A/N: So... it's been a couple weeks... but besides that... Well, thanks to boredsvunut for doing a little betaing and special dedication to Ink Cat. You get the hell better soon, you hear? We need you around a bit more. Oh, and Charlie Daniels owns the song, and chapter title.

Chapter 4: Still in Saigon

All the sounds of long ago
Will be forever in my head
Mingled with the wounded cries
And the silence of the dead

'Cause I'm still in Saigon
Still in Saigon
I am still in Saigon
In my mind

"What did Antonio and Erikson say?" Cragen asks as we enter the squad room.

"Maribel's husband is in Iraq, second tour. Carol's boyfriend is also in Iraq," I respond as I gladly sit down at my desk. Fin's nowhere to be seen so I figure he's either in the crib or out.

"We also talked to Cheryl Simnowski again. She doesn't have any other family members in the military, just her father." Benson collapses into her chair, coat already draped on the back of it. She looks exhausted, and no wonder. She hasn't been up to the crib yet, except to get my old bones in gear.

"So, that means two out of three vics have family in Iraq. Then why Elaina?"

I offer up my opinion, based on the news of course. "If Warrington's got a thing against people in Iraq, perhaps he sees it as another Vietnam. People have started calling the War on Iraq the second Vietnam. All they have to do is reinstate the draft and they'll be right."

"Or maybe Warrington hated that his father served in Vietnam and still kept in contact with one of his old buddies."

"Well, Fin is talking to Warrington right now. Why don't you two go in and see." Cragen heads back to his office, closing the door behind him. Benson and I get up, both of us trying not to fall as we do so. We straighten up before entering the interrogation room then barge in, our entrance having the desired effect of making Warrington jump.

"Does your dad talk a lot about Vietnam?" Benson starts in right away.

"Yeah. Every other thing he talks about. Tellin' me how I should go join the Army. It'll make me a better man and shit like that. About how he served proudly and I should do the same."

"It is a noble cause," I say matter of factly.

"Like hell it is! My father's got two medals that sit on the damn mantle. Everytime I sit in that room I have to look at the damn things."

"What do you think about this War on Iraq?"

"Those pieces of shit fly planes into our buildings and kill our people. Hell no! We have every right to be over there kicking their ass."

"What about the fact that we've already got Hussein, we need oil, and Iraq just happens to have it?" I ask, leaning on the table now, looking over the tops of my glasses. Fin always hates that.

"Bullshit, man. We're over there making sure those crappy towel heads won't come back and do it again."

"Republican, eh, Dougie?"

"Yeah, so?"

I shake my head and leave the room, leaving Benson and Fin to tag team him. Walking around and into Cragen's office, I walk over to the window. "I don't think he's our guy, Cap."

"What, just because he's a Republican?"

"No. Not at all."

"Because he supports the war?"

"Not only that, but he hates the Iraqi people, not just the Taliban. Why would he rape the girlfriend of a soldier who's in Iraq? Why would he rape the wife of a lieutenant in Iraq, his second tour, no less? It doesn't fit, Cap."

"We can still hold him for a few more hours. Let's see what else we can find out and if not... back to square one." He turns back to the window and I watch for a moment longer before leaving to go in there.

"Excuse us," I say and Benson and Fin follow me out of the room. "I don't think he's our guy. Cap agrees with me. He said we'll hold him for a few more hours, see if we can get anything more, if not, we gotta let him go."

"Why isn't he our guy?"

"Think about it. He supports what we're doing over in Iraq. Why would he hurt some of the closest people to soldiers over there?" I look at them knowingly and they see my point. I mean, there are times when I wish I was wrong, and this is one of them. I'd love to throw this guy's ass in jail, but we just don't have the evidence. We all walk over to our desks, wondering what we should do now. Where should we look now? "Did you talk to Warner yet?"

"No. Maybe we should head over there." But none of us make a move to leave. I'm for some reason reminded of the day after Alex was 'killed'. We all sat there, not really doing anything, trying to fathom how it had happened. That was one hell of a day. One hell of a day I'd rather forget.

