Author's Note: Wow, I hadn't realized it had been so long since I had updated this story. Sorry for the delay. If you have time to review, I'd love to hear your predictions/expectations for the upcoming chapters, also, as always, if there is anything that particularly moves you or makes you laugh, I'd like to know. Thanks. Jo.
An Ill Wind
Chapter Thirteen
Reflections
OOO
16th Precinct
Special Victims Unit
7:30 P.M., November 21, 2005
Monday evening found the team sitting around the bullpen picking at the remains of a pizza as they summarized what they had learned that day. It had been three days since Elliot was assaulted, and all of them were existing in a state of what could only be described as functional exhaustion. The job had taught them to perform at the top of their games even with a certain degree of fatigue, and, until they got justice for their violated friend, like so-called functional drug addicts, the dedicated detectives would suffer from withdrawal if they stayed away from the case too long.
As before, Olivia would present her information first, and then, when the discussion turned to recent events, she would be excused to attend to the cases she had taken over from Munch and Fin. It wasn't the ideal situation, but Cragen didn't want to exclude Olivia altogether anymore than he wanted to ignore Elliot's request to keep her off the investigation of his assault. As complex as this case was becoming, he wasn't sure how long they could go on the way they were, but until he absolutely had to make a choice, he was willing to maintain the status quo.
"Ok, Liv, what have you got?" Don asked.
Liv shoved the last of her pizza crust into her mouth and, still chewing, she got up and handed around copies of a multicolored Excel spreadsheet she had spent the afternoon creating. The victims' names ran down the left, and check boxes listing their various interests and activities ran across the page to the right.
Swallowing hard and chasing the pizza with a swig of diet cola, she finally spoke. "These are the names that Evelyn Fontaine's husband e-mailed to Fin," she said. "Those nametags would have been a pedophile's dream, all of his little gifts conveniently tagged for him, and as soon as he uses a child's first name she feels safe because she thinks he knows her."
"Yeah," Fin agreed, "I had the same thought when Mrs. Fontaine mentioned them to me. Kinda makes me think schools should reconsider issuing photo IDs."
The rest of the group nodded, and Liv was sure she wasn't the only one grateful that Elliot wasn't there. As the only one of the team with young children, he didn't need one more reason to worry about their safety.
"There are seventy three girls in all from the Saturday School," Liv continued. "I've given the other names to Detectives Robinson and Maldonado to check against reports that may have been filed just in case there is more going on here than meets the eye. I want to focus on the ones who signed up for the writing workshop for now. That's where all our vic's came from and you can see a pattern among them."
Sure enough, when the names of the early victims, current victims, and other girls Olivia had been able to track down from the writing workshop were listed in the right order, every pair of girls had another activity, besides the writing, in common.
"When you exclude the original victims, Muriel Faringo, and Sheila Gardener, that leaves seven girls in the writing workshop," Olivia informed them.
"Wait! That doesn't jive with the five pairs of cuffs DeVane wanted at XxxTreme Emporium," Fin interjected. "He used one pair on Ralph Gardener, and he should only have four girls to go."
"Just because they were in the writing workshop doesn't mean he'll go after them," Huang reasoned. "It could be that three of the girls didn't have anything else in common with the others, or maybe, in his mind, there was some kind of defect that made them unsuitable. When you contact those women, you really need to look into how they're different from the rest. It might help us figure out what he's looking for in a victim so we can stop him before he goes after another little girl."
Fin nodded, accepting the logic of his explanation, then looking at Olivia, he asked, "Is comthea short for community theatre?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Do you have the address?"
"On the second page," Liv told him.
Fin turned to the list of addresses and began comparing it against his notes.
"Yep, you can put Sheila down for that, then," he said a moment later as he flipped back to the first page and drew in an 'x' on his copy of the spreadsheet. "The address you have for Sandy Harper's drama classes is the same as the one Mrs. Fontaine gave me. You can also add computers and violin lessons. She did a lot of other stuff, too, but everything else is already on your list and none of it matches up with the addresses you have for the other girls."
"Give me a copy of your notes anyway," Liv requested. "This spreadsheet only has the things I could pair off between the girls. I have a bigger one that shows everything they did. What you have might match up with something there."
Fin nodded. "I'll get you a copy as soon as we're done here," he said.
"What about the names you have highlighted in orange?" Cragen asked.
"I haven't been able to locate them yet," Olivia explained, "but I have been able to warn the other two potential vics, Lauren Sebastian and Sandy Harper. Lauren is leaving town to get married in Bermuda tonight. She'll get back with me in two weeks when she returns from the honeymoon, and Sandy has already requested protection."
"Were you able to arrange it?" Munch asked hopefully.
Liv gave him a 'what do you think' look. "We don't have the manpower, and I can't get the overtime approved unless there is a direct threat."
