Author's website: http://creative-imperative.net
Don't own 'em, never will. But good luck suing me: I'm broke.

Predator is the first story of a planned trilogy. This story is sort of on the borderline between adult-rated gen and slash. It's not Jim/Blair but does feature a homosexual relationship. The series as a whole will be J/B slash.
WARNINGS: The story deals with murder and rape and includes some fairly graphic scenes. Also, this fic takes one or two familiar characters to a very dark place. If "dark" isn't your thing, don't say I didn't warn you.
PAIRINGS: Jim/Carolyn (in the past), Jim/Simon (Friendship), Blair/OMC, Simon/OFC.

21 JANUARY 1998

He was a hunter. A predator stalking the city streets.

He had made twenty two kills since arriving in the city. Today would be twenty three.

He knew exactly what he was going to do. His plans were meticulous, every detail, every contingency accounted for. Days of observation meant he knew the terrain. He knew the people he might encounter. He knew his prey.

The apartment building had tight security. There were closed-circuit cameras watching every entrance but one. That one was the basement entrance. It appeared to be covered by a camera, but he had noticed the minor differences that marked the camera as a dummy. It was nothing but a box with a flashing LED. After today, someone would regret the few bucks that had saved them.

There was no one within sight as he approached the entrance from the rear. It took him a matter of seconds to force the lock. He used a black cloth to clean the door of his fingerprints before moving into the building. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. He crossed quickly to the stairwell and there he waited, listening. When he was sure there was no one nearby he began to climb the stairs.

Reaching the second floor he paused again. There was loud music coming from one of the apartments. Beneath that, he heard a key turning in a lock. He froze. A door opened and closed again. He closed his eyes, concentrating on what he could hear. The hall was empty.

The music was coming from her apartment. He reached her door and knocked loudly. A moment later he saw the flash of light as she looked through her peephole. Would she recognise him? It hardly mattered. He reached into his pocket and lifted his badge before the peephole. She opened the door. He invited himself in. She was so trusting. She had no idea she had just admitted her murderer.

He smiled as he spoke, his carefully prepared words allaying any suspicion. He followed her into the apartment. She was wearing jeans and an old, threadbare sweater - a far cry from her usual smart suits and tailored dresses. Comfort clothing. Her long hair was damp and he could smell shampoo and soap. There was another, stronger scent. As they entered her living room he identified it as acetone and nail polish. She was holding her left hand carefully away from her body; he guessed her nail polish was still damp. The bottle of nail polish was still open on the table.

She turned away from him, reaching for the bottle to cap it. The distraction was all he needed. He drew the gun from the holster at his back and reversed it quickly. He struck her hard, once, on the back of her skull. She fell.

He holstered the gun. She was unconscious, but breathing. That had to change. He lifted her body easily in his arms and laid her on the couch. He touched her cheek gently. She was so young...it was a shame she had to die. He did find this part unpleasant, but it was necessary. He knew exactly where to place his hands to cut off her air most efficiently. She died without regaining consciousness.

His purpose achieved, he arranged her body with care. The sweater tore easily along the seam. He carefully opened her eyes and drew a few strands of her hair over her face.

Finally he drew a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, together with some other tools. He moved methodically through the apartment, erasing not only prints but every trace of his presence. He searched carefully before he left the same way that he came, silently. Her music played on.

No trace. No witnesses. No problem.

Twenty three.

Blair parked his car in the alley beside Tania's apartment building. He still couldn't believe she agreed to a date; Tania was gorgeous, sophisticated and rich: he had no idea why she wanted to go out with him, but he wasn't going to question his luck. Nervously, Blair checked his hair in the mirror before he left the car. He had slicked his wild curls back into a ponytail; as close as he could get to a respectable look. He wanted to make a good impression tonight.

He locked the car and headed around the corner to her building. He pushed the buzzer for Tania's apartment and waited, but there was no answer. Blair checked his watch. It was 7:15, exactly the time they had agreed he would pick her up. Blair pushed the buzzer again.

A middle aged couple came up to the door. The man punched in an entry code and turned to Blair as he opened the door. "Trying to get in?" he asked, his tone friendly.

"I'm looking for Tania Roca in 14. We're supposed to go out, but she's not answering."

The woman smiled. "Oh, Tania plays her stereo so loudly she can't possibly hear the door. Come on in - you'll have better luck if you knock her door upstairs."

"Thanks." Blair returned the smile and followed them into the building. He rode with the couple in the elevator up to Tania's floor. Stepping out of the elevator, he couldn't hear any music. Maybe she'd stood him up...

Reaching Tania's door, Blair knocked firmly. The door opened a crack as he touched it. The hallway within was dark.

Beginning to feel uneasy, Blair pushed the door open. "Tania?" he called.

There was only silence. Blair walked across the threshold. "Tania? Are you in here?" He found a light switch and turned it on. The door on his left was the kitchen and it was empty. Ahead, doors led to the bathroom and living room. Feeling like an intruder, he walked toward the living room, calling her name again.

And then he saw her.

For a moment, Blair froze in the doorway. She was lying on her couch. Her hair - the lovely, rich hair he always wanted to touch - was a tangled mess. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. Her sweater was torn. Even before he turned on the light, Blair knew she was dead. He fumbled for the light switch and as the overhead bulb flared to life it illuminated Tania's body. She was beautiful in life. Death was ugly. Blair saw a red stain on the arm of the couch and dark bruises at her throat.

"Oh, my god." Acid burned the back of his throat and Blair fell to his knees, retching. Somehow, he managed not to throw up. Not trusting himself to stand, he crawled backward until he hit the doorframe and could go no further. He couldn't take his eyes from her. One of her hands hung down limply, her fingernails freshly polished. The bottle of nail polish stood open on the table, as if she would get up any moment to put it away.

Telephone...where was her phone? Regaining some focus, Blair used the doorframe to drag himself up and looked around. He found the phone mounted on the wall a short distance from the door. His hands shaking, Blair picked it up and dialled 911.

The rest of the evening was one long nightmare.

A couple of uniformed police arrived quickly. One of them called in the death and the other suggested Blair should stick around, telling him he was a witness. Blair had the distinct impression that it wasn't a request. As instructed, he waited in Tania's kitchen, trying to hold himself together, listening to the people trooping in and out of the apartment, to cops talking to each other over her body as if this happened every day. Perhaps it did, for them.

Finally, a detective showed up. By then Blair was pacing the small kitchen, unconsciously hugging himself. He had become familiar with every crack in the ceiling, every tile on the floor. It felt like a prison cell. He heard a pointed cough and stopped pacing, turning to face the man in the doorway.

"Mr Sandburg?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"I'm Detective Ellison. I'm sorry you've been kept waiting so long."

Ellison's blue eyes were kind, defusing some of Blair's agitation. "That's...okay," he answered. Ellison...the name was naggingly familiar.

"I only have a couple of questions, Mr Sandburg, and then you can go home if you like. The victim was a friend of yours?"

Blair's mouth was dry. He swallowed a few times to get saliva running. "Um...yes. A friend."

"Girlfriend?"

"Not exactly. We were going on a date tonight. It would have been the first."

Ellison nodded. "Do you know if she has a roommate? There are two bedrooms."

"Her brother. Tania...um, she told me he's out of town, but I don't know where or when he's due back. His name is Matt - Mateo Roca."

"Good." Ellison made a note. "What time did you get here tonight, Mr Sandburg?"

"Seven fifteen. I...I'm sure of the time because I checked my watch when I was at the door."

"That's very helpful, thank you. I realise this is difficult for you, but can you tell me exactly what happened when you got here? Take your time."

Blair swallowed again. "I buzzed her from the door downstairs, but she didn't answer..." More collected, now, Blair explained to the detective how he found Tania's body.

Ellison took notes occasionally as Blair talked. He looked up when Blair finished. "Where were you earlier today?" he asked.

Blair's stomach turned over. They couldn't think he had anything to do with this...could they? "Uh...I was at the university until five. I'm a grad student there. Then I went home to change."

"You live with anyone?"

Blair managed a nervous smile. "You don't have to be subtle, Detective. You want to know if I have an alibi."

Ellison nodded. "You're not a suspect, Sandburg, not at this stage. It will be helpful if we can eliminate you from our inquiries right away. So, do you have an alibi?"

"I was taking a seminar at Rainier from two until four, and then I had a meeting with Professor Stoddard about my doctoral thesis. But I live alone, so from five onwards, no."

"The couple you mentioned will be able to verify your arrival here, so that should cover it. That's all I need for now. I'd like you to come in to the department tomorrow morning and make a more detailed report. Is that okay?"

Blair nodded. "Sure."

"Good." Ellison reached into a pocket. "In the meantime, if you think of anything that might be important, give me a call." He held a card out to Blair.

Blair took it. "I will." His wallet was in his back pocket; he found his hands shaking as he put Ellison's card away.

"Then you're free to go." Ellison looked at him with sudden concern. "Are you okay? I can have someone drive you home if you're a bit shaky."

"Thanks, but...I'm good, man."

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

The day Blair met Tania Roca was also the day he almost broke his neck.

*Blair's office at Rainier University doubled as a storage room for the anthropology department...truthfully the artefacts had been there long before Blair moved in. He enjoyed having this space: it was cool working surrounded by artefacts. Unfortunately, it tended to encourage his bad habits; his office existed as a kind of organised chaos; Blair knew how to find everything, but no one else looking around his room would see anything but mess. He had old books stacked together with artefacts, students' papers haphazardly collected together with his own notes and books piled on the floor.*

On that day, Blair made one of his regular futile attempts to tidy up. He had separated the papers on his desk into almost neat piles, and had moved on to the various artefacts he held, placing them carefully on newly cleared shelves. Engrossed in the task, Blair didn't even notice the first knock on his door. The second was louder and he called "Come in!" without looking around.

He couldn't look around. At that moment he was perched on a chair, reaching up to the topmost shelf. He carefully slid the bowl he was holding onto the shelf then twisted around to see who was there. As he did so, he lost his balance. The chair tipped over beneath him and Blair reached for the shelf, realised he'd bring it down on top of him and let go, crashing to the floor.

He came up laughing. "Ouch." He peered over the desk. "Oh, hi, Jack."

"Are you okay?" Jack Kelso asked him. He was stuck in the doorway: Blair's carefully organised piles of books and paper didn't leave room for Jack's wheelchair.

"I'll live." Blair rubbed his butt ruefully, but he wasn't badly hurt. Just bruised. He edged around the desk and started clearing a path for Jack. "We don't see you down here often, man."

"I do find the stairs a challenge. I came down in the freight elevator."

"What can I do for you?"

"Do you know Tania Roca? She teaches Media and Culture."

Blair shook his head, though the name was familiar. "No...oh, wait a minute. The journalist?"

"That's the one."

"No, I know her by reputation, but that's all." He shifted the last stack out of Jack's way.

"Tania and I worked together last year when she wrote a story on corruption in the courts," Jack explained. "Now she's working on something new and she came to me for help again. I think we need an unbiased opinion, and you seemed a good choice."

"Me?" Blair leaned back against his desk but straightened up quickly, making a mental note not to do that with a bruised ass. "What do I know about criminology or corruption?"

*Kelso grinned. "That's the point. Tania and I - we're both trained to be paranoid. We need someone to look over what she's found and tell us whether we're being too paranoid."*

Blair nodded. "Okay. Where and when?"

"My office. Whenever you're ready."

Blair followed Jack into the office. Tania was sitting at Jack's desk with a folder open in front of her, writing in a notebook. She was biting her lip in concentration: something Blair would come to recognise as a sign she was utterly engrossed in her work. She looked up as they entered, but apparently saw only Jack at first.

"This could be another one, Jack," she began. Then she saw Blair.

And smiled.

Blair fell instantly in lust.

Tania Roca was way out of his league. A few years his senior, she was rich, sophisticated, successful... She had lovely, Asian features, porcelain skin, and shining dark hair that begged to be touched. The smile transformed her from serious and mildly pretty to stunningly beautiful.

"Tan, this is Blair Sandburg," Jack said, oblivious to the thunderbolt hitting Blair.

*"Hi, Blair," she said. *

Blair offered his best smile. "Hi. I'm, uh, pleased to meet you. I read your expos last year. That was brave work."

"Thank you."

If the first smile hadn't done it, the second certainly would have. Blair had to clear his throat to speak again. "Um...Jack said you wanted help with a story or investigation...?"

Her eyes flicked to Kelso who said, "I didn't tell him anything."

Tania looked back to Blair, her expression serious again. "Not exactly. I'm working on a story about unsolved crimes in Cascade; I thought I might uncover mob links, like I did last year with the court expos. But I think I've found something else." She took a deep breath, setting her notebook aside as she rose from Jack's desk. "I've shown Jack my files, but Jack doesn't trust his own judgement."

"Not true!" Kelso protested. He moved further into the room, positioning his wheelchair behind the vacated desk. "It's just that so many years with the CIA makes me..."

"Paranoid?" Blair put in, using Jack's word.

"...Makes me look for the worst case scenario. Like Tania - " he gave her a meaningful look " - I could be seeing what I expect to see, instead of what is. That's where you come in, Blair. You know how to look for evidence in unusual places and you have a creative mind. I think...we think that if you see the same thing we do, it will prove Tania is on to something."

*Tania lifted a thick file from the desk. "This information cannot leave this room, Blair. If you can't agree to that..."*

"I agree," Blair answered at once. Anything to spend a little more time with her.

She smiled again. Did she know what she was doing to him? "Good." She beckoned him over and opened the file she was holding. "I have a contact in the police department who got me some of this information. The rest is public record. This lists all of the unsolved murders in Cascade since 1990. Just so you know, the local detection rate for murder is about average for a city this size. The numbers look bad but the cops are doing a good job."

"Okay..." Blair glanced down the list. "Guess we've got a friendly city."

"Very friendly. I've gone through the list and eliminated any that may have been accidental deaths: hit-and-runs and suchlike. I've also eliminated the ones the police have down as gang or drug related. The remaining case notes are in this file." Tania turned the page. "It might take you a while to read all this and I don't want to prejudice you."

"So you want me to read it, and what? Just tell you if I see anything odd?"

Kelso nodded. "Exactly."

"Okay." Blair took the file from Tania and settled down to read.

*The file made for disturbing reading. Tania didn't have the full case notes, just a summary of each death. All of them had some details blacked out: names of suspects and witnesses, that sort of thing. The names of the victims and the officers who worked on each case were uncensored. Blair had never realised how many people were killed in Cascade every year. *

*As he read through the notes, he started categorising them in his mind. So many were shot, so many stabbed and so on. Some cases seemed to be sex crimes: women raped and killed, others were robberies, and others had no obvious motive. He had no idea what Tania and Jack had seen in the files. *

"I don't know," Blair admitted to them later. "It's scary as hell, man, seeing how many of them have no obvious motive, but if you two see some connecting factor...I don't see it."

Tania and Kelso exchanged a glance.

Kelso turned back to Blair, his expression grim. "You just did."

"Did what?"

Tania explained.

21 JANUARY 1998

It was almost midnight when Jim finally reached home. He bolted the door, shutting the world out of the loft. He stripped off his coat and hung it up, taking a deep breath.

He remembered the girl's body, dark hair partially covering her face, bruises on her wrists and throat, her sweater torn. He remembered the smell of her nail polish, the sparkle of the earrings she'd laid out in her bedroom. A normal girl getting ready for a date. She had everything to live for, and now she was dead.

He shook his head. Where was his detachment now?

He headed into the shower, stripping his clothing off as he went. The hot water beating against his skin relaxed him, helping him to put the memory back where it belonged. It was only because he was tired. He stepped out of the shower and pulled on a robe. He walked out of the bathroom and hesitated in the doorway, surveying his living space.

Tania Roca. Ellison was vaguely familiar with her work as a journalist. It was only a few days before that he, and several friends, had been talking about her, right here in this room.

ONE WEEK EARLIER

It was one of those rare evenings when they all managed to get the same evening off. It was Jim's turn to play host so the other cops gathered at the loft to watch the game, share beer and junk food and generally relax.

The game was over - Jim lost his bet but he didn't care. He was laughing along with everyone else as they bantered.

After a while the conversation turned naturally to work. Jim was in the kitchen getting more beer from the refrigerator when he heard Taggert ask Brown something about the Lamarche case. The question got Jim's attention because as far as he knew the case was...well, not closed, because they'd never solved it, but at least shelved. He headed back to the others.

"That's an old case, Joel," Jim said. "Why bring it up now?"

"It came up in a conversation today," Taggert answered.

"What were you doing discussing a case outside the office?" Simon asked him.

Taggert looked at his empty beer bottle then set it down. "I didn't discuss it. I had a meeting with someone today: a journalist. Tania Roca."

"You met with a journalist," Simon repeated.

Brown recognised the name. "Hey, she's the one who wrote those articles about the DA's office last year. She helped expose Hal Fazzino, right?"

*"That's the one," Taggert confirmed, "and, no, Simon, I didn't tell her anything.She_ told _me."*

"Told you what?" Simon rolled a cigar between his fingers, frowning.

"She had a list of our unsolved cases - maybe ten of them - that she thinks are linked in some way. Lamarche was one of them."

"Linked how?" Jim asked.

"She didn't come right out and say it, but I got the impression she thinks there's a cover up going on."

"Ridiculous," Simon declared.

Jim nodded agreement. "Sounds like she's just fishing for a new scandal. She won't find one in our department."

Simon nodded grimly. "Let's hope - " He broke off as his cellphone interrupted. He stood, walking away from the group as he answered the phone. "Banks. Yes...just a moment." Simon glanced back to the others.

The look let Jim know Simon didn't want his call overheard, and he nodded toward the balcony. Simon could talk privately out there.

Simon took the hint, speaking quietly into the phone as he walked out onto the balcony. Jim, respecting his friend's privacy, didn't try to listen.

Moments later Simon was back. "Sorry, guys, I'm going to have to call it a night."

"Trouble, Simon?" Jim asked.

Simon shook his head, but his was already reaching for his coat. "Personal. Thanks for the beer, Jim." He hurried out of the door.

Jim glanced at Taggert, but decided against reviving the conversation. "Anyone want more beer?" he offered.

21 JANUARY 1998

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jim's window gave him a view of the city streets below. Reflections of lights filled the room, casting coloured shadows on the walls. He could hear cars passing by. This late at night, the streets of Cascade belonged to the criminals: the prostitutes and pimps, the drug dealers and gangs, the scum of the city he was sworn to protect.

Jim opened the bedside drawer and picked up the worn photograph. It was the only one he still kept of her: he had destroyed the others. In the photograph, taken at one of the formal police dinners they attended every year, Jim wore a tuxedo and she wore a deep green dress. The green brought out her hazel eyes and the fiery highlights of her hair. She was holding a champagne glass and the ring Jim had given her sparkled on her finger.

Less than a month after this photograph was taken, she had been dead.

He touched her smiling face with his fingertips, but a photograph was a poor substitute for the memory of her soft skin under his hands, the scent of her perfume. Jim sat there for a long time, reliving his memories.

Finally, Jim placed the photograph on his nightstand, propped up next to his gun. He lay down in his bed and tried to sleep.

22 JANUARY 1998

The morgue was possibly Jim's least favourite place in the entire world.

He glanced through the glass pane in the door and saw Dan was still at work. Jim recognised Tania Roca's body on the table. The green morgue sheets covered most of her pale body. Her lovely hair was gathered into a rough knot to reveal her face and neck. The bruises at her throat stood out starkly.

Jim frowned; he had hoped to avoid watching the autopsy. But he was there now. He knocked on the glass. Dan looked up, saw Jim there and beckoned him in.

Jim entered, trying to ignore the smell in the room. It wasn't bad, not really, but it always seemed to hit him hard in here. "Morning, Dan. Give me some good news."

Dan set down the instrument he was holding and stripped off his latex gloves. "I'm afraid there's not much good here, Jim."

Great. "What have you got?"

"Wrongful death."

"Brilliant, Sherlock. Now tell me what I don't know."

"Gee, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning."

"Dan."

"Sorry." Dan picked up a clipboard. "Toxicology won't be back for a while but I'm betting she's clean. She's a fit, healthy young woman. No sign of illness or recent injury prior to death."

"How did she die?"

"Well, there's no evidence of rape or other sexual assault, despite the torn clothing. No bruising except at her throat, no sign of semen. Her killer struck her at the base of her skull with a blunt instrument. Here, look..."

Dan turned the body's head slightly. Jim moved closer, leaning in reluctantly to see what Dan was pointing out.

"The blow was either very lucky or very precise," Dan explained. "Several fragments of bone were driven into her brain. She lost consciousness very quickly and would have been dead within minutes. But her killer didn't realise that. He made certain of her by strangling her to death. So the actual cause of death was asphyxiation."

"Tell me about the murder weapon."

"Blunt instrument, probably made of metal. Could be a crowbar or a hammer. It might even be the butt of a gun."

Jim shook his head. "A gun doesn't make sense. This was a premeditated murder; if he had a gun, why not shoot her?"

Dan grinned at him. "That's your problem, detective. I just call 'em as I see 'em."

