Part Thirty-Five
Olivia tried to keep herself calm. When that failed, she decided instead to exude calm so that at least the others in the car, Cragen, Munch, and Fin, wouldn't know how nervous she was. It wasn't the first time some bastard had come after her. And, god help her, it probably wouldn't be the last. But she really hoped that Elliot would be there the next time. It was much easier to convince herself that she was perfectly fine after putting up with Elliot's continuous inquiries as to her state of mind. Something about assuring Elliot she was fine made it so. Or maybe it was just Elliot's presence that made her feel better.
Instead of Elliot's perceptive prying, the car was silent. Everyone knew that she wasn't ok, that she wasn't about to admit it, and that she wasn't going to be dissuaded from chasing down White. They didn't bother asking questions they knew the answers to; unlike Elliot, their minds were on other things. It wasn't that they didn't care that she was all right; it was that her well-being fell short of being all-encompassing to the guys with whom she worked.
The anxiety gave way to embarrassment as soon as they arrived on the scene. The SWAT team was there, as was the ESU, a pair of K-9 units, not to mention the couple dozen uniforms milling about. The rest of the building, what had once been a house and long since divided into several apartments, was emptied, displaced residents standing unhappily on the far side of a police barricade. It was late enough that some of them were in their pajamas, boots and coats haphazardly thrown over top, shivering and staring at the spectacle.
Olivia felt like an ass, knowing it was all because of her. Some fucking psycho was after her and that was the only reason for the audience. She knew, if White wasn't there, if the damn building wasn't rigged to explode, she'd feel even dumber for putting so many people out of their way.
As if she wasn't mortified enough, the SWAT captain, who was on his way to talk to Cragen, stopped in front of Olivia and snorted, somehow knowing she was the reason for it all. That reaction alone was enough to throw her back into her paranoid state, making her think that somehow White had followed them to the cabin and had informed everyone in the city how they'd passed the time. She crossed her arms tight over her chest and looked to Fin, trying to tell herself that there weren't hundreds of eyes burning holes through her.
Fin shrugged and stared at the group in front of them. "Ever felt like everyone was staring at you?"
"I thought it was just me." With a gulp, she tried to force back the frog in her throat, reminding herself that acting scared and nervous would only draw more attention in the long run.
Cragen came around the car, addressing his team as the SWAT captain walked away. "White's gone. The place is clear of any explosives, but it's not pretty." Then his eyes fell on Olivia. "You might want to sit this one out."
Olivia shook her head, holding his eyes with resolve. She'd already left the safety of Elliot back at the precinct. She saw no point in hiding now that she was already there. "I'm going in." After all, whatever it was that wasn't pretty in there was because of her. Because of White's fixation on her.
Cragen nodded, leading the group through the crowd of cops who were still staring like their lives depended on it. Just as Olivia stepped onto the sidewalk, the sound of a van pulling up distracted her. And then she knew, reading the familiar words on the side of the medical examiner's van, that what Cragen hadn't mentioned was that someone else was dead. Yet another person dead because of her. But rather than rattling her, it urged her forward, demanding that she discover what had been done in her name.
As soon as she started down the set of steps leading to the busted basement door, she knew what they'd meant by the "odd smell." It did smell like death and decay, but something worse than that too, although how anything could be worse was beyond her. While Fin and Cragen covered their noses, Munch decided he was going to interview the tenants. But Olivia plowed forward, noticing the stench, yet not quite grasping that it was bothering her. She pushed past Cragen, wanting to hurry up and see what there was to see, know what it was that White had left behind for her to find, needing to get it over with as soon as possible. She wanted to get her damn hands on him before he could hurt anyone else.
The basement, aside from the splintered wood by the deadbolt and the hideous aroma, was indistinguishable from any other basement on Earth. A water heather. A boiler. A freezer. A pile of dusty sporting equipment. She took the steps two at a time, climbing onto the first floor. The door at the top of the stairs opened into the kitchen, a normal, run of the mill kitchen. A quick look to either side ruled out there being anything of note, so she led on. The dining room and living room were more of the same, nothing strange, nothing out of place. As she crossed the hall on the far side of the living room, she noticed the small barricade White had built inside the front door, ensuring that he'd have ample warning before someone made it inside.
The smell was getting stronger, making her eyes water from the effort of continuing to breathe it. But she continued on. The first doorway she came to on the left was a bathroom. It would have been normal enough, except for mess explained by an opened box of hair dye, brown stains splattered all over the room, and the nasty smell of week old mixed dye coming from the black plastic bowl in the sink.
The next room was on the right, housing what had once been a small office. The computer desk and chair were there. The printer stand with a half-used ream of paper sat adjacent to it. There was a small table by the window supporting a desperately thirsty spider plant. There was a cork board tacked on the wall by the phone, which probably once held notes and reminders of bills to pay or calls to make. But the walls had been plastered over, cork board, artwork, even the shade on the window.
Pictures. Hundreds, thousands of pictures. Newspaper clippings too. About ninety percent of them were of Olivia. The rest, grouped in a small section by the door, were of Elliot. She barely noticed those, her eyes were locked on the images of herself, shots of her doing everything under the sun, some old, some new. As she looked from one wall to the next, she realized there was a distinct pattern. Some of the photos were ancient, ones he'd managed to save somehow from the first time he'd stalked her. The newspaper clippings came next, obviously the only way he'd been able to keep tabs on her while he'd been locked up. And then there were the current ones, lots and lots of them, shots of her from every angle, close ups, full body shots, pictures of her apartment, even some of her at crimes scenes and talking to victims. Finally, at the far right side of the collage, were the pictures that took her breath away.
