Munch's stomach did a flip-flop. His expression, however, turned into a cynical sneer. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. The man raised an amused eybrow that complimented his smirk with a sadistic effect.
"Strong words for a man that can't stand up, Detective Munch," the man said, sounding as if he was speaking to a small child. Munch glared.
"I know criminals are thick, but I would have assumed you'd know I was asking your name," he clarified, using the same condescending tone. It didn't even ruffle the man's feathers.
He began to pace with his hands behind his back like a scholarly college professor. Munch got the distinct impression that his captor had a flare for the dramatic, and resisted the desire to roll his eyes when the man finally spoke.
"Me? I have many names from many people," he said. "You, however, shouldn't call me anything, I think. After all, it's not as though you'll live long enough to tell anyone my name."
And that's when Munch's smart-ass gene kicked in. Here he was, with a concussion, at the mercy of a psychopath, and he decided to be sarcastic. This happened to him a lot in his life. He always knew it would be better to be quiet, but instead he said something that got him into trouble.
"I know you're used to scaring eight-year-olds," John said, "so I'll cut you a little slack, but do you really think this little charade of superiority is going to scare me? Please. I've seen better acting in a Schwarzenegger movie."
The man stepped forward and backhanded him in one fluid motion. Munch yelped and clutched his head, feeling like a boulder had just been dropped on it. His captor knelt down beside him, his face as close to John's as possible without actually touching him.
"Anything else you want to tell me, Detective."
Munch just glared. The man smiled an evil sort of smile.
"You amuse me, Detective Munch. John, isn't it? No, you don't like it when I call you by your first name, do you? Johnathon is it, then? Or Johnny perhaps?" Munch's head was throbbing; he was barely paying attention. He just wanted the pain to go away. If only the man would stop talking to loudly in his ear... "I think we'll just stick with Detective for now, how's that? Wouldn't want to get too casual, now would we? No, no, Detective will do."
Munch's eyes were closed, trying to drown out the voice and stop the pain. Stopping the pain, that was all that mattered. If the pain stopped, he'd be able to do something. Help. He needed to help.
Suddenly it felt like the man was even closer to him. "You know why you amuse me, Detective."
Munch didn't give an answer. The pain was all that mattered.
"It's because, of course, you intrigue me. I like to be intrigued."
This caught Munch's interest. Instead of a child, he was talking about John like he was an animal in a zoo that had been previously thought to be extinct. He opened one eye a crack. "I intrigue you?"
"Ah, that got his attention, didn't it?" Munch was getting really sick of the rhetorical questions. "Yes, Detective, you intrigue me. You see, I've been watching you for a while now, and I can't seem to find a... method to your madness, if you will. I don't know what makes you tick, Detective Munch. I like to know how people work."
"I'm not a robot," John said. "I don't 'work' or 'tick."
The man just looked skeptical, then moved on. "I'd like to know exactly what goes on inside your head, Detective. And I think I've figured something out."
"Oh, dear," Munch said. "You've found out about my undying love for Barbra Streisand."
The man pretended not to hear. Instead his eyes travelled slowly under the stairs. Munch followed them with his own. They lingered on the rounnd eyes staring at them in fearful interest. Realization dawned on Munch, and his eyes whipped back to the man. "Don't," he warned.
"I've found your weakness, Detective."
"Don't."
"I'm going to torture you, John Munch."
"Then torture me," he said. "Not her. Don't touch her."
"But you're SVU. Sex crimes. You deal with rape. What better way to torture an SVU detective than by committing rape right underneath his nose?" The man's eyes may have been brown, but they were steely, glinting like ice and something far more evil than Munch could imagine.
"You're going to scar a little girl to get to me? Why not just kill me?"
"Because, Detective," he said. "You intrigue me. I thought we had gone over this."
The man stood up, so painstakingly slowly that Munch almost screamed. He took his time walking over to Bethany, giving Munch a little time to bring himself to his feet. "Don't touch her!" he yelled. "Don't go near her!"
"Or what?" The man laughed bitterly. "You'll sarcasm me to death?"
As the man reached for Bethany, Munch grabbed his arm, a desperate attempt to stop him. The man swung his other arm almost lazily into Munch's stomach, knocking him flat and clutching his winded midriff. The man clucked his tongue looking at him. Munch raged.
