An Ill Wind
Chapter Three
Initial Results
OOO
Parole Officer's Michael Tillery's Apartment
321 8th Ave., Chelsea
4:33 A.M., November 19, 2005
Munch ran his finger down the list of tenants. "Here we go, Michael Tillery, apartment 308." He pressed the buzzer.
"You know, if I were this guy, I'd be pretty pissed," Fin said as they waited for a response to their buzz. At Munch's questioning look, he explained his thinking. "Being a P.O. is supposed to be a nine-to-five job. They tell you all you have to do is keep tabs on a few reformed felons. Next thing you know, they've tripled your case load, you have reams of paperwork, and you're on call any time one of your guys steps over the line."
"Yeah," Munch agreed pressing the buzzer again, "but on the upside, parole officers usually don't get shot at, they don't need a warrant to go into the parolee's home to have a look around, and they don't have to deal with the victims or their families."
"I guess there is a silver lining to every cloud," Fin agreed, and he pressed the call button and held it down for a good fifteen seconds. "And they don't have to stand out on someone's front stoop freezing their asses off at four-thirty in the morning waiting for him to decide to roll out of the rack and come see who's buzzing him."
"Yeah, what do you want?" a sleep-roughened voice shouted at them through the speaker.
"John Munch and Fin Tutuola, Manhattan SVU," Munch said holding his badge up to the camera lens. "We need to speak to you concerning one of your clients."
A curse was cut short as Tillery buzzed them in.
Room 327
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan
4:41 A.M. November 19, 2005
Kathy Stabler watched her husband as he rested in the big, white hospital bed and realized she had never, in all her life, seen him so vulnerable. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, been high school sweethearts. Maureen had been a happy accident, not unwanted, but a little earlier than expected, just a few months before graduation. They had managed to keep the pregnancy a secret from their parents until a few days after the wedding, and on his first leave from the marines, Elliot had become a father. They were both just nineteen at the time.
It had been difficult for them when he got out of the service a few years later. All he'd ever wanted was an Ozzie and Harriet life where she took care of the children while he brought home a paycheck and spent his time off cutting the grass, painting the shutters, and being the world's greatest dad. The reality had been that he was unemployed for months while she worked part time, and there was another baby on the way. For more than a year, they had only paid the interest on their mortgage, and barely that.
Eventually, he had enrolled in night classes, taken a part time job just to make ends meet, finished a degree in criminal justice, and joined the NYPD. It had taken them a while, but by the time the twins were born, they were well on their way to the American Dream.
He was only twenty-seven when he realized his hairline was receding, and that had freaked him out for a week or two. She had taken every opportunity to reassure him that he would be gorgeous no matter what happened to his hair, pointing out all the sexy famous men who were bald. Unfortunately, he didn't believe her when she told him Telly Savalas was hot as Kojack, but then she'd always been a lousy liar. He didn't know who Ben Kingsley was, and he was convinced that Sean Connery's only allure was the accent.
Finally, though, she'd hit upon Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw was someone Elliot could relate to, having played football himself in high school. The retired quarterback was showing his age and was not nearly so smart as her husband, but she had convinced Elliot that he was still a handsome man. The realization that he would probably age better than the former athlete had been enough to get Elliot over the initial shock of losing his hair, and ever since then, the prospect of slowly going bald had held no worries for him.
Kathy swallowed hard, fighting the urge to bawl as she looked down at her sleeping husband and thought how trivial their problems seemed in light of what they were facing now. She'd left him over a year ago, not because he was a bad husband, but because he was so angry all the time. All she ever wanted was to be a good wife to him, to take care of him, but, in the years since he'd joined the SVU, he'd shut her out more and more to protect her and their children from the horrors he saw every day. Now, she was terrified that when he'd finally called her for help, she wouldn't know how to be there for him.
She sighed quietly. First of all, he had to know she was here.
"El?"
Blue eyes fluttered open, and he favored her with a smile that showed equal parts delight and despair.
"You came," he said in wonder, his voice proving that he was as happy to see her as he was desperate to have her stay. "I can't believe you came."
"Elliot, I love you," she told him, certain for the first time in months that it was still true. "Where else would I be at a time like this?"
His face puckered for a moment as if he were going to cry, and then it relaxed. "Did Liv tell you what happened?"
