whedonist

Title: Putting the Damage On – Ch. 6

Rating: R – Language and Adult Themes Folks…did I mention there’s lesbians too?

Disclaimer: Mostly all my characters – Some mention of Nikki & Nora from the fabulous Nancylee Myatt.

A/N: Who needs sleep? Not I...but I'm gonna be in trouble if I fall asleep at the computer again...

Ch. 6 –Understand Dependence

The warm night breeze hits me as soon as Jill opens my door. She offers her hand to help me from Apollo. It’s Tuesday night and John wanted to go to dinner, still very much liking the idea of cutting a little lose after such a hellish few days. I honestly couldn’t agree more. So we decided on a short drive into D.C. and I let my wife drive. Now she’s not a bad diver, but she’s driving my baby. I got nervous. She also likes to go all out when we do go out like this. We both get dressed up; she gets to dive into her wardrobe to find the best possible outfits, which usually means I get suckered into wearing something I would usually never wear.

Like tonight, I have on a pair of Jill’s Choo’s, and a tailored pants suit with a silk blouse that exposes more of my chest than I’m usually comfortable with outside of the bedroom. I’m not a prude; I’m just not much for walking around in revealing clothing so people can ogle my chest. It kinda creeps me out.

Jill pulled out a little black dress that I haven’t seen before and some heels that she purchased on our last trip down to New Orleans. We both have a little bit of makeup on, for me that’s just some lip gloss, but for Jill that’s foundation, powder, eyeliner and something on her lips. Tonight it’s a sheer lipstick that makes me kinda want to kiss it off her.

I rarely get this dressed up, but when John and I are in town, there’s a little out of the way restaurant that’s upscale enough to require a dress code, but down to earth enough so that neither of us feels too out of place. The only problem with this is that it’s on the outskirts of Capitol Hill. The neighborhood’s subpar at best, but the food’s fantastic.

Because of the locale and apparently our clothing, we get to deal with the locals. And they are in rare form this evening as a scuzzy excuse for what was once a white guy starts cat calling from his perch on a stoop right wear Jill parked. Usually, I ignore these things. I think that it’s better to ignore and not give them what they want, like a confrontation.

My wife seems to have other ideas as the guy whistles again and propositions me, “Hey, sexy, those titties would look better if my dick was between them!”

That stops Jill in her tracks.

It’s been argued that if you were able to combine Jill and me together, we’d be the perfect woman. I find this erroneous on several levels, but the most glaringly obvious falsity is that Jill’s perfect the way she is. Of course I’m biased as well, but this is not the point. The point is that Jill’s chest isn’t very big and that’s obvious from the dress she’s wearing. I am, however, endowed enough to fill a ‘D’ cup.

I would also like to go on record that out of the two of us, Jill is way more possessive. So as the last words of the man’s suggestion were uttered, I see her heat up. A flush spreads from the top of her head to below her neck. When that happens, I run.

This man doesn’t know what he’s done.

“Excuse me?” she spins rather impressively on one thin heel.

The man stops his kissy noises, shocked that Jill’s taking the time.

“Babe,” I try and stop her by placing a hand on her arm. She yanks it away.

“I said excuse me, shit for brains. What did you just fucking say to my wife?” she barks.

The man rises and stumbles our way. Getting a good look at him, I wish I rather didn’t. His teeth are nearly rotted out and the track marks are visible even in the low lighting. “I said,” he slurs this time, slightly, “That bitch you’re with’s gotta nice rack.” He stops and leers at her, licking his cracked lips. “’Course, I kinda wanna fuck you to now.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

He makes a move towards her as I step up, but she stops me.

On some level I know I should be more forceful, but I trust her. I’m thinking I should also flash my badge and have this jerk arrested, but that would ruin the evening. As I’m debating on a course of action, things happen that take my brain a moment to register.

Jill Leigh Flemming on the other hand, does not see a need to be so wishy-washy and she must see it differently because the man is a crumpled heap before I even register what happened. He’s lying in the fetal position, blood is oozing from his nose and he’s grabbing his crotch.

