A/N… Here's the next part! Thanks so much for the confidence booster in my forensics abilities… Thanks also for those of you that gave me tips. I appreciate it so much! I hope this meets your expectations! Enjoy!
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The apartment was clean, much to Stella and Mac's frustration. They'd pulled up nothing one more time. Stella was about to hypothesize on the victim's class schedule when Mac's cell phone interrupted her. She watched the tense conversation in between packing up her kit. When Mac hung up, she straightened.
"What's going on?" she asked.
"We've got another body… same M.O," Mac answered her solemnly. Stella frowned.
"Two bodies in two days? Did this guy have a binge or what?" she asked. Mac shook his head.
"I don't know. But we can't hold up this lead with our first vic, either. Which do you want? Body or school?" he asked. Stella gave him a look.
"Are you kidding? Body… I hated school," she said. Mac smiled with a nod.
"Sheldon will meet you at the scene. I'll hitch with Flack," he said. Stella nodded as she picked up her kit.
"Meet you in the middle," she said of the lab and walked to the door.
"Stell…" Mac's voice stopped her. She turned to look at him. There were worry creases in his forehead. "Be careful…" Stella held back her own frown and smiled instead.
"Hey… it's me," she said. But the fact that Mac had expressed his concern – in front of a witness and Flack, no less – made her a little bit uneasy. The feeling that this case had trouble written all over it was back with a vengeance.
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"What's our destination now?" Danny asked. He was in the passenger seat once more. He never won the paper-rock-scissors game for the privilege of driving. He didn't know how, but he was pretty sure Aiden cheated.
"Vicaro got a warrant for the guns. He already bagged and tagged the SWAT bunch. They're waiting back at the lab. Now, we're off to check in on Joe Civilian," she said, turning down the appropriate street.
"Joe Civilian?" Danny asked with a laugh. Aiden ignored the jibe.
"Our fist stop is to a Reggie Whitman. An obvious gun-enthusiast… the man has an arsenal registered in his home, not to mention a lifetime membership to the NRA," she said.
"Should we wear vests?" Danny asked. Aiden smirked.
"Don't worry, I'll protect your scrawny butt," she said. Danny turned to look at her with surprise.
"You've been checking out my butt?" he asked slyly, returning her smirk. Aiden gave him a look as she brought the SUV to a stop and put it in park. They sat in front of a modest brick home. Danny sighed.
"This conversation is on pause because I really want that answer," he drawled out as he opened the door.
"Fat chance," Aiden replied. Danny smirked again.
"Denial is as good as affirmation," he told her, following her and Detective Vicaro up the pathway to the front door. The detective knocked on the door a few times. It took a little while, but a man finally pulled the door open. His eyes immediately checked Aiden over.
"NYPD, sir. We need to have a word with you," Vicaro stated. The tall man frowned as he looked to Vicaro.
"What's this all about?" he asked. Aiden held out the piece of paper with their request to him.
"Mr. Whitman, we have a warrant for your gun," she said, nodding to Vicaro and Danny standing behind her. Reggie Whitman held a hand over his heart.
"Ouch. Such hurtful words coming out of such a beautiful mouth," he said. Det. Vicaro and Danny shared a look. The detective looked amused, but Danny frowned.
"Hey buddy, we're here to do our job, not play 'Lamest Line'," he scolded. The other man chuckled as he looked at Aiden.
"Someone's feeling a little left out," he told her. Aiden arched a brow as she looked back at him.
"Doubt it," she commented coolly before indicating for him to lead the way. He opened the door to them and not-so-covertly gave Aiden another once-over as she walked by.
"Feisty," he commented. Danny frowned again as he, too, walked by the bulky man.
"We need to see whatever weapons you own, sir," Det. Vicaro said. Mr. Whitman frowned.
"What for?" he asked.
"A semi-automatic weapon matching the description of the one registered under your name was used in a murder the other day," the detective answered. Mr. Whitman looked among the three.