Suddenly, the phone on Fin's desk starts to ring and we all jump. "What?" he snaps and I snort which causes him to glare at me as he listens to the voice at the other end. "Sure. We'll be there in a few." He hangs up the phone and, still glaring at me, says, "Warner's got something."

I get up and so does Benson, but I stop her. "You haven't had a turn up in the crib yet. Go catch thirty. We'll wake you up when we get back," I suggest softly.

"Thanks." She starts walking up to the crib and I watch her as she goes before I hear Fin's annoyed voice yelling at me to get my skinny ass in gear.

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm comin'." I put my coat back on and head over to the elevator where he's waiting, none too patiently. As soon as I stand next to him, adjusting my coat, he pushes the down button.

"You walk slow," he informs me.

"For your information, I do not walk slow, I merely take my time. I'm enjoying the walk, not rushing about like everyone else." I look at him briefly over the top of my glasses, loving the annoyed glare that I'm met with.

"Yeah right, you old sack o' bones." He pushes the down button again, more forcefully than before.

"I prefer well-toned physique." That ends the banter as we enter the elevator. Normally, he'd keep going, but he stops and I think it might be because of the other people in the elevator. Usually, he keeps going, no matter whether there are strangers around or other detectives, and it's unnerving to see him stop. He loves a good banter as well as I, perhaps more if he sees a chance of winning. He seems to be thinking, so I leave him be, smelling the smoke fill the elevator.

"What's with you and Benson?" he asks out of nowhere as he starts the car.

"What do you mean 'what's with me and Benson?' We're partners on this one. Or have you missed that?"

"I'm not kidding around Munch," he says, annoyed. Maybe I should just be straight with him, I think, before quickly telling myself I can't do that. "I don't know... you've been acting weird around each other."

"Nothing's going on, Fin." I sigh, knowing that she wouldn't appreciate it if I told him what happened the other night.

"I won't tell anyone," he tries, knowing the look and sigh oh too well.

"She needed a shoulder to lean on the other night, all right? Can we leave it at that?"

"Did you..." he leaves the question open and hanging in the air. I swear, I could just smack him.

"No, we did not, Fin. I think sex crimes has gotten to your noggin there, pal." I tap my head with a finger, trying my best to divert the conversation. I hate when he gets nosy. Come to think of it, I hate it when anyone gets nosy about my life, personal or otherwise. But then there's always the small reminders they care and they only want to help. Yeah. Right. Until they find some way to use it against me. Or until they feel like leaving me hanging. Swinging in the wind with nothing but my own words to haunt me. Like her. She left me to walk off that roof. I shouldn't have used the door to get off that roof, I think grimly, before my father steps into my thoughts. No, walking off the edge of that roof wouldn't have proved anything. Not a damn thing.

Pulling up alongside the M.E.'s building, we climb out and I prepare myself, as always, for the death. For the bodies resting in cold drawers to await their dismemberment. If they haven't already been, always comes to mind. We meet Warner in her office, the usual dead bodies laid out on metal slabs. Instruments meant for the dead playing a solemn tune as they set about their work, slicing and dicing. A shiver passes over me, but my long black coat hides it, fortunately. Wouldn't want the M.E. to see a seasoned detective shuddering at the sight of stiffs.

"Detectives," she acknowledges.

"You said you got something for us."

"See the marks around her neck?" Warner starts in and points to the hand marks around Elaina Simnowski's neck.

"Yeah, so, she died of strangulation." No big news there. Pretty obvious.

"Nope. She didn't."

"Well, what then?"

"Heart attack. Probably triggered by the rape."

"Could the hold on her neck have weakened her?"

"It prevented her from getting enough oxygen which definitely would have worsened the heart attack, yes."

"Great." I turn and walk towards the door, not wanting to hear how someone raped an old woman. I can handle a lot of things, but that always makes me shudder. That and the children.

"Thanks," I hear Fin mutter and he joins me on my walk out of there and back towards the car. I know he won't ask why I left; it's the same reason he left. We didn't need to hear anymore. We didn't need to know anymore.

