An Ill Wind

Chapter Five
A Sharp Left Turn

OOO

Room 327
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan
11:21 A.M., November 19, 2005

Olivia cringed as she pushed open the door to the hospital room and heard the sound of retching. "El?" she called as she hesitated on the threshold, not sure whether to enter the room or not.

"Stay there a minute," he called back to her.

She heard him heaving again, and had to swallow hard to resist the urge to be sick herself. A few moments later, a nurse carrying an emesis basin came out around the privacy curtain and went into the en-suite bathroom. Soon after that, Elliot said, "Ok."

Liv went around to the bed and found her partner perspiring and breathing heavily. He had both arms wrapped around his ribs in a protective gesture.

"Is it the anti-HIV meds?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "Right on cue, too. Last time, the nausea kicked in about twelve hours after the first dose, but this time it's worse.''

"Really, how so?"

"Well, for starters, puking your guts out when you have busted up ribs kinda sucks."

Olivia made a face and said, "Ok, too much information." Then she looked at him sympathetically and asked, "Are they giving you anything for the pain?"

"Yeah, in the IV. It's just strenuous physical activity, like breathing, that makes it hurt." He made his complaint with a sardonic smile, and she knew that he didn't feel he needed more meds, so she let the matter drop.

"Kathy called me."

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "What did she have to say?"

"Well, the kids really want to come see you. Maureen is staying at the house to help her grandma so Kathy can spend more time with you, at least until you're feeling better. That's about it."

Elliot nodded. "Did she tell you I saw Rebecca?"

"Yeah. You had her call me for the number, remember?"

"I know that, I just didn't know if you realized she had already come by."

There was a heavy silence in the room for a few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say.

Eventually, Liv spoke. "Is there anything I can get for you?"

Elliot shook his head.

They fell quiet again until Elliot said, "So, I guess Munch and Fin are busy running down DeVane?"

"Yeah, I've taken over a couple of their cases in the meantime."

Once more, the conversation ground to a halt, and the longer they waited, the harder it was for either of them to think of something to say. Twice, they made eye contact and then looked away quickly.

Finally, Olivia broke the silence. "Look, El, you know I want to ask how you're doing, and I know you're miserable, physically, and emotionally. If you've seen Rebecca, I know you're probably already spent and don't need to rehash those feelings again. So, if you could just throw me a bone, tell me something, even lie to me, at least it would be over, and we could find something else to discuss."

He looked up at her, and she didn't know what to make of his expression. She had expected him to be defensive, maybe even angry, but he actually looked like he was willing to talk for once.

"I won't lie to you, Liv, but I'm not sure I can tell you what you want to hear."

She moved to sit in the chair beside the bed and said, "That's ok. So, how are you?"

He took a slow breath in and out and quietly admitted something neither of them had ever thought she would hear him say.

"I'm scared, Liv. All the time, I feel afraid."

"You've been through a traumatic experience, Elliot, that's to be expected." They both knew it was trite, but true.

He nodded. "Knowing that doesn't help much right now," he told her. "I woke up this morning, and heard voices. Kathy and Rebecca were talking. Just knowing other people were in here and I couldn't see them sent me into a panic."

"Then what?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I opened my eyes, saw it was them, and it took a while, but I was ok."

"So you're not really scared all the time," Olivia pointed out.

"I'm not terrified all the time," he corrected. "Talking to Rebecca has helped a little." He gave a sarcastic little grunt of a laugh and said, "I'm supposed to tell myself it's over and I'm safe now whenever it gets bad."

"Does it work?"

He considered his answer for a moment, reluctant to admit it was doing some good, but finally he conceded, "It takes a couple of minutes, but yeah, it helps a little. Then someone drops something out in the hall or one of the nurses comes creeping in here on those damned rubber-soled shoes and scares the hell out of me, and I feel like a kid again."

"Like a kid?" Olivia's confusion was apparent in her voice.

For a moment, his eyes grew wide, then he had to look away. He couldn't meet his partner's steady compassionate gaze any longer. He had never intended to broach this particular subject with her, but now, with three careless words from his mouth, it was just laying there, like a big, fat, dead elephant in the middle of the room. He didn't know what to say to her, but he wasn't sure he wanted to back away from it either. She'd always been so frank and honest about her own background, and he'd always felt a little guilty about keeping so many secrets from her. And, unlike the situation with Muriel Faringo, this guilty feeling was his fault. It was something completely within his control. He'd opened the door, granted, it had happened accidentally, but now all he had to do was walk through it.

