Chapter Twenty-One: Lost

Shoshanna Sherman frowned slightly as she studied the man sitting before her. He was perhaps five-foot-ten and well built, with blonde hair and gentle blue-green eyes. He had an easy smile that caused small lines to appear at the corner of his eyes, but there was a sense of uncertainty beneath his calm appearance.

"So…" Shoshanna glanced down at her notes, "you don't remember anything at all about how you ended up in the shelter?"

The man shook his head and gave a helpless shrug. "I truly don't, Ms. Sherman." He ran a hand through his hair. "I woke up on the sidewalk outside the shelter. Everything before that is just… gone."

Shoshanna nodded absently and flipped through the file, quickly scanning over all the information she had been given. "It says here that one of the employees at the shelter took you to the hospital," she commented.

"Yes," the man replied. "That was Mrs. Mason. The doctor at the hospital – Dr. Reynolds, I believe – said I had general amnesia, but that there didn't appear to be anything physically wrong with me." He gave her the ghost of an amused smile. "I guess that's something, right?"

Shoshanna nodded, and offered a smile of her own. She liked this man. Perhaps it was the fact that he was so obviously trying to make light of a situation that must have been terrifying for him. He seemed extraordinarily optimistic.

And it was a bizarre situation.

She'd seen a lot of strange things as a social worker, but a perfectly healthy man in his mid-thirties with no memory of his past, or his identity, or even his name…? Well, that was new.

"And did you try walking through the neighborhood around the shelter to see if anything there looked familiar?" she aksed.

The man was glancing past her towards the blue sky visible through window behind her desk, his expression changing from a soft smile to a look of frustration. "Mrs. Mason took me around. Nothing there looked familiar, and no one recognized me." He flicked his gaze to Shoshanna. "It wasn't helpful, I'm afraid."

She frowned, then said briskly, "You have some options. The first, of course, is to go to the police. They might be inclined to try to figure out what happened to you…" she gave the man a quick onceover, shaking her head slowly, "but I doubt it."

"Why?"

"According to the doctor, you are completely unharmed, and without any evidence that you were hurt, there is no reason to treat this as a crime. Further, your memory might be missing, but you aren't, so they can't treat this as a missing persons case. And you aren't a child, so there's no concern about child endangerment…" She trailed off and studied the man intently. "This is Los Angeles. There is too much crime here for the police to investigate something like this," she finished apologetically.

He nodded, looking glum. "I understand."

"You could try taking out an advertisement in the paper. Someone might recognize you."

"I don't have money for that," the man protested.

"The agency might be able to help with the financial angle," Shoshanna assured him. "It will take some time to go through the proper channels, but I should be able to allocate some funds to a newspaper ad. But," she cautioned quickly, seeing the look of hope in the man's eyes, "it might not work. We don't know if anyone is looking for you, or if they read the Los Angeles Times."

The man nodded. "I understand," he repeated.

"In the meantime, I think you should consult a temp agency. You'll need a job to support yourself." She turned to her computer and typed out a few quick commands on the keyboard. "I can give you the names of a couple agencies."

"Thank you."

"And…" she gave him a quick, hesitant smile, "you might want to pick a name for yourself. Something besides John Doe. Does any particular name strike your fancy?"

The man considered the question for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. There was an intensity to his gaze, and for a moment Shoshanna thought he might actually provide a clue to his identity. Would he remember something helpful, some attachment to a certain name?

Then he sighed heavily and shook his head.

"No. Nothing, Ms. Sherman."

Shoshanna turned back to her computer. "Well, you look to be in your thirties. So, let's see…" She typed a quick sentence and stared at the search engine. "According to the Internet, the three most common names for American boys born between 1965 and 1975 are David, Christopher, and Michael. Would you accept any of those?"

The man shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

"No preference?"

"None."

Shoshanna smiled. "David it is, then."

The man – David – chewed his lip and glanced past her towards the window again. He was silent for a long moment before asking almost wistfully, "Do you think anyone has noticed that I'm missing. Do you think there's someone out there searching for me?"