"Not in detail, but I got the gist of it," she said.
"Do you want to know more?" he asked, his voice betraying his fears.
She took the seat beside the bed to be closer to his eye level, and then she took his hand in hers. "Yes, I want to know more," she said, "but only if you feel like telling me. I can't begin to imagine how terrible this is for you, El, and I know how hard it is for you to talk about things. I'm not going to push you to say anything because I don't want to push you away. I'll listen if you want to talk, but you don't have to. You don't have to tell me what he did, and you don't have to tell me how you feel, but Elliot, you must tell me what you need. I can't help you if I don't know what to do."
His face puckered up again and he gulped for air, then he said, in a tiny, frightened voice, "I just need you to hold me right now."
"Oh, Honey," Kathy sympathized, and, putting the railing down on the bed, she carefully sat on the mattress beside him and gathered him into a hug, and for the first time since Maureen was a baby, he curled up in her arms and bawled.
An Ill Wind
"Really, guys," Mike Tillery complained as he booted up his laptop, "couldn't this have waited for office hours?"
"Aw, gee," Fin mocked him, "sorry we didn't think to ask our captain that when he called the station to have us kicked out of the crib so we could come find you in the middle of the night."
Munch opened his phone and punched up Cragen's cell number. "Why don't you ask him for us?"
Tillery shot him a disgusted look and conceded, "All right, it was a stupid question. Now, who are you looking for?"
"Santa Claus," Munch said sarcastically, "and if you can't find him the Tooth Fairy will do!"
Tillery looked at the taller detective askance for a moment, and when the man didn't so much as crack a smile, he nodded slightly, understanding that this was more serious than a routine check. These guys were working a hot case and likely wouldn't see the insides of their eyelids again until it was closed. While he waited for the computer to come online, he crossed the main room of his tiny apartment and switched on the coffee maker in his kitchenette. In seconds, a stream of dark liquid was dribbling into the glass carafe.
"Excuse my partner," Fin said. "His mama never taught him any manners. We're lookin' for a perv named Roger DeVane. He did twelve years for raping six little girls before he got parole."
"And he's in trouble again already? I just got his file scanned in. What did he do this time?" Munch and Fin traded uneasy looks behind Tillery's back as the parole officer took three mugs out of a cupboard and a small carton of cream from the fridge.
"We suspect he might have something to do with a homicide in Manhattan," John finally volunteered, hoping it was the truth if only because he hated lying to his colleagues. They couldn't believe it when they'd been told the captain had said they should make something up, but Benson lived in Manhattan, Stabler was in a hospital near her neighborhood, and Cragen had mentioned a homicide.
Tillery set the mugs and the cream on the table next to the sugar bowl and opened a drawer from which he retrieved three spoons.
"Doesn't surprise me," he said as he opened the file on his computer. "He struck me as a real jerk from the moment I met him. Seemed like he had an axe to grind with someone. He's probably a sociopath who turned on the charm just long enough to fool the parole board. He knows I can't do anything to him unless I catch him in a violation, so he'll go through the motions, but he made it real clear at our first meeting that he didn't give a rat's ass what I think of him."
"Yeah? How'd he do that?" Munch asked.
"Told me so in just those words," Tillery answered, clicking the print icon on his computer.
"That will take a couple of minutes," he said gesturing toward the printer. Then he crossed the room to the coffeepot again. Flipping the switch that halted the brewing process, he waited for the stream of coffee to stop, poured three steaming cups, replaced the carafe, and turned it on again.
"Since you guys are obviously approaching the tail end of an all-nighter and probably heading right into another twelve- or fourteen-hour shift without any sleep, you might want to join me?"
Munch and Fin exchanged grins, and then, still smiling, Fin turned to the parole officer and said, "You know, Tillery, if I got to know you a little better, I might even get to like you."
Tillery grinned back and said, "You're not my type."
Apartment of Muriel Faringo
154 Clinton Street, Manhattan
4:52 A.M. November 19, 2005
Cragen sighed as he pulled up to 154 Clinton Street. He hated what he was about to do, and it really pissed him off when it happened to his people, but he felt it was necessary to protect Stabler's dignity. He flashed his badge to the officer at the door and asked the young man to point out the detective in charge of the case.