"Look, Elliot, you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to," she said gently. "Just know that I'm here, any time you need me."

"My dad," he blurted out.

She waited. He spent long minutes smoothing wrinkles out of the sheet with his index finger, and she waited as if she had nothing better to do than hear whatever he felt able to tell her. Whenever he pushed one ripple of fabric down, another would rise up right beside it, so he would have to run that one down, too. He could go on forever, and there would always be another. It was kind of like his life, really. Whenever he smoothed one wrinkle out, he'd turn around and find another. It was no wonder he'd finally lost it. At least if he told Liv about his dad, one of the wrinkles would actually be gone, and he could stop feeling guilty about the secrets he was keeping from her.

That realization loosened his tongue, and, still chasing wrinkles in the sheet, he finally confided in his partner.

"Most of the time, my old man was pissed off about a lot of things," he said. "He would . . . "

The words were so hard to find. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, silently supporting him.

"When I was a kid, I didn't even know I was being abused," he admitted. "I idolized my dad, but I was always afraid of him. I just thought I was a bad . . . a bad little boy. That's what he always told me, and I believed him. He said I was a rotten kid and a failure and a . . . a pansy. He liked that word. He used it ever time I cried. And he used his belt to . . . to make me cry a lot."

It was impossible for him to look at her. He couldn't bear to see her face, to get a glimpse into what she might be thinking. He folded his arms protectively around himself and moved his gaze to the far wall of the room.

"I learned to be on guard all the time. I had ears like a bat. I could hear him breathing in the next room, and I could be upstairs doing homework and hear him get out of the easy chair in the den. Then my heart would be in my throat, and I'd feel sick, and I'd hold my breath until I was sure he wasn't coming after me."

Finally, he looked at her. He didn't like the tears he saw in her eyes, tears for him, but to his relief, he saw no judgment there. She might not have understood why he kept his secrets, but she didn't care either.

After a few long moments, she blinked her tears away, smiled sadly, and said, "You survived it, El, and you'll survive this, too."

He didn't feel much like smiling back, but he did nod in agreement. For a long time after that, they just sat there, two good friends comfortable in one another's company. After what may have been hours, or perhaps only minutes, Elliot spoke again.

"I'm lucky to have you as my partner, Liv, and I'm grateful for your friendship. There's not another person in the world I could have gone to last night. Any time you want to know how I am, just ask me, and I'll try to give you a straight answer."

The relief of having given up his burden was amazing, and he knew it would take a while for him to get used to the feeling, but he also knew, now that he had told her his secret, there was no going back. She'd heard the worst thing he'd had to tell her, and she'd accepted it, just as she had always accepted him. He knew he could trust her with anything, and from now on, he owed her complete honesty because of that.

She didn't know what to say back to that, so she didn't say anything. She just reached out and gave his good hand a gentle squeeze, then picked up the TV remote from the bedside table and said, "Is there anything worth watching on TV at this time on a Saturday?"

Now, Elliot felt like smiling, just a little. "Isn't there some rule that there always has to be a western?"

Interview Room
Riker's Island Correctional Facility
11:35 A.M., November 19, 2005

"Yeah, I knew him. We met upstate," Bert Green said on a yawn and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve when Munch and Fin asked him about Roger DeVane in one of the visitor's rooms at Riker's Island Correctional Facility. "I let him watch me a couple of times, but he didn't wanna to join in."

"Watch you?" Fin asked.

"With the ladies," Green supplied with a lascivious grin as he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. "He really wanted to watch me with my girlfriend, but she said no. But that was ok, because I was getting plenty on the side that she didn't know about."

"Meaning the women you raped. How romantic," Munch said sarcastically as he shared a knowing look with Fin. "And did he ever let you watch him?"

"I suppose he would have if I had asked, but I didn't want to, man, that sick freak was into hurtin' little girls." Green sat bouncing and fidgeting in his chair like a high school kid watching the clock two minutes before the final bell.

"And I suppose you think that's a whole lot worse than raping a dozen grown women, huh?" Fin asked in a disgusted tone.

"Yeah, it is. See, with a woman, if she really don't want it, she's got a chance to fight back. Hey, I could really use a cigarette, either of you guys smoke?"

"'Fraid not," Fin said, obviously not sorry about the fact that he couldn't help the guy out.

"It's kind of hard to fight back with a knife at your throat, isn't it?" Munch said, looking up from Green's file where he had just read the M.O. of his crimes.

