I'm presenting events in chronological order. As always, this story does not accurately reflect actual NYPD policies and procedures. Everything has been tailored to fit SVU canon and the needs of this story. Since this spins off after "RAW", there are no murderous Tutuola nephews in this AU.

John Blackmun was the name Munch used when undercover at the sex tourism travel agency in the season four episode "Angels."

Shave and a haircut—two bits knock: Duh-da-da-duh-duh... duh-duh....

Willy Loman: main character in the Arthur Miller play "Death of a Salesman."

PBR: Pabst Blue Ribbon beer

Wolla! Voila!

Renault: Inspector Renault is the precinct commander. Yes, I took the name from "Casablanca."

Intel: the NYPD Intelligence Division handles terrorism in NYC

Just about everyone curses in this one. Stress does that to people. Section #1 contains a not very graphic description of oral sex. Section #2 contains graphic descriptions of gunshot wounds and death.

Residence of Frederick Dover
320 East Eighth Street #6B
15 August (Sunday) 4:03 p.m.

Munch rapped on Dover's door.

It would save me a lot of effort if pedophiles had a secret knock… 'Shave and a haircut—I like kids…' Now, to put aside my usual debonair confidence and sell the hell out of this to Dover… think Willy Loman, but successful….

The man who answered John's opened the door only as far as its chain would stretch.

Early fifties, pale blue eyes, weathered skin, my height, call his weight one-eighty… dressed in a blue cotton work shirt and jeans—both professionally pressed… Mr. and Mrs. Choi did not recognize his photo so he doesn't take his clothes to them….

John tried to see past Dover into his apartment.

White walls and woodwork… hardwood floors… bathroom behind him… can't see anyone or anything else….

Dover stared with narrowed eyes through the gap left by the chain.

"Yes?"

Munch smiled brightly.

"Hi, I'm John Blackmun. I just moved into the neighborhood and I spotted you outside with your… ah… grand-daughter."

Dover's grip on the door tightened.

"My grand-daughter?"

John ignored the suspicion in his voice and expression.

"Yes, your grand-daughter. She's truly lovely—a real beauty. You're a lucky man to have a girl like her in your life."

Lay it on a bit thick… use terminology that can be taken both sexually and grand-fatherly… let him decide how to take it….

For an instant, Dover's gaze shifted to his left.

The girl is in that direction….

When he returned his attention to Munch, his suspicion had been ratcheted up several notches.

"What you mean by that?"

Try to look affable and trustworthy….

John widened both his smile and his eyes.

"I saw you with her and I thought to myself, 'There's a man who knows how thrilling a young girl can be, and who knows where the best places are to find that thrill."

If you're a pedophile, I've just laid it out plain as day… if not, you should be confused or repulsed….

"And where would that be?" Dover asked.

"Oh, I don't know," John said, pitching his voice lower as though he were sharing a secret. "Perhaps the princess section of the Disney store, or the balance beam competition at a gymnastic meet, or maybe the ice rink while the junior figure skaters are practicing?"

He noticed how Dover's expression softened at the mention of skating.

I must have struck gold….

"Those little girls twirling around the rink in their immaculate white skates," John elaborated, enunciating every consonant in the long adjective, "and their bright-colored outfits with the short, frilly skirts."

Dover's lips parted and his eyes went dark.

"And the tights," he replied, his own voice gone husky, "the way they shimmer on their thighs as they skate by me."

John nodded his head. "Oh, yes—I know exactly what you mean."

You sick fuck….

Dover stood there a moment longer, enjoying the revelry John had spun for him, then he shook it off as his suspicion returned.

"Can you prove you're who you say you are?" he asked.

John's chuckle was not faked.

Oh, I most certainly can… been carrying that proof around since 2002….

He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his wallet.

Right here… stashed behind my authentic driver's license… one department-issue fake ID for John Blackmun of Baltimore, Maryland… Cragen asked for it back a couple times, but I kept putting him off until he finally dropped it… one never knows when one might need to hide from the right-wing establishment….