Jill stands over him and says in a far calmer voice than what is sane, “I suggest the next time you see a beautiful woman you treat her with a modicum of fucking respect you disgusting, idiotic, dog-humping, pathetic excuse for a junkie. I’ve puked things that look and smell better than you.”

Ladies and gentleman, my wife, supermodel and actress, Jillian Ness.

It’s then that I feel John come up behind me. “What’s up?” he whispers in my ear.

I shake my head and wait. Jill finally turns away from him when she feels he’s not going to move. Her smile is bright and wide as she takes my hand and leads me across the street to the restaurant. John and Becca follow. I glance back and see twin looks of confusion. I shrug.

What else am I going to do?

Once inside, being seated is a relative cake walk. As we move through the dining floor I process what just transpired. “Jill, what the hell were you thinking?” I hiss as we are set at a table off to the right and rear of the place. John and Jill flank me leaving Becca sitting across from me.

“What happened?” Becca asks.

“That thing outside decided to insult Ann. I informed him that wasn’t very damn smart,” she chirps from behind her menu.

“I think she broke his nose and kneed him in the crotch,” I explain a little further.

Becca chuckles and John whistles appreciatively. He’s been on the receiving end of Jill’s rage once or twice. He’s even got the scar to prove it.

“Oh, that reminds me, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go wash up,” Jill says brightly. We all watch her stand and make her way towards the back of the building.

“She really laid him out?” John asks, setting his menu down.

I nod. “You know how she is. I was going to step in and was physically directed not to. I blink the next thing I know he’s a bloody mass on the side walk.”

“I forget how much fun she is,” Becca laughs.

“Don’t encourage her please,” I plead.

“Hey, speaking of feisty women, how’s Nora and that partner of hers?” John queries from next to me.

“Dunno, last time I talked to her was almost two weeks ago,” I respond, but get interrupted by Jill’s return.

“They’re good,” she answers for me. “I talked to Nikki the day before yesterday and Nora yesterday. They send their love and said to say hello. Oh,” Jill looks at me and raises her eyebrow, “Nora says you’re in the doghouse.”

Great.

“These are the detectives you worked with on the Amos case?” Rebecca tries to figure out who they are.

John nods. “Good, solid detectives. Nora’s a riot though. We didn’t get to work with Nikki, but maybe something will come up and we can pull them in.”

“’Cause the last time we worked together, didn’t cause lots of grief for one of my best friends?” I retort. John knows that after Nora and I finished up that case Nikki freaked out and they had a small break in their relationship. That was years ago, but still. I don’t want to put either of them through that again.

“It all worked out,” John huffs, “What I’d like is to get them up here. We could use some solid investigators for the department.”

“Well, you talk about them constantly; I’d like to meet them. Are they planning a vacation anytime soon?” Becca looks over her menu at Jill and me.

I shrug. Jill answers, “Next time they come up, whenever that is, we’ll have you over. And John, you’d have an easier time convincing Ann to sale her car.”

“Thank you.” Becca beams at my wife while John grunts again. “What about you Jill, any work lined up?”

Jill shakes her head. “Not yet. A couple of offers, but…”

We still haven’t settled on a sound solution to Jill’s problem. I don’t seem to offer much help as she just tells me that me saying ‘do whatever you want’ is not good advice.

And here I think it’s supportive. Go figure.

“I get it. Since leaving the hospital, I’m not too sure what to do either,” Becca commiserates. Last year in November, she left her position of Chief of Emergency Medicine to find something else to do with her life. She’s forty-three. She holds several commendations from the U.S. government as well as the same rank as her husband. I’m not sure what else she wants to do with her life.

John and I look at each other and shrug. I think he’s thinking the same things I am.

“The fallout from the movie wasn’t pleasant.” Jill and Becca scoot closer together to talk.

John elbows me and smirks.

“I saw that. I just don’t get it. I really have no urge to know what anyone in Hollywood does in their spare time.” Rebecca sets her menu down and sips her water.

“Exactly. If that’s what furthering my career is going be like, I’d rather not do it. I fell into it anyhow. I can just as easily fall out of it.”

John leans over and whispers, “Maybe we can convince them to go into business together.”