"I guess they just didn't want to get away bad enough," Green said with a shrug as he dabbed at his watery eyes. "They still coulda fought harder, made it a little more exciting, but those little girls, they couldn't defend themselves. That's what got Rog off. No matter how hard they fought, he could still do whatever he wanted with them. That's just sick. Besides, they were kids. I got a niece, she was about the age of the girls Rog was doin'. I told him if he ever touched her, I'd slice him open from his throat to his balls."

"Well, I guess you can't be all bad," Munch said insincerely, "at least you look out for your own."

Green nodded and a shudder passed through him. "You bet your ass I do."

"All right then," Munch said with a faint nod in Fin's direction. "We need to know anything you can remember about where DeVane liked to hang out, what he liked to do when he wasn't stalking and torturing little girls, anybody he spent time with, and we need to know now."

Green laughed at him and asked, "What do I get out of it?"

Grabbing his arm and shoving the sleeve of his prison uniform up past his elbow to expose the needle tracks, Fin said, "We won't tell the warden to toss your cell and look for your works before he lets you go back to it."

As if he had known all along what his partner was going to do, Munch added, "And if you start talking now, you might even get back to your cell in time to take your next fix without making a mess of your veins."

Of course, both cops knew their promises were lies, they were obligated to report Green's drug habit, but they were sure the warden would wait long enough to search Green's cell to leave some doubt in the man's mind about whether they had actually sold him out. That way, there was a chance that if they needed to speak to him again, he would still be cooperative.

Green remained reluctant to talk, not because he felt any loyalty to DeVane, but because he didn't like being used by the cops. Nevertheless, he figured giving up a few names would buy him the time to pass his works on to a friend to hold for him until the guards had tossed his cell. Green was no fool, he knew the cops weren't going to look the other way on his heroin habit. If they didn't report it to the warden, it could mean trouble for them.

"There was this broad at a tavern in Manhattan, some red-headed babe that DeVane was really into," Bert told them. "I don't remember her name, but it was Irish. He said she was the only grown woman he'd ever been able to get a hard-on for . . . because she looked so much like a little girl."

An Ill WInd

"Shhh, I think he's sleeping."

Even when she whispered, Elliot could recognize the voice of his oldest daughter, and, delighted to know the kids had come to see him, he pressed the button that raised the bed. "I'm awake."

He was relieved to have the IV out of his arm, knowing how much that would upset his children, especially Kathleen. They'd removed it when they took him down to have more x-rays of his wrist and ankle after Olivia had left, but he wished the bruising on his face wasn't so bad. He'd seen himself in the mirror when he'd finally decided to shave after lunch, and he knew he wasn't a pretty sight.

"Oh, Daddy!" Kathleen gasped, and the tears welled up in her eyes immediately. She was the sensitive one.

"It's all right, Baby," he soothed her, and when she got close enough, he pulled her into a hug. "Shhhh. I'm ok. It's just some bumps and bruises."

"And a concussion, broken nose, cracked ribs, fractured ankle, and broken bones and damaged ligaments in your hand, right, Dad? Oh, and a dislocated thumb!" Maureen, so like her mother, wasn't going to let him gloss over anything just to spare them.

"Yeah, but enough about that," he told her sternly, hating that she was starting to worry about adult problems. "It's nothing that won't heal." He knew he could trust Kathy not to tell them what they didn't have any business knowing, so he wasn't worried that she might mention the rest, but he didn't want his children dwelling on what was wrong with him. He wanted them to know he would be all right.

"Did they get the guy who did it?" Dickie wanted to know.

"Nah, not yet, but every cop in New York is looking for him, so it's only a matter of time," Elliot assured his son.

"When they do get him, I hope they beat him to a pulp!" Lizzie said emphatically.

"Lizzie!" Kathleen gasped in horror. "What an awful thing to say. Shame on you!"

"Well, it's true!" Lizzie insisted. "After what he did to Dad, I hope they shoot him, and if you don't feel the same way, then shame on you!"

Growing up side by side with her twin brother had made Elizabeth Stabler more of a tomboy than her two older sisters. She was also more vocal and opinionated. Maureen, the eldest, was content just to watch the conflict as long as they didn't come to blows, but Kathleen, the middle child, needed to make herself heard.

"First of all, what I feel is none of your business, and second, even if you do feel that way, a girl shouldn't say such terrible things."

"So, it would have been ok for Dickie to say because he's a boy? Puh-leeze!" Lizzie snapped back.

"Leave me out of this," Dickie said, backing away toward a safe spot in a neutral corner.