Or maybe we did. "Wait a minute." Before he can stop me or ask where I'm going I walk back in all the way back to Warner's office. "Can you tell the size of the guy from the impressions on the neck?" I ask her back.

She turns around, surprised to find me back in here, but she hides it well. "Yes. Get me a suspect and I could tell you whether or not he's your guy."

I nod. "And the knife?"

"Smooth-edged."

I nod again. "Thanks." I walk quickly back to the car, knowing Fin will be wondering what the hell I just did.

"What was that?" he asks, sure enough, when I climb into the car.

"Elaina Simnowski had hand prints around her neck from the guy choking her. Warner said that if we have a suspect, she can match his hand prints to the ones on Elaina's neck."

"Let's get Warrington."

"Road trip, Doug!" I say loudly as Fin and I move into the room, startling him from his sleep.

"What the... where we goin'?"

"You'll see."

"Look, can I just go home? I've been here for hours."

"Well, you could, but see, then you wouldn't be able to clear yourself now."

"But I didn't do nothin'!"

"I told you before, Doug. That means you did something." I look at him knowingly over the top of my glasses.

"What do I gotta do?"

"Just come with us. Our M.E.'s gonna see the size of your hands."

"That's it? No blood or nothin'?"

"Nope. So you wanna clear yourself or not?"

"I'm comin', are you nuts?" He walks ahead of us and Fin looks at me funny as we leave. Probably thinking I am a nut. Figures.

"That was a complete waste of the day," I sigh as I fall into my chair again. I glance at my watch. After eight already. Nothing more we can do today. Stabler will be in tomorrow, another man to work on this with. I'm sure Fin will fill him in, as I'm still with Benson. Or, I'll still be with Benson. To think, not forty-eight hours ago, I would have been the happiest man alive to get to work a case with her. Just the feeling of being near her and working with her and hauling in some perv's ass with her. But today, nosiree. I'd rather be working with Fin, skinny ass comments and all.

"Not completely."

"Okay, so we know the guy might be after the families of those in the military. Great lead. There's gotta be thousands of people who are against the War in Iraq and the Vietnam War. Hell, I am."

"Yeah, but you didn't do it."

"So that's one less person who could've done it. There are million people in this city. You want to ask every one of them whether or not they support the war?"

"Warner said if we get a suspect, she could match the hand prints," Fin says reasonably.

"If we get a suspect."

"I'm going home," Fin says, abruptly ending the debate. "I got better things to do than argue with you."

"Could you drop me off at my place?" I ask, deciding it best to leave the topic alone, at least until tomorrow.

"When are you going to get your damned car fixed?"

"I drove in this morning, but it broke down again," I say lamely.

"What the hell am I gonna do with you?"

"Drive me home?" I say hopefully. Even though he glares at me, I grab my coat and smile sweetly at him as Benson comes out down the stairs.

"Where're you guys going?" She has a file in her hand.

"Home."

"Is it that time already?" She glances at her watch. "Wait up and I'll go down with you."

She gets to her desk and Fin and I stand there, almost like guards, I think. Guards of the unguardable. She throws on her coat, grabs a few things off her desk and out of her locker. Adjusting her scarf, she looks at us. "Ready."

We all head to the elevator, talking about what we're going to do. The general reply is 'nothing.' It is a Sunday night, after all. What is there to do? Sleep, I immediately think. I can't go as long as when I was younger. Burning the midnight oil usually means sleeping away the day or just barely making it through. Yeah, Hello, I'm John Munch, 58 and I feel like I'm seventy something. Wonderful. Oh, and did I mention I'm alone and have been divorced... what was it... four times. Yep, still can't get a woman.

Pathetic.

Fin and I bid Benson a good night and I follow him to his car, parked in the opposite direction. He drives me home in silence and I thank him when we get to my building.

"Yeah, yeah." He waves it off. "You need a ride tomorrow?"

