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Mac was looking over Aiden' shoulder. On the small space that she had cleared on top of the table, was the file she'd uncovered amidst the rest of the books and old papers.
The file was made of transparent blue plastic and the material, more recent than any of the others, had called to her attention.
The top first pages on the file showed social security numbers, alphabetically ordered by occupation. The list of names of the people whom they belonged to was detailed enough to contained work address, home address, marriage status and even number of children. IRS information pages.
The top of the page bared the FBI's logo and the name of the agent that had accessed the information.
"John Donauh," Mac read with a note of disbelief in his voice. The man had come to them, on the pretext of helping them solve the crimes that he'd committed? Something was missing from that picture, something that made no sense for the older CSI.
"This was how he picked them," Aiden said, a gloved finger quickly scanning the lists. "He only needed to go through the letter A to get all of his victims."
Eight names were highlighted with a florescent marker. Some had been scratched over with a red marker.
"Ramirez: Aid, medical; Mills: Attorney, law…" she read the highlights. "There's a couple of names that he must've rejected, because I don't recognize any of them, but it looks like he basically picked the first ones on the list that fit the letters he needed."
"Aid, Attorney, Art teachers," Stella named the victims' occupations from memory. "What about the Stutons? He was a consulter and she a dentist."
Aiden flipped to the end of the list.
"They're not here. Why them then?" She asked no one in particular.
Mac answered her.
"They were picked because of this," he said, looking around. "He must have selected this place long before he picked any of the victims. The Stutons were the first couple near by that fitted what he needed."
"But why would a FBI agent do this? They go through periodic psychological evaluations, same as we do. How could've they missed a sick mind like this?" Stella asked, remembering the important piece of information that the agent had brought them. The initials spelling Messer. "Why Danny?"
"As far as we know, there is no connection between them," Mac said, recalling the agent's first visit to the lab, earlier the day before. He'd been looking at Danny, but the young man had been talking then, so he was the logical place to look at when the agent had entered the room.
"What ever it is, it has been going on for some time," Aiden said, still going through the thick file. Inside a vanilla coloured envelop were two large black and white pictures of Danny and several colour Polaroid's. One of the larger ones had been taken just outside the lab. The smaller ones where from various locations.
She could recognize his apartment building, the gymn he usually went to on his free days and a couple of crime scenes they'd worked together. The oldest one she could recognize was over a month old.
"He's been stalking him."
A faint 'Anybody home?' interrupted them, coming from the entry room. Only then did they realize that the drilling sound had finally stopped.
"Is that Flack?" Aiden asked, replacing Danny's pictures on the file and starting towards the ladder.
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The large photograph of Manhattan, hanging over the couch, had caught Stella's attention the minute they had entered that room. It wasn't an artistic novelty, just a very common picture of the city by night, taken from the Staten Island Ferry's point of view, with the thousand buildings' lights playing over the still waters of the river.
She'd seen the same picture more times than she could remember, but still found it beautiful. In that place in particular, where every space had a trace of horror etch in to it, that serene view of NY had been the solemn piece of normality where she could rest her eyes.
Now, as they passed by it again, on their way to answer Flack's insistent callings, she stopped to look at it again. Something wasn't right in that picture.
Mac silently asked Aiden to go ahead to answer Flack as he joined the other woman. His eyes followed her gaze to the picture.
"What is it?"
She tilted her head to one side, trying to catch a different angle of the picture.
"What do you see here?"
Over their silence they could hear Aiden and Flack's shouted conversation. She was telling him about their findings. His side of the conversation wasn't clear to them.
"Manhattan," Mac finally answered, wandering why she was asking him the obvious. "Pos 9/11 Manhattan."
Her head shot up and she looked at him. Because she had seen it so many times, her whole life to be exact, she had missed. The familiar landmark of the Twin Towers was missing from the picture.
He realized what was wrong with that picture at the same time that she did.
"The man who owned the house died in 1996. The WTC's attack happened five years after he was dead," he said, turning on his flashlight.
Kneeling over the couch, Mac carefully examined every edge of the picture's framing box and every inch of its glossy surface, finding no usable print. Only when he passed the light over the picture's silver full moon, did he noticed the different pattern in the reflection.
"Why would the killer bring in a decorative piece?" Stella asked, seeing Mac slightly raise the bottom edge of the picture and pointing his light up.
"Because he was trying to hide the hole behind it," he said with a smile. "And made a mistake."
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Flack was developing a headache. He wasn't much of a headache kind of guy, but when he had them, they were bad.
The story that Aiden had told him sounded like something taken out of a Stephen King's novel. Danny had a stalker? An FBI agent at that?
What had happened to good old serial killers, who killed to get their rocks off and because their mommies hadn't warmed up their milk cups before going to bed?
His mind was bubbling with grim theories and possibilities as he left the house and made his way towards the nearest news' van. His cell phone was on his hand and dispatch's number was already ringing.
If this guy had gone through all of this trouble to get him and the others occupied around this house tonight, that meant he was probably planning to make his move on Danny at the same time. As he tried to get a connection with the uniforms on guard at Danny's building, Flack prayed that he was't too late.
He banged on the door of the van, being greeted by another policeman.
"Anything?" He asked, looking at the panoply of screens and blinking instrument panels inside the TV's van.
A young guy with a set of headphones hanging from his neck gave him a toothy smile, pointing at one screen in particular, thoughts of winning a Pulitzer over this already racing through his mind.
On the screen, Mac and Stella were looking directly at them, touching the hidden camera. A digital clock was counting down, facing away from them and showing less than twenty minutes. The bomb seating next to it didn't look as harmless as the one that had blown up the hatch's lock.
"Get the bomb squad down there!" Flack blared, his phone completely forgotten in his hand. "Can you triangulate the signal to show us where this is being sent to?" He asked the young guy, a sense of urgency seeping in to his voice.
"Piece of cake, man," the young man said, punching a series of buttons. A Goggle Earth photo appeared on screen, showing an aerial view of NY City.
In a painfully slow manner, the satellite photo started to narrow down to show a more detailed view of the city, closing in on Long Island, then Queens. When the map started to close in on Ridgewood Street, Flack already knew where the signal was being sent.
"Son of a bitch's already there!" He said, storming out of the van. He hit the end call button on his cell and punched Danny's number instead. "Pick it up, man, just pick it up," he begged the ringing tone in his ear. Danny's answering machine greeted him with its familiar 'I'm not answering, so you know what to do' flat recorded message.
Throwing one last look at the friends that were trapped with a bomb, he started his car, hoping to reach the friend that was trapped with a killer in time. It was a fifteen minute drive from Jackson Heights to Danny's place. Flack was planning on breaking any traffic rule that would allow him to get there in less than five.
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