I shoot him a look. “What the hell would they do?”

“Dunno, but it’d be funny.” He wiggles his eyebrows and gets the finger from Jill.

“I heard that,” she lets him know.

“Babe, we’re in a nice public place, you’re irreverent behavior is fun, but…” I try to calm her down and she shoots me a pout.

“It was called for,” Becca backs her up and I drop it.

“You two could open up a jam making company,” John furthers his joke.

This comment earns him a look from Becca. One that I wouldn’t like directed at me.

“Or maybe not,” he back peddles and I laugh.

The waiter comes by shortly after and takes our orders. Leaning back listening to the three people at my table banter back and forth, settle me a little. It’s good to be me.

Eventually all things catch up to you and I’ve realized that some of those things are better to find you quicker than not. Dealing with one of my best friends so she can chew me out, is a lot better if I just get to it quickly. It’s with this in mind that I develop a cogent argument to leave the safe confines of my bed and a sleeping wife to call Nora Delaney.

My phone’s pinched between shoulder and ear as I pour my first cup of coffee for the day. I’m three rings in before I hear, “Delaney.”

“Hmm, very sexy, snarl again for me, Nor,” is my reply.

She scoffs, “Please, Flemming you know I know that’s not what you like.”

She’s right. I sip my coffee and pad into the living room, set my mug down on the coffee table and fall back into the soft leather of my couch. “True, true. What’s up, hon?”

“Me? The usual actually. I’m more interested in what’s going on with you?” her voice quiets at this and some of the background noise dies down.

“Where are you?” I wonder.

“At this pancake breakfast, fundraising thing with Nikki. Her and some of her acquaintances are raising money for a youth league,” Nora says.

I smile at this thinking that from where Nora was for the first two years or so of her and Nikki’s relationship, Nora’s come along way. It’s really good to see. When she first started telling me about her partner, when they first met, something told me that she was a goner. I like to think that I can read people pretty well, but Nora there was a connection there that was instantaneous and sustaining.

We went through the academy together, where we had a brief, but very hot intimate relationship and now, seventeen years later, she’s the closest thing to family that I have. Given our history and knowing her so well, she would talk about her new work partner and I knew. Then when we came to visit, I was too surprised to really contemplate the connection I witnessed between her and Nikki.

Nora was different, but in a good way. Nikki brought her to life in ways I hadn’t seen. I’m happy to say that they’re still happily together nearly nine years later. It also helps that Nikki’s a damn riot. I love the socialite turned detective almost as much as I do Nora.

“Nice, but how do you figure into the breakfast?” I’m curious. Nora was never one to be the joiner. Nikki’s softened some of those edges too. I make a note to get something extra nice for Nikki on her birthday at the end of the year and await Nora’s response.

“I’m cooking. Seems that a few of the group fell ill,” she says blandly. “Quit avoiding the question, Ann. I talked to Jill. And. Just so you know, the next time she calls me crying over worrying about you, I’ll fly up there and kick that skinny ass from Quantico to NOLA and back again.”

I smile. I can’t help it. I love that she’s so protective of Jill. “It’s this case we’ve had on the books for…” I trail off and remember that she was there when I was first handed the file, “This is the Talbert, Sheridan case. A few more bodies have been added to the pile. We’re trying to crack it.”

“Oh, Jill didn’t say that. You guys find anything yet?” she’s curious now and a little less miffed at me.

“A little, not a lot and not nearly enough. There’s still a lot to be done,” I answer honestly and give her a rundown of all the particulars of the case. Everything from the first body that she reviewed to our latest victim. I tell her about the letter and the quote and everything in between.

As I finish, she digests the information and finally asks, “So you have at the very least seven crime scenes all together. None of the neighbors saw anything?”

“Nope,” I confirm, a little frustrated.