"That would be Detective MacDonald," the officer said.
Glancing at the man's badge, Don said, "Thank you, Officer Rodriguez."
"Detective MacDonald," he said as he approached the fiftyish woman with graying brown hair, "Donald Cragen, Manhattan SVU. I believe we spoke a few hours ago?"
"Captain Cragen, yes." She gave him a smile that was far from friendly, and he knew right away what kind of person he was dealing with. This woman had worked her way up back in the days when the pervading attitude was that women didn't belong in the NYPD, let alone in the vaunted offices of the homicide division. Twenty years ago, when victims were left to cope with the aftermath of violent crime on their own and a woman's compassionate nature wasn't valued as the vital interrogation tool they now knew it to be, MacDonald was forced to be tough to fit in like one of the boys. She had succeeded beyond anybody's expectations, but along the way she had lost her ability to empathize. She was harder now, less sympathetic than most of her male counterparts, and Don knew he had done the right thing calling the chief of detectives and convincing him to hand the case over to the SVU squad.
"Do you have an answer for me?" she asked.
"An answer?"
"As to what the hell your detective was doing at the scene of a homicide and why the hell he left the scene?"
"As a matter of fact, I do, and I'm afraid you're not going to like it," he said.
"Well, I'm waiting," she said in a tone that suggested she wouldn't wait very long before she left him with himself for company.
"This is an SVU case," Don told the woman.
"Oh, I don't think so," MacDonald responded sarcastically, "you lost it the moment your detective walked off and left a dead body in his wake! In fact, I am on my way over to the hospital to talk to him as soon as I finish here, and unless he has a damned good story to tell me, I'm going to be calling IAB in to investigate."
"Actually, no, you're not," Cragen informed her as her cell phone rang. "That will be the Chief of Detectives calling to tell you to give me everything you've got and then go home."
She shot him a dirty look as she checked the caller ID on her cell and then answered it.
"Chief," she said in a honeyed voice, "Yes, Sir, he's here . . . Yes, Sir, he told me . . . But Stabler left the scene, Chief . . . How do we know he didn't kill Ms. Faringo, Sir? . . . I should at least take his statement . . . He has?"
She shot daggers at Cragen with her eyes.
"Well, Stabler can tell his captain anything he wants," she snapped, and then self-consciously switched back to the same dulcet tone with which she had answered the call, "I would still like to collect the evidence and see if his story holds up . . . But, Sir . . . "
She held the phone away from her ear as the voice at the other end grew louder.
"Yes, Sir," she replied with a sigh, and when she was sure the Chief was gone, she folded the phone shut with a snap. Eyeing up Cragen, she said bitterly, "I have been instructed to give you all of my notes and to have all of the forensics sent to you, so the good-ol'-boy network triumphs again."
"I take no satisfaction from this, Detective," Don informed her.
"Forgive me for not believing you," she said in a tone that indicated that she really didn't care whether he did or not.
"I don't give a damn what you believe," Don responded, "but the fact remains that this is part of a Manhattan SVU case dating back more than a decade. Now, what have you got so far?"
An Ill Wind
"Where to now?" Munch asked as he folded his long, lean frame into the passenger seat of the car.
Fin shrugged and started the engine. "Back to the squad room, I guess."
"In defeat," Munch lamented, "to tell the captain we've hit a dead end."
"Dead end, my ass," Fin said. "We have three associates of DeVane's to track down and a bar to check out when it opens for business."
"Fine, tell Cragen that, maybe it won't piss him off coming from you!" Munch snapped.
"Maybe I will!" Fin shot back.
They lapsed into exhausted silence.
"Sorry," John said six blocks later.
"Me, too," Fin replied. "We're both just tired."
"Working in the dark doesn't help either," Munch told him.
"I been thinkin' about that," Fin said. "The fact that the captain told us Benson and Stabler were safe at the hospital but didn't tell us why they were at the hospital kinda bugs me."
"So, I'm not the only one who's paranoid?" John asked.
"Hell, no!" Fin assured him, "You're just the only one who's crazy. I'm worried about my friends."
Munch grinned at his partner and shook his head. After a few more blocks of travel, he took out his cell phone and scrolled through the numbers.
"What are you doing now?"
"Seeing if I can't at least find out why Dispatch didn't notify the captain that Elliot and Olivia were involved in a homicide and taken to the hospital."
"Trying to appease the old man, huh?"
Munch cut him a look that suggested he wasn't far wrong and said, "Trying to feel like we've accomplished something tonight, since we didn't get any sleep."
"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Fin muttered.
"You didn't have to talk to me," Much sniped back.
"We're not going to have this argument," Fin snapped. "Make your phone call and let me drive."
An Ill Wind
Kathy sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, stroking her husband's hair and hoping he would sleep soon. She wasn't sure how long it had taken him, but, like each of their children had often done when they were babies, he had finally cried himself out. Now he lay there, his head resting on her left thigh as he stared vacantly at her right knee and toyed with the seam on the right leg of her jeans.
She had struggled, not entirely successfully, to hold herself together as he let the misery pour out of him. She had so wanted to be strong for Elliot, but when he hurt, she hurt. In the end, though, her tears hadn't mattered, all he really needed was for her to be with him.
Finally, his eyes drifted shut, the hand that was playing with her jeans fell still, and with a deep sigh, he seemed to give in to the exhaustion that had been pulling at him for hours. He seemed comfortable and content to sleep with his head in her lap, and she didn't want to disturb him, so carefully, she reached out and pressed the button that adjusted the bed to make herself more comfortable. Just as the head of the bed rose into position to give her back more support, he spoke.
"Kathy?" His voice was soft, but not so timid as it had been when she first arrived.
"Yeah?"
"Could you help me take a shower?"
"Oh, El, you're so tired," she said sympathetically. "Wouldn't you rather sleep now and freshen up after you've rested?"
"I couldn't . . . wash . . . before they examined me. It would have . . . It would have destroyed evidence," he explained, struggling over the words, wanting her to understand without having to give any details. "Then the captain came not long after they brought me to my room and you arrived right after he left. He's . . . still on me, Kath. I won't be able to sleep until he's gone. Please, help me take a shower."
Kathy considered his request. She would happily help him in any way possible, but, considering his injuries, this was one time when she didn't think she could. She knew he wouldn't want to call in a stranger, but she didn't see any other recourse.
"Between your hand, your ankle, your ribs, and the IV, I don't think you can get to the bathroom without help, El, and I'm afraid if I try to move you myself and you stumble or something, I won't be strong enough to keep you from falling and getting hurt worse."
"Kathy, please, I can still feel him, smell him. All I want is to take a shower so I can get rid of him," he pleaded.
She suspected it would be quite some time before soap and water could make him feel clean again, but if he needed to bathe before he could rest, she'd try her best to make it happen. "Ok, if you let me call a nurse to help you there and back, and if you sit on a shower stool, I will help, but I'm afraid to try to move you by myself."
Elliot weighed his wife's suggestion against his need to feel clean. He wasn't sure that he could cope with a stranger's hands on him right now, but he knew for certain that he couldn't ever sleep again until he'd had the chance to bathe.
"The nurse will go just to the bathroom and back, only you will stay with me while I shower?"
Kathy nodded, "Ok."
Elliot took a shuddering breath. "I think I can do that."
16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
5:34 A.M. November 19, 2005
The tape finished and as Don Cragen watched, both Munch and Fin started slightly at the loud click as the machine shut off. Munch, who was more sensitive than he would like to admit, appeared to be deeply moved by the statement they had just heard, like it wouldn't take much more to push him to tears. Fin seemed disgusted and profoundly disturbed by Elliot's account of events at Muriel Faringo's apartment, but after five years of working with the detective, Don knew Fin would be sympathetic toward his colleague and that his anger would be reserved for the man who had attacked Stabler.
"Tell Elliot that we're gonna get this son of a bitch, Captain, and I'm gonna make it my business to be there when they execute him for murdering Muriel Faringo," Fin said in a tone that chilled Don. The captain nodded his understanding, knowing that however much his detectives wanted to take their revenge themselves, they would do their jobs and leave DeVane's punishment to the law.
"Do they know if DeVane contracted any STDs in prison?" Munch asked, and Don knew he was thinking about the possibility that he had infected Elliot with HIV during the attack.
"No idea," he replied, shaking his head, "but I'm gonna make sure a motion compelling a blood sample for testing is at the top of Novak's list when we get him."
