Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY. Poetry not otherwise referenced is original.
A/N: I really appreciate everyone who has taken some time to review the last few chapters. I know this story has been going a long time, but we are coming closer to the end. I hope the people who are reading will continue to tune in!
Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
Changes
It's just the job.
The job which tightens my sinews, and ties up my heart
The job which holds me in place, unable to shift, to move.
I used to dance,
To flow through the world like water through stone.
I used to sing,
To speak without wondering which word would wound.
I used to be,
Simple and centred in space and in time and in breadth of soul.
It's just the job
Which has hobbled my feet,
Which has closed up my throat,
Which has sent me spinning off balance.
Just the job.
SMT2007
Chapter 51: If You Find a Loose End, Cut It
"What the hell is going on with your unit, Adams?" If Mac had yelled, the people standing at attention in the room would not have flinched. Instead, he spoke with an almost casual frigidity, as if he were merely curious, and each person there felt the freeze deep in their bones.
The four New York City police officers who had been assigned to the Garrett family and Natalie Chance stared at their shoes: nice clean expensive running shoes. Finally, the youngest, Michael Storuschuck, looked up into his sergeant's face.
"I'm sorry, Sarge. There were too many people for me to stay close. She made it on to the bus at the university loop before I could catch up. I called it in and O'Brien picked her up when she came off the bus near the Garretts' house, while I went for my car." But it had been parked several blocks away; parking on a university campus was criminally expensive, and his expense sheet didn't include parking.
"Who'd you see around Chance, Storuschuck?" Adams attempted to recover his authority. What was it about Mac Taylor, he wondered, irritated, that made every knee automatically start to bend?
The kid gave a good try, he thought, glancing under his eyebrows at Taylor, who was taking quick notes on the people Storuschuck had seen at the bus stop. Taylor's dismissive silence was enough to stiffen the kid's spine; he was determined not to screw up again.
"The person who got on the bus right after Natalie. Describe him again."
Eyes closed to focus more closely, Storoschuck did so. "Short – not more than 5'5". Dark hair: sort of goth-looking, very pale skin. Wearing a black hoodie, backpack, Converse sneakers. I noticed them because he nearly got caught in the door. If he hadn't slipped in front of me …"
Mac handed the kid an artist's sketch and asked in a weary voice, "Like that?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it could be." Storoschuck could not meet Taylor's eyes. Talk about having a chance and throwing it in the crapper. Everyone knew that getting Taylor's attention was a fast track to whatever type of career you could be looking for.
Mac motioned to him to hand it around to the other team members. "Recognize him?"
Tim O'Brien, Calvin Montiveo, and Helen Atherton all took a cursory glance at the picture, then shook their heads, thankful to be out of the line of fire.
Mac took the picture back and stared at it for a moment. "So none of you saw this guy yesterday?"
The two young men shook their heads instantly, mouthing quiet denials, while Atherton's head up came up swiftly, warning bells going off.
"Interesting. Because, Sergeant, this guy has been seen following Reed Garrett over the past few days. In fact, he's the reason Garrett is under surveillance."
Adams glared at O'Brien, who was Reed's shadow.
"No, sir. I didn't see him. Not at any time today. I followed Garrett from his family's home this morning to Chelsea, staked out his classrooms, then back to his home at 3:00. He took the bus, ate at the cafeteria with a couple of young guys – I downloaded the pictures if you want them, Detective Taylor – and then he walked back to the main bus stop. I followed. He walked into his house and I took up surveillance outside." O'Brien's voice ran out.
Mac turned mildly curious eyes onto Montiveo, who immediately stiffened and gave his report. "Peter Garrett left the house at 8:00 this morning. I followed him on foot to the New York City Library; he took the subway, arrived at the building at 8:45. He stayed in the building until about 3:40, and returned home the same way he came, arriving at his house at 4:25. He did not leave the building during the day, and met with no one outside of the staff."
Mac looked down at the picture in his hand again thoughtfully. "Atherton?"
The female officer who had been assigned to Miranda Garret gave a quick and efficient report, beginning with Garrett leaving at 6:00 in the morning to go to her gym, and ending with her walking in the door at 5:15 that night.
"Adams, you trust your men?" The voice was coolly neutral, but all four officers stood to attention when Adams stiffened.
"What the fuck kind of question is that, Taylor? Of course I do." The sergeant said it quietly, but his intense dislike of Mac Taylor rolled through the room.
