Title: DOA, Part 2: Retaliation

Spoilers: Eh, some from season 7, I guess.

Rating: R, for violence and language.

What you need to know: Malucci was just arrested for the murder of Jing- Mei.

I am not a doctor, so the medical terms might be off. Same with the police procedures and terms.

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The green linoleum floor gleamed in its cleanliness. Freshly mopped, the linoleum sparkled under the bright lights of Trauma One. A gurney in the middle of the bright room created a shadow over the smooth, clean floor. A Latex glove was carelessly tossed into the corner of the room, interrupting the continuous green glow.

Only one drop of Jing-Mei Chen's blood remained on the floor, somehow missed by the janitor's mop.

Doctors and nurses passed by the cold room all day - a quick glance at the yellow police tape and the bright, shining floor would hasten the step of any passerby. Everyone in the hospital knew what had happened in that room only twelve hours ago. Everyone had heard about the doctor, found in a pool of her own blood, with only a long cut through her throat. Everyone had tried to crowd into the Trauma room next door, trying to revive one of their own. Everyone had seen Mrs. Chen's stiff composure as she affirmatively identified her daughter's body. And everyone had taken a glance into that cold room, that crime scene, for the cheap rush of adrenaline that comes with an emotional surge.

Yet no one had seen Malucci slit Jing-Mei's throat. They hadn't seen anyone. And while a glance into this room was morbidly thrilling, no one dared to cross the yellow police tape - it served as a sort of physical barrier to a place of metaphysical pain and dread.

It was slow this morning at Cook County General - no surprise, since the headline: "DOCTOR MURDERED AT COUNTY HOSPITAL" wasn't much of a promotion for the hospital. Especially the part that named Dr. Dave Malucci, who had cared for so much of the reading public, as Chen's killer. A few policeman lingered around Trauma One and Chairs, not serving much of a purpose besides guarding an already cleared crime scene. The ER stood silently around them. An evacuation had been considered, then cancelled, as Malucci had trudged into his prison cell that morning. A sense of relief swept the staff; yet they now mourned the loss of two doctors. Two friends.

What had gone wrong with Malucci? What had compelled him to do such a thing? The ER was plagued with these questions all morning. An indignant denial from Malucci's friends had sounded, then silenced, when reports of his confession made their way through County. So there was no killer among them - but the fact that the killer had shared their workplace . . . he had cared for innocent people . . . had the last patient fatality been under his care? Had that patient *really* died of cardiac arrest? And what about that rape victim Dave had cared for last week? Had they ever found the rapist? Why hadn't they checked Dave out then . . .

. . . before something like this happened?

And then there were those who wouldn't believe the trite the policemen and the media had fed them. There was no way in hell that Dave would do something like this, not their Dave, not the Dave they knew. This belief introduced a new fear to the ER: if Malucci didn't do it, was the murderer still free? The police at County General were casually unconcerned that a killer could be on the loose - after all, they had their man.

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Dr. Mark Greene was stretched out asleep in an empty exam room. Between the 40 minutes of trying to revive Jing-Mei, the interrogation of the entire staff, and the painful aftermath of losing a dear friend, Mark had missed an entire night's sleep. Sure, he had been off for an hour now, but he was entirely too comfortable and unconscious to wake up now. Mark now didn't have to remember Jing-Mei's glossy, unreactive eyes, or the pool of blood in Trauma One, or the 12 hours of terror before the police had finally arrested Malucci. He could just sleep, and dream of more pleasant things than calling a friend's death.

Yet this pleasure of relaxation was short lived - the piercing wail of an ambulance cut through the peaceful silence and sliced Mark's happy dream. Numbly he stirred and sat up.

The exam door was flung open - "Mark, they need you in Trauma," Haleh announced, poking her head through the door.

Mark nodded and stumbled across the room. Yawning, he shuffled through the ER and grumbled, "What do we got."

"23 year old female, found with a slit throat and no pulse," a paramedic answered.

A twinge of shock ran through Mark as he glanced down at the woman. Found with no pulse, just like Jing-Mei's. Her throat was cut, just like Jing- Mei's. One straight, bleeding line, right across the neck. Approximately 6 inches long.

Shit.

The paramedic started to roll the gurney into Trauma One. Noticing the yellow tape, she asked, "What the hell went on here?"

Mark snapped back to reality and didn't answer as he wheeled the gurney into Trauma Two. "On my count," he instructed the few nurses and paramedics that had come to assist him. "One, two three."

*Bump*

"How long has she been down?" Mark asked, shining a flashlight into the girl's eyes.

"She was down 15 minutes when we got there. We got her back up but she crashed en route, and she's been down for 20 minutes now," the paramedic informed Mark.

