An Ill Wind
Chapter Eight
Revealing the Past
OOO
16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
8:30 A.M, November 20, 2005
"What kinds of things did you and DeVane do?" Olivia asked, hoping like hell the woman would get right to the point.
"You have to understand who I was then," Annie said. "I was just twenty-one, and I'd never really been with a man before. I mean, my boyfriend and I had fooled around in the back seat of his Mustang out parking by the lake, but sex? Never.
"When I finally got out of DeKalb Junction," she said the name of her hometown as if it left a bad taste in her mouth, "what did I do but enroll in Barnard? A women's college for heaven's sake!"
Annie pinched the bridge of her nose as if thinking back so many years was giving her a headache. Olivia sat waiting patiently, only able to hope that some useful information was forthcoming. In the observation room on the other side of the one-way glass, John grunted, "No wonder she took up with a freak like DeVane. It's just unnatural for the sexes to remain segregated that way."
Cragen shushed him with a wave of his hand and a "Whatever, John."
"Well, after I got my degree, a B.S. in Brit Lit, magna cum laude, by the way, I thought I'd get an editing job at one of the publishing houses in the city. Of course, I had no idea that a B.S. really was just BS, if you know what I mean."
Olivia sympathized, even though she wanted to grab the woman by the throat and shake the story out of her. "One thing a humanities education never prepares you for is the fact that there aren't that many jobs out there requiring a humanities education."
"Exactly! Every other liberal arts grad in the state expected to be an editor or copywriter just like I did, so it wasn't as easy to make a living as I had expected it to be. That's how I wound up working at Lenny's."
Olivia nodded, and, trying to move things along, she supplied, "And that's where you met DeVane. It's called Mac's now, by the way."
Annie nodded. "I remember when Lenny changed the name. That was sad. It will always be Lenny's to me, though."
She fell quiet a moment, waxing nostalgic, and then she took up her story again. "Anyway, when you come from a place like I did, DeKalb Junction is in the armpit of nowhere, you know, well, if you can escape, people expect something of you." She got a haunted look on her face as she spoke, and Olivia knew the young Annie O'Keefe had felt tremendous pressure to succeed in the city.
"I had my degree. I was supposed to become someone important. Everyone wanted to see my name in lights. A waitress living in a fifth-floor walk-up studio apartment with an agoraphobic roommate and a diabetic cat was not their idea of success, though it was rather convenient to have the roommate home to feed the cat on schedule."
She smiled at the memory despite herself, and Olivia suspected that in a lot of ways, she missed her simple, anonymous life.
"Back home, though, they wouldn't know the difference between that and a penthouse apartment in midtown Manhattan, so I lied about my life and sent them postcards of the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. I'd buy Christmas gifts at thrift stores and package them in Macy's and Bloomingdale's boxes, and I'd read the restaurant section of the newspaper and pretend I'd actually been to those places, and everyone in DeKalb Junction thought I had made it."
When Annie fell silent for several moments, Olivia asked softly, "Where did Roger DeVane fit in?"
Annie started tearing the cheese Danish to bits again. "I had always been my mother's good girl," she said. "I didn't date until I was seventeen. When my boyfriend got too serious, I broke it off. I was supposed to make something of myself, and I couldn't do that if I got pregnant. That's what my mom had done, and from the time I was in elementary school, she kept telling me not to make her mistakes. I followed the rules, did what I was told, graduated valedictorian of my high school class, focused on my studies in college, and when I was twenty-two, I was working for five bucks an hour plus tips at a bar."
Olivia could feel the defeat and depression Annie had experienced and she felt sorry for the woman. It was no wonder DeVane had found her an easy mark.
"Roger was . . . attentive . . . affectionate. He took me to shows and concerts and out to nice places to eat. He bought me nice gifts, jewelry, mostly, and a beautiful pair of fur-lined gloves for the winter. He didn't want to date me, he wooed me. It was almost two months before he tried for anything more than a kiss goodnight."
"Sounds like he was the perfect gentleman."
"Oh, he was, at least with me. At first he was, anyway."
Olivia resisted the urge to sigh, roll her eyes, and make hand gestures to move the story along. Annie had kept her secrets for twelve years, and it would take patience and gentle persuasion to get her to give them up after all this time, especially since she had so much more to lose now.
"What happened then?" she asked quietly.
