Author's Note: You'll notice some plot tweaks. I did this to try and explain some of the unaddressed issues in that episode. For example, how did a teenager find a cop working a protective detail?
'Allision' is a nautical term. Unlike a 'collision' (two moving things run into one another), an 'allision' occurs when a moving vessel strikes a stationary object.
I surmise you can gather who is the moving object and which of one of our beloved duo is firm footed.
Also, I lied when I planned this story for seven chapters.
If you've read some of my other work, you know it's not unusual to have 15k or 20k chapters. After the outline & initial drafts—I didn't want to do that with this story. After great deliberation, I decided to break the story into more digestible chapters.
That means this will likely shake out to be another five or so chapters so that I can do proper justice to explore arcs like Purgatory.
I've also been working on a number of other Criminal Intent stories that I hope to publish as soon as this one is concluded.
Thank you for your patience and all your support!
Content Warnings
Discussion of: Sexual assault, trauma, pregnancy, abortion, miscarriage/loss, and violence. Brief mention of 9/11.
Scenes containing: Substance use, grief/loss, sex (non-explicit)
Clinton Correctional Facility | 9:00 a.m.
A guard scanned his access card and requested the operations centre open the door to a private interview room.
A buzzer sounded. A moment later, the door swung open. Ray Delgado was already inside along with two additional guards.
He tensed at the sight of Eames and Goren. Delgado raised his cuffed hands in protest. He shrank back against his chair.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn't agree to this."
Eames stopped in her tracks.
"Mr Delgado, we're from Major Case. I'm Detective Goren. This is Detective—"
"I know who you are. I don't want to talk to you," Delgado interjected.
He wasn't mad. Rather, Delgado looked uncomfortable.
"I'll go," Eames offered politely.
Delgado visibly relaxed.
"Thank you," he said in earnest.
Eames nodded to the guard by the door and moved to call the switchboard to open the room.
"Mrs Dutton?"
Bobby watched as Eames winced at the use of that name. She turned—not upset—and politely corrected Mr Delgado.
"Just Detective Eames, please."
"I don't want no more letters. No more packages. Please," Delgado said.
Eames was stunned.
"It's bad enough I gotta put up with being in here and that my attorney can't stop you from sending things. But this? Shit."
Delgado trailed off and shook his head in disgust.
"Mr Delgado, I have never contacted you. Nor would I," Alex said in a cold voice.
Delgado was flabbergasted. In response, he waved his cuffed hands. The whole interview was off.
"I'm done. I'm not talking to you," Delgado said.
Alex was confused. Her brow furrowed.
"Mr Delgado, I have never contacted you," she asserted.
Delgado shifted in his chair. Goren observed his body language with great curiosity. His breathing was rapid. His eyes shifted around the room in terror.
Delgado was distressed.
"Maaaan, it's bad enough dealing with your letters. I tell the guards I don't want 'em. They keep bringing them to me. I throw them away. A day later, they're back in my cell."
Delgado was on the verge of hyperventilating.
"I try to burn them when I'm on trash duty. They put me in solitary—and cover the walls with your stupid letters. Now I gotta listen to the guards read 'em to me!"
Delgado was overcome with emotion.
"Look, I done a lot of things. But I didn't kill anyone. I was framed."
Eames shook her head in disbelief.
She had to give Delgado credit. He'd stuck to that story for a decade without fail.
"Yeah, and you didn't have anything to do with Kevin Quinn's murder either then, huh? Or your old buddy Minaya? Those sure were convenient murders for you," Eames pointed out.
"No, no," Delgado insisted.
It was too much. Delgado broke down, sobbing as he pleaded for understanding.
"I didn't kill anyone. Ever. I wouldn't!"
Eames turned to Goren with a knowing look.
"He doesn't have any new information. He probably agreed to this interview just to waste our time," she concluded.
She nodded to the guard.
"I'll be in the car," Eames said.
Delgado called after her. He was desperate.
"I didn't kill your husband, Mrs Dutton. And I sure didn't kill your baby."
Eames froze. Bobby's senses were on high alert. He didn't acknowledge Delgado's comment—nor did he step in to shut down the conversation.
"I'm sorry for your loss. Truly, I am," Delgado said in a much softer tone. "I just… I can't take the letters. I'm begging you. Please, I—"
Delgado's voice cracked. A choked sob escaped his throat.
Alex felt a small pang of empathy for Ray Delgado. Bobby watched with keen interest as Alex took a slow breath to steady herself.
When she turned to face Delgado, she was the picture of professional poise.
"Mrs Dutton," she said. Her face soured. "As I've said, Mr Delgado, I am not Mrs Dutton. That would be Joe's mother."
She paused.
"And I can't help you there," Alex said.
Bobby saw an opportunity to step in.
"Do you… do you think we could see these letters?" Goren asked.
Eames scowled at her partner. Delgado was on edge.
"What kind of trick is this?" he asked cautiously.
"No trick," Goren promised.
Delgado glanced back and forth between the pair as if he was trying to decide whether he could trust them.
Eames threw up her hands, silently signalling that she didn't care one way or another. At this point, she was fine with Delgado sharing the letters—if only to prove that she wasn't some obsessive freak writing to him in prison.
No, that was her mother-in-law.
Mrs Dutton.
The very name left a bitter taste in Alex's mouth.
Her mother-in-law had always been offended when Alex kept her maiden name. If Alex had ever been on the fence about that, Joe's mother was the final reason she didn't take the Dutton name.
Alex had never set out to have a contentious relationship with Joe's mother—but that woman couldn't have been further from the genial, tender-hearted son she raised.
Alex was overwhelmed as she stared down at the stack of letters splayed out on the table. She couldn't begin to imagine how Delgado felt.
"I've been getting them since my arrest. One a week. Extra ones on my birthday, Christmas, the day that cop died," Delgado shared.
There had to be at least four hundred letters. It was a decade worth of pain and guilt meticulously laid out on each page.
All of Delgado's efforts to rid himself of the letters only made his situation in prison worse. The guards were eager to exploit any opportunity to torment a convicted cop killer.
When he tossed them in the bin, they found their way back to his cell. When he flushed them down the toilet, Delgado lost mail privileges.
He still got letters from Mrs Dutton—but he wasn't permitted to send letters to his own family.
Ray Delgado then tried to burn them when he was on garbage duty. That landed him in an isolation cell where the guards had covered every inch of the walls with those letters.
Psychological torture.
"When I got back to my cell, they were everywhere. On every wall. They guards come by to read them to me at night. So, I just stopped fighting it," Delgado conceded.
Eames felt sick to her stomach. No one—even the man convicted of killing her husband—deserved to be dehumanised in such a manner.
Each letter urged Delgado to confess, to save his immortal soul. Delgado was a religious man. He'd always maintained his faith throughout his trial.
These letters played on that faith. They were designed to manipulate Delgado's emotions. They also contained information about things Joe Dutton might have done if he'd lived.