"So 20 minutes," Mark snapped, looking up from the girl's face. "I didn't need every goddamn detail. All I needed was '20 minutes.' "

The paramedic stared at him. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, trying to get her back up instead of bitching at me?" she asked hotly.

Mark shook his head. "She's been down too long," he retorted, swinging his stethoscope around his neck. "Time of death, 9:16."

"You're not even going to try?" the paramedic cried shrilly.

"Nope," Mark answered. "She's got no pulse and she's been down for 20 minutes." With that Mark stepped out of the room, trying to control his breathing. This girl couldn't have met up with the same guy that killed Jing-Mei. After all, Malucci was in jail. He'd been in jail for at least two hours now, and this girl had been attacked during those two hours. There was no tighter alibi than being in prison during a crime.

Mark's mind flashed back to that morning's gigantic headline about the murder. Was this a copycat? Was there now another killer loose in the city? What if-

"Mark!"

Mark looked up just before he ran into Abby Lockhart. "What," he grumbled, not making eye contact.

"I've got an 80 year old schizophrenic in Exam 4 who wants to see you," Abby informed him. "She says you were her doctor before, and she-"

"I'm off, Abby," Mark answered absently, heading towards the lounge.

"You won't even see her?" Abby yelled, irritated by Mark's non-response. Sighing, she walked back to Exam 4, mustered a fake smile, and stepped back inside.

"Where's Dr. Greene?" the elderly woman in the bed asked.

"Dr. Greene's busy," Abby answered with feigned energy. "But I can get you another-"

"What about that other doctor, the Italian-looking one?" the woman demanded. "He's treated me, too!"

"Dr. Malucci isn't here today," Abby answered. checking the woman's IV. She purposely avoided eye contact with the patient - no need on elaborating on Malucci's *exact* location.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE GOOD DOCTORS?" the woman suddenly screamed.

"All of our doctors are excellent," Abby informed the woman, her false smile beginning to crack. "Dr. Carter is here, and Dr. Finch will be here in a few hours."

The patient considered this. "How about that little Asian doctor? Will she be in today?"

Abby's smile faded. "No," she answered softly. "No, Dr. Chen won't be in today."

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"So last night, you were at a bar, getting drunk with a 17 year old patient," the portly detective remarked flatly.

Malucci closed his eyes in agony. He was back here again - back in this blank, white, terrifying interrogation room. "Yes," he whispered. "That's what I keep telling you."

"You weren't at Cook County General, like your sign-out sheet says you were."

Malucci nodded. "That's right."

The detective rolled his eyes. "That's not what you told the sergeant 4 hours ago. You said, and I quote-" he flipped through his papers - "in response to the sergeant's question, 'Did you kill Jing-Mei Chen?' you looked flustered and answered 'We had a fight. Things got out of control. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident.' " The detective read Malucci's quote dully; his eyes glazed over as he spoke so monotonously.

Malucci stood up in fury. "I never said anything like that!" he cried, startled when the detective rapidly reached for his gun. Malucci quickly took his seat. "I don't know where you got that bullshit but it wasn't from me."

The detective opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the opening door. "O'Brian, a word," a young officer requested. Malucci watched as the detective stood up and exited the room wordlessly.

So Jing-Mei was dead. That much Malucci knew. Yet with the confusion of his arrest and the supposed "confession" he had made, Malucci didn't have the energy to weep for his friend. Nor could he accurately remember what had really happened last night. He had last seen Jing-Mei as he was trying to sneak out of the hospital before his shift had ended. She hadn't noticed him. If Malucci had known that that would be the last time he would ever see Jing-Mei Chen, he would not have left the hospital with Deborah West. Hell, he shouldn't have left the hospital with her, anyway. Even if some miracle occurred and the police would stop making up his confessions, Malucci would still be nailed for statutory rape. He was substituting one crime for another - his alibi for murder was that he was too busy sleeping with a 17-year-old.

Weary, Malucci rubbed his eyes with his right hand, his left hand dangling from the handcuffs. If only there was a way to prove that he had been with Deborah last night, and not Deb . . .

An idea slapped Malucci upside the head - "When do I get my phone call?" he hollered, fully aware that people were watching him through the two-way mirror.

The detective re-entered the room and glared at Malucci. "They found another girl, doc," he snapped. "They found another girl with her throat cut open. Not that I need to tell *you*."

Malucci stared at him. "What do you mean?" he asked crossly. "Did my fingerprints magically appear around this body, too?"

"Don't get smart with me, doc," the detective warned. "We know you didn't kill this girl. But we also know that you've got friends on the outside. Friends who are willing to do your dirty work for you."