"So, crowbar or hammer," Jim repeated. Then he frowned. "Wait a moment. She was struck from behind, right?"

"Yep. From the angle of the blow he's right handed..."

Jim interrupted, not wanting to lose his train of thought. "So he hits her from behind, she falls, she'd fall on her face, wouldn't she?"

"Yep."

"But the bruises on her throat came from the front. So he turned her over before strangling her?"

"Probably."

"Then there should have been blood on the carpet. We didn't find any."

Dan nodded. "I remember. You'll have to let me think that one over, but my first guess would be he lifted her onto the couch. If that's the case, he could have bloodied his clothing."

"Good, that's what I wanted to hear."

Dan went on, "The bruises on her neck are very clear: there's a clean imprint of each finger, look." He held his hand against the body's neck. "The killer's hand span is greater than mine, see? And the bruises are dark so he applied a lot of pressure. And look at this...he crushed her windpipe with his thumbs. He knew exactly where to apply pressure."

"You make it sound like a professional job," Jim commented uneasily.

"Again, that's your department, though I thought a pro would use a gun. But I'll bet you a month's salary that this guy has killed before. A lot. He knows what he's doing."

"Then I need to know about him. You've got a handprint, he's right handed. Anything else?"

"Tall...at least six feet tall, based on the angle of the blow relative to her height. My guess is six-two. Physically powerful. As far as physical evidence goes, all of the blood is hers. There were no hairs or clothing fibres. Nothing under her fingernails. I do have a partial print, but it won't be enough to ID your perp."

"A print? Where?"

"Would you believe in her nail polish?" Dan lifted the sheet away from one of her hands. "There are carpet fibres in the polish on two of her fingers, indicating it was still wet when she was killed. And here..." he showed Jim "...there's an impression of a finger in the polish. It's only about a third of the finger and it's a bit smudged, but it's definitely not her print."

Jim straightened. "It doesn't look clear enough to stand up in court, but it's a great start. We can see if it matches anyone on file, at least. Thanks, Dan. I know you've done your best. When can I have your preliminary report?"

"The basic paperwork you'll have as soon as Sherry's finished typing. The rest by tomorrow morning if you need it urgently. Otherwise I'll send it on when I get the toxicology. I do want to run a few more tests, though. She might have more to tell us."

"Okay, good. Whenever you're ready, Dan. If you find anything else that's significant, call me right away."

"Will do, detective."

Half an hour later, Jim had to admit to Simon that he had very little to go on.

Jim closed the crime scene report, looking up at his boss. "Someone just walked into her apartment and killed her. Dan Wolf confirmed there was no rape. There was no robbery - "

"And no suspects," Simon finished for him.

"I'm afraid not. I've requested the security tapes from the victim's apartment building. They've got every entrance covered, so that should give us a place to start. There was no forced entry, Simon, and the apartment was very tidy. My guess is the killer was someone she knew. She let him in."

"That's the second time you've said the place was tidy. Too tidy? Could there have been a struggle and the killer cleaned the place up?"

Jim shrugged. "It's possible. Likely, even, but a real struggle leaves signs, no matter how carefully you clean up. Scuff marks in the carpet, something broken or scratched...either she was killed elsewhere, which seems unlikely, or she let someone in and was taken by surprise. No one in the building saw or heard anything."

Simon nodded. "So what's your next move, Jim?"

"The man who found her body and called us was..." Jim glanced at his notes, "...Blair Sandburg, a colleague of the victim at Rainier University. He's due in later and I'm hoping he can shed some light on the situation. I'm also going to talk to her neighbours again. Maybe I can shake something loose. I'll let you know if anything turns up."

"Good. Tania Roca wrote that expos on the DA's office last year - we were talking about it a few nights ago, if you remember."

"I remember," Jim said. "I hadn't realised it was the same woman."

"Well, that article could have made her a few enemies. The kind who might kill to get her out of the way. Better check out the connection."

Jim stood, gathering up the pathologist's report. "I'll get on it."

Blair looked around the interview room. The walls were uniformly grey. The door stood ajar and he heard the indistinct voices of people working. He had no idea what he was going to say. He had been thinking about it all night. The problem was Blair didn't know much.

He looked up as Detective Ellison entered the room. Blair remembered now why Ellison's name had been familiar. He was the one who the army rescued from the jungle years ago. Blair dug the articles out of archive when he started searching for a modern sentinel: Hero Survives Jungle Ordeal. Blair wondered at the time if Ellison might be what he was looking for: the articles hinted at some odd sensory experience. That wasn't important now.

Tania was dead. That was important.

And Blair was sitting here wondering if he was about to lie to a cop.

Ellison took a seat opposite Blair. "Thanks for coming. I'd like to record our conversation this morning, if you have no objection."

"I don't mind," Blair answered. He watched Ellison slide a tape into a machine and start it. "Detective Ellison...how did she die?"

Ellison hesitated. "I can't give out information about an ongoing investigation. I'm sorry." He met Blair's eyes and Blair saw the same kindness in them he had noticed the night before. Ellison added, "It was quick, Sandburg, she wouldn't have felt much pain. That's all I can tell you."

"Thanks, man. That helps."

"I'd like to go over what you told me last night. You reached the building at seven fifteen..."

Blair told his story again. He answered questions.

"Did she have any enemies that you know of? Ex-boyfriend, maybe?"

Blair shook his head. "Look, man, we were just in the getting-to-know-you phase. If she had an ex who was trouble, she never mentioned it to me. As far as I know, she didn't have any enemies."

"She certainly didn't make many friends at the DA's office last year," Ellison told him.

Blair hadn't thought of that. He nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Like I said, I didn't know her as well as I wanted to."

"So maybe her work did make her a few enemies. Do you know if she was working on a story at the time of her death? We found some books and notes in her apartment but it didn't tell us much."

And there it was. The question Blair had been hoping to avoid. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was a really, really bad idea to tell a cop that Tania had been looking for evidence of corruption in the Police Department. On the other hand, lying to the cops seemed an even worse idea, especially if there was a connection between her research and her murder.

"There was something." Blair looked up into Ellison's eyes. I sure hope I can trust you, man... "I don't know exactly what Tania was writing. Her investigation had something to do with Cascade PD. She had statistics about unsolved crimes, especially murder." He hesitated, then added, "I don't know the details." That last was only half-true.

"Did anyone?" Ellison pressed.

"I don't think she told anyone the full details. Um...you could talk to Jack Kelso at the university. She was consulting with him about part of her research."

"I will. Thanks."

26 JANUARY 1998

Statistically, a person is most likely to be murdered by someone close to them. A jealous partner. A business disagreement blown way out of proportion. Past resentments between family members that finally reach boiling point. Sometimes it is justified: an abused wife who finally snaps and kills her husband, for example. But the justified homicides are the easy ones to solve. They require minimal police work because the perpetrator usually confesses quickly.

Jim still had no suspects in the Tania Roca case. He had no doubt her expos articles had gained her some enemies, but those leads were dead ends. Everyone implicated by those articles was in jail already.

Could someone have arranged a hit? It wasn't impossible and had it been a shooting Jim would have signed this off as a professional hit, but pros don't strangle their targets. That left friends, family and colleagues as possible suspects.

Tania's funeral was an opportunity for Jim to observe those people who were close to her. From his truck, he watched the people gathered at the graveside. He could observe without intruding.

Blair Sandburg was there, wearing a black turtleneck and jacket rather than the traditional suit and tie. He carried a white rose in his hand. Very romantic. The kid must have really been smitten.

There were others Jim recognised as her colleagues from the university or her newspaper; though she was officially a freelance journalist, the same paper published nearly all of her articles: the Cascade Tribune. Jim had interviewed some of them; if anyone knew the details of her current investigation, they weren't admitting it. He watched them carefully, memorising each face.

The ones he didn't recognise were probably her family. Jim had met her parents when he interviewed them about her death. Now that was part of his job he really disliked: questioning grieving parents about their dead child's lifestyle. They were an oddly mismatched couple: Italian-American father, Chinese mother. Anthony Roca owned a successful chain of restaurants; he was probably worth a couple of million. The family was a big one: six children, including Tania. Not all of them were at the funeral.

The ceremony was drawing to a close. Jim watched the mother step forward to throw flowers into the freshly-dug grave. Others followed, one by one.

A few minutes later the group broke up. Jim watched a young man approach Sandburg. He wished he could hear their conversation, but of course it was impossible from his distance. Impossible...yet the moment Jim thought it he heard:

"...me know. I mean that, man."

"There might be something...but I can't talk about it here. Not today."

"No problem. Why don't you call me tomorrow? Here..."

Jim saw Sandburg hand over what he assumed was a business card. As the young man took it his fingers brushed Sandburg's lightly. It was a subtle moment but Jim made a mental note: any information might be useful later.

A car horn honked, the sound ripping into his skull. Jim clapped his hands over his ears, looking around wildly for the source of the sound. Shit, it sounded right on top of him! But there was nothing nearby. He looked back to where Sandburg had been standing.

Only Tania's father remained, now, alone at the graveside. He stood there for a long time, gazing down at the ground. Finally he moved away and rejoined his family.

27 JANUARY 1998

Blair looked up at the apartment building. He drew his jacket closer around him, though it wasn't all that cold. He hadn't thought he would be back here so soon...or ever.

He shook off his reluctance and pushed the buzzer for apartment 14. If no one answered he was going to walk away. And no doubt have nightmares for weeks.

Fortunately, Matt answered the buzzer quickly. "Hello?"

"It's Blair Sandburg."

"Great, come on up." The door pinged and Blair pushed it open. At least he knew Matt was alive up there...

When he reached the apartment, he found Matt waiting for him in the doorway. "Hi, Blair. Thanks for coming." Matt led the way into the apartment. He looked a lot like his sister: the same lush, dark hair, though on Matt it was cut much shorter. They had the same eyes, too.

Blair followed Matt into the living room, and stopped. He couldn't remember exactly what the room looked like last time he stood in this spot. He only remembered

Her hair - the lovely, rich hair he always wanted to touch - was a tangled mess. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. One of her hands hung down limply, her fingernails freshly polished.

Blair swallowed, hard, but he couldn't put the memory aside. He remembered the arm of the couch stained with her blood. There was a throw-rug covering it now; Blair had an urge to move the throw, find out if the stain was still there.

Matt turned to look at him sympathetically. "I know it's not easy for you to be here. Let's talk in my room, okay?"

Blair forced a smile. "Okay, sure."

"Are you okay?"

"No, man, I'm not." Blair took a deep breath, pulling himself together. "God, I'm sorry. If being here is hard for me, I can't imagine how you're feeling..."

"Unreal, mostly. By the time I got home Dad had cleaned the place up. I miss Tania..." He ran a hand through his thick hair. "I really do. But being here doesn't make it worse." Matt opened the bedroom door and waved Blair in ahead of him. "Make yourself comfortable."

There were no chairs, so Blair sat down on the bed. It was a king-size, made up with black cotton sheets and duvet. He ran his hand across the duvet cover: it was heavy cotton, high quality stuff. It spoke of unpretentious wealth, and that reminded him of Tania.

"Here," Matt said, fishing something out of a drawer, "this is what I wanted to show you." He handed Blair a slim, black notebook. "When Tania was working on a story she always kept a diary. It details everything she did, everyone she spoke to, in connection with whatever she's working on. She said it helped her to keep things...straight."

Matt placed an odd emphasis on that last word and it made Blair smile. He had already figured out Matt was gay. He had an interesting way of dropping the subtlest of hints into conversation. Was he waiting for Blair to let him know he'd picked up on it? Blair flashed a quick grin and took the diary from Matt. He opened it and turned pages.

Jan 7. 10 am. Jack K.

*Jan 7. 12.30 pm. Jack K./Blair Sandburg.*

Blair blinked dust out of his eyes and turned the page.

Jan 9. Phone Ag. Cage ref L K T

It clearly meant something to Tania, but it was indecipherable to Blair. He turned the page again.

Jan 14. 11 am. Int Det Taggert Maj. Crimes.

Blair stared at Matt. "She talked to a detective about this story? A cop?"

Matt nodded. He looked troubled.

"You're not thinking..." Blair began.

"I honestly don't know. But it scares me, Blair. I don't know much about her investigation, but I know it had something to do with the police. She interviewed a detective...and a week later she was dead." He sat down beside Blair. "I was hoping you could tell me something. Or maybe discover something."

Blair closed the diary. "Whoa, man. Time out, okay? Just what are you asking?"

"I know she consulted you. So you must know more than I do about this..."

Blair reached out, resting his hand on Matt's arm comfortingly. "Matt, I know how helpless you must feel. But the cops are investigating. They'll find whoever killed her. You really should show this diary to Detective Ellison."

"What if the cops are somehow involved?"

"That's crazy, man."

"Is it?"

Was it? Blair remembered Tania's crime statistics and knew that it was very possible her murder would not be solved. He also remembered, all too clearly, Tania's theory about several apparently motiveless murders in Cascade. He sighed. "Tania showed me some police files. Unsolved murder cases. She thought there might be evidence of a serial killer working in Cascade."

Matt blinked. "Oh, god."

"She said that if she could see it, the cops were idiots if they hadn't."

"Tan thought there was a cover-up?"

"That's what she wanted to find out. But, Matt, if, if she was right, that doesn't mean it's anything sinister. Maybe the police are just trying to avoid a media panic."

"Or, maybe not."

Blair shook his head firmly. "This isn't a movie, Matt!" He saw the hurt look in Matt's dark eyes and relented. "Okay...look. I'll do some research and talk to some people. Maybe I can find out if she was onto something. But I can't promise anything more."

28 JANUARY 1998

The library at Rainier opened at eight. Blair was there ten minutes early, munching his bagel on the steps outside while he waited for the doors to be unlocked. It wasn't at all unusual for him to spend all hours at the library but today he wouldn't be in the anthropology section.

He sat down at a computer terminal. The whole of the library catalogue was listed in a searchable database; he was hoping that would give him a place to start. What do I know about criminology or corruption? Blair had asked Jack. Answer: somewhere between "very little" and "absolutely nothing". He needed to fix that, first. He started by searching the criminology journals. Eventually he managed to put together a preliminary reading list and headed into the library proper. Blair started to read.

At eleven he had to quit to give a lecture. He made it to the lecture hall in time, but for the first time ever, his heart wasn't in it. He remembered to grab a snack after the lecture and headed straight back to the library. By the end of the day he had learned only how ignorant he was. He had a new reading list that was rapidly approaching a hundred items long. Then he remembered a serial killer case in Cascade just a few years before. He went down to the news archive and found the microfiche copies of the newspapers. He added a list of articles to his reading list, checked out a heavy pile of books and drove home.

Blair didn't sleep too well that night.

In the morning he was at the library before opening again. He started reading the articles on David Lash. Lash was the serial killer as defined by Hollywood. They were almost ritualistic murders. The killer had a background of abuse. The choice of victims appeared random. The signature yellow scarves would have been at home in a B-movie. The question Blair needed to answer was just how 'typical' was the Lash case?

He kept reading.

Blair's days fell into a pattern: He woke early and spent his daylight hours in the library, except when he had teaching commitments. In the library he read as much as he could then he took more books home with him. By the end of the week, he had a stack of notes a mile high and was seriously worried that his brain might explode. This was a lot of information to take in so quickly. After five days solid work, he felt he was beginning to get a handle on the subject.

The following morning he gave the library a miss and paid Jack Kelso a visit.

3 FEBRUARY 1998

Tania Roca's dead eyes stared out of the photograph accusingly. Jim forced himself to look for a moment and then turned to the next. The next was a close-up of the bruises on her neck. After that came the wider shots of the room.

" - son! Earth to Ellison!"

Jim looked up.

Henry Brown stood there, a frown on his face. "Are you okay, Jim?"

Jim blinked. "Yeah, I'm fine. What can I do for you?"

Brown handed him a file. "The articles you wanted."

"Thanks." Jim slid the file into his in-tray without looking at it.

Brown leaned over his shoulder, glancing at the photographs spread out on Jim's desk.

Jim stiffened. "Could you give me some room, H?" he snapped.

"Sorry!" Brown held his hands up in surrender and backed off.

Jim watched him go. He slid the photographs back into their envelope. He leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders to get the stiffness out. How long had he been staring at those? Too damn long.

He reached for the file Brown gave him and opened it. It contained archived copies of Tania Roca's articles from the Tribune. Everything from her early work covering trivia like high school football and local bake-sales to the series of articles she published in '97, the ones that exposed Hal Fazzino and made Tania Roca's name as a journalist.

Jim read the articles, skimming through the early stuff but reading the later articles much more closely. Her writing matured noticeably over time and the articles from the past three years were slick work. The series of articles she wrote about Fazzino and the DA's office were impressive. One thing came through clearly: Tania Roca was no scandal-monger. Her articles presented facts, all backed up with evidence: no vague references to "a source". She asked questions, but very carefully didn't draw conclusions. The articles shone a light onto the whole corrupt structure she'd uncovered, but it was up to the reader to see what was there.

Jim didn't remember having read those articles before, though he must have. He did remember the impact she had. Her articles made people think. The right people...or the wrong ones, if you were Hal Fazzino. A judge issued the warrant for Fazzino's arrest before the last of her series was published.

This was the woman who had been investigating Cascade PD.

What had she found?

"I prescribe strong coffee," Jack suggested. "Or maybe twenty four hours sleep. You look terrible, Blair."

Blair smiled tiredly. "I'll take the coffee, thanks. I haven't been sleeping too well."

Jack poured coffee and set the mug on the desk. He manoeuvred his wheelchair back to the desk. "I won't ask what's wrong because I think I know. I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

Blair reached across to pick up the mug. "Don't be sorry, Jack. Just tell me the truth. Was Tania killed because she was onto something?" The coffee smelled too good to resist.

Jack was silent for a moment. Finally, he shook his head. "We might never know, Blair. That's the truth."

"I've spent the past week going over everything I know. Reading everything I can find to help me understand what you both thought was going on." Blair took a welcome gulp of coffee and looked up again. "I understand why you and Tania thought lack of motive was a common thread in the files you showed me. I think I understand how you got from that to serial killer. But I don't remember any other commonality in those files."

Jack looked surprised. "Have you ditched anthropology for behavioural science?"

"I've been trying to figure this thing out, yeah."

"And what do you think of Tania's theory?"

Blair gripped his coffee mug tightly. "I don't know, man. Everything I've read suggests Tania was wrong. But she's dead. That's a hell of a coincidence...and I can't get past it."

Jack nodded gravely. "I've been thinking the same thing about the coincidence. It is difficult to accept that it's not chance. But if it's not chance, that means not only that Tania's theory was right, but that somehow whoever killed her knew she was a threat to him. Blair, if that's the case, the list of suspects is very short, and we're both on it. Who else knew the details of her investigation?"

Blair spilled coffee on his pants. He hadn't thought of that. He set down the mug and tried to ignore the pain. "You're not on it, man. The cops didn't get a CCTV picture of the killer, so he didn't use the elevator."

"You'd make a good detective," Jack grinned. "Though while we're talking hypothetically, remember I wouldn't have had to do it personally. My point is however unlikely the coincidence seems, so few people knew about her work that the idea she was killed because of it is even more unlikely."

Blair sighed. He was so tired. "You're probably right." Put that way, it did sound like paranoia.

But then Jack said something that made him think again. "For what it's worth, I did think the coincidence was a bit much at first. I have an old friend checking into a couple of things."

"Like what?"

"The kind of murders Tania was interested in are supposed to be reported to the FBI."

Blair frowned. "Murder isn't a federal crime."

"Unless someone kills in more than one state, or crosses a state line to do it. That's what the profiling team at Quantico is supposed to detect. Now, not every police department does pass on those files. My contact is going to find out if the cases Tania was interested in were sent to Quantico but it's going to take a while."

"If the FBI have the files, what does that mean?"

"It means if Tania was on to something, they'll make the connection. I don't trust everything the FBI do, but on this they're very good."

"You're telling me to back off," Blair said. The thought was worrying.

"I'm telling you to be careful. Let the authorities do the investigating."

This was exactly what Blair had told Matt Roca. He nodded, appreciating the irony. "I will. Thanks, Jack." He finished his coffee and stood up. At the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. "How long before your friend at the FBI gets back to you?"

"A few weeks at least. I'll let you know as soon as I hear."

By the time Blair reached his office he had decided to give murder a rest. Jack was right: knowing too much about these things made a man look for the worst-case scenario. He shouldn't let himself fall into that trap. He had papers to grade, and work on his thesis that he'd been neglecting. He found a tape of tribal music to relax him and settled down at his desk, music filling the office as he worked.

Some time later, he a knock on his door interrupted. Before Blair could answer the door opened and a familiar face peered around it. "Can I come in?" Matt asked.

Blair set his work aside with a smile. "Hi, Matt!"

"I - ah - I brought coffee and muffins." Matt held up a Starbucks bag. "Just in case I wasn't welcome."

"Of course you're welcome!" Blair bounced to his feet, leaping around the desk to greet Matt.

Matt sat on the edge of Blair's desk and opened the bag. "I didn't know what you like so I got straight coffee," he announced, handing Blair the plastic-topped cup. "Mine's a mocha. And..." he produced two muffins, one blueberry, one chocolate "...your choice."

