Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".

A/N: Sorry, some formatting problems held this up – this site doesn't like even FAKE email addresses! It doesn't look as pretty as I had planned, but you may forgive me (or not!).

Thank you so much to all my wonderful reviewers again, even if most of you just upped the threat factor! I promised you would learn something here. And I always keep my promises: eventually! Enjoy; whether you are responding or just reading – you are all appreciated.

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.

It's A Long Journey Home

Chapter 58: So Hard to See

He say "One and one and one is three"

Got to be good looking 'cause he's so hard to see

Come together right now over me

John Monroe pulled into the parking lot at the Bozeman Police Station, pulled his laptop out of its bag, and booted it up. While he waited, he checked his cell phone for messages. No one had heard from Lindsay yet. That morning, he had felt his mother's strain and worry like carbon dioxide gas in the house: a constricting of the veins, a headache hovering just behind the eyes.

He closed his eyes a moment. Not for the first time, he missed his team. He wasn't used to doing this on his own. The day before with Messer had felt strange, but good. They had played the sheriff and his boys like rock stars. He hadn't expected to like any one who came into Lindsay's life, "And I'm not saying I like him now, cocky New York bastard," he grumbled to himself.

Still, the game had been fun. If you're going to piss in someone else's sandbox, it's nice to have a lookout.

Now his sister was stuck in a blizzard in a remote cabin that he had put her in, fighting for her life, whether she knew it or not, with nothing but a loud-mouthed New Yorker for back up.

"And a couple of guns," he reminded himself. After all, the Monroe boys had done the packing. Their kid sister wasn't going to have any trouble defending herself. From Messer, should that prove necessary.

He heard the message alert beep and opened his eyes. Automatically checking his work email first, he swore softly. His supervisor was sympathetic, but getting antsy. Two big cases had come in, and Agent Monroe was needed as soon as possible. Could he give an ETA for his return?

Groaning, John logged out of that account without answering the question, opened the address he had given Hawkes and the New York team, and blinked when he saw several messages in the inbox.

"Well, well, Doc. Looks like you called in the cavalry here." He opened the first message, which included the picture Hawkes had captured off the TV footage. He blinked again, and his face broke into the kind of smile no one really wants to be across the table from. "Now, who do we have here?" He copied the .jpeg onto his flash drive, and added the documents Hawkes had sent in a subsequent message.

Then he opened the messages from Bonasera, Flack, and Taylor. Essentially, given the differences in language, they had the same message.

From: Stella Bonasera

To: John Monroe

Subject: Montana Manhunt

Hi John!

Looks like Shel broke the case for you, but tell the Feds to keep their grubby mitts off; he's all ours!

Take this guy down hard, would you? I'd hate to have to come out to Montana and show you how it's done. And while you're at it, rattle the rest of them good too.

Give Lindsay a hug and kiss for me when you spring her from the deep freeze, and don't take anything Danny says too seriously. He's one of the good guys. I mean the really, really good guys.

Next time you're in town, give us a call – we'll show the REAL New York!

Stella

From: Don Flack, Jr

To: John Monroe

Subject: Take down

Monroe – figures it took a New Yorker to work this one out! I expect to hear the screams from the suspect from the Rockies all the way to the five boroughs, got that? Let's what you Feebs can do on your own.

Tell Linds we're rooting for her, and let Danny know the King is still dominating the ice. If you come to the Big Apple, we'll show you why the Rangers whip the Capitols every time!

Anything more you need, just let us know – happy to solve your cases for you!

Don Flack Jr.

From: Mac Taylor

To: John Monroe

Subject: Monroe case/Montana

Agent Monroe:

I hope that you have received all the pertinent information provided by Dr. Sheldon Hawkes. Please let us know if there is any further assistance we can provide the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or you personally, as you clear up this matter. Should it be necessary, I will ensure that Dr. Hawkes is available to testify to the collection and interpretation of the evidence.

I very much hope to have both Detectives Monroe and Messer safely back in New York City as soon as possible. Naturally this has been a difficult time for them; I am sure Detective Monroe will be very relieved to have the case put to rest and her association with it finished.

Please let Lindsay in particular know we are thinking about her.

Mac Taylor

Nice to see a touch of the human in Taylor at the end there, John thought. He grinned at the offers from Stella and Flack and thought one day, he may take them both up on it.

"Okay, Monroe, get your game face on. This is the last play, and it's for the whole enchilada." John pulled the flash drive out of his laptop, straightened his tie, and put the FBI face on as he swung out of the car.

Just as he had done the day before, he swung through the police station as if he owned it, ignoring the bleating underlings the same way he would have brushed off insects. His shoulders twitched a little uncomfortably under the well-cut dark suit he was wearing; he felt the lack of back up, and wondered briefly if he should have brought Jamie and Mick with him. But they had no official standing, and their presence could have done more harm than good, especially as he had not told his parents just what danger Lindsay could be in.

"Yeah, well, she's got her own bodyguard on site, and he better be just guarding that body or there's going to be hell to pay." His face grew grimmer at the thought, so by the time he hit the door to Olafsen's office, he was as frightening a vision as a man with a guilty conscience could want to see.

It certainly seemed to strike Olafsen that way, as he flinched back in his chair when Monroe walked around the desk to insert his flash drive into Olafsen's computer.

"John? Nice to see you. Can I help you with something here?" It would have been convincing if Olafsen hadn't been gibbering a bit, words tumbling over each other.

"We need to talk, Bob. But first, you need to see this information."

Monroe scrolled through the information Hawkes had sent: first he showed Olafsen the messed up, repeatedly incorrect ballistics reports.