Katherine Grey watched David Smith walk out of her office. The call from Shoshanna had been so curious she'd hardly known what to make of it. And if Shoshanna hadn't been a personal friend, she'd probably have just ignored the whole thing. After all, the temp agency had a reputation to maintain, and providing jobs to a man that didn't even know his own name seemed rather risky.

But Shoshanna was a friend, and Katherine had agreed to meet this David… and he'd surprised her. He'd been well-mannered and polite, and his genuine kindness had clearly shone through his nervousness. He'd taken all the requisite qualification tests and passed the interview…

And so David Smith was off to his first temp job.

"Oh, for the love of…"

The man – David, he had to start thinking of himself as David – paused in his mopping and glanced towards the partially open door of the women's restroom. The exclamation had been accompanied by the sound of skin hitting ceramic, and he took a hesitant step forward.

"Is everything alright?" he called out diffidently.

There was no response, just the repeated sound of skin on ceramic, and he stepped up to the door fully and rapped his knuckles on it. "Ma'am?"

"Fine. It's fine," came the high-pitched response.

David nodded to himself. "Oh… alright," he murmured, and started backing away.

But he could hear the woman crying.

David looked around, unsure what to do. It was late, after eleven o'clock at night, and the hospital was quieter than it had been during the day. But it was a hospital, so there were still doctors and nurses and orderlies bustling along the hallway, and none of them stopped to investigate.

"Uh… ma'am? Are you sure that everything is alright?" There was no answer, so he pressed on, "Is there anyone else in there? Can I… can I come in?"

"I'm… I'm fine." The response wavered, the statement belied by the barely hidden sobs in the woman's voice.

David chewed his lip. He should just leave, but he couldn't make himself walk away. Whatever this woman said to the contrary, she clearly wasn't fine, and he felt a strangely strong desire to do something.

He made an instantaneous decision. "I'm coming in."

There was no immediate objection from within, so he pushed the door all the way open and stepped into the women's restroom.

The woman in question looked to be young, probably not even twenty. Her wavy hair was dirty blonde with purple streaks and tear-tracks ran down her cheeks, marring her pale skin. She was leaning over the restroom sink, repeatedly slamming her hand onto its porcelain edge.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, green eyes wide and frightened.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said, sniffling. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging mascara across her skin.

David offered a weak smile. "You don't seem okay."

"It's nothing for you to worry about," she said, an edge to her tone. She turned away from him, back to staring at her own reflection in the mirror. "I can take care of my own problems."

"What are they?" David asked. She frowned, her eyes flicking sideways to stare at him in the mirror, and he elaborated, "Your problems. What are they?" She glowered at him, and he sighed and said, "Look, you're crying in a hospital bathroom in the middle of the night. Something is obviously wrong, and I don't feel right leaving you alone… Is there anyone I can call for you?"

She shook her head. "I'm fine," she said again. She jerked her head towards the door. "You can go."

David didn't move.

It was strange, he reflected, that he was standing in a woman's restroom trying desperately to help another person – a complete stranger who didn't seem want his help – when he didn't even know who he himself was.

But perhaps that was exactly why he was trying to help her – because he didn't know he was. He had no identity, no memories… no family, no friends, no home. He had nothing at all, and the incredible emptiness that had settled into his chest at that realization was slowly expanding, threatening to consume him.

He was alone.

Was it any wonder he was trying to form a connection with another human being?

"What's your name?" he asked.

"I thought I told you to leave," she snapped back, irate. Anger washed over her face, but then her expression crumpled a moment later, and tears welled in her eyes again.

"Look, ma'am…"

"Ma'am?" she interrupted him, scoffing at the word. "How old do you think I am?" She turned to face him again, leaning back against the sink, and studied him for a long moment. The indecision was obvious in her eyes, but then she said softly, "Margaret. Maggie. Yours?"

