Disclaimer: Olivia, Elliot and the gang do not belong to me; I can only take credit for the bad guys and the story/situation you are reading. Dick Wolfe – you rock!

Rating is for naughty language, because real cops have filthy mouths. This chapter will be more case centric. I know I said in Chapter 11 that this next chapter was going to be E/O, but after starting on it, I realized that would have robbed/rushed the plot. And I'm trying to keep balance in the story. Don't worry, the next chapter is pretty much written.

Reviews: Please. All of you that have left feedback are giving me the incentive to continue this piece (slow as it may be). Hepburn – thanks for the email push again!


A/N: Deepest apologies on the delay. Life just keeps getting in the way!


Chapter Twelve

The smell of the apartment was nauseating. It was a mixture of crime scene chemicals, cleaning products, rotting garbage and mold. Olivia had nearly gagged when Logan had unbolted the door after removing the CSU tape. Both of them had stood in the doorway for over a minute, adjusting to the odor in silence. She had been around enough death that this couldn't give her body a reason to purge lunch, but she still needed a moment to let the stench dull a little.

"Let me open a window," Logan muttered, the tone in his voice altered as he tried to breathe through his mouth.

Olivia watched him cross the cramped living room, circling around the sagging blue sofa to get to the window. He jerked hard against the metal braces, sliding the old frame up high in one push. A soft smile touched her lips as Logan stuck his head out, breathing in deeply.

She looked away from him to take in the apartment. It was small; she had known from the CSU report that it was a one-bedroom in the Bronx. The living room space was shared with the kitchen; the only element separating them was the change of tile to carpet.

The kitchen was to her right from the doorway. It was old, but efficient looking, plain white cabinets with brass handles probably dating to the late 50s. A single basin metal sink occupied the middle of the brown Formica counter, still filled with crusty dishes. There was a small electric stove, and a more modern looking refrigerator taking up the rest of the space, both appliances dulled from white to beige, much like the cabinets, with the assistance of a lifetime of smoking tenants.

A trashcan lay overturned on the worn blue tiles. Several flies buzzed around the pile of rotted food, which knowing the area, had probably been worked through by rats as well.

Olivia sighed. It wasn't like anyone had been inside here in weeks. When Clarkson had first been arrested, a warrant was issued for his apartment. As CSU had discovered blood and hair from two of the girls in the bedroom, the apartment and the possessions contained therein were now property of the state while the investigation moved forward.

Of course, when Clarkson died, and the file closed, the property should have been released back to the landlord, and the possessions to the next of kin. But as always, the state had been slow with the paperwork. Before they even started the paperwork, the file had been reopened, and the apartment and possessions were once again legally under state control. This had to be one of only a few times she had been pleased that the property office was such a bureaucratic mess.

Olivia's gaze shifted from the kitchen to the living room. There was a brown card table with two folding chairs in the far right corner, an overflowing ashtray and several empty beer bottles littering the top. A small bookshelf was to the left of the one window, crowded with several books that Olivia couldn't identify from her vantage point. In the middle of the living room sat the lone blue sofa, the center sagging after years of use. A small television sat on a milk crate against the left wall, facing the sofa. Two closed doors were located on either side of the television, and Olivia knew one went to the bathroom, and the other to the bedroom.

"So? What do you think?"

Olivia glanced back over to Logan. He was leaning back against the window frame facing her, his lips parted slightly as he continued to breathe through his mouth.

They hadn't really discussed how to go about investigating the apartment. Since the interrogation of Ron earlier that morning, Logan had been cold to her. Understandably so, Olivia relented. She just had trust issues, and this whole investigation had her reeling. Part of her wanted to reject the atrocities being committed now in response to her actions with Clarkson. Almost as if denying it, such as with the medallion, she could push the guilt into the back of her mind. But Olivia knew the action was dangerous.

She had to think clearly, had to be rational, even if the feelings associated with it tore into her gut with a stabbing, nauseating pain.