It would be Joe's thirty-fifth birthday today.
Christmas was Joe's favourite time of year. I'll be praying for him and for your soul at Mass tonight.
Goren picked up one of the letters. He read aloud as he skimmed through the contents.
"Your son is twelve now. He is a beautiful boy. I am sorry you will miss out on his life. I will continue to pray for your redemption. Joe's son—"
Goren stopped.
Joe's son.
On instinct, Bobby looked to Eames. Irritated, she gestured for him to continue. She'd rather he just work through his curiosity now than be bombarded with uncomfortable questions later.
Goren quickly recovered. He cleared his throat and read on.
"Joe's son would have been three this year. Just old enough to start nursery school. You and I will never see those boys grow up. It is something we share," Goren continued aloud.
Bobby scratched his eyebrow. He kept his gaze on the table, intentionally avoiding eye contact with Alex.
"You… you have a son?" Goren asked Delgado.
"Yeah. Victor. Just turned eighteen. I missed his whole fucking life," Delgado said.
Eames baulked.
"You missed his life?"
It was a rare outburst from usually level-headed Eames.
He flopped back in his chair and threw out his arms.
"Yeah. I did," Delgado said.
He flopped back in his chair and shook his head.
"Look around, lady. I spend every day in this hell for a crime I didn't commit."
It would be enough to break anyone.
"Yeah. I was a dealer. I was providing for my son. I'm a lot of things, but I ain't no liar. I'm not a murderer either. And I got my faith. Jesus said nothing about dealing dope. But he did teach me to be honest," Delgado went on. "I am not going to confess to murder I didn't commit."
Delgado pulled himself up straight.
"And if you have any decency, you'll tell that mother-in-law of yours to stop."
Eames snorted.
"You talk to her more than I have in the last decade," Alex said, gesturing to the pile of letters.
"I wasn't even there that night! I was working!" Delgado pleaded.
Eames was not impressed. Goren could tell she was on the verge of one of her classic verbal lashings just by the way her lips thinned.
"Dealing?" she asked, her voice dripping with disdain.
"Yeah."
"No, see if you had a real job, you'd have a real alibi," Eames shot back.
Goren was worried they were going to lose the only remaining thread between Quinn and Minaya. Delgado was upset and rightfully so—and Eames was pushing all the wrong buttons.
Goren had to redirect.
"Why would Minaya and Quinn ID you?" he questioned.
Delago shrugged in earnest.
"I don't know. Believe me, I've been asking myself that for years. I… uh, I worked for Minaya. Never put a toe out of line."
Delgado did everything Minaya asked. He didn't use the product. He kept his nose clean. Turned his profit in on time.
He could fathom no reason for Minaya to pin a murder on him.
"I know some people think Minaya shot that cop himself. But Alfred wasn't like that. That wasn't his way," Delgado continued.
Suddenly, he was struck with a thought. It did not go unnoticed by Goren's keen eye.
"Mr Delgado?" he prompted.
"Minaya protected the people that worked for him. It's why people liked him."
Minaya took care of his crew.
"Maybe there was someone there that night that outranked me? Someone Minaya wanted to protect?" Delgado theorised. "I mean, I was a nobody to him. Bottom of the ladder."
Goren nodded slowly. He listened as he continued to pick through the letters with keen interest.
Alex stood in the corner. She rolled her shoulders. She was uneasy at the thought of Goren digging through those letters, picking apart her life from the perspective of Joe's mother.
"Mr Delgado? Would it be alright if we took these?" Goren asked.
Alex swallowed her frustration. She wanted to be surprised—but it didn't faze her in the slightest that Goren had asked Delgado but didn't even consider her feelings on the matter.
After guards loaded the letters, Eames snatched the box before Goren could grab it.
"Would it be alright if I contacted you again, Mr Delgado?" Goren asked.
"Yeah. Sure. Erm… please," Delgado replied.
Goren was the first law enforcement officer in a decade to actually listen. It was a relief to be treated with courtesy and respect.
"Thank you, Detective. I appreciate you looking into this," Delgado added.
"It's my duty," Goren replied with a smile. "And if you think of anything, please don't hesitate to reach out. I will leave my information and strict instructions with the warden."
"You know, Project Innocence might take my case? They think I was framed too," Delgado said.
Goren caught up with Eames outside of the prison.
"Wait up, I can carry those," he called after her.
Eames was fuming.
"Project Innocence," she spat.
She ignored Goren's attempt to carry the box.
"Project Innocence is not going to take his case."
Goren tried again. A sharp look from Eames was enough to put him off.
"You aren't touching these letters," she warned.
Goren had to jog to keep pace. Eames's short legs did an admirable job to put distance between them.
She was irate. Her Irish was up. Her partner thought Delgado was innocent. Eames could just feel it.
And Joe's mother? The letters?
As terrible as her letters were, they showed far more consideration for Joe's killer than his widow had ever received.
"There is nothing in these letters that is relevant to the case. Nothing," she went on.
"I know," Goren replied.
Eames put the box in the very rear of the SUV. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the handle to slam the overhead door shut.
Bobby couldn't get a word in.
"You're driving. It was your bright idea to come up here. And you can't read them if you have to keep your eyes on the road."
Goren opened his mouth to explain—but Eames wheeled on him. Her finger shook with fury as she poked his chest.
"You don't get to read them. You don't get to pick apart my life for your own curiosity! Not after you shut me out for five weeks!"
"Alex—"
She bat away his hands, shoving Goren harder than intended when he reached for her shoulder. Bobby put his hands up to surrender and stepped back. He shrank, hoping to make himself as small and unintimidating as possible.
"Eames."
"Don't."
Without another word, Eames climbed into the SUV.
Goren fell silent and remained so as he climbed into the driver's seat. He put the key into the ignition and then dropped his hands from the wheel.
"I don't want to read them," Goren said.
Eames did not respond. She turned her attention out the window.
"The letters. They're intentional. They're planned. Every detail, every anecdote. It's all designed to torment Delgado," Goren said.
He was both horrified and impressed.
"She knew exactly which buttons to press. How to get to him. All the comments about promises to pray for his soul and to seek redemption—it's all designed to manipulate Delgado's faith," Goren went on.
Eames scoffed.
"Well, Joe's mother could teach Nichole Wallace a masterclass in manipulation."
"I believe you."
Goren was sincere.
"I don't want to read them," Bobby said, echoing his earlier statement.
"You just took them for evidence then, huh?"
"I took them because you and I both know that those letters are being used as psychological manipulation to punish Ray Delgado," Goren argued. "For a crime he may not have committed."
Eames was horrified too. Bobby had seen it in her face when Delgado recounted his treatment at the hands of the Clinton Correctional Facility Guards.
"It's cruel," Goren went on. "I took the letters because now the guards can't use them against him anymore."