"Well . . . "

"Stop it!" Elliot broke in and struggled to cover a grimace of pain as his ribs objected to the shouting. With the kids quiet, he continued in a softer tone that didn't aggravate his injuries. "First of all, Kathleen, it is not your place to correct your sister. Trust me, when she gets too far out of line, your mother and I will deal with her. That's our job."

"Nyah!" Lizzie taunted and stuck her tongue out.

"Now, you just hold on a minute, young lady," Elliot caught her before she could get too smug. "In this case I happen to agree with your sister. Having those thoughts is one thing, but saying them aloud can be dangerous, and I think you need to mention it next time you go to confession, understand?"

"Yes, Sir," Lizzie agreed glumly.

"What do you think they should do with him, Dad?" Dickie asked, clearly interested in what his father had to say.

Elliot would have been content to hear that his colleagues had gunned DeVane down in the street like a rabid dog, but he knew better than to be that frank with his children. It would be best to stick with the party line. "The police are supposed to catch criminals, not punish them," he explained. "They should apprehend him using only necessary force."

"Yeah, and once you're feeling better, I'll bet you'd love to have five minutes in a room alone with him, wouldn't you, Dad?" Maureen pushed.

"You know what? I'll let you know when you're old enough to talk to me that way," he said, looking at her through narrowed eyes. His oldest daughter was about to turn twenty-one, and she thought she was so grown up, but he still didn't like knowing that she was mature enough to get into his head like that and say what was on his mind.

"It's all right, Dad," she said understandingly, giving him the same measured look he had given her. "I feel the same way." She moved close and placed a kiss on his cheek, then draped a protective arm around his shoulders. "But most of all I'm glad you're going to be ok."

He smiled at her, grateful to end the conversation, and in a bid to change the subject, asked, "So, how are things at school?"

All four of them tried to answer at once, and he had to laugh despite the pain from his ribs.

Mac's Tavern
463 Amsterdam Ave., Manhattan
6:32 P.M., November 19, 2005

"Yeah, I remember him," Lenny Davis said as he handed the photo of Roger DeVane back to Munch. "Haven't seen him in, oh, about ten years, I guess, since he was arrested, whenever that was."

"It's been twelve years," Fin told him. "He just got out on parole and he's already wanted on a fresh rape/homicide."

The bartender glowered at the detectives and then called to one of the waitresses to take over at the bar. After escorting the two policemen into the back office, he shut the door and asked, "What the hell are you trying to do to me? Look out there. This isn't some crummy bar for whores and junkies. Mac's is a neighborhood tavern. It's clean and bright. I don't allow fighting or vulgar behavior, I stop serving when my patrons have had enough, and if they aren't fit to drive, I call them a cab. You can bring the whole family here to eat buffalo wings and watch Monday night football. When DeVane was busted, my business fell off for weeks. You think it won't happen again if you start blurting words like rape and homicide at the main bar? Be straight with me, what do you want?"

Fin cut his partner a look, and when Munch gave a nod, he began with a sigh. "We have a source that says DeVane had the hots for one of your waitresses, a red-haired, young-looking Irish girl, but he couldn't give us a name. We need to know who she was, and we'll need to talk to any of your patrons he might have been especially friendly with."

The bartender nodded and took out a battered leather address book. "I don't remember him getting chummy with any of the customers, but Annie O'Keefe was pretty hot for him, at least until he got busted."

Munch's phone rang and he stepped into a corner of the room to take the call.

As he continued talking, the bartender copied down a name and address and handed it over. "I actually had to threaten to fire her before she would stop hanging all over him and do her job. She got married to some Wall Street type about ten years ago and quit. I don't know if that's the right address any more, but that's the last I heard of her. If anyone here knew DeVane, she did."

"Thanks," Fin said as he accepted and read the paper then tucked it into his notebook. Handing over a copy of his business card, he added, "If DeVane shows up here, serve him like you would any other customer. Then dial 911. Tell them to contact Detectives Tutuola and Munch at Manhattan SVU. Ok?"

"And you'll come arrest him on the premises and I'll be operating in the red for the next three months, right?"

"If we bust him here, we'll make sure you get some positive press for your bravery and sense of civic duty," Munch said, and looking to his partner said, "We have to go. They've found another victim, and it looks like our guy was involved."

"Thanks for your help, man," Fin said as he left the office, "and remember, if he shows up here, call us!"

An Ill Wind

"So, have you been having a nice visit?" Kathy called as she entered the hospital room to find her husband and children laughing together. She sat at the foot of Elliot's bed and put a Bloomingdale's bag on the floor.