"So we call these women, 'Hi, this is the police. There's a man planning to rape you and your significant other. Then he's going to kill you both after brutally torturing you, but we can't provide any protection because he hasn't actually come after you yet,'" he said in disgust, not with Olivia but with the lack of funding and the bureaucratic red tape that sometimes prevented them from doing their jobs.
"So, you're going to continue trying to locate the rest of the potential vics, right, Liv?" Cragen asked before she could respond to Munch's sarcasm.
She nodded her confirmation, "I'm giving top priority to Marsha Weller because both Lauren and Sandy knew her before the writing workshop. She's the link between them."
"Ok, get someone to help you. We need to warn her quickly."
"I already have Moulson and Brindisi on it," she replied.
Cragen nodded. "That's good work, Liv." Looking at the rest of his team as she collected her things and left, he asked, "Ok, who's next?"
Room 417
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan
7:52 P.M., November 21, 2005
Elliot sighed and sat up with a groan. It was almost eight, and he had sent Kathy home a few minutes after seven, just as soon as the nurse had given him his Combivir. He had promised to rest and get some sleep, but it was proving easier said than done.
He put the guardrail down on his bed and swung his legs over the side. Sliding his feet into some conveniently placed slippers, he grabbed the IV stand beside his bed for support and stood up. His bum ankle complained a little, but he managed to shuffle out of his room and down the hall, not sure where he was going, but certain that he wouldn't be able to rest until he worked out whatever was bothering him.
At the end of the hall was a lounge for visitors to wait in while their loved ones were being treated, and across from that was a directory. He saw on the floor plan that the hospital chapel was three levels below him. Not sure that it would do any good, he decided to make his way there.
People made room for him as he entered the elevator, wheeling his IV ahead of him, but he didn't make eye contact, so no one spoke. He was grateful that he had been allowed to wear his own pajamas for the night instead of a flimsy, backless hospital gown. He was feeling vulnerable enough as it was, and made a point of keeping his back to the wall and watching everybody in the car. The kind of exposure he would have had to deal with in a standard gown probably would have pushed him to another panic attack.
On the ground floor, he wandered down the hall to the gift shop and then turned left. The chapel doors were right in front of him. He entered, surprised to find it empty, and moved toward the altar. Painfully lowering himself to one knee, he genuflected, rose again, and moved to the nearest pew. He leaned back, hands folded in his lap, and stared at the crucifix on the wall. After a few minutes, unaware of the two tears that were making their way down his cheeks, he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and tried to pray, though he wasn't sure anymore that anybody was listening.
The Stabler Residence
72-12 Castleside Street
Glen Oaks, Queens
8:04 P.M., November 21, 2005
Kathy Stabler sat in the car watching the shadows of her children against the curtains as they played in the living room and she wondered what Elliot saw those nights when he was able to get home before they all went to bed. Inside the house with them, she had always seen four happy, well-adjusted kids, who were secure in the knowledge that, whatever else happened, their parents would always love them. Now, for the first time, she thought she had some idea of what Elliot felt when he came home. He would have been proud, happy, filled with love, and terrified that something horrible would happen and he wouldn't be able to protect them.
She took a deep breath, surprised at how that fear made her heart pound, and watched for a moment longer, to be sure they were safe. She could tell Dickie and Lizzie were wrestling by the way their silhouettes repeatedly came together, contorted, and moved apart. When they were little, Elliot had worked a miracle to get Dickie to understand that it was ok to wrestle with his twin sister when she was willing, but he was absolutely never allowed to hit girls, ever, and he should not wrestle with any of them except his tomboy twin. The second prohibition, which he applied to Lizzie as well, had been the only way to keep her from assaulting the other boys in school. Kathy wondered how long they would continue the horseplay.
They were thirteen years old now, and Lizzie was proving a little slow to blossom. With her straight, slim, undeveloped figure, the physicality of trying to pin each other to the floor wasn't an issue yet, but socially Lizzie was a little ahead of Dickie. Already, she was embarrassed to have her friends know what she and her brother did for fun, and poor Dickie had been a bit nonplussed when she had slapped him and called him a big, dumb, ugly dork for putting her in a headlock in front of everyone at their last birthday. Once she developed a few curves and her first crush, the living room wrestling ring would have to revert to a couch and a couple of armchairs. Kathy could only hope that Dickie and Lizzie would find a natural ending to their roughhousing days and not require their parent's intervention to explain why they couldn't grab onto each other that way anymore.
Smiling ruefully, Kathy realized that if they had to have that talk, it would fall to her. Elliot could talk about all sorts of personal, sexual issues at work. He could take a rape victim's statement, hold a little girl's hand through a pelvic exam, testify about a city councilman exposing himself in the park, and not bat an eye when defense attorneys tried to embarrass him by suggesting that choosing to work sex crimes was his own personal perversion. When it came to talking about anything remotely sexual with his own offspring, though, he became an awkward, blithering idiot who either left the children more confused than when they started, or just left them thinking their dad was hopelessly square.
