Flack watches as I pick the camera apart on the table. I use a delicate screwdriver to unscrew each section, and I pick the pieces of shattered plastic out using a pair of forceps. I quickly take the support off my wrist, preferring the mild pain when I bend it to the frustration of having movement prevented. I'm well aware that Flack's looking rather impatient, but I take my time, deconstructing the shattered camera until at last I reach the card slot and tease out the small memory card, holding it up triumphantly.
He grins. "Finally. Let's see how good you are at taking pictures in the dark."
"Don't hold out too much hope," I warn him. "Anyway, we need the photos from the shop too. If they don't come out we're in trouble."
I slide it into the card-reader slot on the computer, and we hold our breath. There's a painful pause of about ten seconds, and then the picture folder opens on the screen. I scroll down through the thumbnails, reassuring myself that my crime scene photos have survived intact, and stop at the last two. I double-click, opening them to fill the screen, and flick between them. The second one is a bleached pure white face right in front of the lens, the reflected flash having completely obscured any features. I click back to the other one.
Flack and I look at each other, and I'm amazed at how well this picture has turned out. Granted, the man is at a diagonal, but he's dead on to the camera I aimed blindly. His shocked features are perfectly distinct in the harsh light.
"Gotcha," Flack says, very quietly.
"Do you know him?" I ask.
"No, but now we've got his face, I soon will."
I send all the images to the printer. "Still angry with us?" I ask as we wait.
He sighs. "Stell, I'm sorry I shouted. But look at it from my point of view. I had no idea what'd happened to you when I got to that subway station."
"You've had Mac's apology, here's mine. It was stupid of us."
"It's ok, I'm sure you've thought it over since then. Just saying, I never want to have to be in charge of a scene with one of your bodies. It was bad enough with Frankie, and with Aiden."
"I know." It's what we all dread, having to work on a case file containing the name of one of our friends or family. And all of us here consider each other as family.
He claps me on the shoulder. "C'mon. Let's get these pictures to Mac and the doc."
"I'm here," Mac says from the open door. "I came to see if you'd managed to get anything off the camera yet."
"Got his face," I tell him. I hand them to him. "Do you recognise him?" I ask.
He frowns. "He seems… familiar somehow. But I'm not sure why. I've certainly never interviewed him in connection with a case."
"So, we still have a guy with no name, and an unknown motive."
"At least we know what he looks like. We can run him through the database, see if we get any hits."
Flack's pager suddenly goes off. He reads it and sighs. "Well, much as I've enjoyed trying to keep you two alive, I'm off. If you get a name, let me know."
"Would you mind passing the photos from the bridal shop into Hawkes on your way?" I ask.
"Anything for the damsel-who-was-in-distress." I fold my arms. He laughs, picks up the sheaf of photos, and leaves.
Mac's still concentrated on the picture of our attacker, face frowning slightly. He looks up suddenly. "Why do you think he didn't grab the camera off you?"
I think back, trying to slow down what happened in my head. "I think he might have tried, when he lunged at me. He caught me in the face with something," – I gesture at the line of stitches on my forehead – "So if I'd been holding the camera up to take a photo he'd have knocked it out of my hands."
"Weren't you holding it, then?"
"No, I guess I wasn't." I pause and close my eyes, raising my hands to mimic my position when I took the last photo. "I was holding it like this… my Glock was in my right hand, so most of the weight of the camera was in my left. Stand there, will you?"
Mac stands directly in front of me. I gesture. "No, closer. Right there."
"He was this close?" There's only about a foot between us.
"Yes, that's about where he was when the camera flashed for the second time."
"You screamed, didn't you?"
I feel myself blush slightly. A trained police officer, in the force for years, and I screamed when a man crept up on me in the dark. What's more, it was in front of Mac. "Yes I did. Please don't tell anyone."
"I promise," he says, with only the merest hint of a smile playing around his mouth. He raises his hand so that it's very nearly touching me. "But look. If I move my hand, I can't help hitting the camera."
"Ah. No. What happened… it was reflexes. Left hand to support my right hand holding the gun. I let go of the camera, so it fell a second before his hand got there." I demonstrate. "Swing your hand round again."
He does so, and his hand stops at my two hands holding the imaginary gun. "So, I'm the attacker and I can tell that what I knocked out of your hands was the wrong shape to be the camera. I didn't hear anything other than the gun hit the ground, so I assume you're still holding the camera in your other hand, because it's pitch dark and I can't see it's on a strap. So I try again." He gently swings his arm again, and this time stops when his hand is gently touching my face. "And that was what knocked you backwards. It probably wasn't his plan to make you fall down the stairs." He lets his hand drop back to his side.
I think back. "I could hear shouting, as I was falling…"
"That was me. I heard him hit you, and you fall back, and I was shouting. He knocked into me as I was trying to turn the torch on, and I dropped it. Then the gunshot, and running footsteps. Then there was just silence until I heard you coming towards me, although of course I didn't realise it was you."
"Where was the shot aimed?"
"The bullet was lodged in the wall of the stairwell, between where we were both standing. It could have been aimed at either of us. I think, though, he knew he was very unlikely to hit us in the dark, and it was mainly to distract us while he got away."
"Oh." There doesn't seem to be anything to say. What I'm thinking is,One of us should be dead. His face is still so close to mine, and I can see a shadow behind his eyes. I wonder what I'd be able to do, what I'd be doing right now, if that bullet had hit him. Once, I told Mac I didn't think I'd be strong enough to go on living if I tested positive for HIV, but that would be nothing, nothing at all, compared to not having Mac here.
On impulse I grab his hand that gently touched my cheek a minute ago, and squeeze it tightly. I need the reassurance that he's still here, still warm and alive, and he responds by squeezing back. Perhaps he needs even more reassurance. Not even knowing what I'm going to say, I begin. "Mac…"
Hawkes pushes open the door and the two of us jump backwards and drop each other's hand as if we've been burned. Hawkes doesn't appear to have noticed, until he winks at me when Mac looks around him in embarrassment. He appears to be in a good mood.
"You have something?" I ask hopefully.
"Yes, I do. Get this. The guy was careful not to leave a single fingerprint, hair, anything. But he sneezed on the roses, after he'd dripped the blood on them! I shone the black light on them to get a clearer look at the blood pattern, and the saliva pattern jumped right out. I sent a swab to DNA already."
"That's great," I say, and I'm understating. We have his face, we have his DNA. Now it's only a matter of time before we have him too. Mac lets out a breath it seems he's been holding for hours, and I know he's thinking the same as me.
Soon, this will all be over.
A/N: Thank you all again for your reviews! I know I say this every chapter, but I really am grateful for them. Do you think Stella's optimism is well-founded? ;) Blue x