"Eventually our relationship got physical," Annie said. "First it was just regular missionary position, then doggie style, then other things. He was very understanding with me. He knew I was . . . uninitiated, and he gradually introduced me to different . . . activities."
Annie's voice had grown husky as she talked about her relationship with DeVane, and it appalled and amazed Liv that, even knowing what he had done to thos elittle girls, the woman could be aroused by the memories. It was a struggle, but she managed to keep her tone nonjudgmental when she asked, "What 'activities'?"
"One night, before I knew what hit me, he had my hands cuffed to the headboard over my head and my feet chained to the foot of the bed. And the things he did to my body!" She closed her eyes and shivered with the memory. "I had never felt that way before."
"He didn't pressure me, ever, but he had a knack for getting me to do things I couldn't imagine myself doing before I met him. He liked to show me off, or to have me show myself off. He would have me dress like a slut and we would go to clubs and, well, places that sold sex stuff. I trusted him, and he never harmed me. Things gradually became kinkier, and he liked to use toys and costumes. He'd ask me to dress like a little girl and pretend I'd been naughty and he'd spank me or whip me with a cat o'nine tails."
Liv struggled to suppress a shudder. In her opinion, the woman had enjoyed the role-playing and bondage far too much, but expressing her thoughts on the matter wouldn't help their investigation, so she held her tongue.
"Olivia's keeping it together really well," Munch observed. He wasn't sure he could have stomached being in the room with Annie as she got off reminiscing about her affair with a convicted violent child molester.
"She knows what we need from this interview," Cragen told him. "She's gonna make sure we get it."
"I knew it was sick and perverse," Annie continued, oblivious to the conversation in the other room, "but I rationalized it by telling myself we were two consenting adults. That rush, the pain, even the anticipation of pain, and the fear that someone would find out, the anxiety knowing he could do whatever he wanted to to do to me when I was tied up that way, it took me places I never knew were possible. I got high from it, it was that incredible."
Annie now spoke in a breathless whisper, her eyes wide and shining, her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed, and it was clear what effect her memories were having on her. Olivia had no doubt that if the woman were alone, she would not be sitting primly in a straight-backed chair now. After letting Annie dwell on her memories for a few more moments, Liv asked, "So, what went wrong?"
Annie gave a disgusted snort of laughter. "He got arrested."
Slowly her eyes filled with tears that overflowed dragging the dark tracks of her mascara with them. She gave a little shudder and then she was weeping openly. At first, considering how aroused Annie had been during the telling of her story, Liv wondered if this was some unusual sort of climax, but then she realized that the other woman was genuinely upset.
"Annie, what's wrong?" Liv pleaded. "Please, you have to tell me. It might help us catch him."
"I had heard about those little girls, the ones he hurt . . . I knew it was happening, but when people talked about it, I just tuned it out. I couldn't listen. That kind of thing . . . " She gestured uselessly with her hands. "My best friend in school . . . what was done to her . . . It just makes me so sad to hear about it, so I never listened."
"But . . . " Olivia coaxed her.
"After Rog was arrested, I listened, and I figured out that he was . . . that he had . . . Oh, God, he'd been practicing on me!"
Annie put her arms on the table, rested her head on them, and broke down sobbing.
Residence of Muriel Faringo
154 Clinton Street, Manhattan
9:08 A.M., November 20, 2005
After putting on his latex gloves, Fin moved the black and yellow crime scene tape aside and then, using the keys he had borrowed from the evidence locker, let himself into Muriel Faringo's apartment. While he didn't deny part of him was hoping to find the vital clue to locating DeVane, the main reason for his visit was to get a sense of what Muriel and Elliot had gone through during the attack. Listening to Elliot's frightened voice on the captain's cassette player had been surreal, almost like a bad dream, and he needed this to make the attack and the case true in his mind.
From the doorway, he took in the layout of the apartment. He didn't know what Muriel Faringo did for a living, but judging from the décor, it had provided her with an ample income. He wondered if she didn't have a trust fund, too. A short entry hall brought him into a pleasant, homey, very tidy, Country French style living room. The other side of the space had a wide door that opened onto a kitchen on the left and a dining room on the right with an island between the two defining the separate areas. Through the multi-paned glass back door, he could see a small patio with some cedar and cast-iron furniture and a well-tended back yard.
