An Ill Wind
Chapter Seven
Insight
OOO
The Stabler Residence
72-12 Castleside Street
Glen Oaks, Queens
3:02 A.M., November 20, 2005
Maureen opened her eyes and blinked into the glare of the television set. She had muted it when she was channel surfing so the changing volume as she flipped from channel to channel wouldn't disturb her family. On the one hand, she couldn't believe that they didn't have a TV with 'smart sound' yet, but on the other hand, she knew her parents' paychecks didn't go far when there were four kids to feed and four college funds to save for. In a few years, when all television went digital, maybe she would be making enough money to buy them a new TV for Christmas. Of course, by then, Kathleen and the twins would all be working, so maybe the four of them could go together and get a whole digital entertainment system. Then she frowned. Them. Will they be back together in a few years, or will Mom wait until Dad recovers from his injuries and then serve him with divorce papers? Hitting the display button on the remote, she saw by the blue numbers on the screen that it was just after three in the morning.
She hit the power button, and in the sudden darkness, her ears became instantly more attuned to the sounds of the night. The furnace was running, so was the fridge. A dog was barking somewhere in the neighborhood.
"Please, no."
The words from the guest room caught her attention as she crossed the living room to the stairs. She'd never known her father to talk in his sleep, but then when her parents were still together, her bedroom and theirs had always been at opposite ends of the hall.
"No, please don't."
She'd never known her dad to whine like that either. She wandered down the hall and stood by his door, chewing her bottom lip and wondering what she should do.
"Please don't hurt me."
He was having a nightmare. She knew he would be embarrassed to have her wake him, but it made her chest hurt to hear him suffering like that. Maybe she should get her mom.
"Noooooo."
The long, low sob made the decision for her. Opening the door as quietly as she could because she didn't want to startle him awake, she crossed the room to his bed. The digital clock and the stripes of light coming in through the blinds were enough for her to see by. Her dad's good hand was clinging to the ironwork of the headboard, and his injured hand was strapped close to his chest in the sling the doctor had fitted to keep the injury elevated above his heart. Both of his legs were twisted up tightly in the sheets, and his t-shirt was stained dark with sweat on his chest and under his arms.
"Ohhh, nooooo."
Putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, she shook him. "Daddy?"
He made a soft whimpering sound, even more pitiful than the frightened sobbing.
She shook him harder. "Dad, wake up. It's just a bad dream. Daddy?"
He opened his eyes wide and sat bolt upright in bed, startling her, but she managed for his sake not to scream. Scooting up the mattress to have his back to the headboard, he drew up his knees and wrapped his good arm around them. Looking around in confusion, he seemed not to recognize her or even know she was there.
"Daddy, it's me," she said, her voice pleading with him to know her. She reached out to him and he ducked away. "It's all right, Daddy, it was just a bad dream."
Finally, his eyes seemed to focus. "Maureen, Baby, what are you doing here?"
He was shivering, breathing heavily, and clearly in agony from his injured ribs, but he seemed to be unaware of them as the cause of his suffering.
"I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up and headed to bed, I heard you talking in your sleep. It was just a bad dream. You're ok." She couldn't keep the tremor out of her voice. Seeing him so disoriented and obviously frightened scared her, too. She reached out to touch him again, and this time, instead of ducking away, he jumped when her hand made contact with his shoulder.
With a sudden flash of insight, she read his body language. Like a wave, understanding washed over her, and she knew what her mother would not tell her. Instinctively, she moved closer and put her arm around his shoulders.
"It's ok, Daddy, you're safe now."
It was clear that he had heard those words enough in the past twenty-four hours to know what they meant. Peering at her with a look that she could imagine he used to intimidate the most hardened of criminals into talking, he asked, "What did I say in my sleep?"
She didn't know what to tell him. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. There were tears on his cheeks. She wanted to wipe them away, but he seemed not to know they were there. She had never seen him cry in her life. Not even when he came to Grandma's and begged her mom to move back home.
