03.05 - Stung

I hope that everyone 'liked' the last chapter. There were some very lengthy reviews (which I love!) but not as many short ones. That makes me worry I may have chased some of you off. I hope not.

A prominent soccer player apparently commits suicide. But all is not as it seems.


The cheering was deafening, and Holly reveled in it. "Go Pride," she screamed at the field.

Beside her, her long suffering, non sporty wife sighed. "Why aren't we rooting for Toronto?"

"Because Chrissy Johnson plays for the Pride!"

Gail did not argue the point and merely asked, "She's the goalie?"

"Yes." Holly leaned forward. "Clear the ball!"

"And here I thought it was an elaborate gay joke..."

Sometimes she wondered why Gail wasn't more embarrassed about it. But there they were, at a professional women's soccer game, and Holly was screaming her fool head off and enjoying every single second. And really, it was Gail who had picked up the tickets in the first place. Toronto vs Orlando Florida, two games, and the winner would have the leading points in the league.

Gail, who still didn't really care for sports, was sipping a beer and watching the game without a single complaint. She hadn't even grumbled about the cold March rain that evening. Instead, Gail had just smiled and let Holly be an idiot for two hours.

It was down to the wire, too. The teams were evenly matched, so much so that it was impossible to know who might win. Tied up at 2 goals each and already in overtime, Holly prayed that Toronto would get one more before it went to penalty kicks. Johnson was just too good there for her town to eek out a win, not even with Toronto's vice captain, Murdoch, on the field.

And really Holly wasn't sure if she wanted them to win.

"Holly, she has short blonde hair," said Gail as the teams took a time out.

"Huh?"

"Your goalie. She's got my haircut."

Holly turned and looked at her wife. "Oh. She does," said Holly, feeling a blush creep up her face.

"And so does the one with an eight on her shirt."

"Murdoch. She's the vice captain." Holly sighed. "Yes, fine I like women with that haircut. Are you happy now?"

Gail smirked. "You are such a nerd." And Gail kissed her cheek softly. "Cheer your head off, Doc."

Of course she did.

As the seconds in overtime ticked down, Holly cheered and screamed until her throat was raw and Toronto lost in penalties. As she sucked on a throat lozenge, nattering to Gail about the game and how fun it was, the blonde just smiled quietly and nodded.

Very rarely did Gail say a thing against Holly's love of sports. She also rarely came along, but when she did, Gail was supportive and cheerful. Holly had long since given up trying to understand what did and didn't entertain Gail with regard to sports. Sometimes she seemed to happily follow along. Other times she just leaned back and watched in quiet.

That night was the watching. Gail smiled, certainly, but she watched. She held Holly's beer, laughed and smiled. She didn't complain a bit at the extra minutes, the penalty kicks, or the long wait to get to the car. She nodded along as Holly blabbed the whole ride home. And at home, she hung up Holly's coat and kept listening all the way upstairs.

Holly finally sorted out where Gail was headed in all of it when Gail followed her into the shower. It was the way Gail washing her back. The way Gail did things with ulterior motives. Which was really Gail most of the time.

From the very start, Gail unabashedly loved sex and was vocal about it. One dinner with Steve and Traci, shortly after the couple's engagement, had gone on too long in Gail's opinion. The blonde had informed Steve that unless he wanted this to be known as the dinner where Gail went down on Holly at the table, he should go home now.

There were things a person had to accept with Gail. And they were some of the things Holly loved most about her. Her nature was to bite the world, to attack before she was attacked. Now, in her current position of Inspector, few people attacked her. Few dared. Most people were terrified of her, quite frankly.

But Holly wasn't. She didn't have a reason to fear or hurt Gail. The blonde had lashed at her just the one time. After that, their fights all felt perfectly mundane. Squabbles over money and dishes and laundry and how to raise their daughter. Normal things.

And in bed, in the dark of Toronto's nights, they would whisper about things like futures and pasts. The night had gone from that which Gail feared to the safe place where she could reveal her thoughts. Retirement. Maybe SIU, maybe not. Maybe just being a wife would be enough for anyone, even one grumpy Peck.

None of that was the topic for that night. Gail pressed her lips to Holly's shoulder. "Did you have fun?"

Holly laughed as she looked at Gail, soap foaming in her hair. "Yes. Thank you. I know you hated it."

The blonde shook her head and stuck it under the spray. "No. I liked it." She fell silent as she washed the soap from her hair. "It's pretty to watch."

"That's the first I've heard that," said Holly. "From you, I mean."

Gail made a noise and splashed water at Holly's face. "You know there's art in everything, Holly. Even that horrible rock and roll you and the kid listen to."

"Says the woman who can sing along with every Kelly Clarkson song."

Smirking, Gail flicked water at her again. "Anyway, froggy, sports can be pretty to watch too, okay? It's like a modern dance, or something intentionally unchoreographed."

"Is that really a thing?"

Gail nodded. "It is." She smiled and kissed Holly's cheek. "Come on." Turning off the water, Gail took Holly's hand and led her out of the shower.

There was something curiously romantic about letting Gail dry her off. Not a common occurrence. The detective just kept smiling as she guided Holly back to the bedroom and their bed.

And then.

Holly didn't stay with Gail just for the sex, but the sex sure made a lot of things worthwhile and welcome. It wasn't about the sex, really, but the attention. They spent a lot of time that night just touching and traipsing well-known paths on each other. They laughed a little and made bad jokes while remembering everything that was everything. Until, finally, they fell asleep.

The ringing phone pulled Holly out of her slumber. "Dr. Stewart," she said, her voice rough and raspy.

"Oh, sorry. Should I call Wanda?" The voice was John's.

Holly rubbed her face. "No, I'm not sick. What's wrong?"

"There's been a death at BMO."

What? Holly sat up and glanced to her side. Gail was sound asleep. Naked. The blanket was pulled up to her chin. "Oh. We were... " She frowned. "Wait a second. Ensall's on call."

"Yeah... Um. I jumped the line. Looks like Barbara Murdoch hung herself in the shower."

Oh. Holly felt a little chill run through her. "I'll be there in twenty."

"Thanks, Doc. Sorry."

"No, no, that was right." She hung up and jiggled her head.

Gail didn't even move. Well. Frankly Holly was surprised she herself was even mobile just then. She sighed and took a quick, cold, shower before dressing. As she stepped out of the bathroom, the bed was empty and the hall light on. A quick check told her Gail's robe was missing. She was probably starting coffee.

"God I love that woman," said Holly to the empty room.

"I know," said Gail, yawning as she came back in. "I started coffee. Do you need me?"

"No, it's John's case."

Gail nodded, slithered out of her robe, and nakedly got back in bed. "Kay. Be safe."

That did not make it easy on Holly. She wanted to snuggle back up in that nice warm bed with that very lovely woman. But Gail had made coffee. Holly sighed and kissed her wife's forehead. "I will. Sleep."

Driving back to the stadium, Holly marveled at how quiet the city was at three in the morning. It was beautiful and still in the cold morning, crisp and pure. And she was going to look at the suicide of the vice-captain of the Toronto team.

The uniformed officer, a befuddled and awkward Hanford, led her to the women's locker room. Well. The home team's lockers. There were only the women playing right then.

"Why is Hanford terrified of you?" John was sitting on a bench with his tablet open, tapping in notes.

"He bought me a beer, with his drink tickets, at Fite Night a couple years ago. He's still waiting for Gail's revenge."

John sighed. "The amount of menace that woman exudes while not actually doing a goddamn thing is amazing." He stood up and eyed her feet. "Wellies?"

"Dispatch said the DB was in the shower?"

Grumbling like the curmudgeon he wasn't, John walked to the back. "So. The guard found her after maintenance called to ask why the water was still running. Called the family, but so far no one knows why she'd kill herself."

Holly looked up at the woman's body and sighed. "Me neither. She was fucking amazing last night. Tonight. She's why the game was so close." When John shot her a look, she added, "Gail and I were at the game."

"Gail? A soccer game?"

Just smiling, Holly made sure that photos had been taken. "Yowch, look at her feet."

"Yeah, I noticed that. Apparently they have a lot of foot problems. The turf is artificial this year, and it's been brutal. Janet was telling me about broken ankles."

"Ugh, I'd revolt." She studied the body and it's position thoughtfully. "Okay, this is weird."

"I wondered when you'd get there," said John with a snort.

There was no stool, no chair, no nothing to stand on in order to hang one's self. There were no stalls in the shower room either. In fact, the only thing in the shower room, besides a very dead woman, was a rolled up towel by the drain.

"This," said Holly softly. "This is a mystery."


It was very hard not to want to blast her air-horn app in John's ear, as he slept at his desk.

Instead, Gail fought her inclination to asshollery and put the coffee down. "Simmons. Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

"Liar," he mumbled and picked his head up. "I hate you. And your wife hates you too."

