Picking up his dry cleaning in the morning on his way to work was the most interesting part of Martin Pearson's day so far. The law office was quiet when he walked in and it was still quiet three hours later. He didn't feel up to driving out to his campaign office on Woodward so he would just stay here. He closed himself in his small office and barricaded himself behind his desk.

The sheer amount of files was unfair. The workload for a public defender was always insane. The work load for a public defender that did work pro bono was astronomical. He glanced to his left to see that the bowl he had put under the leak in the ceiling was nearly full. He'd have to dump it out in a bit but he didn't feel like doing it at the moment.

He was tired. Just plain tired. This was one of the few days he ever had when he didn't have two or more court appearances and he decided that he had a right to take advantage of it and just be tired for once.

Deciding to treat himself, he pulled out a glass, a small bottle of whiskey he had hidden away, and a pack of Pall Malls. He lit his cigarette first and then poured himself a drink. He sat back in his chair and watched the smoke drift toward the ceiling. Please, please don't let the phone ring. At least not for the next two minutes. Give me this.

His eyes drifted to one of the many filing cabinets that lined his office. This one in particular was tan, stood five shelves high, and had a lock made specially for the cabinet at the bottom. He looked down at the cabinet and licked his lips. He loosened his tie and looked away. He took a sip of whiskey and looked back.

When he had first had that lock installed, he never used it. That drawer was always open. He was always pouring through the contents, beatings his brow as he dragged every last word for the smallest bit of evidence. Over the last five years, he had been opening that drawer less and less. He had gotten to the point where he could go months without even looking at it. But he couldn't blame himself for thinking of it now, considering what yesterday's date was.

He had gone to the cemetery early yesterday morning. He had waited an hour for it to open. Still, once he had been allowed in, he had only stayed for five minutes. He regretted it now. His visits grew shorter with every passing year. He wondered if he'd even have the heart to show up at all next year.

He threw back the rest of the whiskey and grimaced as it burned. Raising his cigarette, he gave a toast, "To you, Em. I told you that you'd be the only one who could ever drive me to smoke."

When a knock came to the door, he sighed and stubbed out his cigarette, slipping the ash tray quickly under his desk. "Come in."

His secretary walked in with a few files. Her small nose curled up at the smell of smoke but she said nothing about it. "I brought you the updates on the Bridgestone case. And Judge Falcone's office called to postpone Mr. Vaitel's case, originally scheduled for tomorrow. Is early next week all right?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Monday or Tuesday. Whichever is better for Tony," he took the files from her.

"Mort wants you to meet him for lunch at The Roostertail. He seems excited about the Hansen case."

Martin gave her a tired smile. "Mort always has to be excited about something. If it was the end of the world, he'd be excited that he wouldn't have to come into work tomorrow."

The secretary smiled. "I wouldn't be too upset myself. Did you need anything else, sir?"

"No, that's fine. Thanks, Clare."

"No problem, boss. Oh, and your wife is on line two."

"All right. Thanks."

- - - - -

Emirene hadn't known what to do when she saw Martin leave his office. She knew she couldn't just run up to him on the street. He'd probably die of a heart attack. She didn't want to just let him walk off because he might not come back to the office today. So she followed him.

The sun was unbelievable. She grew faint and nauseous with only a few seconds of direct sunlight. In the early morning she had gone dumpster diving to find as many pieces of clothing she could to cover as much of her body as possible. The effect was that of an overweight bag lady carrying a pet crow. She kept the ragged hood of the coat she wore low over her head so no one would notice the strange markings on her face. She shouldn't have worried. The smell of the clothes kept people away with ease.

She followed him a half block behind and across the street. Jefferson was a wide street and extremely busy during midday, but she never lost sight of him. He looked like he always had, calm and put together, even though his tie looked a little loose around the neck. She watched him turn into The Roostertail and she found a spot for herself beneath a few trees across the street and waited. She managed to find herself in a sort of half coma. The daylight made her drowsy as well as sick and her body seemed to want to shut down until the light went away. She nearly missed him when Martin stepped out of the restaurant alongside Mort.