"Maureen, what did I say?" His tone was partly desperate, partly threatening.
Not wanting to embarrass him and knowing she couldn't lie, she swallowed hard and whispered, "Enough for me to know what he did to you."
His eyes were desolate. "Oh, Baby Girl, I'm so sorry. I didn't . . . want you to know. I wanted to protect you from this."
"You don't need to," she said firmly and sat on the edge of the mattress beside him. Now, she did wipe away his tears, and then she pulled him into a gentle hug. She'd never known him to seem so lost, to be so needy, or to be so willing to accept comfort. He'd always had to be so tough before, but this horrible thing had shattered his defenses.
"It's ok, Daddy, you're safe now," she repeated.
They sat there like that for a while, her holding him, and him letting her, each of them somehow finding comfort in the moment. For the first time in her life, she actually felt like an adult around him, instead of a little girl acting like a grownup. Little by little, the tension seeped out of his body. Finally, she cleared her throat and spoke again.
"I've been volunteering at the Campus Rape Crisis Center since I was a sophomore," she blurted out. "I'm a certified counselor."
He stared at her for a moment in surprise, and then wondered what reaction she wanted from him. "Look, Maureen . . ."
"Don't worry, I'm not going to try to counsel you," she cut him off. "That would be, well, weird, and probably unethical, too. Besides, Mom told me about Doctor Hendrix, and I think it's great that she's helping you. But I do have some things I want to tell you."
"Maureen . . ."
"Shh. That means I talk, you listen for once." Her tone was firm, and gentle, not at all disrespectful, more authoritative than it had ever been. She had never spoken to him quite that way before. How could he not obey?
"First of all, I know you've heard it before, but it doesn't hurt to be reminded. You're safe now. Liv had the locks changed, and she gave Mom the new keys. It's standard procedure, and they do it for every victim. You know that. All the doors and windows are locked. The alarm is set. No one can hurt you in this house."
He knew he was supposed to respond when she paused, so he nodded, despite his knowledge to the contrary, and let her continue. A small part of him was humoring her, letting his little girl act all grown up; but most of him was responding to the competent, compassionate, professional young woman who was trying to help him cope with the jumble of emotions that had been battering him since the attack.
"Also, I want you to know you are not alone. This happens to a lot of guys. Nobody knows how many male victims there are, but it is probably the most underreported crime there is. We have a couple of counseling groups we refer men to."
When he started to interrupt, she anticipated his words and overrode him. "I know it's not in your character to join a therapy group, but for some people, just knowing it's there, that there are enough others to form one, helps. That said, if you ever decide you want to try it, I can help you find one."
He nodded somberly when she paused for breath, and was surprised when she suddenly looked disappointed.
"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," Maureen apologized. "I'm starting to sound like one of those tri-fold informational pamphlets we hand out to the freshmen, aren't I?"
He shook his head. "You're doing fine." He looked down and picked at a thread unraveling from the edge of his blanket, embarrassed by what he was about to admit. "This probably sounds stupid, but I didn't know that. I mean I did, because of my job, you know, and I've told other guys that, not a lot of them, but enough to know the statistics. Still, in the middle of it . . ."
He looked up at her, needing her to see in his eyes how much he loved her and appreciated what she was doing for him, "I guess . . . now that it's happened to me . . . I need to hear it from someone else."
She put a hand over his and he stopped playing with the blanket. "We've had five guys come into the center this semester alone," she said. "They weren't all students, they weren't weak, they weren't gay, and they weren't asking for it. They were victims, they were hurting, and they needed help."
He looked down where her small, white hand was covering his larger, lightly tanned one and he interlaced their fingers. She gave his hand a little squeeze communicating support, and he squeezed back to show his gratitude.
"There's one more thing I want you to know, Dad." Maureen waited a moment, but when he didn't look up, she said it anyway. "You don't have to pretend you're ok around me. I'm a big girl now. I know I'm grown up, you see, because I have finally figured out that I don't know everything."