"She's probably napping in her office." Gail put down a bag on John's desk. "Also not a liar. Eggs, bacon, biscuit. From the good food truck you love." And Holly did not hate her. Gail had sent her wife breakfast before getting food for her favorite sergeant.

Blearily, John stared at her. "Oh my fucking god, you're the best boss ever." He scrambled and pulled out his beloved breakfast sandwich. The one Janet never let him have at home anymore.

"So I hear. Come on, catch me up on your crime and I'll let you nap in my office."

John nodded, shoving the breakfast into his mouth and following her into her office. "So Holly thinks it's weird."

"Never a good thing."

"Nothing to stand on. Neck didn't look like a fast break, like she fell from a height. It's weird."

Gail frowned and closed the door. "What did the videos show?"

"Locker room." John sat down and yawned. "No peep shows."

"Did you check for hiddens?"

"Oh yeah. Nada. Do you have a yogurt in there?"

Rolling her eyes, Gail got him the black cherry flavored from her fridge. "I only keep these for you." She tossed it over. "They don't watch the hallways? Prevent crazy fans from chasing down the girls?"

John nodded. "Apparently everyone knows how to disable them to sneak in groupies."

"Ugh. Why did I think the women wouldn't be as tawdry as the men."

"Athletes." He shrugged. "Turns out the gender doesn't matter, they're all horny bastards."

"This player known for being one?"

"Barbara Murdoch?" When Gail looked blankly at John, he groaned. "Seriously? You went to the game! Vice captain? Tall bleached blonde with hair like ... Yours? Tattoos?"

Oh. She did know that one. "Number eight. The one I teased Holly about," Gail said and nodded.

"Teased?"

Gail smirked and pointed to her own head. "Didn't I tell you? The haircut was originally her fault."

Her partner narrowed his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that's not the whole story. But." He sipped the coffee. "I will accept that Holly thinks blondes with short hair and pale skin are hot."

With a shrug, Gail sat in her chair and propped her feet on her desk. "So number eight is a player and sneaks ... dates into the locker room for sex?"

"Equal opportunity. Gents and ladies and everything else are her game. Were."

"Send the unies to find last night's date then."

John blinked. "I'm sure I would have thought of that if I wasn't so tired."

Gail smiled. "I'll ping McNally. Get a nap. I have to go interview some bomb experts anyway."

The man winced. "I'm sorry you've got Safary."

"Eh. Swarek fucked it up. Someone has to take over, and at this point, it should be me." She fired up her laptop and started reading through her notes and to-dos. A few minutes into it, she heard the snoring from her couch.

The snores of a man. How very odd that she found it comforting, but the reality was she did. John Simmons was one of two male constants in her life. Three if she counted Oliver, and Gail often did. Oliver was special in many ways. He was a rock for her and, by divine extension, Vivian.

But the two other men in her life had moved on. Steve was off at the family job, the other family job, with regular hours. Traci said he'd taken to cooking, but was no where near as good as Gail. And Oliver taught a class, now and then, down at the academy. Mostly he slept in, embarrassed his son. Jesus, how was Jerry almost eighteen? He was in his first year of college now, UoT, the early scholarship boy majoring in astro-mechanics. He wanted to work on space drones.

God. They were all growing up... Gail wondered what young Chris Epstein was going to be. He started college next year, and had made no attempt at a direction.

Maybe Gail was spoiled. She'd known what she was going to be. Going to have to be. So did Holly. So did Vivian, really. It was normal for her family to have a direction before graduation. Even though she'd tried hard not to push or steer Vivian any which way, the kid was hers.

Ugh. Best not to think about getting old.

Gail checked her appointments and email. Everything was clear. She'd meet the bomb expert at the big building after a check with one of the supers, so maybe she could catch up with Holly for lunch. Quickly she filed the paperwork and skimmed her other cases. After making sure no other case needed her attention, Gail left John sleeping and told Pedro to make sure no one bothered him for a while.

Finding McNally was easy. It was just before shift change so the sergeant was in the parade room, sorting out assignments. "Always with the last minute changes?"

"Yeah," said Andy. "These dumb detectives keep screwing up my numbers."

"Surprise." Gail waved a print out. "I need warm bodies to interview and find a soccer groupie who banged a vic."

"Please tell me the sex was before the death."

"It's a hanging, so probably."

Andy made a face. "Your life is so exciting... Wait. Soccer? You mean Murdoch's really dead?"

Gail nodded. "The news got it right for once."

"Any preference?"

"Someone who can work with Simmons. It's his baby, I'm just messenger on my way out."

"Awfully nice of you."

"I can be nice," sneered Gail, and she turned around to walk out. "Don't say it, McNally, or I tell the rookies all about you blowing it as a hooker."

"Ice Queen!"

"Girl Guide!"

But Gail was sure they were both grinning. She was smiling still as she walked the ten minutes to the big building. It was strange still to go to her mother's old office for anything. Gail paused at the door and noted it was locked. Interesting. She glanced back at the empty secretary's desk. Nothing to do but wait. Gail turned to stroll down the quiet vestibule. Along the wall were pictures of the prior inhabitants, including the illustrious Elaine Peck. Gail stopped to regard her mother's photo.

"Oh, Inspector. They're running a little late." The secretary was out of breath. "Mayor ..."

Gail waved a hand. "Don't worry, I'm early."

The secretary looked relieved. "Espresso?"

"Sure." Gail turned back to the photos. "How long have you worked here?"

"Me, ma'am? About six years."

Six. "So you worked for Frank."

"Oh. Superintendent Best? I did. Yes."

Gail looked over her shoulder at the very tense and nervous secretary. "He was my TO. And sergeant. Back in the day." She looked down at the second to last photo, Frank in his dress blues. He looked more nervous than anything else.

The secretary said nothing. This sort of remembrance was clearly outside his wheelhouse. Gail smiled and looked at the last photo. The office no longer belonged to Internal Affairs. The current inhabitant was Dodge, a former rapid entry specialist from ETF. He'd been the boss when Sue was new. Which was why the superintendent who oversaw ROPE and ETF was the man to talk to about the current situation.

"Ah! Peck! Makes the place seem real again!" Dodge was a big man with a big voice.

"If this is the preamble to asking me about the supervisory job again, Dodge, blow it out your ass."

The man laughed, his voice booming. "God no. You'd be a shitty Staff Inspector. Come on. Ron, coffee and let me know when Randolph gets here." Dodge unlocked the door and walked in. "The perks are pretty sweet, though."

Gail made a face. "This was my mom's office, Dodge."

He paused. "Oh yeah. Used to be IA up in here. Probably will be again. All the juggling... Hey, that reminds me. I saw the name Peck on the high scores for the ETF entrances. That was yours, huh?"

"My kid, yeah. Any news on that budget?"

Dodge shook his head. "Wish I had any news on that one. God knows we need more people out there."

Sitting down, Gail stretched out her legs. "I'm taking the Safary case. Officially."

The big man stared at her. "How bad did Swarek fuck up?"

"We can't use those stables anymore." She shrugged. "I think he's too aggressive about it."

"Well. Sam's always been a little... Yeah." Dodge sighed and glanced as Ron walked in with a pair of cups. "Thanks, Ron. Close up behind you." The secretary nodded and closed the door behind himself, as requested. "So what's your take?"

Gail sipped the coffee and, for a fleeting moment, regretted her choice to stay in Fifteen. Holy crap, that coffee was amazing. "I think the rooks spotted either the accomplice or Safary."

"That woman?" Dodge sounded doubtful.

Gail arched an eyebrow. "Got a problem?"

Dodge laughed. "No, of course not. But it seems too neat and tidy."

"Sure if I had more leads than horses, hay, antiques, and sand." She shrugged. "I need some people who can make bombs out of nothing and help me track down connections with the victim's businesses."

That had always been how Gail solved crimes. Understanding people, or at least criminals. That gave her answers. But the more she'd looked at the victims, the more she felt it was the wrong path. Their businesses, over the decade or so of Safary's activity, had been the ties that bound.

"Businesses."

"People I know. I need someone who looks at companies. I want to see if there's a connection between them. Humane mistreatment. Embezzlement. Something evil businesses do."

"You have no idea, huh?"

"Generally the motives I handle are people. Rage. Hatred. Jealousy. And how that roles into bombs."

"They're pretty much the same for business. Just think of them as people."

"Isn't that what nearly destroyed American politics?"

They shared a laugh. "God, can you believe they elected Trump?"

"We elected Ford," Gail pointed out.

"Good point." Dodge sighed. "Okay, why me?"

"You know bombs and you can find me someone who gets that and the business end. Unless you've just fucked off that last ten in white collar."

Dodge snorted. "Aren't you buddy buddy with a million Inspectors?"

"Sure. But I need a super for this. I need some weight, and since Gladstone thought it was fucking brilliant to hide that whole gay crap from me last year..." She trailed off and extended her hands, palms up.

Dodge sighed again. "What's in it for me?"

