Title: Do Unto Others: HOME

Author: DC Luder

Summary: Gotham City's protectors must defend it against a new predator.

Rating: M

Author's Note: All recognizable characters belong to DC Comics, not DC Luder.

A/N 2: This chapter has been modified from its original version.

^V^

Residence of Peter Placido, June 30th, 11:21 p.m.

"No one home."

I stood beside Batgirl, enclosed in the darkness of a cluster of oaks. My binoculars were trained on the small, plain house across the street. It was modest but well-kept and framed by a tended lawn and garden. No lights were on inside and there was no car in the drive nor in the garage. Batgirl had been watching the house since eleven in the morning, sitting in the leafy branches for over twelve hours, waiting for me to arrive.

Or preferably, Placido.

When darkness had fallen earlier that evening, I had asked Batgirl to take prints off of the knob on the front door. They were easy matches to those Robin had found in the impounded Jeep, erasing any remaining uncertainty that he was our prime suspect. In conjunction with the fact that he had gone unseen and unaccounted for approaching two days, I had started to wonder if he had fled, feeling the pressure of his last act.

Or if it was his pattern, disappearing so that he could be on the prowl…

"Stay here?" Batgirl asked suddenly. her voice barely above a whisper.

"Did you install the motion sensors? Cameras?"

She nodded, "All doors, house and garage."

"Good… you can leave. I'll take a closer look."

Her form straightened, stiffening slightly before she stepped out of the cover of the trees, dashing down the street to where she had secured her cycle. Given her upbringing, she had never learned to accept defeat, even in her brief time working at my side. She would have been more than willing to sit for another twelve hours, waiting for our suspect to make an appearance. An admirable trait, but one I felt guilty abusing.

Moments later, I heard her start the cycle and speed off, returning to Gotham to put her abilities to use in a more active sense. I replaced my binoculars to their compartment on the utility belt before glancing up and down the street. The neighborhood itself was fairly quiet, most of its inhabitants tucked in for the night, resting up for a commute into the city and a long day of work. When I was certain that there were no approaching vehicles or prying eyes, I crossed quickly and headed for the garage.

The door opened manually and I lifted it just three feet off of the ground before slipping inside and closing it behind me. After a pause, I retrieved a flashlight and scanned the area. As expected, it was neat and tidy, shelving along two of the three walls, most bearing plastic storage totes, typical gardening equipment and hand tools.

On the third wall, the one sharing with the house, I found a small, practically empty refrigerator, a lawn mower that had seen better days and a smaller set of shelves full of car supplies neatly organized. He changed his own oil filters from the looks of his inventory, of which had kept him off of the radar when Barbara had looked for extraneous service patterns. The cement floor was meticulously swept and clear of even the slightest oil stain.

The neatness of the scenes was suddenly evident that it had been an extension of his home keeping habits.

The door that connected the house to the garage was locked, but took minimal manipulation to open soundlessly. No deadbolt but then again it was a nice neighborhood and he was obviously capable of taking care of himself. I walked down a narrow hall, carpeted in beige, acted as the entrance. To the left, I spotted a tidy laundry room complete with an empty washer and dryer and an ironing board ready for duty. As I traveled down the corridor, I noticed that there were no photographs or paintings on the walls. No sign of any effort to make the house a home.

A den was placed at the end of the hall, modestly furnished with a television, recliner and small sofa and clean but chipped coffee table. In the far corner, I spotted an old desk, its surface bare except for a ceramic jar of pens and a framed photograph. Moving closer, I looked to see it was of a young woman, giving a small smile to the photographer. I recognized the image instantly as that of Placido's mother. The drawers were in order and had little in them. Receipts, a bank book ledger that put his checking account balance at just shy if one-thousand and sixty five dollars with a savings at not much more than that,

No getaway money. Unless he had kept that elsewhere.

Further investigation revealed a kept kitchen with the barest of necessities, two spacious and lightly furnished bedrooms, of which only one bore a dresser and closet full of clothes. Old security uniforms, jeans, khakis, sweaters and some dress shirts and ties, only three pairs of shoes, one of them worn sneakers. Not a single sign of trophies, stained clothing or anything out of the ordinary. Off of the inhabited room, I found a claustrophobic bathroom and I was quick to check the bathtub. I noticed a hint of grime at the drain, prompting me to remove the metal barrier. Within the drainage pipe, I took samples of what appeared to be mud that would no doubt match those I had taken in the woods…

The medicine cabinet yielded no anti-psychotics or anti-depressants, nothing aside from aspirin, athlete's foot cream, liniment, eye drops and a bottle of antacids.