"You certainly know the way to my heart!" Blair chose the blueberry.

"I think I should have brought espresso. You look shattered, Blair. When did you last sleep?"

"Last night...not for long, though." The coffee was perfect, and very welcome.

"I haven't been sleeping too well, either." Matt's smile faded. "Blair, I came because..."

"I know," Blair interrupted. "I should have called you days ago. I've been looking into it, man, but I'm still not sure. There has to be something Tania didn't tell us."

"Probably. Tan kept secrets for the sake of it." Matt looked hard at Blair. "Wait a moment. Blair, I asked you to help, not work yourself to death! Is this why you haven't been sleeping?"

Blair nodded, but said simply, "Tania mattered to me, too."

Matt set his mocha down on the desk. "That settles it. You're coming with me."

Blair laughed into his coffee. "Oh, really?"

"Blair, I know you dated my sister, okay? I'm not making a pass at you. But you need to relax and have some fun. Put the books away, and let's both take the night off."

Blair glanced at his stack of books, then at the coffee and muffin Matt had given to him. He smiled. "Can I finish my coffee first?"

Jim shoved the crime scene photographs back into his desk drawer. He slammed it shut. Was everyone looking over his shoulder today?

"You're doing everything you can, Jim." Taggert's voice was soft.

Jim shook his head. "She shouldn't be dead."

Taggert sighed, leaning back against Jim's desk. "I know what you mean. I still can't believe she's gone."

"Was she a friend of yours?"

"No, it was only professional. The Fazzino case was mine, remember?"

Jim did remember.

"Tania's articles started it and she was a big help on the case. We made...a kind of deal so she wouldn't report too much while the investigation was in progress. A couple of weeks ago she called me - that was the first time we spoke since I wrapped up the case. She said she was calling in the favour I owed her, so we had a meeting."

Jim leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that," he said, trying to keep his tone casual.

"I thought you might."

"Can we talk somewhere...not here?"

"Sure."

Jim checked his watch. "Time I called it a day. Let's get a couple of beers."

Pedro's was only a block away from the Police HQ; a lot of cops spent lunch hours or evenings at the bar. Taggert bought them each a light beer and they sat in one of the booths at the rear; away from the smoke and the noise of the jukebox, where they could talk privately.

"I don't think our meeting is relevant to her murder, Jim," Taggert was saying as they sat down.

Jim agreed. "Probably not. But I still want to know. What did you talk about?"

Unsolved murder cases. If it was anyone but Tania I would have thought she was looking to haul the PD over the coals, but that was never Tania's style. She had a list of murder victims going back for years that she thought were linked. She wanted my input but I couldn't tell her much because they were open cases."

"The night we watched the game, you mentioned Lamarche. What else was on her list?"

Taggert frowned into his beer. "I don't remember all of them. Lamarche, Jansen, Vallery...um...Kraemer was one she mentioned. She had about ten."

"I don't get it. Jansen was a pimp. Lamarche sold drugs. Kraemer was a schoolteacher. What's the connection?" But there was something. Jim stayed quiet, wondering if Taggert would pick up on it.

"Good question. She was cagey about it, but if I had to guess I'd say she thought it was the same perp."

"That's ridiculous!"

"I thought so, too."

Jim took a long drink of beer, thinking that one over. If the same person committed several murders you generally saw a similar modus operandi. That didn't apply to the cases Taggert listed. There was no real common factor in the victims, either. Finally, Jim looked back at Taggert. "Kraemer was your case, wasn't it? What did you come up with?"

"The murder was mine, yeah. I drew a big blank. There was a mile-long list of people with motive, but no one we could tie in to the murder. You remember the case - the guy was scum."

"Who do you think killed Kraemer?" Jim pressed.

Taggert glanced around them, checking no one was near. He spoke quietly. "The way I figure it, it was probably a hit. I think the parents of one of the kids he abused hired someone local to take care of it. That's why we couldn't link the killer to the victim."

"Kraemer was acquitted of those charges," Jim noted.

Taggert laughed harshly. "We all know he was guilty. He got off because the only two kids brave enough to testify were taken out of the picture."

"We never proved that wasn't an accident," Jim answered. But he did remember the case and Taggert was right. It happened in '96. Brent Kraemer was a schoolteacher who systematically abused the children he was responsible for. Child abuse didn't fall under Major Crimes, but when the two kids died just before Kraemer's trial, they treated the deaths as murder. They were teenagers, the girl was fourteen, the boy a year older. They died in a car accident and all the evidence suggested it was a joy ride. Certainly neither of them should have been driving. The parents of both kids insisted neither of them would have been joyriding, but there was no evidence of foul play. It forced Taggert to sign off on the case as an accident, and Kraemer's trial went ahead without the testimony of the two best witnesses. There were two other kids who did testify, but one of them was so scared on the stand that his evidence was useless, and the other unfortunately had a track record of imaginative lying. On the stand the prosecution had no difficulty demolishing his story. And the jury bought it. An abusive bastard who was probably involved in the murder of two kids was acquitted. Not the PD's finest hour.

Jim leaned forward across the table. "Joel, are you saying Kraemer deserved to die?"

"No one," Taggert mumbled into his beer bottle, "deserves to die like that." He met Jim's eyes, his expression hard. "But I do think he deserved twenty years hard time." He hesitated, then added, "You know, Jim, I did my job on that case. I really did. But between you and me, I'm glad I couldn't find the killer. If I'm right and one of those kids' parents was behind it, I would have hated to see them go down for murdering that SOB."

"No one will miss him, that's for sure," Jim agreed gruffly. He drained his beer and looked at the bottle. Maybe he could use something stronger. That case left a bad taste in his mouth. "Another?" he offered, and headed through the choking smoke to the bar. He hated cigarette smoke. Simon's cigars he could handle, but this was too much. He ordered another beer for Taggert and a scotch for himself.

Taggert took the bottle from him with a nod of thanks. His eyes went to the glass in Jim's hand but he didn't comment on it. "Jim, about Tania. Was that a professional job?"

Jim slid back into the plush leather seat. "I've considered it, but that doesn't add up. She made some enemies exposing Fazzino last year, but why hit her now? It's too late to affect the Fazzino case, too late to send any message." He sipped his scotch. It burned his throat going down - just what he needed. "She was a well-liked woman from a close family, with a bright future. I can't find anyone who even disliked her, let alone anyone with a motive for murder." He drained his scotch. "I'd better go. See you tomorrow, Joel." He started to get up.

Taggert stopped him. "Jim. If you need a hand with that case..."

Jim managed a smile. "Thanks. I've got it covered."

Jim slammed the truck door closed and leaned back in the driver's seat, closing his eyes. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to his clothing, somehow even stronger in the close confines of the truck than it had been in the bar. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it into the back, hoping that would alleviate the smell, but it didn't help. He turned his key in the ignition and the air conditioning kicked in. That helped, a little.

He set off for home. The sooner he could wash this stink off himself the better.

Kraemer. Jansen. Lamarche. Vallery.

Closed cases. Not names Jim wanted to hear again. He found himself gripping the steering wheel tightly as he drove, making his fingers cramp. The pain was a welcome distraction.

A dispatcher's voice came over the radio as Jim pulled up at a red light. "All available units. Code 6 417. 2913 Durnell Street."

Jim picked up his radio. "Ellison one-zebra-one responding." Code 6 was a request for backup; 417 meant an armed suspect. He turned the truck toward the right. The junction was too busy for Jim to turn on the siren and go; he had to wait for the green light. "Come on," he muttered to himself. "Come on!"

The light flashed to green. Jim hit the gas.

Dazzling light exploded into his vision. Throwing up a hand to block the painfully blinding light was a reflex, automatic. The moment he'd done it Jim knew it was the most stupid move he could have made. By then it was a millisecond too late.

The truck spun out of control beneath him. Jim squeezed his eyes shut against the dazzle and grabbed the wheel again, but he had no idea in that instant which way to turn. He heard a screech of tyres and a crash.

Jim had just enough time to recognise the taste of his own blood before he lost consciousness.

"Jim. Jim, can you hear me?" The voice sounded urgent.

Jim tried to answer, but nothing seemed to work. He couldn't make sound. Couldn't move his mouth. Tried to raise a hand and felt an explosion of pain, shooting up his arm and across his chest.

He forced his eyes open a crack. Everything was blurred, but he saw a pale-haired man leaning over him. He was wearing white. A doctor? Was he in a hospital? What happened?

"Jim, I'm Doctor Ericson. Just relax, you're going to be fine."

Good news.

Jim's head was pounding. Every breath hurt, like something deep inside was broken. He couldn't remember what happened. Was there a fight? An accident?

He struggled to stay aware, but it was a losing battle.

"...units near 29th and Western. Reported 216 in progress."

Jim, just turning into Western on his way to the gym, reached for the radio. "One-zebra-one, show me responding on Western. Any details for me?" 216 meant sexual assault; he hit the accelerator, but there was too much traffic for him to plough through.

*"Roger one-zebra-one." Dispatch provided the details he requested as Jim headed for the location. Radio chatter let him know more backup was on the way, but he didn't wait. Someone needed help now. His gun was in his hand as he left the truck.*

But he was too late.

Jim saw the woman's body on the ground, but concentrated on the scene first. The 216 was reported "in progress" so the perp could still be nearby. He searched the area with his eyes but saw no one.

Holstering the gun, Jim knelt in the garbage next to the victim. He called dispatch on his cell as he reached for her. "This is Ellison, I need an ambulance at 29th and Western..."

Then his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he recognised her. The cell phone fell from his hand, forgotten. "Carolyn. Oh, god..."

Choking on fear, the stink of garbage, blood and sex overwhelming him, Jim lifted Carolyn's body into his lap, cradling her as gently as he could. He thought he heard her moan as he moved her and his heart leapt - she was alive! She was bleeding from her neck. Jim stripped off his jacket to cover her and desperately tried to stop the bleeding.

"Stay with me, baby, please. Carolyn? It's Jim, I'm here. You'll be okay, just...oh, god, baby, please hold on."

Jim never knew how long he waited, kneeling in the alley holding the woman he loved, choking on the smells surrounding them, feeling her life leak away, hot blood on his hands.

It was a hundred years before the ambulance arrived. By then, she was gone.

"...And a serious concussion." Stephen Ellison looked worried. The doctor tells me it could have been a lot worse."

Simon looked sceptical. It could have been worse? It was bad enough. He was surprised to find Jim's brother already at the hospital when he arrived; apparently the hospital had called them both.

"Do you know how long it will be until I can speak to him?" Simon asked carefully.

"You can try now, Captain. He might hear you. He's been drifting in and out."

That didn't sound good at all.

"I'll leave you to talk alone," Stephen offered.

"Thanks." Simon opened the door quietly.

Jim was in a private room, his body hooked up to half-a-dozen machines. He seemed to be sleeping. Bruises stood out starkly against his pale face. A butterfly strip covered a cut on his forehead. The rest of his injuries were concealed beneath the hospital gown he wore.

Simon sat down beside the bed. He said quietly, "Jim?"

Jim turned his head toward Simon, but his eyes remained closed. He muttered something Simon couldn't hear.

Simon leaned closer. "Jim, can you hear me?"

Jim's eyes flew open suddenly, but it was clear he didn't see Simon. He murmured something again.

Simon frowned. It sounded like "Carolyn" but she had been dead for years. "Jim, it's Simon," he tried again, but without much hope. Stephen had warned him.

"It should have been me," Jim muttered.

Simon sighed. Carolyn's murder weighed heavily on Jim, but Simon thought he was getting over it at last. Why was Jim dwelling on it now?

He stayed at Jim's side a little longer, but it was clear Jim didn't know he was there. He left, intending to return in the morning.

Simon thought back to the night Carolyn died. Jim should never have taken that call, but of course none of them, the dispatcher least of all, realised the victim was Jim's fiance. They said he'd gone a little crazy at the scene, but by the time the ambulance reached the hospital Jim was calm...almost frighteningly so. Simon remembered that moment vividly - he had broken every speed limit to reach the ER just ahead of them and was waiting when the ambulance arrived, bearing Carolyn and Jim. Simon hadn't known, just then, that she was dead. He thought she'd been badly hurt, but no worse. Jim followed her body out of the ambulance. His hands and clothing were scarlet with her blood.

Jim met Simon's eyes and said, "When we find the man who did this to her, Simon, you'd better not let me near him. This would be worth going down for life." He was very calm as he spoke, very serious. And Simon knew he meant it.

It was almost 4am when they "escaped" Club Doom. Blair was laughing as they emerged into the rain. His euphoria was partly alcohol, partly narcotics (hard to avoid when the air was full of smoke, even if he didn't smoke it himself) and partly the relief of the first real fun he'd had since the night Tania died. He hadn't enjoyed a night out so much in ages.

He and Matt walked out to the main road in the hope of finding a cab. Long before the reached the road, Blair was soaked, his fleece jacket poor protection against the rain. His long hair clung to his skull and face in rats' tails. He didn't really care.

Matt wasn't much better off, though his leather jacket seemed to keep off the rain.

They reached the road but there was no sign of a taxi. Matt leaned against a streetlight. He ran both hands through his wet hair, slicking it back from his face. "One question," he grinned.

"Shoot," Blair agreed.

"What the hell were you doing dating Tan? Didn't she notice you're into guys?"

Blair felt his mouth drop open. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"Aw, come on! You weren't exactly subtle. Staring at those two leatherboys."

Suck it up, Blair, he's got you dead to rights.

Blair shrugged. "I like girls, too," he admitted. "I like...most things." Even knowing Matt was gay, Blair hadn't planned to come out this early in their friendship. Some gay men had...issues...with bisexual guys.

Matt had no such problem. "Including leather?" he teased.

Blair laughed. "Leather, silk, rubber...makes a change from books."

Matt grinned back, wringing out his hair again. "Blair...I know I sort of promised I wouldn't do this, but...would you like to stay the night at my place?"

Blair didn't hesitate. "Sure, man. I'd love to."

4 FEBRUARY 1998

Simon rested his elbows on his desk, one hand on his forehead. He was getting a headache already, and it was barely eight o'clock. He looked up at the tap on his door. "Come!" he called. "Joel, good, come in. Coffee?"

"Thanks. How's Jim? Have you heard?"

Simon poured coffee for both of them. "He's going to be fine," he answered, "but it's going to be a week or two before he's back. I need you and Rafe to take over Jim's caseload while he's on the sick list. Can you handle it?"

Taggert winced. "I guess we'll have to."

Simon sighed. "I know everyone's under pressure right now. I'm not expecting miracles, Joel. I just want to know nothing will slip under the radar completely."

"Got it. I'll talk to Rafe and make sure we've got it covered." Taggert frowned. "Simon...about the accident. Do you know what happened?"

"The other car ran a red light. Witnesses agreed the other car was at fault, but it sounds like Jim lost control of his car very quickly. The doctor said he'd been drinking but he wasn't over the limit." And that in itself made no sense. Simon had seen Jim drive; it wasn't like him to lose control so easily. If he'd been drunk it would have made sense...but Jim wouldn't drink and drive, either. The whole thing made no sense.

Taggert shook his head firmly. "We were drinking, Simon, but there's no way he was - "

Simon's phone rang, interrupting. Simon answered it and listened for a moment. "I'd better take this, Joel. We'll catch up later."

Taggert took the hint.

"Put him through," Simon instructed. He gave it a second for the line to clear then said, "Hello, who am I speaking to?"

"I'm trying to reach Detective Ellison," a man's voice crackled down the phone. It was a poor line. "And I'm tired of the runaround."

"Detective Ellison is unavailable," Simon explained patiently. Any of the cops in the bullpen could have taken this call, but what he'd said to Taggert was true: everyone had a heavy case load right now. Every little helped, and Simon could take one call for Ellison. "I'm Captain Banks, Major Crimes. Who am I speaking to?"

The silence went on for longer than he expected. "My name is Blair Sandburg. When can I reach Detective Ellison?"

Not for some time I'm afraid. Perhaps I can help you?" Sandburg...Sandburg... He was a witness in one of Jim's cases...

Sandburg seemed hesitant. "Um...I don't know. I guess..."

Simon gave him time.

"Uh...I have some information that might be relevant to Tania Roca's murder."

Tania Roca. Simon nodded, memory clicking into place. Sandburg was the man who found her body. "You know something you didn't tell Ellison when you made your statement?" he asked.

"I didn't know everything then." Sandburg sounded defensive. "Look, I really want to talk to Ellison."

"As I said, he won't be available for some time. Come in to the department and I'll have someone take your statement."

"Why not Detective Ellison? Isn't this his case?"

"It is, but he's not going to be in work for a few days."

"Shit, man, do you have any idea what it took for me to make this call? I'm scared, man."

Belatedly, Simon understood what was behind the man's hesitation. Sandburg hadn't said he wouldn't come in to the department, but his insistence on speaking only to Ellison implied he didn't want to do this formally. Did he have some reason to be afraid? "Alright," Simon said. "I'll meet you myself, Sandburg. You pick the place."

Another long silence. "Okay," Sandburg said. He sounded reluctant.

Simon waited for him to suggest a place, but the line stayed silent. "Where should we meet?" Simon prompted gently.

"Oh. Um. There's a Mexican place on 34th. Could you meet me there at two?"

"I'll be there," Simon promised.

"Great. Thanks." The line went dead.

Simon hung up the phone. There went his lunch plans. Jim had picked a really bad time to get hurt...

Even so, at 2pm sharp Simon walked into the little Mexican caf. It was a good choice of rendezvous: a public place, plenty of people around, but quiet enough to allow conversation. Simon had glanced over the CCTV pictures in the Roca file and found an image of Sandburg so he would recognise the man. He saw him sitting at the bar and walked over there. "Are you Sandburg?" he asked.

The scruffy young man looked up and nodded. "I'm Blair. Captain Banks?" The kid looked harried. He was hugging a thick file in his lap. There was a bowl of nachos in front of him but it looked untouched. He was drinking water.

"I'm Simon Banks," he confirmed. "Let's sit at a table, shall we?"

Sandburg nodded, picking up his bowl. "Did you want something?" he asked.

Simon couldn't help a smile. "No, thanks. I'd rather get down to business."

Sandburg seemed relieved by that. His expression became serious, quickly. "Sure, man." He headed to a free table and Simon followed.

Sandburg started talking before Simon sat down. "I only met Tania a couple of weeks before she was killed, but I was one of the few people she told about the story she was working on. See..." he took a sip of his water, "I couldn't shake the feeling that her death had to be connected with her story. But I only just figured it out."

He sounded like a kid playing amateur detective, but Simon knew better than to let his feelings show. "Okay," he answered, non-commitally. "Tell me what you think you've figured out."

"I knew about her story, and Jack knew. Jack Kelso. But Tania swore both of us to secrecy. I didn't tell anyone and I'm sure Jack didn't. Captain, as far as I know, there's only one other person who knew what she suspected. A Detective Taggert."

Simon frowned. "Taggert's one of mine, but if you're implying..."

"No, no. Well, not...hell, I don't know what to think." He still held that file in his lap. He was holding it tightly, his eyes darting from side to side.

The kid was really scared, Simon realised. "Why don't you tell me what's on your mind," he prompted.

Sandburg met his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I have to trust you. I just wish I was sure... Okay, here it is." He lifted the file he had been clutching onto the table and started to talk.

He talked for nearly an hour, showing Simon the statistics and information Tania had collected prior to her murder.

Finally, Simon closed the file for him. "Sandburg, I hate to put a dampener on your detective work, but the kind of thing you're talking about...you'd see obvious common factors. Similarities in the M.O. or in the victims..."

It didn't dampen him one bit. "Exactly!" Sandburg declared. "Look, I'm not claiming to be a criminologist or a detective. I did a lot of reading about this and all the books say the same thing. But I knew there was something I was missing, because Tania wasn't stupid. Then yesterday I was having coffee with some friends at the university and we got to talking about horror movies..."

Simon rolled his eyes. "This is going to be good..."

"No! Please listen! We were talking about these films and how serial killings in the movies are always really ritualistic. And I know that's often true in real life, too, but that's when I realised what Tania was thinking. What if you've got a killer who is smart enough to know that? What if he kills in a different way each time, knowing that the cops will think each murder is a different killer. Isn't that possible?"

Honestly, Simon didn't think so. He shook his head slightly.

"Look, I know you think I'm a dumb kid with an over-active imagination. But this..." Sandburg thumped the file between them, "This is real. Tania probably knew more about these cases than she wrote down. I think she was right. I think the same person is responsible for each of these murders. Someone sophisticated enough to know what the police look for when they investigate. Someone smart enough to change his M.O. each time, so you'll never catch on."

Simon wanted to dismiss it. The common factor in these cases is that there is no common factor. Yeah, that made perfect sense. But Tania Roca was dead and if Simon remembered the case file correctly, Jim had uncovered no convincing motive for her murder. That fact alone gave him an obligation to consider any possible lead. It sounded far-fetched, but...

"I'll look into it, Sandburg."

