but not seeing anything. Her thoughts drifted back to the phone call, the scared voice of her partner and the horrible clipping from the newspaper. She was scared of turning on the television or radio because she suspected that Goren would be on all the news by now.
Both Simon brothers were reading the reports about the latest killings. They were not talking either. So an awkward silence filled the space between the people.
Then Odafin Tutuola and his partner John Munch joined the group.
"Hey, Liv, Elliot," Munch greeted them when he entered.
"Hey, guys," Tutuola nodded and leaned against the inner doorframe.
Quickly they introduced each other.
"Explain once again why you think that our cases are connected," Munch called on Stabler to give them information.
"It's in this guy's profile," he replied. "He tends to episodes of excessive violence. So it's possible that Jack Dawson became one of his victims."
"And we're here now because you can't find him?" Munch teased.
Stabler glowered at him.
"Yeah, you can't find him and you're hoping that we found a lead in the Dawson case."
"Did you?" Stabler pushed.
"What?"
"Find a lead?"
"Nope."
"That looks interesting," Tutuola said, stepping up to the board. "And there's no lead in all that stuff?"
"If there is one, we haven't found it yet," Stabler grumbled, looking over at his colleague. "And all the attention is just making it worse."
"Well, that's not news to us," Munch chimed in, joining his partner studying the board. His gaze fell on the clipping.
NYPD Caught with Their Pants Down read the headline, covering the bottom of the picture of Goren. Still it was visible how he was chained up and that he did not wear any clothes.
"I thought I had a warped sense of humor, but that's just sick," Munch growled.
"If I ever get a hold of that reporter, he's gonna wish he'd called in sick today instead of writing that story," Tutuola added. "Hell, he's gonna wish he'd called in dead."
"I wish we could put them away for writing such trash," Eames said, suddenly sounding tearful. She fell silent because she was not sure if she would have her voice under control. What Munch and Tutuola had said fit with what she was thinking. That her partner was subjected to this kind of media attention now made her sick to her stomach and so furious that she was about to burst.
"Or withdraw their licenses… just like a lawyer would get disbarred," Munch said.
Their mood was too down to laugh or even chuckle, but the aura of despair surrounding them seemed to lighten.
"Can we concentrate on Atlanta for a moment?" Eames asked. "I still don't get this, Rick. You said that you were working together with Leland Kirkpatrick, investigating the copycatted murders, right?"
"Yeah."
"Hmmm… when you heard about New York… did you contact him?"
"I tried, but couldn't reach him," Rick confirmed. "Why?"
"I return the question to you. Why? Why did you contact him? Did you think that he might know why the guy wandered to New York next?"
Rick spent a few moments thinking.
"I don't think so. I don't remember if he ever followed one of his victims to another city."
"Maybe we should try to find that out," Benson chimed in. "Who's the first victim again?"
"Theresa Perkins," Eames told her and reached for a pile of folders. Flipping through them she found what she was looking for and handed it to Benson. "Here's the complete file."
"Okay, I'll check it," Benson said, as she leaned back in her chair and hid behind the folder.
"She looks a lot like Dawson," Munch thought aloud. "But there seems to be a pattern in these stabs."
"Yeah, that's a star constellation, the Libra," Stabler threw in.
Thoughtfully Munch nodded, then he asked, "Cause of death were the stabs?"
"No," Eames answered him. "Stephanie Fountain would have bled to death due to the stab wounds, but her neck was broken. Rodgers said that she most likely was dead when she was stabbed."
"Any other injuries?"
"Every other body showed ligature marks, but Fountain was not held captive. She was taken, killed and staged in a special posture."
Once more Munch nodded. "So she shows another similarity to the Jack Dawson murder," he mused. "Was she assaulted? And why the Libra?"
"She was not raped or sodomized. We think that he chose the Libra to refer to scales. The posture the body was found in resembled Lady Justice as she is often depicted, one arm raised, holding the scales, the other holding the sword."
"How was her murder connected to the others?"
"The way she was chosen. Stevie Fountain was a nodding acquaintance of Goren," Stabler said before Eames could answer this time.
Questioningly Munch raised his eyebrows at her.
"Yeah, that's right. Her body was staged in the hotel room of two tourists from Germany. The killer sent them tickets for a Broadway musical to be sure that he wouldn't be interrupted. Then he went there with his victim and killed her."
"A couple from Germany?" Tutuola asked, frowning.
"Yeah."
"He probably chose them on purpose," he mused. "Bobby was stationed in Germany and speaks the language."
"Right. He did the interview himself. I was astonished that he remembered that much to actually lead the interrogation in German."
"He's got a talent for languages," Tutuola said. "They're easy to learn for him."
Thoughtfully Eames nodded, remembering one of their first cases. He had surprised her when he suddenly spoke German with one of the men they interviewed.
"Does that lead us anywhere?" she wondered.
"Right now I can't think of anything."
"How were the necks broken?" Benson asked. "Blunt force trauma?"
"No, the head of Fountain must have been turned with a quick grip," Eames explained.
"As was Dawson's," Munch said.
"So we have similarities in the MO of both murders," Stabler mused.
"And I need to check something," Benson declared and grabbed the phone. For a while she was talking and listening, then she turned to her colleagues again and told them, "Theresa Perkins has been in Atlanta."
"Really?" Eames asked incredulously.
"Yes. "
They all looked at her, thinking hard. Was it really possible that the serial killer picked her as his next victim in Atlanta? Did he already plan his new project while he was still living there?
Before anyone could say something the phone put up on Stabler's desk rang. He answered the call and listened intently to the man on the other end of the line, responding to some questions, too. When he finished the call he turned to his colleagues again.
"That was Gil Grissom, the supervisor of the nightshift team of the Las Vegas forensic laboratories," Stabler told them. "He had some questions about our request. They will re-examine evidence they found on the victims of the case that is possibly connected to ours."
"Great! Hopefully they'll be able to lift genetic evidence," Eames said.
"Yeah, let's hope that," Stabler agreed. "Now let's find out more about Perkins' trip to Atlanta."
tbc…