Quiet, pleasant man. Genuinely kind. Until he was wielding a knife.

Returning to the bedroom, I looked through the night table drawers, finding only more depressing vacancy. There was, however, a small photo album in the bottom drawer beneath some out dated vinyl records. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I opened the album and skimmed the pages, watching as a small, thin child grew up from infancy onward. Lots of smiles until age five, then the low resolution prints started showing fake ones. His mother, most likely the photographer, was in very few of the photographs, the father, a squat man with a lash of light brown hair, joined in a handful of them, mainly for fishing and bicycle endeavor supervision.

Then the pictures stopped altogether, leaving dozens of empty pages.

I had a similar album at home, a young child I can hardly remember, beaming up at the cameras with toothy grins. And then no more smiles and eventually no more pictures.

There had been nothing left to smile about.

Before leaving, I placed motion sensors and recording devices throughout the rooms, hoping to be notified if Placido returned before the feds were able to put the pieces of the puzzle together. His house was actually closer to Bristol than I had cared for, but at least it made for a short commute if something happened.

Instead of making my way home, I returned into the city, slowly making my way to Tri-Corner while battling a number of unpleasant citizens. Arriving at the Clocktower just before two-thirty, I was surprised to see that Oracle was not alone in her chamber, but sharing the small room with Nightwing.

After making my presence known, Barbara glanced over her shoulder briefly, "All of the internal and external sensors are up and running. If he even looks at his front door, we'll know it."

Nightwing pulled his mask off while yawning, "You honestly think he'll go back there?"

I replied, "It's a possibility. The loss of his vehicle and whatever happened in Rockledge has forced change upon him…"

Dick looked straight at me, "Yeah, but we don't know if he'll withdraw to lick his wounds or come out guns blazing."

Glancing to the monitors recording every entrance to the Placido residence, I retorted, "Which is why we need to be ready when he decides what path he's going to take."

Barbara offered, "The Deputy Mayor's pleading bought us a voluntary curfew but that isn't going to stop anyone… or him, not at this point. Sharon had no alcohol in her blood, had reportedly been driving home from water skiing with friends at the state park. He chose her completely out of his element, out of the environment he's been lurking in this entire time."

Dick paused before saying, "Somehow, I don't think he's going to be the hiding type."

On one of Barbara's monitors, she had a face shot of every victim thus far, all neatly organized in chronological order beneath an image of Placido. The pieces of the puzzle, however few, were coming together, finally giving us a name to the monster that had been hiding in the darkness. I was in agreement with Dick, after all he had done, Placido wouldn't be the type to hide, even if he was aware that we were on his tail.

A cornered animal was far more dangerous than those than roamed freed.

^V^

Humble Inn, July 1st, 3:51 a.m.

Even in the warmth of his bed, Pete found that he no longer felt safe.

After self-assigned house arrest, Pete had left his house at nine the previous morning, dressed casually in jeans and a green polo shirt, a small backpack slung over his left shoulder. He waved to his immediate neighbor, Dale something, as he lazily mowed on his riding lawn tractor. Thankfully the loud machine had prevented the man from stopping Pete to engage him in meaningless conversation.

Pete had kept walking for three miles, passing out of the residential area to busier commercial suburbia. Hunger had found him at noon and Pete had decided to treat himself to lunch at a small, tasteful diner next to a gas station. He had flashed suddenly to Mimi's, how he longed for Miranda's kind words and the Tuesday chicken sandwich.

Never again, he had thought to himself. She took yet another part of my life away.

He had settled for a roast beef melt with steak fries and a tall, cold root beer. Childish, but he had longed for something to make him feel good and if that meant ordering like he was six years old again than so be it. Paying his small tab in cash, Pete had then walked another mile, passing by busy shops and restaurants filled with happy people. He had caught his reflection in the windows and his tired face had been painful to look at.