Deciding to save his investigation of the lower story for later, Fin climbed the stairs to the upper floor. According to Elliot's statement, he had never made it that far into the house, but DeVane might have, so this exploration was all about getting to know Muriel and finding out what had happened before Elliot arrived.
At the top of the stairs was a linen closet. Fin opened it and smiled when the sweet scent of lilies of the valley caressed his senses. The smell always reminded him of the old ladies at his grandma's church when he was a kid and how they would pinch his chubby cheeks and give him candy and tell him he was as cute as a button. The upper shelves were filled with neat stacks of crisp, clean bedding while the lower ones held towels and washcloths in brilliant white, rich cream, soft pink, and stripes of the same shades. On the bottom shelf was a stash of extra toilet paper and Kleenex, some soap, bubble bath, and other ordinary bathroom supplies, a plunger, and bottles of bathtub and toilet bowl cleaner.
Knowing that closets were popular places for hiding secrets, he searched carefully between and behind the towels and bedding. All he found was an enema kit and a package of feminine hygiene supplies. If those were Muriel Faringo's worst secrets, then she lived a pretty dull life. Out of respect for the dead woman, he replaced the bedding and the linens in their neat stacks and rows, like good little soldiers just waiting for her to come home.
Moving into the bedroom, Fin discovered evidence of an neat freak personality. The bed was perfectly made, with the cream, pink, and white stripes on the comforter running straight from the headboard to the footboard. Matching curtains hung stiffly at both windows, and the starched ruffles on the pillow shams stood up perkily. The white stool at the vanity and the white window seat were cushioned in matching stripes and ruffles, and the cream carpet showed not the slightest sign of wear.
On the nightstand beside the bed were a well-worn King James Bible and a newer Revised Standard Version along with a copy of The Upper Room, which was open and lying face down beside the Bibles. He picked the devotional magazine up, and wasn't surprised to find it was open to the date of the attack. The whole atmosphere of the home indicated that Muriel Faringo was a devout woman. On the wall between the two closets was a portrait of Jesus, above the bed was a plaque with an image of praying hands, and on the chest of drawers was a framed painting with the Lord's Prayer in delicate calligraphy.
Fin opened the King James Bible to the day's scripture and found notes in the margin in an elegant handwriting. Checking the Revised Standard Version, he found similar notations, and he knew, although she was religious, Muriel didn't cloak herself in blind faith. She was studious about it, not simply reading the scripture, but thinking about what the words meant and how she was supposed to apply them to her own life. Fin wondered what she had said when Elliot heard her praying, and he hoped her faith had brought her comfort at the end.
Opening the closets, he found her clothes as he would expect them to be, all neatly arranged by category and color, the skirts, blouses, and trousers in one closet, the dresses and suits together in the other with a canvas shoe holder beside them and a couple of coats and jackets pushed to the back. In the chest of drawers, he found more of the same. Even her socks and bras were folded in neat little stacks. He looked through the drawers, carefully replacing things as he did so, and again found nothing notable.
At the other end of the upstairs hall was a guest bedroom, done all in yellow and, if it were possible, more compulsively neat than Muriel's own room. There was also a spare room fitted out as an office with a large L-shaped computer desk with a hutch, matching bookshelves, and a file cabinet. The wooden office chair had a cream and green seat cushion. A pair of bookends, made to look like potted plants, was situated diagonally between the computer and the flat writing surface and held a copy of The Chicago Manual of Style, Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Roget's International Thesaurus, On Writing Well, Webster's New World Speller/Divider, and the 2006 Writer's Market.
When Fin pulled the chain, a brass banker's lamp with a green shade illuminated a manuscript on the desk blotter, One Fine Day by Malcolm Carlisle. In red ink, using the same fine penmanship with which she had made notes in her Bibles, Muriel had commented on the story. Fin glanced through it, skimmed a page or two, and laughed slightly. She had been less than impressed, and he could see why. The dialog was obviously some upper-class intellectual's attempt at sounding like a ghetto dwelling Hispanic, and Fin's own DD5's were more interesting. The most engaging thing about the sorry piece of work was the number of kind ways Muriel had found to say, 'This sucks.'