Malucci groaned. This was getting ridiculous. "You've got nothing on me. I've been under your thumb for the last 4 hours. You've got no proof that I've killed anyone - because I haven't," he added hastily. "And I could give you a solid alibi if I could just make my phone call!"

The detective just stared at Malucci. "Did you know this girl, Malucci? Her name was Madeline Crane. She lived on Riley Street in downtown Chicago, with her boyfriend."

Malucci let out an exasperated cry. "You're not listening to me!" he shouted.

"Did you have problems with her? Love affair gone wrong? Did you get someone, a real good friend, maybe, to get rid of her for you?"

"Let me have my goddamn phone call," Malucci growled through gritted teeth.

The detective shook his head. "Fine. You can have your phone call."

Malucci sighed. "If I can get Deborah down here to tell you where I was last night, can I get out of here?"

The detective was silent. He was *not* about to admit that it looked like Malucci wasn't guilty, after all. There was no way he was going to indulge the fact that Madeline's murder was the second in 48 hours, and it was beginning to look like a serial killer was on the loose.

"I haven't done anything wrong!" Malucci complained. "I didn't killed anyone! Just let me call Deborah. She'll verify that I was with her all last night."

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John Carter took a long drag of his cigarette and flicked the ashes into the gutter. He had quit smoking a long time ago, but he'd forgotten how much he missed holding the thin cigarette in his fingers, as the ashes wafted around in the swirling breeze and the beautiful, glorious smoke that seemed to envelope Carter in his utter misery. The nicotine that rushed through his blood and the smoke that filled his lungs were two of the most satisfying things Carter had ever felt.

Well, almost the most satisfying. There weren't any syringes around for Carter to *really* relax.

Things like this were not good for his rehabilitation. Carter had been teetering on the edge of his addiction for so long now, and just when he felt that it was behind him - BAM! These emotions came rushing upon him, and before Carter knew what he was doing the cravings were back again. He'd even been happy. No, actually, he'd been *very* happy - for the first time in a very, very long time. He and Rena were hitting it off quite nicely, he'd finally begun to love his job again, and his friends had finally stopped giving him that look, that look that said "Wow, Carter's acting strangely depressed/happy/normal today. I wonder what he's on?"

Deb hadn't given him that look for the longest time.

But it all changed last night. Something inside of him had snapped. Hell, he'd bought 3 packs of cigarettes only 15 minutes after Deb's death. No, this was not good at all.

The picture of Deb's sheet white face flashed into Carter's mind again, and furiously he stabbed the cigarette into the curb. Why had this happened? What had he done to make this happen? He and Jing-Mei had just been talking, like they always did, and all of a sudden he had -

The touch of a hand on Carter's back made him jump, then shirk away. "Carter," he heard Abby murmur as she sat next to him. "Are you smoking?"

Carter didn't answer - silently he crushed the empty pack of cigarettes into a ball. "Just go away," he mumbled.

Abby put her arm around his shoulder. "It was a terrible thing," she whispered to him. "No one wants to walk into a room and . . . and see that . . ." Abby trailed off. She was no good at this kind of thing. "I know I'm gonna sound bitchy but you can't backtrack on your rehab." There. Something she knew about.

Carter glared at her. "You think I give a fuck right now?" he demanded. "I'm not shooting up, I'm just smoking a goddamn cigarette. Who the hell do you think you are to . . . to . . ." Carter shook his head, unable to think of the word. He pulled out another pack and furiously tapped it against his palm.

Abby reached over and snatched the pack away. "I'm not letting you do this," she snapped. "No chemical will make you feel better. There's some things in life that you just have to deal with."

With this Carter stood up rapidly. "Don't use that A.A. shit on me. You know as well as I do that some things are too damn hard to deal with. I was doing great for a while! The temptations were even going away! But something like this happens and I . . . and I . . ." Carter choked back a sob. "Just leave me the hell alone." He stormed away, leaving Abby to stare at him in awe.

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"West residence."

Malucci breathed a sigh of relief. He'd remembered the number right. "Hello, Mr. West. Is Deborah there?"

"Who's speaking." The voice was gruff and authoritarian.

"This is . . . uh . . . Dave Malucci." A twinge of panic ran through him - what if she wasn't home? What if her father didn't let her get on the phone? What if -

"Deb!" the man called out. Malucci closed his eyes, praying. "Do you know a Dave Malucci?"

There was silence. "No-o, I don't think so."

"She knows me," Malucci explained hurriedly. "She might . . . uh . . . not remember my name."