“Hmm,” she mumbles, probably chewing on her lower lip in the process. “Well, hmm...he’s got to be holding them somewhere. Someplace that can be constructed and deconstructed pretty quickly. Someplace that’s not going to draw too much attention and he can keep someone for three days.” I can practically hear the gears in Nora’s brain whirring as she thinks through the process. “No trace evidence to speak of which is a bitch…” my friend trails off and I hear a sharp intake of breath. “I know this is going to sound like a long shot, but…you go to at least three different places, secure room, board and also set up a place to torture and kill a girl. Did you guys ever look into something non-stationary like a mobile home or van or something?”

o…h…k…a…y

I resist the urge to drop the phone and give myself a face palm and say instead, “I knew I kept you around for something. I’ll see if that will get us anything. I’m not sure where to start, but that’s probably the best suggestion I’ve heard since…”

“I think the best suggestion you heard was last night when I told you to drop to your knees,” Jill purrs from behind me.

I squeak. “Jesus, woman!”

Chuckling, Jill climbs over the back of the couch, pecks me on my neck and whispers, “Tell Nora hello and I need to pee be right back.”

I give her a peck and Nora giggles on the other end of the line. Jill trots off as my head swivels around as the doorbell rings. My brow furrows and I stand moving to the front door. “Nor, hang on for me.” To the door I ask, “Who’s there?”

“FedEx, ma’am,” the male voice answers. I check the small window pane next to the door and see a man standing there with a small package. Unlocking the door, I smile and say, “Good morning.”

“Morning. I have a package for Jillian Flemming. If you could just sign here,” he says shoving an electronic clipboard in my face to sign the small sensor pad at the bottom.

I sign the blasted board and he hands over a large paper envelope. I look at the return address and see it’s from her agent. Another script probably.

Great.

“Thank you,” I say turning to go back to the house.

“Have a nice day,” he says half-heartedly and scurries away before I have time to recognize the fact that he’s gone.

“Sorry, sweetie,” I apologize to the woman on the other end of the line.

“It happens,” Nora says, “Oh, guess what?”

“What?” I play along, taking the package into the kitchen and set it on the island where I know Jill will see it.

“Bobby’s got a girlfriend,” she says proudly.

I laugh. Bobby Delaney is Nora’s younger brother and Nora’s fairly protective of him. It’s actually kind of cute. He’s a uniform on the force and worships the ground Nora walks on. “What’s her name and do we need to do a background check?” I figure I may as well offer if she hasn’t already done one.

Nora gives a good chuckle at this. “Her name’s Carly Ward, she’s twenty-eight works in a bank as a financial analyst. Never married, no children. We’re having dinner together tomorrow night. They’re coming over and Nikki and I are going to cook.”

“Uh-huh, what about the background check?” I ask again.

“I promised Bobby I wouldn’t,” she admits.

I head back to the couch and to my coffee. I take a sip as soon as the mug’s in my hand then sit down. “Yeah, but you didn’t say anyone else couldn’t. I know you, Nor.”

“I know,” she smirks, “Dan already did. She’s clean on paper.”

“HA! I knew I liked that old partner of yours. How’s he by the way?”

“Good, still grumping about. We went out with his girl a few nights ago,” she tells me. Dan Harney her old partner and now lieutenant is a good guy. A bit thick sometimes on the machismo, but all in I like the guy.

“Nice. Phantoms?”

“Yeah, Casey says hi by the way and wants to know when you and Jill are coming back to town.” Phantoms is a club that Nora and I have been going to for forever. It’s also where Casey, Nora’s ex, bartends and helps manage.

“Soon, I hope. Maybe we can come visit for Jill’s birthday at the beginning of August. Make a nice stay of it.”

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll tell Nikki and see if we can put in for some time. I think that should work. We haven’t taken vacation since our visit up there for your birthday.” Nora stops and I hear some muffled chatter. “That was Nikki,” she comes back, “I need to go or I’m sleeping on the couch. She also sends her love.”

“Back at her and that’s good,” I sigh, “I need to get ready anyhow.”

“All right. Take care Ann, we love you and Jill.” Nora’s a sweetie…for the most part. Her general disposition is spotty but with the people that are in her circle, she’s as loyal as they come.

“Love you two to,” I manage before we hang up.

Sighing, I hit the ‘off’ button and slide the phone on the coffee table. Jill comes back then, this time looking a little more together. I open my arms and she crawls into my lap. She purrs as I shift and the robe I’m wearing falls open a little. Her eyes track straight to the exposed top part of my breast and I shake my head.

“My eyes are up here, dear,” I snark and squeeze her side.

“Hmm,” she mumbles, slipping a hand under my robe to cup my right breast, “but these I can fondle.” She kisses up my neck, over the shell of my ear and husks, “You have a bit of time before you’re due in?”

I nod.

She manages a throaty, “Good,” before nipping my earlobe.

Well that does it. Unthinking, I gather her in my arms and stand. She’s really not that heavy. Maybe a hundred-ten pounds, but I still thank the F.B.I for the P.T. requirements as I take us back to bed.

I can be a few minutes late

The office looks very similar to what it did yesterday morning. Everyone is sitting around, but instead of waiting for John and I to kick the meeting off, we’re all waiting on Bamby to finish posting the lab results from the samples and tox screenings. Spencer's even here looking better than she did yesterday. It even looks like she's managed a bit of sleep. I'm going to have to set some time aside today to talk to her. See if she'll open up to me.

Ten to one, she's already talked to Bamby, but it's worth a shot. I sigh and lean against John's desk. I’m not expecting a lot. We brought back quite a bit and I’m guessing not all the samples were pure. I’d at least like to hope that we can confirm that’s where Talbert was found was where she was killed. That will give us something to work with. I have to assume that the killer was comfortable enough and knew the area well enough that he would work there.

But then you never know and while I would normally hold out hope for the best. I mean when has a little optimism hurt anyone...?

Right, that's not something I do. I like to view myself as a pragmatist. I doubt anyone else would agree though.

"Good morning, people," Bamby chirps and looks up from the computer screen.

I smile. I don't know what else to do with that.

"So I have good news, mediocre news and news that won't help us a damn bit. Which would you prefer first?" she asks coming around to stand towards the center of the room.

"I think we could use a bit of good news first," Lucy says from her seat beside Spencer.

John shrugs, I follow suit. I mean unless she tells me we got a D.N.A. sample from some evidence that we over looked, and better yet, the sample produced a hit off of CODIS than I'm gonna give her a reserved reaction.

"Okee dokee. First things first then. The tox screens came back from Seevers; the results were consistent with what we have found thus far. Extremely high levels of epinephrine, cocaine and such. The cocaine also yielded a bit more than what I could have hoped." With this she pulls up a screen on a fifty inch monitor on the back wall. "How many of you have had exposure to compositional drug analysis?"

“We’ve all had some. Some more than others. Lucy,” John directs his attention to her, “you’ve had the most.”

“I’ve had a bit, what did you find?” she asks Bamby.

“The cocaine that was present in Seevers was made in the Midwest. We’re currently trying to get a more specific location, but that’s where my friend from the D.E.A. reported back on.”

“Are we trying to determine the location of the other samples?” Travis asks.

“I have been. There have not been enough of the samples for me to really work with, but what I am currently working on is a way to test the samples against the other. I’m mocking up an experiment that may be able to help us break down and analyze its individual components. More on that when I have a better handle on it,” Bamby answers.

“The Midwest, eh?” Lucy wonders aloud. “Are you using the ingredients that the coke was cut with or something else?”

“It’s a big, general location, but at least it’s something. Sam used the overall composite of the drug. She broke down the main ingredients it was cut with and then did a national analysis on the various types,” the doctor answers.

“Well what about using a more specific chemical trace, something that can break the overall components down using proportionality, then do a cross comparison there?” Lucy asks. I don’ know who she’s talking to, but it’s piqued Bamby and Spencer’s attention.

“Actually, that’s why I’m here,” Spencer talks for the first time this morning. “Bae and I,” I smile at her slip on using her sister’s nickname, “were talking last night when the results came in. Before I use up any of the actual samples we have, I’m going to run a couple trials. Figure out what the controls will be. I am also waiting on a return call from a friend of mine that’s a professor of chemical engineering at Stanford. William should be able to give us some direction or some assistance with the trials.” She folds her arms across her chest and I notice the mark on her forearm. She’s in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt. The arm rode up to expose the abrasion and bruise on her wrist.

I’m definitely going to have that chat sooner than later. I wonder if John’s seen it.

“Now,” Bamby groans, “We were able to break out the samples that were brought back from Minnesota. Dad, Ann, thanks for all the tedious work. The mediocre news is that given everything that was brought back is enough to give you the definitive answer that Talbot was murdered in that shack. The bad news is that there are way too many biological samples to discern anything else. We were able to break out differing bodily fluids ranging from blood, urine and feces to semen and vaginal secretions. That shack was gross.”

“Oh, nice,” John and I both groan at the same time, thinking about the hours I crawled around on the floor of that place.

“Yeah, it was disgusting. So, besides identifying the kill site and the site where the body was found as the same place, you two did all of that work for naught. Sorry,” Bamby lets us down easy.

I, personally, want to bang my head off the desk. All that work…not a lot to show for it.

“That’s all?” John asks from next to me.

His daughter rolls her eyes. “What am I, a magician?”

“No, but I thought that something else would come out of the stuff we brought back,” my partner nearly whines.

“Dad, we found five different blood types out of seven different samples, three urine samples, six semen samples and three vaginal secretions. I won’t bother with the fecal matter that was pulled nor will I bother with the numbers on the contaminated samples. There was too much. That shack was used for a lot more than killing that girl. Cut us lab rats some slack.” Bamby folds her arms across her chest and waits for any commentary her father is going to respond with.

Wisely, John raises his hands in a supplicating fashion and keeps his mouth closed.

“Then let’s go back to focusing on what we can. Do we have any more information from our New York division about the phone number?” I ask Travis.

“They’re still trying to get the phone logs,” he says. “With Bamby’s revelation about the drugs, maybe we can cross check and see if any numbers from the Midwest dialed in. Start back tracking from there, but I won’t know until the records get here.”

Okay. I run my hand through my hair and resist the urge to pout. Crap.

“I can understand everyone’s frustration here,” Spencer tries to assuage us, “but, the simple facts are that there were too many variables for the evidence collected by Ann and Dad. I’m nearly positive that the back of a delivery truck has not seen that much action. The numbers were deplorable. I mean really how crass do you have to be to engage in intercourse on a dirt floor of a shack in the middle of the woods?”

The flesh on the nape of my neck prickles and I ask, “What did you just say?” Spencer’s eyes dart to me.

“Uhm, everyone’s frustrated?” she ventures.

“No, the truck, the delivery truck,” I say a standing up. The conversation with Nora this morning replaying in my head, ‘did you guys ever look into something non-stationary?’

I grin. “Nora’s a fucking genius.”

“Ann, you want to share with the rest of us?” John snips.

I shake my head. “It just makes so much sense. I was talking to Nora this morning and I gave her the rundown. She asked if we had ever looked into the kill sites being committed in like a mobile home or van, but,” I point to Spencer and grin, “Since we have so many smart women running around, a mobile home could work, a van, maybe, but not really.”

I put my hands on my hips and think out loud, “A delivery truck, like U.P.S. or FedEx or something like that one of those guys, those trucks are big enough and who in the hell notices a damn delivery truck. It’s classic and simple and no one would look twice.”

I look around and see a collection of raised eyebrows. How can they not be excited by this?

I try to explain a little more, “Let’s think about this for a second, you are a killer. You have cased victims in at least four states, therefore, you’re nomadic. It would take a lot of capitol to set up homes in four different states or four different places to keep a victim alive for three days while you cut off her face. What would be the easiest solution to all of your troubles?”

I get nothing but crickets.

So I answer my own question, “A mobile killing room. Something that can be cleaned up and ferried off quickly. I don’t know about you, but a delivery truck would make a shit load of sense.”

Finally, I see a glimmer of response from Bamby and Spencer. John, Lucy and Travis still look skeptical.

I roll my eyes. You know, sometimes I wish people were little quicker.

There really is so much a person can take. Columns of numbers for a few hours at a time are one of them. Yet, here I sit remembering one of the worst cases of my career going over all of the numbers in the Midwest that dialed into the hotline that was set up four years ago.

Four years and the whole thing still gives me the occasional nightmare. Seven kids, one killer and some of the worst acts that can be committed against a human being, let alone a child. I always remind myself that the Lullaby murders aren’t the norm. That women don’t usually kill seven children in the span of nine days. They don’t carve into them. They don’t bludgeon them. They don’t leave the last of eight alive. They don’t cause a five year old to commit suicide.

The case was a one off that I could go the rest of my life and the next never dealing with again. That case nearly destroyed every single one of us in S.I.U. Most serial killing’s span a length of time more than two weeks. The patterns indicate that serial killers can function for decades without detection. All of them develop signatures. Few signatures are ever recognized. At least they weren’t. With advancements in technology and interdepartmental cooperation, it’s getting easier.

These new cases, the No Profile murders, are the few and far between. Playing predator and prey isn’t something I’d last long at. I get bored and tend to shoot.

“Ann,” John interrupts my thoughts and the flashbacks of the bodies. “Anything?”

I shake my head.

“Then quit thinking so loud.” He gives me this mordant smile. Usually, those smiles cheer me up. I’m not feeling it too much right now. He must see it on my face or maybe my eyes. “You’re not feeling anything with the number angle.”

“No,” I grunt. I toss the list on top of another stack of papers. It flutters lamely for a second and then dies. “Everyone has access to that number. The only reason my name was associated with it was because I had to take point on Lullaby.”

“You handled it well,” he praises.

“Yeah, well, you blowing your cover seemed excessive,” I brush the compliment off. John’s retirement is contingent upon a few things. Discretion is the first. The second is an on demand disclosure for high-risk consultations and/or operations.

“But you’re so pretty, Flemming. The media loves you more.” He leans back in his chair and laces his hands behind his head.

“Nice try. Not working.” I mirror his posture and look him over. “Why are you dragging your feet with the van/truck angle?” It took me another fifteen minutes to explain my, or Nora’s idea. When he finally got the picture, he grunted in a way that denoted his skepticism.

His bushy left eyebrow rises at the question.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, easing some of the pressure that’s been building. With my eyes closed and head down, I press, “You don’t drag your feet on my ideas. Hell, John, you take point and run with it. Why this?” I raise my head and lower my hand, looking him the eyes. “Do you think I’d be sitting here looking through reminders of one of the worst cases of our career?”

He bobs his head. “All right. You want to go down this road. We’ll go.” He sits up and rests his elbows on his desk. His eyes don’t break contact and I don’t like the look that’s brewing behind them. “First things first, I don’t know if it’s the best idea. My instincts are telling me that it doesn’t fit. In all my time and the cases I’ve worked, there’s nothing that really fits this profile except long-haul truckers. I discredited that notion because people notice eighteen-wheelers when they roll through a neighborhood. Moreover, the killings do not fit the stylistic markers of a nomadic trucker.”

He raises his hand, his index finger points at the ceiling, “One, the vics are rooted.” His middle finger joins the second, “Two, there’s no overt sexual angle to any of these and three,” his thumb joins the other two sticking up from his palm, “I’ve never heard of a trucker or anyone fitting the psychological profile of a trucker with a medical background.”

His fist lowers and his index finger jabs into the steel of his desk, “There’s all of that Ann and then the letter. Everything in my body is telling me that letter was left specifically for you, to you. We just don’t know what the message is supposed to mean. That number was created expressly for Lullaby. It’s linked. It’s probably obscure but there’s a link there. This means the killer started to fixate on you during that time. We pulled the number as soon as the case closed. I made sure of it personally.”

“So we abandon the idea altogether?” I ask as my arms fold across my chest.

“For now, yes.” His jaw quivers as his teeth grind together.

We stare across our desks at each other. The seconds tick by and neither of us gives any ground.

He breaks first and asks, “I did send Lucy and Travis out to ask around again, doesn’t that count?”

I shake my head. He grunts and crosses arms like mine. I let him stew a minute more and then say, “So what?”

“What?” His brow furrows and he frowns.