"Can you think of any reason these reports would ALL be wrong, Bob?" Monroe kept his face neutral: lawman-to-lawman for now.

Olafsen ran a handkerchief over his sweaty face, "Do you think I haven't been worried about this, John? For God's sake – this is my precinct here. This is Lindsay; you know how we feel about her. If someone is screwing up on my watch, by God, I will find them."

"Nice words," Monroe thought to himself. "Wonder why I'm not buying the act? Oh, yeah, because you did nothing to protect her once she was obviously in danger."

"So you have no idea how these reports could have been wrong? Three times? Are we even sure that this latest one is right?"

He waited a moment for Olafsen to reply, but the older man just tightened his lips and looked at the computer as if looking for answers there.

"What about this?" Monroe opened the document with the ballistics report from New York, matching the bullet found in the Monroe field to the second shooter's Win94 shot in 1995.

Olafsen's eyes narrowed as he read the report thoroughly. "Where did you get this bullet from?"

"From my parents' field, where Detective Messer and my brothers found it after your men refused to go look for it. This is the bullet that was shot at Lindsay." His voice was cold and professional, but Monroe could feel his hands starting to shake. He stuffed them in his pockets.

"Again, Agent Monroe, you have my word. If this office is responsible in any way for the present situation, I will get to the bottom of it." Olafsen's ice blue eyes were pools of sincerity.

Monroe wasn't buying the pitch, "Whatever, big man. Let's watch you wriggle out of this one," he thought. Out loud he said, "This may help."

On the screen, he put up Evans' original report from the 1995 shooting, with his admission that he had followed a boy in a long black coat a few yards before following orders and going into the school.

Olafsen sat forward, jaw slack in shock.

Then he moved faster than Monroe would have given him credit for, grabbing the phone and yelling into it, "Get me Evans. I don't care where the fuck he is! If he isn't in this office in under five minutes, he can just keep his ass out of here for good!" His face was crimson with poorly suppressed fury.

Monroe said nothing, sitting back in the chair he had pulled forward when he inserted his drive. He was content to let this play out before he added the next wrinkle, which was the picture Sheldon Hawkes had captured from the media footage, together with some additional information. That would blow the top off of the Bozeman office, but it could wait a few more minutes.

"Let's see Evans bull his way through this one," he thought, a little smugly.

Evans arrived at the door, colour a little high and breath a little fast, but otherwise unruffled. "What do you need, Bob? I'm in the middle of an investigation here."

Olafsen sat back in his chair, "Good thing I'm not counting on you to bring it to bed, then, isn't it? You're off the case, Evans."

Evans' jaw tightened, and he sat down slowly. "What the fuck are you talking about?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"I don't keep people on major cases when they lie to me, and have been since they were given the case. Why didn't you tell me you had been there when the Forbes kid was shot?"

Evans blinked, "You had my statement."

Olafsen shook his head, "It wasn't in the file. Where did you guys find it?" He turned to John Monroe, whom Evans had not acknowledged in any way.

"It was in the file, but well buried inside another one." Hawkes, though, left nothing to chance, Monroe thought.

"You should have told me." Olafsen ignored the partial excuse given by Monroe. "Dammit all, Carl. I trusted you with this. And now I find out you not only were there and didn't say anything in all the briefings that we've held, but that you also actually saw the second shooter. What the fuck is that?"

Evans blinked again, and his skin greyed. "I didn't know for sure the person I saw was involved. Lots of kids were wearing those riding coats just then; it was a big fad. I saw the kid, started to go after him, then Graham called me into the school. I followed orders, sir."

Monroe sat forward, effortlessly gathering the attention in the room. "And did you recognize the boy in the long black coat, Detective? Did you know who he was?"

Evans' eyes flickered to the left before returning to Monroe's stern face. "No."

"Would this help?" Monroe opened the .jpeg Hawkes had sent him.

"Holy shit," Olafsen breathed it out in, Monroe would have sworn, genuine shock.

Evans averted his head as soon as the picture was clear enough to distinguish the unmistakable features of a very young Ross Adams.

"Adams was the second shooter. He shot Patricia Collins in the back as she lay on the ground begging for her life. He shot Mark Sorensen at least twice when he moved to protect Laura. He hit Lindsay Monroe in the head with his rifle butt, and then he walked out behind his partner and shot him in the back." Monroe's voice was calm and still icy cold.

His stomach was churning though: he had known all the kids vaguely, the way one does. But he had known Tricia Collins for nearly ten years, his kid sister's little riding buddy, four years younger than him, a bit bratty still at nearly sixteen, but growing into a beautiful and confident young woman. She had been a part of the family, and something in him had closed off when she died.

"Ross Adams, who was moved out of town to Billings, where he graduated three years later. Had a nice life: went to university, came back to work here. Had access to all case files, including yours, Detective, and was placed on this case by none other than you, Detective Evans. A position he obviously used to affect the gathering and processing of evidence."

"And last," John Monroe was on his feet now, bending over Evans in his chair, "But by no means the least, Ross Adams, whose stepfather was Chief Aaron Graham."

Evans put his face in his hands, but said nothing.

Disgusted, Monroe walked to the window and stared out of it blindly.

Olafsen lifted his phone again, "Get me Adams in the lab. Send him to my office, under escort."

His voice was uninflected, and he sat without moving as they waited for Adams.

A young woman in a lab coat came to the door, knocking tentatively. "Sir?"

"Yes?" Olafsen did not look at her, continuing to stare blindly into space.

"Ross Adams, sir? He didn't come in to work today. No one's heard from him."