John held the fake ID where Dover could examine the excellent work done by the NYPD's Tech Services. Dover scowled at it for a moment then he glared back at John's face.

"How do I know you're not a cop?"

John peered at him through the narrow opening.

"Do I look young enough to be a cop? Do I look that clean-cut and stupid?"

Just the right amount of sarcasm and he should buy it….

Dover eyed him a moment longer then he shook his head.

"No," he told John, "but I had to ask."

He then undid the door's chain and opened the door. John wasted no time stepping into the apartment.

Main room and kitchen to my left… clean and tidy with cheap furniture… closed door to my right—has to be the bedroom… faint sounds of canned laughter coming through the door… I'll bet his 'grand-daughter' is in there watching TV.…

"I'm Fred Dover," the man said as he held out his right hand.

John accepted the offered hand with a grin.

"Good to meet you, Fred. You lived in New York long?"

"All my life right here in this neighborhood," Dover replied. "You said you'd just moved here?"

John nodded. "From Baltimore. Charm City gave me a very nice pension when I retired so I decided to try the Big Apple. I couldn't see the sense in moving to a fifty-five and over community down south."

Dover nodded. "Gotcha on that one. You want a beer or something?"

John accepted with unfeigned pleasure.

I'm in… now, to find out more about his perversion preferences….

After they both were seated, Dover on the sofa with his back to the windows, John in a low armchair set along the wall, and after both had taken a swig of their PBRs, John picked up the conversation.

"What do you do for a living, Fred—and may I call you Fred?"

"Sure," Dover replied, "might as well. I'm a outboard motor mechanic at Hudson Landing; it's a marina over in New Jersey."

Working outdoors on the water explains his skin and hands….

The shudder that ran through John was not faked.

"Just looking at ship paintings makes me seasick."

"Me, I hate the water," Dover told him, "but I like the summer sailing classes. Lots of kids, lots of girls."

John smiled appreciatively.

Time to push him….

"Ah, yes—girls. I gather you like them Asian?"

Dover smiled back.

"Yeah, when I can swing it. Their parents keep 'em on a tight leash. It's like they know what their daughters really want to do when they aren't watching them."

Dover took another swig of his beer.

"How about you, John?"

I like them tall, red-haired, and much, much older than six, you twisted child-raper….

"I like them young and dark," he lied. "Charm City was perfect; two-thirds of the population was the right color."

"Got any pictures?"

"Sure."

John reached again for his wallet.

This is another test… a normal man wouldn't be carrying photos of children not related to him… good thing I'm not normal—no, wait… good thing I know how to trap my prey….

Dover examined the three photos John handled him.

Cara, Nila, and one of the photos that Dill doctored up for our vitiligo girl….

"Sweet, very sweet. How'd you meet them?"

"I volunteered at the children's museum, and with the city's after-school reading program."

"What about background checks?"

John laughed. "I started volunteering long before anyone got paranoid about men being with children. By the time they instituted background checks, I was so trusted, no one even asked."

Dover nodded his approval.

"Yeah," he said, "it's gotten so bad, we can't even look at a girl without some teacher or parent freaking."

John put his beer to his lips.

Good thing Dover handed me a can… he can't see I'm not really drinking… and hooray for me—I got a 'we' out of him… we're best buds now….

"What about you, Fred? You volunteer anywhere?"

Dover shook his head.

"Naw, I'm not good at that shit. I got a couple friends who work for the schools—Harry's a PE teacher and Pete's a janitor. They look out for girls I might enjoy, and I find them kids in the sailing classes—you know, kids with single moms that work long hours and get left alone a lot."

"A support group," John said approvingly. "Good idea—the more kindred spirits on the lookout, the better the chances of finding that perfect someone."

Looks like we get to take three of you off the streets—damn, this just gets better and better….

"Yeah. I get them the kids' names and addresses and descriptions—I know what both of them likes. Then, they met up with the kids and make friends with them. You know how it goes after that."

"I certainly do. Is that how you met your current, through your friends?"

Dover nodded.