He gave a lopsided grin as he studied her hand, wondering when she had started getting her nails manicured. That had been one of his favorite jibes whenever she complained that he was babying her or being too strict. "Just wait 'til you don't know everything," he'd say and suggest that maybe then he would give her a later curfew or let her go clubbing in the city with her friends.
"I know people are a lot more complicated than happy, sad, and angry. You don't have to tell me anything, but you don't have to act like it was nothing either, ok?"
He nodded and they sat there again in silence until Maureen said, "Mom told me he killed a woman right in front of you."
He shook his head, knowing he could be, he had to be, honest with her. "That's not entirely true. I was unconscious at the time. She probably called to me to help her, and I couldn't even answer."
Maureen squeezed his hand and put her other arm around him, pulling him into another comforting embrace. "It's not your fault, Dad. You're human. You did the best you could, and no one can expect more than that."
He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at her words, or to be proud that he had raised such a compassionate and understanding child. It was exactly what he would have said to anyone else, but somehow, he still couldn't believe it for himself.
Medical Examiner's Offices
520 1st Ave.
6:02 A.M., November 20, 2005
Liv strolled into the medical examiner's lab at six in the morning, knowing Melinda Warner was finishing up a night shift because she had called the previous day to get her colleague's schedule. Ordinarily, Warner handled autopsies, but given the nature of the crime and the fact that Elliot was the vic, they wanted to keep the circle of those in the know as small as possible.
As the weary ME sat at her desk, Liv handed her a cup of cappuccino. "French Vanilla, decaf, with a sprinkle of cinnamon."
Warner smiled her thanks, and slid the file over to Olivia. "How's he doing?"
"I haven't seen him since before lunch yesterday," Liv said and she took a hit of her Swiss Mocha Almond and immediately felt the caffeine kicking in, energizing her limbs and jumpstarting her brain. She was a coffee addict, and figured if that was her worst vice, she could live with it. "His wife and kids are looking after him. I thought I ought to keep my distance for a little while."
"I understand you were with him for the exam," Melinda said gently. As far as she was concerned, she didn't get to work with Stabler and Benson often enough. They were smart, curious, and good investigators who could easily grasp most of the complicated forensic evidence she presented them. They worked well together and with her, and, as much as she was disturbed by what had happened, she knew Olivia had to be suffering a thousand times more.
Olivia nodded, her face betraying her emotions.
"How are you doing?" Melinda asked knowingly.
As she opened her mouth to answer, Olivia yawned. Realizing that the initial hit of caffeine was already wearing off, she took another swallow of coffee, and then, wiping her watery eyes with the paper napkin the coffee shop had provided with her drink, she laughed at herself and said, "I'll sleep better when this bastard's in jail, that's for sure. I wish I could do more to help with the investigation, but I'm his partner, and he has asked me to stay off this case. I'm reviewing the old cases to see if I can find new leads on what DeVane is doing or where he might be now. This is just an errand for Munch and Fin."
"I see, so you're not going to read the file before you hand it over to them?"
"You know I'm torn," Olivia admitted. "I want to know what's in there, because I can't help but think if I just had a little more information I could help find DeVane, but then I made a promise to my partner. Now, I don't think I'd have a problem breaking that promise if I knew it would pay off. I just wouldn't tell Elliot. But if I read it and it doesn't help, then I have betrayed his trust for nothing."
"Then let me put you out of your misery," Melinda offered. "We've got the pictures of Elliot's injuries from the exam, some fibers on his clothes that we matched to the furniture in the apartment, and some DNA to prove it was DeVane. On Muriel Faringo, there were dozens of welts, probably cause by a whip of some sort, evidence of rape, fibers from the house, and more of DeVane's DNA. Cause of death was exsanguination from a severed carotid artery. She also had very dry, chapped skin, especially on her hands. That's all."
Liv nodded. "Thanks. That solves a real dilemma for me." She saw a troubled look cross the ME's face and asked, "What's on your mind?"
