This chapter has gone through a lot of changes. Hope it turned out okay. I'm very grateful to my beta, suz24, and to all of those who reviewed even though I didn't get a chance to send out personal thank yous this week. The encouragement helps more than you know. Anyways, enjoy!

It's headline news the following morning.

"Copycat Vigilante Richard Castle strikes again," the news anchor reports. "In a shocking turn of events, the Copycat Vigilante reemerges after five years of silence. We'll now turn to our on-the-scene correspondent, Mark Thomas. Mark, are you there?"

"I'm here, Judy!" Mark yells over the rush of voices around him. The screen flashes to a man with slicked back hair, vibrant teeth, and a microphone. "We're waiting outside of the house of Edward Henry, father-in-law of our vigilante's latest victim."

"Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry, over here! Edward, give us a statement!" the press shouts, swarming the driveway as Darla Greene's father exits his house.

Mark Thomas motions to the cameramen to follow him, inching closer to the action. "Let's see what Mr. Henry has to say."

"You want to know what I think of the Copycat Vigilante?" Edward Henry yells loud enough to silence the crowd. "Well, he left me a note to say 'you're welcome.' And you know what? I am thankful to him. Marshall Greene killed my daughter and thought he could get away with it. If I knew where Richard Castle was right now, I'd send him a gift basket."

The camera focuses back in on the reporter. "Well, there you have it. The Copycat Vigilante has attracted quite a band of supporters here in New York over the past two decades. Now, the note Mr. Henry just referred to has become sort of a calling card for Richard Castle, hasn't it, Judy?"

"That's right, Mark. And while the NYPD has not yet released a copy of this note to the press-"

The television screen goes black, met with the groans of the entire homicide floor. Esposito stands in front, holding the remote. Beckett couldn't be more grateful.

"Move on. There's nothing to see here. Get back to work."

The FBI comes and goes. With each passing day, the case grows colder. Evidence is lacking. No new bodies appear. After three months' time with no leads, it seems that everyone's given up. But not her.

"Beckett, hurry up! We got a live one!" She turns to Esposito, gives him the one-more-minute gesture before bending back over her files.

Richard Castle. His picture stares back at her, with those blue eyes that haunt her nights. She isn't giving up hope yet, works on the case in whatever free time she gets. She hasn't wanted to nail a criminal so badly since…

Yeah.

But life moves on. More murders, more paperwork. And although the FBI promised that they had a small team still investigating, she can't let the search go. Kate knows they're just waiting for him to strike again. She wants to prevent that from ever happening.

The trouble is that he has no pattern, the Copycat Vigilante. He murders at whim, fueled by some twisted sense of justice. The longest period of time between his kills was the last five years. The shortest was six months, between his first and second victims back in 1991. She was only eleven years old, but she still remembers the investigation being broadcast on TV, the first suspicions from news reporters that they might be dealing with a serial killer.

His story…it warrants some sympathy. His mother, actress and live performer Martha Rodgers, brutally murdered in 1989. The original investigation attributed it to a home invasion. But Richard Castle - Richard Hunt back then - didn't see it that way. Reminds her of herself, actually.

He found a way to hack into his father's personal files, a tremendous feat given that the man was CIA. And in those files, he found what he thought he needed. Incriminating evidence.

Agent Jackson Hunt killed his wife in cold blood and then used his government resources to cover it up. He broke her wrist in a struggle. Kicked her in the ribs. Shot her in the chest at close range. It was bloody and brutal. And somehow, young Richard Hunt at seventeen years old had known that his father was capable of such violence. Then, two years later, he came up with a plan.

It was a tragedy. But that doesn't excuse murder.

She closes the file.

Damian Westlake is first on her list when she begins building her own profile. He's a former classmate of Richard Castle's, one who spoke out to the press in the very beginning, after Castle had killed his father and then went on the run.

"He seemed like a good guy," Damian sighs, running a hand over his face. "He was shy, a little withdrawn maybe. But he moved around a lot, didn't really have many friends, you know?"

Kate scribbles the information on her notepad. Withdrawn. No friends. "And what was your relationship with him?"

"I was the editor of the school magazine, and I sort of took him under my wing. Rick was, well, he was a great writer. He had a real talent with words. I tried to encourage that. I knew he had a challenging life at home - it was written all over his face - so I was glad to see him so passionate about something. He seemed happy. Even after all these years, I still can't believe what he did."

