Cragen was quite proud of himself for keeping his temper. He had
temporarily lost the services of one of the NYPD's best detectives, he
hadn't slept properly in weeks, and yet he had somehow managed not to bite
anyone's head off. Yet. He was particularly proud of not having bawled
Stabler out in front of half the hospital. That could be saved for later.
The thing was, good as Lawson might be, he was not Elliot. Stabler and Benson complemented each other's "styles", just as John and Fin did. Just as the best detectives did. Lawson was friendly, helpful - but inexperienced and more like an apprentice than anything else. Still, Cragen mused, as he leant his stocky frame against the edge of a desk, he had been doing OK so far, with Olivia watching his back.
Munch looked up at his C.O., and offered a wry smile. It wasn't going so well. Whitfield had been squeaky-clean, and her association with the mayor's niece only made life more difficult. Parks had been a good woman, who had worked herself to the bone for her kids. They had been distraught, absolutely distraught. And there was nothing to suggest that anyone would have a motive. Like Huang said - this wasn't about the women. This was about the killer. Apart from the undoubtedly unpleasant Griffin, they had been decent people. Griffin had cheated on her partners. She had been on the verge of getting involved with Thomas Culshaw, a seventeen-year old wild child. Griffin was the only who had any real enemies. And they did not seem to fit the crime. So they were left with nothing.
Not even the reluctant investigation of the door-to-door salespersons, paper deliveries and so on had turned anything up. They had been unable to link the various employees and companies with the deaths, and quite frankly noone was surprised about that. This was something else. Someone who didn't know the women, but knew enough to avoid being noticed. Weird.
"Anything?" Cragen sighed, disturbing the silent work being carried out by Munch and Fin.
Fin shrugged. "Nothing from the diary." He held up Griffin's appointment book. "All's we know is that Holli Griffin had more than one boyfriend, and she liked to go out. Rosy's Bar, Apollo's Bar.....the kinds of places where the drinks cost."
"And nothing from the note." Munch remarked tiredly. His captain noticed the familiar bags under the detective's eyes. This case was wearing everyone out, not just himself.
"Forensics came back?" Said Cragen.
"Yeah. No prints - its just a basic print job, expensive, but you can buy the stuff out of any decent supplies store. High-end, but accessible." He frowned. "The only thing we know is that there's a drop of alcohol on the card."
"Do we know what kind?"
Munch nodded. "Sambuca."
Fin attempted a amile, and was moderately successful. "We're looking for someone who drinks that stuff? Gotta be insane."
Three pairs of eyes drifted slowly over to where George Huang was sitting. He clicked into active mode, though he had been quietly listening the whole time. First though, he stood, and paced up and down the room. It helped him think sometimes. Helped him to reason through a theory, especially when he was doing it on the spot like this.
"Well-" Huang said cautiously- "this man's not insane. Not entirely. He is doing this as a form of revenge. To him its a way of getting back at the NYPD. At women."
"Why?" All three of his captive audience asked at once.
He smiled. "He's offended before - I'm not sure how badly - and he resents having been punished for that."
"So what, this guy thinks he should have got away with attacking someone?" Fin said incredulously, spreading his hands wide in an expression of disbelief.
"Detective, I think you're exactly right. This guy doesn't see why he had to spend time in prison, and this is his way of getting his own back."
In other words, the killer was angry, and yet methodical. Careful. He was, as much as it disgusted everyone to think of it, good at what he did. There were no physical clues whatsoever, and what clues there were suggested that the killer had left them deliberately. The alcohol had been dripped in one tiny spot, in the top-right of the front of the card left at the Griffin crime scene. The threads of wool that had been uncovered at each crime scene were midrange, easily available. Nothing they could follow up on.
"Why Elliot? Why not focus on someone else?" Cragen asked.
Huang nodded. "I was just getting to that. I believe that the focus on Elliot came late because of the media leak - but the killer has met him. This is...intimate. Personal. Elliot was probably involved in the original case."
"So these rapes and murders are an amplification of what the killer had already done?"
"In my opinion, definitely."
* * * * * *
Icy winds rolled across the concrete surface of the basketball court, whirling leaves round in mini-tornado style. Yells and shouts burst across the air, evidence of a game going on. Twelve boys, one girl, playing a hard game of basketball. One team wore old school football jerseys, taken from the huge bins round the back of the local high school building when the football coach had decided he could no longer go on patching them up. The royal blue was faded to a musty colour, and none of the jerseys was in a good condition. The other team wore plainclothes. They had been playing for while, ignoring the sweat dripping down their faces and wetting their hair even in the cool weather, when a miscued shot bounced way over the fence. It landed in the park, near a cluster of small trees.