"She doesn't know you, guy," Mr. West growled. "Who the hell are you, anyway? How do you know my daughter's name? Are you one of those perverts who stalk teenage girls from their high schools and calls them up to talk dirty? Well, I'll have you know that I'm a lieutenant for the Chicago Police Force, and that I shoot bastards like you every day!"

Fucking fabulous. A lieutenant. "Look, mister, I just need to talk to Deborah for one second, all right? I'm her doctor. Her test results are in." Malucci was sweating bullets. This was his only chance.

"Oh, smart guy, huh? Think you're real smart? I-" The man's threats stopped momentarily, and Dave strained to hear a girl whispering.

"You there?" the man boomed, and Malucci nearly jumped out of his skin. "My daughter says she'll talk to you." Malucci nodded as if Mr. West could see him.

"Daddy, don't listen in, all right? I'll call you if this guy acts all perverted." Malucci waited. After a moment he heard the click of a phone, followed by another click and Deborah's voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "I told you not to call me here!"

"Yeah, well, this is kind of an emergency," Dave snapped. "I kind of only get one phone call."

Deborah began to laugh. "You're in jail?" she shrieked. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Malucci cried, ignoring the cop behind him, who was snapping his fingers. "I just need you to come down here and tell them that I was with you last night."

"Screw you!" Deborah hissed. "You think I'm gonna drive myself downtown to the fucking PRISON? For a guy who called me an immature little girl this morning? Get another one of your girlfriends to do it."

"Deb, I'm in for Murder Two." There was a moment of silence, and Malucci could hear Deborah's sharp inhalation. "They're saying I killed a woman at 9 o'clock last night."

"Did you?" Deborah asked curiously.

"No!" Malucci hissed. "I was with you, at the bar!"

"Oh, yeah," Deborah murmured. She chuckled. "That was fun."

"Can you please just come down here and tell them that?" Malucci asked desperately.

"That it was fun?"

"No, for the love of-" Malucci was interrupted by the cop tapping him on the back, indicating that his time was almost up. "Just please," Malucci added hastily.

"I'll try," Deborah grumbled, hanging up the phone.

Malucci slowly hung up the phone and faced the cop. "She'll be here," Malucci informed him, uncrossing his fingers as the handcuffs went back on. 'Hopefully.'

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"Dr. Weaver, I need your help," Cleo Finch said as she approached Kerry Weaver. "I can't convince Mrs. Crane to agree to the autopsy."

Kerry Weaver nodded wearily. She'd only been on for 10 minutes, and - whew. What a terrible day. "Have you explained to her about the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death?"

Cleo nodded. "She still won't agree to it."

Kerry sighed and took the chart from Cleo. "She's in chairs?" she asked, hobbling to the waiting area.

"Yeah," Cleo responded as she headed in the opposite direction. There was no way she was getting involved any further.

Kerry scanned the area until her eyes settled on a haggard-looking woman. Her eyes were blotched with tears and her face was red and swollen. "Mrs. Crane?" she asked softly.

Mrs. Crane's eyes darted up. "What?" she murmured.

Kerry sat in a chair next to her. "Mrs. Crane, I'm Dr. Weaver. I know that this is a very difficult time for you, but have you been fully informed about your daughter's murder?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "It was that son of a bitch she lived with," she snapped. "I told her to move out, but she wouldn't listen. She . . . she wouldn't listen . . ." The woman's voice was choked with tears.

Kerry let Mrs. Crane weep for a moment, then continued when she had control of herself. "We have reason to believe that she was murdered by a serial killer. There are patterns which match the murder of another girl's death a few hours ago."

Mrs. Crane stared at Kerry. "Patterns?" she asked.

Kerry nodded. "I'm not really at liberty to say any more," she explained. "But the truth is, if we can do an autopsy on Madeline, it would help us greatly." There was no need to say how unlikely it was that Jing-Mei and Madeline both died from an injury that shouldn't have killed them. No need to explain that there was some other factor playing into the scheme of things that had caused their hearts to stop. A slit throat - especially one that wasn't that deep - would not have killed them so quickly.

Mrs. Crane closed her eyes. "I already told that other doctor that I don't want Madeline to have an autopsy," she murmured, misery lacing her voice. "She's already dead. There's no procedure that can help her. I want to bury her as beautiful as she was when she was alive, not chopped up and studied."

"We wouldn't be cutting her up at all," Kerry quickly assured her. "We just need a few blood samples, to determine-" She stopped short. The police had warned her not to indulge any additional facts.

"To determine what?' the woman asked, standing up abruptly. "If she was doing drugs?"