It was then Pete decided he had needed to find somewhere to stay, maybe somewhere where she wouldn't be able to find him. Rather than continue on to the busier hotels, Pete had settled on the Humble Inn, one of the better maintained albeit older motels in the area. He paid for a week's stay in cash, gave them the name of his mother's favorite actor, Anthony Quinn, and made a request that no calls be sent to his room. The young man at reception had eagerly complied, especially after Pete had tipped hi fifty dollars.

After finding his room, Pete had carefully set his backpack on the small bureau before stripping out of his clothes. He had then taken a long shower, not even bothering to let the water warm before stepping in. As he scrubbing with a washcloth, he thought to himself, trying to make sense of the last few days.

How had it come to this? How could he not feel safe in his own house? He knew the second he returned, she would be there, waiting for him. Pushing him. He wasn't ready for another one. In fact, he thought he had done too-.

Standing, he shook his head and muttered, "No, it will never be enough."

No matter what he did, he would never be able to undo all that had been done to his family, to his mother. He would never be able to spare the world of every one of their kind, but he certainly had to try.

He had slept fitfully, dreams of flying things and thunder keeping him from peaceful rest. When he had awoke a little before four in the morning, he was covered in a cold sweat, his breath coming in pants. Realization as to why he was so upset came to him, along with a shiver of terror going down his spine.

Even when he had been sulking in bed for two days straight, Pete had still managed to lay there and write in his journal. He had made the effort to put his confusing thoughts into writing in hops of making sense of them. Re-reading the entries of those two days had made him all the more upset, seeing how his emotions had been getting the best of him, even impeding upon his near perfect penmanship.

But sitting in his dark motel room, Pete realized that he had not packed his journal.

Calling a taxicab, Pete went about dressing haphazardly, his mind overrun with thoughts that his mother would find the journal and read through it. She would think he had gone weak, that he didn't love her or that he no longer hated the whore enough to do what needed to be done. It couldn't have been further than the truth, but Pete knew how sensitive she was about things. He took to waiting impatiently outside of his motel room, awaiting the cab's arrival, tapping his foot and trying to control his breathing.

The ride was unbearable as the driver reeked of strong coffee and bad cabbage and drove far too slowly for Pete's preference. The second the car stopped, he paid in full, no tip, and stepped out. Within seconds, he picked up the newspaper from the driveway, unlocked the front door and was inside. He listened carefully before proceeding any further into the house. Something still felt off and it brought an unsettling feeling to his stomach. Before attending to his journal, Pete took a careful search through the entire house and garage, all the while listening for her.

He was surprised to finally hear her in his bedroom, "Over here, Peter."

Following the voice lead him to his dresser. The top left drawer was closed completely, of which he had left a fraction open the day before. Upon opening it, nothing looked out of place, but something was off, not quite as he had left it. Had she done it? Gone through his personal belongings, his pictures? Had she found his journal, was she looking for something else he was hiding from her?

She had never disturbed any of his personal items before, why would she start to?

He had always done his best to keep things neat and orderly, to make things look nice for her. Whenever he had gone in her room when she was in a bad time, he would make sure to wash his hands and face and to comb his hair, wear clean clothes and tie his shoes.

Every so often, she would smile.

Pete looked through the rest of his belongings and finding nothing else out of order, he decided it was okay to stay. He could feel her presence but she had yet to say another word. The silent treatment, he thought to himself, or was she just having a bad morning?

Exhausted from a fitful night, Pete decided there was no point in attempting a run. Instead, he changed into a fresh set of clothes, ate a bowl of oatmeal and then he set the sat at his desk. He pulled out a pen from the drawer along with his latest journal.

He wrote the date, briefly musing that it was his father's birthday. Had he not died, he would have been sixty-eight years old, and Pete was quick to note that in his entry. Pete then scribbled out the small paragraph, a scowl coming to his lips as the image of the Whore came to his mind. His father's first birthday party after his mother had died had been extravagant, all of his work friends, all of their new neighbors invading their house. The Whore had filled every room with red and white streamers and matching balloons. She had even dressed in a red and white dress, layering bright red lipstick on her hideous face…

"Pete, stop crying, you're ruining this party!"

"Pete, are you listening to me?"

"Pete, go to your room!"

"No!" he snarled suddenly, swinging his arm across the desk surface, sending the journal flying. It caught the edge of the picture of his mother and both slipped onto the floor. He reached for it, missed and watched dumbfounded as it collided with the floor, the glass shattering upon impact. After falling to his knees slowly, Pete looked down at the mess he had created, glass pieces covering the image of his mother. He went to pick the frame up, and sliced the side of his hand, letting droplets of blood fall onto the picture.

