Here's the next chapter. Enjoy. -TA

The One That Got Away

By Nomi

CHAPTER 3

The Photograph on the Wall

"Okay Sam, what just happened in there?" Dean asked his brother as soon as they got back into their car.

"You and that dark-haired teen got off on a bad start?" Sam quipped as he fiddled with the car's old clunky radio. "And I think we should join the digital revolution and upgrade this analogue antique."

"I'm talking about what's going on between you and that golden boy back there and you knew it, Sam," Dean refused to get distracted.

"Nothing…"

"Nothing?" Dean's tone was clearly disbelieving.

"Well, he looked familiar… sort of…" Sam hemmed and hawed a little uncomfortably.

"Sort of?" Dean questioned further. Was Sam hiding something? He started to wonder.

Suddenly Sam perked up and stared at the radio.

"Shhh…. Listen!" He hissed urgently.

It was a news report on another murder that occurred just last night. That would be the sixth victim.

"You got the name?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, a Mrs. Carson," Sam replied. "Let's go find some net access and see if we could get her address from the yellow pages online…"

There were only four Carsons listed under Bayport, New York. An hour later, the brothers made their way over the familiar yellow colored crime scene cordon and into the empty house. The police had spent the entire night till dawn profiling the place and had left. The EMF sensor that Sam carried started to beep as soon as they entered the front door. Sam and Dean exchanged grim nods. They had their confirmation that something Supernatural was killing all those women. And they had to find out what and why as quickly as possible. The two brothers got to work on the crime scene.

It was an hour later when Dean made his way back into the living room to see his brother carefully studying an old framed photograph on the wall. He was about to approach Sam when a soft but authoritative voice cut through the quiet of the Carson home.

"Can't you see that this is an active crime scene?" Fenton snapped at them. "I suggest you leave your leave now before I have you charged for interfering with criminal investigations and destruction of material evidence."

Dean and Sam swiveled around to see a tall well build man in his mid forties standing at the door, arms akimbo with a very annoyed expression on his face.

Dean suddenly felt small before that man. It was like getting caught with his hands in the cookie jar by his father. Of course, that never really happened in his real life. His childhood was filled with monsters and nightmares, and not cookie jars. A quick glance at Sam's expression told him that his brother felt exactly like he did.

"And please leave your memory card behind. I will not have you two writing sensational lies and causing more grief," Fenton added in a mildly threatening tone, his hand gesturing casually at the camera in Sam's hand. He hoped that would be enough to chase those two off; he really rather not waste time dealing with persistent nosy reporters.

Perhaps it was the presumption that they were lowly tabloid reporters, or perhaps it was his hidden childhood resentment with his very curt and strict father who was always telling him what he could do better. But Dean let it pushed him into doing what he knew he should not. There were certain people one should never play the FBI line with, and the man before him was one of them. He ignored his own warnings.

"Special Agent Dean Winston and Sam Kerr," Dean introduced himself in his most authoritative voice as he flashed his fake FBI badge at Fenton. "And you are?"

So he thought we're nosy reporters, huh?! That aught to put him in his place! Dean thought with a sense of satisfaction. His confidence took a slight hit when the older man did not look impressed but instead looked downright suspicious.

"Fenton Hardy, lead investigator in this case. And I am surprised that I was not informed that two new FBI agents were assigned. Since the two of you are clearly not locals; where are you from?" Fenton did not bother to hide the disbelief from his voice.

"St. Louis," Sam quickly answered when he noted Dean was a little slow. But he could not shake the feeling that he was digging himself a deeper hole. And St. Louis was a mistake, he knew.

"I have a number of friends from St. Louis. I suppose you know Agent Kohler?"

When he heard that tone in Fenton's voice, Sam knew they had to walk out while that man was still giving them the chance. But for some reason, Dean could not, or refused to take that hint. And he groaned inwardly at Dean's response.

"You might know my mentor's mentor, Mr. Hardy, but I certainly would not know him," Dean shot back.

Sam quickly stepped in and interceded when he saw the dark clouds literally gathering on the older man's face.

"We're done here, Mr. Hardy," Sam said in his most placating tone as he placed a memory card on the table, before he tried to physically move his brother towards the door. Let's go while we still can; we're still on the FBI wanted list from St. Louis and Milwaukee… he hissed under his breath to Dean.

"I think you should listen to your big brother, Dean. He's clearly the one with some brains here," Fenton said as he took in Dean's rather childish mutinous expression. Somehow, that set stubborn expression reminded him of his younger son during his adolescent years. Perhaps that was why he was giving them a way out now. "And, you should know, FBI agents do not take pictures at crime scenes with a Sony Handycam." Fenton could not resist adding. Then he wondered why he bothered with a bunch of kids fresh out of journalism school who probably watched one too many Hollywood movies.

"I do not know where you pilfer that badge from, but if I see that in use again, I will not hesitate to have you charged with stealing and impersonating an officer of the law," Fenton warned as he watched the taller darker haired male literally bundling the other one out of the house.

Fenton was surprised when the one called Sam suddenly stilled before turning to face him. He found himself totally drawn in by the intensity of Sam's dark eyes. He barely suppressed a shiver.

"My brother and I are here to help, Mr. Hardy. We've seen and known of killers the likes of which you have never seen and will never see. Know that your threats do not scare us."

