An Ill Wind

Chapter Four
The Chase Begins

OOO

16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
9:02 A.M. November 19, 2005

"Detective Munch? Detective Munch!"

The whispered words penetrated his sleep, but John Munch still couldn't quite move. A gentle shake solved that.

"Detective Munch, it's nine o'clock. You left a note for me to wake you when I got in."

John sat up, blinking in the wan light that came from the squad room and smacked his lips a couple of times trying to get the saliva flowing to dispel the cottonmouth feeling he always got when he snored. He caught a whiff of a rich, dark aroma, and he closed his eyes and turned his head to the left and right, trying to catch and follow the scent. There was a soft throaty chuckle, and he felt and smelled the steam from a cup of coffee under his nose.

"Sweet and light, just how you like it," Tina, one of the day-shift administrative aides softly said as he accepted the mug with a smile. "And it's fresh," she added. "I just made a new pot."

He opened his eyes and looked at her fondly. "Tina, if I hadn't sworn off women when my fourth wife left me, I think I'd say I love you."

"Detective Tutuola is still sleeping. Should I wake him, too?"

After the meeting with Cragen, John had sent his partner off to the crib to sleep. Then he'd made a few calls to the former employers of Roger DeVane's three known associates and found that, while they all had Saturday hours, none of them would be open for business until ten. When he Googled all three names, he had a hit with DeVane's mother, Ellen. She had died eight years ago. The address and personal details were right, so he knew he'd found a match. Then, considering who his suspect had been hanging with twelve years ago, Munch searched Bert Green in the police computer. He wasn't at all surprised to find the creep was in the system, doing time at Riker's for rape. Then, since neither Bert nor Mom were going anywhere and he'd hit a dead end with the ex-girlfriend until ten o'clock, he'd decided to grab a couple of hours' shuteye for himself.

Munch looked over at his dozing partner and said, "Nah, let him sleep a little longer. I still have a few calls to make."

"I'm awake," the Fin-shaped lump on the other cot growled and sat up with the blanket still around his shoulders. "I can help you, besides, if you had wanted to let me sleep, you'd have found somewhere else to bed down yourself."

At Munch's quizzical look, he explained, "Your snoring kept me awake."

"I do not snore," Munch replied innocently.

"It would have been quieter in a subway tunnel," Fin insisted.

With a chuckle, Tina confirmed, "You were snoring when I came in."

Munch sighed in defeat. "Betrayed by the fairer sex yet again."

"Detective Tutuola, would you like a cup of coffee?" Tina asked, ignoring Munch's feigned histrionics.

"Yeah, but I'll get it myself in a minute, thanks." With a nod to the young woman as she left, Fin turned to his partner and asked, "So what did you find out?"

Munch gave him the results of his early morning phone calls, and between the two of them, they quickly decided that Fin would work on running down a current home address for Alice Richardson, DeVane's ex-girlfriend while Munch called the bank again to see if she was still employed there.

Room 327

St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan

9:15 A.M. November 19, 2005

Soft voices filtered through the darkness. He wasn't alone, but he couldn't see who was there, and for some reason, that frightened him. He awoke with a start.

"Elliot?"

He looked around and saw his wife. "Kath?" Suddenly, the events of the previous evening came flooding back into his mind and he was gasping for breath and trembling.

"Hey, El, you're safe now," Kathy reassured him, and moved closer. When she stood by the bed, he leaned into her, and she put her arms around him. He clung to her with his good arm, and she leaned over and placed a kiss on his temple. "El, it's all right. You're safe here. No one can hurt you now."

She gave him a few minutes to come to that realization on his own and then said, "I called Rebecca. I like her. I'm glad you're letting her help you."

Rebecca moved forward into Elliot's line of sight, and he frowned. Looking up at his wife, he asked, "What did she tell you?"

"Nothing really. Mostly we talked about the kids and me."

Frowning harder, he asked, "What did you tell her?"

With some humor in her voice, Rebecca said gently, "That would be privileged information, Detective. How are you feeling?"

His face clouded again, and his breathing became erratic once more. He dropped his head and almost whispered, "Not so good."

Kathy gave him a gentle squeeze and he felt Rebecca's presence close to the bed. "It'll take time," the doctor said, "but you'll get there."

