A/N: Okay, people, this is it! The end is finally here! Have fun, kids :)
I want to thank everybody that reviewed - your kind words mean so much to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! (give yourselves a hug from me!)
Also, I would like to say that I know that a lot of heads will roll with this last chapter. I just wanted to let you all know that yes, I am mean, but I can't help myself. :) This has been the ending from the very beginning and I can't even think of changing it. Don't be mad. It's all good, right?
Epilogue
**********
Six Months Later...
The early summer sky was clear and pure, no clouds hiding the beautiful blue heavens, no smog settling into the city as a smothering fog. The trees that lined the serene park proudly showed off their bright green garments of leaves, waving and glistening at the soft breeze that weaved softly through the skyscrapers and buildings. The tranquil hush that settled into the normally noisy city was quickly and sharply broken by a loud shout.
"STOP, jag-off!"
The two men that made a calamitous trail though the park instantly marred the blanket of pristine grass and kept flowerbeds. Sprinting fast, the leading man slowed slightly before leaping over a bench. The pursuer promptly followed, never deterred by the improvised hurtle.
"Stop or I'll..."
The words were lost amongst the heavy breathing from the chaser, his breathy panting even and rhythmical as his fit body strained to run at a faster pace. Forcing his legs to beat out an even faster tempo, he launched himself at the figure ahead, his arms reaching intently for the sweat-covered man that he tailed.
His groping fingers instantly came in contact to the rough denim of jeans, and he managed to grab onto a portion of the fabric in his outreached hands, gripping it in a death-grip. His move paid off, and the instantaneous tumbling and barreling of the moving body as it fell rewarded him. Together the two rolled, tumbling in a heaving ball of arms and legs, grunts of pain and satisfaction emitting from the whirlwind, each man with a different motive, but each at an equal impasse.
Finally the perverted spin-cycle stopped, revealing the winner of the aggressive roll.
"Get down! Hands behind your back!" the pursuer snarled, his voice tight with exerted breaths, but obviously immensely pleased. He proceeded to knee the other man in the back and climb atop him as he fastened handcuffs to flailing wrists. "You thought you could get away? HUH?" he snapped, punctuating each syllable with a vicious thrust of his knee. "You picked the wrong day, pal..."
The downed man, in obvious pain, grunted in response, twisting this way and that in a valiant -but foolish- effort to free himself. This only irritated his aggressor further, and he then proceeded to slam the groaning man's head into the hard cement walkway.
"Bosco!" called a sharp, annoyed voice from a few yards away. "Knock it off!"
Faith ran up, slightly out of breath from the good two-hundred or so yards she had just sprinted. Wisps of fine, blond hair had escaped her bun, bouncing and coiling around her face as she ran. Behind her, Sully and Davis drove up, their RMP's lights flashing, a stark contrast to the natural peace that had one been the park.
Bosco's head snapped up and he grinned widely at his approaching partner, yanking the man's head up harshly, as if to display his catch. "Look what I found, mommy...! Can I keep it?"
If he weren't grinning like a kid in a candy shop, Faith might have just rolled her eyes at him and booked the perp. But the silly comment and huge smile caught her off-guard, and she laughed, a relived chuckle that was breathy from the recent run.
"God, Bosco..." she sighed as she laughed quietly, bending over in an attempt to catch her breath.
Bosco shook his head, chuckling through the beaming smirk still plastered across his face.
Life was good. He was back on the beat, back with his partner where he belonged. No more days of ceaseless worry, fear and anxiety. It was all over, ending forever on that one, horrible night. The night that he almost died.
Six months had passed, each bringing its own trials and hardships. The weeks of loneliness spent cooped up in the hospital, the months of therapy, the pain that never seemed to leave - just deaden. His wounds had taken time to heal, reminding him every waking moment of that night. The images still haunted him - he could never quite shake them, but he knew that they would never leave and it was almost comforting. A painful reminder, one could say, but he could live with it. He had to.
"You guys good?"
From behind him, Davis' voice was clear, and Bosco turned to see Sullivan and his young partner walking up, nightsticks drawn.
"Yeah... I got the moron." He yanked the man up again, this time to his feet, and glared him right in the eye. "First rule of the streets, jag-off: If you run, you only go to jail tired."
"Second rule: Never piss off the little cops," Davis added, smirking slightly.
