A/N: Here you go guys. I worked hard on this chapter, and this is what came out. School is out, updates shouldn't be like 6 months apart anymore. I love you all, and want to thank you for your readership.

Chasing Phantoms

Part I: Mad World

Chapter 13: Does It Remove All Of Our Pain?

1.

Valerie stormed out without warning, sending Danny a look that said 'be careful.'

"What was that all about?" Tucker asked, looking up to Wade and Monique, who were taking pains to keep professional distance between themselves.

"I think I'd really like to know that for myself," Monique said, "Valerie seems to be able to pick up on the smallest things."

Danny turned his head towards the hallway and sat up straight, trying get a look at the door.

"Danny?" Tucker asked skeptically.

"I think Kim is coming, I just heard Valerie snap at someone in the hallway," Danny said, his brow furrowing as he picked up his piping hot coffee and took a small sip.

The sound of a pair of footsteps approaching caused everyone to look up; the sly look on Tucker's face was unmistakable. Danny shook his lowered head slightly in silent laughter.

"Everyone, I'd like you to meet our new consultant," Kim's voice seared through the air and Danny whipped his head up to stare into a pair of wide violet eyes.

His grip on his coffee didn't feel quite as steady as it had been a second, but he stood up to greet the woman anyways. He immediately regretted his decision to stand; his knees seemed to resist all of his efforts to keep steady as he reached out to shake her hand.

"Special Agent Daniel Fenton, you can call me Danny," he said, an unconvincing smile on his face.

"This is Dr. Manson, she will be helping us with the psychological profile of our killer and analyzing forensic evidence from her perspective," Kim continued. Danny's smile vanished at the cold glare he received from Dr. Manson, and pulled his hand away from hers as if burned, and in his distraction, his mug of coffee slipped from his right hand, hitting the edge of the table. Danny was instantly splattered with boiling coffee, his crisp white shirt ruined. With a yelp, he left back from Sam and the quickly growing stain on the carpet.

Kim, about to keep introducing Sam, stopped to stare at the disaster unfolding before her. Valerie had been right in her mistrust of Danny's and Sam's ability to interact properly at work before they sorted things out, considering that Fenton couldn't compartmentalize.

"Go home, Danny," Kim said. He didn't miss the instruction in her look. Go home and don't you dare come back until you're better. Danny gave a curt nod and left without taking his jacket, his shirt still splattered with coffee.

Kim turned back to her team and shook her head. "He always seems to need time off. I really hope it evens out, I'm tired of having him and then not having him."

Sam followed him with her eyes out of the department.

"Seriously…he has more tardies and missed days than any other agent in this department." Alright, where were we? Dr. Manson, this is Agent Tucker Foley, he specializes in tech work; Dr. Monique Simone, coroner; Wade Load, tech and forensic evidence. Valerie is a weapons technician and is usually on loan to other agencies. I am team leader here. Agent Foley and Agent Fenton are the only agents under my direct supervision. Everyone else answers to Will Du, the head of the Homicide Department, or Ira Chronus, the Director of the FBI."

"So Dr. Manson, what is an anarchist like you doing as a consultant for the FBI?" Tucker said with a broad, cheeky grin.

Sam's spluttering told Tucker all he needed to know. He liked the crazy chick.

2.

He had been sent home by Kim again. Why did he have to become completely mentally unstable the moment that the new consultant had walked in? Of course the day he had to meet a pretty woman he fell apart and nearly wet himself. Well, nothing had changed since he hit puberty. She was really quite pretty, but his overly traumatized brain was still patching together the pieces before he was injured. It wasn't just those memories that had been scattered to the wind, it was memories from before he even went into police work that seemed to be lacking in substance. There were days when he would wake up and try and make coffee, but he couldn't remember why he liked Columbian dark roast, or the first time he had started to drink it.

Danny wandered aimlessly around his small apartment clutching his acceptance letter to NASA's training program. It was old now, falling apart at the folds, the sides wearing away, and the paper yellowing as time carried on. As he rubbed his fingers anxiously along the edges of the paper, the letter wasn't getting any crisper.

3.

"Alright, looking at what we know about this killer already, he's a man, judging by the strength and size of the victims, and he's extremely well trained and extremely fit. He's targeting men at the top of their game, almost on the edge of extreme success, second to none, and he takes the evidence of that for himself, leaving the victims in locations that are just visible, but not in the open," Sam said, with a skill that belied her lack of experience as an agent.

