Disclaimer: Munch isn't mine, along with any other SVU characters. However, Lewis is mine.

The cries of "Detective! Another one!" had long since ceased, but not for lack of finding anything. The truth was that the men digging up the bodies and the detectives sworn to find the person who had killed all the people being found had come to an unspoken agreement not to announce to the world the finding of another lost soul. Instead, every once in a while, the primary detective would walk around and look at the new findings, the new bodies. And he would ask questions here and there: cause of death, approximate age, male or female, those sorts of things. Things he already knew, but asked simply for appearances. That and the fact that he cared.

They'd already been looking for the man for more weeks, and months, than he cared to remember. In a detective's career, he rarely meets this kind of case. The kind that indicates a true serial killer, a true sociopath is among them and killing indiscriminantly. The kind that has no contestant in the evening news and scares citizens into watching over their children a little more closely, not talking to any strangers, even while on line in the supermarket. The kind that grabs the governor's attention and dictates him to visit the poor son of a bitch who caught the first case. The primary detective that gets to see every body, read every file, take complete charge of the case's direction until he catches the bad guy and the city can breathe easy again.

Well, the poor son of a bitch, the primary detective that is, had sworn to himself that this case will go down. He will personally arrest the man responsible for his current migraine, for this was too big to warrant just a headache. It was of epic proportions and truth be told, he was surprised he hadn't eaten his gun yet. Hadn't even tried it, though he had thought about it. But the first victim's face always loomed up out of the darkness in his mind, the doubt, and allowed him the strength to leave his gun in its holster. And through that darkness, he thanked the girl, the first body, while constantly cursing the man who took her life.

"How many so far?" his companion asked him.

"Nineteen." His voice was drained of all emotion, not because he was heartless, but because if he allowed his emotions to take part in this... he would lose it all if he let that happen.

His companion shook his head. He was new to this, in a way. A veteran street cop; he had walked a beat for fifteen years before making detective. But this... this was something new. Even to the older man next to him.

"Detective!" a voice called over the grunts of working men and it was so sudden, so unexpected that the older detective froze for a moment before shaking his head and walking over.

"What is it?" he asked tiredly. If he was tired, he couldn't imagine the feeling of those digging up the bodies; it was the end of June, hot as he could ever remember the city being, and they had been digging for hours now. He had shed his own suit jacket long ago and rolled up his sleeves; an unusual sight, even for those who knew him well, namely his colleagues.

The crime scene technician in front of him held up something the detective couldn't identify.

"What is it?" he repeated, though this time with genuine interest in his voice.

"Not entirely sure, but it looks like old Army fatigues, forest camouflage."

The detective sighed. "So either our guy left it there for some reason, or this guy was in the Army."

"When we identify him, we'll let you know."

He looked for a minute at the bowed head of the CSU tech. Of course you'll tell me, he thought. You always do. He straightened and walked back to where his companion was still standing.

Nodding his head, he asked, "What was that?"

"Army fatigues, supposedly."

The younger man's face contorted as he said, "But that doesn't make sense."

"I know it doesn't."

"All the other bodies were found nude, as well as the ones today."

"I know."

"Hey, John! How's it going?" A woman walked over to the two men, carrying a few bottles of water. She handed one to each of them, keeping the last one for herself.

"Nineteen bodies, last count. And the CSU tech over there," he pointed to where he had just talked to the middle aged technician, "found Army fatigues with one victim." John titled back the bottle he had just opened and drank the cold water deeply.

"That's new."

"You're telling me." He licked his lips and then held up the bottle. "Thanks."

"Yeah." All three detectives looked out over the scene before them; nineteen impromptu graves spread among the wilderness, a handful of crime scene technicians and medical examiner assistants moving from one to another, gathering what evidence they could from the bones and decaying bodies and the earth they were found in. It was like a scene from a movie, and all of them wished it really was a movie and not for real. Because as sure as the sky was blue and the grass green, this case was something that pushed the bounds of reality to their very limits. Perhaps the thing that bothered them the most was that this wasn't the first graveyard they had found. More like the third, or fourth; John really couldn't remember anymore. All he knew was that whatever number it was, it was too many. It always was and always would be.

"I talked with Cragen, 'bout ten minutes ago, said he wants you back at the house when you're done here."

"I don't think we'll ever be done with this." His tone told his companions that he wasn't exaggerating time, but stating a cold, hard truth. They wouldn't be done with this ever; he was right. Even if they caught the guy, chances were that there would still be undiscovered graveyards and chances were that he would never tell them where the other ones were, no matter how much they begged, and threatened, and pleaded. Years from now a contractor building condominiums might stumble upon a body and they would all be subjected to a trip down Memory Lane, one that they would be reluctant to take. If they were lucky, in some obscene way, they'd be able to tell the families of those new bodies that the man who killed their loved one was dead.

If they were lucky.