Kathy frowned. What was the contemporary word for square anyway? She'd never heard her kids use it. Maybe it was whack. They used whack for a lot of things, didn't they? She sighed at yet another reminder that she was getting old.
As she watched the shadows, she saw Lizzie get the best of her brother. She had sprouted up like a weed the previous summer and was a good two inches taller than him, but it wouldn't be long before Dickie hit his next growth spurt. Kathy doubted if Liz would ever be able to beat him again after that. All their lives, she had hit every milestone ahead him, but he had always grown faster and for a longer period of time when the hormones finally did kick in. Now that she thought about it, Kathy realized thankfully that adolescence would probably terminate the wrestling simply because Lizzie couldn't stand to lose and once Dickie got to be three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, she would have no chance of ever winning another match against him.
Kathy cringed as Dickie lost his balance and sat down hard on the chunky coffee table. Then Kathleen shot up from the couch and started flailing her arms dramatically. Kathy smiled, her middle daughter was always dramatic, as if she felt she had to be to get noticed. Now Maureen was getting involved, hands were gesticulating and feet were stamping, and Kathy considered going in to break things up. Just as she was opening the car door, Maureen pointed one hand in the direction of the kitchen and the other toward the stairs. Lizzie stomped off to the kitchen, probably to do the dishes, and Dickie tramped up the stairs, most likely to clean the bathtub and toilet. They were two of Kathy's most effective punishments and all of the younger ones knew if they didn't do it when their older sister was in charge, their mom would stick them with it twice a week for a month.
Now Kathleen was in full flow, head thrown back, arms raised, imploring whatever deity might be listening to deliver her from the torture of having siblings. Maureen stood watching her calmly, and when Kathleen finally looked at her again, she just shook her head, shrugged, and walked away. Kathleen stood dumbfounded for a moment, unable to believe that she didn't have a sympathetic audience in her big sister, and then she stormed out of the living room, too.
Kathy was impressed with the way her eldest daughter had handled things, and though she would never pressure her to marry and have kids, she sincerely hoped Maureen's child rearing skills would be put to good use one day. As Kathy got out of the car to head into the house, Kathleen came flying down the steps, clearly overwrought. She tried to push past her mother, but Kathy blocked her way.
"Where are you going?"
"For a walk!" Kathleen shouted.
"Not in that state and not after dark," Kathy said soothingly.
Kathleen tried to spin away from her, but Kathy held her fast.
"Just leave me alone, Mom!"
"Tell me what happened," Kathy commanded gently.
That opened the floodgates. "I finished my model of the Alhambra and I was painting it, and those two brats smashed it, but you're going to take their side anyway because you always do, and it's due Monday, and Mrs. Díaz is going to give me an F if it's late, and I want to go back to Grandma's!"
Not knowing how to respond to the last revelation, delivered in a squeaky voice because Kathleen hadn't paused for breath and was running out of air, Kathy just wrapped her arms around her second born and shushed her. "It's all right. I'll talk to her. I'll explain."
An Ill Wind
"You already know we found the sex shop DeVane went to," Munch began as he took a note from a junior detective and read it. "It took a little not-so-gentle persuasion from my partner, but we know he'll be back."
Cragen raised an eyebrow at Fin and said, "I hope that persuasion didn't rise to the level of coercion or harassment."
"Not at all, Captain," John responded before his partner could speak, "Fin was just yanking his chain."
"Oh, yeah, like that's funny," Fin replied, and as John excused himself, he explained, "There's not much left to tell about the canvass. DeVane went to XxxTreme Emporium and requested five pairs of chrome-plated cuffs. They only had three in the shop, he ordered two more. He'll be back. The owner is willing to cooperate, but she won't let us use video monitoring because she is afraid we might use it against her clients somehow."
"I'll bet Munch just loved this woman for her paranoia," Cragen said with a grin.
"Oh, yeah, and they had a real interesting conversation. He would have argued with her all day if we'd had the time."
"So, if we can't record the clients coming in, what is she allowing us to do?"
"We had to station a detective in the back room of the shop and set up a silent alarm for the clerk to let him know when DeVane came in," Fin replied.
"Why such an elaborate setup?" Huang asked. "Why not just put him in as a clerk?"
"Because to fit in with the staff, our guy wouldn't be able to wear enough clothing to conceal a weapon, and he would have to be, uh, chained to his work station. Mistress caters to a particular kind of freak, and she likes to set the atmosphere for them from the moment they walk in."
"Mistress?" Don inquired.
"It's the only name she would give us," Fin said. "We have someone checking business records to find out who she really is and if she has a record, but she seems legit."
When Cragen raised an eyebrow, he added, "As least as legit as a person can be in a business like hers anyway. She also offered to circulate DeVane's picture among her friends for us."