Oh, Mort. Poor Mort. The man had always been extremely overweight, but now he was on the verge of morbidly obese. Emirene chewed on her lips with worry. A man that size with a drinking habit and a high stress job like he had . . . How much longer was Mort going to last? She remembered Mort fondly as one of Martin's excitable, absent-minded partners. Hell, he had been doodling sketches during the case that had brought Emirene and Martin together. She had been the prosecution's police witness to a domestic abuse case and Martin had been the defense lawyer. She had gotten up on that stand cool and unfazed and left it the same way, even after Martin had pulled out all his lawyer tricks. She had run into him in the hall after the guilty verdict had been handed down. Emirene had laughed and said "I won, you lost." Martin agreed, and then asked her out to dinner. Mort had been the only person who could authenticate that this was really how their first date had come about. Mort had even stood up for Martin in their wedding.

She followed both men as they headed back toward the office. Emirene decided to head over to Indian Village so that she would be there to see which street he pulled onto, which house he lived in. Her excitement grew as she waited across the street from the historic village within the slums of Detroit. She sat beside a garbage can and thought about how he would be shocked at first, but then he'd pull her into his arms and cry. After that, everything would make sense again. It had to.

She didn't recognize the Bendz he drove, but she saw his face as he passed in it and quickly stood up to watch the car. It turned onto Iroquois Road and she quickly jumped across the street and turned down the block so she could watch his car pull into the driveway of a lovely three story Georgian Revival. Absolutely beautiful. It had a manicured lawn and even one of these little antique looking lampposts out front. She watched him enter the house and slowly drifted down the street. The crow squawked in irritation but she ignored it.

She slipped into the backyard first, looking around in amazement at the hanging plants and stone walkways through the perfectly kept backyard. There was even a stone bench in front of a three-tiered garden pond. A statue of a young child stood by it, holding his hand out and up as though hoping that, if he only stood long enough, a butterfly might land there. The soft smile that touched her mouth hurt, as though it might crack the skin around it. She put her hand against her stomach for a minute before looking back up at the house.

How could a pro bono defense lawyer afford this house? His office was still in the building marked Hamilton and Keenan, so he clearly hadn't gone to the dark side. And while she was thinking about it, how could he afford to run for a political office? Even just for city board, one needed money for a campaign. It didn't make sense. Unless he won the lottery or something. It was a long shot but it was the only thing she could come up with.

She peeled herself out of the street clothes she had acquired and made sure her robe was secured. It was smelling a little itself now, but it was better than keeping the rest of it on. She walked quickly up the back walk toward the back door . . . and then swiftly turned around and walked away. Oh, she was so nervous! What would he think? What would he DO? She was excited and terrified at the same time. She would tell him what happened, who had done those gruesome things to her and their child. He would hunt them down and help the prosecution bring them to justice and then . . . she could stay right? She could stay with her husband and be happy.

She turned back up to the house but moved to a window first. She wanted to see him again, to steel her resolve. What she saw through the window confused her into panic.

Martin was eating a fancy dinner at a fancy table in a room furniture probably cost more than their old house had. He was dining with a woman. She was petit and absolutely lovely. After an entire day, there wasn't a blond hair out of place on her head. The pearls she wore were probably real as would be the diamond she wore on her left hand. Her suit dress looked expensive, as was the coat hanging on the chair behind her.

She watched as her husband and the strange woman in his house ate their beans and their roast. They drank red wine and spoke casually and with familiarity. And then, when Martin stood to take the plates to be washed, he leaned down and kissed the woman. He leaned over her from behind, just like he had always kissed Emirene when she would be sitting and he would stand to leave.

Emirene found herself suddenly surrounded by bushes as her legs gave out and she sank to the ground beneath the window. She stared into the bushes. For a half hour, nothing that had anything to do with her stirred. She didn't blink, she didn't shift. She didn't breathe. She thought about the house. The Benz. The woman, the ring, the kiss. After the last hope inside her finally died, she thought about nothing at all.

It was two hours before the lights on the first floor went out and were replaced by a single light on the second floor. It was another half an hour before that one went out as well. She moved out from the bushes and went to the back door. She put her hand to the doorknob and pushed. There was a small cracking sound and the backdoor opened. She was immediately greeted by a quick beeping that told her to enter the security code quickly or pay the consequences. She tapped in the code to her old home and the alarm system accepted it, going quiet with one last contented beep. She stood just inside the back door for quite a while before she slowly began to move through the house.