Finally, Fin went back the hall to the bathroom. The towels hung straight on the towel bar, perfect, vertical stripes running up and down them. The shower curtain and bath mat matched them perfectly. The fringes on the bathmat lay perfectly straight along the floor, and the ruffles on the shower curtain and the drapes at the frosted window, just like in the bedroom, were stiff and frilly. The bathtub and shower wall were pristine white and shiny, as was the sink and the commode with its gleaming porcelain. A curling iron and blow dryer hung from hooks on either side of the streak-free mirror, and there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. The brush and comb were clean, not a single stray hair caught in them, and the toothpaste was squashed perfectly flat from the bottom up. Cotton balls and swabs sat in a pair of sparkling glass jars on either corner of the counter, and mousse and hairspray were centered behind the faucet.
Fin looked inside the medicine cabinet, knowing that the CSU would have already taken any prescription medications, but wondering what else he might find. As he expected, every little thing was in its place. A tube of Neosporin lay beside a box of bandages; Tylenol, Excedrin, One-A-Day, and Vitamin C tablets sat in a neat row on the top shelf, though there was a suspicious gap in the middle, like a missing tooth. Containers of disposable contacts were stacked in the lower right corner, and the storage case, saline, and cleaning solution for the current pair occupied the lower left corner. Her makeup lined the middle shelf, with her deodorant at the end.
Fin headed back down the stairs, watching his feet as he walked, looking for anything the CSU might have overlooked, when he saw something that made him stumble down the last three steps to the bottom. His head swam, his heart moved into his throat, and he had to swallow several times to fight down the sudden nausea. When Cragen played back the statement Elliot had made, it sounded as if he hadn't been able to struggle all that much, but right here before him was evidence to the contrary. At the bottom of the banister, in an inch-wide ring that went halfway around the post, all the paint was stripped off, and there was a gouge in the wood perhaps half an inch deep where the handcuff chains had begun to saw through the wood. Some of the sawdust was spattered with blood. Whatever he might have said, Elliot had fought like hell.
Suddenly, Fin felt the overwhelming urge to contact his colleague, to offer some kind of comfort and support, but he knew that was a bad idea. Elliot wouldn't be comfortable talking to him about anything at the moment. The only thing Fin or anyone else in the squad could do to help him right now was to catch DeVane and make sure he got the death penalty, and even that wouldn't be a comfort, it would just bring satisfaction to know the pervert could never hurt anyone again.
Finally tearing his eyes away from the damage to the banister, Fin began his survey of the bottom floor of Muriel Faringo's home. The first thing he found was the spot where Elliot had gotten sick, and again, he felt the need to call and offer some encouraging words. He shook off the feeling, knowing anything he said to Elliot right now would be more for his own comfort than for his friend's. He went back to the entryway, closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he tried to imagine what Elliot had seen.
Muriel Faringo was directly ahead of him, bound to that chair. Just as Elliot would have done, Fin pulled his gun and swept the room. He had the luxury of knowing there was no immediate threat, so he took his time looking around. Still, he didn't see any place where DeVane might have been hiding, laying in wait for the unwary detective. Moving into the room, he stopped again, about halfway to the chair where Muriel had been tied, and turned in a circle, looking about him carefully, and that's when he saw it.
The drapes at the front window were somewhat wider than the window itself, giving an impression of greater size and filling some of the blank space on the large wall. The left one was not hanging perfectly, and without checking, Fin knew the reason why. Moving over towards the window, he carefully looked behind the curtain. It was a substantial, olive-colored fabric with a rubbery, insulating lining, thick enough to conceal an elephant. There was a run in the lacy sheer behind the drape where something had caught the delicate threads and pulled them. An overturned plant had fallen from the windowsill, as well, and in the dirt on the floor was a curved void in the shape of the toe end of a shoe. Muriel would never have left this mess here. At least he could tell Elliot that he hadn't screwed up. With all the pleats in the ample, heavy fabric of the drape, there was no way in hell anyone would have spotted a man hiding back there unless they went and moved the curtains aside.
Nodding to himself, Fin went back once again to the entrance and moved into the room, retracing Elliot's footsteps. The walls were painted in a rich olive shade with cream baseboards and molding, and those colors were echoed in the toile furniture covers. Matching rugs were scattered about on the hardwood floors, and again, Fin noticed that the fringes of the rugs were laid out just so. To his left, near the stairs, was a high-backed, skirted chair. He stood facing it and thought about what had happened. Elliot was a little taller than he was, but Fin didn't doubt that being forced to bend over the back of it would lift the other detective off his feet. There were blood spatters on the seat of the chair and on the floor just beyond, the sight of which, knowing how it got there, made Fin queasy. He swallowed hard, and moved on.