"Then maybe you could ask them, Sergeant. You could ask them why it is that that this kid," Taylor smacked the picture of the boy who had been following Reed for days, "Why this kid was outside of the Garretts' house this afternoon, close enough to catch up to Natalie Chance when she went back out to the bus? Close enough to snatch her off that bus? And yet, your trained team of police officers, who must ALL have been at the house within minutes of her disappearance, saw nothing? Including seeing the person they were supposed to be following leaving the house and getting on the bus in the first place?"
Mac walked out of the room, leaving the four rookies in a room which had suddenly become a pressure cooker.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY
"Sorry to call you back in, Hawkes. Is Dr. Suq okay?" Stella's sympathy was nearly too much for Hawkes to take. He shook his head, but refused to unload this burden of guilt and anger on a friend already carrying too much.
"She's holding on, Stella. What do we have?"
"Not sure. Lindsay was able to isolate the fertilizer components, and she says she found something a little unusual." They swept into the lab, where Lindsay was labeling the last of her samples. Danny came over to the table, silently squeezing Hawkes on the shoulder in sympathy.
How quickly they had all figured out there was something between him and Dr. Nasreen Suq, he thought, bemused.
"Lindsay?"
Lindsay turned, her eyes alight as always when given the opportunity to explain her research. "So, the bomb was made up of the usual ingredients: ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. A reasonably stable compound, although it can be very dangerous, depending on the detonator used."
She handed Stella the readouts. "As you can see, nothing particularly strange – the formula is easily available."
Danny muttered, "Damn Internet – kids can find anything these days."
Hawkes grinned deprecatingly, "I don't know. When I was in senior high and wanted to find out how to make a bomb, I just asked a library geek. Had the answer within three hours. No Internet in those days."
Lindsay looked over her shoulder, "Was your geek a closet terrorist?"
Hawkes shook his head, "Big reader – he found the formula in Abby Hoffman's 'Steal This Book', a '60s manifesto on revolution."
Danny grunted. "What did you want to blow up, Hawkes?"
"I was twelve and three months from graduation. Anything."
Danny smirked, then became serious. "So, we looking at kids here, Linds? Could they do this?"
"Simple pipe bomb," Stella said thoughtfully. "The kind kids do make for fun. Is that all – a kids' prank gone all grownup?"
Lindsay was shaking her head. "I don't think so. This one was reasonably sophisticated, including a few safeguards to keep the bombers from losing digits." She indicated pictures of the replica the bomb squad had put together. "More importantly, though, the ingredients are … odd."
"Come on, Linds. Out with it." Danny rolled his eyes for her benefit, grinning a little to himself. Trust his girl to draw things out.
"Okay. Ammonium Nitrate fertilizers are made of manure, along with other components. Usually farm waste: cows, pigs, chickens. But this? This is high-class: pure, unadulterated Zoo Poo."
Stella snatched the readout again and stared at it. "What do you mean, Zoo Poo?"
"Manure from the zoo. Look at it, Stel. DNA from giraffes, elephants, zebras, hippos. All mixed together, sterilized and packaged for very high class gardens. This stuff goes for $10 to $15 a bag, twice as much as ordinary manure. It's very high in nitrogen, see? It's amazing stuff – did you know an elephant can produce a third of a ton of manure a day?"
"So who uses expensive manure to blow up a clinic?" Danny winced at the thought of cleaning an elephant display.
"Someone who doesn't know it's expensive …" Stella started.
"Or someone who doesn't give a shit." Danny finished.
-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY-CSI:NY
Flack rubbed his aching head. Even the five hours of sleep he had caught on the cot at his dad's hospice hadn't really helped the exhaustion he could feel tangled around his feet. And now two big cases had been dumped on him, under the assumption that "Organized Crime" included liaising with the Homeland Security idiots.
With a sigh, he spun around in his new, still uncomfortable chair and stared out the window of his fancy new office. He preferred his customary corner of the busy precinct building, where the constant coming and going of cops talking about cases had kept him in touch with all the things happening in his city.
Now, like Mac, he was looking out over the city. Funny how the bird's eye view made him feel unconnected, out of touch. He could imagine some men, men like his old captain, Gerrard, felt powerful and in charge from up here.
He just felt lonely.
Restless, he stood and walked towards the huge picture window, pressing himself against it, trying to see to Queens, the neighbourhood he had grown up in, the one that still screamed "home".
"Am I interrupting a tender moment here, Detective? Or are you contemplating jumping?"
The voice from the doorway was unfamiliar, but when Flack swung around to confront the man, his face broke into a grin. "Agent John Monroe. What the hell is the FBI doing in my city?"
John laughed, taking Flack's offered hand and shaking it warmly. "You know, New York is as much FBI jurisdiction as anywhere else, Flack."