The first room she found after avoiding the dining room was the den. There were two desks here, both high with paperwork. The walls were lined with legal books, floor to ceiling. A woman by the name of Anne Davenport had law certificates up. Another defense lawyer. One that got paid. She was beginning to see how Martin could afford this house.

The photographs held no interest for her after she found the one of Martin and the blond woman, Anne, standing in each other arms wearing a black tuxedo and a white dress, respectively. She simply decided she wouldn't look at any more pictures.

She nearly passed the living room by before she caught sight of the mantel over the fireplace. She moved across the carpet, her toes sinking into the plush wine-colored fibers and reached out to touch the triangular case prominently displayed in the middle of the mantel. It held a perfectly folded American flag with a small plaque inscribed with a name and date set into the wooden frame.

CPL. EMIRENE F. MENDOZA

UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS

AUGUST 20, 2005

At least Martin's new wife accepted the fact that Emirene had existed once. Or perhaps she avoided this room. Avoided Martin's past and pretended he had been hers all along. All negative thoughts of the woman living with her husband were gone the moment she saw what lay beside the triangular case. It was a small baby's rattle, gold plated. Emirene reached out and found her fingers trembling as she drew her fingers across the smooth surface. At least he hadn't forgotten that part of his past, either.

She swallowed and turned from the mementos of people long dead and left the living room, heading toward the grand staircase. She climbed it and silently walked down the hall, pausing only once outside a half closed door to listen to the sound of her husband making love to his new wife. Her eyelashes flickered a moment and then she continued on, never looking back.

She found the door to the attic in the ceiling of the second floor and pulled down on the cord hanging from it. The well-oiled ladder didn't so much as creak as it thudded down into the carpet. The darkness above was complete and she didn't feel the least amount of fear ascending into its depths.

Once she had pulled the attic door back closed, she realized that the darkness was not complete and she easily found the light switch. It illuminated a large attic divided into two sections. The first looked like a workshop. The second looked like an auxiliary office. She was happy that Martin had finally found a place to go to do his wood carving, but she found the office drew her attention more so she passed the workshop on her way to the desk.

The papers arranged on the desktop spoke of Martin's strange system of chaotic order. Nothing seemed to be where it should, but Martin would know where ever scrap was and why he had put it there. Along the near wall were photos of crime scenes. She wandered over and looked at them in interest. The back alley behind a party store. A street corner. The burnt remains of a house. She noted the DPD logo at the bottom. Martin had enough interest in these cases that he was able to snark some crime photos from the file room. Or paid someone to reproduce some for him. She didn't recognize the locations as any crimes she knew about, so they must have happened after her . . . incident.

Each crime scene had their own section on the wall, papers copied (illegally) from the Detroit Police files, a series of color crime scene photos. She moved to the first set, glancing over the glossy surfaces. Most of the pictures were of the crime scene behind the party store after a body was removed. The blood stains were marked with a number four. A bloody bat broken in half was number seven and eight. She had to lean down toward the bottom of the wall to see pictures of the body. A large white man lying on his stomach, his face turned to the side. He wore grey sweat pants and top with white tennis shoes. His head was beaten in so badly that the color of his hair was not recognizable, not to mention the features of his face. Ouch.

She glanced to the photos of the street corner, again having to look toward the ground to find pictures with the body in it. This one made her freeze. The black man laying on his back, half in the street, was a police officer. His still body was riddled with multiple bullet holes. Unlike the first picture, this man's face was immediately recognizable.

". . .Bateman!" Emirene stared in horror at the picture of her old teammate, gunned down in the street. She snatched the photo right off the wall and as she did–

–the bullets smashed into her body like small explosions, tearing up organs and blood vessels, liquefying muscle and turning bone into shards. The hard concrete was almost soft when she fell to her back on the street.

She struggled to breath but there was no where for the air to go but into her perforated lungs and back out of the bullet holes. In moments, the lungs refused to even inflate and lay flat and sealed like dead balloons in her chest. Her breath choked in her throat, stirring up the blood there into a thick prink froth that erupted from her mouth and glided gently down her cheeks.

She felt a shadow fall over her and struggled to focus her darkening eyes as she felt her body growing colder and colder. The sun was behind the figure so no face could be determined, but she found the calm voice extremely familiar.