"So, now we've got the sex industry working for us," Cragen said in a tone that showed he wasn't sure if he liked the idea or not. "Great. How did it go with Sheila's Gardener's mom?" he asked.
Fin shook his head. "That woman is into some kind of serious business," he said. "Sounds like CIA or something. Munch would have had a field day with her. Whatever she does, she has ice water in her veins."
"Was she willing to help, or is she indifferent about her daughter's death?" Huang asked.
"She might be more help than we need," he said. "Besides getting Liv that list of names, she told me in no uncertain terms that if we didn't get DeVane, she had people who would. One way or another, the bastard's going to hell."
"Yeah, well, let's make sure it's with a needle in his arm at a state facility and not in a dark alley where we have to waste manpower trying to find out who offed the prick, ok?" Cragen requested.
"I'm with you, Cap, but I'm not sure how long Mrs. Fontaine is willing to wait for us to get him."
Don sighed, "Sometimes I have to wonder if citizen involvement in law enforcement is a good idea." Looking to Huang, he asked, "How did it go with Annie?"
George turned to Fin first and said, "You might want to take her picture back to your sex shop and see if they know her there. She gets off on a little violence, a little submission, and I won't be surprised if she and DeVane connect with one another again before this is all over."
Fin nodded and muttered to himself, "What makes it my sex shop?"
Cragen and Huang shared an amused look and the doctor continued, "Mrs. Othmer definitely has some kind of sexual pathology. She views having kinky sex with relative strangers on the sly as a way of protecting her husband. He doesn't meet her needs, and she doesn't want to hurt his feelings, so she lets him do what he wants and then goes off and gets her BDSM fix from someone else. She's narcissistic and manipulative, with an overdeveloped sense of drama. She knows most people view what she does as inappropriate, scandalous, even repulsive, and she wants to keep it a secret."
"Because she's ashamed?" Fin asked.
"No," Huang replied. "Because she would lose status with her husband's friends if they found out. I suspect she was abused or assaulted as a child."
"Could she have been one of DeVane's victims?" Cragen asked. "Before they met in Manhattan, I mean."
Huang shrugged. "I doubt it. In our interview, I suggested that perhaps DeVane had been stalking her for years, and she made a leap from that to the possibility that he had followed her to the city from her hometown. She made the connection far too quickly for someone who was just putting things together. I'd say it's far more likely that they were already friendly before she came to Manhattan and he met up with her when he arrived here.
"If he had abused her as a child, I am sure she would have said something. In her mind, it would have excused her unusual proclivities. I have no doubt that if her society friends ever found out what she is really doing when she goes to the spa, she would play them for sympathy and probably get it. As it was, when I gave her the opportunity to explain herself, she blamed her mother because she was too strict and her friend Daisy because she was promiscuous.
"I don't know if she's ever done anything illegal, but she's fantasized about it. I'm sure she told DeVane what happened to her friend because it excited her, not because she wanted him to back off, and I am certain she knew more about what he was doing than she will ever let on to us. I think the idea of being powerless turns her on, but at the same time, she likes seeing helpless people suffer, almost like that's why they exist, to be mistreated by others. When I showed her the photos of DeVane's victims, she had no interest in the pictures of the adults or of Muriel Faringo as a child when Elliot rescued her before he could hurt her, but the rape kit photos of the child victims captivated her."
"You didn't show her any of Elliot's pictures, did you?" Munch asked as he rejoined the group.
"No way," Huang said, knowing he could never logically explain why he hadn't, but that among these people he wouldn't have to. Changing the subject, he looked at Munch and asked, "Did you find out anything about Daisy Lane?"
Munch smiled smugly, "Oh yeah, I sure did."
An Ill Wind
Teddy sighed in relief when she found her wayward patient sitting in the hospital chapel, apparently deep in prayer. She went down the hall to the reception desk and asked the girl there to page an orderly to park a wheelchair outside the chapel, and then she went back to look in on Elliot.
He hadn't moved and if it weren't for the irregular rise and fall of his shoulders and the muffled sounds, she would have thought he was sleeping.
"Elliot," she called softly so as not to startle him.
His shoulders stiffened, and even from the back, she could see him trying to collect himself before he confronted her. Moving slowly down the aisle to give him the time he needed, she crossed in front of him and sat beside him on the front pew.
"A little nervous about tomorrow?" she asked.
He smiled feebly, staring at the crucifix instead of looking at her, but his face betrayed his conflicting emotions all too clearly. "Yeah, I guess," he admitted.
"Well, that's understandable," she said.
For several minutes, they sat there together, alone with their thoughts. Finally, Teddy spoke again.
"Pete Dombrowski is a good doctor, a nice guy," she said, "but the injury to your hand doesn't jive with a typical fist fight, and neither does your behavior. So I tracked him down and asked him to fill me in on what he left out of the file."