The white board in the middle of their bullpen was a maze of notes and photographs. The faces of the dead ran across the top of the board, pleading for justice.

"My first impression would be that he's taking down the competition" Kim said skeptically.

"See, I thought that too, but this is a man who can do it with his bare hands, without leaving a trace behind."

Kim frowned again, but Sam could see that something had clicked as she narrowed her eyes. "He is precise with a gun and just as good with a blade. His technique is almost military – old school, very well trained, but from before the computer age," Kim said, pacing in front of the whiteboard, "I used to run into a lot of his type when I started out working for the CIA."

"Looks like Cold War era fighting methods," Sam observed.

"Cold War?" Tucker said, "How do you even know this?"

"I've taken self defense classes with an old Russian teacher, a lot of nostalgia on his part." Sam said. Kim smirked as Tucker discreetly moved away from Sam.

"She's right, Foley. I learned to fight this way; my old team leader Barkin taught me when he dabbled as an instructor at the Farm."

"If he's that well trained in these old techniques, I'm thinking he's far too old to be direct competition for this man. Also, a military or special ops man, he wouldn't have anything to do with these men career-wise or school wise," Sam continued.

"What if…and sorry if this is totally wrong or crazy…he's taking revenge on men that he could have become? I mean, what if he was on the road to success and something forced him to take up a job with the military?"

"That…makes a lot of sense Agent Foley," Sam said, "Now how can we use that?"

"I'll run some searches," Tucker said before disappearing behind his computer console. Meanwhile, Sam saw Kim continue to pace in the space between the four desks in the pen. Her restlessness was evident in the way she wrung her hands and twirled her hair nervously between her fingers.

"How long is Agent Fenton going to be out of work? It's already been four days," Sam said.

Kim paced a few more steps before replying, "I would give him until the end of the week before I drag him back myself expecting full health, stability and focus."

Suddenly, her temper flared at Kim's flippancy towards Danny's health and Sam hissed out, "Have you ever thought of sending him to a psychologist? If anyone needs help, it's him."

Kim sat down at her desk and let out a heavy sigh, but ran her fingers through the end of her ponytail. She glanced towards Tucker's desk, where the man was engrossed in his keyboard, a heavy set of headphones on his ears.

"Manson, let me tell you something…he won't let anyone help. I can't think of anything I could do – I could drag him to a therapist, I could handcuff him there until he gets better, but he would shut down. He's just a boy who's shouldering more responsibility than a man twice his worth," Kim sighed dejectedly and put her fingers to her temple before pulling a memo notice off of the pad on her desk and scribbling an address on it. "Go get him."

4.

5:30 p.m. She didn't know what the hell she was doing here. Sam stood awkwardly in front of the apartment door in the corner of the foyer, dressed in casual attire, one hand holding a hardback novel to her chest, the other hand poised to knock on the metal door barely covered in peeling paint. She quashed the anxiety in her chest. Since when was she one to be afraid?

So she knocked on the door. Just a tap, once, twice, and a third time – a quick and faint staccato that sounded like her heart beating. The door swung open, and she was assaulted with the smell of booze. It came from the apartment, though, and not from the weary looking man in front of her, who gave her a startled stare before his face lapsed into one of resignation.

He left the door open and turned back into his apartment, picking up an overturned, empty, bottle of beer from the floor, another from the coffee table, and yet another from between the cushions of an old orange couch. Sam followed him warily into his yellowing kitchen, for the first time noticing the piles of training manuals and scattered diagrams of aircraft, spaceships, and rockets, all covered in a film of dust. A pair of sweat pants sat low on his thin hips. A soft, worn, navy blue Georgetown University shirt concealed the scars she knew crossed his torso.

He reached under the counter and tossed the bottles he had picked up. The loud crash of glass bottles startled her. His trash was full of empty beer bottles.

"What are you doing here, Dr. Manson?" Danny said, slamming the cabinet door forcefully, "Did Kim send you here with your doctorate in psychology to fix me?" He had his back turned to her as he continued to clean.

"I see that your cuts from March have healed nicely. You can't even see the one on your shoulder," Sam replied nonchalantly.