"Yeah," Elliot grinned at her. "Thanks for bringing them by. Where have you been?"

"Playing hide and seek with your doctor."

"Yeah?" Elliot couldn't hide his confusion and uncertainty.

"He's releasing you to my care for the weekend, and he made an appointment for you Monday morning with a surgeon to take care of your hand."

"But, Kath, I can't even dress myself yet," he told her, his apprehension showing. "I . . . I'm not ready to go home."

He was doing his best to breathe slowly through his mouth because he didn't want his kids to see how frightened he was. He knew he was unsuccessful when Lizzie put her hand over his and said, "It's ok, Dad, we're not going to drop you off at the house and leave you all alone. We're moving back, at least until you're able to take care of yourself again."

He smiled down at her and felt the heat of embarrassment warm his face.

"Yeah, Daddy," Kathleen agreed. "Whatever problems you and Mom might have, we're still a family and we still take care of each other. You tried to teach us that, and now we can prove to you that we got it."

"I see," Elliot said doubtfully, "but don't I get a vote considering it's my health we're talking about?"

"No, Dad, you don't," Maureen told him flatly, "because you're too stubborn to admit when you need help. We've already packed our bags and taken them to the house. You're stuck with us."

"What did I say about talking to me that way?" he asked defiantly, slightly resenting the way his child felt the need to mother him.

Maureen raised an eyebrow and said, "Tell you what, when you start acting your age, I'll stop acting mine, at least when I'm around you, since it bothers you so much. Mom, if you give me some money I'll take the kids, and we'll go get dinner. That way when all the paperwork is finished, we can just take Dad straight home."

Kathy pulled out her wallet and gave Maureen two twenties and a ten.

"I want pizza," Dickie insisted as the four of them headed out of the room.

"You just had pizza last night," Lizzie reminded him.

"I know, and it was good. That's why I want it again."

"Well, I want Chinese," Kathleen told them both.

"Eww!" Lizzie complained, "Chinese food looks and smells like garbage."

"We're going to the food court at the mall," Maureen told them, her voice oozing practicality. "You can each pick out whatever you want and everybody will be happy."

"But I don't like their pizza," Dickie argued.

"Then I guess you'll have to choose something else or go hungry," Maureen said with finality.

They were just about out of the room when Kathy reminded them, "I want my change back!"

"Yes, Mother," Maureen called back over her shoulder.

"And stick together!" Elliot said with more force than was necessary.

At that, Maureen stopped and turned. Staring at him for a moment, as if she could see right through him she quietly assured him, "I'll take care of them, Dad." Then she smiled and blew him a kiss. "Love you," she said and disappeared down the hall.

After a moment of silence, Elliot commented, "She seems to think she's all grown up."

"She is, El," Kathy pointed out. "She's taken on a lot of responsibility in the past year, especially with the twins."

He chewed his lip for a moment and then said sadly, "She shouldn't have had to."

"No, I suppose not, but she did, and she's done a wonderful job of it. You should be proud of her." She patted his shoulder and said, "We were two years married with a mortgage and an infant daughter when we were her age."

He nodded. "Maybe we shouldn't have done that."

Kathy took a deep breath, ready to blast him for suggesting that they should have done anything other than have their baby girl together, but when she saw how miserable he looked, she could only say, "Let's not have this conversation now. We'll have the rest of our lives to talk about how we messed up our kids. At the moment, all I really want to do is get you home where I can take care of you."

She bent over and picked up her shopping bag. "I stopped by the house and got you some things to wear. I know you're probably not comfortable being . . . touched in certain ways yet, but you're gonna have to let me help you put them on, ok?"

He was quiet a moment, then instead of answering her question, he said, "If you move back in, you'll have to file for separation again, and we'll have to live apart for another year before you can file for divorce."

"That's ok," she told him, "I'm not in any hurry to start dating again at my age anyway."

"But, Kath . . . "

"Oh, shut up, Elliot," she said in exasperation. "Your medical benefits cover in-home care. I checked before I ever talked to the kids about going home because I thought it might be better to spare them the upheaval of moving back into the house again. Then I realized that they would want to be near you now just as much as I do. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to be the one helping you when you needed it. You're the father of my children, and even though I couldn't stand living with you, I couldn't stop loving you either. Now, come on," she said, holding his shorts open for him at the edge of the bed, "Get dressed so you can go home."