The girl was first to complain, shouting at the boy who'd made the shot. "Awww, Bobby! Go get the ball!" She said in clear irritation.
Bobby grumbled, brushed a leaf off his musty-blue jersey and started jogging out of the fenced-off court. He liked basketball, and he liked playing it with his friends, but he didn't have the skills really. It was always him going chasing after the ball in the park. Always.
He jogged over the slightly wet, slightly frozen ground, wary of the treacherous surface underneath his battered Nike trainers. They didn't have much grip on them anymore, not after how long he'd been wearing them. And his brother before him. Bobby started walking halfway to the tree, and ignored the annoyed, indignant yells of his friends back on the court. If they wanted it so urgently, they could go get it themselves. He was walking.
When he reached the ball, Bobby was careful to pick it up slowly as possible. A part of him was definitely enjoying winding them up. Especially Jennifer. She was a royal pain. 'That's not what you told your brother.' Bobby's brain reminded him, with an inner voice that was way too cheery for his liking.
With the yellowing ball in his small, calloused hands, Bobby prepared to go back - but something caught his eye. It was a kind of olive-brown, definitely not mud. Part of the boy's brain told him to back off, to get away before he got himself into trouble. That part obviously wasn't big enough, because Bobby stepped closer and crouched down for a closer look.
"Hey Bobby! What the hell are you doing over there?!" Jennifer yelled, her powerful voice carrying from right over on the court.
"Nothing!" He yelled back over his shoulder. "Just thought I saw something in the leaves."
"OK, whatever. Just bring the ball back."
He grimaced. She was always the one in charge. A smile crept across his face. Jennifer would just have to wait. His attention turned back to the leaves, just as a gust of wind caught them, lifting a wave of wet, mulchy plant material into his face. Bobby spluttered, and waved at the leaves, scraping them off his face first, then his already-dirty football jersey. The ball bounced back into the leaves, coming to a rest against the patch of olive-brown that had caught his interest before.
With a sudden creeping sense of horror, the boy reached for the ball, disturbing the leaves around it. His mind began screaming as they fell, and his mouth started soon after. Bobby's legs propelled him away fast, scrabbling and stumbling over the wet earth, muddying his jeans in his efforts to get away. Behind him a human elbow poked out from the edge of a leaf drift.
The thing was, good as Lawson might be, he was not Elliot. Stabler and Benson complemented each other's "styles", just as John and Fin did. Just as the best detectives did. Lawson was friendly, helpful - but inexperienced and more like an apprentice than anything else. Still, Cragen mused, as he leant his stocky frame against the edge of a desk, he had been doing OK so far, with Olivia watching his back.
Munch looked up at his C.O., and offered a wry smile. It wasn't going so well. Whitfield had been squeaky-clean, and her association with the mayor's niece only made life more difficult. Parks had been a good woman, who had worked herself to the bone for her kids. They had been distraught, absolutely distraught. And there was nothing to suggest that anyone would have a motive. Like Huang said - this wasn't about the women. This was about the killer. Apart from the undoubtedly unpleasant Griffin, they had been decent people. Griffin had cheated on her partners. She had been on the verge of getting involved with Thomas Culshaw, a seventeen-year old wild child. Griffin was the only who had any real enemies. And they did not seem to fit the crime. So they were left with nothing.
Not even the reluctant investigation of the door-to-door salespersons, paper deliveries and so on had turned anything up. They had been unable to link the various employees and companies with the deaths, and quite frankly noone was surprised about that. This was something else. Someone who didn't know the women, but knew enough to avoid being noticed. Weird.
"Anything?" Cragen sighed, disturbing the silent work being carried out by Munch and Fin.
Fin shrugged. "Nothing from the diary." He held up Griffin's appointment book. "All's we know is that Holli Griffin had more than one boyfriend, and she liked to go out. Rosy's Bar, Apollo's Bar.....the kinds of places where the drinks cost."
"And nothing from the note." Munch remarked tiredly. His captain noticed the familiar bags under the detective's eyes. This case was wearing everyone out, not just himself.
"Forensics came back?" Said Cragen.
"Yeah. No prints - its just a basic print job, expensive, but you can buy the stuff out of any decent supplies store. High-end, but accessible." He frowned. "The only thing we know is that there's a drop of alcohol on the card."
"Do we know what kind?"
Munch nodded. "Sambuca."
