A/N: Thanks for sticking with this story. This chapter is a little ... iffy. Hope you like it.

Another day passed before a suspect was identified and brought in for questioning. His name was John Henderson and both his parents had abandoned him as a child to the abusive care of his grandmother.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said again, his eyes darting around the gray room as his lawyer nervously fidgeted at having to deal with both Wilma Tutuola and Bobby Goren with one case.

Wilma chuckled lightly as Bobby leaned into John's personal space and grinned, "Yes you do, John. You know exactly what we're talking about."

"Maybe he just doesn't remember," Wilma said, opening the file before her that contained the photos of the four dead boys. She put them on the table in front of Henderson, "Does this help?"

He refused to look at the mutilated bodies of the dead children, not answering her question verbally. Bobby pointed to the picture of the first victim, James Smith. "You broke both his legs before giving him the arsenic, John. Was that to remind yourself of the – the helplessness you felt when your grandmother broke your legs when you were seven? What about Howard Wagner? You punctured one of his lungs."

"Just like your grandmother did to you when you were nine," Wilma said, her voice cold and yet not betraying the sickening anger she felt with the crimes.

The door to the interrogation room opened and Alex walked in with another file in her hand, silently telling Wilma she was needed elsewhere for a minute and the shorter detective would take her place.

Wilma arose and soon was outside the interrogation room staring at a rather nervous looking sergeant. "What is it?" Wilma asked the younger man.

"A call was placed to 9-1-1 about an hour ago," Deakins answered in place of the nervous man who had heard rumors about this woman's temper and sharp wit. "It was your ex-husband's next door neighbor reporting gun shots coming from the Boufe residence. Three gunshots."

Wilma felt all the blood rush down from her brain to her feet, seemingly pooling on the floor as she tried to digest the news. Who was dead? Wasn't Jeremy at school today? She had to go. She had to go make sure her son was okay. She had to see her son.

Not a word was spoken as she ran to the elevators and caught one that was just closing to go down to the parking garage level. The ride down to the level was torturously slow as far as Wilma was concerned. All she wanted to do was get in her car and catch the next ferry to Staten Island to get to her son.

---

The scene was eerily quiet as Wilma pulled up. The paramedics were gone with two dead bodies, and none of the responding police officers would look her in the eye. It was almost as if they were ashamed that it had taken so long to respond, and that they were terrified she would take it out on them and make them pay.

"Mommy!" she heard a boy cry from behind her. Her voice caught in her throat as she turned around just in time for her son to leap into her arms, holding onto his mother in a vice like grip. "Mommy," he whimpered, "They won't tell me what happened."

He pulled back slightly, tears glistening in his dark brown eyes, "Why won't they tell me what happened?"

Wilma silently sent her son strength through her eyes before saying, "I want you to go with this man and pack up your books and everything you'll want for the next few days, okay, sweetie? I'll find out what happened."

Jeremy nodded and went with one of the officers to his room to gather some things that weren't at his mother's house. When he was gone, Wilma turned and strode over to the detectives in charge of the now unknown case. She flashed her badge at them and demanded to know what had happened.

The male detective bristled at her demanding, almost arrogant manner as his blonde, female partner glared at him before turning to Wilma again. "You're Jeremy's birth mother? My name's Frankie Silvera – my son goes to school with Jeremy. Forgive my partner, Detective Logan, he has no manners to speak of."

Mike Logan rolled his eyes as Wilma nodded once and said, "You're son is Ethan Silvera? Jeremy talks about him all the time. Now I'll ask again – what happened?"

"About an hour an a half ago three shots were fired from a revolver registered to Steven Boufe. When authorities arrived, there were two bullets in Mr. Boufe, and one in Mrs. Brittany Boufe, along with a note written by the missus stating her reasons for killing her husband and herself," Mike said, his eyes emotionless and his face blank.

Wilma digested the information with an equally blank face. "Can I see the note?" she asked quietly.

"You know we can't let you do that," Mike responded, shaking his head.

"What am I supposed to tell my son?" she whispered, her eyes glancing back to the door to the house Brittany and Steven had lived in with Jeremy since moving out from Indianapolis and away from Wilma.

Before one of the other detectives could answer the rhetorical question, Jeremy came out of the house with his duffle bag and backpack. "Mom?" he asked as he approached the three detectives, "Will you tell me now, or do I have to wait and ask Uncle Bobby to find out the real story?"

Wilma gave her eleven-year-old son a small smile, "No, sweetie, you don't have to wait. This is Detective Logan, and Detective Silvera – Ethan's mom."

Jeremy nodded, "I know. Mom, stop evading the question. I want a straight answer."

The mother of two looked down as she said, "It looks likes Brittany took your dad's gun and killed him before she killed herself."

"He's dead?" the boy asked, confusion etching premature lines in his face.

Mike's heart went out to the boy – he had lost his father when he was a child, as well. "He was dead before we got the call. Listen, kid, you're gonna be hearing this a lot in the next few days … but I'm sorry it had to happen this way," Mike said, kneeling down to eyelevel with the child.

Jeremy felt the tears fill his eyes again, but when he opened his mouth to speak no words came out. Wilma wrapped him in a hug before saying, "Come on, Jer. Uncle Bobby made some cake yesterday, wanna go pawn some off Aunt Alex?"

He nodded, the idea of his uncle's infamous chocolate cake sounding better and better as his body went numb from the news.

"Can we stop at the museum before we go pick up Uncle Bobby?"

"The small one by One Police Plaza that he took you and Kali to last month?" At his nod, Wilma smiled softly. "Whatever you want to do, sweetie. Okay?"

"Okay."

---

Bobby and Alex got the news an hour after Wilma left to get Jeremy and exactly five minutes after extracting a confession from John Henderson. Although both of them didn't hold a great deal of fondness for the attorney, they still saddened at the thought of Jeremy having to go through such a severe loss at such a tender age.

When Wilma and Jeremy arrived at the bullpen of the Major Case Squad, Bobby was antsy to get a move on as he tried to complete his paperwork. He gave Jeremy a fierce hug and when he pulled away, the boy's face was drawn tight with tears he refused to shed in front of others.

Bobby's deep brown eyes met their watery counterparts and he silently assessed how his young nephew was taking the devastating events. When the older man did speak, it wasn't what the boy had expected to hear. "Wanna take a walk?"

"Okay," Jeremy whispered, following his uncle as Bobby got his coat and led him to the elevators before pausing.

"Will, I'll bring him back later tonight, okay?"

"That's fine," Wilma said, "If he wants to spend the night, that's okay, too."

Bobby nodded and soon Wilma watched as her brother and her son disappeared behind the metal doors.

Dear God, she prayed, let him be all right.

A/N: Don't worry, he'll be all right. Fluff returns up next!