"Four letters." She leaned forward and smiled. "Four letters to give you connections and resources and access to millions of officers who will do your bidding without a second thought." When Dodge eyed her curiously, she grinned. "P. E. C. K."


"There's a new guy in the locker room," said Christian, fixing his belt.

"Transfer?" Vivian scratched her arm.

"I guess." Christian frowned. "When's the next class?"

"Spring… So now, I guess." She hadn't asked about the class but probably should. Oliver would know. He'd been talking about teaching another class. He'd was good at it, he usually gave them a nice lecture about how to behave and care about people, but had skipped her class. That was when he'd had his ear surgery.

"Was the academy weird?" Lara popped in, joining the conversation. "Det. Price came and taught us about UC ops and, like, you know her."

Chloe's class in behavioral patterns to be aware of while undercover was, as it happened, one of Vivian's favorites. "Not really." Vivian shrugged. "The dichotomy of family is normal."

"Toonie word," said Lara and held out her hand.

Vivian sighed and dug a toonie out of her pocket. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're moody and weird and using big words. Until you stop, you pay up a toonie."

"Dichotomy is not a two dollar word. It's practically mundane."

"Careful, or I start double charging."

Shoving her hands deep into her pockets, Vivian kept silent this time. Moody. Yes. She was moody, and sleeping poorly, and a little ranty lately. "Come on," said Christian. "Come to my match on Friday."

"No," said Vivian firmly.

"I haven't even told you who I'm fighting!"

"Historically Pecks do poorly at fights," said Vivian, this time coolly. "Remember Fite Nite?"

"So we warn Jamie in advance. Come ooooon. Matty and Enrique are coming."

The last thing Vivian felt like seeing was her friend get beat up in a kickboxing/MMA cage match. Besides the fact that the very idea of a cage match tugged her heart strings (forcing anyone to fight, human or animal, seemed unusually cruel), she did have a bit of a fear about family history.

And, more than any of that, she was just not in the right mind frame for enjoying that kind of thing. It wasn't fair in the slightest and she knew it, intellectually. But she was just miserable lately. Things that were fun hadn't been. Like the world had a general malaise to it, a dull sheen that made things grey.

"Settle down," said Andy, cutting into her thoughts. "Gagnon, up front."

An unfamiliar face in a tie stumbled as he rushed to the front of the room. "Ma'am."

"Coppers, this is our new transfer, Patrick Gagnon. Gagnon, you're with Fuller. Do what he says." The young man nodded and stayed where he was. "That means go sit with him."

The room laughed as Gagnon quickly took the seat on the other side of Christian. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Today we have a change of pace. Volk, you're with the Ds helping interview. Peck, you're herding the masses at the stadium."

Vivian blinked and looked up from her notes. "Ma'am?"

"Major Crimes hasn't released the scene, so the practice today will be held at the old Expo stadium. Fans need directing."

Behind her, Vivian heard someone ask who the Expos were. Holly would cringe. "Traffic cop, yes'm."

"You'll have a couple cops from Thirty-Four and some of the PEOs, but you're in charge. Fuller, take your rook and back her up. Hanford, I know you're at the odd end of a double but please try not to piss off ETF again." A rumble of laughter ran through the room. Last month the ETF goons had tied Rich up at the end of shift and hung him off a hook. "Everyone else, assignments are on the board. Serve. Protect. Don't screw up. Dismissed."

Vivian checked the board, making sure she was solo in her car. Good. The moods she'd been in, she'd end up with someone as chatty as Chloe. The flip side was Andy had given her 1504. Damn it. She glanced at the sergeant who flicked her eyes at, surprisingly, Gagnon.

Huh. Whatever. It wasn't a common name, but it wasn't super rare.

As she kitted up, her phone buzzed. Jamie was wishing her a safe day.

"Hey, look! She has a smile." Christian grinned and slapped her back. "Tell Jamie I say hi."

"Why would I do that?" Vivian rolled her eyes and texted back that she'd try. "Hey, Gagnon, not that radio. Get the one in the end."

The rookie froze. "Oh. Yes, ma'am." He dropped the radio. "Uh. Why? Is it bad luck?"

"That one has problems with signal interference. BMO and Expo are near towers. You'll miss half the calls." She turned her phone to silent and shoved it away, taking the bad radio. Why they never replaced it, she never understood.

Vivian didn't really listen to Gagnon ask C about how she'd known all that. The science stuff of life was easy. It had always pained Holly a little that she'd not followed up on it, but it wasn't really what drove her. Vivian liked it. Holly loved it. Turning the radio over in her hands, Vivian felt a strange surge of anger at it. Why did they keep a broken radio around? It was always causing problems, it put people at risk.

They should just ... get rid of it.

She didn't think about it. She just popped the back off and unfurled the wires. There was a spark, so she flicked the battery out and tossed it onto the table. She knew the schematics. This was basic shit. The bad chip stared her in the face, connected poorly and with a wire that might be the cause of half the problems.

"Can she do that?"

"Shut up, rookie," said Christian, firmly.

Vivian pulled out her knife and glanced over as Gagnon yelped. "You're way too skittish." She trimmed and sheared the wire, carefully putting it back together. As she screwed down a wire, Vivian saw a dark spot. "For fucks sake, what are we paying for..." She ruthlessly yanked out the chip and went over to the quartermaster's window. "Needs replacing," she growled, slapping it down.

"Damn it, Peck! I need a form for that!"

"It's a broken chip, Hall!"

She ignored his shouts, and the looks from her fellow patrol officers, as she went to motor pool for her car.

Unlike the radio, the car was just cursed. Shot at, set on fire, submerged... Twice actually. A horse kicked in the passenger window. And crapped on it. A chunk of cement had taken out the windshield. Thus far, the best she could say was that no one had yet died in the vehicle.

Distracting herself, Vivian tried to list everyone she'd known and their mishaps in the car. It included her mother, caught making out with Chris before Vivian was born, let alone adopted. She smiled, thinking about the story from Dov, who had broken his leg pinned next to the car. Gerald had stopped an axe with his head. Sadly the non pointy end. Even Holly had a story about the damned 1504, when the emergency brake failed and it had run through a crime scene, right over the body.

She was in a somewhat better mood, or at least as mercurial as her friends were used to, by the time everyone got to the parking lot. And since she was in charge that day, having a serious mien was all but expected of her.

A day in the warming May weather, directing traffic and dealing with people who didn't check messages about changes to an open practice.


A full night of sleep helped.

Holly sat with her coffee and read the initial report she'd made about the body. BA levels were within tolerance. Probably a couple beers or whiskey. It was impossible to tell since the bladder had been voided, probably in the moment of death, and evidence washed away. Time of death was also an unknown, since the body had been strung up under the hot water.

Well no. John had emailed her the day before to tell her four important things.

First of all, the hot water usage had been noted by three AM, which was when the body was found. Second, the last anyone saw Murdoch on a security camera was at one fifteen. Third, she had not been alone. Fourth, her booty call had left her at around ten till two, calling an ride at one fifty-four. They tracked his phone. Murdoch's phone never left the stadium from booty call on. Fifth, there were no burns on Murdoch.

Holly yawned. "A towel." She looked back at her notes. Determining if the groupie was telling the truth was, mostly, John's job. Holly's was to determine how the hell someone had been able to hang themselves without a damned ladder.

Scouring the building (or rather, using uniforms and techs to do it), there was nothing that gave Murdoch the height needed to both hang herself and attach the rope. That meant there had to be an accomplice. She had a slew of possible stools and chairs that fit the bill for hanging only. Except...

The shower floor was at a slight angle. It had to be for water drainage. So that ruled out every chair or stool that slid. Or not... The towel could have been used to brace the legs and let it stay still until... What?

Closing her eyes, she tried to picture the scene. Murdoch stood on a stool, braced by the towel, under the steady beat of hot water. It would have hurt. The water was aimed at her lower legs while she'd hung, so when standing, it would have hit her ... Chair? Odd. Well. Carry on the thought, Stewart, she told herself. Murdoch could have easily rocked any chair or stool, send it flying, and broken her neck.

"Test all the possible chairs for water," she said aloud, and then typed it into her assignments. "Start with the chairs of either under ten inches or over ... Fourteen inches." At roughly a foot, the water would have blasted the platform and made it slippery. Still plausible, but suicides, assisted or otherwise, didn't want to make it harder to kill themselves. Not when they went to this level of planning.

Damn it.

"I don't like this," Holly snapped at her monitor.

She sent out the orders anyway, but it bothered her. It didn't feel like a suicide. While people always said it could be hard to tell, Holly felt she had an affinity to identifying suicides. There was a different feel, a staging. Not that suicides were theatrical by nature, but they had a very look and design that was different from murder.

It was probably just experience. Thirty years of experience had to pay off somewhere. At this point, it was simply an assured, gut feeling. This was not a suicide. Even if her gut didn't scream it at her, Holly knew the evidence shouted it too. It was physically impossible for someone to hang themselves without leverage.

