Author's note: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Consider this your belated Christmas gift, haha.

Language and content warning:

Hopfmar, Tristan, and Victoria parked outside the Wikstrom residence. The lone human took a deep breath and turned to the Pokebureau agents. "Well, let's get started."

The three left the car and started to walk up to the house, where a still-distressed Angela Wikstrom was waiting. "Where do you want to start?" she asked.

"Do you have a spare key?" Tristan asked. "You know, like under a rock or something?"

There was no reply.

"She doesn't do telepathy, apparently," Victoria noted. "Captain, ask if she has a spare key hidden around here."

"Why?" he asked, turning towards her.

Angela misunderstood what was happening. "Aren't you here to-"

"I was talking to Agent Stillwater," Hopfmar quickly explained.

"If Soriano or anyone else was here often enough, they may have also hung back a ways, maybe trying to monitor their daily routine. It's worth a shot."

"She's wondering if you have a spare key," Hopfmar directly asked Angela. "Particularly under a rock or something."

"Yeah, I keep one under the carpet. Or did. After Jeremy was taken, we quit putting one there."

"Did you catch that Frank?" Hopfmar asked into a microphone on his jacket.

"Yeah," the reply came in his ear.

Frank, along with Alex and some of the other tech crew, had rigged the TV in his hospital room to receive video feeds from a camera on Hopfmar's coat. Normally the camera would be used for undercover work. Here, its use was so Frank could follow the search, although what exactly they could search for in the dead of winter he wasn't sure.

Angela had entered the house briefly, then returned. "This is the key we used to use-"

Tristan motioned for it.

"You want to hold this?" she asked him, and he nodded. "OK, I guess."

Tristan took the key from her, and at once he was engulfed in a vision.

It was dark. The cold air was not yet that of winter but of fall, and the ground was free of snow. Almost in a trance, he replaced the rug from in front of the door before putting the key in the lock and turning it. Having unlocked the door, he opened it and quietly walked in.

"Wh-what's he doing?" Angela asked, nervous.

Victoria, realizing what was going on, ran around the house, looking in all the windows, until she saw a room with a crib. She peered in and suddenly her world was as dark as Tristan's had become.

Hopfmar followed Tristan in as the Gallade continued walking through the house with all the stealth of a seasoned jewel thief. Almost subconsciously, he began to physically mutter to himself, "Galla la la lalala…." as he soon found himself in the room with the crib. In his trance, he did not see Victoria looking in the window, as hypnotized as he was.

Looking into the crib, he saw a tiny figure sleeping in the shadows.

Jeremy, he realized.

He reached into the crib and lifted the baby out. Jeremy began crying, but he muffled the sounds by putting the blankets over the baby's mouth. Looking around to make sure no one else was around, he silently exited the house.

Victoria watched the shadowy figure remove the infant from his resting place and flee, thinking to herself, Something seems odd about the way he carries that baby. But something seems odd about how he was able to move through the house like he KNEW it….

She snapped back to reality when a large batch of snow slid off the roof and fell on her, coating her in a powdery white.

"Well, that was unnecessary," she muttered.

She ran around to see Tristan still walking, his eyes glazed over. Walking in front of him, she put her hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "Voir?" she asked, not realizing she had slipped into her regular speech patterns.

"Galla?" Tristan asked back.

"What are they doing?" Angela asked Hopfmar.

"I think he was in a trance," he offered. "I don't know if he's recovered enough from it to remember to speak telepathically to her or me."

"Yeah," came Frank's voice, "well snap them out of it so I know what the hell's going on, OK?"

Hopfmar walked over to the two as Tristan kept talking, "La la, galla ga la-"

"Tristan?"

"Galla la galla ga, la la, ga-"

"TRISTAN!"

The shiny Gallade jumped slightly and turned, red-faced. "Sorry."

"What was going on in there?"

"Whoever took Jeremy knew this place well enough to risk slipping in here at night. I don't know if Soriano has or had that kind of knowledge, but someone else could have."

Hopfmar repeated it to Frank.

"That's what I thought," the detective replied.

Just then a car pulled up on the side of the road, and Harvey Wikstrom got out. "Angela, I-" he began, but stopped when he saw Hopfmar and the two Pokebureau agents. "I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"Not really," Angela replied. "The police are just here to investigate."

Hopfmar quickly introduced himself and the two agents.

"I remember Agent O'Meara from the time he had stopped by at my house with that other detective," Harvey noted. "So what's going on?"

Angela sighed. "Jeremy is dead."

"What?!"

"Yes. They did some DNA tests and they found he matched a dead baby case from around the time he was taken from us."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Are they trying to find who did it?"

"We're working on that right now," Hopfmar told him.

"Oh." He was quiet for a minute, then he held his left hand up. "Just a minute."

He ran back to the car, opened the trunk, and pulled out an old sled. "I thought you'd want to have this in your yard to remember Dave by," he told Angela, setting it near the steps.

"Where did you get that?" she asked.

"Oh, it's from the old homestead. I still own the place, but I rarely go back there. That's his old sled. He had it up in the barn and it has been there all these years, I guess."

At the hospital, Frank had quit listening when the conversation changed to the sled.

Instead, he was reading over the files of Maude Wikstrom, Dave and Harvey's mother. Stuart had gotten them for him.

Scanning the official autopsy report, he noted the cause of death was self-inflicted asphyxiation by hanging. But looking over some of the photos, questions began to be raised in his mind.

For starters, she had been cut down from where she had been and was sat up against a wall, head slumped. Now, that's just fucking sloppy, he thought, shaking his head.

Looking over that same photo, he noticed that the rope around the knot had been twisted in a strange manner. Something's wrong here, but I can't figure out what.