A luxurious settee sat at angles with a matching sofa and armchair, the three pieces gathered for conversation around a low coffee table. There were three picture frames of various sizes on the coffee table along with a vase of sad-looking flowers and a book, The OCD Workbook: Your Guide to Breaking Free of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
Fin nodded, not at all surprised by the discovery. He got the impression that Muriel had been a thoughtful, intellectual woman. Just as she had studied her Bible and sought to understand what its ancient lessons meant to her modern life, so she had studied her disease in an effort to escape her demons. He wondered if she would have been that way if DeVane had not attacked her as a child or if the abduction had been the trauma that had started her off on a lifelong mental illness. It explained a lot about the excessive tidiness he had observed throughout the home. He wondered if DeVane had missed seeing the book or if he just didn't know what OCD was. Certainly, if he had understood anything about Muriel's compulsions, the sick freak would have trashed her entire home just to torture her. Fin was grateful for her sake that it hadn't happened.
Beyond the sofa, things were different. It was easy to identify the chair Muriel had been tied to by the copious bloodstains on and around it. Also, it didn't fit with the living room furnishings, and had obviously come from the dining area. Given her disorder, Fin knew Muriel would never have let it sit there.
The struggle had obviously happened in this part of the house. The rug was disheveled, some decorative little porcelain items had been knocked off the sideboard, and a side table in what was obviously a favorite reading spot had been upended, scattering books and papers across the accompanying chaise and onto the floor. Dirty footprints came in from the back yard, across the cream-colored kitchen tile, and into the living room.
Fin could imagine Muriel, frantic with worry about DeVane's release, sitting on the sofa trying to calm herself by working through her OCD Workbook, or sitting on the chaise by the window, commenting on a manuscript. A noise disturbed her, and she marked her place and put the book down. Had she got up to check the source of the sound only to find the mess on the floor and be attacked when she went to clean it? Or had DeVane gotten as far as the couch and snatched her from behind? Fin shook his head. He didn't suppose it really mattered.
He could see footprints in the blood on the floor, barefoot prints, and he knew they were Muriel's. She had fought her attacker here, suffered, and died here, all within a few feet of where Elliot had been assaulted. She had watched what was done to him, probably knowing all along what was in store for her, and when given the opportunity, she had pleaded with her attacker and then prayed, not for herself, but for the cop who had been unable to save her. Elliot, already brutalized and helpless, did the only thing he could and tried to draw DeVane's attention back to himself. Awed in so many ways by the drama that had unfolded here, Fin felt a shudder move through him and wondered if he would have had the courage of either of the victims had he been in their position.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head, trying to clear it of the unwelcome, gory images that kept coming to mind. Then he wandered further into the house. Knowing that he had already seen everything that mattered, he took only a perfunctory look around the kitchen and dining area. The chairs around the dining table matched the one that had been moved to the living room. The Country French décor continued with the obligatory rooster and peasant life motifs. A well-kept herb garden grew in trays in a bay window. Another bouquet of wilting flowers decorated the table, and a wire basket of fruit sat on the island. A cookbook, open to a recipe for chicken with forty cloves of garlic, lay on the counter. Copper cookware hung from a rack over the stove, and a set of knives in a block sat on the work surface near the sink. Everything seemed to be in order, just waiting for Muriel to come back. She would clean the dirty footprints off the floor, straighten the fringes on the doormat, and start her chicken for dinner.
Fin sighed sadly and left the apartment, determined to get the man who had murdered Muriel Faringo and the Gardeners and assaulted his friend.
The Stabler Residence
72-12 Castleside Street
Glen Oaks, Queens
9:17 A.M., November 20, 2005
"Daddy?"
Elliot opened his eyes and looked at the clock. It was a little past nine in the morning. He sat up with a groan and shook his head to clear it. After his nightmares and early awakening, he had gone back to bed for a little nap at about eight thirty.
"Don't forget the butter and syrup," he heard, and he could smell coffee and bacon and eggs from the kitchen. Kathy was out of bed and fixing breakfast for the kids.
"What is it, Baby?" he asked of his middle daughter, Kathleen, as she stood there in her flannel nightgown looking at him worriedly.