Sandburg nodded, but he still seemed nervous. "Look, man, I want you to keep my name out of it. I mean that."

Simon understood. He didn't think the kid had anything to be worried about, but if he was connecting this information to Tania Roca's murder, and by extension to Taggert, his fear made sense. Not that it was remotely possible Taggert could be involved in something like this. "I'll do what I can, Sandburg, but if it turns out you're right and Tania Roca was murdered because of this theory, the D.A. is going to need your testimony. I can arrange protection for you if there's reason to believe it's necessary, okay?"

"Okay," Sandburg answered uncertainly.

Simon gave him a card. "This is my direct line at the PD, and my cellphone number. Call me if you think of anything more, or if you need anything from us. Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Here..." Sandburg scrawled a number down quickly.

Simon was very troubled on his way back to the office. If Sandburg's theory was right, that did implicate Taggert. Or, by extension, anyone who knew about Taggert's meeting with Roca: everyone who was there at Jim's loft that night. And possibly everyone they might have spoken to afterwards. You couldn't contain the grapevine for long.

Could there be a rat in Simon's department? No...surely not.

But the seed of doubt remained.

Back at the office, he stopped by his secretary's desk. "Rhonda, I need copies of some of our old case files."

"No problem. Which ones?"

"I've got a list here. I need these as quickly as possible." He handed over Tania's list of unsolved murders. "And one other thing...get me a number for the FBI field office."

24 FEBRUARY 1998 (THREE WEEKS LATER)

This did not look good.

Jim's first day back at work after his accident, he was keen to get back to the job. But Simon called a meeting of every detective in Major Crimes, and looking around the table, Jim guessed no one had any more clue than he did as to what was going on. This wasn't the standard weekly briefing, that was for sure.

For starters, Sheila Irwin sat on Simon's right. If IA was here, there was trouble, and Jim was not a fan of Detective Irwin. Beside her sat a woman Jim didn't recognise; she wore a visitor's ID but she looked like a cop. From out of town, perhaps?

Jim took a seat on Simon's left. Simon did not look happy. "What's this all about, Simon?" Jim asked casually.

"You'll find out when everyone's arrived," Simon answered shortly.

That was unusually curt for Simon. Jim shrugged it off. "Okay."

"It's good to have you back, Jim," Simon added with a quick smile. He looked up as Brown walked into the room. "Good, we're all here."

Simon waited for Brown to sit down. He looked around the table, making eye contact with every person there. "A bit more than a week ago, I got a call from an informant. Based on his information, I decided to go outside our department for assistance. You all know Detective Sheila Irwin of Internal Affairs, and this is Special Agent Melissa Heywood of the FBI NCAVC. At my request, Agent Heywood has been examining some of our unsolved murder cases. Agent Heywood?"

Heywood opened a folder in front of her and brought out a set of papers. She had a stack of copies and handed one to each person at the table. "Gentlemen, you have a serial killer at work in Cascade."

Taggert said dryly, "I think we'd have noticed."

Jim accepted a copy of her papers, but didn't look at it. "You're a little late, Agent Heywood. We caught Lash two years ago."

"This isn't a joke, Jim," Simon said firmly.

Heywood went on, "The papers you're holding list eleven unsolved murders committed in Cascade. The earliest occurred in 1993. The most recent is a current case: Tania Roca. The profiling computer at ViCAP calculated a sixty three percent probability that the same perpetrator committed all eleven murders. If we exclude Frazer and Roca from the dataset, that probability shoots up to over eighty percent."

Jim glanced down the list. "Did your computer supply a list of suspects, too?" he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. But the sarcasm covered the sudden racing of his heart. Heywood's list included Ryan Frazer, Brent Kraemer, Verne Jansen, Mannie Lamarche, and Frank Vallery...all very familiar cases.

"Detective...?" Agent Heywood turned to him, her eyes cool.

"Ellison."

"Detective Ellison. The Profiler computer model is a supplement to the work done by FBI agents. We don't rely on the computer and several people have checked this analysis. You are more than welcome to examine our work."

Jim kept his eyes on the paperwork. "I investigated the Lamarche murder, and Tania Roca. There's no similarity in the MO. The victims are different. The state of the crime scenes was different. How in the world do you figure it's the same perp?"

Heywood glanced down at her notes. "You have a high success rate on your cases, Ellison. Why did you dead-end on these two?"

"It's too early to call the Roca case a dead end. There was no obvious motive for her murder. I couldn't find anyone who might want her dead. The Lamarche case was the opposite. Mannie Lamarche was a crack cocaine dealer who tried to muscle in on the Deuces' territory. We had a list of possible suspects as long as your arm, but no murder weapon, and very little forensic evidence at the crime scene..."

Heywood interrupted. "You're making my case for me, Detective." She took a breath, glancing around the table. "The so-called motiveless murder is the hallmark of the serial killer. 'Motiveless' in that the victim is usually unconnected to the killer, which makes them that much harder to detect and catch. Tania Roca's death is textbook. Detective Ellison's description of the Lamarche case makes it appear outside the 'typical' range of the serial killer. However, when examined in detail, Ellison's own notes suggest the case has some elements that mean it may not be the gang-related murder it appears."

"That's true," Jim conceded. "But...I realise I'm not the expert you are, but isn't a serial killer expected to kill in the same way each time?"

"Yes. And there are striking similarities in the cases listed in my report, Detective. Let me explain."

"I'm listening," Jim said.

"One: the murder sites. This killer invades his victim's territory to kill. More than half of these people died in their own homes, the others all in places they would have felt safe. Two: the lack of forensic evidence left behind. In some of these crime scenes you would expect to find specific types of evidence, but this man wipes out nearly all traces of his presence. He is familiar with police methods and is very careful. Three: as you pointed out, Detective Ellison, he never kills in the same way twice. Again, he is being careful to avoid detection. Four: Each of the murders listed was very carefully planned. There's no spontaneity in this at all. Jansen was killed in his swimming pool, during the only half hour of the weekend he was alone on the estate. Tania Roca's killer entered her apartment building through the only entrance covered by a fake camera. The killer watches his victims closely and plans the crimes in great detail before he strikes."

Taggert frowned. "Sounds like a pro."

"No," Jim answered, his eyes moving down the list of murder victims as he spoke. He remembered all of them, and Heywood wasn't wrong about the common threads. "A pro is a possibility in some of the cases," Jim added, "but not all of them. At least, I don't think so. I eliminated that possibility in the Roca case."

Jim wasn't the only one at the table who was sceptical. Brown was shaking his head. "So tell me, Agent Heywood," Brown said, "did it occur to you that the reason there is no obvious connection between these cases is because there isn't one?"

"I understand your..." Heywood began.

Jim interrupted her. "No, H, she's right." He looked at Brown. "Sorry to butt in again. But look at this list, H. Three of them were my cases. Two are Taggert's. I can see one of yours...if any of us had investigated all or most of these cases we would have picked up on the similarities, but none of us has worked on more than three, have we? Like you said, the connections aren't obvious. They're not the sort of things we look for." He turned his eyes to Heywood. "I think I owe you an apology, Agent Heywood."

She nodded acknowledgement, unsmiling. "Accepted."

"So, accepting your theory for now, do you have a profile on this guy?"

"We do," Heywood answered. She glanced at Simon.

Simon spoke up. "Every case on this list is going to be re-examined. Where possible, someone other than the original investigating officer will look into each case. Hopefully a fresh pair of eyes will make a difference. I'll expect everyone to be guided by the ViCAP profile, but don't let it blind you to other leads."

Taggert leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Okay. Amaze us."

"Murderer profiling is not an exact science. We work from two angles: the victim profile and the murder ritual, to derive a behavioural profile of the offender. Simply put, however careful a killer is to avoid detection, he cannot entirely hide his own nature. A psychological profile aims to describe that nature. Like a photofit of a suspect, any of the details in this profile could be wrong, but the overall picture is usually accurate.

"This killer is a white male aged between 32 and 38. He is single, but may have been married in his past. Nearly all serial killers come from single parent families. This killer's parent was a dominant personality and he almost certainly suffered some kind of abuse in childhood, probably non-sexual physical or psychological abuse at the hands of his parent or a parent's partner.

"I hope we can derive a more detailed physical profile of this man over the coming weeks, by re-examining the murder cases. What we know already is that he is physically very strong, but he's not powerful in a way that makes him stand out in a crowd. This is a man who is good at blending in, at being unobtrusive.

"A serial killer's choice of victims usually corresponds to his sexuality. Straight serial killers kill only women, homosexual serial killers target men. This killer's victims are mostly male, suggesting he may be gay or bisexual but we think he considers himself heterosexual, because he leaves only his female victims in positions that suggest a sexual element to the murder.

"This man is highly organised. In his day-to-day life he probably appears perfectly normal to those who know him. He has a job and does it well, his colleagues like him and his family and friends probably think he's a nice guy. He almost certainly lives alone; the amount of planning and preparation he puts into his murders would be noticed by a partner or roommate, and he does put a lot of effort into that planning. Nothing about these murders is random, and nothing about them is sloppy. He selects his victims, he watches them, stalks them, even, perhaps for as long as several weeks before moving in for the kill. He learns their habits and schedules.

"This killer selects his victims extremely carefully. Until Tania Roca, each victim was in some way deviant or criminal. He believes he's on a mission, perhaps of divine inspiration, to clean up the streets. He chooses victims he thinks the police won't care about. He plans the crime in meticulous detail, each murder different in some way, to throw the police off track. This means he is highly intelligent and is familiar with police methods. He's a man fascinated by police work, someone who reads crime novels and biographies, who watches real-life crime shows on television...anything he can get his hands on. Or it may mean he works in a related field.

"He's familiar with a range of weapons and trained to use them. This suggests he has a background in the armed forces. Our profiling team think he has served in the Marine Corps or the army and may have been involved in black ops. This would have provided a natural outlet for his aggression and it's only since being discharged that he has turned to murder. He was probably discharged involuntarily, no more than four years before his first murder."

Heywood closed her folder and looked around the table. "Any questions?"

There was silence around the table for a moment. Finally, it was Brown who spoke up. "That's a lot of detail. You can't possibly be sure of all that."

"You'd be surprised how accurate some murderer profiles are. But, yes, there's a margin for error. You'll notice there are a lot of 'probablies' and 'likelies' in the profile. We do the best we can; but a profile is just a guide. A good guide, but not more than that."

There were a few more questions, and then Simon handed out assignments to everyone.

As the meeting broke up, Brown joked, "Sounds like we've got our prime suspect right here."

Jim grabbed Brown's arm, hard. "That's not funny, H."

Brown shrugged it off, not apologising. "Geez, man, where's your sense of humour?"

"What was that about?" Heywood was frowning a little as she turned to Simon.

He shook his head, hoping to laugh it off. "Oh, nothing. Just banter."

Sheila Irwin was still with them, taking her time putting her papers in order. She glanced up as Simon spoke. "Are you sure?" she prompted, dashing Simon's hopes that she'd take the hint and stay quiet.

"Yes," he answered firmly, "I'm sure."

Agent Heywood lifted her briefcase and started to put her report away. "Captain...Detective Irwin...banter or not, I'm guessing from your reactions that the profile appears to fit one of your officers. Am I right?"

Reluctantly, Simon nodded. "Ellison. I don't know about the childhood thing, but he's ex-army and at least some of his work back then was classified. He was discharged on medical grounds in 1991. He's single and lives alone."

"Divorced?"

"No. Never been married." Simon looked at Irwin determinedly. "But let's not repeat past mistakes here, understood? I know Jim Ellison."

Irwin shrugged. "Ellison is also one of the six cops implicated in the Roca case. I won't jump to conclusions, but I need to check all of them out. Including you, sir."

"Sheila, you can check me out all you like. As long as we're clear Ellison isn't a suspect in this case. Not until you can give me some real evidence."

"Fine by me, Captain. I'll be speaking to all six of you today. Hopefully we can eliminate all of you from suspicion. Believe me; I don't want to think one of our cops is a serial killer, any more than you do."

"In the meantime," Heywood suggested smoothly, "we must keep our approach to this investigation co-ordinated. It will be too easy to get in each others' way."

"You're here as a guest, Agent Heywood," Simon reminded her. His voice sounded too terse, even to his own ears. He took a breath and tried again. The case was getting to him already; not surprising with IA breathing down his neck on one side and the FBI on the other. "I just meant..." he tried to apologise.

Heywood met his eyes. "You don't need to remind me of my place, Captain. If the FBI wanted to muscle in on your case they would have sent an investigative team. My job is support, but make no mistake, Captain Banks, while I'm on this case, everything I live and breathe goes into catching this killer. If we have the same goal, we don't have a problem here."

Despite himself, Simon found he was smiling. "I don't think we have a problem."

"...But even though those beliefs seem strange, don't just dismiss them," Blair insisted. He was walking down the stairs toward his office with Britta, one of his students, at his side, continuing the debate they'd started in the afternoon's seminar.

Britta threw up her hands. "Oh, come on. You can't believe things like spirits are real!"

"Reality," Blair lectured, "is what you perceive. Do you think proteins and electrolytes are real?"

Britta grinned, letting him know she saw the trap, but she walked into it anyway. "Yes..."

"But you've never seen an electrolyte, have you?"

"Obviously not. But - "

"You believe it because it's a logical part of your world view. It's the way you've been taught the world works. It's the same for them, Britta. Right or wrong, theirs is a complex and logical world view. If you dismiss it as ignorance or superstition, you'll never understand it."

They reached Blair's office and he opened the door, waving Britta in ahead of him. But the office wasn't empty. Matt was waiting, sitting behind Blair's desk as if he belonged there. Blair said to Britta, "Just wait a moment and I'll find that book for you." He smiled for Matt. "What, no muffins?"

"I had something more sinful in mind." Matt's seductive smile left no doubt what he meant, and Blair cursed his fair complexion as he felt a blush rise to his cheeks. In front of Britta! Damn...

"Can't wait," Blair muttered, turning to the bookshelves to hide his face from both of them. He took longer than he really needed to find the book he'd promised her. He got himself under control and turned back. He blew across the top of the book, pretending it was dusty, and then handed it to Britta. "Here you go. Remember, you don't have to believe what they believe, just understand that it's as real to them as molecules and atoms are to you. Otherwise, it won't make sense."

Britta tucked the book under her arm. "I'll try. Thanks." She turned to go.

"Oh, and Britta?"

She looked back.

"Smart work today. Well done."

She grinned. "Thanks." She vanished out of the door.

Matt was still seated behind Blair's desk. Blair wondered for a moment what Tania would think about him leaping into her brother's bed. He studied Matt. They were definitely brother and sister. The same dark eyes and touchable hair. The same smile. The resemblance was probably part of the attraction for Blair, but he didn't think the reasons were important any more. The first night after they'd been out to Club Doom was simple, uncomplicated (and very good) sex. Seeing each other again was...more. Funny that he didn't feel so out-of-his-league with Matt as he had with Tania. More was very welcome.

Matt looked up and smiled. "This is really good stuff, Blair."

"What is?" Blair moved closer to see what Matt was reading and recognised the draft chapters of his thesis that he'd been proofreading earlier. "You were reading my paper?"

"I didn't think you'd mind."

Blair leaned over Matt's shoulder. "I don't...not really. I'm just surprised." His thesis wasn't secret, but only his doctoral committee had seen it so far. He hadn't planned to share yet. "How long have you been here?" he asked.

"About an hour. You said I could wait here."

"How much have you read?"

"I started just skim-reading, and then I got fascinated. You write really well, Blair. Did you really spend six months in the jungle?"

"Longer than that on some trips. The Peru trip was six months, but only two of them were in the jungle. It was..." Blair closed his eyes, remembering, "a life-changing experience. What I've written in that chapter barely scratches the surface."

"That's amazing." Matt turned in the swivel-chair, looking up at him. "I mean, I know about tribal art and stuff, but you really know it." He started to stand. "I want to hear all about it, Blair."

Blair smiled wickedly. "But you didn't bring coffee!"

Matt laughed. "I've been feeling miserable all day. How do you manage to make me laugh?"

"Missing Tania?" Blair asked gently.

"Always." Matt's smile was gone.

"Let's go somewhere fun, then. But not the Doom. It'll have to be someplace quiet if you want my jungle stories."

"It sounds dangerous." Matt refilled his wine glass and offered the bottle to Blair.

Blair hadn't wanted to eat at a fancy restaurant, so they ended up with Chinese take-out, two bottles of red wine and an odd-looking desert Matt insisted on getting from one of his father's restaurants. They were picnicking on the floor of Blair's office.

Blair nodded. "It's...risky. You weigh the potential benefits against the risk and make a choice. The Peru trip was too risky for me to get academic funding. I went as a volunteer with SAHR - they're a human rights NGO. I speak Quechua, at least enough to get by, and I understand tribal societies...at least a little more than the average volunteer. Enough to make me useful. So I gave SAHR four months of work, and in return I got to visit some of the people who still live in pre-civilised tribes. It was the most amazing experience of my life."

"Tell me," Matt urged eagerly.

THREE YEARS EARLIER

*Blair sat cross-legged on a woven mat, trying to watch the Shaman without being too obvious about it. The shaman defied all the Western clichs: he was a relatively young man (Blair guessed he was around 35) so his hair was black, not white. He wore no exotic paint, just a small tattoo on his cheekbone. His eyes had great depth, though, and Blair had a strong impression those eyes saw everything.*

The shaman spoke, breaking a long silence. Blair concentrated on every word but the tribal dialect was quite different from the textbook Quechua he knew and he was able to understand only the general gist. He thought he was being called an idiot.

"He says," Blair's guide translated, "that you have an American man's...romantic?...vision. He believes you do not understand what you seek."

Blair answered carefully, "Understanding is the thing I seek."

"Why?" the Shaman asked him.

Blair understood the question that time, and didn't wait for a translation. "I am...a seeker of knowledge for my people. I want to help others understand and respect these ways, but first I must learn for myself. I cannot teach what I do not understand."

After another protracted silence, the Shaman said, "The knowledge you seek will not bring you peace. This quest demands your life."

It sounded like a threat, but Blair understood enough to realise it wasn't meant that way. He nodded agreement, offering his hands to the Shaman. "My quest to understand the sentinels is my life's work."

When his guide repeated Blair's words, the Shaman leaned forward, grasping Blair's wrists. Blair instinctively pulled back but the Shaman's grip was strong. He made himself relax and looked up into the Shaman's eyes. His heart beat against his chest. There was no reason to be afraid, but he was.

Finally, the Shaman released Blair. Blair didn't dare speak first.

The Shaman spoke a few words, his tone kind, then he rose and walked away.

Blair's guide looked at him. "He said you speak more truth than you know. He said if you have the courage to follow this path, return at sunset."

Blair's heart leapt. He would return.

The drink was bitter; a milky liquid with small grains floating in it that could have been seeds or dirt. Blair glanced at the Shaman. He wanted to ask what was in it, but he knew that would be a serious breach of the tradition. It was a test of courage: he was supposed to drink, or reject, without knowing. Blair lifted the cup back up to his lips and took a second tentative sip. It didn't seem too dangerous. He drank it down.

His head started spinning almost at once. Blair dropped the cup, raising a hand to his head. He looked at the Shaman, asking for help with his eyes as the world turned inside-out around him.

The Shaman answered, telling him to relax and, if Blair understood him correctly, to 'open his heart'.

That was a mental image he didn't need. As soon as Blair thought it, it became uncomfortably literal - a hand touched him above his heart, splitting his skin apart.

"Not that open," he heard, but not with his ears. The words were English, or perhaps language made no difference in this place. "Come with me," the Shaman instructed.

Blair stood and found that he was nude. He looked down to ask the Shaman if that was supposed to happen and found him gone. In his place, a great eagle regarded him with unblinking, golden eyes.

The eagle spoke: "Will you run in that form?"

*Blair started to explain he didn't have another form, but even as he formed the words he felt something shift inside him and his body transformed. It was the strangest feeling: his limbs contracting and changing, his hands and feet becoming paws, fur flowing from his skin. It wasn't a horror-movie-transformation; there was no pain as there would surely be if this were reality. *

"This is reality," the eagle chided.

Blair started to form an apology but the eagle spread its wings and launched into the air. Instinctively, Blair followed. He ran through the jungle, leaping over fallen trees, ducking under vines, weaving between obstacles. Faster and faster he ran, following the eagle. He had no conception of time in this place, no idea how long he ran or how far. Finally, the eagle cried out, landing on an outstretched branch. Blair bounded to its side, sitting back on his haunches. He wasn't even tired.

They were at the top of a gentle slope, looking down into a jungle clearing with a sparkling green pool. Many animals were gathered at the poolside, so many that at first the scene made no sense to Blair. There were rabbits, peering through long grasses, mice peeping out from beneath wide leaves, and a rodent-like creature Blair didn't recognise. A white crane stood at the edge of the water. They were all gentle animals, all vegetarian. All but one. A jaguar slowly circled the gathered animals. Blair watched the great cat, entranced by the deadly grace of its movements. He thought it was corralling the animals and wondered why none of them tried to flee. Then he realised the jaguar was protecting them. He saw a snake coiled in a tree above the clearing. Slowly, the snake descended toward the gathered animals. It was hunting.