Then he looked closely at the photo before looking at a couple of the autopsy photos. There was a distinct mark, almost like a bruise, on the side of her head. The report read: POST-MORTEM TRAUMA, POSSIBLY FROM BANGING HEAD ON WALL OR CEILING.

"Open room, she seems nowhere close to a wall," he grumbled aloud. "That fucking does it. Sloppy shit like that-"

He pushed a button near his bed, summoning a nurse. The moment she walked in, Frank started to maneuver out of the bed. "Get the doctor, tell him I'm leaving."

"But-" she began to protest.

"NOW!"

She quickly left, and Frank took Mewtwo's pills out of hiding and swallowed another bitter dose. He had to admit, they were making him feel a lot better. The pain was still there, but his collarbone didn't feel as badly damaged as it had been.

Karen, who Frank had called to pick him up, stopped in front of a modest-looking two-story house. "Want me to wait here?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, "but leave the case-related stuff alone, OK?"

She nodded, and he walked up to the door and knocked. An old man, his face wrinkled and jowled by age, opened. "Can I help you?"

"Frank Caldwell, Saffron P.D.. You're Gordon Allister, yes?"

"I am," the old man replied.

"I need to ask you a few questions on an old case of yours, since you used to be the M.E. for Saffron."

"Well, sure, come on in."

Frank walked in and Allister closed the door. "Now, what can I get you? Coffee? Tea?"

"Some answers," Frank said. He dropped Maude Wikstrom's autopsy file on the table nearby.

The former Medical Examiner picked up the file, sat down, and read through it. "This supposed to mean something to me?"

"That's one of your old cases, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but why do you bring this up?"

Frank sat down in front of him. "Your report says it was a suicide."

"Well, it was. There was nothing to suggest otherwise."

"You don't think there's, uh, anything wrong with simply cutting the body down and propping it up on the wall like a bad mannequin?"

"Excuse me?"

Frank got out of his chair and walked over, pointing out the photo. "That's not sloppy to you?"

"What are you insinuating, detective?"

"You called it suicide without even taking a closer look at the bruise on her head."

"We had no reason to do so! It was a suicide, plain as day!"

"Seems quite clear to me you weren't even going to bother doing your job."

"I don't like your tone, detective. And I don't like your attitude, either. I think it'd be best if you leave."

Allister closed the file and threw it at Frank, who had to reach out with his good arm to grab it in mid-air. "Fine," the detective replied, "as you wish. I just have one more question to ask. Did you know my father?"

The old man sighed. "I did."

"What was he like?"

There was a snort. "His attitude was as bad as yours."

Frank walked out, not looking back as the door slammed shut behind him. Karen leaned over and opened the car door. "How'd it go?" she asked.

"I guess my family has a lack of tact," he replied wryly as he got in and put on his seat belt.

They drove to his home, where Karen helped him out of the car before walking him up to the house. "Well, your mom seems to be awake-" Karen began as she opened the door and Frank walked in ahead of her, but then everything came to a standstill in the doorway.

On the couch in the living room, within range of sight, sat a middle-aged man with an unpleasantly soft midsection. His shirt was open, lending a rather vomit-inducing sight as he began picking some sort of crumbs out of his body hair. The scent of alcohol floated through the air.

Frank snapped. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM M!"

His mother walked in, wearing only her panties but clutching a pillow to her breasts. "Oh, Frank, I didn't know you were-"

Frank pointed towards the stranger. "You haven't changed at all, have you?"

She shrugged. "I'm sorry, sweetie, I just-"

"No! No more 'I'm sorry, sweetie, I just-'! This can't keep happening if you insist on living here, especially while I'm trying to recover!"

The man on the couch got up. "Uh, if I'm interrupting something, I can just leave." He quickly exited without so much as fixing his shirt.

Ellen watched him leave, then turned back towards Frank and Karen, a sheepish look on her face. "I really am sorry, Frank."

Frank just sighed and shook his head. Ellen let out a sigh of her own and walked away.

Karen tossed her hands partway up, then let them fall to her sides. "Well? Where do I sleep?"

Frank almost whipped his head around, only to remember that he was still in the neck brace. "What?"

"I'm staying here tonight."

"You don't HAVE to."

"Yeah," she answered. "I do. So do I take the couch?"

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "It may not be proper etiquette, but fuck that. I'm a gentleman at times. You're taking my bed. I'm sleeping in the recliner."

He walked over to the chair, sat down, and then threw his left hand up in despair. "I can't reach the lever."

Karen sashayed to him, knelt down, and pulled the lever on the recliner, causing the leg rest to pop out and the chair to go rigid. Then she looked up at him with a seductive look in her eyes. "Will that be all?"

Frank closed his eyes. "Yes. I want to sleep."

Karen tried for a comical pout. "Really? You don't want me to help lull you gently to sleep? Maybe you have another lever that needs reaching?"

"Really, Karen, I'm very tired right now and-"

"Maybe I should set your cock free from its denim prison, rub it inbetween my soft titties-"

"Karen. Not now. I. Want. To. Sleep."

She sighed. "Fine." She straightened up and began walking towards the master bedroom, then stopped. "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"Yes, now please let me sleep."

"You don't want me on the couch, right where you can see me, touching my soft pussy? You sure-"

"GO, PLEASE!"

Karen sighed again. "I've never known you to be too tired for any kind of sexual activity, either as voyeur or participant. Guess that just changed, didn't it?"

"Karen, I wasn't trying to be mean, I just need the sleep."

"I know, that's what I was saying. Good night."

She finally walked away, allowing Frank to close his eyes and start to will himself to sleep, trying desperately to ignore the pain.