"Pete, he found her for me. Her mother's not married and she works for some t-shirt company in the Garment District so Julie's a latchkey kid. I spent time in Hong Kong with the Navy, so I know some Cantonese. I gave Jing Wei some crap about how the wife I brought back from China died before we could have kids and how much I miss her. That and some money to help with the rent got me in good with her. A few dates and some more bull and wolla—I'm now her 'fiancé' and I get to baby-sit Julie while Jing Wei goes to work."

Behind his smile, John choked back bile.

So, you found some overworked, over-stressed young woman and used her to get at her daughter… you vile sack of shit….

"So, is that what you were doing when I saw you and Julie?" he asked. "Taking her home from your…."

John paused to leer at Dover.

"… babysitting?"

Dover's gaze shifted its focus to John's face. John watched as he seemed to search for something in John's expression.

I'm being weighed… I've passed every test up to now, but something else is coming… I know he has Julie here in his bedroom, but he doesn't know I know….

While Dover considered whatever was on his mind, John glanced at the room's furnishings.

Not much here… another chair, a glass coffee table… black lacquer entertainment unit… lots of kid movies on the shelves… clock on the DVR reads 4:23… Loudoun will be here in seven minutes… be great if I had Dover ready to transport when she gets here….

Dover's voice brought John's attention back to the pedophile.

"You said you like them black. You ever try yellow?"

John hid his sudden urge to vomit behind a slow grin.

"A couple of times," he replied. "You have something in mind?"

"Well…."

Dover drew out the syllable as though using it as a lure.

"I wasn't taking Julie home when you saw us. I was bringing her back here with me. Her mom is working the evening shift; so long as I have Julie home and in bed before she gets home, I'm golden."

He then set his empty bottle on the coffee table.

"My darling's gotten the hang of it now," he told John. "She keeps her teeth outta the way and when she strokes my balls—hell, ain't nothing like it. Trouble is, I also like watching, but Harry and Pete are into boys and that's not my thing. So…."

John raised one eyebrow to signal his interest.

"I think I know where you're going with this…."

Head-first into our holding cell as fast as I can throw you ….

Dover then stood up and waved his hand at the closed bedroom door.

"How about I watch you and Julie? I promise—you won't be disappointed."

Seventh Floor
Sixteenth Precinct
15 August 4:05 p.m.

Elliot pushed the restroom door open just as Fin was shouting, "Head shot—head shot!"

What the hell?

He rounded the corner to see Fin with his hands wrapped around the right hand of a young man in a tan coat. The man was yelling unintelligibly as he drove his left fist into Fin's abdomen, too intent on hurting the detective to notice Stabler's arrival

Elliot ran over to separate the two men.

"No!" Fin shouted. "Bomb—head shot! Do it!""

At the word "bomb," Elliot's sight tunneled in on the two men. The man's arm connected again with stomach, Fin grimacing from pain, droplets of sweat flying from his face as he bent double from the blow, all in the time it took Ellot to draw his Glock. He then took one step forward as the man, his attention focused on Fin's grip on his hand, twisted his arm in an effort to pull himself free.

"Fin, stay down!"

Startled by the new voice, the bomber raised his head. His dark eyes widened and he froze with shock.

Now!

Elliot aimed at the center of the man's forehead and pulled the trigger. Muzzle blast filled the hall as blood spattered back from the entry, freckling Elliot's hand and wrist. More red sprayed the wall by the bomber's left ear, staining the plaster above Fin. The man's expression went slack as the light faded from eyes still fixed on Elliot.

Oh, God….

The man's right arm, its hand held firmly in Fin's grasp, went limp, and his head drooped forward as neck muscles went flaccid. Elliot's stomach lurched and bile filled his mouth.

Oh, God….

Training kicked in, impelling Elliot to take his finger from the trigger then holster his weapon. Next to him, Fin drew a long, rough breath as he straightened from his tuck. He shied away from the gore on the wall, and his nose crinkled at the sudden stench of urine released by the body as death relaxed its muscles. Elliot saw his lips move, but the ringing in his ears blocked some of Fin's words.