The jaguar leapt, its jaws spread wide. It snatched the serpent from the air, biting it mid-body. The snake struck, fighting to get free, but it seemed to have no effect on the jaguar. As the jaguar's leap ended, it dropped the snake, its claws and teeth rending into its flesh. Blair watched the battle in fascination, the eagle beside him utterly forgotten. When it was over, the jaguar's mouth and paws were scarlet with blood. It was a primal vision. Predator and prey. Blair felt his heart beating faster.

The jaguar looked up. Its lambent eyes met Blair's and it snarled. Blair was an outsider, not welcome. The jaguar leapt toward him, its bloody jaws wide. Blair was frozen in place.

An instant before the jaguar's jaws closed around his throat, Blair found himself back in his own body. He was lying on the dirt floor of the Shaman's shelter. His heart was pounding as if he'd run a marathon.

The Shaman's face appeared above him and gentle hands helped Blair to sit up. The Shaman offered Blair a piece of fruit. "Eat. It will bring your spirit back to your body."

Blair obeyed automatically. The fruit was citric and slightly bitter; it did help banish the last light-headedness of his vision. He met the Shaman's eyes, but the man simply returned his look, saying nothing.

Eventually, Blair felt able to speak. "Did you..." He struggled with the Quechua words, though he knew what he was trying to ask. "Do you know what I saw?"

*"Do you know what you saw?"*

Blair nodded. "I think so. The Jaguar Spirit - that's your sentinel?"

He saw the barest hint of a smile touch the Shaman's lips. "It is. Do you understand?"

Understand? So quickly? Blair thought it would take him months, if not years to understand everything he had seen. He replayed the vision in his mind. The predator guarding the gentler animals. The jaguar's bloody jaws. He understood. "A sentinel is the protector of the tribe, and also a predator. He is a warrior spirit to be respected and feared."

The Shaman's eyes met his again, deep pools of wisdom. "What place has such a spirit in your world?" he asked Blair.

24 FEBRUARY 1998

"It wasn't until I got back to Cascade that I started to understand what he was telling me," Blair concluded. "A sentinel has no place, no purpose, in a modern, urban environment."

"So you gave up searching?"

"Never!" Blair was holding Matt, pressed against his body from behind, stroking his arm and chest gently. It was more comfortable than he had been with a lover for a long time. Matt's easy intimacy was relaxing, but Blair wondered if it might become stifling over time. That very wondering was a reflection of their very different backgrounds: Blair as an only child knew how to be friendly and connect with people but rarely did his friendships become close. His sexual relationships were short because after a week or two or three it always got to a place he wasn't able to go. Matt, on the other hand, was from a large, apparently happy family: he could be cagey on the surface, like showing up all smiles when inside he was crying over his sister's death. But once you got past the surface, once you were trusted, Matt was an open book. Honest, curious and genuinely interested in Blair's stories.

Matt turned in Blair's arms. "Still searching, then?"

Blair smiled. "Mm. I've been searching all my life. Since I started my research here I've found hundreds of documented cases of people with one or two hyperactive senses. Like perfume testers or wine tasters, people who can detect variations in taste or smell that most people can barely believe. But it's never more than two senses, and usually it's smell or taste - those are biologically related senses and they're the ones least useful in the urban world. I have a theory about why that happens, but it's going to take years to get the evidence. I need to get my doctorate first. Publish some papers in the right places. Maybe then I can get enough funding to find my holy grail."

"Which is a real sentinel."

"Yep. Someday."

Matt returned Blair's smile. "You sound like Tania."

It was the last thing Blair expected. He sat up, moving away from Matt. "Do I?"

"She was always passionate about her work. Like you."

"Aren't you passionate about what you do?"

Matt shook his head firmly. "I just work for Dad. I want to deal in art, not just buy decorations for restaurant walls. It'll be a few more years before I've saved enough to fly the nest."

"It sounds like you have plans."

"Oh, yeah... Starting with let's go back to my place. Unless you want to do it on your office floor."

"Sounds like an offer I can't refuse," Blair answered. It was also a very firm close to the conversation. He wasn't about to complain.

Blair found two kinds of lettuce, fennel, cherry tomatoes and Parma ham in Matt's refrigerator, and freshly baked bread rolls on the worktop. It was perfect. Matt said good sex always made him hungry and Blair was inclined to agree. He searched around for knives, a chopping board and plates and started work. He heard the shower start running and smiled to himself.

He tore the lettuce and washed it quickly. He was about to start on the fennel when he heard a knock at the door. That was weird; it was a bit late for callers and most people called from downstairs first. Only Matt's family knew the door code...and Matt was still in the shower. He went to the door warily, knowing this wasn't the best way to introduce himself. He checked the peephole in the door and saw a woman standing there. She was a blonde: not Matt's family, then. He opened the door.

Immediately, the woman produced an ID. "I'm Agent Melissa Heywood, FBI. Are you Mateo Roca?"

She was obviously expecting him to say yes. Blair looked at her ID, painfully aware he wouldn't know a fake FBI ID if it hit him in the face. He'd been feeling paranoid lately.

He shook his head. "Uh, no...I'm Blair Sandburg. Matt's...just taking a shower." Oh, god, that was embarrassing. She had to reach the obvious conclusion from that.

"Oh." There was an odd look in her eyes. "May I come in and wait?"

"I guess that will be okay," Blair stepped back to let her enter. He noticed that she looked around as she passed him, her eyes taking in every detail. Not that the hallway was that interesting. Blair ushered her into the kitchen. "I was just fixing a snack...you want something?"

She smiled. "Thanks, but no. I would like to speak with you, too, Mr Sandburg. About Tania Roca's death."

"I guessed it must be about Tania." Blair went back to the salad and picked up a knife. "I've already told the police everything."

"I've read the police files. There are just a couple of questions they didn't think to ask. I won't take up much of your time."

"Okay. What can I tell you?"

"I, uh, I didn't realise you were close to the family."

It wasn't quite a question, but Blair answered anyway. "I wasn't." He tossed the lettuce and fennel together into a bowl, and reached for some olive oil to dress it. "I met Tania two weeks before her murder, and met Matt at her funeral. I know this must look...I don't know how it looks..."

"I don't need to pry into your private life, Mr Sandburg."

"Blair, please."

"Blair," she smiled again. "The night she died, how many people knew you - " she broke off as Matt appeared in the doorway.

Matt was wearing a bathrobe, loosely tied at the waist, and nothing else. He'd expected Blair to be alone. "What's going on?" he asked.

Agent Heywood offered him her ID. "I'm Agent Heywood, FBI. I've been assigned to look into your sister's murder."

Matt frowned. "Isn't it a bit late for an interview?"

Heywood nodded. "If this is a bad time, I'll come back. But this won't take long. I'm just getting a feel for the case."

Matt looked at Blair then back to Heywood. "If it's a bad time? That's obvious, isn't it? But you're here now. How can I help?" He crossed over to Blair's side. "Will the food keep?"

"Sure," Blair agreed.

"I'm a profiler," Heywood told them, when she had their attention. "It's my job to break down the elements of a crime, figure out what's in the killer's mind. I want to look around, get a feel for what happened here. I realise it's difficult for you, but I promise I won't intrude more than I need to."

"It's okay. If you're looking for whoever killed Tania, I want to help. Just give me three minutes to get dressed." Matt left the kitchen quickly. Blair, who was learning to read Matt's moods, guessed he was fleeing the scene for some space, not because he was embarrassed by his lack of clothing.

Blair covered the salad with a plate and turned back to Agent Heywood. Why was the FBI involved, suddenly? Had Captain Banks called them in? "You were about to ask me something?" he prompted.

She nodded. "How many people knew you and Tania had a date that night?"

Blair shrugged. "I don't know. Lots of people. I didn't try to keep it a secret."

"You were excited about going out with her?"

Blair smiled, remembering. "Totally. She was amazing..."

Heywood's look was compassionate. "While we're waiting for Mateo, could you walk me through what happened when you found her?"

"I..." (...so don't want to do that...) "I guess so," Blair agreed reluctantly. He headed into the hallway. "I told the police all this. Didn't you read my statement?"

"Yes, but it's not the same as being here. You don't need to describe everything, Blair. Just show me what you did, and where you went."

He nodded. "The door was unlocked when I got here but it wasn't open. It opened when I knocked. I..."

"Just what you did," she prompted gently.

"Yeah. I walked through to the living room, calling out for Tania." Heywood followed close behind him as Blair explained. He tried to be subtle about watching her, but she probably noticed. He wondered what she was seeing. What could walking around add to what she must already know? "...and I called 911." Blair concluded. "I stayed in the hallway until the cops arrived."

Heywood looked around the living room. "Is this room the same? I mean, the way the furniture is arranged."

Blair glanced around. He didn't want to remember that night but the image of Tania's body still burned in his mind. Total recall. "Everything is the same, except the card table. It's a fold-away, usually kept under the window."

"Thanks." Heywood walked around the room slowly. She looked out of the window into the darkness. She turned around slowly, looking at the door where Blair still stood, then to the couch.

Matt reappeared from the bedroom, dressed in jeans and a sweater. "Sorry to keep you, Agent Heywood. Please, have a seat." His gesture directed her to the couch.

She sat down. "Mr Roca, the Cascade Police invited me to consult with them on this case, so I've already seen the police files. You don't need to tell me anything you've already told them. There are just a few details missing; questions they probably didn't think to ask."

"Go ahead."

"The first thing is your sister's clothing. When she was found Tania was wearing old jeans, a worn blue sweater, no bra. Does that sound like the sort of thing she'd wear at home?"

"It's Sunday-afternoon-wear. I know Tan was getting ready for a date that afternoon. She probably just tossed on any old thing after taking a shower. Just to relax. Tan was very clothes-conscious if she knew she'd have company, even family. But if she expected to be alone, yes, that's normal."

Heywood looked thoughtful. "When you say even family, does that include you?"

"She was a bit more relaxed with me, but sometimes, yes."

"Okay. I know you were out of town on that day. Is that a regular thing for you? Are you often not here?"

"Depends what you mean by regular. I have a work-related trip about every two months. They usually last for about a week. Sometimes longer, if it's a place worth some sightseeing."

"And that's your normal routine?"

Matt frowned a little. "Yes. If you need to verify where I was..."

"No, it's not that," Heywood answered quickly. "Whoever killed your sister was confident she would be alone here. So he knew you were away, which sounds like common knowledge to those in your circle, and he knew she would be here that afternoon, not working. That's what I wanted to confirm." She stood, her glance taking in both men. "That's all, for now, I think. Oh. One more thing. You told the police nothing was missing from the apartment. It's been a few weeks now - you haven't missed anything?"

"No, nothing." Matt looked at Blair.

Blair returned the look, resisting the urge to argue. There were two pages torn out of Tania's notebook - the daily-diary Matt had shown to Blair. Matt was convinced Tania had torn them out; Blair thought it was worth mentioning.

"Are you sure?" Heywood pressed.

Matt sighed. "Tan kept a notebook. There are some pages missing, but as far as I know she tore them out herself. Nothing in her room was touched. The cops dusted for prints and everything." He shrugged. "Why are you so insistent something must be missing?"

"A lot of serial killers take trophies from their victims," Blair answered automatically. Instantly he wanted to kick himself.

Heywood turned to him sharply. "Serial killers?" she repeated. "I never said..."

"You didn't have to," Blair told her. He ran his hands through his hair. "You said you're a profiler. That means you specialise in serial crimes, sex attackers and killers. Why else would the FBI be interested in Tania?"

Heywood's eyes narrowed. "Are you a criminologist, Sandburg?"

"No, anthropologist. Taking trophies from a kill...that's behaviour you can trace back to hunter-gatherer societies. Hunters take a trophy from animals they kill - the heart or liver, in some African tribes they drink the blood - it usually has spiritual significance to them. Warriors used to take the heads of their defeated enemies. In more civilised societies hunters do the same - trophy heads on walls, skins turned into rugs. If a murderer does the same, the psychological urge comes from the same root. A kind of primal survival instinct that serves no sane purpose in the modern world."

She raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. You may be right." Heywood produced a business card and handed it to Blair. "I'm going to be in Cascade for at least a week. If either of you think of anything I should know, or if you need to reach me for any reason, call my cell. Or you can get me through the Cascade FBI Field Office."

Blair took the card and passed it to Matt. "Thanks."

"I won't take up any more of your evening. Thank you both for your time."

Matt offered to see her out.

Blair stayed where he was, in the middle of the room where Tania died. He thought it would be a relief if the FBI got involved in this. It wasn't a relief. He was so scared he could barely breathe.

The building opposite Matt Roca's apartment was a block of offices. The fourth and fifth floors of the building were empty; office suites available to lease but not yet taken. In an empty office suite, a man stood near the window.

From his vantage point he had a clear view into the apartment building across the street.

Matt Roca, like his sister, never covered his windows. The watcher could see everything. He saw the FBI agent walk around the main room. Though he knew she couldn't see him, he drew back from his window as she scanned the street briefly. She didn't stay long.

He saw the two men come together after the FBI woman left. He watched them kiss. He felt an answering heat in his own body. They disappeared for a time after that. Not into the bedroom, which he could also see, but elsewhere. There was nothing for him to see, but he remained where he was, watching. Waiting.

His patience was rewarded when the two men returned. It was a sweet scene. He watched them come together in the dimly-lit room. He watched them remove each other's clothing, observed every kiss and caress. Pale flesh against dark; it was easy to see every detail. He heard himself sigh as one man knelt before the other, and wished for a better angle of view.

He rubbed his own hard cock through his pants as he watched.

Eventually, they were done, and he watched them spoon together on the bed as they prepared for sleep.

Shortly after, the watcher left the vacant office, satisfied.

25 FEBRUARY 1998, 9.00 AM

A special investigation room had been set up to keep the serial killer investigation separate from the other cases being handled by Major Crimes. Jim reached the room early, expecting he would be alone there. He wasn't.

Pictures covered three walls of the room: photographs from crime scenes, mostly, arranged in chronological clusters. Photocopies of forensic reports were pinned alongside each cluster. Death was everywhere.

Agent Heywood had her back to the door. She was staring at the pictures of Brent Kraemer's body. Or what was left of it. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Jim spoke from the doorway, wary of disturbing her. "Any new insights?"

Heywood jumped as if he'd woken her from a deep sleep. She turned to face him, saying nothing at first.

Jim stepped into the room. "Sorry."

She smiled shakily. "It's okay. I was deep in thought."

Jim moved past her to look at the wall. Kraemer's body was barely recognisable. Oddly, it wasn't the close-up shots that were the horrifying ones, as none of them told the full story. The mind tended to shy away from recognising what each picture showed. But the large, central picture showed the whole, brutal scene. The body was contorted and so badly burned it didn't even look human. There were traces of rope still visible at his wrists, but too much charring to see it all clearly. Jim frowned at the picture.

"Brent Kraemer," he said aloud. "His body was found by the fire crew the morning after the fire."

"Mm-hm," Heywood acknowledged. "The file says he died of smoke inhalation, but it's obvious from the pictures he was alive and conscious when he started to burn."

"Yeah. Unpleasant."

"Absolutely. This killer tortured just two of the eleven possible victims. Kraemer is the second. So I'm wondering: why those two?"

"Maybe it's not the same killer," Jim suggested.

She looked at him. "You and your colleagues don't want to believe this is a serial killer, do you?"

Jim looked around the room, finding bad memories on every wall. He suppressed a shudder. "I read your report about six times yesterday, trying to find something wrong with your logic. I can see the similarities in the M.O. Your analysis and profile make interesting reading. I do agree with most of your conclusions, but when I look around this room, seeing it all laid out like this, it seems a big stretch. I mean, how do you connect this..." Jim gestured to the photographs of the Kraemer scene, "...with something as clean as the Roca case? You've got to have more than 'no forensic evidence'."

"Point of entry," Heywood answered at once. "Witnesses reported an unknown man present in the building the afternoon before the fire. Detective Taggert concluded in his case file that this man was lying in wait for Kraemer. We can't be certain of that, but we do know that this killer prefers to take his victims in their homes, or at least in the victim's territory. Kraemer was killed at home. So was Roca."

Heywood moved around to the display of the Roca murder. "Tania Roca. She lived in a secure building. She was very careful about security; her brother's statement says she wouldn't even let family into the apartment without checking first, not if she was alone. I wonder if she'd been attacked in the past?"

"There's nothing in the records."

Heywood's look was suddenly scathing. "Only thirty percent of rapes are reported, detective."

Oops. Jim looked away. "You're right. Her behaviour does indicate a fear of assault."

"So, a sensible woman, careful, even paranoid about home security. Yet she apparently opened the door and invited her killer in. Why? Who would she have let in?"

Jim looked at the familiar pictures as he answered. It was a question he had considered often enough. "Someone she knew. Family. A neighbour. Maybe a boyfriend." But Jim's investigation eliminated her close family as suspects, and there was nothing to suggest a neighbour or ex-boyfriend had a motive for murder. Of course, a serial killer didn't need a motive, as such...

"A colleague," Heywood mused. "A delivery man? No. Who would she trust?" She reached out, touching one of the pictures. Jim had the distinct impression she had forgotten he was there. "She's alone in her apartment, painting her nails. Someone comes to her door. We know whoever it was didn't use the buzzer downstairs. Was she suspicious? She went to the door, checked her peephole. She saw someone she trusted, or saw something that made her decide to let him in. If he was a stranger... A police officer?" Heywood turned to Jim suddenly. "A police badge is trusted by most people. Anyone not a criminal will let you in."

Jim stiffened. "You're out of line, Agent Heywood."

"Any fancy dress store will sell you a fake police shield. Or you could steal one. A uniform is harder to fake without being caught, but it's not impossible. A cop is someone she would let into her home. Don't you agree?"

Jim frowned. "Could be," he agreed. Her profile had suggested someone fascinated by police work. Some people did collect memorabilia and suchlike. He glanced again at the photographs then turned his back on them: he already had them memorised. He took a deep breath and looked at Heywood. "Look, about your profile. I know you heard Brown's crack yesterday..."

"About you? Yes, I did."

"Well, I wouldn't want you to think..."

She looked very serious. "I don't think anything right now, detective." Heywood smiled briefly. "Let's assume for a moment our perp is connected to Cascade PD. How many people work in this building? About a thousand?"

"Probably more." Jim didn't see the relevance.

"Of those thousand, let's say about six hundred are men. If we consider that our pool of potential suspects, statistically speaking at least thirty percent will not be physically capable of these crimes. That leaves us four hundred and twenty potential suspects. I guarantee that if you do a cursory background check on all of them, at least ten will fit the profile as closely as you do. Two point five percent."

Jim leaned back against the table, crossing his arms. "So you're saying the profile is useless."

She shook her head. "No, it's a compass. It tells us where to look and what to look for. But no one has ever suggested a psychological profile is a substitute for good, old-fashioned police work."

"That's good to know," Jim began, and looked up as Simon knocked on the door.

"Jim, I need you in my office," Simon told him.

"I'm on my way."

Heywood interrupted, "I would like to discuss the investigation with you, Detective Ellison. Could we perhaps talk over lunch?"

Jim's response to that was so automatic he couldn't conceal it. He returned her friendly look coldly. "No," he answered curtly. He walked out.

Simon watched Jim go. He knew Jim didn't like having a federal agent around, but that level of rudeness was unlike him.

"Was it something I said?" Heywood asked. She didn't seem to expect an answer.

Simon glanced after Jim and nodded. He came further into the room, closing the door behind him. "He may have misunderstood you. Jim doesn't date people from work."

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mean to suggest..."

"I know you didn't. The Tania Roca case may have brought back some bad memories for him; he's been unusually sensitive lately."

"I don't understand."

Simon sighed. He knew Jim would be furious if he knew Simon was discussing this, but Heywood needed to know, and not for personal reasons. "This is confidential, understand?"

She nodded.

"Five years ago Ellison was engaged to Carolyn Plummer, one of our top forensic detectives. Two weeks before they were due to marry she was murdered. Dispatch got a call to an assault and put out the usual call; Ellison answered it. He found her dying."

Heywood leaned back against the table. "Oh, god. That's awful."

"That's why I tore a strip off Irwin yesterday. I can believe Ellison capable of killing - he has killed, to protect civilian lives - but he's not capable of this." Simon's gesture took in the whole display around them. "And it's why Brown's joke fell flat. Brown probably doesn't know; he wasn't with us at the time."

Heywood bit her lip. "Captain, I hate to ask, but..."

Simon knew what was coming. "You want to know if Ellison was a suspect back then." He shook his head firmly. "He wasn't. We know who killed Carolyn." It was the truth, but it felt like a lie. Simon sighed. "I'd better go. Just...give Ellison a chance. He's a good detective."

"I will. Thanks." Heywood returned to her contemplation of the walls.

Simon turned to go, but something made him look back. "Agent Heywood?"

"Yes?"

"If you want a working lunch, I know a place you can sample the best of the local cuisine."

She smiled. "That sounds promising. One o'clock?"

"One it is." He was smiling as he headed back to the bullpen.