"El," Kathy said softly in his ear. "I'm going to leave you two to talk for a while. I'm heading back to Mom's to check on the kids, and then I need to call Maureen and make sure she knows you're here."

"The kids? Aren't they in school by now?"

"It's Saturday, Sweetheart" she told him. "Dickie and Lizzie are probably watching cartoons, Kathleen is in her room reading a book, and they're all pretending for Mom's sake that they're not worried about you. If Maureen has called, she's either decided to go there and wait for news with them or be tough like her dad and just go on about her business until someone tells her she has a reason to worry."

Elliot smiled slightly. "She's always been a daddy's girl, hasn't she?"

Kathy smiled back. "Who can blame her? She has a pretty great dad."

Looking up at her, he suddenly implored, "Kathy, please, don't tell them what happened."

"Don't worry," she reassured him, "I won't. But they do need to know that you've been hurt. All I'm gonna tell them is that you were hurt on the job, that someone beat you up, but you're going to be fine, ok?"

Reluctantly, Elliot nodded.

"Good. That's settled, then. I'll call you before I come back, to see if you feel up to a visit from them."

"All right," he agreed.

She gave him another kiss and a gentle hug, said goodbye to Rebecca and was gone.

When the door closed behind Kathy, Rebecca pulled up a chair and asked, "Now, where do you want to start?"

An Ill Wind

"What have you found out?" Cragen asked when Munch and Fin walked into his office at ten in the morning.

"DeVane's mom is dead," Munch said, "and his running buddy, Bert Green is at Riker's Island for a string of rapes in the Bronx back in ninety-eight."

"His ex-girlfriend is still at the same bank, though," Fin added. "She's worked her way up from teller to being an accounts manager, and we're in luck. They're open from ten 'til three."

"We'll start with the bank, and then head out to Riker's. We'll save the bar where he liked to hang out for last. There's a better chance of finding someone who remembers him during happy hour," Munch finished.

"Ok," Cragen said. "Check in with Liv and make sure she's good to go on the cases she's taking over from you before you leave." The two detectives nodded and turned to leave. "And keep me posted!" he called as they walked out of his office.

An Ill Wind

"How do you feel about what happened to you Elliot?" Rebecca asked after her patient had finished telling her what Roger DeVane had done to him.

"I . . . I don't know what to say," Elliot replied with a sniffle. He'd grown tearful a couple of times during his story and had struggled to compose himself. Now, he was reluctant to fall apart again, even in front of his shrink. A lifetime of being the tough guy, drilled into him by regular beatings from his old man, was hard to shake, even when he was willing to open up.

"Say anything, Elliot. Just tell me how you feel."

"Helpless," he admitted, his voice cracking on the one word. He gulped some air, wincing as his cracked ribs made their presence known, and tried to continue in an even tone. "I couldn't do anything to stop him. I never, not in a million years, would have thought something like this would happen to me. I couldn't . . . I was so stunned . . . I couldn't do anything."

"It's hard for men to imagine themselves in such a situation, but you know it happens," Rebecca reminded him. "Probably more often than we think. What else do you feel, Elliot?"

"Guilty."

If the bald statement surprised the psychiatrist, she didn't show it.

"Why?"

He swallowed hard. "She called me . . . a dozen times that day. She knew he was out and she was scared. Her last day on earth, she was scared that he would come after her. She called me because she thought I could keep her safe, but I got there too late, and I couldn't save her. She begged him for my life, and she apologized to me for what DeVane had done. I heard her crying while he raped her, and I couldn't stop him. He killed her. I was right there when he did it, and I couldn't save her."

As he was speaking, his voice had risen in volume and pitch, and though his tirade had to have made his ribs hurt, the emotional pain was so great that he seemed not to notice. Rebecca knew he was close to tears again, so she gave him a minute to calm down. She had discovered early on that he hated to let her see him cry and that if it happened more than once or twice in a session, he would quickly throw his walls up, shut her out, and end the session.

"And how does that make you feel?"

For a long minute, he stared at the ceiling on the opposite side of the room. Moisture gathered in his eyes, and slowly, two tears slid down his face. Finally, in a choked voice, he said, "Like a coward," and dropped his gaze to his lap.

"Why, Elliot?"

"Because I'm mad as hell at the sick son of a bitch!" he shouted. "I want to tear him apart with my bare hands, but I'm too damned frightened to do anything about it. I'm scared all the time, now, because of what he did to me, and it never goes away. I'm afraid of him. I'm afraid of him and that pisses me off!"