There she was, walking out of Chuck's bar, a very drunk Elliot leaning on her. Then her pulling his keys from his pocket. Then Elliot's hands on her waist. Her pulling away. Elliot kissing her, biting her neck, grabbing her ass. She barely saw the rest, where she kneed him in the groin and threw him in the car. She realized how very set up they had been. Suddenly, her eyes turned to the shots of Elliot, searching them for proof of what she already knew. Sure enough, there were pictures of Elliot coming and going from an unfamiliar apartment, certainly the new place she knew nothing about, pictures of his car so White could find a similar one.
She knew White had been following her, that was part of stalking someone, but she had no idea how long it had been going on. Long enough for White to know Elliot had moved out and was behaving strangely, long enough to know that Olivia wasn't exactly getting along with him. He'd played them both, driving a wedge between them, leaving enough "proof" for Olivia to finger Elliot. And once Elliot was in prison, half White's mission would be accomplished. All that would have been left would be to attack and kill Olivia, which would have been easy without Elliot there looking out for her.
She started to shake when she realized how close she'd come to becoming his victim. It was only Elliot's desire to take care of her that had saved her. Apparently even Richard White wasn't crazy enough to think that Elliot would kidnap Olivia at gunpoint.
Shaking her head, she ignored the sounds of the rest of her team taking in the sights. She shoved past Fin and Cragen, determined to see what else was there. Munch was just outside the room, sounding as though he'd been talking for a little while, although she wasn't sure if he'd been talking to her or anyone.
"-same stuff from the third floor tenants really. The Claytons were quiet, kept to themselves, probably because everyone talked about them for taking the apartment someone had been murdered in."
Olivia looked at him, suspecting he was waiting for an answer. "Huh?" The shock of seeing the collage had left her unable to come up with something better.
Munch smiled like he always did when he felt he was being taken advantage of. "The Claytons, Fred and Ann, lived here, but no one's seen them in a few weeks."
Barely hearing the second time around, Olivia pushed open the next door on the right, immediately clapping her hands over her mouth and nose. Turning back to Munch and wishing she could banish the sight from her memory, she pulled the door shut.
"Found them." At least she'd also discovered where some of the odor was coming from - the two bodies, wrapped in plastic, taped at the ankles, knees, wrists, and necks, probably done so moving them would be easier. She didn't even want to know how they'd died. They were dealing with Richard White, so it was undoubtedly grisly, violent, painful, and cruel.
Unable to spare another bit of guilt for the two additional victims, hapless ones who'd simply had the misfortune of living where Richard White wanted to stay, Olivia steeled herself for the last room. The third bedroom, still familiar enough after a decade that she could still see the bloody sight of Louise Billings lying on her bed. She twisted the door knob, trying to tell herself it was going to be awful, yet somehow knowing awful wasn't nearly going to cover it.
The stench was magnified a thousand times as she opened the door, so much that she wondered how the hell the other tenants hadn't noticed something was amiss. The bedroom had been lovely once, decorated carefully with beautiful, expensive furniture, exquisitely framed paintings, and a color palate that told Olivia the Clayton's had put out the cash for a decorator.
But in the middle of their perfectly made up bed were stains, stains the filled in the missing piece of the smell. Horrified, Olivia took in the ropes tied to both sides of the headboard and the footboard, knowing a woman, Ann or Kimberly or possibly some random victim, had spent a long, painful time there, probably raped by White, and then left there so long she'd had no choice but to relieve herself and continue to lie in it.
Thinking that anything else would be an improvement, Olivia's eyes moved to the vanity, where a wicker stool sat in front of the matching table. Long pieces of blond hair littered the carpet around the stool, a dark stain on the cushion revealing that poor, pathetic Kimberly hadn't even been able to clean herself up before White played beauty salon. Even worse, there was a picture of Olivia resting against the mirror, blown up to eight by ten, that White clearly used as his template for Kimberly's cut.
Olivia turned again, hoping to get out of the room before she got sick and broke down in front of everyone, but instead of the escape she sought, she found yet another torturous sight. The Clayton's television was ensconced in an armoire whose doors had been left open, revealing the gory sight of Kimberly's missing hands, carefully folded around the remote control and left sitting on top of the TV. A note was taped to the screen, dictating that someone, and Olivia knew she was meant to be that someone, 'press play.'
Munch was beside her, fishing a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. Olivia grabbed one, pressed the play button without disturbing the remote and pulled the note off the screen. Tears came to her eyes as the image of Kimberly was illuminated in front of her. Her hair was cut, jagged and crazy like a four-year-old had done it. She was crying, half screaming, her clothes ripped and her body bruised. Her eyes kept darting from the camera to the person behind it, shaking from terror and pain and who knew what else.
She began speaking, words that Olivia couldn't even make out, her mouth contorted in pain and humiliation and desperate hope that she might stay alive. With a sharp warning from White's angry voice, Kimberly sniffled and tried again, speaking a bit more clearly the second time.
"I deserve to suffer and die a terrible, lonely death." She paused for a moment, the words maybe sinking in and telling her that her hopes were certain to be dashed.
White's voice barked out harshly. "Why?" Kimberly only sobbed, pulling another shout from White. "Why do you deserve to die, you stupid whore?"
Sobbing steadily, Kimberly looked back at the camera. "Because I helped Olivia Benson."
And then a hand came out of nowhere, cracking Kimberly across the face, leaving a red mark on her cheek. "Say it like I told you, bitch!"
Kimberly looked at him, wincing, ducking as though she expected to be hit again at any moment. "Because I helped that miserable bitch Olivia Benson."
The camera turned then, revealing a smiling, utterly pleased Richard White, looking exactly the same and yet more evil simultaneously. "I've been thinking about you for ten years, Olivia, planning how we'll rekindle our relationship. I'm coming for you soon." He smirked, then winked, before the picture when blank.