He stared at the bloodied image for a long time, unable to believe what he saw.

It wasn't the soft features of his mother, it wasn't even past images of her face after she had killed herself.

It was the smiling face of the Whore, looking back up at him, laughing.

^V^

Wayne Manor, July 1st, 3:55 a.m.

I had found my way to the Cave a little after three, not entirely sated by my work touring the city, but also lacking any energy to do anything more. Slowly making my way to the costume vault, I had shed my guise and proceeded to apply liniment to my shoulders and neck before donning a clean cotton robe. Spending most of the last few days on my feet or stuck behind a computer had branded me with tense muscles that longed for one of Selina's backrubs.

My eyes grainy and mind running in circles, I had opted to put off logging my activities and had bypassed the computer bay entirely. It took longer than I had cared to admit to climb the granite steps and make my way to the kitchen. Seeing how it was too late for Alfred to stay up and too early for him to wake, I had found a plate waiting for me in the refrigerator. Medium rare duck, sweet potatoes, long stemmed green beans and a hand crafted tomato rose garnish.

No note.

I had eaten the meal cold, barely tasting the effort he had obviously put into it, washing it down in forceful bites and swallows of whole milk. I had found the silence of the kitchen nook comforting, my gaze alternating between my hallowed reflection in the window and the plate before me.

Right before me…

He had been right before me the entire time, the thought fluttered to my mind's surface, making my stomach churn and putting and end to my appetite.

Leaving the soiled dishware in the sink, I had tried to shake menacing thoughts while taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. With it approaching four in the morning, I had mentally planned out the next day. Sleep until seven, half passed at the latest. Get myself as deep into Placido's miserable life as possible. Hope he made the mistake of coming home. Bring him into custody, after a few broken bones.

Passing through the open door, I had left it ajar before shuffling across the darkened room and collapsing face down onto the bed. Instead of my face landing on the soft comforter covering the mattress, it had collided with the soft comforter covering a pair of shapely legs.

Of course, Alfred wouldn't have prepared such a culinary treat for me, knowing I would have preferred something less savory and more substantial.

"Bruce, Jesus…" Selina had shot up in bed, "Are you all right?"

I had sat up as well, although much more slowly, "I'm fine… didn't know you were here."

Selina had turned the bedside lamp, worry tainting her features, "I called you… several times. Even hounded down Alfred..."

After a sigh, I had reclined once more, letting my head to settle against the down pillows, "Busy night…"

"Another girl?"

I had precious little time to sleep and getting into the case verbally would get the gears grinding mentally. Closing my eyes, I had replied, "No, just… a possible suspect. Spent the day keeping tabs on him, bugged his house, but he's no where to be found."

"Well, who is it?"

"Selina, please…"

"Sorry," she had responded softly.

When I hadn't heard the click of the lamp or the sound of her laying back down, I opened my eyes, "What?"

She had reached out and touched my shoulder softly, "When you didn't call me back, I was… worried. When I got a hold of Alfred this afternoon, he said you were fine, just overrun… I wasn't going to come up but-."

I had no idea why, but I had whispered, "Maybe you shouldn't have."

Not realizing she had heard me, I rolled onto my side in order to face away from her. The time we had spent together of late had been filled with strained silence instead of pleasant quiet moments. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had tried to think of the last time we had actually enjoyed each others company but had come up without a concrete result. After Placido was caught, then we would be able to get back on track, then we would-.

Suddenly, I felt her move beside me, although instead of lying beside me, she rose from the bed. I waited a moment before sitting up, watching dumbfounded as she angrily pulled a black dress on before looking for her shoes in the dim lighting. Sighing, I called out her name but she ignored my futile effort at stopping her.

"Stop," I offered. She found her stilettos and promptly threw one of them at me, of which I narrowly caught before it impaled itself into my forehead. At that, I rose from the bed and approached her, "You misunderstood what I said."

When I paused to stand in front of her, she ripped the shoe away from me, "Oh, no… I think I understood you quite well, in fact."

"Please, it's been a long night… a long week," I tried to excuse my remark as if the damage could be undone, "Let's just-."