"What does that have to do with what I asked you?" Danny replied angrily. He turned to face to her, towering, and suddenly intimidating. "And how do you know about my injuries?" he hissed out, uncomfortably close to her ear.

Sam hardly appreciated his attempt to intimidate her and her plan for delicacy faded away – she wouldn't tolerate any of his ill-mannered antics. She roughly shoved the book she had ordered for him into his chest with a condemning scowl. He clutched the book and watched her turn and walk out of his front door. The force of it slamming shut made the walls shake. There she goes again, he thought, and instantly wondered why that had come to mind. With a confused sigh he went to lock the door, and sat down on his couch. Danny took a look at the book in his hands and his heart did a funny leap in his chest.

"Letters from Mir…" Danny murmured softly, "How did she know…?"

He ran his hands across the worn front cover, and tenderly opened it. Stamped on the inside cover in an elegant, Victorian typeface, were the words "Casper's Used Bookstore." Frowning, Danny turned to the back inside cover, and in a messy script someone had written:

It's time to say good bye to turning tables.

He pulled off a sticky note from underneath the words and found that it said:

Love you always,

Rick

Danny hadn't paid any attention to the lavender sticky note he had pulled off of the signature, but upon second inspection revealing, in a neat, angular block, 'When you remember'.

The address listed beneath was in Georgetown. He wasn't quite sure if the note was for him. The book was familiar though, and a flash of memory came back to him. Dust. Sunlight streaming through the window. The smell of vanillin and yellowed pages. Lilting laughter. Coffee. Warmth. He saved the sticky note on the refrigerator and opened it for another beer. Cardboard. Violet. The clang of an old register. Danny paused, his head pounding unbearably.

"So I guess you are the student that recommended that he read 'The Psychology behind the Western Fear of Ghosts'? I like your taste in books."

She seemed to relax, and offered the young bookkeeper her hand.

"Samantha Manson, but if you call me that I will make sure you are never able to procreate. Call me Sam."

He grinned again goofily and shook her delicate hand avidly.

"Da-," he coughed over the beginning of his mistake, "Excuse me, dusty air in the shop. I'm Casey Whitman, nice to meet you Sam. Actually," he said, letting go of her hand, "Nice to meet anyone. I'm kind of new to New York."

"I've lived here my whole life. I went to university and graduate school here too. I'm almost finished with my doctorate in psychology."

Casey looked at her with surprise. She looked a bit young to have her doctorate already.

"So what is it that you're looking for?" he asked steadily.

She smiled crookedly, but without joy.

"I don't know. I'll know it when I see it. I didn't really have anything to do today."

The memory stung with force, and Danny leaned against the refrigerator, sliding down slowly to the floor. His head was searing with pain and little black splotches danced before his eyes. He shouldn't have gotten so damn drunk last night. His doctor at Suburban had told him to stay away from binge drinking until he stopped having flashbacks, but since he hadn't had them in months, he had figured that he had all the memories of his time in New York that he would ever have.

But he was wrong. There was that gaping hole in his memory that was so strong and so absolute, he could feel it in his dreams, on the tip of his tongue, ghosting over his spine.

Sam.

He couldn't chase her now. He wouldn't find her. She wouldn't talk to him. She would be so mad at him. She wouldn't let him. It really was too late to go to her house. But he remembered the times he had fought with his parents and done something foolhardy; he remembered all the times he hadn't apologized and had ignored their calls because he had seen them as overbearing and strange.

Despite all the drawbacks he could try and come up with, all the askance thoughts and apprehensions that were telling him not to attempt what was seemingly foolhardy course of action, he went into his bedroom and pulled on a fresh blue dress shirt and a pair of black trousers. He wasn't trying to overdo it, but he had to make a bit of an impression. Pulling on a pair of short boots and a thick coat, he paused with his hand on the door. He couldn't let her go like that. Not again. This time he could chase after her because he wasn't confined to a hospital bed.

He ran out of his apartment, bristling against the cold air. Ah, December, he mused. Daniel Fenton was socially inept more times than charming; he was a klutz more than he was agile; he tried to prove himself more than he was sure of himself. But, despite his failings, Daniel Fenton wasn't a coward. He was absolutely not a coward.

5.

It was a Thursday evening in the beginning of December, after flooring the throttle in his old black Volkswagen Jetta to swing by the liquor store and Starbucks, Danny was now standing in front of a beautiful townhouse in the heart of Georgetown. He had a bottle of red wine in his hand that had cost him half of a month's pay and bag of deep Columbian roast. If it wasn't for the guilt he felt creeping up his spine and whispering in the recess of his mind, he felt like he was showing up for a date. Why was he even doing this?

Well, because he had been an ass. He'd forgotten to save her number, he'd forgotten to ask Tucker to look her up, or Kim to give him her information; he'd forgotten her. He felt stupid, and all he wanted was for her to forgive him. He wanted to break her scowl and see a genuine smile again. So, with his heart thudding strongly in his chest, his knees a bit weak, and his cheeks flushed with cold and anticipation, he rang the doorbell.

Sam opened the door, confusion written on her face.

"Surprise?" Danny said sheepishly.

Sam snorted in slight amusement, "Well, if it isn't the illustrious, hung-over, Special Agent Daniel Fenton in the flesh," she said with a smirk, but noticed his somewhat ruffled clothes and hastily assembled gifts and gave him an understanding smile.

She paused, considering her course of action, before giving a sigh "Since it's cold and we're not about to discuss things on my porch, you might as well come in"

She rushed him in anyways – it was cold and she wasn't about to discuss things on her porch. Danny followed her into the living room, a bit overwhelmed at the barely contained extravagance.

"You never told me you were rich," Danny whispered as he ran his hand across an antique side table.

"Well, Daniel, you didn't exactly tell me you were an undercover FBI agent when I met you either. And I'm wealthy, not rich. I'm an heiress." She almost spat the last word. Sam turned around to face him and saw his eyes darting nervously around, his head lowered, and the wine and coffee clutched in one arm.

"Come on," she said in a low voice, "I'll make you a coffee; you can sit down on the couch and make yourself comfortable."

She took the coffee and wine from his hand, but saw him continue to stare awkwardly into the rug, shuffling his feet a bit.

With an exasperated sigh, she said, "Daniel, this couch is from IKEA, it's not a fancy antique handed down from my great-uncle once removed or something like that."

Danny sat down and watched her run into the kitchen, a bit of a spring in her step. Where had her grudge gone? Where was the fury? Danny figured she was just saving it for later.

"Danny!" He yelled after her.

Her head popped back into view and she said, "What?"

"Call me Danny."

"Danny…hmm. If I have to keep up with all these names you're going to have to give me a list," she said with a twisted grin.

For the first time in a while, he smiled too, and as she went back to the kitchen and he heard the distinctive noise of an old coffee machine, he chuckled to himself. She came back into the living room a few minutes later with a steaming cup of black coffee and a glass of red wine for herself.

"No wine for me?" Danny said with false disappointment.

Sam picked up an unopened envelope from the coffee table and smacked him over the head with it.

"Well, uh, seeing as you had gotten yourself completely pissed on beer last night, I would have to support my decision to keep it far away from you." Her tone was light but her eyes were serious.

There was a stringy sort of silence as Danny struggled with a response. "I'm sorry Sam."

"What the hell for?" she asked, "I'm not angry. There are things that warrant apologies, but you've never done anything like that."

"I'm so tired of that," Danny said in a low voice, "I'm tired of Kim giving me excuses, of letting me off work. I'm tired of – "

"- People tiptoeing around you," Sam finished.

"Yeah."

"I know the feeling. You did that when you came in. It's something about money that makes people careful around you. They watch what they say and do because they want to be in your good graces. They want a little bit of the power that they think you have, the lifestyle, and the freedom. People don't understand that it isn't anything but a burden if you don't use it to make the world a bit better."

"Well I guess I do have something to apologize for," he said with an embarrassed smile, which only hinted at the immense relief he felt at the diffusion of her anger. They sat quietly for a while and sipped at their drinks. Her house was warm, and the coffee was good, and he felt more comfortable than he had in any other house that wasn't his own – not to mention that the big rebuff that he had expected had never materialized.

"Don't worry about it. It's not like the money is being uselessly squandered. Who would think it would take that to get my family to be frugal," she trailed off.

"What-" he started.

"No. Not today," she said, her face stony, "People tiptoe around you because you aren't exactly accident proof. Maybe if you could get those nightmares to stop, you would look less likely to be blown away by the wind."

She had a peculiar way of speaking, Danny decided, and he wasn't yet sure he liked it. It was the lilt of her voice. She was so cerebral and grounded in the world of logic that one couldn't take anything she said as an insult, but he still felt a bit ruffled with the comment about his appearance. In his defense, he worked out a lot; considering that his job required a level of physical prowess. She was one to talk – he could have easily wrapped his hands around her waist. Oh god I'm probably still hung-over, he thought he tried to refocus.

"How did the rest of those wounds heal?" Sam suddenly asked. He sighed and put down his coffee, relaxing back into the couch. He felt her eyes on him, and so he closed his.

"Like what you see, Doctor Manson?" he murmured with an arrogant smirk.

"Oh god, Danny, arrogance doesn't suit you in the slightest," she laughed back at him. Oh don't lie to yourself, Manson, you like the sharpness of his cheekbones. You like the way he has his sleeves rolled up and the top button on his collar undone. You like the way his hair is sticking up because he's been running his hands through it.

Sam shook her head. I've had too much wine.

"You're not sleeping are you?" she asked.

"No, just resting my eyes, like you said, I haven't been sleeping well. Having a serial killer on the loose and being completely useless as an agency to stop it isn't conducive to deep, uninterrupted, sleep." he mumbled back, "And all the injuries from last March are all fine. It's the recent ones that are bothering me. I happen to be a spectacular klutz when I'm not in some sort of life or death situation."

"Sounds about right," she laughed with a mellow lightness.

"Why'd you leave New York, Sam?"

"Same reason you probably left home," Sam said with a shrug, "And what did you do, slip on some stairs and bruise your ribs?"

He gave her a glare that asked, 'how did you know?'

She gave him a look that said, 'it was obvious, you dolt.'

"I doubt that the reason you're not going back is the same as mine," he said, "And you didn't really give me much of an answer." He closed his eyes again.

"After Jonathan Winters died, I felt that it was about time to leave New York. I couldn't stay. I was going to go to Stanford and do research, but it didn't seem right at the time." She continued to stare at him, expecting a story in return, but it never came. The only answer she received was shut eyelids that seemed to brood silently in his dark little world. Inwardly disappointed, she stood up for another glass of wine. Danny felt the couch shift and opened his eyes to watch her leave the room. Why did he feel the sudden need to tell her everything?

The pitter patter of rain on the roof made him stir, and by the time she came back in the room with another glass of wine, he was sitting on the edge of the couch, running his fingers through his hair apprehensively.

"What is it?" she asked quietly.

"It's total sleet out there. I don't exactly have four wheel drive – there's no way in sanity I am making it up Canal Road – it's not a road, it's just turns, and everyone will be scrambling about. You know how D.C. drivers are…a bit of weather happens and everyone is nuts"

"I have snow chains on my car…If you give me about an hour or two to sober up – It's only eight-thirty after all – I'll drive you home."

"Sam, I wasn't doing that thing where people say, 'oh poor me I don't have this'"

She rolled her eyes and said, "Alright, Sir, but when I see you standing in the street with a homeless sign, I'll remember that, okay?" With a laugh she went upstairs, carefully piecing together what she had before her. Her good mood concealed her building observations. Seven years of studying psychology and she had finally encountered a man that left her with more questions for every answer. She shivered slightly as she remembered the coldness in his eyes when she had come by his place. Within him lay something deep and dense, something murky locked away in his head. If he succumbed to it – well, she didn't want to think of the damage.

He heard the shower begin to run in a bathroom upstairs.

"Yep…she'll be the death of me," he laughed as he closed his eyes again.

6.

Her work phone was ringing. Kim threw off the covers on her bed and grabbed the tinning demon from her bedside table.

"Special Agent Kim Possible, what's the sitch?"

"Possible, we have another body for you. A woman walking home from a night shift at the Exxon gas station around the corner found it in the bushes by Neal's Pub."

"It's dead right?"

"Possible, what kind of question is that? The victim is dead, yes."

"Then is there a reason that this couldn't have waited until six in the morning, at least? You had to call me at three in the morning, Du," Kim said angrily into her phone.

"Possible, I have a department to run and you're wasting my time. Get here as soon as you can."

"No, Du, you don't have a department to run, you're too busy trying to Ira to promote you."

"Special Agent Possible, let me remind you that your agent that you protect so fiercely has the most missed days in this whole department, including the women on maternity leave. Fenton also has more tardies and unscheduled leave. If your agent doesn't start pulling his weight, I will rein in your leash. Now, this isn't an argument to be had at three in the morning. You have a dead body waiting for you – since you still haven't solved this serial killer case." Will Du hung up abruptly.

There was a light knock on the door.

"Kim?" a soft, tentative voice floated from beyond the door. She pulled on a green robe and opened the door to her bedroom.

"What are you doing up so early…or late considering the work you and your brother are doing?" Kim said softly.

"I'd ask the same of you," Jim said, leaning against the doorframe, "Since you're up, I'll make coffee."

"Thanks…We have another body from that killer running around here, and I have to worry about Danny's health and about how Danny and our new consultant are going to get along. Not to mention, our illustrious department head, Will Du, is not making any of this any easier for me."

Kim sat at her kitchen island as her younger brother turned on the coffee pot.

"I think you're going to have to stop trying to force things to work out, Kim, and stop hoping so hard. Just leave certain things be. You haven't been yourself, and that's because you're restless. The CIA was good for you, as much as I hate to admit. You're angry at yourself, and it's only worse because you're sitting cuckolded by your case instead of doing what you love best – kicking butt and taking names," Jim finished with a smile as he handed her a cup of coffee. "I have to take this to Tim – we need to get this design plan finalized by the morning, and were still a couple calculations off."

"Do what you do best, tweebs. Wreak havoc on the world of rocket science."

Kim finished her coffee and went upstairs to her part of the house. After getting dressed in her usual green cargo pants and pulling on a thick coat, she ran out the door of the house she was sharing with her brothers. It had stopped sleeting sometime earlier, but there was still a light drizzle of freezing rain coming down.

Thirty minutes later she arrived at the crime scene. It was dark, but the area was illuminated by the fading lights of the pub and flashers of two silent police cars. She could see Monique crouched over a body lying on the ground, and two police officers pulling up crime scene tape. Another officer was talking to a scared looking young Hispanic woman, and yet another was standing just outside the scene, waiting for Kim.

"What have we got here, Sir?" Kim called as she got out of her car and pulled her coat closer to her body. The sleet of last night was starting again, and she could feel freezing drops of rain on her face.

"You must be Special Agent Possible; I'm Officer Stevens of Montgomery County P.D. We were called in about an hour ago by the woman over there saying there was a body in the bushes here."

Kim and Officer Stevens walked quickly towards the body across the parking lot and reached Monique, who was inserting a thermometer into the exposed abdomen of the dead man. The wind picked up for a second, and the damp hair of the dead man ruffled. At that moment, in the low light, he looked almost like Danny.

"Liver temperature indicates that he's been dead for about five hours now. His ID says his name is Daniel Richards, 28 years old. He lives in Alexandria, Virginia – I'm not sure what he's doing here. He has an access card to NASA facilities, but his certification card is missing."

"Cause of death?" Kim asked.

"Exsanguination."

"Wow…bleeding out is not common. Oh look, the techs are here to collect evidence…I should probably help while you get the body checked out."

"Kim…he looks a lot like Danny," Monique said as Kim began to stand up.

"Yeah, I know. Let's not focus on that. This is less than glamorous, but we should get a move on. What else can you tell me?"

"He was definitely killed here. Look at the blood pool from the cut around his neck. The cut…look here," Monique said, pointing a gloved hand to a shallow slice on the man's neck, "It's no accident that it was that shallow. Do you think he's changing his M.O. on purpose?"

"I can't say, Monique…but look at where he dumped the body. This is an escalation…he actually took more time between kills, but he made this one so specific. There's something really fishy about this."

"I'll say. I mean, how did no one see this guy just lying in the bushes from ten in the evening until we found him?"

The forensic techs had set up and started to mill around, snapping photos and collecting evidence. Wade Load hopped out of the FBI van and jogged over to where Monique and Kim were crouched over the body.

"What did the liver temperature indicate, Monique? I can try to get surveillance video from the gas station and the parking lot across the street…someone had to have caught something on camera."

"I'd say about five hours ago, Wade," Monique said, trying to wipe the rain from her face with the elbow of her coat. She couldn't quite get it, so Wade stepped in and wiped the rain out of her face with his thumb.

"Enough, you two lovebirds, we're at a crime scene," Kim said with a smile. The rain started to pour harder and Kim yelled out to the people milling about, "Get a move on! Catalogue everything! The rain's going to wash away all evidence if we don't hurry! Not to mention, we're all gonna freeze our asses out here!"