That's what they always said. I never knew he was capable of or he was such a nice guy, I never thought. It's not like people walked around with signs that said "serial killer" or "psychopath" hanging around their necks.

She finds Kyra Blaine-Murphy a week later. The woman went to college with him and was even suspected as an accomplice at the time of the first murder.

"This is really difficult for me to talk about," Kyra tells her, earnestly. "Even to my own husband, I can't...it's hard."

"Take your time," Beckett reassures. "There's no rush here."

"I know." She takes a deep breath. "Richard and I spent a lot of time together. I liked spending time with him. He was interesting. Dark and brooding, I guess. Maybe a little haunted. When he told me about his mother's murder, I felt so bad for him. I wanted to protect him from the world. It was silly." She gives a self-deprecating shrug.

"Not silly. You were kind, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm sure he appreciated it."

"I started to fall for him," she whispers. "And I still feel so guilty about it. How could I have loved a man who was able to do such violent things?"

"You have no fault in this, Kyra." She lays a soothing hand to the woman's shoulder.

"I know. That's what my therapist told me," she says with a sad chuckle. "Back then, the cops thought I was in on the whole thing or that I was covering for him. I guess people thought we were dating. Not to say I hadn't tried, but he never seemed interested in me as more than a friend. Even then, he had a hard time connecting with people, so friendship might have been an overstatement. But sometimes, when I looked in his eyes…sometimes it seemed like he might have felt the same."

Kate thinks back to her own experience, his eyes, and tries to reign in a shudder.

"He was writing a book, did you know that? He wanted to get it published, let me read some of the first draft. It was incredible, such talent. He could have been something really special. He could have accomplished so much. I believed in him. So why did things end up like this?"

The next month gets easier. Kate starts to feel herself slipping into the sea of apathy that her colleagues seem so content to swim in. It's uncharted territory for the detective, but she stays afloat with her heavy case load. Double homicides, one after another. She finds herself bogged down with more work than she knows what to do with, complex cases with plenty of suspects and murderers that aren't currently God knows where, probably out of the state by now if not out of the country. But it's comforting, the ability to solve with a good deal of effort, knowing that her hard work isn't in vain.

It takes her mind off that boy who got his own brand of justice that just wasn't enough.

More importantly, it takes her mind off of her own quest for justice, away from that night eleven years ago and that alley, cold and damp and stained red with her mother's blood.

When she looks up, Ryan's tapping on the corner of her desk to get her attention. "Beckett. Lanie has something to show you in the morgue." He gives her a nervous nod and retreats back to his desk. He's as transparent as a window, that kid. Good guy, but a terrible actor.

She can't be mad at him, though. He's merely the messenger. Lanie on the other hand…

She reaches for her jacket. Against her better judgment, the detective decides to indulge her nosy, overbearing friend. But she's sure as hell that evidence isn't why she's being summoned.

"Whaddaya got for me, Lanie?"

The ME looks up from a pale cadaver, her blue gloves spattered in blood and guts. "Hello to you too. Just let me just get freshened up here."

Beckett boosts herself up onto a clean slab, gives the woman time to toss her gloves and wash up before tearing in.

"This isn't about the case is it?"

Lanie gives her an innocent glance. "Now, whatever do you mean?"

"Cut the crap, Lanie. You and the boys have been talking. A lot. And that's never a good sign."

The doctor's eyes ooze feeling like melted chocolate, warm and sympathetic. "Kate. We're just concerned. Can't your friends be concerned?"

"Ugh." She knew it, she knew it. All the time with these people. They just can't mind their own damn business, gossiping like a bunch of little old ladies in a nursing home.

She never does this to any of them. She never orchestrates their little unit to poke and prod. Okay, well, maybe there was that one time when Esposito found out the hot waitress he met at the club wasn't exactly…what was her name? Andy? Geez, Ryan ribbed him for months until Beckett finally put a stop to it. But that had been purely professional. Javi's mortification was a detriment to the team.

She tries to hop off of the table, but Lanie's quick to catch her, red-lacquered nails digging into her thigh.