"Hey! Who you calling little?" Bosco snapped - only to be rewarded by loud chuckles from the three other officers. He shook his head as they laughed blithely, deciding that even though he appeared angry, he'd never been as happy. Everything was as it should be - normal, comfortable, perfect.
Despite his best efforts, his mouth began to turn up at the corners.
Life was good.
**********
Papers littered the hardwood desk, splayed this way and that as if an unseen hand had scattered them carelessly. The only sounds that lit the room were the soft melodic breaths that peacefully broke through the silence, making known the man who sat slumped in the leather chair, his eyes closed in a reverie of thoughts and theories.
His fingers were laced together in an intertwined knot, rested unceremoniously upon his lap, as he sat in complete concentration. His features, although appearing very placid and serene, masked the brooding thoughts and feelings that snaked around in his whirling mind. Questions without answers, a spinning time machine without an end in sight. His learned brain was racked with possibilities, all stemming from the queries and inquisitions that permeated his consciousness in pestering spurts.
The door swung open slowly, squeaking nosily from years of neglect, startling the young man and forcing his eyes to the opening. Kind, blue eyes met his own as Sam Taylor slipped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. He offered a broad smile to his partner as he sank into an unoccupied chair across from Matt.
Neither man spoke for a solid minute, Sam trying to read the unusual and interesting look in his partner's deep eyes, Matt not wholly pulled from his brooding revere, waiting for Sam to instigate the conversation that was sure to commence.
"You have a question?"
Sam's query was spoken more as a statement then a question, his knowledgeable mind and uncanny ability to read people telling him that the young man that sat so perplexed before him had plenty to ask.
Matt unlaced his hands and frowned, his fingers unconsciously pushing though his thick, blond hair as he shook his head in ambiguity. What he had to say -or rather, ask- had weighed heavily on his mind for weeks...actually, closer to months, and he hesitated to voice his theories for lack of a strong supposition to back his words. His stomach churned at the thought of being rash or just overly precautious and wary.
"Sam..." he started, his voice taking on a husky, uncertain tone that he didn't like at all. He should just say it - spit out the haunting questions that followed him everywhere. "Sam, I'm having reservations...about the Cop Killer case."
The silence that ensued did little to appease his uncertainty, only adding to the stifling tension that he'd created. Had he just opened Pandora's box?
Guilt and culpability slammed into his being like a ton of bricks. A detective was supposed to be sure of everything, to know when exactly a case was closed. If he had done his job well, there would be no doubts or qualms - only the certainty of completeness. Had he failed?
Sam's mouth turned up in a soft smile, more of a smirk than anything, a sure sign that he'd been anticipating exactly what had been spoken. "What's on your mind?"
Matt sighed, puling forth the thoughts that had plagued him for months with their horrible veracity. "There's a few things that I feel aren't...tied up, I guess. Some stuff about the case that makes no sense to me... I thought maybe..." He trailed off, his brow rising in a dubious expression, obviously eager to get the burden off his chest.
In an effort to seem relaxed and composed, Sam crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. "You're having second thoughts, right? Not sure if we got everything - not sure if it's really over. I understand... I've had the same thoughts, many times... Every day since, in fact."
The bluntness of his last words broke the barricade of hesitancy that corralled his thoughts, and Matt's expression dramatically changed from a puzzled frown into sparked and fevered wide-eyed relief. His heart rate sped as he talked quickly, spewing forth every doubt and reason. "I just... Some things just don't match up... See this?" He unearthed a thin folder from the pile of papers that peppered the desk. "This makes no sense... James Lee Koch was a lower-class citizen with no priors, no history in the military, yet he had the elusiveness of that of a Navy Seal - or at least someone that had been in some way militarily trained..."
Sam nodded at this, glancing down at the open file that held every scrap of information that made their killer who he was.
"...And he was insanely smart - something his grade-school level education could not have provided, seeing that he was barely a C student. Where did he learn to build a bomb - an untraceable one at that? To use a sniper rifle? To be so stealthy...?" Matt leaned forward, lowering his voice into his soft Texan drawl, enunciating each syllable slowly, his liquid brown eyes burning with ardor. "And here's the big question... How the hell did he find out just who had answered that call - who he had to kill to get his vengeance? A grief-stricken father would have never remembered who was there that day...the men, the RMP numbers... And there's no way that he could get those records...they're confidential. Sealed and kept classified for just that reason: so nobody can exact revenge. Strictly off-limits to anyone without a badge...impossible."