"No, no," Kerry answered rapidly, standing up with the assistance of her crutch. "Not at all. We-"

"You want to know if she was doing drugs," the woman stated, as if reciting a fact. "Dr. Weaver, I'm a good mother. I gave her the drug talk. I warned her about it. I even-"

"You misunderstand me, Mrs. Crane," Kerry interrupted. "We're not doing a drug test. We-"

"She didn't get them from me, you hear me?" Mrs. Crane cried, snatching her purse. "She must have got them from those losers she hung out with. But not me!"

"Mrs. Crane-"

"Just - no! No autopsy! Just leave us alone!" the woman shouted as she stormed away. Kerry sank into her chair, tired, worn out - and defeated.

----------------------------------------------------

"Hey doc," the gruff cop called out. "You got a visitor."

Malucci jumped up from the bench in his cell excitedly. "Thanks," he managed to squeak as he rushed to the cell door and craned his neck to see down the hall. A wave of relief rushed through him as he caught sight of Deborah's slight figure. 'Thank you, God,' he thought gratefully, making a silent vow to attend Sunday Mass.

"Dave?" Deborah called out, peering into the cells.

"Over here," Dave yelled, waving his arm through the bars. The cop's rapidly descending baton made him quickly withdraw his outstretched arm.

A distinct "tap, Tap, TAP" echoed through the hall as Deborah sauntered over to Malucci's cell. "You owe me, Dave," she hissed as a huge policeman walked up behind her and proceeded to unlock the cell door.

Confused, Dave stared at Deborah. "Did you talk to them?"

Deborah's elaborate nodding confused Dave even further. "Dr. Malucci, this is my father, Lieutenant James West," she announced grandly. "I told him how you were wrongfully arrested for killing the doctor, since you and I were together all night."

The color drained from Dave's face. "You . . . told him . . . that . . ." he stammered, losing his ability to breathe. Something told him that this enormous guy would not like the thought of his underage daughter sleeping with a doctor she'd known for about 20 minutes beforehand.

Deborah's eyes widened as she tried to get Malucci to clue in. "I told him," she explained rather loudly, "how I went into the hospital at about 8 last night, and how I had to be admitted all night, and how you stayed with me after your shift was over so I wouldn't feel so alone." Her eyes urged Malucci to catch on.

"On behalf of the Chicago police department, I apologize for this misunderstanding," Deborah's father announced as he opened the cell door. "You are free to go. And on a more personal note, I want to thank you for helping my daughter last night."

'Helping,' Malucci thought glumly. 'Is that what they call it now?'

"I was on duty all last night so I couldn't be with her during the procedure," West went on. "I also apologize for this morning, on the phone. I misjudged you. I was under the impression that you were a psychotic rapist trying to get to my daughter," he put his arm around Deborah protectively, "but I was impressed to find out that you used your one phone call to tell her the results of her test." He eyed Malucci. "What were they?"

'What were what?' Malucci thought, panicked.

"The results of my mole," Deborah explained quickly. "Remember? That's why I was in the hospital all last night . . ."

"Oh . . . yes, the mole," Malucci suddenly exclaimed, finally catching on. "The biopsy came back . . . er . . . benign."

"And that's good?" the lieutenant asked.

"Uh, yeah," Malucci nodded emphatically as he took a large step out of the cell. "Very good news."

Deborah's father grinned and shook Malucci's hand. "Thank you, doctor. It's not often that I meet such a good, honest man as yourself. And again, I want to apologize for how you've been treated in the last few hours. We're just short on suspects right now for this case, and our officers tend to make snap judgements about people."

Malucci nodded weakly. "So . . . I can just go now?"

West nodded. "I've taken the liberty of filling out your paperwork to make this as minimal as possible," he informed Malucci. "For what you did for my daughter, I wanted to make this as pain free as possible.

Malucci could only give a dumb nod as Deborah thrust a cardboard box into his arms. "Here are your things," she reported. "You know, the stuff they took from you when you were arrested."

Malucci only kept nodding as he absently searched through the box. His wallet, his stethoscope, his keys, his condom wrapper - shit. "Thanks," he murmured, snatching the possessions from the box before Deborah's father had a chance to see them.

"Daddy, I'll wait with Dr. Malucci while he hails a cab," Deborah announced suddenly. With that she grabbed onto Malucci's arm and pulled him through the front doors of the station.

The fresh air and noise of traffic hit Malucci suddenly, and he let out the deep breath he'd been holding all morning. "Care to explain what just happened there?" he demanded.

Deborah smiled and smoothed the collar of his scrubs. "It's good to have a cop for a dad," she giggled. "After you hung up, I told him that my doctor had just called with my test results, but that he was in prison for something I knew he hadn't done. He was like, 'How do you know?' and I was like 'He was with me when the other doctor was killed,' and-"

"And you told him that I stayed after my shift to help you recuperate from a nonexistent biopsy," Malucci finished. "Why exactly would you have to stay all night for a little biopsy?"