"—anks. Almost lost—"

Rapid footsteps and shouting, the sound of everyone on the floor hurrying their way, drowned the rest of Fin's speech. Elliot raised a hand to ward off the approaching crowd.

"Stay back," he shouted. "Bomb!"

Everyone halted just as the body began a slow slide along the wall away Fin.

"Elliot!"

Before Fin could finish his name, Elliot pinned the body to the wall by slamming his right hand against its chest. He then shifted to a two-hand grip on the body's upper arms.

"Stabler, did you say 'bomb'?"

The question came from Lieutenant Crenshaw from Robbery. Elliot turned his head to see the lieu and a group of detectives and other personnel, Lake and Sofarelli included, clustered ten feet from Elliot and Fin.

"Yeah," he replied. "Under this guy's coat. Fin's got the detonator."

"Is it live?" asked Crenshaw.

Fin's voice shook as he answered.

"I ain't letting go to find out."

The crowd, Lake and Sofarelli excepted, began to edge away as Crenshaw begin to bark commands.

"Jenner, call Renault's office and have this building evacuated. Have them get the bomb squad here pronto. Piazza, get our unit shut down. You—Sofarelli? Same for yours. Taylor, Dunleavey, Marston—get to the elevators and stairs and keep the lookie-loos away from here. Hessler, you head up to the eighth…."

Footsteps and voices receded into the distance as people scrambled to comply with the lieutenant's orders. Only Lake remained; he approached the two detectives gingerly, sliding one crutch forward at a time until he was an arm's length from Elliot. He stood there, his weight on his good leg as though poised to pivot and run, then he licked his lips with a quick, nervous motion.

"You can't hold that body forever," he said to Elliot. "How about I help you and Fin get comfortable?"

"Comfortable?" Fin choked out the word. "You gonna bring us the couch from the lounge?"

"Right," Chester said with a glance at his crutches, "but I could give you a hand down then maybe a box or something to rest your arm on."

"That'd work," Fin told him. "I don't think I can stand much longer."

Chester's lips went pale and his gaze shifted to the far end of the hall.

Yeah, I wish like hell I was there, too… don't take too long wishing—Fin's legs are starting to shake….

"I'll get you under your arms," Chester said, "and lower you down."

Fin nodded. Without another word. Chester leaned his crutches against the lightwell then he limped around Elliot to stand behind Fin. He planted his left hand on the wall by the blood splatter then he gingerly stretched his right arm under Fin's and wrapped it around his chest. For a moment, the three men stood still, their eyes all focused on Fin's hands wrapped around the detonator and the wires leading to the man's chest.

Just don't knock his hands loose….

"Okay," Elliot said, "on the count of three: one, two—"

On "three," he loosened his grip and began a slow squat, guiding the body as gravity took it to the floor. Next to Elliot, Fin leaned back, using Lake's chest for support to help him drop slowly to his knees. Chester leaned forward, holding Fin upright and steady until Fin was kneeling on the linoleum.

"You want to sit?" Elliot asked.

Fin's head bobbed.

"Yeah. Can you lean him this way?"

"Sure thing."

Elliot slid the body's torso to his left, giving Fin enough slack from the arm holding the switch to let Fin get his butt on the floor with his legs crossed in front of him. Fin then lowered his arms until his elbows were resting on his thighs and his two clasped hands on his crossed ankles. He then sagged against the wall.

"You good?" Chester asked.

"I'm good," Fin replied.

Chester eyed Elliot and said, "Your turn."

Elliot let go with his left hand then he adjusted the body until it was stable, its legs splayed out and straddling Elliot. He then duplicated Fin's position on the floor. This left him seated between the dead bomber's legs with his right hand clutching the lapel of the tan coat to keep the body from falling over.

"I'm good, too," he told Chester.

"Good. I'm getting go now."

Chester released his hold on Fin then straightened with a crack of the cartilage of his injured knee.

"I'll be right back," he told them. "Don't go anywhere."

Chester turned towards the SV squadroom. Ignoring the muted curses Fin sent after him, he left them.

"'Don't go anywhere,'" Fin groused. "Lake think I'm gonna drag this piece of shit around with me?"