"I could go through proper channels, but it would be easier if you would just tell me your partner's phone number. I have some information for him, too."
"You ran an HIV test on DeVane's fluids, didn't you?" Olivia asked. "Is it good news?"
Melinda didn't have a very good poker face. "I'm not supposed to answer that."
"And that in itself is an answer," Liv pointed out, knowing the woman would have had no qualms telling her DeVane was HIV-negative and her partner was in the clear. "Damn."
"The chances of contracting it . . ."
"Yeah, I know, the odds of getting it through a sexual assault are low, practically microscopic, and he's taking the anti-AIDS medication, but it's one more thing he doesn't need hanging over him right now," Liv took out her notebook and tore a sheet loose to write down Elliot's home number. "Make sure his wife is with him when you tell him, ok?"
Warner nodded. "I will."
An Ill Wind
Elliot opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost seven in the morning. He yawned, and would have stretched, but his ribs had already given him hell when he took that deep breath for the yawn, so he knew better. When he turned his head to look out the window and see what the weather might be, he was momentarily startled by the sleeping form in the corner armchair. Then he remembered Maureen coming to him in the night, waking him from his nightmare, and sitting with him until he was calm again. Surprisingly, he felt gratitude for her compassion, and pride in what an extraordinary young woman his little girl had become, but he wasn't embarrassed in the least by his behavior in front of her. He supposed that it must have had something to do with the fact that the two of them were so much alike that he instinctively knew she understood how he felt and wouldn't judge him.
She had propped her feet up on the footrest in front of the chair, and though he felt some complaints from sore muscles, he couldn't resist reaching out and tickling the sole of her foot. She flicked the appendage as if chasing off a fly, and after a moment, he started teasing her again. When she was little, he would tickle her feet every once in a while just to hear her giggle. Then he would swoop her up and she would put out her arms, straight to her sides like she was flying and squeal in delight.
It had all been fun and games for him until she was about four years old and discovered he had a ticklish spot, too.
As he ran his fingers lightly up and down the sole of her foot, she kicked out sharply this time. He jumped in surprise, and the sudden motion caused his ribs to hurt. He gasped in pain, and the sudden intake of air hurt so bad he saw spots.
"Oh, Daddy, I'm sorry," Maureen apologized, awakened by the sounds of his discomfort.
"'Salright," he grunted, and after catching his wind, he assured her, "I was asking for it. I know how ticklish you are."
"That was a kind of a dumb thing to do," Maureen agreed a little too readily for his liking.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he responded.
Maureen blew him a kiss, and then fell serious. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
Elliot stopped himself in mid-sigh when he felt another twinge from his ribs. After a moment's thought, he said, "Sore, but not too bad."
Maureen seemed to think a moment about probing further, but she must have sensed that he wasn't willing to talk about his emotional state with her, so she just nodded instead and asked, "It's about time for your pain medication, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and the Combivir," Elliot told her.
"I hate that it makes you so sick," she said.
"Me, too, Baby Girl," he told her. "There's something else over there," he gestured toward the chest of drawers where his various pill bottles sat, "The doctor prescribed it for nausea. Some little yellow pills."
"Ok, just let me go get you some water, first."
While she was gone, Elliot worked his way to a sitting position in the bed. It was a strenuous process, and by the time she got back from the kitchen, he was sweating and grimacing in pain. She gave him a curious, concerned look, but said nothing.
She scooped up the various pill bottles from the chest of drawers and brought them over to him. Letting them drop to the blanket that covered his lap, she set the water on the nightstand and then, realizing he couldn't possibly open the child-safe containers with his left hand in a splint, she picked up a bottle.
"Ok, here we go," she began reading, "Combivir, one tablet twice daily." She opened it and shook one fat white tablet out into her palm. "At least it isn't quite big enough to choke a horse." She put the bottle on the nightstand and picked up the next one.