"Thanks. I really appreciate all the consideration you've shown to the man who murdered my husband," Eames remarked.
Bobby knew that he had put his size thirteen foot in his mouth.
"Ray Delgado is the only remaining link between Quinn and Minaya. He's the last person left that can tell us about that night," Goren pointed out.
The rest of Minaya's crew was long gone. Two died in prison. A third had been murdered himself a year after Dutton's shooting. The final man present that night was last seen in Texas—eight years ago.
What scared Eames most was that one of those men might have been the true culprit. If so, they stood no chance of bringing justice to Dutton's murder.
"I also took the letters to build trust with Delgado. We need him. He's the key to piecing together how this all fits," Goren argued. "Something about that night connects these murders."
"Joe was killed by a Glock 21. It was never recovered. But the ballistics from Minaya and Quinn's shooting aren't a match," Eames said, disputing the theory that another culprit had been responsible that night.
Goren rolled his neck and laughed nervously.
"Then how else do you explain why someone would target both Quinn and Minaya?"
"Gee, Bobby. That sounds like a great question for your new buddy, Delgado."
Goren stopped himself. He didn't want to push his partner any further. He recognised Eames was emotionally charged (and rightfully so).
Alexandra Eames was a private person.
It was humiliating to have the darkest chapter dredged up for public consumption. Everything was out there for Goren to poke and prod. He couldn't help himself. And he would turn over every rock in search of Quinn's killer.
It was both endearing and annoying.
"Delgado didn't kill your husband. But I know he can lead us to the man that did. I just want to find Quinn's killer," Goren said.
Eames remained silent.
Goren threw the car into gear and pulled out of the prison. It would be late by the time they got back to the city.
"Albany's about halfway back. I know a great Korean place if you want to stop? Might be good to stretch our legs for a bit," Bobby suggested.
"Nope," Eames replied.
It was March. That meant it was dark by 5:30.
Goren started to feel the fatigue shortly after the sun dipped. He pulled over at a small service station about a half hour outside of Albany to refuel and grab a cup of coffee.
"Can I get you anything?"
Eames didn't need to respond verbally. She got out and went in on her own.
When they were both back in the SUV, Goren started the car but waited to drive off. He drummed on the steering wheel as he tried to find the right words.
"I can't uh…. I can't do this."
"Give me the keys. I'll drive," Eames said.
"It's the silence," Bobby said.
A beat passed.
"I just… I just want to—"
"To what? Poke your way through private life? Get your kicks chasing your next mystery. You don't care who you hurt," Eames snarled.
Bobby's fingers brushed against her hand. Alex froze. Bobby slipped his fingers between her own, just barely gripping her hand to give her the freedom to pull away.
"I just want to find Quinn's killer. And I don't ever want you to feel forced to disclose memories that are painful or things you would rather I not know," Bobby clarified.
Bobby stroked his thumb across the back of Eames's hand.
"You know what information is relevant. I trust you," he said.
Alex stared down at their hands as Bobby's thumb continued to caress the same spot.
"You're always welcome to tell me anything. You… you know that. And I'm so grateful for the parts of yourself that you have shared with me. I'm… I'm honoured," Bobby went on. "Erm… I just need to you know that—"
Bobby paused to collect himself.
No turning back now, Bobby.
"I only want the parts of you that you want to give," he concluded softly.
Bobby brought her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss against the back of it. It was over all too soon. He released Alex's hand and flashed her a nervous smile.
"I understand if you want to smack me," Bobby acknowledged.
Alex sat back in her seat and took a breath.
"Joe and Kevin were worried that Minaya was suspicious. They thought he'd made them as cops," Eames began.
Bobby listened patiently as Eames outlined the background on Joe and Quinn's work in Narcotics. He said little and questioned even less as they drove back to the city.
"Minaya would have been the next best suspect except somebody already whacked him too," Eames said.
"Well, there is that," Bobby said.
He yawned and flipped on the cold air to try and stay awake.
"So, it was a long-term undercover operation?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"That's pretty rare. Takes a special kind of person to take on a job like that," Bobby said.
Undercover work was exceptionally rare—despite the best efforts of Hollywood and pulp detective novels to convince the public otherwise.
Only a small percentage of officers ever truly went undercover, fewer still for long operations. There were strict protocols. The danger was intense. The secrecy was isolating.
"It's how you met, isn't it?" Goren asked.
He didn't mean to pry into Alex's marriage, but he couldn't help himself.
For the first time all day, Eames smiled.
She'd been working undercover herself in Vice at the time. Eames was on assignment in Hunts Point at the same time that Joe was working an undercover case to bust a new distribution network with ties to the Masucci family.
"I made him for a cop straightaway," Eames said as she recalled their first encounter in a seedy motel.
Hunts Point | December 1992
It was a cold night. Alex had already been standing outside for nearly ninety minutes before the sleek black sedan rolled up.
Eames noticed straightaway that the two men inside were carrying.
"Do I have to worry about your friend?" Eames asked.
Ever since starting her undercover detail, a sex worker named Gina had taken Alex under her wing. Gina had two kids, and Alex would never forgive herself if something happened to Gina.
Eames suspected this gentleman was an undercover cop. NYPD was notorious for failing to coordinate undercover operations.
But she didn't want Gina to get caught with a solicitation charge.
Joe Dutton sat down on the chair in the corner of the motel room.
"What makes you think you have to worry about her?" he inquired.
"Why are you avoiding my question?" Eames pressed.
Dutton chuckled and flashed her a wry grin.
He gave Alex a once-over from the corner and then turned his attention to the window.
"Look, honey. I'm knackered. These guys got me working on my feet all day," Joe said. "I'll give you a C-note if you'll just let me sleep."
Dutton flashed her a broad smile.
"Help yourself to the mini. It's a cold night. Just head out in about thirty minutes and tell the driver I had a good time, alright?"
"You're a cop," Eames said.
"Yeah. And you're the Queen the Sheba, right?" he threw back.
Alex reached into fur coat and fished for her badge.
"No need, officer. I already made you," Dutton said.
Eames was stunned.
"I'm not going to bust your friend," Dutton assured her.
Alex frowned.
"How did you—"
"Because you look like a Manhattan call girl—not a streetwalker. Hookers on Hunts Point don't look like… well."
Dutton trailed off and gestured vaguely. Eames's eyebrows shot up in surprise at his forwardness. Dutton panicked.
"A call girl?"
"I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to uh…"
He trailed off.
Joe's face flushed. He nervously scratched at the back of his neck.
"Can we try that again?" he asked, flashing his badge. "Detective Dutton. I'm with OCCB. Narcotics division."
Dutton and his partner, Kevin Quinn, were working a hot case. They were expecting a bust—one that would arrest a Masucci lieutenant.
They couldn't risk another undercover officer accidentally blowing the operation.
"I'm sorry the brass didn't coordinate," Dutton apologised.
