Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.

A/N: Thanks to all who are reading, reviewing and enjoying this story. I hope you'll stick with me a little while longer.

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

The Shadow

It stands deep, sunk in the absences of light

Melted into the places where nothing exists.

It has no substance, moves no dust as it travels

At the speed of dark.

A measured pace.

When the eye searches, it cannot be seen

Light absorbed into shade,

Ghosting into dim reminiscence.

When the eye turns away

It speeds past like the spider on the floor,

A mere shade of momentary disquiet

A breath of disturbance quivering through the air.

The shadow which hovers behind the left shoulder

A constant remembrance of things

Discharged by the memory.

SMT2007

Chapter 45: The Observer Changes the Observed

He stood in the shadows, always, hood pulled up, headphones on. He moved so quietly he often arrived in a room unnoticed, and was sometimes gone before anyone had registered his presence. He had practiced for years walking silently, standing still, slowing his breathing down until it was almost imperceptible.

He had been a quiet child, keeping to the corners, out of reach of swift punishing hands and booted feet. When he realized that people paid no attention to a child as long as that child did nothing to attract notice, he learned to listen and observe as well as blend into the background. He had always thought he would make a very good poltergeist; people seemed not to notice him no matter what he did.

But his undoubted skills took him in another direction altogether. And now it was the boy's turn. For weeks he had been following him, and although the girlfriend had caught sight of him today, he wasn't worried. Hiding in plain sight was never difficult, especially on a campus over-run with students. If he'd had a pack with him this morning, they would never have looked twice.

Pretty girl. And the kid seemed decent enough. Briefly, he wondered why his employer had set him on the kid's trail. Then he shrugged and forgot about it. He didn't get paid to wonder why. He got paid to do what he had trained himself to do for nearly ten years, ever since the last time his mother's boyfriend of the hour had taken it into his head to beat the crap out of the little boy he had been then.

Come to think of it, it was the last thing that guy ever did.

He sank further into the shadows outside the New York Crime Lab building, and turned up his music. The mark had gone in. He could wait until the kid came out again.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Ethel Mergetz looked into Stella's eyes a long moment, as if to gauge her character. Finally appearing satisfied, the old woman sat back with a sharp nod of her head, and when Lindsay came back with her coffee in hand, launched into the story without any more preamble.

"I can only tell you what I was told, you understand, my dears. As I said, the Rileys were too good for the likes of me and my Hermann, in spite of liking my coffee well enough, and coming to buy my pastries and handing them around at parties as if they were the work of her own fair hands." Ethel sipped her coffee. "But neighbours talk, and I dare say what I know is as close to the truth as you could find these days."

"Jamie Riley was a fine brave fellow, and he and Spillane had dreams for their little gang of hoodlums. They had already tried to move in on a few different areas, and been beaten back only by luck and viciousness in some cases. The big fight in '67? '68? The one where Lorenzo got shot, anyway – that was just one more battle in an on-going war for the streets. A few years later, though, they were trying to make arrangements, make alliances, between the Luccheses and the Irish. And Maureen was a pay-off."

Lindsay's eyes had been getting rounder as Ethel spoke, and now she put a hand over her mouth. But Stella just nodded. "An alliance between the Rileys and the Messers."

Ethel nodded again. "Jamie wanted the score, Spillane wanted blood-ties, and Gino wanted in. Gino would have married the girl himself, but he had already made his move. So up steps little brother." Ethel's voice left no one in any doubt what she thought of Anthony Messer. "Twenty-four years old. Already the perennial sidekick, always in his brother's shadow. Married off to Maureen Riley, disgraced and unrepentant little whore. Of course, no one said that out loud: she had six big brothers to protect what was left of her reputation. Eighteen years old and branded for life, married to an Italian punk with nothing to hold onto but his reputation on the street."

Stella sat back and worked her way through the cast of characters. "So Maureen, daughter of an Irish mobster, has a child with Lorenzo Sassone, who is connected to the Bonnanos?"

Lindsay interjected, "And presumably knows enough about the adoption to be able to find the child later; at least she would know where she had been sent, where the baby had been born."