"…David." He hesitated, then said gently, "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

She let out a long, slow breath.

"I'm pregnant."

"Ah." David hadn't been expecting that answer, and he wasn't entirely sure how to best respond. Of course, the girl – Maggie – clearly hadn't been expecting to be pregnant if her tears were anything to go by, so they were both treading on strange ground.

Of course, given how young she was, it wasn't really a surprise that she hadn't been planning on this pregnancy.

Maggie gave him a bitter smile. "Not really a problem you can fix, is it?"

"You don't want the baby?" David asked gently.

"I can't have a baby," Maggie answered in desperation. "I don't… how am I supposed to take care of…" She stopped, shook her head angrily. "It's not like Jake is going to lift a finger to help me – he's already made that very clear. This is my problem to deal with and I'm… Oh, God, I'm completely alone."

And with that final statement she burst into tears.

David crossed to her side quickly, intent on pulling her into a hug. But then he paused with his arms outstretched, realizing suddenly that she might not appreciate a hug from a stranger. She might find his familiarity offensive, or unwelcome, or frightening.

He dropped his arms to his side, unsure what to do.

Maggie solved the problem by collapsing against him, sobbing into his chest. "What am I going to do?" she asked, her voice muffled and shaking.

"Jake is the father?" David asked, slowly wrapping her in a hug.

"Yeah. But he's not going to help. He… uh, he doesn't really… do responsibility."

"Is there anyone else you can ask for help? Your parents, maybe?"

She shook her head and slowly disentangled herself from his grasp. "I can't. I can't even tell them. They'd be so… so ashamed of me." She gave him a watery smile, bitterness seeping into her voice. "I mean, who gets knocked up at nineteen?"

"Probably a lot of people," David answered truthfully.

Maggie stared at him blankly, blinking. Then she let out a choked chuckle. "Yeah. True."

"Look… I don't know you or your family. Maybe you're right and you can't go to your parents. Maybe you can't ask for their help. But… are you sure that you're right about that? That they wouldn't help you?" He paused, studying her. "You are their daughter."

Maggie averted her gaze. "My family is… complicated."

"Most families are," David pointed out. He touched Maggie on the arm, pulling her gaze back to him. "There are other options, you know."

"You mean abortion?"

"Or adoption." David shrugged. "If you don't think you can raise a child, there are other options. You… uh… you have choices besides trying to break a bathroom sink."

Maggie glanced down at her hand. A bruise was starting to form on her palm from repeatedly hitting the sink.

"Yeah…" she smiled weakly. "I just… can't face my parents. Jake isn't going to help me. I can't… I've ruined my life."

"Not necessarily," David argued. "A child can be… the most amazing thing. There's nothing in the world like it."

Maggie raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you have children?" she asked curiously, tucking a strand of her purple-streaked hair behind one ear.

David blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. Did he have children? If he did, was someone taking care of them? His wife? Did he have a wife? Did he have a family?

Was anyone looking for him?

But Maggie was staring at him with wide, green eyes, waiting for an answer.

"Yes," he said. The white lie slipped easily from his lips, falling into the space between them, because it was what Maggie needed to hear. "A daughter. She's… five. It was hard at first, but… it gets better. It becomes… wonderful."

"Doesn't feel wonderful," Maggie sniffed. "Feels pretty lonely, actually." She wiped the back of her hands over her eyes, brushing away more tears. "No Jake. No parents."

"But you can't give up," David replied.

"On my parents?"

"On yourself." David replied. "You can do this."

The woman's body was sprawled on the park bench, one arm hanging down, her fingers brushing against grass. Her eyes were closed, as though she was sleeping, but the blood stain spreading across her shirt and the knife sticking out of her chest indicated otherwise.

The hilt of the knife was ornate, almost ceremonial in appearance.

Inspector Carlos Sanchez stared at the body for a long moment, then turned and surveyed the rest of the park, a frown on his features. "Fifth death in the last two days that matches this," he said with a vague wave to the knife.