Shoes in hand, she spun away from me quickly making her way across the room and out into the corridor, slamming the door behind her. Cursing under my breath, I pursued her, leaving the door open in my wake. She was already nearing the stairs and I had to jog down the hall to catch up with her, "Selina, wait!"

Surprisingly, she stopped, turning to look up at me, "Bruce, I could give a damn if you took a second to think about us right now… But for you not even think of yourself-."

"I don't have that luxury," I growled at her.

"Damnit, Bruce, you don't have to be so combative, we're not on a rooftop."

I glared down at her after taking a step closer, putting mere inches between us, "It might not kill me to think about myself, it would surely kill someone else. That's... what I have to think about."

She shook her head and as moonlight caught her face, I realized she was crying, "If that's what you need to think about… that's fine, Bruce… " she paused turning away to wipe her cheeks, "In the meantime, I'm going home… one less thing for you to think about."

"Damnit, Selina," I threw my hand out, gripping her upper arm when she tried to walk away.

She broke the move by spinning back to face me and slapping my hand away, "Don't. don't you dare."

Letting my arm drop to my side, I took a breath before apologizing, "I'm sorry."

She bit her lower lip, then leaned in and kissed my cheek, "I don't want hollow words, Bruce. When you mean them, you can say them."

I tried to get in another work but she had already started to walk towards the stairs. Silently, I stepped forward, stopping at the first step in order to watch her. Not knowing what else to do, I asked, "What do you want from me?"

Stopping one last time, Selina paused and looked back at me, "Do what you have to, Bruce. When it's all over, we'll go from there."

My eyes never left her until she was completely out of sight, her rate down the stairs increasing with every step she took. Returning to the bedroom, I wondered if I should have gone after her, if it would have made a difference. Taking a seat on her side of the bed, I looked to the bedside table to see that she had left a pair of hoop earrings along with a silver bracelet. Before I could hate myself anymore than I already did, the phone rang.

"Yes?"

Barbara replied curtly, "He's at the house. Right now."

^V^

Wayne Manor, July 1st, 10:08 a.m.

By the time I had made it to the house, Placido was gone. Had I stayed in the Cave and worked on activity logs, I would have still been suited up and ready to go at a moment's notice. When I had arrived, Batgirl and Robin had been waiting with the bad news that I was too late. We had taken an hour to search the house together, but found only new dishes in the drying rack of the kitchen and dirtied clothes in a hamper that were only soiled with sweat. That was until Batgirl had found crystals of glass caught between the hardwood floorboards of the den.

From there, we had found a paper bag of broken glass spotted with blood in the garage, neatly sitting in the recycle bin. While Robin sampled the blood and checked the larger pieces for prints, I looked for the source. After less than patient looking, I had found an empty picture frame in the bottom drawer of the desk, missing its glass plate. I bagged the frame, hoping to find what had happened on the video feeds.

We had returned to the city shortly afterwards, heading directly to the Clocktower. Barbara and Dick, both in civilian attire, were seated before the various displays in the monitor room. As we joined them, Robin and Batgirl were quick to shed their masks and gloves but I had found no need for it. Together, we watched as the brief footage showed Placido being dropped off by a cab, entering through the front door, walking around the house and then having a small breakfast before sitting at his desk.

"There," I had interrupted, pointing out the picture frame on the desk, "Same one."

Barbara had paused the footage and focused in to reveal it had been a picture of his mother.

We had continued to watch as Placido wrote a single line in his journal before suddenly shouting "No!" while swinging his arm out in rage, sending the picture flying. Placido had then knelt on the floor, cutting his hand while picking up the pieces, hesitating in order to stare at the blood dripping on the picture.

"Okay, this is getting a little Norman Bates for me," Dick muttered.

The remainder of the footage had recorded Placido cleaning up the mess, muttering apologies to seemingly no one and then taking the picture and journal with him. Leaving the house, he had proceeded to walk down the street and out of range of the cameras.

"No outgoing call, no cab. No one up early enough to see him go anywhere," Barbara had reported.

"We should have," I had snapped.

Dick rose from his chair, "Hey, he was there for maybe fifteen minutes tops. By the time the sensors tripped a flag on the system-."

"You weren't watching the monitors?" I had growled while glaring at Barbara.