Apartment of Sheila & Ralph Gardener
425 62nd Street, Brooklyn
7:13 P.M., November 19, 2005

As he climbed out of the double-parked Crown Victoria near the apartment of Roger DeVane's latest victim, Fin flashed his shield at the young uniformed officer directing traffic, and introduced himself, "Detective Odafin Tutuola, Manhattan SVU. This is my partner, Detective John Munch."

After a quick look at the badges, the uni directed them to a building just a few feet down the block and said, "Second floor. I ain't never seen nothin' like it."

"Give it time," Munch said in his most world-weary tone, and he followed Fin down the sidewalk to the building.

In the hall outside the apartment, Fin and Munch introduced themselves again, this time to a Detective Richard Garrett who was first on the scene after the uniforms who had been sent by Dispatch.

"Female vic is Sheila Gardener, age twenty-four, the male is her husband Ralph, twenty-two," Detective Garrett began reporting his facts. "We got a positive ID from a neighbor, Mrs. Katrina Vetner, who called it in. She and Mrs. Gardener were supposed to have coffee and discuss plans for a charity auction to benefit the local community center. When Mrs. Gardener didn't show up, Mrs. Vetner let herself in with the spare key the Gardener's had given her, and when she saw what you're about to, she called it in."

Munch stood aside, and he let Fin pass into the apartment ahead of him. When he heard his partner's intake of breath, he knew it had to be bad. Bracing himself for the worst, Munch stepped in and moved to stand beside Fin.

"I gotta tell ya, I'm glad to be handin' it off to you guys," the homicide detective muttered as he stepped forward to stand on the other side of Fin. "If I never have to deal with a scene like this again it will be too soon."

The scene was abuzz with CSU people gathering evidence and the ME examining the bodies, but both detectives quickly focused on the victims. The body of Sheila Gardener was bound awkwardly to a chair, her legs splayed wide, her ankles tied to the back legs of the seat. A mesh of fine red welts covered what could be seen of her skin, but much of her was covered in blood that had obviously poured from the gash in her neck and down over her body to pool around her on the floor. Farther into the room, her husband's body lay draped over a kitchen chair like a dirty towel, his hands cuffed to the cross-piece between the front legs and his feet bound to the back. He wasn't as bloody as his wife, but the dent in his skull was most likely the cause of death. Bruises and other injuries indicated that they had both been sexually assaulted.

"Ok, this is clearly a sex crime," Munch conceded, "but why us? Why didn't you call in Brooklyn SVU?"

Detective Garrett jerked his head in the direction of Mr. Gardener's corpse by way of answer. "Because we found this."

He led Munch and Fin into the room and indicated an envelope on the end table beside the body. It was addressed to "Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan SVU."

"Soon as I read that, I called you guys," Garrett told them.

Munch nodded. "Where is the neighbor who called it in?"

"She wigged out before I got here," Garrett explained. "First uni on the scene sent her to the hospital in a bus as soon as he determined that the Gardeners didn't need it. I'll find out where they sent her for you and send it on with my notes."

"Thanks," Munch said, "but can you let us know before you leave where she is?"

"Will do," Garrett agreed, and he left the apartment.

"Damn, John, this guy has turned into a completely different kind of animal," Fin breathed, and Munch didn't like the shocked sound of his partner's voice. As Munch and Garrett had been talking, Fin had carefully opened the envelope and read the letter inside.

"What do you mean?"

"Look at this."

Handling the letter by its edges, Munch took it from his partner and, with a growing sickness in the pit of his stomach, he read it.

Dear Elliot,

This is your fault.

All those poor little girls. I never really harmed them, you know. I just punished them for their carelessness. Can I help it if I enjoyed it a little? Something about those sweet little voices just turned me on like a switch. If you had just left well enough alone, I would have been satisfied with that, but thanks to your meddling, I have found a whole new world of dark needs and desires.

You did more damage than I ever did by making those little girls tell you about me over and over and then dragging them into court to face me. You promised them they would be safe once I went to jail, but you lied, didn't you? You knew I would be paroled one day. Why did you lie to them? What are you going to tell them now?

Muriel knows you lied to her, and now Sheila knows you can't protect her. I haven't decided yet if the rest will find out. Maybe if you come out and play again, I will leave them alone.

Well, at least you can truly empathize now; after all, you have felt their pain. Do you have any idea what a rush it was popping your cherry ass? You better not be careless, Detective, I may be back for more.

Rog

Munch felt his gorge rising and he had to swallow several times to keep from being sick. He tried hard to maintain his jaded view of the world, but when something like this hit so close to home, it hurt. Finally, with a tremor he couldn't quite keep out of his voice, he said, "I think we need to call George Huang."