"Yeah, and it's a less complicated schedule," he said. "Years ago, there were two different pills to take, one every eight hours and one every twelve hours. I was always worried I'd forget one or the other, or take the wrong pill at the wrong time."
Maureen frowned. "You mean you've been exposed to HIV before?" she asked in surprise. "Daddy, when?"
Elliot grimaced at her sharp tone and said, "When you were too young to worry about it."
From her annoyed look, he knew he needed to explain more. "A few years ago Liv and I had a victim who had slit her wrists while soaking in a warm bath. I had a cut on my hand and I lifted her out of the water."
"You shouldn't have kept that from us," Maureen said sullenly.
"You were just a kid then, and that was a grown up problem," he explained. "If I had tested positive, then your mother and I would have told you."
"You don't need to protect us," she told him.
"I'm your dad, Maureen, it's my job."
She met his gaze, saw how earnest he was, and nodded, knowing better than to say anything more about the subject. Reading the next bottle, she said, "Percodan, one tablet every six hours as needed for pain. Do not exceed four per day.' Do you want one?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "I'm sore, but I have learned in the past that I have a high tolerance for pain. I probably won't need another one until bedtime."
Looking at him dubiously, Maureen said, "You don't have to prove to us how strong you are, you know?"
"I know," he told her, "and I don't plan to suffer just to look tough. I have never needed as much pain reliever as the doctor has prescribed. Ask your mother."
Nodding, Maureen dumped one of the little pink footballs out in her hand and then moved on to the next drug. "'Compazine. One tablet every six hours as needed for nausea.'"
"I'll need one because of the Combivir."
She took out one of the small yellowish-green pills for him and set the container beside its fellows. Looking at the last bottle she read, "Valium, one tablet, as needed, for acute anxiety."
"Give me that!" he snapped, and taking the bottle from her, he hurled it across the room in the direction of the trashcan.
She looked at him for a moment, knowing what he was thinking, that a grown man shouldn't need the little white pills to deal with a beating, and knowing how wrong he was. Hoping she was doing the right thing, she decided not to ignore his actions.
"Feel better?" she asked, arching one eyebrow.
"Maureen, don't go there," he warned.
She ignored him. "There are only four or five in the bottle," she said. "Obviously your doctor thought you might need them." She crossed the room and retrieved the medication.
"Well, I don't," he said firmly.
"You didn't bat an eye about taking the Percodan or the Compazine, and you don't deny that the Combivir is a good idea. Why are you so reluctant to admit that you might need a Valium?"
"They're for real problems, the Valium is different."
"Why?" she demanded. "Because it's for emotional pain instead of physical suffering? Your feelings are real, too, Dad, every bit as real as the bruises on your face. You can't ignore them just because you don't see them."
"I know that," he insisted angrily, "but that doesn't mean I need tranquilizers to cope with them."
"Not now, because you're pissed off . . . I mean mad, ok, you're angry." He had opened his mouth to correct her for her coarse language but she had beaten him to it. For a moment, her eyes said, Did I really say that in front of my father? but then she remembered the matter at hand and got back to it.
"I'm hoping it doesn't happen, but how are you going to feel laying here in the dark after three nights of not sleeping because you're afraid of the nightmares?" she asked. "What about when someone from the squad needs to talk to you about your statement or you have to go in and pick this guy out of a lineup? Isn't it better to have it in case you need it than to need it and not have it?"
"I shouldn't need drugs to deal with what happened," he insisted.
"Maybe you won't," she conceded, "but what would you say if it was Mom, or me, or one of the other kids? What would you tell Olivia if it was her?"
Maureen knew that, while her father was as protective of his partner as he was of any woman, he considered her a slightly different breed of female because she was a cop. In some circumstances, he expected more from her than he would from his own wife and daughters, and this would probably be one of those instances, but if he would agree that it was ok for his partner to take a Valium for a panic attack, then he could be persuaded to keep them on hand for himself, just in case.