"Officer Bateman, is it? I can't really read your name badge anymore . . . I hope you're him or I've made quite a messy mistake. Officer Bateman? Terrence Bateman?"

She gurgled while somehow managing to slowly nod. The back of her head moved strangely against the ground, as though it was no longer round. As though the back of her skull no longer really existed.

"Splendid," the voice that Emirene recognized as Goatee seemed to smile. "I hear you like your job more than most. It must be an honor to die in the line of duty."

She heard another magazine clip slap into place before the explosions in her body started anew–

–Emirene gasped, finding herself on her knees in front of the make-shift crime board of her husband's making. The photograph of the late Officer Terrence Bateman was crumpled in her hand, crushed beyond hopes of redemption.

"Oh God, Terry . . ." She put the crumpled photograph to her face and cried with dry eyes for a moment before opening her eyes slowly and looking back at the board. She looked to the photo of the burnt house and saw autopsy photos at the bottom. There were multiple victims, all charred and blackened. Two large and two small. With a shaking hand she reached for the picture of the largest victim–

–the smell of her own burning flesh filled her nostrils. What was worse was the screaming she heard. Why was she being left her ears? Why wouldn't her ears just burn off so she could suffer the last of her life in silence? So she wouldn't have to helplessly listen to the cries of her family as they burned alive in the house that had been their home.

She felt her blackened skin crack open and knew that there was a man outside on their law with a large empty tank that smelled of gasoline and saddle shoes on his feet. She could almost see the man smiling as he lifted the empty tank and walk away, whistling to himself–

–"Christ! Oh Christ!" Emirene found that she had dropped both of the photographs and was furiously patting herself down, trying to put out the flame that wasn't there. She had to force herself to stop the useless motion, curling her hands into trembling fists. Bernard. Bernard and Sharon and Bethany and Melany . . .the entire Brinker family burned alive. . .

With horrified numbness she lifted her face to the first set of pictures she had looked at. The picture of the man with his head bashed in behind the party story. "No . . . God no . . ." but she couldn't stop herself. She had to see it. It would be selfish of her to keep herself from this horror as well. She didn't pull the picture down but reach out and brushed her fingers over the glossy surface–

–the man was standing on her neck. Her body was writhing about, trying to free itself, but the foot on the back of her neck, holding her face against the dirty concrete was not giving. She had tried yelling out but knew without being told that anyone who had heard her cries had run away without a second's hesitation. So instead she began to swear.

"Your words are not polite, Mr. Fulton," the voice of the man standing on her neck was thick and a bit slow as though the man had to really think about them before he could form them in his mouth. "Lay still and I will not draw this out. I'm suppose to draw it out and make it painfully, but I won't if you will just lay still."

She tried to twist her neck. Tried to see the man standing on her. All she saw, out of the very corner of her eye, was a thick neck and the side of a bald head. "FUCK you, asshole! Get the fuck off me! I'm going to fucking ki–"

The baseball bat connected with her face with the sound of an overripe melon splitting open–

–Emirene curled over and began to dry heave. Her throat wretched over and over again but nothing would come out. Not even the smallest spit of saliva. When the sick twisting inside her body finally receded, she shoved her hand into the pocket of the dirty bathrobe and grabbed onto the rosary for dear life. She felt the beads press into her hand and the chains bite a bit, but they brought a calmness over her that allowed her to move away from the wall and sit with her back to the side of Martin's desk. Her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she sighed.

Only three crime scenes decorated the attic wall. Hers was not one of them. Neither was Sean Callahan's. There was no doubt in her mind that he was dead too, in an equally horrific way. And of course there was no coincidence either. Five officers from the same SWAT team, dead. Murdered. She pushed herself to her feet and made herself approach the wall again. She read the homicide reports. Officer Bernard Brinker died August 8, 2005. Officer Kyle Fulton died August 27, 2005. Officer Terrence Bateman died September 4, 2005. She had been attacked after Brinker but before Fulton because she didn't remember any of these deaths. She didn't remember the date, but that meant all four of them had died within one month's time. Callahan no doubt fell in between them somewhere.

She wondered why her own file and Callahan's wasn't here, but it was easy to assume that Martin simply hadn't been able to get his hands on the information. It must have been extremely difficult just to get these three.