"Well, if there's one thing they're good at—it's dropping the ball on interdepartmental communication," Eames replied dryly.
Dutton felt terrible.
"Look, I—"
"No, no. It's fine," Eames replied in earnest.
She understood. Whatever big bust Narcotics was running was far more important than catching a handful of johns. It was a cold night and that was bad for business.
Alex was prepared to go, but she stopped just shy of the door.
"You guys gonna be running an operation down here for a while?" she questioned.
Dutton looked uneasy.
"You know that I can't talk about our assignment."
Eames nodded in understanding.
She made a beeline for a notepad on the nightstand and jotted down a number.
"You don't have to tell me details. But if you run another operation around here and you want to avoid any interference, let's coordinate, huh?" Eames suggested as she held out the paper for Joe to take.
He stared at it dangling in front of him.
"I'm working with three other undercovers in this area. We won't get in your way. We won't steal your collars. We just want to know, alright?"
She didn't give him a name. Dutton failed to ask before she left. He wrote 'Manhattan' on the scrap of paper before pocketing it.
Present
"And Kevin Quinn was the best man at your wedding?" Bobby asked.
"Yeah," Alex replied in a faraway voice.
"So, Joe and Kevin were pretty tight, huh?"
It wasn't unheard of for partners.
"They knew each other beforehand. Joe and Kevin met in college."
"Kevin went to Columbia?" Goren asked, surprised.
Eames shot him a look.
Of course, Goren had read Joe's personnel file, the case file from his murder, and Joe's obituary. All of that was standard when investigating a case. Some of that information was public.
But it was still disconcerting.
It didn't feel right having her partner rifle through her life like that.
"Kevin was working out of the two-eight then. Kevin was a volunteer with Expedition Grow. That's how they met," Eames explained.
Bobby was familiar with the programme. It was a nonprofit that provided opportunities for outdoor activities for children in the city.
"They're the group that does the…"
Bobby trailed off and gestured vaguely.
"Camping and hiking and fishing. You name it. Community garden. Digging for clams," Alex rattled off.
Alex dropped her attention to her lap and began to pick at her fingernails.
"Kevin used to take kids out to Fort Tryon Park. Joe volunteered and they hit it off," Alex shared. "He… he always said Kevin was the reason he became a cop. They were so happy when circumstances led to them being partnered. Joe said it felt like everything had fallen into place."
There was a question that had burned in Goren's mind ever since they took the case, one that he was afraid to ask because he knew it would hurt.
"I hate to ask but—"
Eames sighed.
"Just ask, Bobby."
"Is there any possibility that… well, let me rephrase," Bobby stumbled. "Is there any reason that Minaya or someone in his operation would think that Joe and Quinn were uh… well, screwing them over? On the take? A betrayal?"
Eames's facial expression was good enough for Goren.
Joe and Kevin were straight shooters. It was the very reason they'd been chosen for undercover work. Their records were clean.
The fast lane wasn't for everyone. But Dutton and Quinn were reliable. They couldn't be bought, and they weren't tempted by the drugs and the power.
"What was their detail that night?" Goren inquired, shifting to Joe's murder.
Eames gave him the rundown.
Joe and Quinn had presented themselves to Minaya as muscle for a distribution network operating out of Boston. They'd worked for weeks coordinating smaller buys to build trust and establish their cover.
"That night was a big buy."
"How big?" Goren asked.
"A truckload of cocaine. Heroin Pills," Eames answered. "A bust like that would have been a great way to cap off Joe's career in Narcotics."
Her language caught Bobby's attention.
"Joe was leaving?"
"He was set to start with the Harbour Unit the following week. The SCUBA team," Eames answered.
"Harbour Unit. That's a specialised team. And SCUBA. Wow. That takes a lot of training. Discipline," Goren went on.
They were some of NYPD's most highly trained officers. They weren't just cops—they were an elite unit that had speciality training in underwater operations, helicopter operations, port security, search and rescue, and EMT training.
"You don't have to try and be nice, Bobby. I know you read his file," Alex said dryly.
Goren nodded and fell silent.
"It was Joe's dream," Eames added.
The more Robert Goren learned about Joe Dutton, the more he felt inadequate. It was no small wonder Alex had never met anyone else. It was hard to compete with the ghost of a man like Dutton.
"Safer than working undercover in Narcotics too, huh?"
"In some ways," Eames acknowledged.
There were still risks and long, unpredictable hours. But the Harbour Unit job provided more stability and security than an undercover posting.
Eames and Goren fell back into a comfortable conversation. She began to open up. Goren saw his chance and decided to risk it.
"And the switch. It… it was because you were starting a family?" Bobby asked.
Alex visibly bristled.
Before she could speak, Bobby apologised.
"I'm sorry. I had no right to ask."
"You're right. You don't," Eames said.
"How did it happen?" Goren asked tentatively.
The line of Eames's mouth went thin.
"The murder," Bobby clarified.
He was trying to shift the conversation back to the facts of the shooting.
"I don't know," Eames said with a small shrug.
She had read and reread the case file and witness statements over and over in search of an answer. There was still so much that was unknown about that night.
Alex hated thinking that Joe's murder was a senseless death.
"Joe was inside with Minaya and his crew. Quinn was outside. The techs lost transmission. Quinn rushed the building. That's when he said he saw Delgado fleeing the scene," she recounted.
"And the other people arrested in Minaya's crew. Did they ever say why it happened?" Bobby pressed.
That was, perhaps, the most frustrating aspect of Dutton's murder. Even a decade on, Alex still didn't understand why.
"No. No one knew. They all backed Minaya's story that Delgado was the shooter. But as for why he did it… well, I can't explain it," Eames said sadly.
By all accounts, the buy had gone according to plan. Joe had provided the cash. Minaya and his crew had the drugs waiting.
"They had already closed the deal. There was no tension, nothing to indicate things were going south," Eames said.
She had listened to the tape from the techs countless times. Joe and Minaya closed the deal. Joe asked if Minaya's crew would help him load the product into a waiting truck. They laughed about the fact the Mets had their first winning season in years.
There was a brief scuffle. The audio was difficult to decipher. There were voices, but the techs couldn't make them out.
And then a lone, audible 'pop' from the shot that killed Dutton.
"He was shot in the abdomen," Alex said.
Both Eames and Goren knew it was one of the worst places to take a bullet. There were so many vital organs at risk. Such a wound required a series of surgeries. Recovery was long and painful.
Even if Joe had lived, it would have ended his career as an officer and his diving hobby.
"Joe was conscious for about ninety minutes after it happened. They were trying to stabilise him for surgery."
"And did he ever identify Delgado?" Goren asked.
"He described a man that fit Delgado's appearance, age, general height."
Joe had never met Delgado, so he did not know him by name. Minaya ID'd Delgado. Quinn's description from the scene matched. And Kevin was able to pick him out of a lineup.