"You think I murdered someone?" he asked with a disbelieving laugh. Danny watched the guy and seriously doubted the man could pull off anything so elaborate. The stains on the front of Mr. Whitman's shirt told him that the man couldn't even get food to his mouth properly, let alone leave a crime scene nearly spotless.
"Actually, sir, we'd just like to eliminate your weapon from our list," Aiden said with a smile. Mr. Whitman shrugged as he nodded to the cabinet located behind the CSI.
"You keep a rifle like that out here?" Danny asked as he turned to look at the cabinet. Whitman shrugged again.
"I'm a collector. I occasionally take 'em out to the range, but otherwise, they're unloaded and the ammo locked away," he said. Aiden took a bottle of liquid and a q-tip out of her kit and looked up at Whitman.
"Have you been to the firing range recently?" she asked, taking hold of the gun that Danny handed to her. Whitman shook his head.
"I haven't fired that gun yet," he said. Aiden caught Danny's eye before she swabbed the barrel. The GSR test would soon tell her if he was telling the truth.
"We're still going to have to take the gun in for ballistics tests, just in case," she told the man as she stared at the still-clear q-tip.
"Be my guest…" he said. Aiden let out a small sigh as she stood up and gave Danny a look. The guy's quick and painless cooperation was quickly letting the air out of this lead. They could only hope that they'd have better luck at the next stop.
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Stella heard the shouting as she stepped out of the SUV. She shut the door with a slam and disregarded her kit as she heard a string of explicatives that was rarely – if ever – heard at a scene. With a curious frown, she quickened her step and made her way around the awaiting coroner's van.
"… you think I'm going to let you take her and carve her up, you are seriously mistaken. You bastards are no better than the monster who did this to her!" an angry male voice was saying to Sheldon Hawkes. This time, Stella broke into a run as the man reached forward and gripped the medical examiner's collar. She reached the grappling pair just as another officer grabbed at the angry man. Stella reached out to put a stop to it, but was thrown back as a fist made contact with her jaw. Her eyes were wide as her fingers came up to check her face. No blood… but she watched silently as the man who had struck her was wrestled to the ground by the officer and Sheldon.
"What are you doing? I didn't do anything! You need to find who did that to Caitlyn!" the angrily indignant man yelled, his cheek pressed against the cement as he was cuffed. Tears of anger and frustration mixed on his skin.
"You just attacked two of New York's finest, Mr. Crawford. You just won yourself a ticket downtown," the officer gritted out. Stella felt a hand on her should and turned to look at Sheldon.
"You alright, Stella?" he asked. She tested her jaw.
"My head almost became a maraca, but I'm fine. You?" she asked.
"Oh, I've had worse," the doctor said.
"What the hell was that about?" she asked, watching as the still-struggling man was put in the back of a squad car.
"Husband of the victim. Newly married. He found her in their apartment," he said. Stella frowned.
"In the apartment? That doesn't fit the pattern," she said. She looked to the gurney being brought out of the doorway.
"On preliminary examination, she died because of desanguination," he said. Stella lifted a brow.
"Carotid?" she asked. Sheldon nodded with a smile.
"Correct in one. And three more non-lethal wounds for her trouble. Plus, I can tell you with confidence that the kit will come back positive," he said. Stella nodded.
"Time of death?" she asked. Sheldon looked up from securing the gurney.
"Eight hours ago, give or take," he said.
"This morning?" she asked more to herself than anything. Looking at her watch, it was almost four o'clock. She'd been at the first crime scene when this murder happened.
"Looks like your killer is escalating," the doctor said. "It was more brutal this time, as well. A few defensive wounds, not to mention some well-placed blows…"
"Just the news I wanted to hear," Stella grumbled. She nodded to one of the officers and indicated for them to wait for her to get her kit. The medical examiner gave her a departing wave.