Hanging was the most common death by suicide in Canada. It wasn't always as clear cut as just tying a rope around the neck and letting go. Ropes often broke. Ligature points failed. And survivors ...

Holly sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, shoving her glasses up.

It was entirely uncharitable, unkind, and mean of her, but she was grateful she only dealt with the dead. Pathology had been an early calling, true. It was reinforced when, in medical school, she and Rachel had worked the case of a young man with cystic fibrosis who had bungled a suicide attempt.

His second attempt was successful.

Three peoples' lives, forever changed.

After that, Holly had spent time studying the methods of suicide, to better help bring answers to people. She would never be able to understand why, but if she could explain how, then maybe they could have some peace.

Years later, when the nation had legalized assisted suicide, Holly and Rachel had raised a glass to that young man. He had changed both their views on the situation. He had made them both better doctors of their craft.

She settled her glasses back and sighed.

Suicide. It was a strange business. Why would a star soccer player, on track to play in the World Cup and then Olympics kill herself? She wasn't pregnant, she didn't have any disease that Holly could find, and she wasn't on drugs. It could just be depression, but there were no symptoms to that. Not that there always were.

And damn it all, a suicide by hanging with nothing to stand on was weird, plain and simple. It didn't make a lick of sense. It was illogical and it was pissing Holly off.

"Someone had to move the stool. Chair. Whatever."

Whatever.

When Gail said that, she always threw her hands up and planted her feet on the table. Filthy feet.

Whatever.

Feet.

Holly dove at her keyboard and pulled up the photos of the body. "Feet, feet, feet," she hissed at herself. "How could I be so obtuse?"

The soles of the feet. Holly was pretty sure that the feet were wrong. Or at least not normal. Athletes had terrible looking feet. They had turf toe. Their nails looked horrific. They had blisters and calluses and a million other problems. They had ankle problems galore, thanks to the artificial turf.

But they didn't have marks of that size or shape on the soles. They had blisters, but the feet of the dead soccer player had marks that didn't look quite right. Holly googled for 'soccer player feet' and regretting it immediately. Ew. There was a reason she wasn't a podiatrist. Feet, even Gail's, could be nasty.

Burns. They were burns. And without the blackened marks of heat it left only one logical theory. Frozen. Freezer burns. Could a person stand on ice so long and so still it burnt them? And was she really, truly, certain that soccer players didn't have feet that looked like this?

What Holly really needed was representational images to back up her theory.

She snatched her phone up and tapped John's number.

"Hey, Doc, got anything—"

"I need photos of the soles of the feet of the other players."

John paused a moment. "How many?"

"As many as possible. And I'm sending you a bill."

"For… what?"

"Ice."


Without even thinking, Gail signed the approval for the bill.

"You're not looking!" The secretary snapped at her.

Gail slowly looked up at the young man. "The forensics lab is billing us for hot water and ice as part of an experiment."

"But—"

"Are you familiar with the scientific process? The lab has a theory as to the death of a prominent soccer player. Major Crimes is investigating said death. Being charged for research is par for the course." Gail reached up and slowly took her glasses off. She never let her eyes leave the face of the young secretary, who was growing more and more nervous by the second. Letting her glasses dangle from her fingers, Gail waited two heartbeats and then went on. "Should the crime be solved and the lab receive credit from the province for a newly discovered methodology, we receive a portion of the reward. I strongly recommend you not challenge lab requests, especially not from Dr. Stewart. She wasn't the youngest chief medical examiner by a fluke."

The secretary stared at her for a moment, his face and neck turning rather red. Then took his tablet and left without a word.

Only after he was down the hall did Andy and John break down laughing.

"Jesus," cackled Andy. "I forgot you did shit like that."

"Like what?" Gail scowled.

"That was textbook Gail Peck for 'you are stupid.' Man, you're good at that," said John. "I'm kind of terrified now."

"I think I'm a little gay, Gail."

"Oh god, Andy, shut up!" Gail sighed. She still had a reputation for things. At least she could make use of it. "Anyway. He's an idiot." She rubbed the bridge of her nose. "What the hell is the ice for?"

"Same thing I need patrol to stay at the game and photograph the soles of the players' feet. The doc thinks it's a clue. I don't question Dr. Stewart."

They all chuckled a little. "Alright, that's smart," said Gail.

"And not just because she's your wife." Andy grinned. "She's like, the smartest person we know."

John shrugged and sat on the arm of the couch. "I take it you didn't call me— us here for this?" He tilted his head by way of apology to Andy.

"No. No. I have to go to Regina."

Andy made a face. "Saskatchewan? Who'd you piss off?"

"We have some evidence tying the Safary crimes to a shipping business in Saskatchewan."

"Shipping? Not the Roses..." John looked shocked

Gail nodded at her sergeant. "The very ones. Will, a cousin, agreed to let us go over the records. But only if I was there. They feel I have the right propriety."

"Can't we just get a warrant?"

"Not enough evidence. Judge said he'd rather we had something more concrete."

That had been an entertaining conversation. The Rose family had actually come in to talk to Gail about it. As soon as they understood they weren't suspect but possible witnesses, they were very willing to help out. Discreetly. Gail couldn't blame them. The fallout from Aston's death and smuggling had been tremendous. They'd lost the contract with the Discovery Channel, the entire water shipping deals, and the whole American agreement.

In short, they needed good press. Helping the police might do that.

"What do you have?" Andy sounded curious.

"Not much. Here, I'll show you." Gail tapped her keyboard and the wall sprang to life. "Safary's been blowing up business. It took a while to sort that out, since the train station and places like the zoo fucked us up."

Surprising her, Andy spoke up. "The Zoo was bought out by that idiot from Eastern Europe. He has the whole chain of 'em. Privatized the zoos in Canada and the Eastern US..." Andy stopped when she realized both Gail and John were staring at her. "What? Holly was talking about it at the softball barbecue."

Of course. Holly. Gail laughed. "Well she's right. His company has been hounded by animal rights activists. They ship the animals in some pretty horrific ways."

"Straw?" John looked thoughtful.

"Not related. But the shipments follow a pattern which is similar to the Roses. Mostly in..." She held out her hands. "Fucking Regina. Crime capital of Canada."

"Isn't that Winnipeg?" John frowned.

"Only for violent crimes."

Andy shook her head. "It bothers me that you know that, Gail."

Gail flipped her off. "Wanna get more bothered?" She tapped a key. "Blue are all the possible Safary bombings. Red is confirmed."

Eleven blue dots lit her screen. There were six more in red.

Ted Kaczynski had, over the course of seventeen years, sent out fifteen confirmed bombs across the United States. Over 150 law enforcement officers worked on the cases, struggling to paint a picture of the bomber before forging that in favor of evidence.

Unlike Kaczynski, Safary had yet to leave unique evidence, except the name. They hadn't even noticed the name at first, either. It was only in recent years that they'd recognized the graffiti as recurring. Ames, one of Holly's techs, had pieced together photographic evidence to prove the name was at the six confirmed bombings.

"Is seventeen a lot?" Andy was puzzled.

"For twenty years, yeah." Gail sighed. "Funny thing is, except for the one at the train station, Safary doesn't kill."

John shook his head. "Does calling it that make it easier?"

"No, not really." Running a hand through her hair, Gail stared at her board. Calling it the explosion that had killed some friends didn't help either.

"It's creepy," said Andy. "ETF nearly always disarms his— her— Safary's bombs without any loss of life. Even the ones that do go off are set to cause minimal damage. It's like... It's like it's for show."

That was the conclusion Gail had come to as well. "Damned if I know for what."

"A socialist bomber? Scare to make the world fair?" John scratched his chin. "What was the chain at the train station?"

"Oh, the newspapers," said Gail. "Embezzlement. I managed to get our forensic account friend looking into it."

John whistled. "How'd you do that? I thought our budget was cooked!"

"Bribery. How else?" She smirked. "He's looking at all the confirmed bombings to see if there's something shady going. I'm hoping the Roses will have some enlightening evidence since their routes take them past this cluster here." Regina lit up on the screen. It had been the location of a circus incident.

"Oh," said Andy knowingly. "Hence Saskatchewan."

"Exactly."

The newest sergeant huffed and gripped her belt. "How long will you be gone?"

"Hopefully just a week. But I need you two to be on the lookout. Safary's pretty known for waves. Five bombs, gone for years. We've had two, if we count the zoo last year. Three if we count the Swarek fiasco. I'd imagine we'll get more."

Both sergeants nodded. Only Andy spoke. "I get why John. But why me?"

Gail hesitated. "Because Swarek. He cocked it up, but no one understands the way that man's mind works better than you, Andy. I'm ... I'm hoping you can see his plan and put things right."

Andy looked liked a bit of a stuffed fish. Unpleasantly surprised. A little offended. A little daunted. "Gail... Sam's a detective. I've never—"

It was John who cut in. "Never officially been a detective, but Andy, find me someone who's worked in more areas of policing. If anyone can look at the random locations and businesses, and deploy active pressure via the unis, it's you."