Dean stared at his little brother in shock. The shock was big enough to overcome his anger from the insult of being mistaken as the 'kid' brother when he was actually four years older than Sam. Where did that Sam come from? He could not help but wonder. He could sense the aura of power flaring from Sam for that fraction of a second. The expression on Fenton Hardy's face told him the older man had the same experience. Again, the Demon's words flashed before him. He shook those doubts away. Sam was his brother, and he knew his brother. He took a deep breath and quickly followed his brother back to his car. He felt better the moment his hand touched his beloved Impala. It was the one thing he had that was a constant sturdy part of his life. His Impala was always dark and weather-beaten, his Impala had always been there for him, and his Impala never let him down. His was a sad lonely life with a car as his best friend.

Fenton had to stop himself from taking a step backwards. He wasn't quite certain if that flash of something he felt was a threat. But he could be certain that Sam knew what he was talking about regarding their first hand experiences with killers. That was clear in the darkness that shadowed the depths of his eyes. It was the darkness of having witness terrible things that ones of their youth should not have. And it was also the darkness of loss. Now that he thought about it, the darkness was in the other brother's eyes too. So they were brothers, Fenton thought. And that parting shot was a protective gesture of one brother towards another, Fenton realized. Just like his sons, Frank and Joe. He felt his heart softened towards them a little.

He walked over to the table and pocketed the memory card before turning his attention back to the crime scene. Fenton could only hope that those two brothers had not compromise the crime scene in anyway. He sighed. The case was wearing everyone down. The bureaucratic and public pressure on his team to solve the case was immense. Yet they had no clues, no leads, and no motives with which to work from. The killer could be anyone out there, literally. That was why he chose to skip lunch and to return here to the crime scene. There was something bugging him about the crime scene, and he hoped to be able to find something that could help move the investigation to the next level, and hopefully before the killer strikes again.

So far, he had been unable to put his finger on it. The well-known PI admitted that it could just simply be a case of him missing obvious clues because he was tired. His unease could also logically be attributed to the fact that the latest victim was killed only three blocks from his house. The serial killer struck close to home this time. Fenton took several deep breaths to refresh himself. He should have more faith in his team's ability to gather all obvious evidence. But a part of him could not help but to hope that someone missed something somewhere so they could have the break they so desperately needed.

Someone somewhere's going to die soon, Fenton knew with absolute certainty. And that someone would be a person he knew. It would be someone whom he or Laura had talked to sometime in the past. It might even be someone they had dinner with during the last few weeks!

That last thought strengthened Fenton's resolve again. He took another detailed look about the house before returning, a little dejected, to the living room after an hour of fruitless search. He had to return to the police station since lunch break was long over. He took a final look about the now cold and empty living room. The bright yellow marker that showed the severed phone line, burnt off by an unknown method. He smiled a little at the number of photographs that graced the west wall. The Carsons loved taking photographs, and those were their favorites.

Then a memory flashed through his mind. That darker haired fellow, Sam, was focusing on a particular photograph. Which one was that? He closed his eyes and recalled that instant in time again. There, that one in the center! Fenton moved swiftly before that photograph.

It was a class photograph, held lovingly within a wooden handcrafted frame. He remembered the story of that frame; Beatrice Carson had told that tale many times, in loving memory of her father who carved it to hold the photograph which the old man was so proud of. Beatrice was the first in the family to graduate with a diploma. The heading of the photograph, written in a classic calligraphic script, read:

The Class of 1983, Bayport Nursing College

That was twenty three years ago. And the bottom of that picture was a list of names of the twenty two graduates of that year.

Fenton's eyes widened. He could not believe that those two fake FBI impersonating brothers actually saw something an entire team of investigators missed. All six victims were graduates of that class. They now had something reasonably concrete to work on. And as in most cases, the break was something simple and straightforward. In this case, it was a framed photograph on the wall.

He pulled his handkerchief out of his pants pocket and carefully removed that photograph from the wall. He was about to rush back to the police station when something else occurred to him. Those two brothers implied a certain familiarity with killers. Or did they imply a familiarity with this particular killer? The way the two of them behave, especially the one called Dean, was as if there was something personal about it. Had this particular killer struck before?

He had to find them, Fenton decided. They might know something else that would be useful. Actually, they probably know more than they are telling, he amended.

Something told the seasoned PI that the brothers were not impersonating FBI agents for the first time. Those two might be using standard lines from TV series and movies, but they did it with confidence and style, telling Fenton that they had some practice with it.

Fenton reached for his cell phone to call his partner, Sam Radley. He needed a favor.

"Hey Sam, Fenton here," he started off as soon as his partner picked up the phone. "I need you to check up on two young men impersonating FBI agents. They go by the name Dean Winston and…"

"… and Sam Kerr." Sam finished off for Fenton. "I got a call from Frank not too long ago with the same request."

Ah, so those two have been busy, Fenton thought.

"Did Joe get a look at them?"

"Yes, they met at the Hoopers this morning," Sam answered.

"Good. Get Joe to do a sketch of them both. I ran into them at the Carsons, and they just left a lead that might break the case. I would like to talk to them and ask a few more questions. I'm certain you won't find any Dean Winston or Sam Kerr on the FBI staff list, but I am equally certain they were using their real names: Sam and Dean. See what you can find out about them, I want a background profile on both… and if that's not enough to start on… take a quick look at St. Louis…"

"Will see what I can come up with, Fenton."

"Thanks pal."

While making his way back to his temporary office at Bayport Police Station, he scanned the list of names on that photograph. All those potential victims would have to be forewarned and placed under some form of protection. Then he paled; there, the first person on the right in the second row smiling sweetly back at him, was his wife, Laura Hardy.

---xxxSUPERNATURALxxx---