He cut her a sideways look, and after a moment, she said, "I know what happened to you, Elliot."
They were silent for a long time, and then he said quietly, "It's ironic, you know, I work in the special victims unit. I deal with this kind of thing all the time."
"No, you don't," Teddy told him gently. "You investigate it, help the DA prosecute it, direct the victims to resources that help them cope with it, but you don't deal with it. It ain't the same."
He turned to face her and a flurry of emotions crossed his face. Finally, he gave a sardonic laugh and said, "No, I guess it's not."
He folded his arms around himself and went back to staring at the crucifix. After a while, he told her, "I've been with SVU for twelve years, almost thirteen, and since this has happened to me, I keep thinking about three of the victims I've worked with."
When he didn't say anything more for quite some time, Teddy encouraged him, "Why don't you tell me about them?"
He sniffled slightly and said, "There was this guy, young, fit, a male stripper, and he claimed he was . . . raped by these three women. I treated him like a piece of crap, like if he were a real man it wouldn't have happened. I told him that if he had wanted, he could have fought them off. My partner believed him, she insisted that a man could be a victim, too.
"We investigated, and it went to court. I testified about the facts in evidence, but I never bought him as a victim. Now, I feel like I owe him an apology."
"So what's stoppin' you?" Teddy asked gently.
Elliot shrugged slightly, "Apologizing means I would have to admit to him that I was wrong."
After a few seconds, Teddy coaxed, "And?"
He looked at her sideways again, then closed his eyes. Tears lurked just beneath his lashes, but he didn't let them fall, and he said, "And . . . that . . . it happened to me, too."
There was another long silence, then Elliot began speaking again.
"The other two were women," he said, and his voice took on a tone of awe. "Women are amazing! Where do they get their strength?"
He turned to Teddy and asked, "Where do you all get the strength to do what you do?"
She frowned, "What do you mean?"
He held the doctor's gaze and explained, "This one girl, a guy broke into her home and assaulted her. She wasn't able to ID him, and he got off. She found out who he was and tracked him down. She was stalking him really, but operating just within the limits of the law. She even called 911 when she saw him breaking into another woman's apartment.
"It kind of pissed me off, what she was doing, because it meant my partner and I had let her down, and nobody likes to be reminded of failure. Still, she was one ballsy lady to go after him herself. I wish I had her courage."
"Was it courage, or obsession?" Teddy asked.
Elliot frowned and said thoughtfully, "I . . . I'm not sure."
"One is healthy," she told him, "the other, hmmm, not so much."
"I suppose not," he agreed.
"So, tell me about the third victim that you've been thinkin' about. What's the story there?"
He fell silent for a while, grew contemplative, shook his head. "It never made sense to me. This woman, she met her rapist after the assault. He didn't recognize her, but she got to know him, and forgave him. She forgave him. She even went to jail to protect him. How did she do that? What kind of a person does that?"
Teddy shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I don't reckon I could have. She must be an extraordinary lady."
Still astounded, he said, "I can't understand how she could forgive him for what he did. How do you forgive someone for doing that to you? For taking so much away from you?"
"Most people don't, Elliot," Teddy said, lightly touching his arm and trying to help him focus his thoughts on the moment again before he started dwelling on what had happened to him. "Most people can't."
"She talked about what happened to her after she was raped," he went on, "how the rape was horrible, the worst thing that had ever happened to her, but the love and compassion she experienced after that were wonderful. Who the hell finds something good coming out of a sexual assault?"
After a few quiet moments, Teddy cleared her throat quietly and asked, "You remember I told you my mama died when I was a kid, right?"
Elliot frowned and nodded, not sure where she was going with the comment.
"My daddy was a worthless drunk 'til I was twelve years old," she continued. "But havin' nine kids and no wife made him sober up and get a job real fast."
"You and your brothers and sisters were lucky that he was strong enough to step up and fulfill his responsibilities," Elliot suggested, wondering where the conversation was headed.
Teddy shook her head. "Luck ain't had nothin' to do with it, Elliot," she said. "I was taught that God always has a plan."
"Are you saying He planned your mother's death?" he asked in horror. "That he planned for me to be assaulted?" His parish priests had always taught that God was just and loving and that bad things that happened to good people were the work of Satan.
"No, but they do say it's an ill wind that blows no good. My four youngest siblin's can't even remember when Daddy was drinkin', and the rest of us eventually learned to forgive him for all the things he screwed up and all the mean things he said when he was drunk. Losin' Mama could have destroyed our family. Daddy coulda stayed a drunk and we'd have gone into foster care, and because there were so many of us kids, we'd have been split up. Instead, Daddy crawled out of the bottle, we older kids learned to look after the young-uns, and we grew closer than we probably ever woulda been had Mama lived. I figure even if God didn't 'plan' my mama's death, He found a way to use it."