After Andy left, a little giddy from the praise, Gail smiled. "Do you really have that much faith in McNally?"

John smiled back. "I do. Besides, this way she won't yell at me for assigning all her uniforms to photograph feet for your wife."


"My what?"

Vivian sighed. "Feet, ma'am."

The captain of the squad stared at her. "Is this a pick up line, kid?"

"No ma'am, I'm not hitting on you. Also ew?" Vivian held up her phone. "The Medical Examiner's office requested photographs of everyone's feet."

It had gotten the uniformed patrol officers out of traffic cop duty at BMO, which was nice at least. Forensics had released the stadium late yesterday, causing the New York team to complain that they'd not gotten to practice on site. That ended up with the police watching BMO that morning. The actual traffic cops had taken over for the game itself, along with the auxiliaries. But it did mean Vivian, one of the two female cops on hand, had to be there for all the photographs. To make it less pervy.

It wasn't working.

The captain sighed. "We haven't showered."

"Apparently that's better." Vivian gestured. "If you'd all sit and hold your feet up, we can get through it pretty fast and get out of your hair." She paused. Mostly. She had to stay while they showered.

Awkward. Fucking weird and awkward.

"Both feet?"

"Yes please. And we need to know if you're right or left - er - footed."

Now multiple players eyed her. "Dude, are you making some weirdo database of feet?"

Vivian shrugged. "I'm just a patrol officer, ma'am."

"God, do not call me that." The goalie laughed. "I bet we're the same age. Do you need our positions?"

"No, we can get that from your coaches. Including the fact that your best striker was playing fullback tonight."

The women looked at her. "A fan?"

"My mom is a huge soccer nerd." Vivian hesitated and then remembered what Oliver always said. Be nice. Connect with people and they'll tell everything. "She was at the game two nights ago, actually."

"Nice," said the goalie. "Okay, take mine. I'm right footed."

"You're left handed," said the regular fullback, who sat and held her feet up. "I'm left and left."

The goalie snorted. "I'm better with my right for kicking. Switched over last year and my goal kicks got an extra four feet on average, thank you."

Vivian gestured at Christian to join her. "You know we only get 500 characters to record this..." She tapped the app open, took the photos, and typed in the information.

"You have an app?" The captain was astounded.

"Physical evidence collection," said Gagnon, taking a photo. "It's really neat. See, we take the photos and they're directly uploaded to the forensic's secure server. We just have to put in names, dates, and vital—"

"Hey, rookie?" Vivian threw her voice in her best Gail deadpan. "More work, less talk please."

The soccer team laughed.

After they took everyone's photo, Vivian kicked the boys out and took up a post at the wall.

"So, do you always have to have a female cop around when you talk to women?" The left wing looked at her thoughtfully, pulling a shirt on.

"No, not always. It can help, though." She gripped her belt and shrugged.

"Gotta be girls only to hang out in here though, eh?"

Oh. If they only knew. "Legally, yes."

"What happens with, like, searches? I mean, what if someone's like Tianna?"

Vivian blinked. "Tianna?"

"Yeah, left fullback? Tianna's non-binary."

"Oh. We ask everyone what gender they prefer to search them." They'd done that for the last decade, as Vivian recalled.

The winger made a noise of amusement. "Man, prisons must be a mess now, with segregation."

"Eh, about the same as locker rooms. Isn't the center midfielder for LA a non-op?"

The 'scandal' had been international. An MTF, Elizabeth Duran had not been the first transgender player, but she was the first who had no plans for surgery. She certainly presented as a woman, and when she'd been hired, three of her prospective team members had protested.

All three had been released from their contracts without penalty.

That was a thought. Motive. They'd so far come up short with motive. Lara had lamented about that. She'd been in charge of the interviews, her in-uniformed assignment. Vivian was trying hard not to be jealous of that. She wanted to actually get to work in ETF for real, not the bullshit of uniformed assignments. She wanted to work on defusing bombs and building them. Taking out the technical machinations of morons.

Morons. Mechanical. Vivian looked up.

"Hello? Officer Peck?"

She blinked and looked at the winger. "Sorry. How many of you guys know how to knock out the video camera outside?"

The woman smirked. "Shit everyone. It's triggered by the doors. All you have to do is take a flash camera at it, and it's down."

Vivian smirked. "The camera flash? Wow. How long's that last?"

"Couple minutes. More than enough to slip in."

More than for anyone to slip in and kill someone.

She was still thinking about that when Christian and Patrick came by with lunch. Or dinner, depending on ones point of view.

"Ma'am," said Patrick as he handed over a container. "How long do we have to stay?"

"First, don't call me ma'am. Call me Peck. Second, until dispatch reassigns us."

"Yes ma— Peck."

Beside him, Christian snickered. "Why do you ask, Gagnon?"

"Well... It seems weird. We took photos and everyone's gone home except staff."

Vivian eyed the food. Steamed buns. "C, it's bad enough you're on this vegetarian kick, but steamed buns?"

"Yours have pork, Viv, shut up."

Well. That was better. She took a bite and nodded. "Alright."

Their conversation seemed to confuse Patrick. Christian didn't seem to want to explain either, which was fine. Just fine. Vivian ate her pork bun and studied the layout of the hallway.

Motives were not her thing. Gail was great at. She stared at people and saw their entire lives. Holly and Vivian both struggled to understand why people did evil. Vivian just knew it in her bones, that people did terrible things.

The last thing she felt capable of processing were feelings and motives, not even her own. She rubbed her arm where they'd drawn her cells. The more time that went on from her little family surprise, the more Vivian doubted herself. Cancer was a genetic time bomb for sure, but so was insanity. Would she wake up in a few years and be like her father?

Worse, the frustration she felt at the situation wasn't getting any better. Vivian was still angry. She'd even snapped at Matty, telling him to shut up about the series of bad jokes the other night. The ability to hold back her angry thoughts was slipping away, like smoke through her fingers.

Vivian sighed and looked at the cameras. The parkour nerd in her contemplated the way she'd approach the entry. Assuming the killer knew the victim was in there, it would be a matter of avoiding the cameras and, if she had an accomplice, flashing them so her partner could follow. Not that it would be easy...

"Hey, Gagnon," she finally said. "You were on videos yesterday, right?"

"Yes, yes- um, yes. I was."

"Okay. Did you see anything... Weird? Flashes of light?"

"Light? Um. No. Why?"

"What stream were you looking at?"

"The parking lot to the, um, here?"

That meant someone didn't worry about being seen or they knew how not to be seen. Which ... Putting down her bun, Vivian stretched and got up. "I bet I can get from the parking lot to here in ten minutes without being seen by the camera."

"Without any ninja magic?" Christian wiped his hands and grinned when Vivian nodded. "Gagnon, stand here and open the stopwatch app on your phone. I'll go to the cameras."

As Christian ran off, excited, Patrick looked terrified. "Are we allowed to do this?"

Realistically, Vivian had only out and out broken the rules once, and it nearly got Rich killed. It had been Rich's idea, but still. "Our job was to photograph feet and send the data back. Then to monitor the locker rooms until we're told to go home. You, Gagnon, are monitoring the locker door. Fuller and I are running an experiment to see if we can give the Ds some help."

The expression from Gagnon was odd. He looked at her name tag and then her face. "I trust you, Peck," he said seriously.

That was weird. "Radio on. Channel 7."

And she went out to the parking lot.


"I am a genius," she announced to John as he walked into her office.

"I dunno, you married Gail."

"Blisters."

John eyed her. "You had me blow my budget for blisters."

Holly grinned. "Come to my laboratory," she told him in her best monster movie voice. "See what's on the slab."

The detective muttered about how she was insane, but followed her. "If this is half as smart as your damn kid last night..."

Holly paused at the elevator. "Do I even want to know?"

"She figured out how to get through the whole fucking building without being caught on camera. The security firm blew a gasket."

"Oh." Holly smirked. "They should have hired Steve."

"Maybe Steve oughta hire her." John grinned back. "She also found out every player knows how to knock out the cameras."

That did not surprise Holly, and she gestured for John to follow her off the elevator. "Well, hopefully I can narrow down the specs for your killer."

"God, please." John grimaced and then asked. "You built a shower?"

"We built that last year for the Cassidy stabbing," said Ananda Ames, one of the co-lead techs. Holly adored her and had been encouraging her career lately. She'd even proofed Ananda's last paper.

"And I see my ice." John tilted his head. "And the towel. Son of a bitch. The towel braced the damn ice while the water ran to melt it? That's genius."

"Sometimes criminals are quite innovative," admitted Holly.

John gestured at the other oddity in the wet room. "How ... What is that?"

They watched as the lab techs muscled a dummy onto the block of ice and looped the noose around it's neck. "That is Buster Murdoch," said Holly, brightly. "Buster is the same weight and height of our deceased. His legs are extendable, you see..." She grinned. "It takes a minimum of two people to hoist her up like that."

