Disclaimer: see chapter one

The old grandfather clock chimed midnight. Had he really been working that late? He should have been home hours ago, the store had closed at ten. The watch maker finished up the pocket watch he was fixing and put everything away. He walked out into the main part of the store and noticed a light flashing on the phone. He pressed the button and the automated voice stated that he had one new voice message. The phone beeped and a familiar voice sounded from the speaker.

It was his most mysterious customer, Donatello. He had done business with The Shadow, as he called him, on several occasions. They never met face to face. Donatello would call with special orders for parts and when they were complete, the shipment was placed by the back door in the alley. The watch maker listened to the message, writing down the new shipment order, underlining Donatello's name twice and putting down urgent in capital letters.

The message ended and the phone beeped again. The watch maker played the message again to make sure he had the order right before erasing the message. He would get to work on the order first thing in the morning, just as soon as he got some sleep. Yawning deeply, the watch maker made his way into the back room again. He frowned, not remembering turning off the lights. He reached over and flipped the switch. The room was empty.

Suddenly, a large, strong hand shot around his mouth. He cried out, hands shooting to the one around his mouth. His heart plummeted into his stomach. What the hell? The hand only had three fingers. He reached up, grabbing a piece of fabric. There was a growl and whatever had a hold of him pulled away. The fabric tore in his hand. He looked down at the dark red cloth. An arm wrapped around his body.

There was the sickening crunch of bones shattering as the watch maker's neck was snapped. The man's body collapsed to the floor, eyes wide and fearful. The red masked turtle grinned darkly as he made his way to the back door. Before he left he tripped the alarm. The cops should show up any minute. And, hopefully, so would the Turtles.

Blue eyes gazed down at the lifeless body of Peter Conroy. He was the best watch maker in Brooklyn. The guy was a saint, not even so much as a parking ticket. So, why, detective Casey Jones had to wonder, did anyone want to kill the guy? CSU was combing out front for any prints. So far, all they found was a note for an order written by Conroy himself. The order had been for Donatello. There was only one Donatello that Casey knew of in New York, and he had to wonder if some enemy of the Turtles had found out about the business deal between Conroy and Donatello, and in some twisted sense of revenge, killed Conroy to get to them.

Casey knew it was a long shot guess, but he could never tell with the Turtles. Even two years after meeting them, he still felt like he was living a waking dream. It hadn't just been April O'Neil who T-boned his existence on that fateful night. His existence had been derailed as soon as the Turtles showed up the first time when Shredder escaped police custody. If Casey knew one thing about the Turtles, it was that they certainly knew how to make an entrance.

Casey knelt down beside the body, eyes scanning for anything out of the ordinary. His gaze fell on a piece of red fabric that was clenched in the man's hand. Pulling on gloves, Casey pried the piece of fabric out of the man's stiff fingers. He knew that shade of red anywhere. To anyone else it was just a normal piece of red fabric, but to Casey it was a major blow to the gut.

"He couldn't have," the detective whispered to himself. "Why would Raph..."

Casey shook his head. He couldn't go jumping to conclusions based on one piece of red cloth. There was no way Raphael would do something like this. He was a crime fighter, a ninja. Honor bound to uphold the moral code. Not to mention, Casey had become close friends with the red masked turtle over the years. It seemed their anger issues had given them some common ground.

Casey stood up when his cell phone started to ring. He put the cloth in an evidence bag and pulled off his gloves, taking out his cell phone and opening it. He placed the phone to his ear.

"Detective Jones," he answered.

"Never going to get used to hearing that," came the reply.

"Donnie?" Casey whispered, looking around the room to see if anyone listening in.

"Who else would it be?" Donatello asked. "Or did you forget that you left a message for me to call you?"

Casey felt his face burn with embarrassment. "Sorry. Got caught up in something."

"What's up?" Donatello asked. "What can this lowly sewer dweller do for New York's top detective?"

Casey's face burned hotter. "Not quite there, yet, Donnie," he said in a low voice.

"Don't be so humble, Casey," Donatello told him. "You've put away some pretty dangerous criminals."

"And he didn't even have to wear his hockey mask," Raphael's voice sounded in the background. "How's the head, pretty boy?"

"Shut up, Raph. Adults are talking," Donatello said. "So, what can I do for you?"

Casey looked down at the clear plastic bag in his hand. "Actually, Donnie..." He took a breath. "It's about Raph."

In the lair, Donatello fell forward in his chair. "What about Raph?" he asked, scared of the answer.

Hearing his name, Raphael turned to look at his brother. He frowned slightly when he saw the nervous look on Donatello's face.

"Has he been with you all night?" Casey asked.

Donatello swallowed nervously, eyes locking with his red masked brother's gaze. Raphael gave him a questioning shrug.

"Not...all night," Donatello answered truthfully. "He went out for an hour or so earlier to get some air."

"Did you notice anything...off about him?" Casey asked.

"Casey, you're scaring me. What do you think Raph did?" Donatello questioned.

Raphael walked up. "What do you mean, 'What Raph did'?" he asked.

"I don't know," Donatello answered.

"Do you know a guy by the name of Peter Conroy?" Casey asked.

"Conroy? Yeah, he gives me parts for inventions," Donatello replied.

"He was murdered tonight," Casey declared.

Horror destroyed any calm that Donatello was trying to portray. "M-murdered?" he stammered.

"And he was holding a piece of red cloth," Casey continued. "Now, that's a little suspicious since the guy owns a clock shop with not a piece of fabric in sight."

"Hold on a second," Raphael said, leaning in close to Donatello's phone. "You think I killed someone? Just because the guy was holding a red cloth?"

"I'm hoping it's not you, okay, Raph? I really don't want to be the guy who drags a giant, six foot tall turtle in for murder," Casey said.

Raphael backed away slightly. "Fair enough," he stated more calmly.

"But, I'm still gonna need to see your mask, Raph," Casey replied. "Just to be safe."

Raphael growled low in his throat, but a pointed look from Donatello made him swallow it.

"Fine," the hot-head spat.

"I'm almost done here. I'll be by when I'm finished," Casey told the brothers.

"Alright. See you soon," Donatello said before hanging up.

Raphael stalked away, huffing loudly. Donatello couldn't imagine what was going through his brother's head at that moment. To be accused of murder...and by his own friend. It was no wonder Raphael had almost lost his cool. However, Casey would come down and he would see that there was nothing out of the ordinary, that everything was fine and Raphael did not commit any crime.

Raphael pounded away at his punching bag. His knuckles burned with every punch. He tried to convince himself that Casey was wrong to accuse him of murder. Though, deep down, he secretly feared that Casey was right, and that he had killed that man. The image of his nightmare self flashed in his mind's eye. What if he was losing himself to his demons? What if he had killed Peter Conroy? Was it possible to do something and not remember doing it?

Raphael stood still, his arms by his sides and the punching bag swinging gently on its chain. His eyes were locked on the floor, mind searching for anything that would give him some clarity to what Casey had just told them. Raphael removed his mask and held it in his hands. Conroy had been found holding a piece of red cloth. Raphael turned the mask in his hands, only one tail fell down. He had lost the other one during a topside training spar with Leonardo earlier that night. Or had he? Did he just dream up the spar to give himself an alibi for what he had really done? Raphael clenched the mask in his hands, swallowing thickly. Was he a killer?

He couldn't even trust his own memories anymore.

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