"And you're saying He's gonna use what happened to me somehow, too, is that it?"
"I don't know," she confessed, "and as a mortal man, you might not have the vision to recognize the results if he does. What I do know is that the Creator of the Universe is certainly big enough and powerful enough to get you through this if you just have a little faith."
Elliot gave a wry laugh. "Except that I'm not sure if I even believe in Him any more."
"You believe," Teddy smiled. "I'm sure of it."
"What makes you think that?"
"You could have watched TV in your room, called your wife and kids, found a magazine to read in one of the visitors' lounges, or wandered to the rec. room in the rehab ward, but you came here," she told him. "You were lookin' for somethin', and you knew only God could provide it. So, what did you come here to ask Him for?"
After a long silence, Elliot reluctantly answered, "Peace, a sense of safety, the strength to get through this."
"And did He give you that?"
Elliot grew thoughtful again, and then looked at Teddy with a grateful smile. "He sent me you."
An Ill Wind
Kathy smiled as she brushed Kathleen's hair and felt her daughter relax. It had taken some gentle persuasion, but she had eventually soothed her distraught second born and coaxed her back into the house with the suggestion that they do something special for just the two of them. Of all the children, Kathleen had always been the most needy. As a middle child herself, Kathy could relate. It was hard to get attention when the oldest did everything first and the youngest was always cuter.
So, they had spent the past hour giving each other manicures and pedicures and looking through a David's Bridal catalog. Kathleen needed a dress for the Christmas ball sponsored by her boyfriend's fraternity. Elliot still hadn't met Jeremy, and Kathy wasn't sure there would be a good time to introduce them before the dance. The Columbia University sophomore was twenty years old, which would upset Elliot, even though he had been friends with Kathleen since the second grade and was really only eighteen months older than their daughter. Nevertheless, Kathy was determined that Kathleen would get to go, and she had been delighted to be asked for her opinion on a suitable gown. The two of them quickly agreed on a strapless, satin, floor-length number with a gossamer shawl in Blue Frost that Elliot would automatically hate but ultimately consent to because, although it would scandalously reveal more flesh than just the hands and face, it was perfectly appropriate for the occasion and actually covered more skin than the typical school uniform.
After ooohing and ahhhing over the pretty dresses, picking out the perfect purse and shoes, and finding the right tuxedo and vest for Jeremy to rent, Kathy felt like Kathleen was ready to talk about what was really bothering her. Meandering slowly through the conversation, she talked about everything except what she really wanted to discuss first. It didn't take long to convince Kathleen that Mrs. Díaz was reasonable and would be sympathetic when Kathy called to explain what had happened to the Alhambra. Kathleen admitted that she would eventually forgive her siblings for destroying her project, 'but not tonight', they had agreed that Kathy didn't always take the twins' side, but that the living room was probably a bad place to be painting it anyway.
"So, do you really want to move back to Grandma's?"
Kathleen didn't answer right away; she just tensed at the question.
If raising four children had taught Kathy anything, it was patience. So, although her first instinct was to jump in and explain all the reasons why going back to Grandma's house was a bad idea, she just waited. She knew how to use silence to provoke a response, and with a smile, realized it was one aspect of her husband's job she understood. Maybe there was a specific problem that could be solved. Maybe Kathleen was feeling the stress of being crowded back into their small house. Maybe she just missed her grandma. Whatever it was, Kathy knew she wouldn't find out until her daughter was ready to talk, so, a few moments after asking her question, she casually inquired, "One French braid, or two?"
"Two," Kathleen said.
Kathy parted her hair and began braiding the left side.
"I think you should leave a few strands loose to frame your face," she said. "You can curl them, maybe tuck one side behind your ear."
"Ok, try it," Kathleen agreed.
After a few minutes of braiding, which Kathy managed to stretch out quite nicely, Kathleen said, "I've missed Daddy and it's nice to be home, but I'm not sure why all of us had to come. It would be easier to go back to Grandma's now that I know he'll be OK than it will after I've hung around here and gotten used to being home for a few weeks. Besides, her house is big enough for us each to have our own room, and I could have worked on my model in the den where the runts wouldn't have smashed it."
"It is an adjustment, but your dad really needs our support right now," Kathy explained, suddenly wondering how much she might have to tell her daughter about the attack to help her understand.
"I know that, Mom," Kathleen said with the exasperated tone only teenagers can manage, "but I've never known him to be so scared before, at least not for himself, and I don't like seeing him this way."
"What do you mean?" Kathy asked as innocently as she could.
"Oh, come on, Mom! You know what I mean! He's always freaking out about what can happen to us, but he acts like he's indestructible. At least he did, but now . . . now, he's afraid, and that scares me. What exactly happened to him anyway?"
Kathy swallowed hard and decided that she wasn't going to tell Kathleen everything. She couldn't because the girl was just too immature to handle it.