Deborah shrugged. "Daddy's not a doctor. He doesn't know anything about medical stuff."

"And what about the confession I supposedly made?" Malucci demanded. "Deb, I told them everything. I told them that you and I were getting drunk when Jing-Mei was killed. Your father didn't have a problem with that?"

Deb shook her head and moved closer to him; Malucci distinctly felt a hand on his ass. "I told Daddy," she explained, her voice getting softer as her lips came closer to Dave's face, "that they made all that up, along with the confession." She smiled seductively and put her hand on Malucci's cheek. "I'm just glad you're ok, Dave."

Malucci rolled his eyes and squirmed out of her grasp. "Look, Deb, don't take this the wrong way or anything, because I really am grateful for your rather uncanny deceptive skills."

Deborah took a bow. "Thank you," she told him, beaming.

"But the truth is," Malucci continued, "I could have been in serious trouble! Even if they didn't arrest me for murder 1, they would have gotten me for statutory rape. You're a goddamn minor!" he exclaimed as he took another step back when Deborah ran her fingers through his hair. "You lied to me! You got me drunk and you could have gotten me put into prison for years!"

"But I didn't," Deborah stated, finally taking her hands off of Malucci "And as far as I remember, I just got you *out* of prison."

Malucci sighed. "I already thanked you for that," he grumbled. "But-" His words were cut short as Deborah grabbed him by the neck and kissed him passionately.

Malucci nearly melted into the moment, forgetting anything but those tender lips - until he remembered where he was standing. He pried Deborah away from him and whispered "Deb . . . your father is less than 50 feet away. I'd rather not have my ass kicked right after I've gotten out of prison."

Deborah stared at him, taking her hands away from his neck slowly. "You're cute," she finally stated. "But the truth is, I don't think we should see each other anymore. You're kind of lame when you're sober." With that she sauntered away, making *very* sure that Dave could see what he was missing. "Goodbye, Dr. Malucci," she called out over her shoulder.

Malucci closed his eyes in complete weariness. "Taxi!" he hollered. Malucci glanced up at Deborah, then back to the street 'And that,' he thought as a taxi pulled up to the curb, 'had better be the last time I ever see that girl.'

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Abby shivered violently outside of the hospital. The icy wind was becoming stronger as the sun set on the long and strenuous day, and Abby inwardly cursed herself for forgetting her parka at home. "Shit, it is *cold* out here," she finally muttered, her teeth chattering.

Suddenly two gloved hands grabbed her shoulders - an intense wave of shock seized her and made her blood run colder than it already was.

"You seem cold," came the throaty, accented voice.

Abby let out a sigh of relief as she turned around and cuddled into Luka Kovac's jacket with him. "F-f-fuck yeah," she stammered, her shoulders visibly shaking. "How long ago did you get on?"

"I'm just getting on now," Luka answered as he quickly rubbed Abby's shoulders to warm them up. "You should come inside now. Have some coffee." He looked down at her, and his eyes twinkled. "Lousy night for a graveyard shift, huh? I could *really* warm you up if I didn't have to go work."

Abby chuckled and snuggled closer to him. "Speak for yourself," she retorted. "My shift just ended. I'm waiting for my cab so I can go have my hot affair downtown. Don't worry, I'll be home for a quickie with you tomorrow morning."

Luka laughed and held Abby close. "No more talk about Carter, huh? It makes me jealous."

Abby sighed. "Don't even mention Carter. I only talked to him one time today but that was enough to convince me that he may be relapsing. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

"Don't feel guilty about Carter," Luka reminded her. "You were a great sponsor. Carter is just a weak man."

"I guess," Abby murmured. "We had this huge argument when I caught him smoking this afternoon. I haven't seen him since then."

Luka nodded, and they were silent. "I spent all day at the post office," he commented. "The lines are crazy right now."

Abby nodded. "Thanks for doing that for me, by the way," she told him. "I try to get my taxes in before April 15th."

"You mean, *I* try to get *your* taxes in before the 15th," Luka teased. "It was crazy in there. There was one woman who nearly killed me for getting the last stamps."

Abby chuckled, and they were silent again.

"So how has the day been?" Luka asked finally.

Abby sighed. "You mean Jing-Mei," she stated. "I wasn't here when it happened. It's hit kind of hard in there."

"What about Malucci?" Luka asked. "Did you heard about him?"

Abby nodded and shivered again. "Yeah. I heard. They released him." She looked up at Luka. "Why the hell would they release him? They had the evidence and everything against him."

Luka shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured. "How's Kerry handling it?"