Matt suddenly felt sick as he uttered the words, the reality of the situation all to true right at that moment. The pent-up emotions and screaming doubts were out, voiced to his mentor in a breathy, disturbing show of suspicion.
Sam was quiet for a moment, as if he was taking a deliberate amount of time to ponder these misgivings, but his bright blue eyes never wavered from their intense gaze right into Matt's.
"You're right," he stated simply. "I've had similar thoughts, Matt... Where'd he get the money to back him? He barely made minimum wage. The cost of the rifle, the bomb, the knife...he couldn't have afforded it. Then there's the fact that he managed to conjure up such a fantastic plan in such a short time span. It was merely a year later...unfeasible for such a man. And how did he fool us, evade us for so long? A lower-class guy that was less than bright... Yet...he did. He did...but not without help, I'm afraid."
"So there was another person. Someone with the brains and the money to back him."
"Look's like it, unfortunately. But we have no way of proving this - can't even begin to investigate... To reopen this case would be..."
"I know, I know... It's just..."
Matt rubbed his eyes, weary and broken up about the inconclusiveness of the case. Everything in his being wished for it to be truly over, for the guilt of a job left undone to leave him, for a peaceful sleep at night. But as much as he wished for it, he knew that as long as the elusive 'he' was out there, it would never come.
"What do we do?" he whispered, raising his eyes once again to meet his partner's. "What the hell do we do...?"
"We live with it. We go on, waiting and watching over our shoulders for the rest of our lives, knowing that there's more to the puzzle, pieces missing. We move on and hope that it stays calm, that he chooses not to finish the job."
"Shit, Sam. I can't live like that. I have to find him..." Matt breathed, tears of repulsion threatening to cloud his vision. Images of every gristly, gory, purposeful murder flashed before him, staining his eyesight bright red with the blood of innocents.
In that moment, that small second in time, he decided. Even if it took a lifetime of dedication, he would hunt down this man, this malicious planner. He would find him - for the victims. For Barry, for Jacobsen, for Gusler, for Moretti, for Davis, for Nash, and for Boscorelli. They didn't deserve this. Not after all of the terror and the needless pain. They deserved better - his best efforts.
He would find the bastard if it was that last thing he ever did.
**********
The musty smell of old mahogany permeated the small room as thin smog, tingling his nostrils with its acrid, yet familiar odor. He ran a finger along the desktop, noting the dips and gouges that littered the wood from years of frequent use.
His mind was far from the simple gashes and nicks of his desk though, and he frowned as he meditated, finger still rubbing the wood like a magic lamp.
Funny, he mused to himself, how they think it's over. They all do - I can see it in their eyes, their faces. They continue on without a care in the word. They have no idea...
The investigation had been closed the day after the last...attempt, and the folders, evidence, and data had all been stored neatly away, collecting dust in the corner of some old warehouse, no doubt. Good.
He thought back, to over a year before, the day that he'd first met James Lee Koch. It was a Friday, cool and crisp, but with a few warm breezes that softly heralded spring. As soon as he'd met him, he knew: Koch was perfect. A man who wanted nothing more that to enact revenge on his son's untimely death, dumb as shit and eager to be trained. Perfect.
It had started with a handshake, a mutual connection as both men wanted only the same thing. But he hadn't been able to perform his dirty work himself - or rather wasn't stupid enough to. No, part of his plan was to leave that to someone else. So, he'd done his research, poured over newspaper clippings, files, and documents, and he'd finally found the ideal subject.
Then came the tricky part: approaching the man with an offer.
"I'll teach you, give you a flawless plan..." he'd said, as he'd stared into the passionate eyes of a vengeful Koch. "You just leave me out of it. I'll supply your weapons, whatever money you need - just get the job done." And Koch had agreed, smiling evenly as they shook on it.
Months of tactical training came next, plotting out every move and detail to the nth degree - ensuring a satisfactory result. Koch, although a little slow, was an enthusiastic pupil. An unhealthy obsession for retribution pushed the inexperienced man until he had achieved a level of stealth and training that was pleasing.
Finally, the right time came and the killings began. He'd just sat back and observed, his eyes ever-watchful for a small glitch in his plan, but for the most part he stayed relaxed, enjoying every moment of the unfolding drama. His work of art. His masterpiece.