He looked at her sullenly. "Put them in my sock drawer," he finally said.
She placed his morning medication in his hand and handed him the water so he could swallow the pills. Then, she quietly set the Valium on the nightstand with the other bottles. Her gesture told him more eloquently than words that she thought it was nothing to be ashamed of.
He gave her a weak smile of surrender, and said, "Ok, have it your way." Swallowing the tablets in a single gulp, he muttered, "I'm going to rattle like a damned maraca."
"Only until the pills dissolve," Maureen said with a wink.
16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
8:00 A.M., November 20, 2005
"Ok, let's get this over with," Annelle O'Keefe Othmer said, "It's not like I have all day."
"Of course, Mrs. Othmer," Munch said agreeably, "May I take your coat?"
She untied the belt of the long chocolate-colored suede coat with the ermine collar and cuffs and then stood holding her arms in such a way that Munch could easily slip it off her. As he took it to the coat rack in the corner of the interview room, he asked Olivia, "Miss Benson, would you mind getting us some coffee?"
"Yes, Sir," Olivia nodded and asked, "How do you take it, Mrs. Othmer?"
"Black," she said, "no sugar."
"Yes, ma'am."
She left the room, not just to get the coffee as Munch had asked, but also to let him start the little charade Fin had instigated the previous day. While Olivia was out of the room, Munch had to apologize and make nice, and when she returned, she was supposed to pose as his subordinate. Annie was obviously entrenched in the culture of the wealthy, and accustomed to having servants around, so a servile assistant would quickly become invisible to her and she might do or say something in front of Olivia that would give up some information she would not otherwise disclose. That was the theory, anyway.
"Before we begin, Mrs. Othmer, I would like to apologize for my partner's behavior last evening," John said obsequiously once his 'assistant' had left the room. "Between you and me, Detective Tutuola is a good cop, but when you grow up in a certain type of neighborhood, you learn that the only way to achieve anything is through intimidation. He does well in most aspects of the job, but he is much better suited to dealing with suspects, not pillars of the community such as yourself."
"Yes, well, I suppose I could overlook it just this once," she suggested, "but if it were to happen again, he would be hearing from my lawyer. I am sure there is some kind of statute protecting citizens from harassment by officers such as him."
"There certainly is, ma'am, but you have my personal guarantee," Munch placed a hand over his heart, "that it won't happen again."
"Yes, well, see that it doesn't, Detective," she admonished him.
Liv, who had been waiting on the other side of the mirrored glass, took that as her cue to return. Picking up the tray with coffee, mugs, and pastries that she had prepared, she went round to the interview room and knocked softly before she entered. Once she was let in, she set the tray down, and poured Mrs. Othmer a cup of steaming, dark French roast, a somewhat better blend than the detectives in the squad usually drank which Munch had purchased that morning specifically for this interview. Then she fixed Munch's for him, with two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream. Of course, she knew how John took his coffee because they had been colleagues for so long, but for Mrs. Othmer, it would appear that she was nothing more than a well-trained assistant.
"Would you like a pastry or a muffin, Mrs. Othmer?" he offered.
"Perhaps a cheese Danish," she said.
Smiling, feeling rather like Teller, the magician Penn's silent sidekick, Olivia picked up a Danish with a napkin and placed it on a small paper plate, then, as with the coffee, she showed what a good little helper she was by automatically selecting something Munch would like and placing it before him.
"You might as well have something, too, Miss Benson, since you seem to have brought an extra cup and a surplus of pastries," Munch suggested with an indulgent smile when Olivia took her seat at the corner of the table without a drink or snack.
"Thank you, Sir," she said and fixed her coffee, dark and sweet, took a chocolate chip muffin, and returned to her place, sitting slightly hunched, with a legal pad beside her and pen in hand as if she wanted to avoid further notice. With her free hand, she plucked bites out of her muffin and sipped her coffee, all the while avoiding eye contact.