She held the phone toward him and said softly, "It's someone named Melinda Warner. She says you work together. I told her you weren't feeling well, but she insisted on talking with you. She wouldn't even speak to Mom. I'm sorry to wake you. Do you want me to ask her to call back?"
"No, Sweetie, that's all right. Get your mom, though, please?" He took the phone and waited until Kathy arrived.
"What is it, El?" his wife asked a moment later.
"I don't know yet," he said softly so the kids wouldn't hear, "but I think the ME might have done an HIV test on the . . . samples they took the other night. That's the only reason Warner would call me at home now. Shut the door, would you?"
Kathy did as he asked, but before the door closed, he saw his two eldest daughters watching from the living room with concerned expressions. He patted the mattress beside him and gave his wife an imploring look. When Kathy was seated next to him, he held the phone to his ear and said, "Yeah, Doc, this is Elliot. What's up?"
He frowned as he listened to the voice at the other end of the line, suspecting the worst but needing to hear it before he could accept it.
"No, my wife is here with me." He wanted Kathy to be holding his hand, but he couldn't do that and hold the phone, too, and the phone wasn't shaped to easily cradle against his shoulder so he had to settle for just being close to her. "Look, if this is about DeVane's HIV status, don't torture me. Just tell me, ok?"
When her husband dropped his head and closed his eyes, Kathy knew the news was bad. She placed a hand on his arm and waited for whatever might happen next.
"No, I'm not ok, but I'm not surprised either," Elliot said into the phone in a shaky voice.
"Yeah, I know the odds, but when you could be that one-in-a-thousand it doesn't matter a hell of a lot how small they are." The tremor in his voice began to take over his body. He went pale and began to gasp for breath, which obviously caused him pain, but he seemed powerless to stop it.
"Thanks for calling, Doc . . . Look, I gotta go," he lied. "We're getting ready to go to mass." He hadn't been awake to be consulted, but apparently, someone had convinced his wife that they all needed to sleep in and enjoy a lazy Sunday. Now, he was really wishing that they had gone and left him home alone. He didn't want his children to see him like this.
He pressed the button that turned off the phone and let it slip out of his hand to the floor. Then he cradled his head in his hands moaned.
"He's positive, isn't he?" Kathy asked.
Elliot nodded. "Oh, God," he was still shaking and breathing much too fast. "What am I going to do? I can't deal with this, Kath. I can't take any more."
He stood up and began pacing the small room, limping on his bad ankle. "I want to see my kids grow up, Kath. I want to give my girls away at their weddings. I want to have grandchildren. What am I gonna do?"
Kathy moved to stand in front of him, and when he paced toward her, she gently placed her hands on his shoulders. "You're going to do the only thing you can do, Elliot. You're going to take the drugs and pray that they work."
"But what if they don't?" he demanded looking at her fearfully. "Then what?"
"Then you will have your family and friends to take care of you," she assured him and tried to draw him into a hug, but he turned away from her embrace and started pacing again, rapidly shifting from fear and distress to outright panic.
"That's not good enough, Kath. It just isn't good enough! What have I done? What have I let happen to us? What did I do to deserve this! I…I need some air. I have to get out of here!" He staggered to the door, out of the room, and down the hall to the front door.
Kathy followed him as he rambled out of the house, muttering incoherently. She noticed gratefully that Maureen had somehow corralled the children in the kitchen and had them busily occupied preparing breakfast. When Elliot went out on the porch, she grabbed his jacket and followed him. He paced back and forth for a few minutes before he more or less collapsed onto the top step. Sitting there, he rocked back and forth and continued panting.
"I can't breathe . . . Kath," he said, tapping his chest. "It hurts . . . Why can't I breathe?"
"You're just scared, Baby," she told him soothingly, draping the jacket around his shoulders and moving to crouch before him.
"No, Kath . . . my chest hurts . . . Why is my heart pounding? . . . What's wrong with me?"
"Mom, I think he's having a panic attack," Maureen said through the screen door.
"Go back in the house, Maureen!" Kathy snapped at her eldest.
Ignoring her mother, Maureen came outside carrying a pill bottle and a glass of water. "Kathleen is cooking the last of the breakfast, and the twins are setting the table," she said. Reaching past her dad, she handed her mother the tablets first. "The doctor gave him these. Maybe he should take one."