"Did Joe tell you anything else about the shooting when you saw him? When they got him to hospital?" Goren pressed.
Alex hesitated.
Bobby assumed her hesitancy stemmed from the painful memory of those final moments.
"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," Bobby assured her.
Alex shook her head.
"No, no. It's... erm. Well, I… I wasn't there."
Alex kept her gaze affixed on the fields that sped by.
"Alex?" he prompted softly.
She looked to be lost in a memory—one that caught off her guard emotionally.
"They were prepping him for surgery. He slipped into a coma before I got there. Joe never regained consciousness. He died the next day."
"You're angry," Goren observed.
Angry didn't begin to cover it.
"It's natural to feel angry. It's not your fault that—"
"You have strayed so far from the purpose of these questions," Eames warned.
Goren stumbled for a response. This was all part of his routine line of inquiry. He poked his fingers into everything.
But Alex wasn't a suspect. She was his partner.
And this was no ordinary murder. It was her husband.
"What happened after Joe was shot is not relevant to this case. It doesn't have anything to do with Quinn's murder," Alex snapped.
Bobby took the hint and backed off.
"Delgado maintains his innocence," Bobby pondered aloud.
That still didn't sit right with Goren.
"They all maintain their innocence. Hell, Brady even tried to play that card," Eames argued.
"Delgado's been convicted. He lost his last appeal! He's serving a life sentence! There's no reason for him to maintain that façade anymore," Goren countered.
Delgado's life in prison would be much simpler otherwise.
An odd thought struck Goren.
The state of New York had a convoluted history with capital punishment. Capital punishment had been outlawed and reinstated a number of times in New York's history.
Though presently outlawed, there was an interim period of time where it had been outlawed for all crimes except the murder of a police officer.
"It seems strange Delgado would be sentenced to life. I mean… usually that would come from a plea deal under the circumstances," Goren pointed out.
"He was offered. He didn't take it," Eames said.
Goren tore his eyes off the road to study his partner. The car slowed. He turned to Eames, stunned by this information.
A blaring horn from a passing car brought Bobby back to the wheel. He pushed the accelerator to bring the car back up to speed with traffic. Goren clenched and retracted his fingers around the wheel.
They rode in silence for a moment. Eames hoped the interruption was enough to distract Goren's mind. She should have known there was no pulling him off a trail once he got the scent.
"Why would the DA offer a plea deal to a cop killer in an open and shut case?" Goren inquired.
"We agreed to keep this limited to the scope of the investigation," Eames reminded him.
"Right."
Eames could see him fidgeting in her peripheral vision. Goren was struggling between his need to do right by his partner and honour her request and his insatiable curiosity.
"You don't want to talk about your personal life. Your life with Joe. I understand. That's reasonable," he said, processing aloud.
Eames just had to let him work through it.
"But just… you know that… that if you ever did want to—"
"You want to talk about why you cut me out of your life five weeks ago?" Eames asked with a poignant look.
Point taken.
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
The 1PP garage was mostly empty. Bobby pulled the SUV into one of the designated spots and then threw it into park. Before Eames could jump out, Goren locked the doors. Then he reached for her arm.
"Wait."
A beat passed.
"I erm… well, after my mum died, I found out some things… some things about my family," Bobby shared.
He was still reeling from the paternity bombshell that Mark Ford Brady had lobbed in his final days.
"I didn't know how to talk to anyone—let alone you—about it."
Bobby couldn't meet Alex's gaze. He shifted and tugged at his collar.
"I still don't," Bobby confessed. "I just… I don't know what to say."
"Are you alright?" Eames asked.
Bobby didn't answer. He hadn't even started to process what it meant for him. The isolation was awful. But it felt necessary. Quinn's case was simply a welcome distraction.
If Goren had his way, he'd dive right back into work and continue to distract himself from Brady.
Forever.
"So, I'm sorry that I pushed you for information. I'm sorry that I seem so focused on this case. I just… I needed something to take my mind off what I've been, well, thinking about," Goren explained.
Eames nodded. Her expression was clouded with worry.
"Okay," she said slowly.
It was impossible for Bobby to miss the hurt in her voice.
"And you felt like you couldn't tell me this before?" Alex asked softly.
"Well, you don't tell me everything. There's a part of yourself you don't share," Bobby replied.
His tone wasn't accusatory or defensive. He glanced over at his partner, hoping to get a read on her reaction.
"That's true," Eames acknowledged. "But I didn't cut you off. I set a boundary. There's a difference, Bobby."
"I should have told you."
"Yeah," Eames replied.
Bobby was physically exhausted and emotionally drained by the time he got back to his flat. For once, he had no desire to stay up and read. Nor did he have the energy to lose himself in a book.
He simply wanted to slip from consciousness as fast as possible.
Bobby unlocked the door to his flat and stepped into the dark. He slipped off his shoes and pushed them into the corner. Before he could flip on the light switch, a soft blinking on the counter caught his attention.
There was a message on the machine.
His first thought was that Frank had called—probably to ask for money.
Bobby decided to ignore it.
He kept the light off as he tiptoed down the corridor toward the loo. He didn't have the energy for a shower but couldn't go to sleep without polishing his pearly whites first.
Bobby was halfway to his mouth with his toothbrush when he was struck with another thought.
Alex.
The message on the machine was probably Frank.
But there was a small chance it could be Eames. She may have arrived home and realised she did want to talk or needed companionship. Eames might have recalled an important detail about the case.
Goren couldn't risk isolating her again.
He dropped his toothbrush back in its holder and rushed out to the kitchen. Bobby cleared his throat. He ran his hand back through his hair and straightened his posture before pressing the button to play back the message on the machine.
"Bobby!"
It wasn't Eames.
Hell, a message from Frank would have been better than the one waiting for him.
"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby."
The unmistakable voice of Declan Gage rang out from the machine like an unwelcome blast from the past. Bobby could tell from the message that Declan had called during the middle of dinner from the smacking sound of his mouth.
It was enough to make Bobby sick.
Dec had a brilliant mind—there was no room left for manners or social awareness.
"I'm writing a book on Mark Ford Brady," Declan announced. "Heard you were up to see him. That he asked for you. By name."
Great. Just great.
"Call me, Bobby."
"Fat chance," Goren said aloud.
There was no way he was going to call Declan. Not now. Things had grown cold between the two men after Jo Gage's arrest.
Declan couldn't even be bothered to reach out in the wake of Francis Goren's death. Bobby thought for sure that Declan would at least show up at the funeral.
Bobby collapsed into his armchair, staring out the window at the East River as he stewed over Declan's call.
Shortly after midnight, the emotional fatigue won out.
Bobby dreamed he was alone in a bright room.
There were sounds in the distance. People were speaking, but he could not make out the context of their words.
The room was unclear too.
No matter how hard he tried, Bobby found himself unable to move. He could turn his head—but his arms, feet, and hands remained immobile.