Fin attempted a amile, and was moderately successful. "We're looking for someone who drinks that stuff? Gotta be insane."
Three pairs of eyes drifted slowly over to where George Huang was sitting. He clicked into active mode, though he had been quietly listening the whole time. First though, he stood, and paced up and down the room. It helped him think sometimes. Helped him to reason through a theory, especially when he was doing it on the spot like this.
"Well-" Huang said cautiously- "this man's not insane. Not entirely. He is doing this as a form of revenge. To him its a way of getting back at the NYPD. At women."
"Why?" All three of his captive audience asked at once.
He smiled. "He's offended before - I'm not sure how badly - and he resents having been punished for that."
"So what, this guy thinks he should have got away with attacking someone?" Fin said incredulously, spreading his hands wide in an expression of disbelief.
"Detective, I think you're exactly right. This guy doesn't see why he had to spend time in prison, and this is his way of getting his own back."
In other words, the killer was angry, and yet methodical. Careful. He was, as much as it disgusted everyone to think of it, good at what he did. There were no physical clues whatsoever, and what clues there were suggested that the killer had left them deliberately. The alcohol had been dripped in one tiny spot, in the top-right of the front of the card left at the Griffin crime scene. The threads of wool that had been uncovered at each crime scene were midrange, easily available. Nothing they could follow up on.
"Why Elliot? Why not focus on someone else?" Cragen asked.
Huang nodded. "I was just getting to that. I believe that the focus on Elliot came late because of the media leak - but the killer has met him. This is...intimate. Personal. Elliot was probably involved in the original case."
"So these rapes and murders are an amplification of what the killer had already done?"
"In my opinion, definitely."
* * * * * *
Icy winds rolled across the concrete surface of the basketball court, whirling leaves round in mini-tornado style. Yells and shouts burst across the air, evidence of a game going on. Twelve boys, one girl, playing a hard game of basketball. One team wore old school football jerseys, taken from the huge bins round the back of the local high school building when the football coach had decided he could no longer go on patching them up. The royal blue was faded to a musty colour, and none of the jerseys was in a good condition. The other team wore plainclothes. They had been playing for while, ignoring the sweat dripping down their faces and wetting their hair even in the cool weather, when a miscued shot bounced way over the fence. It landed in the park, near a cluster of small trees.
The girl was first to complain, shouting at the boy who'd made the shot. "Awww, Bobby! Go get the ball!" She said in clear irritation.
Bobby grumbled, brushed a leaf off his musty-blue jersey and started jogging out of the fenced-off court. He liked basketball, and he liked playing it with his friends, but he didn't have the skills really. It was always him going chasing after the ball in the park. Always.
He jogged over the slightly wet, slightly frozen ground, wary of the treacherous surface underneath his battered Nike trainers. They didn't have much grip on them anymore, not after how long he'd been wearing them. And his brother before him. Bobby started walking halfway to the tree, and ignored the annoyed, indignant yells of his friends back on the court. If they wanted it so urgently, they could go get it themselves. He was walking.
When he reached the ball, Bobby was careful to pick it up slowly as possible. A part of him was definitely enjoying winding them up. Especially Jennifer. She was a royal pain. 'That's not what you told your brother.' Bobby's brain reminded him, with an inner voice that was way too cheery for his liking.
With the yellowing ball in his small, calloused hands, Bobby prepared to go back - but something caught his eye. It was a kind of olive-brown, definitely not mud. Part of the boy's brain told him to back off, to get away before he got himself into trouble. That part obviously wasn't big enough, because Bobby stepped closer and crouched down for a closer look.
"Hey Bobby! What the hell are you doing over there?!" Jennifer yelled, her powerful voice carrying from right over on the court.
"Nothing!" He yelled back over his shoulder. "Just thought I saw something in the leaves."
"OK, whatever. Just bring the ball back."
He grimaced. She was always the one in charge. A smile crept across his face. Jennifer would just have to wait. His attention turned back to the leaves, just as a gust of wind caught them, lifting a wave of wet, mulchy plant material into his face. Bobby spluttered, and waved at the leaves, scraping them off his face first, then his already-dirty football jersey. The ball bounced back into the leaves, coming to a rest against the patch of olive-brown that had caught his interest before.
With a sudden creeping sense of horror, the boy reached for the ball, disturbing the leaves around it. His mind began screaming as they fell, and his mouth started soon after. Bobby's legs propelled him away fast, scrabbling and stumbling over the wet earth, muddying his jeans in his efforts to get away. Behind him a human elbow poked out from the edge of a leaf drift.