A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and alerts! I realize that this story is pretty dark, and there's going to be some strong language used from now on. Personally, I think it's probably a strong T rating, but if any of you think it should be bumped to an M, please let me know. The last thing I want to do is to offend somebody.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even close.

He hummed happily to himself as he dropped his bag to the floor and turned the heavy deadbolt on the front door. It had been a long day at work, but now there was nothing to do but unwind. He fixed himself a sandwich and then changed quickly, loathe to miss out on anymore quality time.

He descended the stairs noiselessly, feeling anticipation build. He had hardly been able to focus all day; he had so many new ideas for fun.

Making his way over to the tall cupboard, he made quick work of the lock and examined his tools thoroughly, finally selecting a small paring knife and an old corkscrew. The previously silent figure shackled in the corner began to sob, crying out for its mother and pleading with him. He laughed, delighted, and advanced, feeling all the days worries melt away.

It was always so much more fun when they begged.

Jane had been avoiding the morgue all day, instead choosing to spend the time with Frost, scouring missing persons reports for individuals in the appropriate age range. It was disheartening work, knowing that any one of the cherubic faces grinning up at her from the photos could, at that very moment, be lying on a cold slab downstairs.

They had been at it for a mere six hours when Cavanaugh burst out of his office, the door bouncing violently against the wall. All eyes in the bullpen were immediately drawn to their boss who was breathing so heavily he could have easily been compared to a wounded rhinoceros.

"Channel 6" he ground out. "Now."

Crowe fumbled with the remote, nearly dropping it before finally finding the right button. Immediately Katherine Cho's face filled the screen.

"…outside BPD headquarters where sources have confirmed that there is, in fact, a new serial killer loose in Boston. Earlier this morning upwards of twenty bodies were recovered in an undisclosed location. Officers are still unsure—"

Cavanaugh wrestled the remote from Crowe and pummeled the mute button. "Hear that?" his voice was quiet, dangerous. Jane focused on the vein pulsing in his forehead rather than look him in the eye.

"A source has confirmed? Officers are unsure? A fucking serial killer? Who the fuck would be so fucking stupid to talk to the fucking press?" Spittle flew from his mouth, and those nearest to him visibly cringed. "I swear to god, if I ever find out who the brainless scut who called the press is their badge and their ass are MINE!"

He took a few steadying breaths, letting the message sink in. "Korsak," he barked, "you're with me on damage control. Press conference at nine a.m. tomorrow. Fix this."

Korsak looked bewildered. "But—"

Cavanaugh's eyes started to pop. "Are you questioning me? I said to fucking fix this, Korsak. You got it?"

Korsak set his jaw and nodded sharply.

Cavanaugh rounded on Jane and some of the fire seemed to leave him. "Rizzoli, you've got point on this. Don't fuck it up, ok? I do not want to have to involve the feds."

And with that he spun on his heel and hurried back to his office and the insessant ringing of his phone, door slamming shut behind him.

"God," breathed Frost, "I don't think I've ever seen him this angry."

Jane raised an eyebrow and Korsak clapped him on the shoulder. "You ain't seen nothing yet Frost, trust me. Jane, it's time."

Jane exhaled sharply. "Fine."

The elevator ride down to the morgue seemed to take an eternity. Jane fidgeted the whole way down, tugging on the loose ends of her hair and chewing impatiently on her lip. Finally the doors opened.

Jane didn't know if she had ever seen the morgue so busy. Everywhere she looked assistants in long lab coats dashed around, yelling figures and overly technical terms Jane didn't understand across the room to their fellows. And there, in the thick of it all, was Maura. She stood alongside the table in the center of the room, looking unusually sombre with her honey coloured hair pulled back tightly and dressed in her black scrubs. And although she stood tall and erect, easily commanding all those around her with practised finesse, Jane was struck by just how small she was without her fancy high heels, how pale her skin was under the florescent lighting, and the delicate architecture of her collarbone, peeking out from the v neck of her scrubs.

Jane did not want to approach the table, but she moved closer anyway, firmly trying to convince herself that it was fine.

Lying on the slab were the remains of a small boy. As far as Jane could tell he seemed to be the most recent of the victims, probably the one who had attracted the attention of the early morning jogger and his dog.

Jane's stomach turned. The little boy's face was covered in cuts and bruises, the whole left side of his face swollen.

Gently Maura reached down and pulled the white sheet over his head, effectively shielding the boy and drawing Jane's eyes to her own. She nodded pointedly to her office and the duo wove their way in and out of the crowd to the sanctuary.

"How are you?" asked Jane, as soon as the door to the office snapped shut.

Maura gave a tired, thin smile. "Coping."

Jane moved closer and rubbed her friend's arm sympathetically. Cases involving children were always the hardest. "What do we know so far?"

"Not much as of yet, I'm afraid. I've already placed a call to Dr. Louis Jepson at the university to ask him to come and consult. He should be here within the hour."

"But why?" asked Jane, confused. "I thought you were doing the autopsies?"

Maura moved to settle on the couch and Jane sat down heavily beside her. "Dr. Jepson is a forensic anthropologist, Jane. I'm a pathologist; I work with the epidermis and internal organs – the 'fleshy bits', if you will. Frankly, some of the bodies are too far along in the stages of decomposition for me to be able to positively identify the victims or even cause of death accurately."

"And this Dr. Jetson can?"

"Jepson, Jane. And yes, he can. Forensic anthropologists can read bone markers and see any anomalies that I may have missed. Actually, William M. Bass, the man I named my tortoise after was a well-known forensic anthropologist. Did you know that in 19—"

"Maura," Jane interrupted. "You can tell me about Bass' namesake later. Right now I just need to know about you findings so far."

"Sorry," Maura sighed, "We've started the autopsies of the bodies closer to the surface first. The two that were on top seem to predate the others by at least a year, and preliminary data seems to point to them having been recently moved from another location. I was just about to start the third autopsy when you entered, so not much is known at this point, other than this is the most recent victim. I've had assistants take dental casts of all the victims; hopefully this will lead to some positive identifications."

Jane patted Maura's knee and stood, ready to tackle the new information. "Thanks Maura. Text me if anything else comes up, ok? Frost and I will get started on IDs. Hey, call me when Jetson gets here? I'd like to meet him. "

"Jane, wait!" cried Maura.

Jane ducked back into the office. "What's wrong?"

"There's more." Maura swallowed nervously. "The bodies, they...they all show extensive signs of torture."

Jane closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. Things just kept getting worse. "Don't worry Maur, we'll get this sick son of a bitch. I promise."

As she left, Jane stole one more glance at the table. The small body took up less than half of the surface. They would get this bastard, she thought ferociously. And when they did, she would personally make sure he paid.