Kathy read the bottle, "Valium?" She hadn't looked too closely at any of Elliot's medications yet. She had collected them from the pharmacy in a state of shock the previous evening and had intended to sort them out in the morning. While she was grateful that her daughter had taken care of it for her, she was also surprised that Elliot had let his baby girl know about such adult problems.
"No!" Elliot snapped. "I don't . . . don't need them. Just . . . just let me . . . catch my breath." He sat on the step rocking and muttering, clearly in distress. "What am . . . I going . . . to tell the kids? What am . . . I going . . . to do now?"
Kathy shook one of the pills out in her hand, passed the bottle back to Maureen, and accepted the glass of water. "Now go back in the house, Honey," she said, more gently this time, "and thank you."
Without watching to be sure her daughter obeyed, she turned her attention to her husband.
"Kath . . . still can't breathe . . . gonna . . . pass out . . . Help me, Kath . . . please."
"Elliot, Baby, you're all right," she said soothingly. "You've had a rough couple of days, and you just got some bad news. That's why you're so upset, but you'll be ok. You just need to calm down. This will help you."
She held the little white pill in front of him, and he looked away, still refusing the medication. "No . . . don't need it." His voice was weak and breathy as he continued to hyperventilate.
"Elliot," her voice was gentle but insistent as she said his name, and when he looked at her, she smiled kindly and said, "It's ok. It will help."
He hesitated a moment more before he took the pill from her, and when he finally did, he was shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He placed the tablet on his tongue, and then, so he didn't spill, Kathy helped him hold the glass so he could drink. Once he had finished the water, she sat beside him on the step, placed an arm around his shoulders, and spoke soothing words into his ear as he leaned against her and they waited together for the Valium to take effect.
An Ill Wind
Once Annie had told Olivia her terrible secret, she found it easier to talk about her past, and it had seemed perfectly natural for Munch to come in and take over the interview from his 'subordinate.' That freed 'Miss Benson' to join the captain on an interesting, informative, and oddly entertaining conference call.
"Yeah, what?" The grumbling voice obviously belonged to someone who had been awakened by the phone.
"Alphonse, it's Don Cragen."
"What? Who?"
"Don Cragen," the captain repeated louder. "Manhattan SVU?"
"Yeah, Donnie! Ya say that like I wouldn't remember ya. Jeeze, it hasn't been that long!" There were sounds of grunting and fumbling about and then, "Do ya have any idea what time it is? What the hell are ya callin' me this early for?"
"It's about twenty after nine, Alphonse," the captain said with a smirk.
"Yeah, but remember, Donnie, I ain't had to work for a livin' in eight years."
The captain couldn't resist a smile at Olivia who sat across the desk from him. "Alphonse, I have you on the speaker with one of my detectives, Olivia Benson. She's Elliot's current partner, and she needs to talk to you about an old case."
"Hi, Alphonse. I've heard a lot about you," Olivia said.
"Man, Elliot was right, you're gorgeous," the voice responded.
"Excuse me?" Olivia replied with a laugh.
"Yeah, not long after he met ya, Elliot called to tell me all about his new partner. He was real impressed with ya as a cop, but what he couldn't get over was what a babe ya were," As he spoke, Alphonse was sounding more animated. "He said he was almost afraid to have ya meet his wife 'cause she might get jealous."
"Elliot called me a babe? That doesn't sound like him!" Olivia hadn't really heard anything after that word.
"Nah, he just said ya were gorgeous, like a supermodel. I'm callin' ya a babe."
"How would you know?" Olivia asked with a laugh. "You can't see me. I could be an old crone with a wart on my nose and whiskers on my chin!"
"Yeah, but Elliot wouldn't lie to me like that. Besides, in my experience, women who have voices like yours look like they have voices like yours," Alphonse explained. "An' believe me, Olivia, ya have one sexy voice."
Olivia went slightly bug-eyed, looked at her captain, and started to blush. Wanting to rescue her from the effusive flattery, Don broke in. "About that case, Alphonse . . ."
"Yeah, Donnie, sure," the voice from the speaker broke in, "I'll help if I can, but why can't ya just ask Elliot?"
The captain looked at Olivia, and she cleared her throat and spoke. "He's . . . not in a position to help us right now," she said. "He's going to be all right, but he . . . He needs some time off."