Ethel nodded, eyes bright.

Stella went on, "Then she gets bartered away to Anthony Messer, brother of an up-and-coming wise guy, connected to Luccheses."

Lindsay said quietly, "Which means Danny is connected to – well, nearly everyone."

Ethel's eyes lit up again, "Oho – Daniel Messer? So that's where the beer gets in the bottle?"

Lindsay shook her head, confused by the reference.

"Daniel Messer is your interest in all this?" Ethel clarified.

Lindsay nodded, ducking her head a little against the blush. "He's my partner – in the NYPD Crime Lab."

Ethel said nothing, but the very silence resonated with her knowing smile.

"You knew the boys then, Ms Mergetz?" Stella said.

The woman took another genteel sip of her coffee, dabbing at her lips with a napkin before setting her cup down sharply. "And the old woman. Never saw much of Maureen after she got married. Not much for being out and about, not during the day at any rate. But Lucia Messer. Ah, there was a sweet lady. She deserved better, I can tell you that much."

The old woman sat staring into the past a moment, then looked up with a fierce light in her eyes. "Old people should not be left in corners to be called for when convenient. We deserve better, I tell you."

Stella and Lindsay sat silent for a moment, allowing the woman some space for her obvious grief.

"Ms Mergetz. What happened to Lucia?" Lindsay whispered.

"She came to America when the younger boy was born. Maureen had a hard time with that one; the older was easy as could be, but the little one, your Danny …" Ethel sighed. "Used to be the most dangerous thing a woman could do was give birth. Maureen nearly died twice: once when she began to bleed – three, maybe four months in – and they had a time to stop it. That's when Anthony insisted on bringing his mother from Messalina; Maureen's mother sent her a priest and lit a candle for her."

The old woman's lip curled in a sneer. "Lived around the corner and couldn't be bothered to come visit." She shook her head in disgust.

"So Lucia came to New York. No English, no friends. Gino helped pay for her to come, but did little else that any of us could see. Anthony basically put her up in that little apartment in a room in the back, and went back to being a mama's boy. And Maureen nearly died again when the baby was born – spent six weeks in hospital. Lucia looked after that boy as if he were her own. And Maureen? Well, what is it they say these days? She never really bonded with that boy. Blamed him for everything that went wrong in her life after that."

Ethel stared out the window, old sorrows, old bitternesses etched on her face. Then she sipped her coffee again and her face magically smoothed, the cynical gleam returning to her eyes. "Of course, she should have been blaming the bottle she crawled into after the baby! That would have been more to the point."

She sighed and finished the coffee, pushing herself slowly to her feet. "Lucia? She died – oh, ten? More? – years after she moved here. Got sick and just faded away. Some people whispered about it – said she had been helped along." Ethel shook her head. "I don't think so. I think she just gave up. The older boy went bad – left school and went on the street, joined some jumped up little gang."

"But Danny?" Lindsay said quietly, almost pleadingly.

Ethel looked at her apologetically. "Ah well, miss. We all make mistakes when we are young, don't we?"

A bell went just then, startling Stella and Lindsay, who had ignored the changing light in the room.

"Stel, it's 4:00!" Lindsay gasped in some horror.

John was standing at the door, pointing at his watch. "It's feeding time at the zoo," he said quietly. "We're being asked to leave."

Stella turned to say thank you to Ethel Mergetz, who had returned from putting her empty cup on the dish trolley.

"Don't mention it, my dear. Sad times in some ways, but always interesting. Long ago now. But talking to such young and pretty girls made the day go faster," the old woman said with a smile.

"Ms Mergetz? Just one more thing? You say you didn't live in the same neighbourhood. How do you know so much about the family?" Lindsay asked.

"My Hermann was always a good business-man," Ethel said complacently. "Owned his own business – the café you know, dear. But I was no slouch either. My son manages them for me now, of course – our third boy, dear – all ten apartment buildings. Including the one the Messers have lived in for over forty years."