Barbara had attempted to defend herself but Dick stepped between us, "Hey. Unlike you, we, as humans, need sleep. The system notified us on a one second delay, Bruce. It wouldn't have made a difference."

"One second can always make a difference."

Tim had decided to change the subject, "Well, we know he has to be staying somewhere. I already looked at the guest lists of all the hotels and motels in a ten mile radius. Nothing."

Barbara had added, "You might want to start checking even further, he may have very well walked from the scene at Rockledge, who knows how far he will go to keep out of our sights."

"I'm on it," Tim had nodded curtly before turning to leave the room.

Cassandra had then looked to me, the dark bags beneath her eyes marring her youthful face, "Go back, wait for him."

"No," I had paused before continuing, giving the digital display in the cowl a moment to turn to five-thirty in the morning, "No… get some rest. We'll reconvene at noon, go from there."

"Seriously?" Tim had inquired, shock raising his brow.

Dick had hesitated before touching his young ally's shoulder, "Don't second guess him, bro, he'll change his mind."

Tim had looked to me again, shock giving way to worry. He had then looked to Barbara, "Mind if I use your couch?"

"All yours, Boy wonder. No drooling."

Dick had waited until Cassandra and Tim left before glaring at me, "What the hell is going with you? First your down our throats, then you're telling us to take five?"

Turning to leave, I had snapped, "I told them to rest, not you. I'll be back at noon."

He had growled under his breath, "Bludhaven's sounding pretty good right now."

"Dick…" Barbara had started, "After tonight, not a good time to push his buttons."

I could have spun around and demanded to know what she had meant but proceeded out of the secure room and out of her apartment. The second drive back to Bristol that morning had been a battle with garbage trucks, buses and commuters. I had made it to the cave at quarter after six, feeling as if time was slowing just to further prove how little ground I had been gaining. My plan had involved me waking in an hour and I had yet to shut my eyes for more than a minute.

Noon was a long way off…

Knowing sitting at the computer would have been a death sentence, I had stood while downloading the video feed from Oracle, putting together all of the footage featuring Placido's brief visit. From there, I had run the unnecessary swab analysis of the blood found on the shards of glass before scanning he picture frame for fingerprints. Leaving the computer to work its magic, I had finally made my way to small locker room housed in the Cave.

At a little before seven, I had been letting cold water blast down on me, forcing the fatigue out of my system.

Two minutes later, I had heard Alfred's footsteps on the metal grated flooring followed by his inquiry, "A pity that Ms. Selina had to leave so early, sir… I had a wonderful breakfast in mind…"

Naturally, I had ignored him.

He had waited a full minute before adding, "Regrettably, given that it is no longer breakfast for two, I will have to resort to a simpler meal… perhaps… cold porridge."

Shutting the water off, I had continued to ignore him, drying quickly before donning a spare set of clothing he kept in the Cave for me. Briskly walking by him, I had headed straight for the computer bay, noting the expected results positively matching blood and fingerprints matching Peter Placido. Finally taking a seat, I had attacked the keyboard aggressively, covering Alfred's footsteps with the clatter of keys.

"Sir?"

Bringing up the compiled footage, I had finally granted him a rough, "What?"

"I know that it is entirely not my business, but-."

"You're right, it's not." After a moment of silence, I had turned to snap something at him but he was already gone.

I spent the remainder of the morning studying footage of Placido, breaking apart the various scenes in order to get a better sense of the monster I had failed to hunt down. Save for the unexplained moment at his desk, there seemed to be nothing outwardly aggressive about him. He had walked with quiet, purposeful steps, carrying his well kept form balanced and upright. The video of him changing had revealed no obvious scarring on his body and mild modesty, even in the presumed safety of his home.

The camera in the kitchen had been aimed directly at his face as he rinsed an empty bowl and dirtied spoon, carrying out the task with a soft expression on his face.

Not a minute later, he had shouted and flung a picture off of his desk.

"Barbara?" I asked, opening a link to her at ten in the morning.

"Yeah?" she responded, her visual coming on screen without hesitation.

"Get Cassandra to Placido's. I need her to look for his journals."

Barbara replied, "I thought he took it with him?"

I nodded, "He did. But it's safe to say there are others. We should have looked for one to begin with."

"Bruce, you're the world's greatest detective, not mind reader… I'll go see if I can wake the dead-. Uh oh…"

"What?" I was quick to ask.