Munch looked at Mrs. Othmer and rolled his eyes as if to say, 'What's a body to do?' and began the conversation. "We certainly do appreciate your coming in to talk to us, especially so early on a Sunday," he said, oozing charm and gratitude.
"Well, I wish I could say it was my pleasure," she told him, tearing off part of the Danish, raising it to her lips and then putting it down without having bitten into it, "but I have to admit, if there was any way I thought I could avoid it, I wouldn't be here at all."
"I can understand that," John assured her, "and I am sorry for the inconvenience, but anything you can remember about Roger DeVane would be a help. We need to get him off the streets again."
"He was a disgusting, perverted man, and the time I spent with him was the biggest mistake of my life," she said defensively. "Does that help you?"
"Not so much, ma'am," John said patiently, "but from what we understand, you spent a lot of time in his company. What were his interests? What did he spend money on? Where might he be spending his time now?"
Annelle Othmer smoothed a hand over the red hair which was done up in an elaborate twist and then started nervously sliding the large diamond and emerald pendant she wore along its platinum chain.
"Why, I'm sure I don't know, Detective," she said. "Twelve years is a long time. I have changed and my interests have changed, and I am sure Mr. DeVane's have, too."
She could have smiled coyly, to show that she wasn't being entirely truthful. She could have smiled wickedly to show she was being deliberately difficult. She could even have smiled seductively, to show that she was either attracted to John or that she just wanted to torture him. But, the smile she gave him was a grimace of pure terror, and suddenly, Olivia, who had been surreptitiously watching every expression and gesture, knew that they were handling her all wrong. Munch was talking to Annelle Othmer, but Annie O'Keefe had been the one to date Roger DeVane. Glancing up to the two-way mirror, she pulled her earlobe and rolled her eyes toward the door, her prearranged signal to the captain to find a reason to pull Munch out of the interview. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.
John shot Olivia a look, and she got up to answer it. The captain stepped just into the room and said, "May I have a word, Detective Munch?"
John looked from Liv to Annie and then rose from his seat to follow his captain out of the room. Liv watched them go, and for a moment stared at the door behind them. Then she returned to her seat, took a swallow of her coffee, and tore off a bite of her muffin. She glanced back at the door again, trying to seem unsure whether she should continue the questioning without her 'superior.' Finally, she looked at the woman across from her and said, "I'm sure he'll be back any minute, now."
Liv nibbled at her muffin. Mrs. Othmer fidgeted with her jewelry, looked at her watch, sighed, stood up and paced, sat back down, looked at her watch, and sighed again.
"Oh, for goodness sake! I really do need to get going," she looked at Olivia and said, "Don't you know what he's going to ask? You're the one who came ready to take notes, obviously he trusted you to write everything down for him anyway."
"Well, I guess he wouldn't mind," Olivia replied, trying to appear a little uneasy. She sat up straighter and wrote the date on her yellow legal pad. "May I call you Annie?"
Mrs. Othmer's expression softened, and she nodded.
"Ok, and I'm Olivia," she said, wondering if she shouldn't treat Annie more like a victim than a reluctant witness. "Annie, we need to know everything you can remember about Roger DeVane. Men like him are creatures of habit. Knowing what he used to do twelve years ago is what will help us figure out what he is going to do now, and that is how we're going to catch him. Do you know anything about where he liked to shop or eat, what he did for fun? Anything at all?"
Annie just shook her head. Olivia sighed and took another swallow of coffee.
"Ok, this is going nowhere," Munch said impatiently in the observation room on the other side of the two-way mirror. "It's time to stop kowtowing to the little social climber and start asking her some hard questions."
"Hold on," Cragen said, and took hold of his detective's arm as he turned to go. "Olivia hasn't given the signal yet."
"All this time, I kept telling myself that we did nothing wrong," Annie said in the other room. "Even after he was arrested, I didn't want to believe it."
An Ill Wind
Maureen was flipping through the Sunday morning news programs when her dad finally came limping out of the guest bedroom. She quickly switched to cartoons.