"Here, take these." Olivia dug into her pocket and pulled out several latex gloves. She had taken them from her desk drawer prior to leaving the squad, thinking ahead.

Logan walked over, taking a pair of gloves with a quick nod of his head. Olivia circled back to the door, pushing it shut to prevent prying eyes of Clarkson's neighbors. As Fin and Barek had already interviewed the occupants of this three-story building, some of them were undoubtedly curious to the additional police activity and might stop by to watch or ask questions.

When Olivia turned back to Logan, he already had both gloves on, giving her an unidentifiable look. She quirked one eyebrow up at his expression, expertly sliding her fingers into the powdery gloves.

"Do you have a preference?" Olivia questioned, motioning to the two closed doors.

"Hmm, guess I'll choose what's behind door number one there, Bob," Logan deadpanned. Olivia smirked at his impersonation.

"Right. I'll take the other. See you out here?"

"Yep," Logan answered, briskly turning from her to walk over to the first doorway. He pushed the door open, and at the sight of the bed, Olivia turned and headed to the room she knew now to be the bathroom.

She pushed open the door warily, right hand loose against the butt of her gun. Walking into the small bathroom, she grunted in disgust; she would do better armed with a can of bleach. She flicked on the light switch, flooding the windowless area with harsh fluorescent brightness.

The small bathroom was just big enough for the little sink, toilet and claw footed tub with a clear, if not grimy, shower curtain. The walls were the same off-white color as the kitchen cabinets had been, the slate colored tiles in here missing in places. There was a small cupboard under the sink and a slim medicine cabinet above, the mirror broken in two places. Rust discolored the area around the faucet of the sink and Olivia knew the condition of the toilet and bathtub wouldn't be much better.

She crouched down in front of the sink, opening the cabinet doors. Cleaning supplies, which forced a laugh out of her. Olivia pulled out each one, opening them and checking the smell. Everything was as it was labeled.

She closed the cabinet and pushed up on her heels to stand when she heard a faint noise behind her. As she turned, a rat raced along the worn tiles in front of her, scurrying under the tub. She screamed.

"Olivia! Are you okay?" Logan was at the door, gun out, concern on his face before she had a moment to collect herself.

"Yes. Fine. There was just a rat…"

"A rat?" His eyebrows were pulled together as he stared at her. Suddenly, he smiled, and the smile became a grin, exposing teeth as he laughed. "Jesus Christ! A rat?"

"I'm not scared of them, alright? I just wasn't expecting it, it startled me."

"You weren't expecting it? We're in the fucking Bronx. Squatters eat the little fuckers like they're chicken in Memphis." His laughter died down but the grin remained. "Want to go stand on a chair in the kitchen while I kill it for you?"

Anger surged through her at the suggestion. "Don't you have a room to be searching?"

"Fine. But the offer remains. Just…scream." He chuckled as he walked out the door.

She sighed, turning back to the sink. Pushing the thought of the rat lurking under the bathtub out of her mind, she pulled open the medicine cabinet.

The array of medications gave her pause; there were at least 20 orange prescription bottles, if not more. Olivia went through the task of checking each one, making sure that they were all for Clarkson and that the pills inside the bottles matched

After that, she moved to the toilet, pulling off the lid, even though she knew he wouldn't keep anything in the tank. Proving herself right, she covered it again and then reached inside her trench for her flashlight.

Olivia looked around the toilet and cabinet with the light, finding only grime and more grime. Pausing for only a second, she knelt down again, shining the flashlight under the bathtub.

The rat's beady eyes twinkled in the beam. "Hello, little beast," Olivia whispered, moving the flashlight to check on the rest of the tub's underbelly. Other than the rat, some trash he had acquired and decades of grime, there was nothing else under the bathtub.

After doing the cursory check of the inside of the bathtub, she turned and walked back into the living room, turning off the switch as she did.