Abby rolled her eyes. "Let's just say if Malucci shows up anytime soon, I'll have to prepare *his* death kit." Abby suddenly realized the enormity of what she said, and quickly she added "I'm sorry. That was - uncalled for."

"No, no," Luka told her, watching the cab pull up at the curb. "You've had a hard day." Reluctantly he unwrapped her from his embrace. "Abby, go to the hotel tonight," he told her as he took off his coat. "The security is better there than at your place." Rapidly he placed the coat on her shoulders; he was suddenly very aware of how cold it was when the icy wind hit him like a sledgehammer.

Abby smiled at him, half teasing but half compassionate. "Luka, I'll be fine at my own place," he told him, relishing Luka's remaining body warmth inside the thick jacket. "I doubt Malucci will come kill me in the night."

Luka's eyes were wrought with concern. "I'm going to call in sick," he decided aloud. "There's no way I'm letting you stay home tonight alone with a killer on the loose."

"No, Luka," Abby told him firmly, giving him a slight shove towards the ER doors. "They're already short on doctors today. It's only 10 hours. I can survive for 10 hours."

Luka watched her face for any signs of faltering. "Call the police if you hear anything outside your window. Keep a knife or something by your bed."

Abby laughed nervously. "I'll be fine, Luka!" she exclaimed. "Now go!"

Luka looked at her once more, then kissed her softly and shivered over to the ER doors.

Abby watched him leave, her fear growing with each step he took. The truth was, she was *not* fine. She was scared out of her mind. Every part of her knew that she was alone, and as she watched Luka enter the ER, a pang of fear hit her. She was alone. What would she do if Malucci or some killer attacked her? Would she be able to grab a knife? Would she remember what to do with the knife?

But then again, what would Luka do against a killer? Abby shuddered when she remembered the sickening "thud" of the mugger's skull hitting the pavement all those months ago. She had definitely discovered that Luka could - and would - kill a man when it came to her safety.

And now she was alone.

"Hey, lady, are you getting in or not?" the cab driver demanded.

Abby nodded quickly and pulled the large jacket around her small frame. "Yes," she answered, stepping into the small taxi. "Chicago Hilton Hotel, please."

------------------------------------------------------------

"Elizabeth!" Mark Greene hollered, tossing his coat and hat onto the sofa. "Are you home?"

There was no reply. "Elizabeth, the doctor ordered you to be on bed rest," Mark shouted, flipping on a light in the living room. "Elizabeth!"

Suddenly Mark heard a soft sob from the back of the house; quickly he rushed through the hallway and entered the master bedroom. "Elizabeth?" he asked cautiously.

Elizabeth Corday was cuddled up in the queen-size bed, clutching a box of tissues and watching the television. Upon hearing Mark's voice she looked up from her pile of crumpled up tissues. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her voice broke as she exclaimed "Mark!"

Mark's face was alarmed; he quickly sat down next to Elizabeth and embraced her tightly. "Elizabeth, what happened?" he asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, Mark," Elizabeth cried, and the tears flowed again. "I . . . I was watching the news . . ."

Mark glanced up at the television, where a female reporter was standing outside of an expensive looking house. "Police have now determined that this is the work of a serial killer," she stated, the wind blowing her short blonde hair slightly. "17 year old Deborah West was found murdered in her family home this evening at approximately 5:30 pm. West is the third victim of the killer in the last 20 hours. All of the victims have been young women of wealthy families, and have been found with identical injuries. The first and only suspect, Dr. David Malucci, was a collegue of the first victim, Dr. Jing-Mei Chen, who was killed at Cook County Hospital late last night. Malucci has since been released after providing an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of Chen's murder. Coincidentally, Malucci's alibi was the most recent victim, Deborah West, who stated that Malucci was with her at County General Hospital last night as she recuperated from a painful procedure. Police have been!

reconsidering Dr. Malucci as a suspect, yet no actions have been made to arrest him again. As of now there are no other suspects for these murders. If you have any information regarding-"

Mark reached over and shut the television off. "Elizabeth, don't worry," he murmured, kissing her eyes. "They'll catch Malucci, or whoever's doing this. Don't worry."

"You were so long coming home," Elizabeth sobbed. "I . . . I didn't know what to think . . . this has been all over the news all day . . ." She pressed her face into Mark shoulder, trying to breathe normally. These kinds of emotions weren't good for the baby.

"Shhhh," Mark soothed as he petted her hair. "It's all right. I'm home now."

Elizabeth wept mournfully, and a mixture of empathy and rage built up inside of Mark. How dare someone do this to his friends - to his fiance! And if that someone happened to be Malucci . . .