"How ya doin'?" she asked, then frowned and added, "Aren't you supposed to be using a crutch to walk?"
"I guess I'm ok," he said, "and I didn't really feel like I needed it. My ankle doesn't hurt."
"Because you took Percodan half an hour ago," she reminded him. Then she asked, "And why are you limping if it doesn't hurt?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked right by him into the guest room. Returning with his crutch, she held it out to him and said, "Here. Use it."
For about half a minute, he stared at her stubbornly, but she stared back, and he was struck by how much alike they were. He also realized that, for the moment she was in better shape than he was, and she could probably stand there all day. He on the other hand had about two minutes to sit down before he fell down. Reluctantly accepting the crutch, he used it to help himself hobble over to the couch. Then he slowly settled himself amidst the cushions and propped his feet up on the coffee table.
"Looks like you could use some help with your shoes," Maureen noted. The backs were squashed down by his heels and he hadn't bothered to tie them.
"They're fine," he said.
Maureen put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at him.
"Ok, fix them," he surrendered, knowing he wasn't going to get any peace in a house full of women, and realizing instantly how much he had missed the constant henpecking from all of them. He couldn't help but smile slightly.
"What?" Maureen asked when he saw his expression.
"I think it would make you mad if I told you."
"Whatever," she shrugged as she sat on the edge of the coffee table and slipped his shoes on his feet properly and tied them for him.
"You know, you shouldn't be so stubborn about accepting help," she admonished him. "One of these days, you'll have to get used to it."
Frowning, he asked, "Why?"
"Because Kathleen and I have already talked it over. When you get old, we're not putting you in a home." She moved toward the kitchen for something.
"Well, with any luck, I won't get old," he muttered, not thinking she'd hear.
"Don't say that," Maureen said, and she was instantly back at his side, and before he knew what was happening, she had tears running down her face.
"Oh, Sweetheart, I didn't mean it like that," he assured her. "Please, sit down, here beside me." He moved a couple of cushions and tugged on her arm.
She took a seat next to him, and he brushed away her tears. Pulling her into a one-armed hug, he kissed the top of her head and said, "I just don't ever want to be a burden on you. I hate this, the way things are now. You should never have to take care of me."
Turning slightly, she looked up at him and said, "Daddy, you've got it all wrong. All the while I was growing up, you and Mom took care of me, of all of us kids. Now that I'm grown, when you need help, it's my job to take care of you. What do you think people did before there were nursing homes and home healthcare?"
"Set them adrift on ice floes in the Hudson?" he smirked.
She gave him a stricken look and whined, "Daddy!"
He adjusted his expression to one of compassion and asked her, "You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"
She nodded. "Since I was fourteen and the church youth group helped with the Christmas mass at a nursing home," she said. "It smelled of pee and vomit. Some of the old people hadn't been bathed. The men weren't shaved and the women hadn't even had their hair combed. I'll never do that to you."
Concerned for his daughter, he asked, "Do you remember what it was like when your grandpa got sick?" He meant Kathy's dad, the kids had never known their grandpa Stabler, and he had never figured that was a bad thing.
"Sort of," Maureen said. "I know it wasn't easy, but it's not always supposed to be, is it?"
"I can be pretty hard to get along with," he said, hoping to lighten the mood.
"Trust me, I know," she followed his lead, "but I've put up with you for over twenty years already."
He tickled her, and she jumped, barely stifling a squeal because the rest of the house was still asleep. Like her dad, she had always been an early riser. All of her siblings followed their mother's lead, showing up for breakfast around lunchtime whenever they could get away with it.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"It won't be a burden, either, anymore than I was to you. It will be a privilege to pay you back just a little for all the love that you have given me."
He felt himself choke up and used his hand to incline her head so he could give her another kiss on her hair. "When did you get so grown up?" He whispered because he didn't trust his voice.
"When I was following in your footsteps," she said. "That's why you never saw it happening. I was right behind you all the time."