A/N: Apologise for the delay in this chapter and its length. I was a little plot stuck and had to wait for the plot bunnies to bite before this would work; now thankfully, It's back on track. Because it's back on track this was going to end up being a mammoth chapter so I spilt it into two. Second part will hopefully be up tomorrow – remember reviews spur me onto write!

Chapter 6- Shards of Light

The room was lit with the bright beams of fluorescent lights, their false suns bouncing off the bleached white walls, blinding him, even through the curtains of his eyes. He knew he was going to die. Wanted it, even. He'd given up trying to pull open the door, knowing that it was secured, it was unbreakable. He'd given up shouting, knowing that no one who cared could hear. Cared. They did care, he knew. Cared about themselves and stopping the damage he was doing to them. He raised a fist and brought it down hard on one of the bulbs, burning his hand. The pain didn't matter, he couldn't feel it as the grip sleep had on his arm was like a vice, clamping down on him, trying to drag him down to meet his brother, death. But the lights acted like buoys, keeping him afloat, stopping this living nightmare from ending. He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room, standing still, knowing they were watching. Knowing they were waiting.

-&-

The Dean's office was as Mac had expected it to be; oak panelled, elaborate book cases filled with leather bound tomes and some more modern volumes. His eyes scanned the shelves for any more works by Fitzgerald but found none, just rows or law texts, followed by complete works of Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare and, surprisingly, Tennessee Williams. Reyes' eyes caught his and he smiled, Reyes saying nothing about his choice of literature, obviously feeling as if he had no need to explain. Mac evaluated the professor; tall, fairly slim, clean shaven with slightly greying hair. He had no distinguishing features, nothing to make him stand out from the crowd. Even the suit which he wore was of less quality that one of Flack's, and having an idea of how much the Dean was paid both from his role at the college and as a consultant in private practise Mac was wondering why he was playing himself down.

"Out of the ten students you asked for only seven are available," Reyes said, sitting down at the other side of the desk, his back to a large window which overlooked Washington Square Park. The light filtered in behind him and on a bright day would blind anyone being interviewed by him. "The other three are on vacation. They have an idea why they're being asked – news spreads fast unfortunately."

Mac nodded, accepting the list Reyes passed to him. "And you have them here now?"

"Six of them, yes. Marlie Pearson hasn't arrived, although when I spoke with her forty minutes ago she said she was in Furman Hall. Shall I call the first one in?" Reyes said. "And can I get you a coffee?"

Mac declined the coffee. Experience and instinct had taught him to accept very little from potential suspects, and at the moment, Reyes still had to be a suspect. "If you could ask Ginnie Holbrook and Mikhail Akerfeldt to come in?" Reyes stood and nodded, exiting the room silently.

Mac moved places, sitting on one of the leather sofas. These weren't formal interviews; he simply wanted to gain some information about Brian Goddard from people other than his colleagues. The students he had selected were ones who had nominated him for an award the college had presented two years previously, where students and faculty alike had nominated the person they thought had influenced them the most. Twelve students had chosen Goddard, stating that he had counselled them through personal and work issues and had helped them complete their freshman or second year. Of the twelve, one had died in a car crash, another had left after falling pregnant, but the other ten were still at the university. Reyes had kept hold of the results, his PA logging them onto a database and they been readily available for Mac.

The first five students had little to say to him, and after Monty Littleton had left the room after saying how 'cool' Goddard was and very little else, Mac had begun wondering whether he was wasting his time. Then Daisy-Rose Taverton had emerged from the dark corridor, her face pale and wan, her eyes full of fear, as if speaking with a member of the NYPD was not on the top of things to do on a Sunday.

"Miss Taverton," Mac said, gesturing for her to sit down. She did, nervously, eyeing him with big blue eyes, the oceans contained in them.

"It's Daisy, please," she said, and Mac knew that it wasn't him she was afraid of. It was simply being there.

"How did you know Professor Goddard – he was never one of your tutors," Mac said, knowing that being to the point would ease her nerves rather than take a gentle approach which might make her suspicious.

She fixed her eyes on a spot behind him, pretending he wasn't there as she spoke. "Brian found me in the library one day when I was upset. He bought me coffee and offered me a place to stay. I was dreadfully unhappy in my halls. He understood and was just… there. Bad things stopped happening, my grades improved – I even got a boyfriend, although my parents disapproved of him. This year – my third – I moved into an apartment with my friend and saw less of Brian. He was happy about that, I think – to know that I was okay now," her voice wobbled and the ocean in her eyes began to spill.

Mac gave her a small smile, hoping she would catch sight of it. "We need information about Brian, Daisy. We have very little to go off at present. Who did he socialise with?"

She shrugged. "He didn't, as far as I know. He read a lot and spent a lot of time on the internet. Maybe he went in chat rooms – I don't know. It sounds terribly selfish, but I was more concerned with me at the time rather than him."

Mac looked at her quizzically, seeing the wall she was rapidly building between them. "What problems were you having in halls?"