Behind him, Heywood pulled out her cellphone. She dialled a number. "This is Special Agent Melissa Heywood. Could you put me through to Agent Clay Shelton, please? Yes, I'll hold." She moved away from the door. "Clay, I need a favour. A background check." She paused, listening. "Yes, I know, but this one might need your magic touch." Another pause, then she said, "James Ellison. Currently a detective with Cascade PD."

1.40 PM

"I know you're thinking it sounds like something out of Gone With The Wind but I swear, there isn't a corset in sight."

Simon reached across the table to refill Heywood's glass. "So how did you go from Miss Scarlett to the FBI?" he asked with a smile. He was glad he suggested lunch; Melissa, once out of the office environment, turned out to be a fun companion.

Melissa smiled over her glass. "The downside of having a rich father is you don't have much freedom. My future was all planned out for me. I was supposed to get a liberal arts degree, have a huge wedding to a daddy-approved young man and spend the rest of my life organising charity events and raising children while my husband ran for the senate or state governor or something."

"Sounds like a fate worse than death," Simon commented.

"Not quite that bad, but I'd rather watch paint dry. Two months into college I transferred from arts to psych and minored in criminology. My father thought it was youthful rebellion, and I'm not sure he was wrong. But the FBI recruited me out of Duke and it changed my life. I discovered I have a...talent, I think is the word, for this work."

"For profiling?"

"For understanding the criminal mind. A particular kind of criminal. The job isn't as glamorous as the movies make it look. Sometimes it's downright disturbing." She sipped her mineral water. "In your police work, you maintain a certain detachment from a case, yes?"

Simon nodded. "Of course. You burn out fast if you personalise it."

"That's true for me, too. The problem is some cases go beyond the numbers and the textbooks. It gets personal because I do understand these men. I don't like it, but I do."

It was an opening, of sorts. Simon glanced around the restaurant, making sure no one was close enough to overhear them. "Melissa, do you really believe that - " (Jim) " - one of my officers could be the killer we're looking for?"

She hesitated, taking a forkful of her salad to cover it. "The textbook answer is no. Serial killers nearly always fit specific personality profiles and such men would wash out of a police program very early. Occasionally men with similar traits show up in uniform, but they would certainly never make it to detective. However..." she pushed the plate away, finished, "...I do have some questions."

"So ask them."

"I can't. Simon, technically you're a suspect, too. You were at Ellison's apartment that night."

It was like a kick in the stomach. He'd given a statement to Internal Affairs the previous day, just as everyone else had. IA should have no difficulty verifying his account.

Melissa's look was concerned. "Simon, I already know you're not the one. It's just that until Sheila Irwin clears you officially, I have rules to follow."

"Why are you so sure it's not me?"

"If you were guilty you'd have been monumentally stupid to call in the FBI."

Simon laughed. "Yeah, that would be crazy, wouldn't it?"

"Also, you just told me you're a career cop. I've seen you at work and I know you're proud of where you are. Your work is important to you. You resist suspecting any of your officers, but you called the FBI because you took an objective look at the evidence. So whether you acknowledge it aloud or not, Simon, you know why I'm being careful."

Simon nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, I do." If Tania Roca hadn't been so secretive about her story, he would have been able to dismiss the possible link to his department. But even the brother who shared her apartment hadn't known what she was researching. The only people who did, apparently, were Sandburg, Jack Kelso, and Taggert, who had told the other cops the night of the game. Eight men, six of them cops.

Melissa's expression was serious. "Simon, I promise you, as soon as IA tells me it's okay, I'll tell you everything I know. Everything."

3.26 PM

Jim leaned back in his chair as the tape started rolling. It was fairly poor quality, as security tapes tended to be. When would these people realise that using cheap cameras was as useless as forgetting to put film in them altogether? The tape showed three masked figures in the vault of the bank. At first, Jim watched carefully, estimating the height and weight of the three men, but before long his mind was wandering again.

In the bullpen behind him, Agent Heywood was using Rafe's desk and computer. He heard her cellphone ring and had to fight the urge to look her way as she answered it. Concentrate on the bank robbery, he told himself firmly.

Then he heard: "Captain James Ellison..."

Any possibility that he could concentrate on the security tape fled. He kept his eyes on the screen, but his attention was elsewhere.

"...until 1987. The rest is black-filed."

"Did you get in, Clay?"

"Is the Pope Catholic? You owe me for this one, 'Liss."

"Let's say this makes us even. Tell me."

"Operation Anaconda. It was a CIA-led black op in Peru, part of the anti-narcotics crusade in the eighties. Ellison led several missions into the jungle in Peru. You want details?"

"Definitely. Better fax the field office. Any highlights?"

"Oh, yeah. Your boy's a bona fide hero, 'Liss. In 1989 Ellison led an eight-man team into the Chopec pass. Their helicopter crashed and Ellison was the only survivor. With the CIA's usual concern for their grunt's lives, they just assumed total fatality when the team failed to make contact. Eighteen months later the army got around to sending a rescue mission. Get this. Ellison not only survived, alone in the jungle, he'd completed his team's mission. Solo."

Listening, Jim frowned. Peru was a memory he could do without, and that was not the way it happened.

"Impressive," Heywood commented.

"Ellison was discharged from the army a month after his rescue. The official record states that his health following his ordeal in the jungle was such that he was no longer fit for duty. But I found a psychiatric report that implies there was another reason. Ellison appeared to experience auditory and visual hallucinations. The headshrinker who treated him suspected schizophrenia, but Ellison refused medication. Hence the discharge. There was some media attention at the time, the hero who survived a great jungle ordeal, y'know. That's probably why they buried the psych report."

"The shrink must have been wrong, Clay. An untreated schizophrenic couldn't function well enough to do his job."

"I'm just reporting the news, baby. Making sense of it is your job. But tell me, are you seriously considering this guy a suspect? A detective?"

Jim tensed.

Heywood answered, "I don't know yet. There's some evidence. Not enough for a conclusion. Is there anything recent?"

"I'll fax you the full dossier, toots, but there's nothing that stands out. Ellison's been interviewed in connection with two murders since joining the PD but it looks like it was just a formality both times. No charges were brought against him; he was just interviewed because he was peripherally involved in both cases."

"Who were the victims?"

"Wait a moment, I'll check."

Jim waited. He knew the answer, of course. It was Heywood's reaction that worried him. He knew what she was going to hear. Would she jump to the obvious conclusion?

"Philip Brackley. And...Ryan Frazer."

Jim heard Heywood take a sharp breath. "Shit, are you sure?"

"Yeah, and I remember your list. Frazer was a 'maybe' wasn't he? Tread carefully, 'Liss. If you accuse a cop and you're wrong, your ass will be toast."

"Jim? Are you listening?"

Jim shook himself, turning his attention back to the TV screen. "Yes, of course." He hesitated, but he had no idea what Simon had been saying. He raised a hand to his head. "Uh...I'm sorry, Simon. I've got a bad headache here; I'm not very focussed. If it's okay, I'm going to find a painkiller."

Simon nodded. "Do you want to take a couple of hours? You're still recovering from that accident, Jim."

"No. No, I'll be fine. Just need an aspirin or something." To get this pain out of his neck! He glanced at Heywood as he passed her. He was tempted to say something, but that would probably confirm her suspicions. If Irwin remembered Jim was connected to Frazer's death, too, Jim was really in trouble...

Sheila Irwin hung up her phone and leaned back in her chair. She resisted the urge to rub her face with her hands; she would only smudge her make-up and make a bad day worse. On days like this, she hated her job. She reached for the glass of water on her desk and sipped it slowly. Then she turned to the computer, opened her report and began to type.

She was almost ready to save and close the file when someone knocked on her office door.

"May I come in?" Agent Heywood peered around the door.

Sheila saved the report and beckoned the FBI agent in. "This is good timing. I was about to call you. Come in."

Melissa Heywood looked as fresh as if it was first thing in the morning. You would never know, looking at her, that she'd been working all day. Sheila pushed her envy aside.

"You have news?" Heywood asked.

"I just finished my checks on the six officers implicated in the Roca case. Four of them are in the clear."

"Captain Banks?"

"He's clear. So are Rafe, Brown and Hinkley."

She nodded, taking a seat on the other side of Sheila's desk. "Leaving Taggert and Ellison."

"Taggert has no alibi for the afternoon Roca was killed. It was his day off; he says he was at home alone. Detective Ellison... He was working a split shift that day - something everyone was doing that week in order to cover a stakeout. That gave him the afternoon free. In his interview he told me he was at his gym until five, but that doesn't check out. According to the manager of that gym, Ellison was there that day. Someone called the gym at four-fifteen asking for Ellison. By then he had left. They have a record of the exact time because the caller left a message."

Heywood took that in, her expression contemplative. "Ellison lied about his alibi."

"He may have just been mistaken. He's been through a lot lately, with that accident."

"It's possible. The way Simon describes him..." Heywood broke off as her cellphone rang. "Sorry." She answered her phone. "Heywood...Pete, it's about time. What have you got?...Just a moment." She lowered the phone. "Does your computer have an internet connection?"

Sheila nodded. "Yes."

"May I?"

"If it's relevant to the case, certainly."

Heywood moved around to the other side of the desk. Into her phone she said, "I'm logging in from a police computer. Give me a couple of minutes." She leaned over the computer, explaining as she typed. "Organised serial killers sometimes return to the scenes of their murders. It's a way to relive the event. Like a fix to tide them over until the next kill. So, on a hunch, I had a couple of agents stake out Tania Roca's building." She straightened. "Downloading now, Pete. Stay on the line." She added, "Pete - Agent Hoberman - says there are some pictures we should see."

Sheila leaned in to see the images as they downloaded onto her screen. They had been taken with a night-vision camera. The first three were quite fuzzy. She could make out the figure of a man, but nothing recognisable. Then she found herself staring. "Oh, my god." She looked up at Heywood. "This means..."

Heywood was already speaking. "Pete, I need enhanced prints of these ASAP. Courier them to me at Cascade PD, but make sure your courier knows they must come to me personally. No one else." She paused, listening. "A whole lot of it, Pete. The man in those pictures is a cop."

6.22 PM

Simon was left with just a dial tone. He stared at the telephone in his hand. He was coming to hate talking to his ex-wife. He hung up the phone and stood, walking away from his desk. Frustration and stress tensed his neck and shoulders, knotting the muscles painfully. He raised a hand to his neck, trying to ease the tension. Through the glass he saw Agent Heywood walk into the bullpen. He found himself smiling.

When he'd suggested a working lunch to her he meant simply that - business, not pleasure. But they had been working together for three weeks, first by phone and email, and for the past few days in Cascade. Simon enjoyed spending time with her and she had hinted after lunch that she would enjoy another...date? Was that the right word? It was so long since Simon had that sort of interest in a woman, and even longer since it had been mutual. He was flattered...and pleased.

She saw him watching her through the glass and came to his door.

Simon opened the door for her.

"Captain Banks, may I speak with you privately?" She wasn't smiling.

The tension was back instantly. "Come in." He closed the office door behind her and sat down at his desk. "Can we start with the good news, Melissa?"

She smiled. "The good news: Detective Irwin has cleared you and four others of suspicion in the Roca murder."

Simon relaxed a little. "About time! Wait a moment. You said four?"

"I'm afraid so."

"That's the bad news?"

"One man doesn't have an alibi for the afternoon Tania Roca was killed, and that's not the only evidence that implicates him. He's about to be called into IA for questioning, but I thought you deserved a warning."

"Who is it?" Simon demanded, but as he spoke he saw Irwin approaching Ellison's desk. "No - " He began to stand.

"Simon, please listen." Melissa stood, too, placing herself between Simon and the door. "I think you should come down to IA. You can sit in on the interview and see the evidence for yourself."

"What evidence?"

"Enough to raise some serious questions. I'll be honest, Simon, I have my doubts about Ellison. But if he's innocent he should be able to answer the questions we have. This isn't a witch-hunt."

"Try telling Jim that!"

Melissa nodded. "Yes, I know about the Brackley case. But you know I have no agenda against your friend, don't you?"

"That doesn't mean you're right."

"I haven't said I think he's a killer. I said I have questions. Please, Simon, come and look at the evidence, then make up your own mind."

Simon had already made up his mind. He nodded and led the way from his office.

"Well. This is becoming familiar." Jim's voice dripped sarcasm.

It wasn't the first time he had faced an IA investigation. The first time was years before, and it was just a routine interview because they thought he had a motive to kill Frazer. The second was more recent, after they found his former partner's car in the river. Sheila Irwin led that investigation as well, and Jim was not happy with the way she handled it. Purely circumstantial evidence pointed to him and she jumped to a conclusion. Was she going to do the same this time?

Jim proved her wrong over Brackley's murder. He would do so again, if he had to.

This was uncomfortably public. Three IA cops sat opposite Jim. One of them, naturally, was Sheila Irwin. He met her eyes across the table and felt some satisfaction when she looked away first. Near the window, apart from the others, Agent Heywood sat, observing the proceedings. Simon was with her; Jim wasn't sure how he felt about Simon's presence. It would be nice to know someone in the room was on his side, but was Simon on his side? He initiated this investigation and Simon and Heywood seemed close.

"You have the right to an attorney, Ellison. Are you sure you want to do this without counsel?"

"I want to get this over with," Jim insisted. He smiled sarcastically. "I have a hot date tonight."

"Really?"

"Yeah. A six pack in my fridge and the Jags on TV."

Simon spoke quietly. "Jim, you shouldn't do this without your lawyer."

"Detective Ellison has been advised of his rights, Captain," Irwin said frostily.

"Let's just get on with this," Jim suggested.

There was a folder on the table in front of Irwin. She straightened it, but didn't open it yet. "Where were you during the afternoon on the twenty-first of January, Detective?"

Jim sighed. So it was going to be a let's-repeat-ourselves-to-death interview. Fine. "As I told you yesterday, I went off-duty at two. I spent a couple of hours at the gym..."

"At what time did you leave the gym?"

"Five thirty."

"According to the manager, Detective Ellison, you left before three-thirty."

Jim stared at her. "That's not true!"

"The gymnasium reception records show there was a telephone call for you at four-fifteen. A message was taken but they were unable to deliver it. A member of staff recalled you had been gone for almost an hour at that point."

"No..." Jim frowned, then his eyes widened. "Oh, wait." He could have kicked himself. How could he be so stupid? "I was careless checking the load on the weights that day. I took too much and strained a muscle in my shoulder, so I cut the workout short. I went for a run instead." He shook his head. "I feel like such an idiot. I'd completely forgotten. I'm sorry."

"You forgot?" Irwin repeated sceptically.

"I know how it sounds. I've heard the same excuse from a thousand suspects. But you've got to believe me. I don't know how I forgot, but..."

"Detective Irwin," Simon interrupted. "Ellison suffered a major concussion in a car accident recently. It's possible his memory was affected."

Jim glanced at Simon gratefully. "Maybe that's it. A two hour workout is my normal routine. I might have just assumed that's what I did that afternoon."

"I see. So instead of the gym you now remember you went running. Do you happen to recall where?"

"Memorial park, I think."

"Was anyone with you?"

Oh, sure. Everyone jogs in a crowd.

Jim could see she was intent on proving he had no alibi. He answered flatly, "There were probably people around, but as it's obviously the answer you want, no, Detective, there isn't anyone who can verify my story. Happy?"

"Happy that you lied about your alibi? No."

"I was mistaken."

"Yes, you were." Irwin opened the folder in front of her and withdrew three photographs. She placed them on the table in front of Jim.

Jim recognised himself in the pictures. All three were taken at night, in the same location. He looked at Heywood. This was predictable.

"Is this you, Detective?" Irwin asked.

No, it's my identical twin.

"Yes, it's me."

"These photographs were taken last night. Can you explain why you were watching Tania Roca's building?"

Jim took a deep breath. At least he could answer this one. "Probably," he said, for the same reasons she - " he nodded toward Heywood " - had two FBI agents covering the place with a camera." He turned to Agent Heywood. "They were yours, weren't they? Two men in a black Ford?"

Heywood ignored his question. "What reason would that be?" she asked.

"After the Lash case I did my homework on serial killers and profiling. I wasn't happy with the number of people he managed to kill before we got close. I learned that a serial killer often returns to the scene of a murder, and your profile, Agent Heywood, described this killer as a stalker. So I played a hunch. I figured he wouldn't return to the actual scene, but to wherever he watched Tania before he killed her. I found the place."

Irwin shifted in her chair. "You knew IA had taken over the Roca investigation. Why didn't you bring your 'hunch' to us?"

Jim smiled. "This might shock you, Detective Irwin, but I don't trust you. I followed the lead myself because based on my own recent experience, IA wouldn't have done it right."

"Then I assume you informed your superior of your intentions."

Simon shook his head imperceptibly. Not that Jim needed the confirmation: Simon wouldn't back him on a lie. Jim answered truthfully. "No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Because the evidence implicated a cop."

"You suspected Captain Banks?"

"No, of course not! I don't believe anyone I work with is a murderer. I kept it to myself...well, because I've been wrong before."

"So you're asking us to believe that you continued an investigation you knew was unauthorised. Alone. Without backup. Looking for a serial killer." Irwin raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you think that was just a little bit dangerous?"

"It's my job. Why do you think I was there, Irwin?" Jim demanded impatiently. He knew what she thought; he wondered if she would have the cojones to say it.

"Maybe you were the one returning to the scene of your crime."

"Oh, please. Haven't we had this conversation already? I didn't kill Philip Brackley. I didn't kill Jack Prendergast. I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson."

Irwin was silent for a moment. "You want to address this? Fine," she said eventually. "When Prendergast's car was pulled out of the river with Philip Brackley's body in the trunk, I acted in accordance with procedure and the evidence I had."

"You accused me of murder."

"At no time were you charged with a crime, Ellison. When the evidence led - "

"That is so much bullshit! If I hadn't investigated on my own, you would have - "

"Enough!" Simon interrupted them both. "Irwin, you know that last remark was out of line. And, Ellison, you know she's just doing her job. You gave a false alibi, for god's sake! If one of your suspects did that, what would you think? Just answer the questions, and let's be done with this." He met Jim's eyes and held his gaze for a long moment.

Jim looked away first. "You're right. I don't like being in this chair again." He looked at Irwin. "Is there more?" he asked her, resigned to a yes.

Irwin reached into her file again. She brought out a sheet of paper and laid it over one of the photographs. "Do you recognise this?"

Jim looked at the sheet. "It looks like the fingerprint Dan Wolf found on Tania Roca's body." The print was blown up and digitally enhanced to get rid of most of the blurring. The original hadn't been good quality.

"The print was found on the victim's nail polish, correct?"

"Yes."

"Which was fresh at the time she was killed."

"Yes."

"Meaning that the print can only be hers, or her killer's."

"Yes. But it's only a partial - not enough to run through the database." Jim frowned. "We all know the case details. Why are you asking me this?"

Irwin laid a sheet of clear laminate over the print Jim held. The laminate was printed with another fingerprint. This one was complete. She said nothing.

Jim lined them up carefully. He looked more closely. The line-up wasn't perfect, but given the quality of the original it was very close. "It's a match. Where did you get this?" he asked, stunned. When she didn't answer at once, he looked up, meeting Irwin's eyes. "Whose print is this?" he demanded."

"It's yours, Detective Ellison."

There was utter silence in the room following Irwin's announcement.

Jim kept his eyes on the two fingerprints. He examined every line. There were a lot of flaws in the killer's print. It would be difficult to get a conviction based on this, but even so, the match was very close to the print Irwin said was his.

"This is a joke," Jim declared. "Right? It has to be a joke."

"No joke," Irwin insisted.

"Then there's some mistake."

"Can you explain how your fingerprint was found on the murder victim's body, Detective Ellison?"

Jim laid the two prints back on the table. "If this really is my fingerprint, no, I have no explanation."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

"What do you want me to say? We all know this print belongs to the person who murdered Tania Roca. It appears to match mine. Either I killed the girl, or it's not my print."

"May I see that?" Simon asked, stepping forward.

"You're here to observe, Captain. This is the third time you've interrupted."

"It will be the last, if you let me see that print. We're on the same side, aren't we? We all want to catch this killer."

Irwin gave both sheets to Simon. He went to the window and lined them up against the light. He looked closely at them. Jim waited tensely.

Finally, Simon returned to the table, giving the fingerprints back to Irwin. "The Roca print isn't complete or clear," he told her. "The areas where it's not blurred do seem to match Ellison's but that's a long way from being conclusive."

One of the other IA detectives spoke up for the first time. "It's too close for my comfort, Captain Banks. I have to recommend Ellison is suspended from duty, effective immediately." He looked at his colleagues.

Irwin nodded. "Detective, we'll need your badge and your gun."

It was inevitable, Jim realised. He didn't waste his breath arguing, but stood up and slammed his shield on the table. He drew his gun, pushed the catch to slide out the clip and emptied the chamber. Then he laid the unloaded gun next to his shield. "Are we done now?"

"Not nearly, Detective. Sit down."

They desecrated his home.