"Yes, please," I reply mockingly and he glares at me again before pulling away. I trudge up the front stairs and ride the elevator up to my floor, leaning on the wall the whole way. I put the key in the lock and turn, hearing the wonderful click as it opens. Not as satisfying as the click of handcuffs as they slide shut, but now, it's better. I throw my coat and keys unceremoniously on the couch and walk into my bedroom, shedding clothes and throwing them on a chair. I quickly pull on pants and a t-shirt before I can get too cold. Having eaten at the station house, I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth and then it's to bed. Wonderful, glorious, soft bed.

All you could hear were the sounds of gunfire. That and the screams of the wounded. Screaming for anyone, on their side that is, to help them. To make the pain stop. To make the sounds stop. To make the bullets stop flying.

David was lying there. Just lying there and it scared the shit out of me. Almost literally. I'd never seen him so still, so... life less. He was always moving and now... now death was about to creep in. He couldn't scream anymore. I ignored the bullets flying overhead, either that or I just didn't notice them. All that mattered was that David was dying before me.

I gathered him in my arms. Just took his head in my arms and cradled it. I didn't want him to leave me alone is this awful place. His mouth was moving but nothing came out. No sounds, just moving his mouth.

"What is it, David? C'mon, tell me." I had already called for a medic, but they were busy, if not among the wounded.

"T... tell Mary..." I leaned closer, my ear to his mouth. "I love her."

I shook my head, tears in my eyes, battle raging around us. All that mattered right now was him. "They're goin' to come. They're gonna fix you up. Gonna patch you right up. You're gonna tell her yourself." I knew he was going to die, but I couldn't let him go. I couldn't let him.

"I'm goin' home, Johnny. I'm goin' home."

"That's right, Dave. They're going to make you better and then... no. No!" His grip on my hand suddenly relaxed and I held on tighter, even though he could no longer feel it. "No... David." I hung my head for a moment, asking God why he had done this. Why had he taken David? Why? "Why, God? Why?" I was screaming at the sky now, head upturned, eyes closed. "Why, God? Why?"

I gently set David's head down on the blood stained mud beneath us, picked up my gun from where I had dropped it and started shooting. Shooting and running. It was all I knew how to do. Run. Shoot. Shoot. Run. Bullets flew past, but somehow, they didn't hit me. I watched those damned Viet Cong fall and I was glad they fell. I was glad they were screaming. Then, I was glad they were silent. Dead silent.

I wake with a start, sitting up straight in bed despite the tangle of blankets around my body, expecting to hear bullets and the sudden blasts of artillery. But it's silent. That scares me as much as the gun shots would have. The silence of the dead. Those to be sent home in boxes. Those whose parents, whose wives, whose children, whose siblings would receive those letters. Those letters saying that the loss of your son, the loss of your husband, etc, etc, is a great and terrible loss. But to remember he died fighting for his country. He died fighting for freedom.

I run my fingers through my hair. My sweaty hair. God, do I hate sweaty hair. Reminds me of... no, I'm not going back there. I'm not going back.

Shower. Yes, a shower sounds good. I get up, disentangling myself from the sheets. I throw them angrily on the bed, hating them for trying to suffocate me. The tile is cold beneath my bare feet as I walk into my bathroom. I shed my night clothes and throw them on the toilet, making sure the cover is down first. Always an important thing to check for. After making sure the water is the right temperature, in other words, hot, I step in and let it pound my skin. It's not rain, it's not rain, it's not rain. It's hot. The rain was always cold, stinging our sweating skin and then drenching us to the bone and making us shiver. It's not rain.

John, you're doing it again. Right, right... Don't go there!

The water beats a steady tattoo on my skin as I wash my hair, feeling the water run down my scalp and over my face. Just what I needed, I think as I shut the water off and step out, wrapping a towel around me. Always works. Yeah, unless the water's cold. Unless the water's rain.

But it isn't rain, I say again. It isn't and it never will be. Never again. And never again will I see a jungle full of steam from the rain and never again will I be told to go into it, to shoot and kill and maybe die. Of course, they never told us to die. But they mind as well have by telling us to into those forests. By sending us over to that damned country in the first place. Piece of crap government.

It's over, John. It's over, so just forget it. It's been goddamned forty years. I'm sure you can forget it by now.

But I can't. I don't think I ever will either.