His partner, kneeling next to the body and studying it intently, nodded. "We're still running down leads on the knives. But we can't seem to find the manufacturer anywhere." He slanted a look up at Sanchez. "It's strange. A ritualistic knife like that. And five of them? They should show up somewhere."

"I know, Carter," Sanchez said heavily, grimacing. "Five dead bodies. We've got ourselves a serial killer. And one that moves quickly."

"The media is going to have a field day with this one," Carter muttered sourly. "A serial killer and no leads. I'm surprised the vultures haven't already started circling the police precinct."

Sanchez bit his lip and said nothing. The threat of media attention was concerning, of course, but more so was the unprecedented increase in crime. And not just these stabbings. It was mostly missing persons, but given how many people had disappeared, there was no possible way any of this would have a happy ending.

Los Angeles, like any big city, had its fair share of crime, its thriving underbelly, its side no one really wanted to talk about. But this wasn't gang violence, or street crime, or anything else that could be swept underneath the rug, hidden and ignored. This was well-to-do women disappearing from their homes, people being killed with impunity.

Sooner or later, someone was going to notice. It was only a matter of time.

"I want to know if our serial killer has been anywhere else," he said finally.

"You mean outside of L.A.?" Carter asked, surprised. "You think he's a transplant?" He considered that possibility for a moment, then said, "It would make sense. The way he kills – quickly, efficiently, and without any witnesses – he's got experience." He stood up, brushing his hands against his pants as he did so. "I'll make some calls."

"Do it swiftly," Sanchez instructed. "If he has been other places, I want to get a handle on it as soon as possible." He looked down at the body one last time. "If this keeps up, you know they're going to send in the FBI. And I don't like playing nicely with the feds."

Daryl stared at the picture of the athame on his computer screen, not quite willing to believe what he was being told. "Five of them, all identical?" he repeated.

"Yes," Carter said, his voice echoing slightly along the phone line. "Five victims, five identical knives. But the victims themselves don't seem to have anything in common… except that they're all female. And now dead." A slight pause, then he asked, "You got anything like this in San Francisco?"

Daryl hesitated for a fraction of second before answering, "I'm not sure. I'll dig around, see what I can find out."

"Thanks, Morris."

"Any time, Carter."

As he hung up the phone on the detective, he stared hard at the photograph that had been emailed to him. Damien Carter was an old friend who'd worked at the San Francisco police department for years before moving to Los Angeles, and Daryl didn't like lying to him.

But he'd spent enough time around the Halliwells to recognize an athame when he saw one. And while it was definitely possible this was simply the work of a non-magical madman with a penchant for fancy knives…

There had been an increase in missing persons in San Francisco, mostly women who had seemingly disappeared from their homes, leaving nothing but scorch marks behind. Scorch marks that had everyone in the department – everyone except Daryl – baffled.

He knew what they were. And he knew that an increase in demonic activity – and increase sharp enough to catch the attention of pretty much everyone on the force – could not possibly be a good thing.

And if this athame was any indication, the increase in activity was not unique to San Francisco.

Whatever was going on, it had scared Piper enough for her to leave Wyatt with them and coat their entire house in fairy dust. He had never known the sisters to run from a fight, and this had them fleeing in terror.

What did it all mean?

And more importantly, what could he do to protect his fellow officers? He couldn't tell them the truth, that this was most likely the work of a demonic killer. No one would believe him. But what if their investigations brought them too close to the truth? Or too close to the killer? What would happen then?

Well… he was pretty sure he knew the answer to that.

And he couldn't just do nothing while his friends and colleagues walked into that kind of danger.

He closed the picture of the athame and shut down his email. Rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his seat, he wondered where the Halliwells were and what they were doing.

"What have you gotten yourselves into?" he murmured.

David stared at the front page of the Los Angeles Times, dismayed. He only had a few days worth of memories at this point, but all of them were in this city. This was his home, as far as he knew, and it was the only place that he felt he even remotely belonged.