"Well, you know he was beaten up, right?"
"Yeah, but that's happened before."
"I know, but never this badly," Kathy tried to explain. "He was really hurt this time, Sweetie. It's like you said, he thinks he's indestructible, and finding out he isn't has shaken him up. Also, you know a woman was killed and he was right there but couldn't help, right?"
"Yeah," Kathleen said, her tone implying that she was giving the matter some thought.
"Well, you can see how devastating that would be for a man like your dad who thinks it's his fault anytime someone gets hurt, can't you?"
"So, we're here to help him until he's feeling better, is that it?"
"Exactly," Kathy said, pleased that Kathleen understood.
"Then what?"
Kathy blinked, surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"
"We patch him up, get him back on his feet and then leave again. What good does that do anybody? What happens when he's feeling better? What happens to him when you walk out a second time and take us with you? What happens to us?"
If Kathleen's tone hadn't been so sincere, Kathy would have thought she was trying to pick a fight, but she was really just trying to understand what was happening to her family. She opened her mouth two or three times trying to soft-soap an answer, but Kathleen deserved better than that. Finally, she admitted the truth.
"I haven't thought that far ahead," she confessed. "Your dad needed me, he needed us, and I came to help him and brought all of you with me. At the time, I was only thinking about getting him through that first night, and then the next day, and the weekend, and now his surgery."
"But he needed you when we moved out, too."
She finished braiding Kathleen's hair and tied the ends with elastics. Then she sighed and wrapped her arms around her daughter's shoulders and drew her back into a hug. "I know he did, and I needed him, but neither of us could figure out how to be what the other one . . . needed, and in the meantime, we were only hurting each other. Whatever happens, I can promise you this, you kids will always have two parents who love you, and we will always work together to do what's best for you, even if we can't fix our own problems."
"I know that, Mom," Kathleen said as she pulled out of her mother's embrace, "we all do, and Maureen and I are old enough to understand that being married isn't easy for anyone, and with dad being a cop, it's even harder; but Dickie and Liz don't get that. You and Dad need to figure out what you're going to do, and soon, for their sakes."
"And yours, too maybe?" Kathy suggested with a gentle smile, showing that she thought she really did understand what her daughter was struggling with.
Kathleen shook her head. "I'm old enough to decide where I want to live for myself now, Mom, and the more I think about it, the less I want to go back to Grandma's. I love her to pieces, and I appreciate her letting us stay with her all that time, but it's not home. All of my friends still live in this neighborhood, or if they've moved out, they at least come by to see their parents, and Daddy might need someone to take care of him even after he gets better. This is home, and I want to stay here."
Kathy couldn't be upset with her daughter's words. The truth was, she wanted to stay, too.
Nodding slowly, she agreed, "You are old enough to make your own choices, and I'll support you, whatever they are, just don't make your whole life about your dad and me, ok? At your age, your first priority should be taking care of yourself."
"I know," Kathleen nodded and gave an apologetic smile, "but I think Daddy should know that he can always count on his family. Maybe if he did, he could have called you instead of Olivia when he was in trouble."
This time, Kathleen's words cut her to the soul, but Kathy still couldn't be angry. After all, her daughter was right.
An Ill Wind
"Daisy Lane is not a victim of child sexual abuse," Munch said, reading from the notes he had brought back with him from wherever he had gone when the junior detective had pulled him away from the discussion. "It's a home for troubled girls where Annie stayed after she was taken from her mother."
Enjoying the attention of his peers, he stopped there, keeping them in suspense as long as he could. Finally, Huang asked, "How did Annie wind up there and why?"
"Apparently, Mama O'Keefe caught twelve-year-old Annie playing doctor with a fourteen-year-old neighbor," John continued. "He had her tied down and was doing a pelvic exam with his penis when she walked in on them."
"So, he raped her," Fin summarized. "That doesn't explain why she was removed from her home."
"The local PD determined that it wasn't rape," Munch said, peering over his glasses at each of his colleagues in turn. "According to the boy it was Annie's idea."
"What twelve year old is going to have a boy tie her down and penetrate her?" Cragen asked, his tone a combination of confusion and disgust.
"One who grew up watching her mother let strangers do it all the time," Munch responded.
"Deirdre O'Keefe supplemented her factory worker's income by prostituting herself to local men with kinky desires that the other town whores wouldn't indulge," he explained. "She was never arrested because she didn't solicit customers. They knew her as 'Dee Dee Does Anything,' and instead of negotiating a price, they would give her gifts, nice clothes, appliances, electronics, toys and clothes for her daughter."
"If they couldn't arrest her, how did social services manage to take Annie away?" Cragen asked.
"Deirdre hadn't ever been a particularly attentive mother," John said. "More than once the school threatened to take legal action to compel her to get Annie basic things like winter clothing, medical care, and eyeglasses, but once she caught her daughter with that boy, she barely gave Annie a moment's peace. She had a favorite belt she liked to beat her with."