He caught his breath and covered his ribs with his good arm.

Rebecca leaned forward and placed a hand over his. "It will take time, Elliot," she said, "but the fear will abate. Every day, you will feel more like your old self, and one day, you will realize that you have just . . . moved on."

"Yeah, but Muriel Faringo won't," he said, pulling his hand away.

"That isn't your fault," she told him, sitting back and letting him have his personal space when he wouldn't accept the small comfort she offered.

"Try telling that to her parents!"

"Elliot, he beat the hell out of you," she said. "A busted nose, concussion, cracked ribs, broken ankle! Then you were cuffed to the banister. What do you think you could have done?"

"Well I got myself loose after it happened, didn't I? Why couldn't I have broken free before then? I should have done something!"

"Like what?"

He struggled for words for several seconds and then said, "I don't know. I didn't know what to do then, either. When I came to and he was gone, I knew what I had to do to get out of the cuffs, but when he was there, hurting me, hurting her, I couldn't think. I guess . . . I guess I panicked."

"Or you were in shock."

He shrugged, not willing to let himself off the hook so easily.

Rebecca wanted to keep her patient talking, but she knew she had to change tack. If he felt himself becoming emotional again, Elliot would probably send her on her way, and she really felt she needed to take him to some kind of resolution, no matter how small.

"Elliot, I want to do a role-play with you," she finally said. "I want you to imagine that I am Olivia, and that what happened to you happened to her instead."

"No," he flatly refused. "No way. No, thank you. The reality is bad enough, I do not need to imagine that this happened to one of my friends."

"Elliot, if you want me to help you, you have to work with me on this. I promise I won't push you to talk about it any more today, but I want to know what you would say if it had happened to somebody you care about," she explained. "Please, I promise it will help."

It took him a moment, but in the end, he nodded. He trusted her enough to go along with it.

"Ok. Close your eyes, and imagine you're talking with Olivia. She's just told you about what happened."

He nodded, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths wincing slightly as he did so. When he seemed ready to begin, Rebecca assumed the role of her friend and former partner.

"I let her down, Elliot," she said emotionally, trying to relay the same guilt and regret she had heard in his words and tone a few moments before.

He opened his eyes and looked at Rebecca. "This is crazy," he said shaking his head. "What good is this play-acting going to do?"

"You have to try, Elliot," she told him patiently. "The least you can do is go through the motions, give it a chance. Now, please, close your eyes and we'll start over."

He gave her a sullen look but did as he was told.

When he was settled again, she tried once more to get him to engage in the activity. "I should have been able to save her," she said with regret.

"You did . . . the best you could," Elliot stumbled self-consciously over the words. "That's all anyone can ask of you. Look, Doc, this isn't doing it for me. I feel ridiculous."

But his eyes were still closed, and Rebecca knew if she stayed in character he might eventually fall into the role she had planned for him.

"It was my job to help her, and I failed," she said. "She died because I screwed up."

"Look, you tried," he said. "He killed her, you tried to stop him. It didn't work out, but it's not your fault."

"Yes it is!" she insisted, trying to convey all the emotions that he had displayed during their session. "She called me to protect her, Elliot, and I let her down. I panicked, and I couldn't help her, and she's dead, and it's my fault!"

"So you panicked!" Elliot shouted back, fully into the role now despite grimacing at the pain it caused his ribs. "You're human. It's not your fault. You did your best to save her, and that's all you can do. No one can ask you to do more than your best or to be more than you are!"

Rebecca took an emotional step back. "So now what?" she asked more calmly, easing out of the role-play, knowing she already had what she wanted.

"You accept it and move on," Elliot said. "You did your best and it wasn't enough. That's not your fault. All you can do . . . " his voice took on a tone of wonder, " . . . is accept it and move on." He opened his eyes. "That's a hell of a lot easier said than done, Doc."

Rebecca nodded. "I know, but now that you know where you need to go, you can start working on how to get there."

They were both quiet for several moments, and then Elliot asked, "So, what do I do first?"

"Two things," Rebecca said, and at his surprised look, she explained, "You need to start small and take this one step at a time. I just want you to start off with some positive self-talk."

"You want me to talk to myself?"

"Yes, but it's not a running dialog," she replied, a little amused by his confusion. "I'm giving you two very specific messages to repeat to yourself whenever the need arises."