"Uh uh, girl. Let's talk."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You think you have such a good poker face, but I'm your best friend. I know you, and the boys do too, and we can see that you haven't been yourself lately. So come on. Lay it all out on the table. Right here, right now. If you want, I have a six-pack chilling in the freezer. Or well, Javi does, but he won't mind."

Kate wrinkles her nose. "In the freezer? Like the freezer where you keep the-"

"Shhh, it's better if you just don't think about it. Besides, I keep my morgue clean. You could eat off these floors."

She can't help but let out a little chuckle. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm on duty."

"Rain check then." The doctor retracts her claws from Beckett's slacks, hoists a leg up onto the slab herself, and folds her hands in her lap expectantly.

"Fine, fine. I've been a little distracted lately." Then, off the ME's raised eyebrow, "Okay, a lot lately. I just can't stop...thinking about him."

"Honey." Lanie clutches at her hand. "I didn't realize you were still upset about this. I'm sorry things ended the way they did. If you ask me, Tom Demming is a damn fool for letting you go."

"What?" she hisses. "No! This isn't about Tom. I told you, I got over it, and I did. I'm talking about Richard Castle. The Copycat Vigilante case."

"Oh," her friend sounds perplexed. "Beckett, it's not like he's the first killer to get away. Besides, the FBI still has their people on it."

"Do they really? Or are they just waiting for him to come back and murder someone else? He's a serial killer, Lanie. He's dangerous. This isn't just any other case."

"No, I guess it's not," her voice trails off. "You were alone with him, Kate. What happened that night?"

Oh, no. It's not like that. "Nothing, Lanie. Nothing you don't already know, at least. I would tell you if something did." Her friend doesn't look convinced. "I swear."

"Then what's the problem, girl?"

She takes a deep breath. "I've been having these dreams," she starts, and Lanie waits for her to continue. "I dream about him, Lanie. I see his eyes. I feel him grabbing my wrist and forcing me against the wall. I hear him…mocking me."

"And these dreams, you're having them a lot?"

She nods.

"I'm glad you're telling me this, Kate, but maybe you ought to talk to somebody. What about that one guy Ryan talked to after that case at the elementary school?"

Poor Kevin. He was just starting out, only six months in as a detective. Esposito was still giving him a rough time, some kind of ridiculous hazing ritual. And that case…that case was hard, but it hit Ryan the most. It took three weeks of therapy before he was cleared for work again.

"The psychiatrist? Dr. Burke? No, I've heard stories. Jedi mind tricks. At least that's what Ryan said. No thank you. I'm fine, Lanie. Really."

Her friend heaves a sigh and stands. "If you say so, girl. But I'm here for you—you know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know." She can't really fault Lanie…even if her sense of responsibility is a little misguided. She's totally fine. Completely all right. One hundred percent A-OK.

Aside from the not sleeping thing. But that's what drugstore prescriptions are for.

The rest of her day is spent chasing a suspect across Brooklyn. After plowing down Esposito, he makes it three blocks before she tackles him into the back of a minivan. Her wrist is sprained and her forearm bruised, but it's worth it to hear the man moaning from the pavement. Serves him right.

In the end, it's as simple as that. They get him back to the precinct, he confesses, case closed. She shoves the unfinished paperwork in her desk drawer when the view of Ryan nursing his partner's wounds becomes too sickening to bear.

"Get a room," she calls and gets two matching glares in return. "It's just a black eye. I think he'll live."

Esposito presses the blue ice pack against the lump on his eyebrow with a wince. "How's that wrist?"

"I think I'll live too," Kate chuckles, tugging the gauze on her arm a little tighter. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. You boys should too." They nod and begin to gather their things. Before she can leave, her desk phone rings, the sound invoking groans from the whole team.

"Not a body," Espo moans, slouching back into his chair. "Please, not a body."

She listens to the voice on the line for a moment. "I'll be there." And then drops the phone into its cradle. Odd, so very odd. "You guys remember the Johnny Vong case?"

"I own a boat!" the Latino detective declares, trying to be enthusiastic, but ultimately failing as he lets his raised arm fall with a thud back to the armrest. "What about it?"

"Dick Coonan, the guy we put away for murdering his brother…he's dead."

Thank you for reading. Leave your thoughts and feedback below. From here on out, things are going to speed up. Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride.