1This son of a bitch has been stalking me for years. And I didn't even notice. God. I definitely feel stupid, right now. Newspaper articles, headlines, from every time I made the papers in the last three years. Pictures taken from a distance - damned telephoto lenses. He's got photos of everything - me working crime scenes, having lunch with a friend at a sidewalk café, a few good shots of me, the guys and Casey at O'Malley's last Friday night. He's got shots of my building, and my window. A couple of shots at me going to see my mother, at her grave and my grandparent's abandoned house.

It's too much. I've had stalkers, but they've never been this damned good at this. There's a couple of shots of the precinct and Elliot and I eating lunch at the diner around the block. A few more photos of me, entering or exiting the precinct house and my apartment building. Finally, I come across a picture that really catches my attention. It's my Academy photo.

I hold it up to catch my partner's and my boss' attention. "These are damned near impossible to get. My mother and Sandy and Charlie were the only people that ever got this."

"You sure you didn't give it to your boyfriend at the time?" Elliot questions.

"Will you drop it?" I demand. "The pissed off boyfriend doesn't exist. So you know, I didn't have a boyfriend back then. Making small-talk doesn't go that well when all you can say is: 'by day I'm being taught how to shoot a gun and by night, I wait tables. Oh, yeah, my mother's a falling down drunk. You want my number?' Believe me - that got me a lot of dates."

Cragen ignores my sarcasm and Elliot only rolls his eyes. "I thought"-

"I dated a frat boy in college. But he was long gone after I told him I was applying to the police academy. Didn't like the idea of his girl being a New York City cop - I told him to take it or leave it. He left it." I rub the back of my neck.

"You noticed anyone following you?" Cragen asks me. "Noticed anything odd?"

"No. But some of these - you can tell they were taken with a telephoto lens, but I bet you the rest of them were done by a camera phone. You can take a picture no problem and nobody knows you did it. He downloaded 'em, printed them off and we got 'em." As I speak, I keep sorting through the stack, coming across another one that catches my attention. It's a school. A public school - what the hell? "I also think he's got kids." I murmur, holding up the photo.

I take another look at it and sigh. There's a sign on the chain-link fence in the picture - I.S. 52. The public middle school that I attended, a long time ago. There's another picture that's similar, but the sign on the fence reads P.S. 141 - the grade school that I went to.

"This guy's been watching me since I was a kid or he's got a contact in the Board of Education - P.S. 141 and I.S. 52 - my grade and middle schools." I show the photos to my boss and my partner and continue sorting through the pile of photos showing me doing ordinary things - running, buying my groceries, going to the gym - normal things. I come across another shot of a school. On the brick of the outside wall, it reads: Madison High School. I hated it there. "Madison High - my old high school."

"Me and that moron Cullen, from Vice." I roll my eyes, wondering why the hell I even let that guy take me out. "We had dinner last week."

"And it didn't work out." Elliot leans back in his chair.

"I just called the guy a moron. What do you think? He was a nice guy, but not exactly my type." I rub my eyes, tiredly. "Me and you, me and Munch - how the hell does he get away with this without me noticing?"

"You're not expecting to be stalked. Richard White, he tipped you off. This guy was stalking you before he killed his first victim that had anything to do with you." My partner's got an analytical mind, when he calms down and uses it in police work.

"And that's got some dangerous signs." Cragen must have called Huang in, again. "I'd say he's killed before, before he started stalking you, Olivia. He's up to three already, in just what - two days? Most serial killers, in the beginning will make their first kill then wait weeks, or even months before they make another."

I think back to what I learned, both in the Academy and from reading a few books. The doc's got a point. "Yeah. They live on the high of the first kill, for a while, but then it wears off and they're out there trying to pick another target. Plus, he's just too damned neat. He knows what he's doing - he didn't leave us anything at the dump sites."

"Except his prints." Munch comments, walking into the room. "O'Halloran called - they dusted the whole house where we found Amanda's body - floors, doorknobs, the banister. They got a few latent prints - and a hit. Anyone care to guess who our two-time loser is this time?"

"John. . . . " Cragen warns, standing there, opposite to the board, hands in his pockets. "What did Mom say when you went to talk to her?"

"Her daughter went out with her boyfriend Saturday night, said she'd be home before one - never came back home. Fin's taking her down to the morgue to make a positive ID. Then he's going to go check out the boyfriend."

"Saturday." I lean back in my chair. "And she was found dead on Monday - this guy's keeping them somewhere. So who is our two-time loser, Munch?"

He puts up another photo - a mugshot, adding to the mess of photos already

up on the board. "Say hello to Kevin Logan. A couple of collars for domestics, drunk and disorderly, one DUI - nothing big. His last collar was on an assault charge in '87."

"But this doesn't seem like he'd go and out kill three women." I push back my chair and get up.

"Domestic collars - one was filed by his wife in '86 - she was pregnant and he kicked her in the stomach, then beat her around. Second one, in '92, his girlfriend called the cops when he punched her and knocked a tooth out, gave her a black eye. The wife pressed the charges - the girlfriend dropped them." Cragen shakes his head, the paperwork in hand. "He doesn't like women."

"Yeah. That's obvious." I step toward the board to look at the photo of our second vic, Julie. She was young and pretty - dark brown curls and green eyes, with a beautiful face and a build similar to mine. "I swear I know her from somewhere." I rest a hand up against the board, trying to think back. "Yeah. After my mother threw me out, when I was eighteen, I didn't go back for three years or so. When I did go back, there was a woman living across the hall, maybe three or four years older than me - Munch, how old was Mom?"

"Early forties." John shrugs.

"Yeah. When I went back to see my mother, there was a new neighbor and she had this adorable little girl - would have been about eight back then. Curls and big eyes. I guess she had just left her husband in Jersey and had come back to the city, looking for a job, with the kid. I used to babysit her."

I pause, looking at the picture of the man we think is a murderer - a serial killer, now, according to the Feds' definition. If you kill three, you're a serial killer. Something about his face stirs another memory. The long, thin nose, and the pointed chin. The cold, empty, almost hollow look in his eyes. And the shoulder-length brown hair. "When was his last arrest? '87?" I throw the question out there to anyone who can answer.

"Yep. Bar fight." Cragen responds.

"Let me see that." I take the file from the boss and look down our suspect's rap sheet for his address. The one that he had at the time. I find the line with my eyes and sigh- 3512 W. 87th. Apt. 3J. "I should have known. The guy used to live right below Mom and I. I used to hear him and the wife fighting. He used to really creep me out, too - he'd watch me, if I had to go downstairs to do my own laundry, or if I passed him on my way out the door."

"You're sure about this?" Cragen looks at me.

"Not enough to go collar the guy - but I know someone who will be." I grab the photo off the board. "I'll be back." I grab my coat, beckoning for Elliot to toss me the keys. He slips into his coat and follows me.

I roll my eyes. I can't do anything alone. Someone always has to be tailing me, preferably him.

"Where we going?" He looks at me, in the elevator.

"First of all, you invited yourself along. I didn't. And we're going to my place." I lean against the wall.

"Liv, it's the middle of the day." He protests.

I smack him on the side of the head, lightly. "Get your mind out of the damned gutter, Stabler. We're going to talk to the doorman."

"Doorman?" He repeats, sounding startled.

"Yeah. The doorman. The guy who opens the door and hails you a cab. That guy? Jeez, El, Queens isn't out that far in the middle of nowhere. Don't tell me you've never heard tell of a doorman?"

He doesn't answer that, as we ride down to the bottom floor.

I step out onto the curb, in front my building. The doorman, a guy I only know as Harry, has been here, opening doors, hailing cabs and all the other stuff that doormen do in the run of a day, since I was a girl. When I was a kid, running out on my way to school, he'd stop me every day and pull a quarter out of my ear or some little trick like that. He's a grandfather, now - occasionally, he talks to me about the grandkids. "Miss Benson." He touches the cap on his head and reaches for the door. From the time I was five until my eighteenth birthday, he called me Olivia. But on my birthday, when I came home, it was Miss Benson. And it's been that way ever since.

"Harry. Hey, I need you to look at something for me. You've been here a long time, huh? You know this guy?" I hold up our perp's mugshot.

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Logan. But he hasn't lived here in years. He lived right below your apartment, Miss Benson."

"Good. Harry, is Mr. Wilcox at home?" I question. I need to see the super to see if this dirtbag left a forwarding address.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay. When did Mr. Logan move out, do you remember?" I ask. I know the man has a good memory.

"He had a beautiful wife, Miss Benson. She was a nice young lady. But the missus moved out before Mr. Logan did. She moved in '87, so Mr. Logan would have left in '89."

"Okay, thanks." I let him open the door, shooing my partner inside.

My super digs through his filing cabinet, through old files, as Elliot and I stand in his office. He's a nice enough guy and when something needs to be fixed, he has someone in to do it. His son, a kid of twenty-one, is slouched in a chair, bored. As I turn around, I see him giving me a once-over, with his eyes. Urg. God. What is it with men, these days? Do they have to act like they're at the butcher's shop and we're meat? Maybe some women like it, but I don't. I also don't like a kid a little less than half my age undressing me with his eyes.

I shoot the kid a glare and he stops, turning to stare at the ceiling.

"Here we go, Olivia." The super catches my attention. "Mr. Logan's forwarding address."

We speak to the super at that address on the East Side, who sends us to one in the East Village. The super there sends us to an address in Brooklyn. I dial Cragen and tell him we think we've got this guy pinned, then buzz the super to let us in.

Elliot and I make our way upstairs, to the small apartment. "Mr. Logan! Police! Open up!" I call, as my partner pounds on the door.

"Someone's home." I whisper, quietly, pressing my ear to the door. I step back and Elliot holds up three fingers, silently mouthing: 'one. Two. Three.' He steps back and sends the door flying in with a kick. I undo the locks on my holster, pulling the gun. There's our perp and my old neighbor, sitting in a chair, calm, looking almost surprised to see us.

"What the hell's wrong with you, moron?" I demand. "We just kicked in your door for nothing." I pull him up and slap the cuffs on him, leaving him for Elliot to Mirandize, so I can do a sweep of the hellhole.

I clear the kitchen, as I hear my partner reading the guy his rights: "Kevin Logan, you are under arrest for murder. . . . "

The place is a mess; full of clutter and junk. He obviously doesn't have any women in his life. I clear the bathroom and open the bedroom door, quickly, gun in hand. There's someone on the bed. Another woman - his fourth victim - is lying there, naked, bound and gagged, with a nasty gash across her forehead and too many bruises to count. I kneel down, checking for a pulse. It's there, but it's weak. "Elliot! Get a bus on a rush!"

I hear him call it in, then hand our perp off to a couple of local uniforms that were waiting downstairs. "Liv?"

"We caught him in time." I murmur, tucking my gun back in the holster. "She's out of it, but I got a pulse. We got him in time."