And now even that little bit of comfort was being threatened.

Serial killer stalks city; seven dead in three days.

He closed his eyes.

How did someone become a serial killer? It was a strange thought. What could make someone become so… so… evil? What could possibly drive a person so far past the point of redemption?

What could ever drive a person to kill? What dark, dangerous impulses would have to be indulged for someone to end up with blood on their hands?

The thought drifted through his mind and was gone.

He opened his eyes and stared back at the paper. The families of the victims must be in so much pain, he reasoned, having lost a loved one and having no understanding of why. He wished he could offer them something – consolation or closure. But he had neither to give.

He didn't even know who he was. How could he help anyone else?

The motel he was currently calling home was a cheap, by-the-hour kind of place, and he had a fairly good idea of what types of people usually stayed here. But he was only here until he regained his memory, or someone came to find him, or he earned enough money at his temp job to rent an apartment.

If he had to wait for the latter, it would probably take a while.

He glanced around his small room. It wasn't exactly what he would consider home. The wallpaper was peeling in places and blankets on the bed were worn, though at least the sheets were clean. But it was all he had, the only place he could go to at the end of the day.

He wandered over to the window. The windowpane was grimy, and the housecleaning staff had actually refused to clean it, and he'd meant to buy glass cleaner but hadn't gotten around to it. It wasn't like the view would be much improved by clear glass; the window looked out over a parking lot. The cement in the lot was cracked in places, with small weeds and tufts of grass sprouting through the cracks. There were only ever a few cars parked in the lot at a time, and they usually rotated in and out as the residents of the motel came and went at all hours.

It was currently dusk, and the parking lot was abandoned. As David watched, however, a young woman came running out of an alley across the street and darted towards the parking lot. She was too far away for him to see clearly, but she was quite obviously running in desperation, as though trying to escape something.

She paused once or twice to glance over her shoulder, as though concerned she was being followed. But she appeared to be completely alone, and by the time she reached the parking lot, she had slowed slightly. She finally came to a stop at the edge of a the fence that ran around the motel. She looked around once more, and wrapped her arms around her chest.

She was shaking.

Without thinking, David hurried from his room, stepping out onto the walkway that ran parallel to all the rooms. He reached the steps leading down to the parking lot just in time to see the man come out of nowhere.

Literally.

One moment the woman was standing completely alone at the entrance to the parking lot, fifty feet from David's vantage point, and a moment later a man was standing directly in front of her, something sharp and shiny in his hand.

It happened too fast for David to follow. The sharp object flashed under the glow of a streetlamp, light reflecting off its blade, as the man in question drove it forward into the woman's chest. She opened her mouth to scream, but the scream turned into a choked cry that was barely loud enough to be heard. A moment later she pitched forward, falling to the ground.

The man who had killed her glanced around once, quickly, and his eyes landed on David. His face was half-hidden by shadows, making it impossible to see any of his features clearly. But there was something about his eyes. They had some strangely inhuman sheen to them, and despite the distance that separated them, despite the dim light, David felt a shiver of fear run down his spine.

Then the man disappeared.

David gaped.

One moment he was there, the next he was gone. Completely. As though he had simply vanished into thin air.

"What… how… but that's not… huh?" David stammered, frozen in his spot on the stairs.

It took his mind a moment to start working again, to push away the complete bewilderment at what he had witnessed and the lingering sense that something evil had been in that parking lot, and then he forced himself forward, stumbling down the stairs and sprinting across the lot. He reached the woman a moment later, and dropped to his knees at her side.

She looked to be a few years younger than him, and she had long dark brown hair that was splayed out on the cement underneath her. Her pale skin showed bruises on her throat and face, and her brown eyes were wide open, staring unseeingly up at the sky. Her clothes looked expensively tailored, she wore pearl studs in her ears, and she had a engagement ring on her left hand.

And she was dead.

David checked for a pulse or breathing, and found neither. Blood was already spreading out across her silk blouse and pooling underneath her.

"Oh, God…" He rocked back on his heels.

What had happened?

And more to the point, what should he do? He needed to call the police, probably, but what would he tell them if they started asking questions? No one would believe that the assailant had disappeared like that. David didn't even really believe it, and he'd seen it with his own eyes.

That man… had it even been a man?

Had it even been human?

None of this made sense.

And the woman was still very dead. Figuring out who – or what – had killed her would not change that. She was gone forever. And if the engagement ring was any indication, she had a family that would miss her, that would grieve for her loss.

David stood slowly and looked around once, half-expecting the strange man to reappear. But he didn't, and David was alone at the edge of the parking lot. Alone except for the dead body at his feet.

"I'm sorry," he murmured to the woman.

If he had only gotten there faster…

He ran a hand through his hair. Would it have made a difference? Could he have protected her?

Probably not, he reflected bitterly, but that admission did nothing to stem the guilt he felt, the overwhelming and almost inexplicably sense of personal failure. As though he himself had let her down.

He turned back to the motel. He needed to call the police.

"Let me get this straight," Sanchez said quietly, frowning at the man on the other side of the one-way mirror. "A man with amnesia stumbles across our serial killer's latest victim. And we don't suspect him?"

Carter shrugged. "I checked out his story. The people at the shelter, the doctor at the hospital, the social worker, and the temp agency all confirm what he said. He has amnesia."

"How long has he had it? Three days?" Sanchez shook his head. "That's the exact same amount of time since these deaths started. And now we're up to eight."

"I know. It's weird," Carter agreed. He, too, looked at the man on the other side of the one-way glass. David Smith, or whatever his real name, sat quietly at the table in the brightly lit room. His arms were crossed over his chest and he was drumming the fingers of one hand on the opposite elbow. He looked upset, agitated… pretty much exactly how a normal person would look if they had stumbled across the body of a brutally murdered woman.

"According to his statement, he didn't see anything helpful. He was at his motel, reading the newspaper, he went to the window and saw the body and ran outside to investigate."

Sanchez glanced at Carter. "And you believe him?"

Carter considered the question, then said slowly, "I think so. The M.E. said that time of death couldn't have been more than an hour before we got there. Probably even less than that. If he was the serial killer, why would he bring the cops to the scene of the crime so quickly?"

"To gloat? That's not uncommon for serial killers."

"He hasn't done that with any of the other victims," Carter countered. "Why change his M.O.?"

Sanchez frowned and said nothing, thinking over that argument. Finally, he nodded and changed the subject slightly, "Did you get anything from the other departments?"

"Nothing matching our guy," Carter replied. "But every precinct I called reported an increase in violent crime in their area. Some murders, a lot of missing persons. And most of the victims are female."

"But nothing with a knife like the one our guy is using?"

"Not recently. I have a few guys looking into earlier cases, so we might still get lucky. But there hasn't been anything in the past several months, so if he's done this sort of thing before, it was either a long time ago, or not in California."

Sanchez grimaced. "I guess we'd better widen our search."

That, of course, meant talking to the feds, and as soon as they got their hands on this case, Sanchez and Carter would most likely be sidelined. It wasn't an appealing thought for either of them, but they had eight dead women and no leads.

They needed a lucky break, and they needed it soon.

The increase in violent crime, though… Sanchez rubbed a hand over his face as he thought about that. Without the use of the same type of knife or another connection between victims, an increase in crime was simply an increase in crime. But for such a widespread increase to occur so suddenly, so rapidly, was unusual.

Was it just a coincidence, or was there something else at work?

He slanted a look at Carter, but Carter was staring at David Smith.

"He's upset," Carter said softly. "Not defiant, not angry. Genuinely upset about this woman's death." He pursed his lips, then said, "You were listening when I questioned him. We put him in an interrogation room, practically accused him of making up this bizarre story about amnesia, and he just kept saying he wished he'd seen her earlier, wished he'd been able to save her." He gave another shrug. "Either he's a really good actor, or he's on the up-and-up."

"And you think it is the latter?"

Carter nodded. "I do. Gut instinct, I guess. But I really think he's telling the truth."

Sanchez exhaled slowly. "Alright. We don't have any reason to hold him, anyway. So we'll let him go. But tell him not to leave the city."

"Where's he going to go?" Carter asked with a sardonic smile. "He doesn't even know who he is."

"So he says," Sanchez replied, heading out of the room. "I'm not taking any chances." He paused at the door and turned back, a thoughtful expression on his features. "See if you can get him to agree to give us his fingerprints."

Carter raised an eyebrow. "I thought the knife was like all the others. Isn't the hilt too ornate to lift any useful fingerprints? What would we compare his prints to?"

"Run him through the system. Let's see if he has a record of any kind. Besides…" He paused for a moment, his eyes flicking back to the one-way mirror, "if he really doesn't remember who he is, this might help us identify him. Surely he'll want that."

Carter nodded. "Good point. Alright, I'll see if I can't figure out who our David Smith really is."

"He's… what?"

"Leo Wyatt, born May 6, 1924 in San Francisco, to a Christopher and Anne Wyatt." Carter dropped the file on Sanchez's desk.

"So he's eighty years old?" Sanchez demanded. His lips twisted in an ironic smirk. "He certainly looks good for his age."

"Oh, it gets better," Carter replied. "Leo Wyatt served as a medic in World War II. He was killed on November 14, 1942 at the battle of Guadalcanal."

Sanchez blinked. "Oh. Well. Then he looks great for a dead guy." He opened the file and glanced down at the picture of Leo Wyatt. It was absolutely identical to David Smith. "This doesn't make any sense."

"He could be a relation of Leo Wyatt's," Carter suggested. "Grandson, maybe? The age would be about right for that."

"But he shouldn't have identical fingerprints," Sanchez protested. "Nobody has identical fingerprints. That's the whole reason we use them in investigations."

"What about a fake identity? Doesn't witness protection do that for people?"

Sanchez shook his head. "Yeah, but if they were building someone a fake identity, don't you think they would have gone with something more convincing than an eighty-year-old dead guy?" He looked up at Carter. "There has to be something wrong with our fingerprinting system. That's the only explanation that makes sense."

"You'd better hope there isn't," Carter retorted heavily. "If we admit that our fingerprinting might be flawed, it could overturn practically every conviction we've ever gotten using fingerprinting evidence."

"Unless we had a confession. Or DNA evidence."

"So we'd keep the criminals who confessed on their own or who opted for a plea bargain, but we'd risk losing every one who tried to escape justice by denying their crimes. And yeah, we'd keep anyone we have DNA evidence on, but how many people is that, really? There's plenty that we were able to place at the crime scene primarily on fingerprinting. And those… Give them a halfway decent public defender or private defense lawyer, and every murderer, every rapist… they'd walk."

"Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" Sanchez asked skeptically.

"Am I?" Carter countered. "We've got a serial killer on the loose. We can't afford to add more problems to that."

There was a moment of silence, then…

"True," Sanchez agreed grimly.

"So what do we do?" Carter asked.

Sanchez leaned back in his seat and contemplated the file. "Well, David Smith obvious isn't Leo Wyatt. And this doesn't really add anything to our case. So I say we do nothing."

Carter frowned. "You don't want to tell Mr. Smith what we found?"

"What did we find? That he's a dead guy?" Sanchez tapped his finger on the file. "This is wrong. I don't know how or why, but it is. He can't be Leo Wyatt. It doesn't do him any good to tell him this, and it could do us a lot of harm. And we've got a killer to catch."

Carter frowned. He didn't like the idea of simply ignoring this, but he couldn't argue with anything Sanchez had said. And he'd been the one to bring up the issue of overturned convictions in the first place.

"Alright. I'll tell Mr. Smith that we couldn't figure out who he was, and I'll send him home."

Sanchez nodded, and tossed the file into the recycling.