It was past 9pm by the time Jim got home and he could tell before he opened his front door. The place just felt wrong. He looked at the lock as he raised his key and saw scratches around it. Someone had forced the lock.

Instinctively he reached for his gun, but the holster was empty. Of course.

Someone broke into his apartment. Was there someone waiting inside?

There was a more likely explanation. With that fingerprint as evidence IA could have obtained a search warrant. They could have been here while Jim was being interrogated. If they had...he was in trouble.

Jim opened his door warily.

He stood in the open doorway, his fists clenched at his sides, a scream of rage building in his throat. Had someone been with Jim in that moment, someone he could blame, Jim might well have killed. This was his home, his territory. No one was supposed to enter uninvited. He choked back the cry he wanted to utter and walked in.

Everything was out of place. Cupboards had been opened. Furniture had been moved and no doubt turned inside out. They had left the place tidy enough, perhaps hoping he wouldn't notice, but to Jim's eyes the loft was a mess. The bastards had been in everything.

Everything?

He slammed the door closed and ran for the stairs. He near-flew up to his bedroom. They had been through this space, too. He opened his bedside drawer. The .45 was gone - no surprise there - but he wasn't looking for the gun. The well-worn photograph had been pushed to the back of the drawer, but it was there.

Jim picked up the photograph. Carolyn's beautiful smile shone up at him. Oh, baby, I miss you so much. We should have been together all these years.

He sank down on his bed, the photograph cradled in his hands.

Jim stood just outside the doors of the ER. He leaned against the wall, his vision blurred with tears. He still had her blood on his hands.

After some endless time, Jim became aware of Banks' presence at his side. He turned to face his Captain. Their eyes met.

Banks didn't say "I'm sorry" or any of the trite platitudes most people would utter. Instead he simply said, "I'll drive you home, Jim."

"No."

"No?"

"You're going to the crime scene. I'm going with you."

Banks shook his head. "Jim, you can't investigate this one. You're too close and you know that."

*Jim blinked to clear his vision. "Captain, we don't know each other very well yet. I'm new to your team and I realise I don't make a good first impression. But you_ know I'm the best to go over the scene." He looked down at his hands, dried blood looked brown, but it was still blood. "Look, technically it's my case. I took the call. I know you'll need to reassign it in the morning but I need to do this _now. Let me do my job, make sure nothing is missed. Then I'll back off."*

Their eyes met again, and Jim knew that Banks understood. Would he agree?

"Alright, Jim. Just the scene." Banks was clearly reluctant.

"Thank you."

Jim's SUV was still at the scene. Banks drove them both there. Jim took in the scene from the car. Uniformed cops had held the scene and a forensics team were still there, finishing their work. Jim tried to stay calm. To remember without emotion. It wasn't easy. Too many years had passed since Jim needed to turn off emotion like this.

He closed his eyes, but the darkness brought with it the memory of Carolyn dying in his arms. He needed something to block that out. An image came to him: a panther, hunting in the jungle. It helped.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Jim?" Simon asked him gently.

Jim nodded. He reached for the car door. "I'm ready."

*The panther was a hunter, as he had to be, now. Jim thought back to his time in the jungle. He learned things in that year. Things that threatened his sanity. Things he was afraid - yes, afraid - to bring home with him. But he would use them now. He would use every tool available to him. Carolyn's murderer would not go free.*

The only problem was he didn't know how to access those things any longer.

*He closed the car door behind him. He hadn't slammed it, but the sound echoed in his head like a rifle shot. Stay with me, baby, please. Carolyn? It's Jim, I'm here...*

Jim lifted the tape barrier and ducked under it. He walked toward the forensics van, calm and focussed. The smell of her blood still permeated the area, enough that he nearly gagged on it.

Will Goslinn was leading the team. Jim called his name.

Goslinn looked around. "Jim?"

"I need to borrow some gloves."

"Jim, why are you here?"

Will was a friend; on another night Jim would have been kinder. But his patience was at an end. "To do my job," he snapped. "Banks cleared it. Now give me some fucking gloves!"

Will reached into the van and held the box of latex gloves out to Jim. Wisely, he didn't take issue with Jim's choice of language. "Jim...I'm sorry. I mean, we all are..."

"Later, Will. What have you got?"

"I won't know for sure until we get analysis onto it. We found some hairs, some fibres, but most of it will probably be Ca- " he stumbled over her name, finally adding, " - hers." He took a deep breath. "We do have the weapon used..."

"I want to see that."

"I sent it on ahead to Ryan at the lab. It was a knife, about six inches. Kitchen blade. If there's anything to be found, Ryan will find it. We all want to solve this, Jim."

These were Carolyn's friends and colleagues; of course they wanted to solve it. Jim nodded. "I know," he acknowledged, his voice softer. He pulled on the gloves. "Can I take a couple of bags? Just in case I find something."

"Sure." Goslinn handed over some evidence bags without further comment.

Jim thanked him and turned to look at the scene. He paid little attention to the surroundings earlier; now he took in every detail. It was a thoroughfare between the buildings with fire-escapes crawling up the walls on both sides and three large dumpsters making the alley too narrow for most cars. There was a lot of garbage scattered around. The asphalt was wet with rain.

Behind him, Jim heard Banks talking to one of the cops. He made an effort to tune out their voices and concentrated on the scene in front of him.

Why had Carolyn been here? The scene was a few blocks away from her apartment, so perhaps she was on her way home, but she wouldn't come into a dark alley alone. Would she?

Jim examined every inch of the alley. By focussing his attention on the details of the scene and refusing to remember who the victim was, Jim slowly reconstructed the crime. She had been walking in the direction of Western, which meant she was going home. He could find no signs to confirm there was someone with her, but in his own mind he was sure. Carolyn wouldn't have walked this way alone. When she reached the first dumpster something happened, because she dropped her shopping bag. Jim found traces of the wet and torn bag on the ground where it fell, as well as the more obvious signs: the things that scattered from the dropped bag. Most significant, a bag of sugar had broken open on impact. The trail of sugar grains might have provided some clues, but others had trampled it. Jim hoped they'd thought to photograph it first.

Carolyn had moved further into the alley. Was she running? That was Jim's guess. Then, just past the last of the three dumpsters, someone grabbed her. There were strands of her hair caught in the fire escape and marks on the wall beneath it.

Jim's mind shied away from visualising what happened next. He had to force himself to confront it. She must have been screaming for help, because someone called the police. They would need to find that witness.

Jim was kneeling on the wet ground beneath the fire escape when Simon reached him. "Jim?"

It took Jim a moment to find his voice. "He raped her, Simon." He heard the raw edge to his voice and swallowed hard. He had to hold together.

"I know," Simon answered quietly.

"Right here. He put a knife to her throat and raped her. I...I don't think he intended to kill. But he cut her anyway. He didn't care. And he ran. This way..." Jim got up and started to walk.

Simon followed him.

There was garbage all over the ground: empty beer cans, used pizza boxes, household waste and rotting food. It was as if one of the dumpsters had been emptied into the street.

"Here, Simon." Jim pointed. "See where someone tripped. There's blood on the ground here, from his hands. And here..." He pointed to some of the scattered garbage, "that's the way he went. It must have been seconds before I got here. Just seconds." If he'd only driven faster, if he'd only known...

"Good work. I'll get uniform on a house-to-house." Simon nodded to himself, looking at the signs Jim pointed out. "Jim, you should go home now. You've done all you can."

But he hadn't. Jim shook his head. "I want to call in at the lab first. Goslinn told me they found a knife." Simon started to object, but Jim interrupted him. "I need to see it through, Captain. I'll visit the lab then write up a report so whoever takes over in the morning will have everything. Then I can go home."

*Simon looked worried, but he nodded. "I must be crazy, but alright. If you'll agree to take a couple of days off. I want you to take some personal time. I think you need it."*

It was the last thing he needed, but Jim would have agreed to anything to be able to finish his work. He nodded. "Agreed."

By the time he reached Cascade PD, Jim was beginning to realise this was a bad idea. He parked in the underground garage and the stark white walls reflected blinding light. He raised a hand to cover his eyes as he got out of his truck and could still see Carolyn's blood under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. He felt sick. He headed for the nearest men's room to wash up: something he should have done long before. The men's room mirror showed him more than he bargained for: his clothing, too, was saturated with blood. His sweater was pale blue and showed the blood starkly under the harsh lighting. His jacket was still in the truck.

No wonder people were giving him odd looks.

Jim ignored the looks and took the elevator to forensics. He wasn't sure why it was so important for him to see the weapon. It was just a gut feeling. He had learned to trust his gut.

In the lab, he found three people working. Two were women - Jim recognised Laurie Montez but not the other. The third person was Ryan Frazer. All three looked up as he walked in. Laurie gasped in fright.

Jim made a calm-down gesture. "I know, I didn't stop to change. Sorry."

Frazer approached him. "D-detective Ellison. What are you doing here?"

Jim wasn't in the mood to be questioned and certainly not by Frazer. He didn't like the little lab-monkey. He was nervous around Jim lately: they'd had a minor confrontation a few weeks earlier and Jim felt a certain satisfaction that the man remembered it. But that stutter was going to get irritating.

"I'm investigating a murder," Jim told Frazer curtly.

"Yes, but - "

"No buts. I was on the scene. It's my case until Banks reassigns it. I want to see the weapon." Frazer looked like he was about to object again and Jim barked, "Now!"

Frazer scurried away, returning with a plastic evidence bag containing a bloody knife. He handed it to Jim.

Jim took the bag, anger and grief flooding through him. It was a kitchen knife, as Will said, wooden handled. There was a lot of blood on both the blade and the handle. Jim saw no clear prints but there were definitely smudges of fingers. He guessed the perp wore gloves. Damn.

"Stay with me, baby, please. Carolyn? It's Jim, I'm here. You'll be okay, just...oh, god, baby, please hold on."

*He could still smell her. Oh, god, it was too much.*

Jim raised the bag to the light. There was a mark on the handle, a manufacturer's logo, perhaps. He looked past the knife to Frazer's face. The frightened-rabbit expression was getting irritating. The man even had a nervous tic above his eye.

And then the pieces came together. Jim knew who murdered his Carolyn.

All he had to do was prove it.

It wouldn't be easy. Fighting to keep the gesture casual, Jim handed the evidence back to Frazer. "Thanks. One last thing. Have you seen Carolyn today? Did she come here at all?"

"N-no. Her shift ended before mine began." Frazer turned to the two women. "D-did you s-see her?"

Laurie answered, "She came by this morning to chase up the analysis on the Torres case. Is it important?"

"I don't know yet. It could be." Jim thanked her and hurried out of the lab.

He just made it to the men's room before he threw up.

There were things he should be doing, Jim knew. His search of the loft had been as thorough as the Feds' had been. He knew everything they had touched. He knew what they took. He wasn't sure where that would lead them next. Heywood seemed determined to pin the murders on him. Jim knew they couldn't prove him guilty, but all they really needed was a circumstantial case. And what they might find while building it troubled him.

He should be taking care of it.

Jim turned off all of the lights in the loft and walked out onto the balcony. Sure enough, there was a black Ford in the street below. There were two men inside: the same two he spotted at the Roca girl's apartment. He could probably lose them if he tried...but if he did that they'd be all the more certain he was guilty.

He needed to try something else.

Jim walked back inside and picked up the telephone. He heard a tell-tale click as he lifted the receiver. Damn those bastards, even his phone was tapped! He dialled anyway.

"Hello?"

Hearing his brother's voice was a huge relief. "Stephen, it's Jim."

"Hi. How are you doing? Feeling better?"

"Not great. There's some...trouble at work. I was suspended today."

"You're kidding! You've only just gone back!"

"Yeah, it sucks. Listen, I need a favour, Stephen. A big one. Could you meet me somewhere?"

"Uh...now?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"Well...okay. Where and when?"

26 FEBRUARY 1998

Simon knocked on Jim's door at 8.30 sharp.>

He had been awake all night. The evidence against Jim Ellison was a long way from being conclusive, but Simon understood Melissa's doubts. He was beginning to share them.

The alibi was an odd one: if Jim genuinely had forgotten what he was doing that afternoon, why wasn't he more worried about the gap in his memory? Simon expected him to seek out a doctor right away, but he hadn't mentioned any such intention. Was it possible Jim had lied deliberately, assuming the gym staff would confirm his usual routine?

Jim's explanation for watching the Roca girl's apartment rang true. Jim had always been a maverick. He wouldn't work with a partner like any other cop. This wouldn't be the first time he'd continued an investigation unauthorised. But why hadn't he mentioned it to Simon? If not before, then why not after he'd found something? When Irwin was questioning him, Jim said, I played a hunch he wouldn't return to the actual scene, but to wherever he watched Tania before he killed her. I found the place. If Jim discovered the place where Tania Roca's murderer watched her apartment, why hadn't he said something? They should have sent a forensics team out there to go over every inch of the place.

The fingerprint, of course, was the most damning evidence, but it wasn't the thing Simon cared about. Jim's answer to that one was simply correct: if it really was his print, then he was guilty. So it couldn't be his. QED.

Simon was about to knock for a second time when Jim opened the door. He was wearing sweat pants and nothing else. He had not shaved. His chest and arms were covered with a sheen of sweat; he must have been exercising. When he saw Simon standing there he stood back to let him enter, but said nothing.

"Hello, Jim," Simon said, walking into the apartment.

Jim slammed the door closed behind him. "Did you know?" he demanded.

Simon answered calmly. "No."

"But you know now."

"Melissa told me when you left the department that they had a search warrant. It wasn't hard to figure out that's why Irwin kept you in IA for so long. But I don't know what they found, if anything."

Jim smiled humourlessly. "Melissa. She got close to you fast."

"That's none of your business, Jim."

He shrugged. "Here to arrest me, Captain?"

"I'm here to talk."

"Outside," Jim answered curtly. He walked past Simon toward the balcony.

Simon followed him, removing his coat. "Aren't you being a little paranoid?"

"The Feds searched my apartment. They've been watching my building. My phone is wired. No, I don't think I'm being paranoid." Jim turned, leaning on the balcony rail. "I didn't find a bug, but that doesn't mean there isn't one. So, talk."

"Jim, what's going on?"

It was the best question Simon had, but Jim only shook his head.

Simon tried again. "I know you're hiding something. In that interview yesterday you were being very careful. All you had to do was say you didn't kill the girl. You didn't say it. Melissa noticed and so did I. Were you trying to make yourself a suspect?"

"They already suspect me, Simon."

"And you damn-near confirmed it!"

"What happened to innocent until proven guilty?"

Simon shook his head in frustration. "Jim, we're friends. I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth."

"You can't help me, Simon. Not this time."

"No, that's not good enough, Jim. I've been turning this thing over in my head for too long. I think I know what's going on, Jim, so I want a truthful answer from you. I give you my word, I won't repeat this conversation to anyone."

"You don't want that answer, Simon."

"Yes. I do. One question, Jim. You owe me this much."

He saw Jim shiver as the breeze from the bay caught his damp skin. Jim turned away from Simon, looking out over the bay. Finally he nodded. "Alright."

And now the moment was there, Simon realised Jim was right: he didn't really want the answer he suspected he was going to get. He forged ahead anyway. "Does this have something to do with Frazer?"

Jim's shoulders tensed and Simon, noting the movement, knew he had his answer.

"You know who killed him, don't you?"

Jim turned back, meeting Simon's eyes. "Yes. I know who killed Ryan Frazer." The admission hurt him; pain creased the corners of his eyes, turned down his mouth.

It was the piece that made sense of all the rest. Although he had expected it, Simon found himself blindsided by the notion that Jim could have known the identity of a murderer for five years and said nothing. It took him a moment to reorient his thinking.

"Son of a... All these years, you knew?"

"Simon, I wanted Frazer dead. I wanted him dead more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. Except her. You have no idea how that feels. Be glad you don't."

There was really nothing Simon could say to that. Jim was right - he couldn't claim to know what Jim went through when Carolyn died. Simon was a witness to it; he understood that Jim might have been willing to let Frazer's killer go free. In the emotional rollercoaster of that week, yes, it made sense, however unlikely it was for Jim under normal circumstances.

But not now. Not when they had a serial killer on their hands.

"Jim...is whoever killed Frazer responsible for the other murders?"

Jim's expression became closed. "I can't answer that. Not yet."

"Damn it, Ellison, you can't - "

"I don't have a choice, Simon!" Jim moved away from him, looking out over the bay again. "But thanks," he added.

"For what?"

"For not assuming it was me." He sighed heavily. "What happens now? Are they going to call me in again today?"

"I don't know, but probably not today. So far IA is concentrating on the Roca case, so I'm going to ask one of the guys to look into any links you might have with the others."

"Why?" Jim turned quickly.

"Because the case against you in the Roca murder is purely circumstantial, and without a motive it's too shaky to go anywhere. As far as I know, Jim, you don't have a motive to kill the girl. We've all been assuming this serial killer murdered Tania Roca. So I if we can prove that's not you the most likely motive goes up in smoke." Of course, Jim had just admitted he was an accessory to a different murder, and a lot of people would consider that sufficient motive. This was becoming a bigger mess with every moment that passed.

"What if you can't prove it?" Jim asked.

"Nine murders, Ellison. You can't possibly have no alibi for all of them. There should be some physical evidence we can use to eliminate you, too. It doesn't have to be airtight."

Jim nodded. "Okay. What can I do?"

"You can start by telling me who killed Frazer."

"I can't."

"Then the best thing you can do is stay away from the investigation."

"But..."

"This isn't like the Prendergast case, Jim. If you get involved, it's going to look like you're trying to cover something up. Especially in light of what you've just told me. You can't afford that."

"Simon..."

"I know how you feel, but you're going to have to trust me and the others to bring this home. Take a couple of days. See a doctor about that memory lapse."

"I'm going to. This morning."

"Good. I hope the doc can back you up on this one. We'll keep you in the loop, Jim. Now I've got to go to work."

Simon headed out. He was not looking forward to the day.

Waking up with a warm body spooned around his was nice. No, more than nice, Blair decided, turning his head slightly to look at Matt. Matt's arm tightened around Blair's chest and he mumbled something in his sleep. Blair smiled to himself. He raised a hand to touch his lover's rough cheek.

Matt stirred, snuggling closer to Blair. Blair turned to kiss his cheek and Matt sleepily tilted his head up, offering his mouth. Blair kissed him deeply, loving the simple trust in that gesture. He raised himself up a little, sliding his arms around Matt's body, kissing along his unshaven jaw line, down to the pulse point in his neck. He felt Matt respond and began to hump slowly against his thigh.

Matt groaned. "God, look at the time."

"Oh, no, baby, please..."

"We have to get up..."

"Man, I am up..."

"Blair..."

He groaned. "Okay, okay." Reluctantly, Blair rolled onto his back, letting Matt get up. He glanced at the clock: it read 09.36. Oh, hell, Matt was right. Time to get out of bed.

He stayed where he was, though, clasping his hands behind his head and watching Matt move around the room. He obsessed about the way the light caught the highlights in Matt's hair. Gorgeous.

Was this love? Naomi would tell him, If you're not sure, Sweetie, the answer is no. Then again, Naomi was wrong about a lot of things. Blair felt more for this man than he could remember feeling for anyone before.

Matt wanted Blair to meet his parents that evening. Blair had agreed, but he was nervous about the meeting. He wondered if he was expected to return the favour. He wondered how Matt would react to Naomi.

"You're looking serious," Matt commented, fastening his bath robe.

Blair shrugged. "Just thinking about tonight."

"Nervous?" Matt sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning over Blair. "It's not like we're announcing our engagement. I just want them to meet the guy I've been talking about for the past three weeks."

Blair shook himself. "Man, you must think I'm crazy."

Matt grinned. "A little. My kind of crazy." His expression became serious. "Um. About tonight. Don't be too surprised if mom wants to talk about Tania. She's still...broken up."

As was Matt, though he hid it well. Blair reached up, caressing Matt's neck. "Your whole family is. I feel like I'm intruding."

"No. You're family too."

Blair spent the morning working on his thesis. He was pleased with what he was accomplishing. If he could keep going at this rate, he might be finished by the end of the year. He thought the case he was building in support of Burton's original monograph was strong. He had identified a spiritual culture that seemed to centre on sentinels and, based on his work in Peru and Paraguay, gathered enough evidence to suggest that there might still be sentinels among the tribes that still existed. It was more than he expected to accomplish when he began his doctorate.

All that was left was to organise the work into a format that would be acceptable to his committee. That was no small task, but Blair was enjoying the challenge. He was going to be successful.

By lunchtime Blair was ready to take a break. He had no classes that day and wasn't meeting Matt until evening, so he could take a leisurely lunch. He boiled water in his office and filled a thermos flask with herbal tea - his own blend - threw the flask into a backpack, bought a couple of sandwiches from the caf on campus and headed out to the park to eat.

Blair loved Memorial Park. He loved its twisting paths that went nowhere, its stone benches and the ocean view. Even in the rain - which, truthfully, was most days in Cascade - it was a good place to sit and think.