She pushed herself to her feet and began to wander around the attic office, reading papers about suspect interrogations and witness reports. She shifted through more pictures. Nothing was pointing directly to the men she knew were responsible. Bald guy. Saddle shoes. Goatee. Biondo. Biondo was on the suspect list but all interrogations turned up useless. The man was a lifelong crook. Of course he knew how to lie.

Finding a bunch of boxes along another wall, she pulled them down and opened the first one. She recognized her dresses. Her shirts and pants. Another three contained her baseball card collection. She looked at them fondly but put them aside and forgot about them. When she opened one box and saw the white hat and blue of her Marine uniform, she paused. She pulled the hat out and put it aside. She pulled the dress uniform out and put that aside as well. Beneath it was the fatigue coat and pants that she had spent 99 of her service time in. Her olive green uniform tank top. Her standard issue black boots. The Ass-kickers, she had recalled naming them. She pulled the tank top, the fatigue pants and the boots out. Without much thought as to why, she dropped the robe and began to dress herself.

The pants, baggy around her legs, still fit perfectly around her waist. The tank top just hid her autopsy incision and most of the open stab wounds. Sliding her feet into those old worn boots was like coming home. Warm and wonderful. Calming. The pants tucked into them and she knotted the boots tight. She stood with a sigh. The bathrobe had felt wrong. This felt very right. She stooped again and pushed through the box to find her dog tags and her full body tactical harness. She pulled the dog tags over her head and put her arms through the harness. She strapped it closed around her waist and across her chest, just above her breasts. This harness made her feel all squishy inside. It sported four holsters, one on each hip and one under each arm, as well as a long holster in the back for ones favorite rifle. About the utility belt were various little happy spots for knives, ammo and the like.

Another box revealed her old police uniform. From that box she lifted her badge, no doubt given to Martin after her death, even though the badge had already been retired. She clipped it onto her utility belt. In this box was also her police issue Baretta 8000F, empty. She pushed through a few more boxes before finding three boxes of .35 calibers and she quickly dropped the magazine and pushed the bullets into place. When she slapped the full clip home, the weight was perfect in her hand and the metal felt almost warm as though it was welcoming her after all their time apart. She slipped it into the holster at her right hip. The rest of the bullets filled three more clips and went into one of her ammo pouches. Two large knives slipped into her belt.

With each thing added to her body, she felt her calmness grow. She didn't realize it, but by the time she slipped those knives into her belt, her body had given up its guise of breathing. Her chest remained still and no air passed her lips or nostrils. The calm in her mind and body was so complete that she didn't feel the need to clean up her mess. She left boxes open, pictures on the ground. It didn't matter if Martin found his attic like this. She had more important things to think about.

She took a moment to step over to Martin's workshop. She turned on the desk lamp and looked down with a still face at the wooden sculptures that littered the table top. A small whistle. A rocking horse. A wooden rattle. Looking around she saw that all of Martin's whittled sculptures had been made for one person alone. His unborn child. She brushed her fingers over each piece before stopping on the small wooden rattle and picking it up. She caressed it, a small smile touching her lips. Then she attached the rattle to one of the empty loops in her utility belt. There. She was all set now. She had everything she needed.

She glanced up when she heard the tapping on the window. The crow, which she had left outside in the backyard, was perched just outside. It tapped impatiently on the glass with its huge beak and squawked. She put her hand up to still its impatience before bending down to the robe she had discarded on the floor. She pulled the rosary from the pocket and held it lovingly in her hand. Then she untangled it and put it around her neck. It settled against her breast, over the dog tags, over the harness strap, and it felt like she had just put on full body armor.

She turned to walk back to the attic stairs when she stopped and turned, slowly looking back at the crow perched outside the attic window. She tugged the lights off and walked to the window, crouching to push it up. It was painted shut, but the dry paint gave easily under her force.

She stuck her head out the window, looked down past the ledge. Two full stories below her was the front lawn. She didn't pause for another moment. She gripped the edges of the sill and pushed herself out of the window.

She landed silently on the grass below. The crow cried out and flew off above her, down the street. Standing slowly from her crouched position, Emirene slowly walked away from her husband's house and into the road. She knew who she was going to find. Now she just needed to find out where to find them while simultaneously filling her lonely holsters.