"Ok," he agreed, still sounding doubtful, "What are they?"

"Well, when you start to feel frightened, I want you to tell yourself, 'It's over. I'm safe now.'"

"It's over. I'm safe now." He frowned. "That's it?"

"You could continue on that same theme," she suggested, "but I'd rather you stick to just that. For one thing, a short simple message is easier to remember, and also, I have noticed that when you allow yourself to ramble on, you tend to digress into negative thoughts and get stuck there. So, 'It's over. I'm safe now,' is enough."

"Ok, then, 'It's over. I'm safe now.' What else?"

"When you start feeling guilty, you need to remind yourself that you aren't to blame. Tell yourself exactly what you would have told Olivia when we were doing the role-play. Do you remember what that was?"

He closed his eyes and thought hard. "I said she's human, she did the best she could. It's not her fault, and no one can expect her to do more than her best."

"That's right," Rebecca agreed. "You believe it, don't you?"

He shrugged.

"Well, would you lie to Liv? If you thought she was responsible for a person's death, would you tell her she wasn't?"

"Hell, no, but that's Liv."

"And we're talking about you, but what you said is still true, isn't it?"

"I don't know, Doc," he resisted her logic.

"Why? Do you think you should be held to a different standard? What makes you so special?"

"I'm stronger, I'm bigger . . . I'm . . . "

"You're what? A man?"

"Well, yeah, I guess that's it. I should have been able to fend him off. He never should have got the drop on me like that. I made a mistake. I should have . . . "

"Stop," Rebecca interrupted him firmly. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

"But if I had just . . . "

"Stop," she said again. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

"But, Doc . . ."

"Stop," she repeated, more forcefully this time. "You made a mistake. You're human. It's not your fault. You did the best you could, and no one can ask more than that."

He sighed in resignation. "Ok, message received. You know, Captain Cragen tried to tell me that when he took my statement, but I guess I just wasn't ready to believe it."

"Oh, you're still not ready to believe it, Elliot," she told him. "But at least now you are ready to hear it. You'll have to hear it hundreds, maybe thousands of times before you really believe it, but you've made a start. Now, what are you supposed to say to yourself when you get scared?"

"It's over. I'm safe now."

"Good, and when you feel guilty?"

"I made a mistake. It's not my fault. It . . . I don't remember."

"That's because you're so used to being in control, of yourself, your emotions, the suspects you interview, the situations you put yourself in, and so on, that you find it impossible to accept that some things are beyond your control." She opened the drawer to the bedside table and hunted around until she found the sheets of writing paper and the pencil that were provided in every room. Handing them over to Elliot, she said, "Write this down. Study it. Memorize it."

When he nodded that he was ready, she repeated the mantra for him a phrase at a time so he could get it all down. "I made a mistake. I'm human. It's not my fault. I did my best, and no one can expect more than that."

He put the pencil down and picked up the paper. As he held it in his hand, staring at it, tears began to slide down his face again.

"Elliot? What's wrong?"

He shrugged. "I just feel . . . sad, I guess, for Muriel. It should have been enough. I should have been able to . . . "

"Stop it, Elliot. You made a . . . "

"I made a mistake," he nodded, and continued reading from the sheet of paper, saying the words without conviction. "I'm human. It's not my fault. I did my best, and no one can expect more than that." He smiled up at her sadly. "You're right, I don't really believe it yet, but if it keeps me from thinking about all the things I should have done differently, I guess it helps."

She patted him on the shoulder. "Give it time, Elliot. It's going to be hard for a while, but it will get better. And it's ok to feel sad, or angry, but not at yourself. This wasn't your fault, ok?"

He nodded, and finally adopted a slightly more positive tone. "I think you're right, about it getting better," he agreed, "if only because I can't stand to feel this way forever."

"Now, I have one more piece of advice for you before I go," Rebecca said as she pulled the covers gently up around him. "Get some sleep so you're alert when your kids come to visit."

"I will," he promised, "and thanks for coming all the way out here to help me."

"There's nothing to thank me for," she said from the door as she switched off the light. "You did all the hard work."

Citizen's Bank

328 W. 83rd St., Manhattan

10:01 A.M., November 19, 2005

"So, how do you want to handle this?" Fin asked his partner as he and Munch approached the bank where Alice Richardson worked.