Bobby liked to fidget. He couldn't sit still for long. It was part of why he danced about the interrogation room, turned over every rock at a crime scene, and why he couldn't sit still at his desk for long.
His mind craved interaction and his restless legs needed freedom to roam.
Bobby tried to focus his attention.
But the more he focused, the less he became aware of his surroundings. In fact, he could swear he was surrounded by nothingness.
Suddenly, the light overhead was too bright. It was painful for Bobby to keep his eyes open.
He tried to turn away only to discover that his arms were pinned down at his sides.
Bobby flailed, rolling back and forth. He was strapped down to a metal table. His breathing grew erratic. His pulse surged.
"Hello? HELLO?"
Bobby pulled against his restraints.
"Hello?! HELP! HELP!"
"Relax, Mr Goren."
Bobby frowned. He knew that voice. It was smooth—too smooth—reminiscent of the way the medical staff at Carmel Ridge spoke to his mother.
A shadow loomed overhead, warning that Bobby would have to be sedated if he continued to act out.
Bobby realised that he was being held in a psychiatric ward. The staff would not believe a word he said. To them, he was simply one more mentally unstable patient. His brilliant mind was no more. People didn't look at him as an eccentric detective.
No, now they viewed him in the same light as men like Declan Gage, patients like Francis Goren.
Psychopaths like Mark Ford Brady.
"Why are you doing this to me! I'm not unstable!" Bobby protested.
The doctor above pulled down her mask. Goren startled, flinching against his restraints as Eames stared back at him.
"No one is doing this to you, Mr Goren. You've done this to yourself," she said.
Bobby woke with a start.
He sat upright and clutched his heaving chest. Bobby scanned the dark room. It took a moment to get his bearings. It was already light out.
Bobby was home in his flat. According to the clock on the wall, it was nearly 7:00 a.m.
Bobby sniffed at the air. The smoky aroma of fried bacon and eggs wafted through the room. There was a sizzling noise in the air.
Bobby turned toward the kitchen.
"Morning. About time you got up."
Mark Ford Brady flashed him a warm, disarming smile.
"Coffee?" Brady asked.
Bobby jolted awake.
He quickly glanced toward the kitchen and was relieved to find it empty.
He ran a shaking hand back through his hair. His brow was damp with perspiration. A dim glow came in through the window from the streetlamp below.
It was still dark outside.
It took Bobby a moment to regulate his breathing. Bobby could hear Brady's voice taunting him in his mind.
You're losing it, son.
Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
"SHUT UP!" he roared aloud.
"Did you even go home?" Eames asked as she stepped inside.
Goren had been unable to sleep after his nightmare. He'd been at 1PP since 4:00 that morning and had commandeered the conference room.
Goren was so engrossed in his work that he barely took notice of her arrival.
Eames had an inkling that he wasn't taking care of himself. So, she'd snagged an extra coffee and pastry for him on her way in.
It was a peace offering of sorts. Alex may have been irked. She was resolved not to let him back in—but she wanted Bobby to know they were still partners and could enjoy the professional comradery they had shared in days past.
"Anything new?" Eames asked.
Goren didn't answer.
Eames dropped her bag on the floor and sat down across from Goren.
"Don't tell me you're sleepwalking," she remarked.
"There was a cigarette found at the crime scene of your husband's murder," he said without looking up from his binder.
Eames tensed. They were supposed to be focused on Quinn's murder. She had a sinking feeling that Bobby spent all night trying to prove Ray Delgado's innocence.
"There wasn't enough DNA for a match," Eames said.
"But that was nine years ago. Today they only need a trace," Goren pointed out.
Eames crossed her arms as she eyed her partner. She looked like she was about to tell him off. At the last minute, she changed her mind and rose from the table instead.
"I'm going to speak with the Captain. He was right. I shouldn't be working on this," Eames said.
She had to get out of the room and away from her partner before she said something undiplomatic.
"Eames, wait."
She stopped, her hand hovering at the door.
"If it was Delgado, the DNA on the cigarette will confirm his guilt," Goren said. "And if it wasn't, then it proves Quinn and Minaya—"
"You think Quinn lied?" Eames snapped.
She whipped around and stared at Bobby in disbelief.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Kevin Quinn wasn't a dirty cop! He wasn't like that. He wasn't on the take. He was… he was—"
Eames was so furious that she had to stop herself before she blew.
"He was a good man," she asserted.
"Witnesses make mistakes," Bobby countered with a shrug.
The two had butted heads before on cases—but this was no ordinary case. This was personal for Eames, perhaps more personal than any other case she would ever work. Joe's murder hurt even deeper than her abduction a year earlier.
"Are you more afraid that someone else killed Joe and got away with it? Or that an innocent man has been incarcerated for almost a decade?" Bobby asked.
Eames looked as if she'd been slapped.
"How do you think Joe would feel knowing an innocent man has been locked up for his murder? That he's missed his son's whole life? That he's—"
Alex put up a hand in warning.
"Don't."
Bobby got up from the table. The metal chair scraped across the hard floor. He went into his dance. It was only natural.
"Huh?" Bobby pressed.
Eames didn't answer.
"From everything you've said, Joe and Kevin Quinn were good guys. Decent men. They wouldn't want an innocent man going away for this," Goren said. "They wouldn't roll over to pin a crime on the wrong guy just because of pressure from the brass upstairs."
Goren towered over his partner, backing her toward the door like a large cat stalking his prey.
"They wouldn't care about appearances or the fact this is a press case. They'd want to find the right guy. They'd want to be sure justice was served," Goren went on.
Goren stopped and turned to Alex. He leaned over, forcing her to maintain eye contact.
"Do you even care about honouring Joe's memory?" he asked.
The look Alex responded with would be enough to make Jack McCoy quake in his boots.
"I am not one of your suspects," Eames said in a low, dangerous voice. "You… you don't get to come in here and throw your weight around, use your size to try and intimidate me."
Goren backed off as she closed the distance between them.
"I told you that I would see this through. When has my word ever not been good enough for you? Huh?" Eames demanded.
Bobby shrank into the corner. People outside in the bullpen had started to take notice. No one would dare get in Goren's face—except Eames.
Just when Bobby was prepared to submit to a verbal lashing, Eames stepped away and lowered her voice.
"We'll finish this case," Eames said with an air of finality.
She turned to leave. Bobby stopped her just shy of the door.
"And after?" he asked softly.
Eames visibly bristled but did not respond verbally. Without a word, she strolled out into the bullpen.
"I can wait for this and take it to Rodgers," Bobby offered.
Eames sighed.
They'd been waiting at the window of the property clerk's office for nearly twenty minutes.
Goren had phoned ahead and given his credentials to expedite the process.
The clerk shambled out of the shelves a moment later with a paper in hand.
"Case 297-06," he said, reading from the card. "I got nothin' back there."
"What do you mean?" Eames asked.