He pulled Bethany from under the stairs by her wrist. She flailed her arms and legs around. He picked her up roughly and threw her over his shoulder. She looked at Munch writhing on the floor as the man climbed the stairs and she beat his shoulders with her tiny fists. Her eyes screamed at him, spilling all the fear and confusion to him that her voice couldn't.
At the top of the stairs, the man paused, easily holding the little girl at bay. He looked over his shoulder almost non-chalantly. Bastard! Munch screamed at him in his head. The man gave a crooked sort of smile and said, "You know, Detective, you might want to check your choice of words and decide who should be ordering whom."
With that, he left John cursing on the ground of the mysterious and lonely basement.
This guy was smart. There was no denying that. Throughout the entire case there had been nothing but dead ends and witnesses that didn't really see anything. They'd had one strong lead; an old baby-sitter named Marcus that Mrs. Owens had been forced to fire for stealing money from her purse. But it turned out that he had died a week before the kidnapping of a drug overdose, so they were back to square one.
Elliot was particulary broken up about it. He always was with the child cases. He was also upset because he wasn't the lead and Munch was. Elliot liked to be able to bark orders at people when he was upset, something of which Munch never begrudged him until it wasn't his case. When Munch reminded him of that simple fact, Elliot had just leered at him as if saying, Yeah, right. I'm gonna be the one to break this case. Face it. It was one of the only things that annoyed Munch about Elliot. He was always right in his own mind.
Munch and Fin canvassed the park and the near-by apartment buildings, looking for someone who had seen anything unfamiliar. He remembered knocking on doors and getting concern, anger, and even one person who thought they were cat-sitters and wouldn't shut up so they could explain themselves for almost fifteen minutes. Fin had to act the tough guy and take out his badge, saying things like, "Look, man, we have a job to do, so if you don't mind shuttin' your ass up for a minute so me and my partner can ask you a few questions..."
When they left the apartment, Munch rounded on him. "What was that, Fin?"
"What was what?"
"You enjoy being portrayed as the angry black man, don't you?" It wasn't often that he lost his temper with Fin, and he should have known it could only lead to a long and drawn-out argument; but that day was his designated stupid day. He was allowed his dumb mistakes.
"What the hell, Munch?" Fin demanded.
"Come on, he was a senile old man, Fin, you didn't have to scare him half to death with your badge and your ebonics-"
"Ebonics?" Fin repeated, too surprised to sound angry. "I'm sorry if that's the way I talk. Would an accent be better for you?"
Munch instantly felt guilty. "Sorry. But really, he was just confused, that's all."
"He was annoying me."
"Is that a crime now?"
"Course not. You see me arrest him?"
"Shut up, Fin," John snapped.
"You're just mad because he's old and so are you."
Munch snorted. "That's low."
"And you talkin' about me as the 'angry black man' isn't?" Munch looked straight ahead of him as the walked down the stairs, carefully avoiding Fin's intense glare.
"I'm just upset about this case, Fin. I didn't mean anything."
"You're upset by every case, but you don't start labelling me on all of them," Fin noted. "You know what I think."
"Please, tell me your wisdom, oh Great Oracle." Fin blatantly ignored him.
"I think you're upset that you're getting old. You're turning obsolete. I saw you when Elliot tried to take over the case in the squad room yesterday. You 'bout killed him."
"He wasn't taking over the case."
"He said he was going to canvas. What do you call it?"
"Volunteering."
"That's not what you called it then," Fin said. "You were pissed and you know it."
"Cragen agreed with me," Munch muttered, resentfully. Fin rolled his eyes.
"I'm not saying you weren't justified," he said, "but you don't have to take Elliot's ego trip out on me, okay?"
They were approaching the next apartment, so Munch decided to end the argument. "Okay. Sorry. But if this is an old guy, don't scare him, all right?"
"Now, wait," Fin teased, grinning slightly, "did I scare the old guy, or you?"
"Shut up, Fin."
A/N: The next chapter should be up pretty soon. I've been working on this one really hard, so if anything's wrong with it, be sure to tell me so I know what to fix! You guys are AWESOME reviewers!
Much love,
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