Logan was already out in the living room, pulling a couch cushion up. He caught Olivia's gaze and shook his head wordlessly. Nothing in the bedroom.

She walked over to the small bookcase. Ignoring the fingerprinting dust that was still covering it, she pulled out the first book. Noting with black humor it was History of the Assault Rifle, she held it by the spine, flipping the pages in hopes that something might fall out.

"What do we expect to find here, Olivia?"

Olivia glanced up from the book to find Logan looking down at the couch in disgust to where he had unveiled a multitude of trash that had been smashed under the weight of apartment's former occupant.

"Something, anything, that may have to do with the unknown perp…"

"You mean the unknown woman."

"Perp, Logan. Huang's profile…"

Logan grunted. "I know they get lucky sometimes, but profiling's still just an educated guess. And we have more information than ever on her now."

This was true. The composite from Ron of the blond woman that had stolen his medallion matched the woman in the videotape from Rikers. She, along with two men that had visited Clarkson, were still unidentified since they had all used fake information in the prison visitor logs. Neither of the men had matched the other composite, the one by the deliveryman.

"What about the composite from the delivery man, Logan, the one that saw the perp abduct Shelly Schuler? He saw a male, and the sketch, though vague, I'll admit, is definitely masculine. And Devine..."

"The pro? Both you and I know the witness testimony of prostitutes is unreliable. Especially ones that were cracked out at the time."

"But to misidentify a woman as a man? No, she would definitely know the difference in her line of work."

Logan's gaze turned thoughtful. "So what then? What does it all mean?"

Olivia stared back at him, the thought disturbing her. That there could be two unknown perps. Two more predators out on the street. She left it unsaid, because she knew by the look on his face he was thinking the same thing.

"I think it means we better find something here," Olivia murmured.

They both went back to searching, Logan sifting through the trash on the couch, Olivia flipping through all of the books, hoping Clarkson had tucked something like a letter or photo between one of the pages.

Half an hour had passed and Olivia was now searching through the kitchen, still having found nothing of value to the investigation. She was standing on one of the folding chairs, going through the upper cabinets while Logan stood next to her, pulling out drawers and examining the content.

"…so it was nice seeing Munch again," Logan continued. They had been talking on and off while searching the apartment, both careful to keep the subject matter light. "I swear, he looked the same 12 years ago that he does today."

"You've worked with Munch before?"

"Yeah, Briscoe and I partnered with Munch and Lewis back in Baltimore on a case that crossed state lines. How the FBI didn't snatch that one from us, I still can't figure out."

"Stabler and I have been forced to hand over a case in the past to the Feds. Always frustrating," Olivia replied, closing the cabinet door. She sighed, stepping off the chair and folding it back up.

"So you'll be staying with Stabler tonight?"

The question was so unexpected it shocked her. Olivia scowled at him. "You were eavesdropping?"

"I couldn't help it, since my partner had kept crucial case information hidden from me, I thought I might catch other information on the case she was keeping out too."

Olivia had the grace to blush. "Listen, Logan, I apologize for that. This case…it's complicated. But you still don't have the…"

"I think Stabler's right, Olivia. You should stay with him."

Olivia blinked. "Why?" She frowned. "You don't think I can protect myself?" Though she encountered the stereotype of being a weaker cop because of her gender frequently, she thought Logan was above it.

"I didn't say that. Hell, I wouldn't say that. I think you're an excellent detective if the past several days are anything to go by, and fuck if I'd ever want to be on the receiving end of your piece. I just think you should stay with him."

Realization dawned on her. The bastard was trying to get them together. She shook her head at him, turning away to walk over to the refrigerator. "Stay out of it."

"Fine," he smirked, watching her. "You sure you want to open that door?"

She looked up from where her hand was on the refrigerator door handle. "Do you know how many things I've found in refrigerators over the years?"

"Ten pound bag of pot rolled in foil," Logan answered.