"Kim…" Monique said gravely as she pulled away parts of the victim's clothing, "I think we're going to have to recalculate our original time of death…He was hypothermic when he died – plus the rain makes the temperature significantly lower than cold air."

Kim looked down at Monique and Wade, "How much of a time difference does that make?" she said quietly, barely heard above the rain that was threatening to come down in sheets at any moment.

"The time of death was less than two hours ago."

"So, he was dead at two a.m.? I guess that's why no one saw the body beforehand. I'm going to get the tent out of the truck – the rain's going to wash away all the particulates from the body," Kim said above the rush of rain.

The sleet evened out into the constant pattern of rain. Monique worked diligently under a blue tarp set up to block out the rain. She had moved the body onto a black tarp as she carefully examined the victim's hands, fingernails, clothing, hair and shoes. Around her, FBI technicians milled around under umbrellas collecting evidence. Having done the same for about an hour, she was now sitting inside the FBI van, sipping a hot chocolate, waiting for Wade to come back with surveillance tapes. They had a real chance to get this right – their killer had changed his M.O. drastically enough that he was bound to have made some mistakes. Kim pulled out her phone and dialed.

"Hello?" a sleepy, female voice mumbled into the phone on the other line.

"Valerie…this is Kim. Why do you have Tucker's phone?"

"Ah! Tucker! Wake up you fat, lazy – IS THAT DROOL ON MY COUCH?...Sorry Kim, we're still working on that project and he sort of crashed here after I fed him. All he cares about is the fact that I fed him though…"

"Valerie, tell Tucker I need him at Neal's Pub in Rockville…It's on Nicholson Lane…we have a body."

"Tucker…Tucker…here he is Kim," she said as Kim heard the distinctive morning grumbling from Tucker, "It's five in the morning, why am I awake…Hello, Possible?"

"I need you here now…I've got Wade analyzing security footage from buildings around here, but I need you to help him get the owners on the phone so that we can access this footage."

"You want me in the office or out there with you?"

"I want you here with Wade – you're an agent and he isn't. You need the in-field training on this one…I'll try to have had the body moved by the time you get here, but no promises. You need to get through the whole nausea dead body thing. See you in fifteen minutes." Kim hung up the phone and decided to dial Sam. Her eyes were needed. She wished she could have Danny on this one, but he was probably still in the middle of a relapse of health.

"Hello, Doctor Sam Manson speaking."

"Manson, we have another body, is there any way you could get over to Neal's Pub in Rockville?"

"Yes, I'll be there…where is Neal's Pub exactly?" Kim heard a second, familiar voice chime in, "Neal's Pub? The Neal's Pub! Kim's got a crime scene there? Oh no…me and Tucker go there all the time!"

"Manson, is that Danny?"

"Yes…"

What was with her team today? She shook her head and let out a heavy breath.

"Possible, I was going to drive him home because of the sleet, but he fell asleep."

"I've already heard that from Valerie and Tucker, funnily enough."

Sam pulled the phone away from her mouth and said to Danny, who Kim guessed was sitting close by, "Danny, we have another victim…I want to go in to work today, Sam, can you tell Kim that? ...Did you hear that Possible? He wants to come in to work, does he have the go ahead?"

"Are you sure Manson?"

"Personally and professionally, he is fit to return to duty."

"He's not coming out here though…tell him it's desk work for a week until I'm sure he can handle himself. I want him at work at seven so he can handle some of evidence that we bring in."

"Roger that, desk work for Danny. …Hey! That's not fair! ...Yes it is you dolt, and finish your coffee. Or did you forget that you still have to go home and change because you look like an unshaved and dirty homeless man who stole work clothes out of someone's trash? …Hey, that's not nice. So what if I slept in my clothes? You're the one who didn't bother waking me up!"

Kim had had enough of their bickering and hung up the phone, waiting for Tucker and Sam to arrive.

To be continued...

A/N: Please be kind and review.

Are the characters making sense? Or are they too OOC?

Is the setting and plot elements as they are presented in the story clear enough?

What doesn't seem to make sense when you read it?

Is the pace of the story too fast or too slow?

Special thanks to DBack47 for making this chapter possible. Your help was absolutely priceless.