John scratched his sideburns. "She was naked to boot. Was she drugged?"

"Mass. Spec. says no," announced Ananda. "A little drunk. But..."

Holly smiled. "She was choked."

The detective frowned. "Not by the rope."

Holly shook her head. "A rear naked choke hold, to be specific. The bruising was covered by the ligature marks." She gestured at the dummy. "Now, even a small person can apply an RNC and knock someone out. Children can take out grown adults."

"Small people can't wrangle a muscular soccer player up like that." John gestured at the dummy.

"Archimedes could." Holly gave John an ear to ear grin.

John's eyes widened. "The overhead pipes? Seriously?"

"The cross post, actually, and yes. With the right setup, a person could haul her up with minimal effort. And the rope was climbing rope. Easy to cut horizontal but not vertical, so you can get rid of the excess."

The man frowned and looked up. "Climbing rope. Common... But knowing how to set those things up, that takes more specialized knowledge to do it right." He juggled his head. "That's my bone. Sorry. Show me your ice magic, Elsa."

Holly nodded. "These socks are thermal and use Bluetooth to talk to the computer. Ananda, if you please?"

Her lead tech grinned and slipped the socks onto the dummy before helping the men hoist it into place. "Here's where it gets fun, detective." The noose was tightened and pulled up so only the toes rested on the ice block. Then they turned on the water, aimed at the block.

After a moment, John swore. "Son of a fucking bitch... Can that even kill someone?"

"Oh yes," said Holly, nodding. "The slow hanging actually was a common method before it was deemed inhumane. How it works is by pressure. As the body bears more and more on the rope, it pinches until—"

"I got it. Tell me that she passed out before she ..."

"Asphyxiated. And yes, she did before she died. The lack of struggling is a give away. There's just one problem."

"Oh?"

"Watch the monitor with her socks."

John tilted his head and watched as the ice melted and the body slowly sunk and strangled itself. "What are those super black spots?"

"Cold so strong it's burning," said Ananda. "Should I..." Holly nodded and the woman put photos of the soles of Murdoch's feet up next to the sock data.

"It's not quite the same," John said. Attentive and alert as always.

"No. The feet would have to stand on the balls of the feet, then the toes, for a lot longer to get that kind of mark." Holly sighed. "We estimated at 10 minutes on the toes."

John swallowed. "She was awake."

"Yeah." Holly scratched her chin. "Long enough for the ice to burn her feet before she passed out."

Visibly, John shuddered. "Anyone ever asks you if we get used to this death shit, tell 'em they're idiots."

After John left with his data, and they theory that two people or more had strung her up, Holly went back to processing what evidence there was. Water didn't wash it all away, and the whole reason she'd shut down BMO for a day was to get someone to run the damn water pipes for trace.

Of course, with two soccer squads and refs showering, the chance of anything useful was slim. She'd had them check the drain from the home team shower and then the sinks, assuming the killer's trace would be on top. Nothing useful.

They'd checked the towel for anything, scraps of DNA. Ditto the rope. The locker hand prints from hundreds of people. There was no trace on the clothes either. That part was weird, until John had announced her clothes were missing. Whomever killed her took the clothes with them.

Creepy assed killers.

Back in the sanctity of her office, Holly groaned and pushed her hair out of her face. She'd used up her brilliance on the ice. Which was amazingly genius, if she did say so herself. The blisters had been the clue. And once she latched on to the idea of the ice, her brain placed the towel and it all made sense.

Except for the part about how the killer had gotten a partly conscious, very athletic woman strung up like that. "One person could do it," she told herself. "Could. I could do it, if sufficiently motivated. So ... Assume one. How would I do it."

Holly got up and paced, thinking it through. It would be easiest if the victim was dry, so she would have done it after the sex (consensual) and before the shower (which wasn't a shower, hence why they'd still found trace of spermicide). She would have waited until the victim was changing and then locked her in a sleeper hold. Any trace from herself would be rinsed off. Once unconscious, she could drag the body into the showers and toss the rope over.

Anyone who did sailing or climbing would have known how to do the necessary knots. And if not, the Internet existed for a reason. Assume one. Assuming one person was to assume planning. Therefore she carried on with her idea that the person brought the rope and knew how to string a person up.

She paused. "Tugging her up by her neck would've woken her up."

Tapping her keys, she pulled up the autopsy photos. There had been faint marks under the arms. Holly had assumed they were from the RNC, which could be done with the legs hooked around and locked to hold someone well and truly in place. But. It could also be rope bruises. If the killer had cinched the rope tight, it wouldn't cause what people normally thought of as rope burn.

Clever, clever. She pulled up the photos of the support beams and checked them. The tall ceiling had fans, to prevent humidity buildup, but was relatively open. While a person couldn't peer over, like they could in an open loft, the height increased air flow without lowering the temperature too much. Maybe an architect ...

The rope wasn't frayed, though. Not that it should have been. The point of climbing ropes was they wouldn't fray when rubbing against rock. The support beam, metal though it was, should not have been too much. "One rope to hoist her up. Something to tie her hands. The bruising was light... Maybe he didn't, since even holding the rope and clawing at it, with her slippery footing, she wouldn't last long."

But then another thought occurred. "There were no fibers under her fingers. Not that I'd expect any with that rope. But there also were no bruises or tears. Nor on her palms. Either she didn't grab or her hands were tied. Neither of which matters here, Doctor Stupid, so move on."

Once Gail had caught her talking to herself like that. After laughing, the cop had admitted she called herself Detective Dumbass from time to time.

"How do you get the rope off the victim."

She paused.

"Well Jesus, you wait till she's dead, take it down, and off you go with her clothes. All you need is to be sure no one's watching for you."


Watching interrogations were sort of fun. "She is all over the place," said Traci, seriously.

"Nah, she's got it."

"Why are we letting the rookie do this?"

"She earned it." Lara had broken the motive end of the case, after all. Apparently, after Vivian told her about how easy it was to mess with the cameras, and after the rookie Gagnon had checked every single camera flash, backwards, and after Holly gave them the estimated height of the killer, and after Vivian proved a person could easily and inconspicuously walk through the building without being seen by the camera, they'd found their guy.

The ex-boyfriend.

The ex-boyfriend who had worked for the maintenance crew, who had access to the cameras, and who knew his ex liked to bang a guy in the lockers after good games.

Gail had remarked that Toronto had lost the game. John rolled his eyes.

After they'd brought in the bang of the night, finally finding him on camera from his walk of shame, they'd gotten a better timeline. Two hours after the game, after the news and interviews, Murdoch had picked the man up at an appointed location. She'd saw him during warmups, slipped him the place and time and a number, and he went for it.

Wouldn't anyone, he'd argued?

But then he explained the sex had been pretty brief and she kicked him out to shower.

John had asked, simply, if the booty call had seen anyone on his way out.

Just the maintenance man, fixing a door.

Billy Tash.

"So you're a Cougar fan," said Lara in the room, walking back and forth. "Vancouver Cougars."

Gail muttered. "That's such a fucking stupid team name."

"Hush," said John.

The boyfriend nodded, looking angry and nervous. "And yet… you dated the vice-captain of the Toronto Geese?"

"And that's a stupider name," said Gail. "Geese."

"There's a hockey team called the Ducks." John didn't tell her to hush that time.

"Stuuuuuupid."

In the room, the boyfriend was quiet. Lara shook her head. "Soccer fan. Groupie. Worked maintenance just to hang with the players. Kinda stalkerish."

The boy looked away. "Whatever."

"Whatever," repeated Lara. "Whatever. You run a website with panty shots, Billy."

"All consensual."

"You sure about that? Some of the players were surprised when we told them."

Billy went ashen. For a moment, Gail wondered if he'd pass out. "Got him on one," said John under his breath.

"Thinking of letting him float on that if he gives away his accomplice?"

"Thinking of letting him think I'll let it float," replied her sergeant. "He should know a uni can't promise him fuck all."

Gail smirked and sipped her tea. Anyone who watched television ought to know that. Surprisingly few people did.

Inside the room, Billy did not. "I want a deal. About the ... A deal. I tell you who did the photos."

Lara was a cool customer. One of many reasons she was top pick for Fifteen, but also for the Ds. Traci saw herself in the young woman. Gail saw her brother at the same age.

"The photos. You think we can't check the EXIF data and track you idiots down?" Lara shook her head. "Besides. Soft core porn and illegally obtained images? That's a drop in the bucket."

Billy looked around. "I didn't ... "

"Didn't what, Billy? Kill her? Because your prints are on the door. On her locker."

"I'm the maintenance," spluttered Billy.

"Lockers don't have doors, Billy. They're cubbies. Why would your prints be on the hangers, hmm?" Lara shook her head.

"They... The rod. I had to replace it."

Lara looked momentarily impressed. "No work order."

"Well. They don't, y'know? It's normal. They, the girls, bitch."