Elliot let him complain without comment.

Better Fin talk it out—can't do anything else right now… the way he's hunched over and sweating, I know it's more than nerves—Fin's hurting… bomb squad better not drag their asses getting here….

He aimed his gaze at his feet, trying to avoid the sight of the dead man before him. Random thoughts raced through his brain as he tried to process the past few minutes.

A bomb—a suicide bomb… what the fuck is a suicide bomber doing here? Fin… Fin did the right thing grabbing like that… and me dropping him… hasn't hit me yet, but it will… nightmares, sleepless nights, the heebie-jeebies whenever I think about him staring at me… he's not staring at me now… not much of an entry wound… reddened hole, ring of soot around it… glad it's not the exit wound I'm looking at… not glad about the rest of this… I got to get word to Kathy—Olivia, too… tell them things will be okay… they will for me… I can walk away… Fin's the one stuck in—

Fin cleared his throat, drawing Elliot from his thoughts.

"I saw this hump," Fin told him, "heading for the squadroom. I thought he was a junkie then I saw the deadman switch and I grabbed it. I think that catches you up."

Elliot nodded.

"So, Fin," he said, "Rangers to the rescue?"

Fin snorted his disgust at the friendly jibe.

"Had to," he shot back. "All the jarheads were busy shitting themselves in the can. Besides, I saw enough of this in Somalia. It don't belong here."

Elliot let the slur against the Marine Corps slide, knowing it was only tension relief.

"Amen to that," he replied. "Did this guy say who he was or why he was here?"

"Naw, just cussed at me in some Arab jibberish. Can you check his pockets?"

Elliot carefully slid his hand into the front pockets of the tan coat.

"Nothing here but lint," he said. "I'm going to try his pants."

"You be careful."

"I will."

Trust me, Fin—I don't want to go 'boom' any more than you do….

Elliot patted the front pockets of the dead man's pants.

Doesn't feel like there's anything in there….

He then carefully reached his left hand under the arm Fin was holding then he felt the rear pants pocket.

Feels like wallet….

Gingerly, he worked two fingers into the pocket and tugged until the wallet came free. When he had it clear of the body, Elliot flipped it open.

"It's a ID, not a license," he told Fin. "Says he's Faizullah Eshan, address in the West Village, and he's nineteen."

"Don't know him," Fin said.

"Me, either."

Elliot set the wallet on the floor by his right leg. Fin glanced at the man's face and swallowed hard.

"I got the better view," Elliot told him. "Sorry about that."

Fin muttered something about beating his sorry ass when everything was over then he asked, "Think Al-Qaeda's targeting precinct houses?"

"God, I hope not. Besides, why come up here? Why not stay downstairs where maybe he might take the building—"

Elliot cut of his sentence as Fin's eyes widened in horror.

Yeah, don't think about buildings coming down… think about something else… like how it got quiet all of the sudden… and where's Lake? I thought he was coming back with something to put under Fin's hands….

He looked around, but his hold on the corpse prevented him from turning around to see the squadroom. The hall on either side of him was empty.

"Where is everybody?" he asked.

Fin hitched one shoulder up to signal he did not know.

"Probably gone home to watch this on TV."

Elliot tipped his head to indicate the empty hall.

"To do that, we need reporters and cameras and all that shit."

Fin scowled then said, "If'n a reporter sticks a microphone in my face and asks how I'm feeling, you better be ready to run 'cause I'm letting this go and taking him with me."

Elliot snorted. "Sounds like justifiable homicide to me."

"Damn straight."

The sound of footsteps and a steady rumble of wheels on linoleum cut their banter short. The rumble was from an office chair pushed by Lake, its seat holding a box of copy paper. Couch was behind Chester with a stack of folded shirts in his arms and a navy blue terrycloth towel over his shoulder. Both walked past Elliot to stop next to Fin.

"This should make things better," Chester said, tapping a finger on the box. "Elliot, can you make room for this?"