“What does it matter if this guy is fixated? All the better for us.” It’s my turn to prove a point and I stand. Moving around to his side, I lean against his desk causing him to scoot back to make room for me. “You’re going off your instincts, which don’t get me wrong, are killer. But, we also need to look at this rationally. Out of all the possible scenarios available to us to consider, a mobile killing site makes the most sense. Just like truckers. This one is different. This one doesn’t fit a known profile, but then again John; we don’t have much to go on. We’re going off our experience and education. If it’s not taught and not experienced, we’re dead in the fucking water, partner.”

His lips form a thin line and he shakes his head. There’s something else there, hidden underneath his surface. I see it every now and again with him, this other side that he doesn’t like to give voice to, but it’s that that’s making this decision for him. It’s the wrong one.

“You know just as well as I do that delivery trucks don’t get noticed. It’s a great cover. The inside is easy to hose out, there’s no wood, carpet or other fibrous material that would leave trace evidence. It’ll transport a body easy enough and if you leave a delivery truck in an out of the way spot, who the hell notices?” I insist. “If our killer’s fixated all the better for us. It gives us an advantage. He wants something from me. Does it matter what as long as we exploit the need and manipulate the situation to our advantage?”

“Not at the cost it could mean,” he grits out.

I stop at this, cocking my head to the side. “You’re worried,” I hiss. I didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation, but he takes it that way.

Rising from his chair, he stands in front of me. I rise to my full height, which is shorter than he is by five inches. “Damn right, I am. I just can’t figure out why in the hell you’re not. You can carry on with the truck and the evidence Ann; it’s why you’re here. You’re good at looking at the whole and breaking it down into detail that others miss. I don’t have the luxury.”

“John, I…”

He cuts me off, “I have to consider the exposure that you’ve been getting with Jill. How that can fuel someone that’s done these things. Stoking the fires of an obsession that’s been brewing for four years, if I’m right. He draws you in, that means I’m in. That means that the entire department is. And for fuck’s sake, Flemming, think about Jill.” His finger jabs into my shoulder. “You’ve been by her side. Supportive. Loving. You’ve done everything right and you two have shown anyone that’s bothered to pay attention how happy you are with her. Think. What does that mean?”

I drop my eyes to the floor, searching past the industrial grade grey carpet. He’s right. I let him know, “It means that if this guy fits the built profile, his end goal isn’t death it’s misery.”

“Which puts who and what in the cross hairs if he’s fixated?”

I swallow the acid that rises in the back of my throat.

The finger that was poking my shoulder goes to my temple. “I get it, Ann. I do. But this scrap of a lead is better for us to go down than trying to find a delivery truck that may or may not exist. The phone number does. Think about how much you’re willing to risk.” His hand drops to my shoulder and he offers me a squeeze. I smile thinly and am about ready to go back when Lucy and Travis come trotting in.

Both are wearing ear to ear grins, but they fall looking at John and me.

“Someone die?” Lucy says jokingly.

John shakes his head and offers another self-deprecating grin. “Ann and I were having a disagreement. We’re good now though.” He turns to move in front of me and asks, “What’s got you two so happy?”

“Mr. Milton Gilmore,” Travis answers, “Seems the older man went to stay with his daughter at the first sign of a cop car. He just got home today. Mr. Gilmore, he’s what you would call…” Travis drums his fingers on his thigh trying to come up with the right description.

Finally, I nudge John over to give me a better view of our team.

“He’s a retiree that has nothing to do with his time. He remembers seeing a U.P.S. truck around the neighborhood around the same time that Seevers would have been taken and he distinctly remembers the truck on the day of the discovery,” Lucy fills us in.

I look at John and he sighs, a resignation in his eyes that may just cost us. We lock eyes for a brief moment, a conversation said with nothing but a look and a frown. We can’t ignore this now. But John’s right, how much is this going to cost and who’s going to pay?

I hate these moments. Life shouldn’t be dictated by a single act. It’s too much for one decision to bear the weight. It’s too much for those that make that decision with nothing to go on but past experience and instinct.

John casts the die as soon as the words past his lips, “I’ll call and see if there’s any footage from traffic lights that can help us.” His eyes drop to the floor at his words and he sets into motion our only choice. We need to move forward and see how it all plays out.