"You don't need to wait for that," John told him. "If there was any DNA from the rape kit, Warner can identify the genetic markers in the virus."
"You're right," the captain realized and made a note to himself, "I'll make sure to ask about that as soon as the test results become available. That's good thinking, John." Looking from one detective to the other, he asked them, "Now, what do you two have for me?"
Fin opened his notebook and read off an account of their movements for the past few hours. "We woke up the parole officer, a guy named Tillery, and he gave us a copy of DeVane's file. The creep hasn't even been on the street for forty-eight hours yet. Then we went to the halfway house where he's supposed to be staying. He hasn't been back since his initial check-in. There's already a warrant out on him for parole violation."
Munch picked the story up from there. "There were three known associates in DeVane's file, his mother, an ex-girlfriend, and some guy DeVane ran with that Elliot liked for an accessory in the assaults twelve years ago but couldn't collar. We couldn't locate any of them at the addresses in the file, so we came back here to see if we could look them up."
Fin broke in again, to finish the story. "There's also a bar he used to hang out at."
"Near the Children's Museum of Manhattan," Munch added in disgust.
"Where else?" was Cragen's sarcastic question.
Fin's tone showed that he shared the sentiment. "We're gonna go there as soon as they open for business. See if someone remembers the perv."
"Ok, sounds like you've covered the bases," Cragen said. "What about dispatch? Why didn't they notify me when the call came in?"
Munch sighed. "Luck of the draw, Captain. Liv's call went through to a relatively new dispatcher. She knew you needed to be informed, but somehow, she never thought that you would want to be called right away. It was after hours, so she put it in a report for her supervisor to call you in the morning."
"Sounds like they need to reevaluate their training, if she never thought to contact me immediately," Cragen said.
"I suggested that to the supervisor," Munch said, "and she kindly informed me that if I didn't like the way they handled things, then I should find a way to get them better pay and benefits so they can attract better qualified people and hold on to the ones they have longer."
Cragen shrugged. "It's a tough job," he said, "and it doesn't really matter how much they pay them, nothing is going to prevent rookie mistakes. It's just a shame that it had to happen on this case."
There was silence in the room for a moment as the captain considered his next words. Munch and Fin waited patiently.
"Look, guys, I'm in something of a bind here. Stabler has asked Olivia to stay off the case, and I'm inclined to honor that request. There's no way he would want anyone else in the office to know the details of what happened either, so most of this investigation is gonna fall on the two of you."
"It's all right, Cap'n," Fin assured him. "We'll do whatever we gotta do to find this bastard and put his ass in jail."
"Are you sure we are the ones who should be running this case?" Munch wondered aloud. "I mean the guy works with us and . . . "
Munch ran out of words, but Cragen nodded his understanding. He had felt the same way, so he gave Munch the same reasoning he had used for himself and with the Chief of Detectives earlier.
"I know what you're trying to say, Munch, and I understand how you feel," he assured the detective, "but I was the only one Elliot would give his statement to, and he knows that means bringing you guys in on the investigation. I really don't think anyone else can handle this case. As for how he feels when he comes back to work, well, we'll just have to deal with that when it happens."
John nodded, and said, "Ok, then, I guess we'll get started tracking down those contacts."
An Ill Wind
Kathy looked down at her husband again, and gently wiped away his tears. The nurse had sent an orderly to help move Elliot to the bathroom and back, and having the burly stranger's hands all over him had been too much. Even before the young man left the room, Elliot had begun to sob. The pain from his broken ribs had made matters worse, and, worried that he might do himself further damage, Kathy had paged the nurse who, after consulting the chart, upped Elliot's dose of sedative slightly, hoping to calm him and let him sleep.
Finally, with a deep sigh, he spoke. "Kath, I'm going to need help to get through this."
"I know, El, and I'm gonna be here to help you, I promise," she assured him.
He smiled gratefully and swallowed hard. "I know that, and I really appreciate it, but I meant professional help. I'm gonna have to talk to someone . . . who I can tell everything, and I really don't want you to know everything that happened."
Kathy frowned, then nodded. "I understand. Do you want me to call Father McKay?"
Elliot looked uncertain for a moment, and then he said, "No, I, uh, I've been seeing a shrink for a few weeks now, after something that happened at work. A psychiatrist."