"I don't like the sound of that," Alphonse said guardedly. "Donnie, what's she sayin'?"
"Elliot was attacked Friday night, Alphonse, by one of his old perps," Don said. "His injuries aren't critical or anything, but he was busted up. He's gonna be out for a few weeks at least."
"How? What happened?"
"Apparently, as soon as he got out, the guy started stalking his last victim. She called Elliot and he stopped by on his way home to look in on her," Olivia took up the story again. "The perp was already there and got the drop on him."
"Who was it? What was his name?"
"Roger DeVane."
"That son of a bitch!" Even through the speakerphone, both Olivia and the captain could feel Alphonse's hatred for the man, and they both unconsciously leaned back in their chairs away from the source.
"So you remember him," Cragen said. It wasn't a question.
"I sure as hell do! He damned near killed my partner!"
An Ill Wind
"Maureen knows," Kathy stated more than asked once the Valium had done its job and her husband's breathing had evened out.
Elliot nodded. "I . . . had a nightmare. She heard me and woke me from it."
Kathy sighed. "You've always talked in your sleep. Won't tell me what's on your mind, but you'll keep me awake at night muttering about it."
He gave her a shocked look and asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
She shrugged. "It wasn't the talking in your sleep that bothered me. It was the not talking to anyone when you clearly needed to get something off your chest that I couldn't take."
Dropping the subject, not wanting to rehash the same argument they'd had a thousand times, he asked instead, "What do we tell the kids?"
Kathy was silent a moment, and then asked gently, "Do you really want my opinion, or are you just asking me because it's what you think you're supposed to do?"
She could tell by his expression that he didn't like her question. For a moment, she saw anger in his eyes, but then they filled with tears. He squeezed his lids shut and looked away, covering his face with his good hand as he struggled for control. After a few moments, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She heard him gasp and swallow back a sob, determined not to fall apart again, and she was encouraged when he didn't shrug her off. Finally he turned back to face her, and when she could see in his eyes how fragile he really was, she regretted her words.
"Elliot, I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
He shook his head. "It's a fair question," he sniffed. Then he took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow and held it for a moment. His admission, when he finally made it, stunned them both.
"I . . . need you to tell me . . . what to do," he said. "All the time . . . I keep thinking about what happened and wondering how I can keep my family safe when I can't even protect myself. I don't know what to do, Kathy, because right now, I don't trust myself to make the right decision about anything. Please, Kath, tell me what to say to the kids."
Kathy sighed lightly, wishing she could wrap her arms around him and take all the pain and fear away. She had always wished he'd been more emotionally available to her, but not like this. She hated to see him suffering so much fear and doubt. Reaching out, she took his good hand in hers before she began to speak.
"First of all, you don't have to tell them anything by yourself," she said. "I'll be there to help you, El. I'll always be there, ok?"
He met her gaze earnestly, and biting his lip uncertainly, he nodded.
"As far as what did happen, I wouldn't give them all the details, but I wouldn't lie, either," Kathy said. "They're smart kids, and they'll know if you if you start making things up to protect them."
"But what about the HIV exposure? How do I explain that?"
"You know the guy who beat you up, Elliot, and you know his history," she explained. "Given your injuries, the split lip, the wounds on your hand, the various cuts and scrapes, it would only be natural to want to know his HIV status."
"But how do I explain where they got the blood sample to test?"
Kathy shrugged. "He just got out of prison. They keep medical records, don't they?"
Elliot nodded, reluctantly conceding her point. "Yeah, I guess." There was a brief silence, then he asked, "Do you think the kids are old enough to tell them about something like this? I don't want to worry them."
"Elliot, they already know you're worried, we both are, and that has them worried, too. At least understanding why will make it easier on them," she tried to explain. "A lot of free-floating anxiety would be the worst thing in the world for them right now. Giving them one problem to focus on will help keep them from fretting about a thousand different scenarios."
"In other words, don't give them a chance to let their imaginations run wild," he paraphrased with a look of understanding.
"Exactly," Kathy said, and squeezed his hand. "Now, do you feel like some breakfast?"
He nodded noncommittally. "And then afterwards, we can talk to the kids, right?"
"That's the plan."
They stood up together and headed into the house, neither of them really feeling any better, but at least knowing how they were going to cope with the next few hours.