Elliot sidled to his right then shifted the body's right leg closer to him. Chester let go of the chair and stepped away from it. Couch dropped the shirts on top of the box to make a cushion then he lifted it from the chair to the floor between Elliot and Fin.

"Elliot, how about you get that arm?" he asked, his voice shaking on the last two words. None of the older men commented on his show of nerves.

Hell, I'd shake like an earthquake if I thought Fin wouldn't rag me about it…

Elliot grabbed the sleeve of the coat and pulled up in unison with Fin's raising of his clasped hands. Couch slid the box under Fin's hands then positioned it so Fin could rest his elbows on the folded shirts.

With his arms now supported, Fin nodded his approval.

"That's better," he said. "Thanks."

"No problem."

Couch next took the towel from his shoulder. He draped it over the dead man's head, covering his face and both gunshot wounds.

"That should help, too," he told them.

"Where'd you get the shirts?" Fin asked.

"Sergeant Valeri. I think he raided the locker room. The towel's mine."

Elliot gave the towel a appreciative grin.

"It helps," he told Couch. "Thanks—both of you."

Couch smiled in response as he pulled the chair away from the detectives. Chester grabbed his crutches from where he had left them leaning and arranged them under his arms.

"Just so you know," Lake said, "Valeri has locked the elevator on the first floor until the bomb squad gets here. He said they're thirty minutes out."

Fin scowled at the news.

"We're supposed to wait for them to get pretty?"

"What's the matter, Fin?" Elliot asked. "Don't you like our company?"

Fin stuck his chin out at the corpse.

"It's him I'm objectin' to. Fucker needs a urinal cake."

Nervous chuckles from Chester and Couch greeted his complaint as Elliot asked Couch to pick up the wallet.

"Someone needs to check out that address," he said as Couch opened the wallet.

Couch's jaw dropped as he read the ID.

"Ehsan's the name of that girl whose mother and uncle tried to take her to Afghanistan against her will—the one we thought would be gang-raped."

Elliot focused on the towel-draped man before him.

I remember… the same night that boy went missing and died from a fall… John and Couch got the girl off the plane at JFK… Judith and Couch's wife picked up the rest of the family before they 'disappeared…' but there wasn't any blow-back—not even an angry letter to the commissioner… this guy's here because of that?

Fin responded first.

"You saying this fucker was coming for us?"

Couch nodded. "We stopped tribal justice from taking place so, yeah—looks like he was coming for us."

He pulled a plastic evidence bag from his pants pocket and put the wallet into it.

"I'll call Intel on my way downstairs," he said. "Hate to run, but…."

Couch spun on his heel. He had his phone out before he hit the stairs. The three detectives watched until he was out of sight then Chester cleared his throat.

"I'd better go, too," he said. "Is there anything else you need?"

Elliot met Fin's gaze. His scowl softened, a sign he was thinking the same thing as Elliot.

How about you trade places with one of us? Neither of us will say that aloud… we'll joke, we'll bitch… but we won't admit we're scared….

To cover his reaction, Elliot forced a smile.

"How about you stand us a round at McMullen's when this is over?"

A slight nod from Fin told Elliot he had hit the right tone for his reply. Above him, Chester also nodded.

"You got it."

"And can you call—"

"Couch updated Olivia, and he told Kathy you're keeping Fin company and will call her later."

Elliot's throat tightened.

Good… I owe him for that….

Unsure he could reply without choking up, Elliot nodded.

"I got a hold of Judith," Chester continued. "I also tried to reach Cragen, Munch, and Loudoun, but their phones went to voicemail."

His expression solemn, Lake turned his attention to Fin.

"Fin, you need anyone called?"

Elliot watched Fin's expression go blank.

Lake doesn't know… Fin's son barely speaks to him… his ex-wife hates him… he's never mentioned any family….

"You don't mind," Fin said, his voice softer than usual, "I'm asking Elliot to call. It's probably better if someone they know…."

Chester raised an eyebrow as Fin's words trailed off, but he let the matter lie.

"Okay then," he told them. "I'll see you guys downstairs."

He then headed for the stairs, leaving Elliot and Fin to await the arrival of the bomb squad.