The clerk shrugged.
"It's missing."
Alex tensed.
"Missing?"
The clerk chuckled. He was accustomed to that reaction when a file or box of evidence was mislaid.
"It's not back there. What do you want me to do? Check the whole warehouse?" he asked.
His nonchalance did little to dispel the tension. Eames didn't blink.
"We'll wait," Eames announced.
The clerk snorted. He assumed this had to be a joke.
"The guys at the two-seven put you up to this?"
"We'll wait," she reiterated firmly.
Bobby let Eames take the lead. He knew she needed to feel in control of something. He didn't want to be one more factor contributing to Eames's feeling of insignificance
"What am I supposed to do? Spend all weekend here, lady? Tell you what, miss. Why don't you head back to your precinct an—"
The man flinched as Goren brought his fist down on the counter.
"Miss?"
The comment was enough to flip a switch inside Bobby. The Incredible Robert Goren had awoken.
"What do you mean? Lady? Miss?" he snarled. "You mean Detective Eames, don't you?"
The clerk fell silent.
"This evidence is part of a murder investigation. A cop killer. You get it?"
The clerk nodded emphatically.
"You want me to come back there and find the box? Huh?" Goren shouted.
He leaned down and put his head right against the cage that protected the office.
"I'll find it!" Goren continued wildly. "I'll find it! I'll tear this whole place apart. Hmm? Because I'm the whack job, understand?"
Goren locked eyes with the clerk, he twitched his head back and forth, blinking rapidly to drive his point home.
The clerk put up his hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay. Just take it easy. I'll look again, okay?"
It took an hour to locate the box. The clerk apologised profusely for the error. The box had been misplaced in the wrong section.
Bobby offered to take it, but Eames snatched it away before he could even reach for it.
They stepped into an evidence room where they could sort through the contents for the cigarette in question.
Eames set the box down on the table in the corner and took a deep breath. Bobby hovered near the door to give her space.
Alex pulled the top of the banker's box off and set it aside.
She reached into the box and pulled out a thick manilla folder with case files, original notes, and photographs. Eames set it down next to the box.
She reached back in and froze. Her breath hitched.
Alex's jaw began to quiver. She whimpered softly as she reached inside and clutched the grey cotton tee Joe had worn under his shirt the night of his death.
Bobby stepped up behind her.
Alex slowly sank into the chair as she observed the shirt. It was still marked with the bullet hole and blood stains from that night, though now aged and darkened.
She was struck by the memory of Joe pulling that very shirt on that final afternoon as they both got ready to go on duty. He'd tugged it down over his lanky frame before he glanced back over his shoulder and grinned at his wife.
You watchin' my six, Allie?
Alex could feel Bobby's presence as he stood behind her. His shadow loomed over the table. Normally, Alex found strength in that. She knew Goren had her back.
Today, it felt like an unwelcome intrusion on Joe's memory.
"Alex," Bobby began softly.
"Get out."
It wasn't an angry demand. Her voice was soft. Hushed.
Bobby put his hand on her shoulder.
"Alex—"
"Get out," she whispered without tearing her eyes from the shirt.
Bobby slipped away silently to leave her alone. He paused in the doorframe to tell Eames he would wait outside but stopped himself.
Alex buried her face in Joe's shirt as she wept.
Bobby couldn't bring himself to disturb her. Instead, he left in silence.
Bobby was right.
The DNA on the cigarette was not a match for Delgado. It wasn't a match for Minaya either.
In fact, it didn't match any of the folks from Minaya's crew that were present that night.
Someone else had been in that warehouse.
Eames and Goren both agreed that someone was the shooter—they would bet all their collective investigative instincts on it.
This news was only more distressing than the tension of not knowing.
Joe Dutton's killer was still out there and an innocent man had spent nine years incarcerated for the crime.
There was nothing NYPD could do to make up for that error.
Before Alex had time to process, Bobby's brain was off the races.
His mind ran in two directions—though linked by a common thread.
Family.
Goren had a hunch, one based on Delgado's love of his son and the anger at missing out on his life.
It was anger Bobby knew well from the resentment he held toward his own father.
Your father?
He heard Brady's voice ask in his mind, reminding Bobby that William Goren was only the man he thought was his father. Robert Goren never imagined a timeline where he wished that were true.
Yes, Bobby knew that anger well. He knew what it felt like to be alone, to know his father wasn't around. He understood first-hand how that kind of anger festered over time, how it could twist a person.
And he had a sinking suspicion what it might do to a child who felt that abandonment stemmed from injustice.
From the boy of a man wrongly accused.
Ray Delgado's father stood in the observation area with Captain Ross. On the opposite side of the glass, Bobby was sitting with his grandson, Victor, and a public defender.
"You're angry about your father," Goren said. "You think he was wrongly accused."
"They lied!"
Victor Delgado sobbed as he recounted the details of Kevin Quinn and Alfred Minaya's murders.
"They lied on the stand! For nine years! That's half my life," Victor cried. "Before I shot those liars, I told both of them that it was for my dad. I wanted them to know. I wanted their families to know what it felt like!"
Bobby would have given anything to be wrong.
"We'll give you a minute," Bobby said before excusing himself.
Goren quietly stepped into the observation area.
Mr Delgado was still reeling from the shock. First his son. Now, his grandson. Worst of all, his son had been innocent all along.
"I don't understand," he sighed. "He's a good boy. We did everything."
Captain Ross put a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Mr Delgado. I truly am," Goren said.
Detective Eames poked her head into the room. She kept her distance for fear that Mr Delgado would recognise her from Joe's trial. She wasn't afraid of him. Rather, she didn't want to add undue tension. Eames let Goren and Ross handle the interrogation. She worked the backend of the case—filing the paperwork, coordinating with the DA, and contacting the appropriate channels.
Alex was still under the impression that Mr Delgado was inside the interrogation room with his grandson. She wasn't aware he had moved out to the observation area.
"Oh!"
Alex quickly recovered and stuck to business.
"That was Carver's office. He's on the phone with the DA."
She moved to go, but Mr Delgado caught her attention.
"I know you."
"I'm sorry about your grandson," Eames replied.
Eames said nothing more before she departed. She didn't want to blow the whole case because of her involvement. In a flash of regret, she kicked herself for not taking Ross's advice. Eames should have stepped away the minute Minaya's body was found.
Captain Ross knew it was time to step in and play damage control.
"I'm sorry. This must look strange. We were not previously aware of any connection between your son's case and Detective Quinn's shooting," Ross said.
Technically, they only had a suspicion and that wasn't solid proof.
"Detective Eames has not been—"
"It's alright," Mr Delgado said with a sad smile. "I have no reason to be angry with Detective Eames. I trust that you've done your job."
He turned his attention to the interrogation room where his grandson was alone with the attorney.
"Could I… erm… could I talk to Victor? Before you take him away?" Mr Delgado requested. "He's just a boy and—"
"Of course," Ross assured him.