"Women."

Billy blinked. "What?"

"Women. They're not girls, they're adult women. Professionals. In a sport that fought for equity and respect. These women have been struggling for decades, Billy. Decades. Longer than we've been alive. And now, after more accolades and praise than any other professional sports league in history, after twenty-five years of legal battles and protests, they get their due... And shits like you call them girls."

John winced. "Fuck I'm old."

Gail smacked his shoulder. "That's what you got out of that?" She was hella impressed by Lara in the moment. The kid was handling it well.

"Hey! You know I'm for it. Women's sports are cleaner."

Rolling her eyes, Gail put her mug down. "When you gonna go in there?"

"When he's about to cry or try to hit her."

Right then, Billy was beet red. He'd been arguing he could call them what he wanted. "What do you want from me!?"

"Just an answer," said Lara, her voice a bit louder but not angry.

"You — you haven't asked me a question, you bitch!"

"Why did you kill Barbara Murdoch?"

"So the stupid ass team folds!"

Beside Gail, John whistled. "God damn..." He rapped his knuckles on the window and Lara looked up. Even though she couldn't see him, she nodded and, without saying a word to Billy, went to the door. Another officer took a guard position inside and Lara all but scampered into the viewing room.

"So? Did I—" The rookie stopped and stared at Gail, eyes wide. "Uh. Ma'am."

Gail lifted her mug in approval. "You did good, Volk. Have fun, John-boy." And she left him to find out if their Billy boy was working on his own or if there was some idiotic clandestine group, dedicated to the eradication of women's sports.

Sadly, experience told Gail which one it was likely to be. She could picture it in her head. Taking out the teams would be a matter of convincing them to stop playing. Start with homophobia and making a stink about the trans players, how it's an unfair advantage. Once a few people left, drop the gay angle and move on to things like the pay gap. Obviously the women are paid less because they're worth less. When neither of those worked, scare them. If no one plays, the teams fold.

The joke was on the group, though, whomever they were.

Because the women were stronger than anyone had a right to be. It was a fatal flaw, a stupid assumption by men, probably straight white men, who had never faced the oppression and hatred women did every day. Find a women who'd never been harassed and everyone would be shocked. Gail certainly had been, because of her looks and her demeanor. Holly too, for being a fake geek girl. Elaine, Andy, Chloe, Traci, Noelle...

Even their kids. Sophie went into law because of it. Olivia got detained once because of it. Vivian put on a uniform because of it. Izzy Shaw was nearly killed because of it.

Men.

Ugh.

Gail shook her head and walked past the uniforms at their desks. Speaking of men, there was the non-offensive young man, Christian Fuller, talking to Vivian and the newest member of Fifteen. She'd not actually paid attention to him, and since Vivian hadn't brought him up, he was a non-entity to Gail just them. As she circled the desks, though, she caught the name on his shirt and felt her heart stop.

Gagnon.

Old Gail, the one who'd been Samantha Gagnon's TO, would have run. Avoided the hell out of the possible conversation. But this kid was young. Too young to have even really known Samantha, who'd moved to Toronto as a teen. He had to be a relative, though. The name was too rare.

Sucking up her fear, Gail walked up. "Introduce me to your rook, Fuller."

Everyone looked at Gail. Even Vivian. Her daughter, who had been more uncommunicative than normal, had a closed expression. Christian's was bright eyed. And Gagnon... He was confused.

"Patrick Gagnon, transfer from Val-d'Or. Not my rookie, ma'am, but..." Christian half-grinned. "Well. I'm supervising."

Gail had done that once, for Dov after he'd screwed up. "Constable Gagnon. I'm Inspector Peck, Organized Crime."

The newbie's eyes widened. He looked at Gail's face, searching for something. "Ma'am..." He looked back at Vivian and then Gail again. Then his eyes fell on the mug in her hands. A DAD mug. Her mug. And he looked up at her eyes and they both knew.

Vivian rubbed her forehead. "Yes, you call her ma'am, Gagnon."

That sounded like part of an ongoing conversation. "Settling in?"

"Yes, yes, ma'am." He paused. "Um. I think... I think we know someone in common, Inspector."

Both Christian and Vivian stared at the newbie.

"Samantha?" Gail rolled her mug between her hands. Patrick nodded a little. "Cousin?" Again a nod. "I did the math, rookie. Can't figure how you'd know her."

"Um. Letters. Visits. She wrote home a lot. About being a cop at Fifteen." He hesitated. "About her TO. And... Um. The last letter was about a case she said she couldn't talk about, but how her TO's wife was sick?"

The light dawned for Vivian, who snapped her head up to stare at Gail. "Oh."

Gail ignored her kid for a moment. "Three legacies, huh. Weird world." The trio looked at each other, curiously. "She was a good cop, Gagnon. Stupid, dumb, bad luck."

He nodded. "Did... Did your wife...?"

Huh. How odd that would have been, to grow up and not know. "Yes. She's fine. Still married. Have a kid." Gail jerked her chin at Vivian.

Patrick looked like he was about to shit himself. "Oh!"

"Listen, Patrick." Gail ran a hand through her hair. "Those two know this already, but you need to be the cop you are. Not your cousin, or anyone else. You have nothing to live up to or down from. You're you. So don't think you have to impress anyone. Let alone those two yahoos next to you. And your sarge? She knows too. So just be you."

He swallowed and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Gail sighed. "Good." She gestured with her cup. "Serve. Protect. Don't screw it up."

And she left them to it.

Another rookie with ties back to her past. Another legacy.

With recruitment what it was, the majority of officers had some tie or another back to the past. People like Gail and Andy and Vivian, the children of officers, were more rare. People like Christian, though, who looked up to officers, and Jenny, who wanted to redeem them, they were increasingly common. The majority used to be idiots like Rich who, like Dov, had a power trip or fantasy. Even then, idealists like Chris...

Chris was dead. So was Samantha. So was Callaghan, whom Gail had mockingly called Homicide. So was Jenny's father.

Gail sighed and walked directly to her office. It was hard to know truths that, even now, couldn't be revealed. Like Samantha's death. The circumstances, the fact that the virus had been in the wild at all, was still to this day under lock and key. Stupid. Like the case of Nico Terzakis.

True, Gail hadn't realized Jenny was Nico's daughter, but neither did Vivian, nor apparently Jenny know what had really happened to her father.

After Gail learned about Jenny's heritage, she'd gone to Marlo for the truth. There had to be more than just simple skimming funds to it, otherwise Nico wouldn't be dead. Marlo's story had been harrowing. Nico took the fall for others. He'd sacrificed his name and his career to stop the actual crooked cops. Ones who had been blackmailed and coerced into letting killers go.

It had been the same case Steve had worked on that nearly framed Oliver. Damned Irish mob. While Steve was cavalier about discussing it, Gail couldn't afford to be. She had to protect who was left, after all. More men and women were still undercover, and Nico had protected them.

There was no one Gail cared about being protected by keeping Samantha's death a secret. A sick doctor. A murdered detective. A dead forensics assistant. A madman.

Gail kicked her office door closed and pulled up the case file. François L'engle. AKA Maxim English. A name she'd not thought of in a million years. He was still alive. Turned over to the Mounties, who brokered a deal with Interpol but kept him, so that he wouldn't get the death penalty. He was still locked up in a small cell in the middle of nowhere.

Would that have been Perik? Would he still be locked up, alone, in a small room? He'd murdered dozens of women, in Canada but also in Africa. People had talked about studying him, trying to understand why he'd done what he'd done. God knew they'd talked to her enough about it. But again, questions without answers. Possibly someone had an idea, but Gail would never likely be told.

She'd never really escape her past, realized Gail. She'd known that a long time ago, though. That her past was forever and ever that which made her future. Without the Peck upbringing, she'd never had volunteered for the risky job of an undercover escort. Without that, she'd never have realized maybe she did like Nick. And she'd never have been betrayed by him twice more after that. And she'd never have screwed up and taken the fall for that horrible day. And she'd never have lost Nick and cheated on him.

And without all of that, without the abandonment of her boyfriends, the neglect of her parents, and the hopelessness of it all, she might not have been willing to look at Holly the way she did. Without the pain and the destruction, she wouldn't have questioned the way Holly made her feel about the woman. About herself. About everything.

Gail smiled and lifted her wrist, tapping an 'I love you' to Holly.

A few moments later, the sentiment was returned.

As painful as it all had been, Gail would not give it up. No, scars and all, it had made her Gail Peck. Detective Inspector. Wife. Mother.

Someone she liked when she looked at herself in the mirror.


"I don't want to be here," she told Jamie, sullenly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets.

"Oh come on, Peck." Jamie poked her arm. "You're being extra cranky and he's your BFF."

"No, Matty is my BFF."

Matty was also cheering like a goddamned loon. She could have kicked him. "Come on, show us some leg!"

Vivian rolled her eyes.

"Come on, Vivian," said Jamie, a little more gently. "I'll cheer for C."