"We have a problem…" As she said the words, the media flags spewed forth a number of windows covering live footage of SAIC Rich Caffery standing outside of a house I had been to twice that morning.

"Damnit," I growled to myself as the buffoon started to talk.

"… hard work and determination has allowed us to determine our prime suspect is one Peter Placido. As you can see behind me, my team and local law enforcement are already securing the suspect's house and getting a start on forensic work. At this time, we believe the suspect has left the immediate area and should be considered armed and dangerous. The Deputy Mayor and the family of Placido's victims have personally funded a $500,000 reward for information leading to his arrest. If you have any-."

I muted the breaking news feed by slamming my fist down on the control panel.

Barbara shook her head, "There was nothing on my radar about this…"

"It's my fault… I haven't spoken with your father in days."

"That's even if he knew about it… Last he told me that had completely written him off."

Blood pounding in my temples, I rose from the chair and started pacing. There was nothing I could do now, I mused, I had missed my chance, perhaps if I had sought him out the night before, been more persistent...

With Caffery on the trail, chaos was sure to result. And no matter how many times Placido had bloodied his hands; he didn't deserve what was coming to him.

Leaving Barbara to curtail as much information as she could about just how much they knew, I quickly shed my clothes and donned stained khakis, a faded blue GCPD polo shirt and matching baseball cap as well as a pair of black, plastic rimmed glasses. Choosing tennis shoes, I grabbed keys to a dinged up Honda Accord from the box near the garage and headed back to Placido's. While en route, I retrieved a fake ID badge from the glove compartment, along with a glue on goatee.

While the real forensics specialist Adam Crowley played racquetball with his wife, I arrived at the scene in his stead. He was the only member on the forensics team that resembled me and was easy to portray in a bind. The main requirement was that I asked dumb questions, make innuendos at inappropriate times and show up with coffee for myself and no one else.

Although the feds were in charge, I managed to get through the police barricade with ease and right into the house. I made my appearance known to a few of the fellow forensics technicians before touring the house, retrieving all of the audio and video sensors before they could be detected. They were practically invisible to the naked eye and photographic equipment, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Having already swept the house without finding a collection of journals, I headed for the garage. I spent the better part of an hour pretending to document the garage's meager contents before taking a look inside one of the totes in storage. Dozens of notebooks, composition, spiral bound, legal pads and hardcover journals were neatly organized within. I proceeded to check the remaining totes, finding four more containing similar collections, all in chronological order. Had I worked for the GCPD, I would have been obligated to immediately report the find to my supervisor…

Thankfully, I had two hours to myself in the garage, skimming through various notebooks, thumbing through pages with latex gloved hands. Placido never specifically mentioned the victims, only briefly describing that he had encounters on the dates of the murders with nameless women. More often than not, he referred to them as being "just like her, just like the Whore." Going further back, the Whore turned out to be his step-mother, whom he had obviously harbored deep-seated hatred for.

Unfortunately, I was unable to go back as far as his mother's death as a federal agent found me, "What you got there?"

Every tote I had opened had been immediately replaced, enabling me to act as if I had just opened the tote of focus, "Journals, these ones date back almost twenty years."

The agent, adjusted his tie, peered over my shoulder as I sat on the floor, "Good work, I'll go get Caff."

After he returned to the house, I quickly found the tote I had yet to look through and grabbed the first five journals, quickly tucking them under my shirt and into the back of my pants. Making an exit by pretending to talk on my cell phone to "my wife", I nearly made it back to my car unnoticed.

Reaching for the door handle, I heard Gordon clear his throat, "Caffery would hang you if he knew you were here."

Without turning around to face him, I replied, "That obvious?"

"Not to anyone but me… I know Crowley isn't here because his wife just called HR... she accidentally hit him in the face with a racquetball. He's good but he's not dedicated enough to be undergoing plastic surgery and helping out at a crime scene at the same time."

I finally decided to turn, lowering my cap slightly along with my voice, "They won't anything, not in there."

"How do you know that?" Gordon asked. He then smirked, "You knew it was him?"

"I had a hunch."

"For how long?"

I paused before responding, "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess it doesn't…" Gordon looked away from me, and back towards the swarming house, "Well put that hunch to use, old friend… Preferably before they catch up with him. Or he catches up with us."

^V^