First chap = disclaimers (101 Dalmatians is owned by Disney etc.)

Thanks to all you great reviewers!!!

NOTE: This isn't my best chapter, but I needed to set some things up for later in the story.

To answer the question asked. Basically, Steve made it to the shore and wandered into town where the police officer picked him up. I could have explained that better, and I might fix that mistake later. As Steve obviously couldn't walk far, he is in an ocean side city.

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Steve yawned as he woke up on a small cot. He'd been at Sister Agnes' shelter for three days now. He'd spent a week in the hospital. A week he really didn't want to relive. It wasn't the constant prodding from doctors or the constant questions from the police chief that bothered him. It was the dreams that came at night: dreams about being shot, about being beaten, about chasing someone through the halls of a hospital.

They were silly dreams really, but they seemed so real. The worst part was that when he was awake, he felt perfectly comfortable in the hospital sort of like he was at home. That was of course, if he even knew what being at home felt like.

 Unlike other patients, the technical jargon thrown at him didn't bother him. He didn't get the overwhelming confused feeling that other people seemed to get.

As he pulled on the donated clothes he'd been given he thought over what the doctor had told him. Apparently, his wounds indicated that he'd been bound and hit. He had two recent head injuries. Both of which were caused by a blunt object and were most likely the cause for his amnesia. He also had multiple scars on his body. According to Dr. Abrams, at least one came from a bullet wound.

Steve had sat for hours wondering about his life. His list of what he could have been ran from a distasteful criminal to a simple war veteran who'd been mugged and left for dead. He personally liked the war veteran thought. It would explain his previous wounds, including the bullet wound. It could also explain why he'd been bound. Whoever mugged him must have tossed him in the ocean thinking he was dead. It was a terrible thought, but it was much better than thinking he was a criminal.

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Jesse slammed his car door in frustration. He'd tried to get the details of the case Steve had been working on when he disappeared. Only, Cheryl couldn't give them to him because she didn't work the case, Detective Peters had. Detective Peters had refused to give the case to Jesse because he wasn't a member of the police department. It was a perfectly good excuse. As a citizen Jesse really didn't have a right to certain information. But still, it irked him.

Trying to find Steve's killer was the catharsis Jesse had. He'd tried to get Mark involved, but all he'd done was shake his head and say he didn't have the strength to hunt down another killer.

Psychologically, Jesse knew that Mark was trying to deny Steve's death by not finding Steve's killer. He also knew Mark well enough that he would eventually go after the killer. Thing was, the longer they waited, the colder the trail would be.

Jesse launched his car out of its parking spot. He would head over to Mark's and try to snap him out of his shock enough to catch his own son's murderer.

When Jesse arrived at the beach house, he was greeted by the sight of a police car outside. He rushed inside to see Mark staring out his window and police officers dusting the door handles. After he identified himself, he went over to Mark.

"Hey, what's going on?"

Glazed eyes focused slowly on Jesse.

"I went for a walk on the beach. I was out there for hours. When I came back, all of Steve's videos had been rifled through. Not his CD's not our DVD's just the video tapes. They melted his copy of 101 Dalmatians on the stove."

Jesse blinked. "Steve had a copy of 101 Dalmatians?"

"He got it to show Amanda's boys. He said something about introducing them to the real animated classics."

"Do we know who did it?"

"They won't say, but I think it is probably who killed Steve." Mark's voice was emotionless.

"Why would they burn that tape? Do you think he had some evidence on them?"

"I don't know why, Jesse. Steve would never hide something as important as an incriminating video tape, at least not without telling someone else. I just don't understand any of this."

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Peters looked at Sal. "Well, you finally did something right. You managed to destroy the tape without leaving a billion fingerprints all over the place. I must say, just burning it there was quite ingenious. That way, there's no investigation into what was stolen they can see what happened."

"Thanks boss."

"Don't let it go to your head. Poor Sloan. He never even knew he had the key to Garlin's murder. Old Garlin would have gotten away with it if he had been able to keep his mouth shut."

Sam looked confused. Sal, on his boss' good side for once, pretended to understand. Sam ruined the moment.

"Hey, I was there when we questioned Garlin. He didn't say nothin'."

"To us, no. But, the poor fool tried to write Sloan a note in his own blood. He drew a box with a picture inside of it. I think he was trying to make a dog. Lucky for me, Sloan couldn't figure the message out in time."

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Steve glanced around the little shelter and sighed. He couldn't live like this. He needed something to do. He couldn't drain the shelter of funds when there were people who truly needed the money and support.

"Sister?"

"Yes?"

"I want to get a job. Now, I know that I've only been here a short while, but I can't live on charity, not when I don't have to."

"Oh, but…"

"No buts. They've had a week and a half. They haven't found one missing person report or anything to know who I am. I can't spend the rest of my life waiting for some person to rescue me. Now, Sheriff Baines said that in other cases like mine, they've issued temporary social security numbers until a person is identified. I want to get one and get a job. Even if its pumping gas."

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Two weeks later, Steve looked at his new social security card. To him, it was a passport to an actual life.

"Stephen MacTyre." He read aloud. He smiled as he recalled the conversation he'd had with Dr. Abrams about it.

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"Well now," the doctor had said, "Steve, well that should be fairly easy. How about Stephen? It sounds a bit more sophisticated than plain old Steve."

Steve nodded. "Okay. What about the last name?"

"How about Jones?"

"Isn't that a bit obvious?"

"You're right. What about something Irish? McDougal?"

"Don't you think I'm a bit tall to be Irish?"

"That's highly stereotypical of the Irish young man. However, we can make it Scottish. How about MacDougal?"

"Are you sure I look Scottish."

"You've never used a cheap genealogy service have you? According to them everyone has Irish or Scottish blood in them, of course they also say everyone is related to George Washington. In any case, it will work."

"Fine, we'll go with something Scottish. But NOT MacDougal."

"Why not?"

"Because my real name could be Steven Dumpkispoof for all I know, and I want a name I really like."

"Well then, what do you suggest?"

"Well umm, lets see." Steve glanced around until his eyes landed on a cake that a lady had brought to the shelter. "Tier."

"Ah, MacTyre a fine name."

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Steve shook his head as he remembered. He didn't know why he had been so stubborn. He just had been. Tucking his new card and photo ID in his pocket, he went job hunting.