Huang nodded. "That explains a lot," he said. "The simultaneous shame and indifference to what others might think of her, the way she tried to blame her mother for her aberrant behavior."
"Mama O'Keefe was probably responsible for most of it," Munch said. "They finally put Annie into foster care and moved her to Daisy Lane when she was fourteen, after the gym teacher noticed an infected cut on her stomach when her shirt rode up during a game of volleyball. She sent Annie to the school nurse, and after some coaxing, the woman got her to take off her blouse and found welts covering her breasts and abdomen."
Cragen turned to face Huang. "Just like DeVane's victims. What does that mean?"
Huang frowned. "I don't know," he said, "but I've got some ideas, and they all mean Annie was more involved than she's been letting on. I don't think talking to her right now will help me figure it out, though. She knows we have nothing on her, and she's been lying and manipulating us from the start. I need to talk to Roger DeVane."
Cragen nodded. "As do we all, Doc. When we catch him, you'll get your chance."
"Hey, Fin," Olivia interrupted their conversation by angrily calling down from the lounge on the second level of their squad room, "Why the hell didn't you tell me Barnard College ran the writing workshop at the Saturday School?"
"Didn't seem relevant to me," he called up to her, the irritation in his voice matching hers. "Why the hell didn't you ask?"
"If you had read my notes you would know Annie O'Keefe got her degree from Barnard. A B.S. in British Literature," Liv told him, oblivious to the sudden quiet in the squad room as the night shift detectives stopped their work to listen to the sniping.
"It would be nothing for her to go right from there to the MFA program in creative writing," she continued. "Most colleges give their own alumni preferential treatment when it comes to enrolling in grad school. You should have known that, and you should have asked Mrs. Fontaine about it when you interviewed her."
"It's not like I have a hell of a lot of time to be reading about ancient history when I'm working on a current case!" Fin snapped.
"We have the same perp committing the same crimes against the same victims," Liv called down furiously. "Any idiot should be able to see that the old cases are hardly ancient history!"
"Are you calling me an idiot?"
"No, but if you wanna take it personally, be my guest!"
"That's enough, you two!" Cragen roared.
The detectives glared at each other for a moment, the intensity of their looks heating up the room a couple of degrees. Then Liv softened her gaze and shifted it to Cragen.
"Captain, we can't go on like this. This case is a hell of a lot bigger than what happened to Elliot now and if we don't all pull together . . ."
"Yeah," Fin agreed, "as long as we keep things compartmentalized, there is no way of knowing what we'll miss and we could lose DeVane because of it."
Don sighed heavily and frowned. He knew Elliot would sooner have her off the case altogether, but dammit, they needed her insight. He also knew that Elliot would just as soon not have anyone know what had happened to him, but that couldn't be helped. As long as she never read his statement, he figured he'd be able to smooth it over with Stabler.
"All right, Benson, get your ass down here," he called upstairs. Looking around at the detectives working the night shift, he said, "Show's over people! Back to work. Catch some bad guys or something."
As Liv walked past him to take her place in the group, she muttered to Fin, "Sorry about that."
"You don't need to apologize to me," he assured her. "We're all stressed out. It happens."
An Ill Wind
Elliot settled into his bed with a sigh, and looked up at Teddy with a grateful smile. Once she had given him her little pep talk, she'd wrapped both of her hands around his good one and bowed her head. He'd followed suit, and the two of them had sat there together, each of them praying silently. They'd finished at exactly the same time, and without a word between them, she'd helped him out of the chapel and into a waiting wheelchair.
"How you feelin'?" she asked as she pulled the covers up and tucked them around him.
He closed his eyes briefly to take stock and had the oddest sensation that he was at a moment of decision. He knew he could easily dissolve into tears at any moment, he was just that tired, frightened, and depressed; or he could let it go and try to sleep.
Looking up at his doctor, he licked his dry lips and said, "Not real good, but I'll be all right."
"Would you like me to sit with you until you fall asleep?" Teddy asked.
It was a thoughtful gesture and her kindness warmed him. He didn't think she would offer if she wasn't willing to follow through, and she had a comforting presence. He was so tired, but his mind was still restless. Maybe with her there, he could find the peace he needed to sleep.
"You wouldn't mind?"
She smiled at him. "Not at all."
He nodded.
"Ok, then." She crossed the room and turned out the main light, then she returned and lowered the bed so he was lying down. "You just relax. I'm gonna sit here and wait until you fall asleep. I'll make sure no one disturbs you. You just rest."
Pulling a chair up close to the bed, she took his good hand in hers and gently stroked the back of it with her thumb as she continued talking to him softly. She kept her voice low, and something about that country twang made it so soothing. In short order, her words became just a distant murmur, and then he knew no more.
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