"Happy hunting," he called. Stella waved back.
"You too," she said before heading to the apartment complex door.
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The sound of the two detectives' shoes echoed down the empty hallway of Pratt Institute's School of Interior Design. It was currently class time with only a few students milling about the hallway towards the dean's office. Mac reached out and knocked on the door.
A woman with a hairstyle that dated back to the mid-eighties opened the door. She looked to be about in her mid-to-late forties.
"Hello. I'm Detective Flack and this is Detective Taylor," Flack said, showing the woman his badge. She gave it a cursory look and then looked back at the two men with a smile.
"Rochelle Fletcher. How may I help you gentlemen?" she asked, reaching out to shake each man's hand.
"We are here to talk to you about Whitney Howard," Mac said. The dean took her seat behind her desk.
"Yes, I heard she was missing. One of her instructors expressed concern a day or so ago. Has she been found yet?" the woman asked.
"Yes she has. She's dead," Flack said. Ms. Fletcher's eyes went wide for a second.
"Oh my Lord…" she trailed off, sitting back in her chair. "I'm so sorry…" Flack gave Mac a look before taking the seat in front of the woman's desk.
"This instructor that expressed the concern over Miss Howard… could we get their name?" Mac asked. The woman thought for a second before she rummaged through a pile of papers. It took a few seconds, but she finally held one up and read through it quickly.
"It was her FD120 instructor," she informed them. "Patricia Rosenow…"
"FD? What does that mean?" Flack asked. Ms. Fletcher smiled.
"Floor design. It was the first year floor design class. We have three levels of that class to ready them for the student's capstone project in their fourth year," she explained.
"So, she was a first year student, then?" Flack asked. The dean pursed her lips in concentration as she pushed a few buttons on her computer. Her eyes scanned over the screen for a silent moment.
"Actually, no. Whitney was a second year student. She was taking mostly second year classes except for a few electives here and there. She was a very good student, almost straight 'A'," the dean said.
"Was there any particular student or campus personnel that she seemed to hang around with? Or any that she seemed to have any troubles with?" Flack asked. Ms. Fletcher let out a sigh.
"We have nearly 4000 students here, Detective. It would be impossible for me to know everyone by name," she said. Flack just gave her a smirk.
"Ms. Fletcher, I find it hard to believe that you don't know – at least peripherally - the few hundred students that are going through your program right now. Especially those that wheel and deal with one of your supposed top students. You aren't exactly NYU," he said. The woman gave him a humorless smile.
"I'm aware of that, Detective. But that still doesn't mean I am on a first name basis with all interior design students. If you want a better picture of a student's ins and outs, then you should probably talk to the professors that have that student in class for the current semester," she said. Mac leaned over the desk in order to cut off whatever sarcastic remark Flack had planned.
"Could we get a list of the professors that Miss Howard was currently taking classes with?" he asked. The woman typed a few things into her computer.
"I'll actually do you one better, Detective Taylor. I will print out her entire schedule for you," she said. "That way, you can speak to her previous professors as well…" The printer spit out a few pieces of paper. The dean took the sheets from the tray and looked them over, giving them an approving nod before handing them to Detective Flack.
"Thank you," Flack said.
"I only hope it can help you find whoever killed Whitney," she said sincerely.
"We can only hope too," Flack muttered, then looked up at her. "Thank you…" The two men exited the office and started to walk down the hallway. It was silent for a second or two before Flack finally couldn't hold it in any longer.
"I don't like her," he said. Mac smirked.
"I could tell…" Any further comment was cut off by his cell phone.
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He watched. He never stopped watching. It was almost time. They'd found one body. They would soon find the second. And when that happened, it was time to throw off the scent. This would soon all be finished, and he would disappear into the mist once again.
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A/N: This is moving a little slower than I would like, but soon, it'll start to pick up the pace. It's been a hell of a week, but I still wrote a bit just for all of you! Please let me know what you think…