Flack motioned to a seat, sitting down beside Lindsay's brother with a sigh of relief. That desk was big enough to crush a spirit, he thought. "So, Agent. You here for something special or just a family visit?"
John shook his head, "Business, I'm afraid." He handed Flack an envelope, and waited patiently while the detective glanced through the papers inside.
"Ah. I wondered who my liaison would be." Flack sat back, considering the man sitting beside him.
He saw a tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed man, solid and confident. No surprise there. Tough breeds came out of Montana – look at Lindsay Monroe, who could take down a man twice her size with a tackle that could rattle the teeth in his head. And confident was the FBI's secret handshake – you could always tell a G-man, even when he was a she.
He looked for some likeness to Lindsay – they were brother and sister after all – but could not see it. Where Lindsay was full of a vibrant curiosity, John Monroe was controlled, contained, even more than most FBI agents Flack had met. Somewhere in the man was a deep well of hurt; Flack just wasn't sure if Monroe owned it or dished it out.
Maybe both.
"So, Monroe, if this is a liaison meeting, liaise. What does the FBI think it can share with me that I don't already know?"
John sat back, looking up at Flack who had risen from his chair and wandered back to the window. He steepled his hands under his chin and began in a slow deep voice.
"Donald Flack. Junior. Born in 1975 to Donald Flack Sr, Lieutenant, New York City Police Department and Dora Kennedy. Grandson of Officer John "Jack" Flack, who spent close to 30 years on the streets and knew everything there was to know about everybody. Three sisters…"
He stopped when Flack made an involuntary movement, and skipped the rest of the family history he had memorized. "Police academy right out of school, graduated top of the class. Partner as a rookie beat cop – Gavin Moran, a dirty cop brought in by his protégé two years ago. Moved fast, made Detective in Homicide. Tapped for a highly public position after getting a lot of press notice, dubbed 'Super-Cop' in the tabloids. Has an impressive knowledge of New York crime history. In spite of a tendency to hot-dog," John grinned to himself as Flack's hands clenched, and continued a little more quietly, "Is respected and admired by some people I trust. Especially Lindsay."
Flack relaxed a little, turning to face his interrogator, the light from the window throwing him into deep shadow. "How is Linds doing? You staying with her?"
John shrugged, "She arrived at her apartment, alone, after midnight, and cried for three hours straight. I'm thinking Messer's head would look good mounted on my father's dining room wall."
"She hears you talking like that, yours will be right beside his." Flack sat in his too-big chair, and swiveled slowly. "Danny's okay. He's just … dealing with some stuff."
John snorted, "He makes my sister cry again, he can stop worrying about whatever he's dealing with."
Flack looked down at his hands, wound tightly together, "He's Gino Messer's nephew."
"Yeah. That too," John's eyes were cold, mere slits in his face.
"Look, Monroe," Flack sighed, "There isn't a thing you can tell me about Danny Messer and his family that I don't know or – if you could – that I would care about. He's connected. I know. Through the Messers to the Luccheses. I know. Through his mother to the Westies. I know. His brother was in Tanglewood. I know. You got anything new?"
"His half-brother …"
"Is a Sassone. Yeah, I know that too." Flack stopped, considered a moment. "There are connections all around him. But Danny? Danny is not connected, not by anything other than family. He is as straight as they come and I trust him. So does Stella Bonasera, and she would take him out without a second thought if she had any reason too. So does Mac Taylor, and he doesn't trust anyone."
He looked at the agent across the desk from him, and saw a brother. He sighed, "And Lindsay. She trusts him with her life. With more than her life. Don't go there, man. You'll only end up losing her and killing him."
It was John's turn to push himself out of the chair and wander to the window.
"We talked to Ethel Mergetz and Gunter Mauser. You knew?" He waited for Flack's quick nod. "Mauser had some ideas about Sassone's kid. I've spent the morning chasing down what he could remember."
"You found him?"
John nodded.
"Good agent or bad?"
"You tell me – you've met him." John said. "In fact, you have another meeting with him in about twenty minutes."
Flack looked up at him questioningly, just as his intercom buzzed and the secretary he had met that morning spoke, "Detective? Just a reminder that you should be leaving to go downtown. You have a meeting with Homeland Security at 11:00? You're to ask for Agent Troy Grant."
Flack sat back with a low contemplative whistle, "Thanks, Sonja." Then he looked up at John Monroe. "So, Agent Monroe. Care to visit the Homeland Security with me?"
Monroe nodded crisply, and grinned, "Lead the way, Detective. Let's see how FBI cast-offs who are also Mob by-blows do in the Homeland Spook department."