"I say we start out like we believe she has no idea where he is and didn't know about what he was doing twelve years ago until he got busted," Munch suggested. "If we come down hard on her right away, it will just piss her off, and if she's undecided about helping us, we'll lose her from the beginning."

"Sounds like a plan," Fin agreed. "You better do the talking."

"Why me?" John asked, not that he really cared one way or the other.

"'Cause you're better at being nice than I am," Fin answered sarcastically, and, though he kept it to himself, Munch had to agree.

As they entered the bank, Munch approached the security guard at the door and flashed his badge. "Alice Richardson?" he inquired quietly, and the guard directed him to a desk off to the right occupied by a pretty, petite woman with long brown hair.

"Ms. Richardson?" Munch said as he approached the desk.

"Yes, gentlemen, please, have a seat," she said in a sweet cultured voice and offered them a friendly smile. "How can I help you today?"

Munch showed her his identification and said, "We have some questions about a man named Roger DeVane. We understand you used to date him."

Alice became instantly guarded and looked around to see if any of her colleagues had noticed the badge or overheard her conversation. She certainly did not look happy to see Munch and Fin anymore.

"I haven't seen him since he was arrested," she said, sotto voce, her Bronx upbringing suddenly apparent in her accent. "I didn't know what he was doin' then an' I don't wanna know now. We'd only been on a coupla dates, but he liked to come in an' visit me on my lunch. People here knew him, an' when he was arrested, they shut me out. I lost all my friends overnight 'cause of that sick freak, an' I almost lost my job 'cause no one wanted to work around me. If I never see him again, it'll be too soon."

"I see," John said sympathetically. "Did he try to have any contact with you while he was in prison?"

She looked even more uncomfortable than before and said, "He sent me a coupla letters, but I never wrote back."

"Do you still have the letters?"

"Hell no!" she said emphatically. "I threw them away without even openin' them. Once I found out what that creep was into, I didn't want nothin' more to do with him."

Munch nodded, trying to show that he understood how she felt. "I don't blame you," he told her.

The three of them sat quietly for a bit, and Alice picked at her nails as she watched Fin make some notes on his pad. When he saw that his partner was through writing, John started speaking again.

"I think you should know he's out on parole. Do you think it's at all likely that he will try to contact you?" He tried to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to upset her. She was obviously hiding something, but whether it was from them or the people who worked around her, he didn't know, yet.

She sat there silently for a long moment, chipping away at her nails, nervously flaking the enamel off her manicure.

Munch leaned forward and whispered, "Ms. Richardson, I am not interested in causing you any trouble or embarrassment. I just need to know if he tries to contact you. He's wanted for rape and murder. He hasn't been to his halfway house since he first checked in."

She continued peeling the polish off one thumbnail.

He placed his business card on the desk in front of her and said, "Please, if he contacts you, call me immediately. It's important."

He stood to leave, and following his lead, Fin got up to follow.

"Wait!" Alice blurted in a sharp whisper. Munch and Fin both moved closer, and she spoke rapidly in a low voice. "He was already here, yesterday afternoon, to get something out of his safety deposit box."

"Do you have any idea what it was?"

"No, but he said he'd be back, when he'd . . . " She appeared to be trying to recall something, then her eyes brightened. "When he'd finished what he'd started. It sounded weird to me, but that's what he said, 'I'll be back when I've finished what I started.'"

Munch and Fin shared a look, and each knew what the other was thinking. It could well be that the attack last night was DeVane's idea of finishing what he'd started. He'd finished the assault on Muriel Faringo and took his revenge on the cop who interrupted him twelve years before. Now, he could come walking into the bank at any moment.

"I'll call Novak for a warrant. We've got to get a look in that box," Munch said and started out across the lobby.

"Right," Fin agreed, then he asked Alice, "You got a speed dial on that phone?"

"Yeah."

"You know how to program it?"

"Yeah."

He gave her his own card started backing away as he said, "Put my cell number in it. We'll be waiting out on the street for a warrant to search his safety deposit box. If he shows up in the meantime, call me, got it?"

"Yeah," she agreed and started punching buttons on the phone. "Wait," she whispered harshly to Fin, "where are you guys goin'?"

"Out on the street somewhere, so he won't see us and run." With that, Fin turned and walked briskly out of the bank, close on his partner's heels.