As a father, Captain Ross's heart went out to Mr Delgado. He seemed like a decent person, a man that had done everything to live his life on the straight and narrow only for his son and grandson to wind up in custody.
"The minute we realised the connection, I removed Detective Eames from this case. She was only contacting the Assistant District Attorney's office on—"
Mr Delgado put up his hand.
"Really. It's alright," he said. "I have no anger or resentment toward Detective Eames. I don't hold her responsible for what happened to Ray or Victor. She's the reason my son is alive."
That caught Bobby's attention.
"You mean because your son was initially sentenced before the moratorium? New York kept the death penalty on the books for cop killers. But your son was sentenced to life instead," Bobby said.
Delgado nodded.
"Yes. She pleaded with the District Attorney to offer a plea in exchange for a lesser sentence. When Ray refused, she spoke on his behalf at the sentencing hearing," Delgado explained.
"On his behalf?"
Bobby was stunned. He was desperate to understand. Eames had been reluctant to even go visit Delgado for the investigation. It seemed unlikely she would have spoken on his behalf at the sentencing hearing in the wake of Joe's murder.
"She asked the judge to consider a minimum sentence, to take into account that my son was a single father, raising a boy alone. No history of prior violence."
His face darkened.
"Ray would have only served twelve to twenty-five years had he taken the plea."
Delgado maintained his innocence. The judge interpreted that choice as a lack of remorse.
"Because of that, the judge decided to split the difference. He honoured the widow's request to spare Ray by sentencing him to the maximum punishment available short of the death penalty," Delgado recounted.
Bobby's mind raced with possibilities.
"And she never said why?" he pressed.
Delgado shrugged.
"I'm sorry. I don't know. She kept a low profile. I didn't even realise that she was the widow until the sentencing."
Eames and Goren watched from afar as young Victor Delgado bid farewell to his grandfather.
"Sometimes I hate when you're right," Eames said softly.
"So do I," Bobby replied.
Captain Ross stepped over to the pair and sighed.
"That poor man. He did everything right to raise that boy. I can't imagine what he's going through," Ross said.
He turned to Ron Carver.
"Is there anything the DA's office can do? I would hate to see this tragedy compounded," Ross said.
"Victor Delgado is eighteen. And a cop killer. My hands are tied. And the Quinn family—"
"Let me talk to Theresa Quinn. I'll break the news," Eames offered.
"And what about Mr Delgado? Ray Delgado that is? The father," Goren inquired.
They were still waiting for word from Mr Carver about the progress of clearing Ray Delgado.
"Bring me a credible suspect," Carver replied.
Goren bristled.
"We got a DNA hit on the cigarette."
"Which only proves someone else was in that room. It doesn't prove the smoker pulled the trigger," Carver pointed out.
"But we got a hit!" Goren argued.
"From CODIS?" Carver asked.
This was the first he'd heard of a DNA hit on the case. Carver knew it would prove difficult if the hit was tied to an offender serving time elsewhere.
"No. It came from the city's database," Eames said.
All the first responders and medical personnel in the city had their records uploaded to a new database in the wake of 9/11.
"Bring me something I can use," Carver echoed.
As soon as Eames and Goren were alone, they returned to their desks. Alex reached for jacket.
"I'm going to notify Theresa Quinn. It might be best if I go alone," she said.
"Good thinking," Goren agreed.
In any case, he had a lead to chase down of his own.
From the moment the door swung open, Theresa Quinn knew.
She had seen Eames pull up out front and approach the house with a manilla envelope in hand. She watched from the window as Alex steadied herself before knocking.
"You have something," Theresa said.
"Maybe it would be best if we sat down?" Alex suggested.
She followed Theresa into the kitchen.
"Coffee?"
"Sure."
Theresa's hands shook as she poured them both a fresh cup.
"It's bad news, isn't it?" Theresa guessed.
Eames hesitated.
Theresa set a mug down and slid it across the counter to Eames. She kept her eyes low. She'd cried so many times in the ten days that she didn't think she was capable of any more tears—and yet they came.
"Let me guess? No leads? The department has to move on to other cases? Kev's gonna be a cold case file in the back of some cabinet?"
"No," Eames said.
The tone of her voice did little to reassure Theresa's fears.
How could it possibly be worse?
"We've made an arrest. And the suspect has confessed."
Eames placed the manilla folder on the counter for Theresa to take. Theresa glanced at it and then back up at Alex for an explanation.
"What is it? Was Kevin screwin' around? Was… was there—"
"No," Eames said.
A pained look crossed her face.
"The person that shot Kevin erm… he's—"
There was no easy way to say it. Frustrated, Eames flipped open the folder. A school photo of a smiling Victor Delgado stared back from the page. Victor's grandfather had given a copy to Detective Goren.
Theresa gasped. She clasped her hand over her mouth in shock.
"No, no, no. This can't be. He's… he's just a baby," she said in disbelief.
"This is Ray Delgado's son—"
"Victor," Theresa finished for her.
Alex's brow furrowed.
"Victor," Theresa breathed as she eyed the photograph. "He couldn't have done this, Allie. He's just a kid."
"You know Victor Delgado?" Eames asked.
Theresa nodded emphatically.
"Yes. And that's how I know it can't be Victor. He's a good boy. He loved Kev."
"I know this is difficult. That's why I wanted to be the one to tell you," Eames said. "But I didn't know that you… that Kevin knew Victor."
Theresa couldn't accept it.
"Victor is a good boy. He looked up to Kev," Theresa insisted. "After his father went to prison, Kevin got Victor into a programme for kids. You know, when their parents are offenders? Kev used to take him to ball games. Camping trips. God, Allie. He's been over to the house dozens of times!"
Theresa knew Victor looked up to his grandfather. The elder Delgado took great care in raising his grandson.
"He didn't want to see Victor go down the same path as his father. Neither did Kev. He… he said it was the least he could do."
Alex felt a brief flash of resentment. Theresa had been her best friend. Kevin too. In the wake of Joe's murder, the Quinns' had found it in their hearts to embrace Victor Delgado—but it was too painful to be around Alex save for Kevin's occasional check-in.
This is not about you. Eames thought.
She swallowed down her feelings and put on her work face.
"I'm sorry, Theresa. I truly am. Victor has harboured resentment since his father went to prison. He feels his father was wrongfully accused and that Kevin was responsible for sending him there," Eames explained.
Theresa was at a loss.
"I never mentioned him before because… because not in a million years would he… could he—"
"He confessed, Theresa," Eames said.
"But… he couldn't…. I mean, he knew Kev was working that night. He dropped by the house to… oh God!"
Theresa dropped the file on the counter. She buried her head in her hand. This revelation was a fresh layer of hell.
Alex pulled Theresa into a tight embrace. Tragedy always seemed to breed tragedy.
There's no such thing as getting even. She thought.