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Flack had dropped Danny at his apartment, offering to go up with him. Danny had turned him down, gently for him. "You look like hell, Flack. You need to go home yourself, get some sleep. I get the feeling that hasn't been high on the agenda these past few days."

Flack nodded brusquely, and waited while Danny climbed up the stairs of his building. He knew Messer would prefer to drag his ass up the ten stories without an audience, but still he sat pulled up to the curb, waiting to see a light come on in the window he knew was Danny's front room. It took nearly ten minutes before he breathed a sigh of relief.

His phone beeped: a text message had come through. As he put the car into gear, he flipped open the phone and grinned when he read the message: Hey Mom! Go home!

He beeped the horn once and pulled out into traffic, but did not take the advice, well-meaning and probably smart as it was.

Instead, he found himself pulling up in front of St Augustine's. He sat in the front seat, nervously drumming his hands on the steering wheel, for several minutes before he finally hauled himself out of the front seat of his car.

He dragged himself up the large stone stairs as reluctantly as he had when he was a child, forced to go to Catechism class instead of playing b-ball with his friends. He dragged himself through the huge wooden doors, hand dipping automatically into the font at the entrance, making the sign of the cross without conscious thought, lips murmuring "in the name of the Pop, the Kid, and the Holy Spook", half expecting the smack of hard fingers across the back of his head. Father Antonelli had little patience with a small boy's irreverence.

He genuflected and sat down in a pew at the back of the church. He could hear the soft murmur of voices muffled by the oak and velvet curtains of the confessional box, and closed his eyes for just a moment while he waited.

He could smell the incense still lingering in the corners of the church from the Vespers service recently completed. Although spring was flirting around the corners, it was still dark enough in the afternoon that the glow from the candles was brighter than the light through the stained glass windows, but Flack could feel the warmth across his face, and put his head back to enjoy it while he could.

The smell of sanctity – incense and beeswax, and the lemon polish the old women used when they cleaned the church as an act of holy worship. The soft sound of the organist practicing in the loft above his head, something slow and unbearably solemn that built and sobbed out its passion until he felt almost lifted off his seat.

He could hear his mother's whispered prayers, feel the shuffle of feet as little sisters giggled and poked, bask in the sure knowledge his father was taking the long-winded sermon as a chance to catch up on some sleep.

He had spent half his life in this church: baptized in that font, singing in that choir loft until his voice changed, serving at the altar after that. He had been as devout, he supposed, as most Catholic boys were. Not as devout, it turned out, as Tony Reagan had been.

He grinned a little and settled down to wait until Confession was over.

-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY

Tony came out of the small box he had spent the last hour soothing, coaxing, and berating his parishioners in. It was his favourite part of being a priest, although not being exposed to the small petty grievances and daily hurts his people inflicted on each other. It was the chance to step in and make a difference in the way a man saw his own actions, or the way a woman thought of her life. He liked listening to people's problems and finding a way to help them cope. He believed, in the Confessional Box, he was closer to really doing God's work than anywhere else in his daily ministry.

But it could sure kick the shit out of a person.

He knelt at the altar rail a moment, praying silently, running the names of his flock through his mind like beads on a rosary, reminding God of their foibles and weaknesses, and asking for strength and courage for his own. Finally, he genuflected at the altar, before turning to leave. He startled when he saw a figure in the shadows at the back of the church. It was not uncommon for street people to come in seeking warmth and shelter, and St Augustine's prided itself on turning away no person in need, so Tony walked softly down the aisle to talk to the poor soul and see what help he needed.

A low ray of sunlight pierced through the stained glass window, bathing the darkened face with a golden radiance, and Tony caught his breath. Of course he recognized Don Flack nearly right away, but for a moment, for one heartbeat, the pale drawn face had looked like the face of an angel: one of God's warriors, fierce and solemn and filled with the anguish of immortality looking down at the brief and pitiful lives of God's small people.

Flack opened his eyes; he must have been channeling his father, although he hoped he had at least managed to avoid snoring. He looked straight into Tony's face, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"I'm sorry, Tony."

"It's okay, Don."

And like that, it was.

"You have history. It stands."