That was only a point because the MMA cage match was firefighters vs cops. It was entirely unofficial and unsanctioned, to the point that Vivian had to swear not to tell her family. Not that they'd care. Gail would roll her eyes and Holly would ask if a doctor was on hand. Which yes, EMTs were there.

"You don't have to," said Vivian.

Jamie eyed her and tugged at her elbow until Vivian reluctantly pulled a hand out. With a smile, Jamie laced their fingers together. "You need to get out of the house for something that isn't work once in a while."

"I went to the gym." She'd been doing a lot of that. Mostly the climbing stuff that was all upper body. It was the hardest, and therefore the best at distracting her from actually thinking about anything.

Jamie rolled her eyes. "That's barely out."

Hunching her shoulders, Vivian shrugged.

Leaning into her, Jamie bumped her shoulder. "Come on. We can ditch and go out to dinner after on our own."

"Sure," said Vivian, not really feeling it.

Her antipathy was not unnoticed by her girlfriend. Jamie sighed. "How many fights before C's cage match?"

On Vivian's other side, Matty replied. "Three. How big a bad ass is this Higgins guy?"

Jamie winced. "Hig is ... Big Hig. I thought these were weight classed!"

Leaning back, Vivian let them talk around her, literally, while she watched a fighter get demolished. She'd never had the impetus to hit someone in her life besides Christian. Never like this. Never in a one-on-one battle. In a way, she could understand why someone might. If she had the opportunity to hit her cousin...maybe. No, probably not.

That was Elaine's influence for sure.

Elaine had sat her down, after apologizing for the fight over the announcement that Vivian wanted to be a cop, and had a frank discussion about everything. About how she couldn't let her emotions rule her, how she had to be smarter and empathic without letting it overwhelm. How she couldn't get angry.

Longer ago than that though. Her father had gotten angry. Often. He'd shouted and screamed and thrown things. Vivian still couldn't remember if he'd laid a hand on her. She was pretty sure he hadn't. It was still enough to know that angry men were dangerous men.

She didn't really feel that way now. Angry men were problematic, certainly. They were belligerent and troublesome. They could be entitled, attempting to take advantage of their size.

It had been a relief to Vivian when, at seventeen, she'd finally had a serious growth spurt, and matched her mothers in height. Soon after she eclipsed them. And from her tower, as Gail sometimes called it, she could look down and those aggressive men were less daunting.

There was a loud cheer in the room and Vivian tried to pay attention again. Someone had delivered an upset victory.

The fighting did not interest her. She hadn't asked Christian why he liked it, though Dov had made a passing remark that Chris had liked MMA. Maybe it was the way he had to connect with his dead father figure. Maybe it was his way to rage against the beast inside himself, the one that worried he'd be crazy like his mother or criminal like his father.

Yeah. That was why she and he got along so well. They both understood the fears of biology. Even though he didn't know all about her's, only that her father had killed her family. Vivian had asked her moms to tell him that much, if he asked them. Apparently at some point he had. They had a strange relationship. Should she tell him about her aunt?

Ugh. She hadn't even told Matty.

She should tell them. Could she? Always a question.

"Hey," said Jamie, breaking into her thoughts.

"Sorry. I was thinking."

"Yeah, I could tell." Jamie squeezed her hand. "Matty wanted to know about dinner?"

Dinner? The only dinner that jumped into Vivian's head was the one with Jamie's parents on Monday. A wonderful way to start the week, she felt, in that stupid sarcastic way. "Are we not going to see your folks?"

"Don't sound so relieved," said Jamie, a bit tetchy. "Tonight. After? With Christian? I know I suggested we bail, but..."

Oh right. "No, it's fine. Whatever you guys want."

Matty snorted. "You're so annoying right now, Viv. Honestly. Where'd all your opinions go?"

She shrugged. "You know what they say. Don't sweat the small stuff."

"Puuuuuuh-leaze." Matty was having none of it. "You are Gail Peck's daughter. Food is not now, nor has it ever been 'small stuff' to you."

Vivian didn't reply. She couldn't think of what to say.

Her best friend and girlfriend looked at each other. "Do you know why she's being all weird?" Matty jerked his chin at Vivian.

"I do," said Jamie, and she sighed. "Well since tall and sexy here is useless, Thai? Italian?"

"Depends on how many hits to the face Christian gets."

Tuning out the discussion of what spicy foods were worse if your mouth was bleeding, Vivian watched the second fighter. There was a lot of kicking in that fight. Not that Vivian really paid attention to it either. Eventually though it was Christian's fight, and it was a royal stinking mess.

It started with striking, both Higgins and Christian gauging the distance with a half outstretched arm. They swatted hands for a while, and then Higgins dove in with a waist tackle. Christian managed to get his hand in the way and steered his opponent to the side. But it was a mess. He looked awkward and clumsy.

Higgins was clearly more experienced. Longer arms and a fuckton more confidence, the fireman was aiming for a ground and pound, trying to throw C down at every opportunity. He was, simply, better. If it wasn't for Christian's insane luck, he would have lost. For every swing Christian made, Higgins connected with at least two jabs. In no time at all, Christian was bruised and bloody.

But it was luck that saved him. Christian ducked down for a lunge punch, nearly karate style, while Higgins dropped low to try and grab his waist. Instead, Christian's knee came up and connected with Higgins' chin. The fireman staggered back, stunned, and C followed his totally whiffed punch into an over-hook grab. Locking his arm around Higgins' neck, he hauled the bigger man down.

They hit the mat hard, Christian slinging his legs around and locking his ankles, bringing Higgins' arm back into a very forced arm bar.

Of course Christian was ecstatic when they came around to see him after the medical check. Higgins had his arm iced, while C held a small ice pack to his face and went on and on about his fight.

"I know I could've done better," said Christian, grinning. "But man, when I got that arm bar..."

"It was sloppy as hell." Vivian was actually surprised at her own tone, snippy and bitter, but it just popped out that way. Everyone stared at her. And the words in her head just rolled out on their own. "What? He could have rolled, bent his elbow, and popped right out. Jesus, C, he's solid muscle, and you'd lose your ass in a ground and pound."

Christian eyed her. "Oookay, cranky pants. You're supposed to be happy for me. I won."

"Like a loser."

"Dude, Jamie can you do anything with her? She's been super bitchy for weeks."

Jamie scowled at Vivian. "I'll try." As Christian walked off to change, Jamie sighed and pressed her fingers to her forehead. "Viv. Keeping everything bottled up until you snap is not going to help."

Intellectually, Vivian knew her girlfriend was right. And she wasn't even mad at Jamie in the slightest. But. Everything hung over her right now, and try as she might, Vivian just felt hurt and angry. She knew she was lashing out about stupid things and the more she tried not to, the worse it seemed to get.

"I don't walk to talk about this."

"I get that, Viv. I do. But snapping at Christian? Telling Matty to shut up yesterday? That's not you. And if you're going to be a brat, it's not fun to hang around you."

"Maybe I shouldn't come," Vivian said, looking at her feet.

"What?"

"To dinner.

"What? Tonight?"

"With your parents."

"Viv." Jamie sounded exasperated. "That isn't what I meant."

Vivian looked up. "No. No, what you meant was I'm not really pleasant to be around." When Jamie opened her mouth, Vivian went on. "And you're right. I'd probably tell your parents what I think of them."

The warm brown eyes grew cold. "Vivian, you really should stop."

"Before I say something I don't mean? Like I think your parents are in a codependent, kinda abusive relationship? And your dad's a control freak which irks the hell out of me, and your mom... I can't make heads or tails of what's wrong with her, but I've never met anyone that runs that hot and cold. And that's saying something since I grew up with Gail."

She looked at Jamie and felt multiple things at once. There was a part of Vivian that wanted to take back what she'd just said. That was the part that saw the hurt on her girlfriend's face. Then there was the other part, the one that was winning right then, that saw the anger and wanted to snap more, yell more, and tell Jamie exactly why she thought Angela was nice, but probably bipolar.

Somehow. Somehow she stopped herself. It felt like she was holding in raging fire with her bare hands. Every ounce of self control she had was at work, keeping her fucking mouth closed.

"You know," said Jamie very slowly. "It's not like I don't know what's going on, Vivian."

She was supposed to apologize. She didn't want to, which was a very odd feeling. Instead, Vivian looked away. "I'm going home."

"That's a good idea." Jaime's voice was cool. Not cold. Vivian wasn't really sure what the hell it meant though. "Call me when you can be reasonable."

They looked at each other for a brief moment, and then Vivian turned around to walk home.

Alone.


This is not a breakup. This is a fight. And yes, Vivian's being angry at a lot of things and lashing out at the people who care about her. Jamie's not dumping her, she's just literally saying Vivian is being unreasonable right now. Which she is.

I'm a little worried this storyline is not what people wanted to read. I do promise happy endings for all the little lesbians and bisexuals in this fic, but they have to get there first.