"Oh," in shock, Kathy could think of nothing else to say for a moment.
"I, um . . . I beat someone up, lost control," he admitted in shame. "Pete Breslin. You remember him, and his son, Luke?"
When Kathy nodded, he continued. "Luke was a suspect in an assault case. Turns out, he'd been taking steroids, and in a 'roid rage, he'd punched his best friend. Well, after the arraignment, Pete took Luke into the bathroom and started knocking him around. Some guy came running out, I was there, and he told me what was happening. I went in, pulled Pete off him, and totally lost control. I'm lucky I didn't kill him."
When Elliot didn't speak for a moment or two after that, she asked, "Does this psychiatrist have you on any medication, El? Because if he does, your doctor needs to know."
"No, no drugs," he said. "We just talk. I'm not ready to tell you about what, yet, but maybe someday."
"I see," she replied, wiping a wayward tear from his cheek. "Well, I'm glad you found someone you can talk to. Is it helping?"
"Some," he admitted, "but it's hard. We met on a case; our victim was schizophrenic and she helped us deal with her. She used to be a cop. She and Olivia were partners for a little while."
Kathy frowned when her husband called the shrink 'she.' For some reason, she had automatically assumed it would be a man. Realizing that the doctor was a female gave her a whole new perspective on his statement, and she had to know just what he had meant, "Elliot, when you say you've been seeing her . . . "
"Just professionally, Kathy, I promise," he assured her when he saw her reaction to the knowledge that the shrink in question was a woman. "I'm still not interested in anyone but you. Her name's Rebecca Hendrix. Olivia has the number. Could you call her, and tell her what happened? Please?"
"Just as soon as you close your eyes and go to sleep, I will, El. You have my word."
"You won't go away, will you?"
"No," she promised. "I'll be here when you wake up."
He gave her a small, grateful smile, nestled against the pillow, and closed his eyes.
Kathy looked at her husband as he finally succumbed to sleep, and she felt her heart break. He was ashamed to admit that he needed help, but he was so desperate that he had begged her to make the call. Her own feelings were a jumble, too. She was a little annoyed that he hadn't started dating anyone yet, but she knew she would have been even angrier if he had. She was relieved that he had finally sought help for his problems, but felt betrayed that he hadn't made a real effort before she had left him. And worst of all, she was embarrassingly jealous that he would share his thoughts with a female shrink when he hadn't had a meaningful conversation with her in years.
But she had made a promise, so, when his breathing evened out and his expression relaxed, she gave him a kiss on the temple, picked up the phone, and moved over to the window where she could talk without disturbing him. She still knew Olivia's number by heart, she had memorized it when Elliot and the attractive female had first become partners so that if she ever needed to reach her husband in an emergency and his phone was dead, she could call his partner and maybe find him that way. As she dialed the phone, she thought of what she might say.
An Ill Wind
Rebecca Hendrix reached out and smacked the alarm. When it didn't stop, she knocked it to the floor. When it kept ringing, she finally realized it was her phone waking her much too early for her liking.
"Hello?" she said into the receiver.
"Doctor Hendrix, this is Kathy Stabler," said an upset woman on the other end of the line. "You've been counseling my husband, Elliot."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Stabler," Rebecca said with a professional edge to her voice, "my patient records are confidential, so I can't even confirm that for you."
"You don't have to," Kathy said and then rushed on. "Elliot told me that much himself. I'm calling because he asked me to contact you. He's been raped and he's going to need to see you."
She was surprised that she had managed to get it all out. When the phone was ringing, she hadn't been sure she could ever say it, but rushing through the words, she had been able to push them all past her vocal cords without falling apart.
Rebecca counted to ten before she replied. The message was quite a shock, and she didn't want her voice to betray her emotions. Finally, she asked, "Has he been to a hospital?"
"Yes, he's been admitted to Saint Vincent's," Kathy told her. "Room three twenty-seven. He's already reported it and given a statement to the police. He's just here for observation. Please come. He needs you."
Rebecca sighed softly. She was lucky to still have her license after the stunt she pulled with those twins, but without admitting privileges anywhere in the city, she didn't think they'd want her seeing patients while they were in the hospital. Still, she could always stop by as a friend.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," she replied.