"Homesickness, hadn't made friends… the usual stuff." It was a lie, he knew. He also knew that she wouldn't tell him the real reason.

"You said Brian gave you a place to stay, where was that?" he hoped he could get an answer from her. All searches were drawing a blank.

"Mercer Street, number three-eighty. There were three of us staying there – you'll probably find that out anyway," she finally made eye contact with him and he saw the undercurrents of still water.

"Who were they?" he asked, doubting he'd get a straight answer.

She shrugged. "I have names for them, but I doubt they're real. Sam Kaye, Martha Tilton, and Joe something. We didn't mix or speak. We had our own rooms and stayed separate."

"Why?" Mac said. "What was the reason you couldn't talk to each other?"

"None of us wanted to, I guess."

"What name did you have?"

"Dinah Shore. Brian suggested it. He said giving ourselves anonymity would help to distance ourselves from everything that had happened and then we could gain perspective."

He let the silence last as a cloud shifted and a line of light fell into the room, crossing Daisy's face. She was a pretty girl, high cheekbones and clear skin with naturally glossy brown hair. Her features dug up faces from the file in his head, and along with her surname he places her ancestry; she was Phillip Taverton-Brown's daughter, a self-made millionaire who had dealt in stocks and shares since he was seventeen and had recently retired and become a recluse. Daisy was his youngest daughter.

"Did you ever meet Taylor Raimo?" he said, breaking the silence as another cloud blocked the sun. Mac pushed a photograph in front of her, a picture of Raimo from the university database rather than a post-mortem picture taken by Sid.

She nodded, and he was surprised. "Taylor came to see us while we were at Mercer Street. It was clear he was a friend of Brian's although there didn't seem to be a relationship going on. He'd bring food and books sometimes – I had a month when I didn't go out. It was Taylor who talked me through my essays and assignments and helped me stay on the course. He's dead too, isn't he?"

Mac nodded. "Do you have any idea of who would do this?"

She stood up, wiping her tears away. "If I had I would run as far away as I could from them. I have to go, my friends are expecting me."

He let her leave, knowing that there was no more for her to say, no more, he knew, that she could say.

-&-

"They're all musicians from the 1940's," Flack said, banging on the door of 380 Mercer Street. "Sammy Kaye, Martha Tilton and Dinah Shore. Joe was probably Joe Loss."

Mac watched with amusement as Angell regarded Flack strangely. "And I always thought I would only be attracted to guys who lived in the twenty first century ," she said in an undertone which Mac just about caught. He chuckled.

"Actually, my grand-pop was a music buff," Flack said, grinning. "He passed all his old vinyl records onto me. I spent the best part of a week after the scarring incident going through them taking photographs and recording details, thinking they'd be great to sell on eBay until my mom got wind of the idea and put a stop to that."

Angell grinned back as the door opened, an older man looking back at them, his eyes dark, contrasting sharply with his white hair.

"Detective Taylor, NYPD," Mac said, showing his badge. "We have a warrant to search this address."

The man studied the badge closely, before opening the door a little wider. "And why would you want to do that?"

"The listed owner of this place has been involved in a homicide," Mac said.

The man nodded. "I wondered when you'd be round and how long it would take you to find this place." He turned around, letting them into the house. Mac noticed the red lesions at the back of his neck and caught sight of a number tattooed on his left forearm; a Holocaust survivor.

"Auschwitz," Mac said. The tattoo wasn't hidden. The man was proud of surviving.

He nodded. "And the day we forget it is the day it will happen again." He led them into the living room, sparsely decorated, the furniture and wallpaper belonging to the 1960's although it was well kept and clean. "I haven't been here long. I came over from the UK about three weeks ago to see Brian. The last time I saw him was a week ago today. He was staying at his apartment at the university with it being exam time. I am due to return to London on Tuesday. I didn't expect to see him again before I left. When I heard about his death I figured I'd best delay my flight – he was a good man," he looked about the room. "My name is Elior Rostow. My son used to work at the university which is how I know Brian."

"Was seeing Goddard the only reason you came?" Mac said.

Elior shook his head. "I came to warn his about my son. He bared a grudge for the part Brian played in him losing his job. My son sent me a letter five weeks ago, a very strange one, postmarked from New York. It was the first I had heard of him in six years. I came over here in the hope of talking sense into him. I have failed to find him."

"Do you still have the letter?" Flack said, looking through a pile of envelopes on the mantelpiece.

Elior shook his head. "I gave it to Brian. I haven't seen it since."

Mac regarded him carefully, the numbers still bold despite the years, as would be the memories. Elior looked at him, his eyes filled with tales too harsh for words to tell. "We have a warrant to search the house, looking for anything that may help us in finding Professor Goddard's killer. It would be helpful if you would give a statement at the station – Detective Flack will take you there," he looked at Flack who nodded agreement. Mac moved towards the younger detective. "I'll be with you shortly. Stella can replace me here." This was one interview he needed to listen to.

All reviews are appreciated, and suggestions for improvements also. Reviews also help to feed the plot bunnies - they don't like carrots!