"We worked with him, Mark!" Elizabeth cried, lifting her head from his tear- stained shirt. "We worked with him every day! Why didn't we see that he was a killer?"

"We don't know if he did this," Mark explained, trying to stay rational for Elizabeth's sake. "It could be someone else, for all we know. It could even be just some run of the mill psychotic killer."

Elizabeth stopped crying and stared at Mark. "Malucci disappeared for an hour before Jing-Mei was killed," she stated as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "Then as soon as he got out of prison, his alibi was killed. What was he doing with that girl, anyway, Mark? You were on last night; did you see him in the ICU with any patient?"

Mark contemplated this. All he could remember about Malucci's whereabouts last night was Kerry searching everywhere for him, ranting the entire time - and if Mark remembered correctly, her search had included the ICU. "No," Mark responded simply. Of course, the search for Malucci had ceased when Jing-Mei had been found in Trauma 1. But who had found her body? Mark honestly couldn't remember.

Elizabeth seemed to be perfectly calm now. 'These mood swings are complicated,' Mark observed.

"So who else was on in the ER at 9 o'clock last night, besides you and Malucci?" Elizabeth asked factually.

"Uh . . . Cleo . . . Carter . . . some nurses . . ." Mark racked his mind to remember. Why was everything so hard to remember? 'I *was* a little preoccupied at the time,' he thought, 'what with trying to save Jing-Mei and all.'

"Hmmm. This narrows down our suspect list a bit," Elizabeth murmured. Mark couldn't help but be amused at how deeply she immersed herself into the situation; even seven months pregnant, Elizabeth somehow became involved in everything around her.

"Elizabeth, sweetie, this isn't Clue," Mark told her gently. "I'm sure the police are investigating everyone who was on last night."

"Were you investigated?" she asked suddenly.

Mark shrugged. "Sort of. They investigated Kerry and I together and we both verified each other's presence." Suddenly he turned to Elizabeth. "I left right after the second victim was brought in. The same guy who killed Jing- Mei definitely got to this girl. Her throat was slit straight across."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "How deep?"

"Not deep enough to kill her, and Jing-Mei's injury shouldn't have killed her, either," Mark commented. "I spoke to Kerry about it afterwards. Both Jing-Mei and the second girl were brought in with no pulse and no BP. It was as if their hearts had stopped immediately in the attack."

"But how is that possible?" Elizabeth asked, morbidly fascinated.

Mark shrugged and lay down on the bed, propping his head up with his hand. "Hopefully they got an autopsy on one of the victims. Something weird is going on. I've seen serial killer cases before, and they usually involve some kind of mutilation - not just one cut across the throat."

Elizabeth shuddered slightly and curled up next to Mark. "I'm frightened, Mark," she whispered. "It's very unlike me to be afraid of the Bogeyman, I know, but it's hit so close to home . . ."

Mark kissed the top of her head and pressed his forehead to hers. "I know," he told her softly. "I won't let anyone get to you. I promise." Elizabeth's breathing was steady on his neck - for the first time that day, Mark felt complete relaxation. "Goodnight, Elizabeth," he murmured, not bothering to change out of his clothes.

"Goodnight, Mark," came the muffled reply as Elizabeth's lips spoke against the skin on his neck. "I love you."

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The elderly janitor lugged the water bucket and mop into Trauma 2. With the amount of times he mopped them, these trauma room floors should be the cleanest in the entire hospital. But of course, there was a reason why he had to mop them several times a day.

The doctors had the exciting job - they held human life in the palm of their hand. They could bring a dead person to life. He'd seen them do it hundreds of times. He'd seen the gratitude on the faces of the patients' families, and he's seen the heartbreak that occurred when the doctors simply couldn't save someone.

When that happened, there were always those screaming machines; those shrill sirens that summoned the janitor to his job. Most of time he didn't know whether the person had lived or died, since all that remained when he got there was the blood on the floor.

The janitor's back muscles strained as he lifted the mop and expertly squeezed it in the bucket. There wasn't much blood here. It wouldn't take long to mop it up. Most traumas ended with a little blood on the floor.

The mop glided across the smooth floor, hungrily seeking anything on the green linoleum floor. It attacked the small puddle of blood vigorously and scrubbed the area until it was done.

The janitor lifted the dirty mop and squeezed it into the water bucket. 'No need to mop the *entire* floor,' he considered as he surveyed the room. His eyes caught on a red spot, over in the corner of the room. Had he missed that earlier today?

Quickly he stepped over to the spot of blood and scrubbed it with the mop head - like it was a speck of dirt or grime, instead of someone's bodily fluid. Like it hadn't run through Jing-Mei's veins only hours ago. 'There,' he thought triumphantly. 'All gone.'