"Semi-automatic in pieces in the ice box," Olivia shot back.

"Five bags of blood from a perp who thought he was some sort of homicidal vampire," Logan grinned.

"A human eye in a jar of sun-dried tomatoes."

Logan grimaced. "Damn. You win."

Olivia smiled, turning back to the refrigerator and bracing herself as she opened the door.

The smell was bad, but not as horrid as she was expecting. She leaned over, inspecting the contents. For being such a large man, Clarkson didn't appear to eat much at home. There were several boxes of take-out and a gallon of milk that had probably been past its prime last month, but more than anything were bottles of beer.

Olivia sifted through the condiments, noting the regulars. She moved down to open the crisper trays, her gaze catching on the refrigerator grate.

When the door had been closed, she didn't see it, but now that it was open, she saw clearly the corner of a rather thick piece of paper sticking less than half an inch out of the dirty grate.

Closing the door, she knelt down, fumbling inside her trench coat for her Swiss Army knife.

"What is it?"

Ignoring Logan, she flipped open the Phillips head screwdriver and made quick work of loosening the screws and pulling off the grate. Setting it aside, she reached in carefully among the metal mesh to pull out the paper. No, envelope.

She stood, Logan in front of her, but her attention was on the envelope as she turned it over and pulled out the contents.

Polaroid pictures. Six of them. The color drained from her face as she looked at the images, a fine tremor in her hands. Pain gouged thick in her stomach, bile rising in her throat at the fear in the eyes of Erin Lilly. The girl was tied to a bed, in various states of undress, her mouth gagged. In three, she was by herself, eyes pleading with the camera. The other three, Clarkson was with her.

"Good God," Olivia choked out, too affected to stop Logan from taking the pictures, too overwhelmed to warn him.

She watched him silently as looked at the photographs, his face scrunching up in disgust, paling, as sweat started to bead on his forehead. He turned from her, tossing the pictures on the counter and leaning his head on the cabinet, hands braced on either side. Logan was mumbling something, but she was afraid to question him, knowing he was on the edge of vomiting.

"Logan, maybe you should sit down," she said weakly. He shook his head, forehead still pressed against the wood.

"Fucking monster. Fucking monster. How could he?" Logan spit out, his voice breaking.

Olivia leaned against the counter to his left, watching as he took in deep breaths of the filthy air, trying to calm his stomach. Logan dropped his left arm, turning his head so he could look at her.

She let him stare silently at her for several minutes, fighting the urge to talk. His color was returning, and she knew he had fought the battle to react like a normal human being to the images.

"How, Olivia?" He asked her softly. "How can you do this job, look at shit like this, and not die inside?"

She bit her lip, looking away. "Because I do. Seeing this, my God, it kills me." Olivia turned back to him. "And that's why. Because I want to take these bastards off the street. Because if I do this job, maybe I'll save the girl that would have been next."

Olivia touched his shoulder as his breathing continued to slow down, her gaze unintentionally catching on the photos that were scattered on the counter next to them.

She blinked, ignoring the subject matter, the room coming into focus.

"Logan!" She picked up the photo, staring hard, trying to make out details from the Polaroid. "Look at this!"

"Please, don't make me look at that shit again."

"Block them out. Look at the left. Is this Clarkson's room?"

Curious, Logan took the photograph from her. "Yeah, bed's the same. Fuck! The mirror! It's on the dresser…"

"Well, it caught part of our perp!"

Both stared at the photograph, at the image of the person behind the flash of the camera. Most of the face was impossible to see because of the light, but the small fragment of nude torso was obviously male.

"Let's get these to the lab. Maybe they can clear up his face a bit," Olivia said, her voice rushed as she gathered the pictures and tucked them back into the envelope. She watched as Logan ripped off his gloves, his face still worn looking, but he was now smiling.

"We're going to catch these bastards, Olivia. Both of them."