But almost as soon as it had started, it ended. Not wholly finished, his plan was altered terribly by Koch's stupidity and thirst for a pain-filled, slow death. He'd nearly panicked as the events of that fateful night played out, his breaths completely stopping when he'd head the news. Koch was dead, Boscorelli wasn't.
Dammit.
His eyes closed as his chest swelled with renewed anger, and he clenched his fist, fingers curling against the mahogany irately. He took a deep breath, relieving some of the pressure that was building in his tense body, and opened his eyes again.
Damn you, Boscorelli. I'll have you...
His fist slowly uncurled and snaked around to the drawer that occupied the front of the desk. Pushing his fingers back into the deepest corner of the drawer, he felt around until he found what he was looking for and pulled it out.
The small, tattered picture held the only image he had left of her. He turned the paper over until she smiled back up at him, her dark curls bouncing, bright eyes flashing. Her smile was that of an angel, perfect and beautiful, her lips as full and soft as he remembered them. She smelled of vanilla and she tasted of sweet honey, her skin pure porcelain, smooth and soft under his fingers.
He sat for a long time, reliving several moments - the best moments of his life. She was so perfect, so desirable, so what he needed. And she loved him.
He frowned at the thin band of gold that scathed her left hand, a testament to her marriage to another man - the man that she left at night to be with him. That man was the only reason that nobody knew about their romance, their love. That it had to be kept a secret even now. He would have been so proud to show her off, to flaunt her around his friends and coworkers, but it would never be. She was married to one of his coworkers...one of his many supervisors, to be exact.
She was there one day, a beautiful creature that doted on him and blessed him with her love, and then she was gone. One fateful night, one horrible hour was all it took, and she was gone forever. Dead. She had done nothing wrong, but had paid dearly with her life.
He hadn't found out until the next day when the news had quickly gone around the workplace: his boss' wife was dead. Funny thing, everyone consoled his boss and not him - the person that should have been receiving all of the comforting. She wasn't in love with that fool, but with him. She'd said so just two nights before. The last time he saw her...
The details of her death had slowly filtered in from the perverted game of 'telephone' that was constantly played around the workplace, each morbid fact hitting him again and again with intense fury and grief.
It was Halloween. Walking the four blocks back to her house alone, she was attacked by a group of men, roughed up, and raped. A police cruiser had passed by -one that was occupied by Officers Michael Jacobsen and James Barry- and stopped to see what was going on. But the police had moved on when they'd gotten a good look at her 'naughty nurse' costume and instantly assumed that she was a stripper. She was eventually beaten to near-death and her body dumped into a ditch near the park. Twenty minutes later, someone called in to the police anonymously, giving her location. A second cruiser was dispatched, driven by none other then the hot-headed fool, Boscorelli, and Steven Gusler, but the two had left after a mere ten minutes of fruitless searching. They had heedlessly missed her crumpled and broken body due to a lack of effort, he knew. And now she was gone, the fault being that of the officers that were so careless and negligent.
And for that, he would have to enact revenge.
He had no beef with the others that Koch had added to the list of victims, but had no qualms about their deaths. A few more officers here and there were entirely expendable, just so long as his four men were executed.
Biting his lip, he traced the outline of her face with his index finger, struggling to hold back the angry tears that threatened to spill from his burning eyes.
I loved you, Susan Garret... I still do...
He managed to compose himself, and after replacing the picture to its rightful place in the back of the drawer, he sank back in his chair and sighed, his anger quickly melting into a sinister feeling of pride and utter control.
They didn't know who he was.
Hell, they didn't even know that Koch had a...oh, how could he put it? Mastermind. They would never know about him, the Mastermind.
It's sad that the so-called 'world's finest' cannot even protect their own.
His mouth warped into a sadistic smile, a reflection of the immense pleasure he took in the complete control he had. So the job hadn't been finished... Perhaps he would find a new disciple to train. Perhaps he would do the 'dirty work' himself. Perhaps he wouldn't do a thing at all...
That was the beauty of it. He was in charge. It was his decision.
I am the Mastermind.
The buzzing of the intercom set on the edge of the desk pervaded his thoughts, forcing him quickly back to reality. He reached forward pressing the 'talk' button.
"Yes?"
"Sergeant Christopher, you have a call on line two."
**********
~The End~