He found his favourite bench and sat down to unwrap his sandwich. The stone was a little damp from the earlier rain but the weather had cleared up and the view from the park was spectacular: the grass and trees glinted with what remained of the rain and the ocean was deeply blue and sparkling. It was warm for the time of year, but there were few people around. Blair saw a woman jogging, the tinny sound of her walkman reaching Blair as she passed him. There was a man in jogging clothes, standing on the terrace looking out over the ocean, and a couple walking a barking dog some distance away. Blair looked out over the water, idly wondering what the man was watching. He saw two ships out there: one large freighter just leaving the docks, the other much further out to sea. The view was lovely; he wished he could share it with Matt.

What was he going to do about Matt? If it wasn't going to work, now was the time to break things off, before it became too difficult.

Who was he kidding? He was falling in love with Matt. He looked forward to the end of each day because he would be seeing Matt. He answered every phone call with a smile because there was a chance it could be him.

Matt wanted Blair to meet his family. That had to mean he was hoping their relationship would last.

Blair was nearing the end of his doctorate. He was almost certain Rainier would keep him on, and with luck he could get tenure in a few years. There were several sources he could approach to fund the next stage of his sentinel research. Perhaps it was time he thought about settling down in his personal life as well.

The very thought was alien. There was too much of Naomi in him, Blair reflected as he finished his lunch. He could settle down with Matt. Make a life together. It would be so easy. But what if he woke up one morning and just had to leave? It was what she did, every time they found a stable home during Blair's tempestuous childhood. It was wrong, just wrong, to start a relationship knowing it could end that way.

What was he going to do?

The tea was hot and he poured a cup from his thermos and sipped it slowly. The man on the terrace was still there. Blair frowned. It looked as if he hadn't moved a muscle all the time Blair was eating. That was weird. Blair gulped down his tea, burning his mouth, and stashed the thermos in his backpack. He looked more closely at the man and realised he was familiar. Ellison. The detective. He debated for a moment then shrugged to himself and walked over to the terrace.

There was no sign Ellison was aware of his approach. It was almost as if he was asleep, but that couldn't be. Horses might sleep standing up, but not men.

"Are you okay, man?" Blair asked him.

There was no response.

Blair reached out to grasp Ellison's upper arm. "Detective?"

Ellison jerked as if waking from a deep sleep. He rounded on Blair instantly.

Blair leaped back, raising both hands in an "I'm harmless" gesture. "Whoa, man, it's okay. Stay cool."

Ellison shook his head in apparent confusion. "I was..." he began. The words seemed to stick in his throat. He tried to clear his throat and it turned into a cough. Ellison's eyes met Blair's for an instant; he raised a hand as if to communicate but he was still trying to catch his breath. He couldn't breathe.

Blair didn't stop to think about it. He moved closer and slapped Ellison on the back, supporting him with his other hand. "Breathe, man."

Ellison fell to his knees in the grass. Slowly, the coughing fit passed.

Blair reached for his thermos and offered it to Ellison. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, thanks." Ellison's voice was hoarse. He took the flask from Blair, opened it and raised it to his mouth. He didn't drink. He looked at Blair quizzically. "What's in this?"

"It's herbal tea. All natural ingredients, man."

Ellison drank. He cleared his throat and drank again. Then he handed back the flask. "Thanks. I don't know what happened." He shifted to a sitting position.

The ground was damp but if Ellison didn't care, Blair didn't. He sat down. "It looked like...I'm not sure. Glad I could help."

Ellison was frowning at him. "I know we've met, but..."

"Blair Sandburg. You interviewed me when Tania Roca was killed."

The frown smoothed out. "Of course." Ellison's blue eyes swept the area. "What are you doing here?"

"Eating lunch." Blair waved the thermos. "You - uh - you don't look well, man. How long were you standing there?"

"It couldn't have been long..." Ellison glanced at his watch. Blair saw his eyes widen slightly and knew Ellison had been there much longer than he thought. Ellison covered quickly, raising his hand to his forehead as if he had a headache. He rubbed at his temples for a moment then turned toward Blair. "That herbal stuff is good. It doesn't need the honey, though."

It was a clumsy change of subject, but Blair knew he had no right to interrogate this man. They were strangers. Ellison's words, meant as a distraction, caught Blair's attention in a way he almost certainly didn't intend.

Blair's jaw dropped. "You could taste honey?" He knew exactly what was in the tea because he made it himself: lime flowers, orange and lemon zest, lemon grass and a little liquorice root to deepen the flavour. Blair didn't add honey for himself, but Matt preferred it sweet, so the last batch Blair made he'd added a little honey. And that morning he'd been sloppy and not rinsed out the flask before refilling it. If there was still some of the old tea in the bottom, it couldn't have been much. If Ellison could detect such a trace amount of honey, Blair had to get to know this man!

Ellison returned his look. "Yeah. Why?"

Tread carefully, Blair...

"You must have an amazing sense of taste, man. There's not enough honey in there to taste. At least, I didn't think so." He hesitated, then forged onward. "Are all your senses that sharp?"

"I don't have any problems."

"But do you often taste things other people can't? Or smell, maybe?"

Ellison's frown deepened. "What is this?"

"It's...my field of study, sort of. At the university. I didn't mean to come on strong, man."

"I hope you don't treat everyone you meet like a lab rat."

That was a bit harsh, but Blair nodded, accepting the criticism. "Chill out. I'll back off." Blair opened the thermos and took a sip. No, he definitely couldn't detect the honey. Now it was Blair's turn to grope for a change of subject. There was only one other thing he knew they had in common. "Look, I know you probably can't tell me anything, but are you any closer to finding who killed Tania?"

Ellison hesitated. "You know I can't discuss an ongoing investigation."

Blair sighed, turning away slightly to avoid those piercing eyes. "I know, man, but...this is so hard! Not knowing who killed her or even why! It's tearing her family up. They need some kind of closure."

"What are you - my conscience now?" Ellison muttered.

"Huh?"

Ellison shrugged. "Just - you're right. I can get so focussed on the police work I forget there are people involved. And you're right, Sandburg. The people who loved Tania deserve some kind of justice." He hauled himself to his feet. "I have to go. Thanks for the chat."

Blair scrambled up. "Detective, I would like to talk to you about your senses. I'm not gonna push but if you change your mind, call me at Rainier. Anthropology department."

Ellison surprised him by saying, "I'll think about it."

Jim turned the truck into the parking lot beneath the Police HQ building. It was automatic; he always parked there when he was working. Today he wasn't here to work.

He backed into a parking space, shut off the engine and removed the keys. He weighed the keys in his hand for a moment, considering several options. The keyring was very full: his car keys, apartment keys, the key to his locker at the gym, various keys he needed for work, and more. Jim removed one key from the bunch. There was a roll of duct tape on the seat beside him. He tore off a strip and carefully taped the key underneath the steering column where it couldn't be seen.

It might not make a difference. On the other hand, it could make all the difference in the world.

Jim pocketed the rest of his keys and got out of the truck.

"Joel, are you saying Kraemer deserved to die?"

"No one," Taggert mumbled into his beer bottle, "deserves to die like that." He met Jim's eyes, his expression hard. "But I do think he deserved twenty years hard time."

That was Joel. Clear sighted and consistent. He wouldn't set his own moral standards above the law, or conceal a criminal's identity. He hated to see a guilty man get off on some technicality, but when it happened he went on and did his job. Joel was a good cop...and a good friend.

Another memory: splitting the last beer with Brown the night they all gathered at the loft to watch the game. Brown made some sort of joke about beer and popcorn. It bothered Jim that he couldn't remember it.

"Go ahead, Jim. I've got your back."

Rafe, the day before the game. It was an attempted robbery at one of the Cascade banks. Rafe responded to Jim's request for backup and they went in before the patrol cars showed up. One of the gang panicked and there was a brief shoot-out. Rafe saved Jim's life.

"Jim, we're friends. I can't help you if you won't tell me the truth."

"You can't help me, Simon. Not this time."

What Jim was about to do would destroy those friendships. People say it's at times like this you find out who your real friends are. But Jim knew his friends. Maybe there would be something left to salvage when this was over but he couldn't hope for much.

"Son of a... All these years, you knew?"

Yeah, Simon might accept it. Maybe.

He remembered Tania Roca's funeral: the mother's tears flowing silently as she threw flowers on the coffin. The heaviness in her movements as she turned away from the freshly-dug grave, another of her children supporting her. The father, last to leave the graveside, a lone figure of grief.

"Man, this is so hard! Not knowing who killed her or even why! It's tearing her family up. They need some kind of closure."

"You're right, Sandburg. The people who loved Tania deserve some kind of justice."

Ever since Heywood or Irwin matched the fingerprint to Jim, part of him had been in a kind of panic. Sandburg's words cut through his selfishness to the truth. An innocent woman was dead. Her family deserved justice.

That was what Jim fought for, wasn't it? Justice.

It was a moment of stark clarity, when Jim saw how skewed his priorities had become.

He was a cop. It was his job to find the thieves and the drug dealers, the gangsters and the murderers.

He was a protector, sworn to keep the people of this city safe. People like Tania.

And he was more.

Jim took a deep breath and set off to find Detective Irwin.

From the car, Blair looked up at the house. He was back to feeling out of his depth. The Roca family home was in an expensive neighbourhood. Each property was unique. The Roca house wasn't the largest on the street but it was still impressive: a faux-colonial house with rose bushes lining the drive.

Blair found himself wishing he owned a tie.

Matt reached across from the passenger seat and squeezed Blair's thigh. "Relax, Blair. They're going to love you." His hand moved to Blair's shoulder then cupped the back of his neck. "Just as I do," he added.

Blair leaned across the gearshift and kissed Matt. "Thanks, man."

"Let's go in."

Matt headed to the door while Blair locked the car. Blair glanced up at the sky; it was a clear night, stars shining out brightly. He heard Matt ring the doorbell and hurried to join him.

The door was answered quickly by a woman who could only be Matt's mother. Blair saw Tania in her clearly, though her features had a more strongly Asian cast than her children. He remembered her from Tania's funeral but they hadn't spoken then. She was wearing a dress printed with flowers and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was long and straight, brushed to a shine and worn loose down her back. Blair saw no sign of grey in her hair. She opened her arms to Matt and he hugged her briefly.

"Mom, this is Blair."

Mrs Roca turned her smile to Blair and he wondered why he had been worried. "I'm honoured, Mrs Roca."

She offered him her hands. "Please, call me Lien. Come inside. Our home is yours." Her accent gave away that she was not a native speaker of English, but Blair had no trouble understanding her.

Matt gave him an I-told-you-so look as Blair, much more at ease, followed them into the house.

Anthony "call me Tony" Roca was as welcoming as his wife. He actually said "Welcome to the family" leading Blair to wonder just what Matt had told them all about their relationship. It was refreshing, though. No one pretended Blair was just a friend to Matt. Lien Roca was clearly comfortable with her son's sexuality. Tony seemed a little less so, but Blair didn't feel blamed or resented.

Over dinner Lien did talk about Tania and Blair was glad Matt warned him. He told them about his brief relationship with Tania, glossing over most of the details. He was able to paint a picture of the happy, dedicated woman she had been; he hoped it helped.

Partway through dinner there was a phone call. Tony left the table to answer it. Matt kept talking, and Blair didn't give the call any real thought.

But when Tony came back into the room, Blair could see from his face something was wrong.

It was Matt who asked. He rose from the table, walking toward his father. "Dad...what is it?"

"That was the police on the phone," Tony told them. Matt's chair was beside Lien's; Tony sat down there, reaching for Lien's hands. "He said they've found him, darling. They've got the man who killed our baby."

Captain Simon Banks looked around his office, meeting the eyes of each of his officers in turn. Faces of friends and colleagues. Some of them he had worked with for years: Taggert, Brown. Others were relatively new, Rafe was the newest recruit to Major Crimes. They were a tight-knit group. All of them men Simon trusted. Men he believed he knew.

After today, Simon would never fully trust any of them again. Not because of anything they had done but because he could no longer completely trust his own judgement.

Simon cleared his throat, searching for the words. "This morning, I told you all that Jim is suspected of murder. I know you've all been working hard today..."

"We're all on Jim's side, Simon," Rafe announced. He was leaning back against the window. There were murmurs and nods of agreement all around.

Simon wished for a cigar. And a stiff drink. Later. "There's been a development. Two hours ago...two hours ago Jim came in and asked to speak with Detective Irwin. She asked me to witness the interview." Simon found himself watching all of them as he spoke. "It's difficult to believe, but Jim Ellison confessed to the murder of Tania Roca."

"What?" That was Taggert.

Simon met Taggert's eyes. "He was arrested and will be formally charged tomorrow. I listened to Jim's story myself and I have to tell you I can't think of any reason he would lie."

The room was utterly silent. Simon knew how they felt. He saw in their faces the same things he had felt, listening to Jim's confession. Shock and disbelief...and this was only the beginning.

Finally, it was Rafe who voiced the question on everyone's mind. "Captain...what about the other murder cases? Are you saying that Ellison is...our serial killer?"

TWO HOUR EARLIER

"I killed Tania Roca."

Simon was glad he had placed himself behind Jim this time; he couldn't completely cover his reaction. Neither could Sheila Irwin; her eyes widened with shock.

Melissa Heywood was at Simon's side. At Jim's words she glanced at Simon, half reaching toward him. Did she intend comfort? The look in his eyes must have persuaded her not to bother.

Jim was looking straight ahead, at Irwin. "What's wrong, Sheila? It's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? I killed Tania Roca."

Irwin recovered quickly. "Why?" she asked, her voice a lot calmer than she appeared.

Jim shook his head. "Why doesn't matter," he answered.

But it did.

*Why was the most important thing. Jim was going to have to answer the question sooner or later.*

"I think it matters," Irwin insisted.

"I watched her apartment from the building where the Feds photographed me," Jim said.

Simon recognised Jim's technique: retaining control of the conversation by simply refusing to hear anything that intended to distract him. He did that when interviewing suspects, too, and it was effective.

"I scouted the building over several days and found that the basement entrance was not secure. I waited until I was next on the roster so I would be called to the crime scene. That afternoon I broke into the building through the basement entrance. No one saw me. I used the emergency stairs to get up to her floor, and my shield persuaded her to let me into her apartment. Once inside I struck her with my gun and strangled her. Talk to Dan Woolf: he'll tell you he thought the murder weapon might be a gun. When she was dead I cleaned the apartment. I know what a forensics team looks for. I made sure I left no trace."

Melissa moved away from Simon's side. "But there was a trace. You missed your fingerprint." She walked into Jim's field of vision.

He turned his head to look up at her. "Yes, I'm just that stupid." His voice dripped sarcasm. "I checked every fibre of the carpet, cleaned every surface I touched, I even cleaned under her fingernails but I somehow missed something as blindingly obvious as a fingerprint in wet nail polish."

"So you're claiming you left it on purpose?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"You have everything else figured out, Agent Scully. Why don't you tell me?"

Simon shook his head. The attitude wouldn't help...but that was familiar, too.

"I think you screwed up," Irwin said.

*"No." Melissa reached for a chair, reversed it and straddled the chair, sitting down to face Ellison. It was a very masculine gesture. "Everything about this murder was very deliberate. You knew you were leaving that print." She flicked her hair out of her eyes and looked hard at Ellison. "So, why? Maybe you wanted to be caught. But..." Melissa's eyes widened slightly. "No. You were making sure no one else would be caught. That's why it's only a partial. Not enough to make a positive ID but enough to eliminate a suspect if we picked up the wrong man." She glanced at Simon.*

*Simon got the message. Oddly, it did sound like something Jim might do. Not the murder, but, if Jim were to commit a crime, he would want to be sure no one could be wrongly convicted for something he did. That recognition was almost frightening; it meant he was thinking of Jim as guilty.*

"That brings us back to why," Irwin said. "Why kill Tania?"

"I had reasons." Jim sighed. "Not good ones." He turned to look at Simon. "I'm here because...it was a mistake."

*"A mistake?" That was just too much. Simon stepped forward. "A mistake?"*

"A mistake," Jim repeated. "Simon, I know how it sounds."

Simon remembered their conversation that morning.

"Jim...is whoever killed Frazer responsible for the other murders?"

"I can't answer that. Not yet."

He was damned well going to answer it now! Simon moved past Melissa and leaned across the desk. He looked right at Ellison. He saw Melissa gesture, telling him to stop, but he ignored it. He needed an answer. Now.

"Ellison, did you kill Frazer? And the others?"

Jim shook his head, but it wasn't a denial. "I think it's time I called my lawyer, don't you, Simon?"

Simon looked at Rafe, wishing he had a better answer to offer. "Jim refused to answer any questions related to the other murders. All I can tell you right now is he hasn't denied it."

"But this is Jim we're talking about," Taggert shook his head. "There's got to be an explanation."

"I'm open to suggestions, Joel." Simon spread his hands. "You tell me. Why would anyone confess to first degree murder if he wasn't guilty?"

Simon closed the office door and laid the Ryan Frazer case file down on his desk. He wanted to go through the file alone.

He skimmed through the initial reports, but that was simply to refresh his memory. It was a five-year old case but Simon remembered it well enough. He extracted the crime scene photographs.

Frazer lived in a studio: just a main room and a bathroom. His body was found in the bathtub, but he didn't die there. The first photographs showed the main room of the apartment, blood spattered on the easy chair, floor and bed. They found traces of gunpowder on both the bedsheets and the easy chair. Bloody marks identified as footprints led to the bathroom.

The white-tiled bathroom was clean compared to the main room. There was a lot of pink-tinged water on the floor, but very little in the bath itself. More smudged footprints led to the tub. A smear of blood stood out starkly on the wall above the bath, and below it lay Frazer's body.

Simon focussed in on the details. The first thing was the bullet hole in his forehead - that was the one that killed him. A star-shaped wound from a .38 calibre gun, fired at close range and presumably with a silencer as no one in the building had heard shots. Below the bullet wound Frazer's eyes were open, staring. There was a ball-gag fastened around his face; it looked like something out of a bondage catalogue.

The body was fully clothed: a dark T-shirt that nonetheless showed the blood from the bullet wounds in his shoulder and stomach, corduroy pants and brown leather shoes. There were two further bullet wounds in his left leg, not visible in the pictures. Also not visible was the wallet the murderer left in Frazer's pants pocket, as if to emphasise that this wasn't a robbery.

What else? Frazer's bruised wrists suggested he had been bound at some point. Traces of blood were found in the sink, indicating the killer had at least washed his hands after dumping Frazer's body in the tub. No fingerprints were found. No hair or clothing fibres. No semen and no blood that wasn't the victim's. The bullets were analysed by ballistics but did not match any gun used in recent crimes. From the footprints they were able to approximate the height and shoe-size of the killer, but those details (height between 5'11 and 6'2, shoe size 9 or 10) could have matched half the men in Cascade.

Simon pulled out the autopsy summary. The usual preface described the victim as being in good health at the time of death. The cause of death was listed as a gunshot wound to the head. The coroner stated that this was the last wound inflicted and drew the tentative conclusion that the other four wounds indicated the victim had been tortured. Despite the sex-toy used as a gag there was no sign of sexual molestation or rape, but there was some bruising to the genital area consistent with a kick in the balls, and bruising to Frazer's knuckles and back suggested there had been a fight or struggle.

Simon sighed, pushing the file aside to grab a coffee from his percolator. It was a bit stale, but good enough. He reached for the last pages of the file. This was the part he wanted to re-read: the transcript of Jim's interview with IA.

When Frazer was killed, so soon after Detective Plummer's murder, a number of cops felt the cases could be linked. Two cops dead in a month, both of whom worked in forensics: Carolyn Plummer was a forensic detective; Frazer worked in the crime lab. No one even considered that Frazer might be Carolyn's killer. But the amount of blood found at the scene prompted them to get a DNA workup. The DNA profile matched blood found at the scene when Carolyn was killed. Later, further evidence came to light implicating Frazer in her murder.

At that point, IA took over the investigation of both crimes. Jim Ellison was interviewed because as Carolyn's fianc he had an obvious motive. Or, it would have been a valid motive if anyone had suspected Frazer prior to the DNA test.

Simon lifted the transcript from the case file and began to read.

Det. Ford: Did you have any reason to suspect Ryan Frazer of the murder?

Ellison: Yes, I did.

Det. Ford: What reason?

Ellison: Frazer asked Carolyn out occasionally. After we announced our engagement she told me he asked her out more frequently. Carolyn refused him, of course, but he wouldn't quit. In my opinion his conduct amounted to sexual harassment and I urged her to report it.

Det. Ford: There's no such report on file.

Ellison: Carolyn didn't want to get a colleague into trouble. She thought she could handle the situation.

Det. Ford: Did you confront Ryan Frazer about this behaviour?

Ellison: I gave him the 'stay away from my girl' speech. It appeared to work.

Det. Ford: When was this?

Ellison: About two weeks before she died.

Det. Ford: Did you tell anyone else of your suspicions, Detective?

Ellison: Not directly. Frazer was a cop. I know I couldn't accuse him without proof and there was none.

Det. Ford: So what did you do?

Ellison: I talked to Detectives Prior and Gregory, who were assigned the case after I withdrew. I let them know Frazer might have had a motive, nothing more. Prior questioned Frazer and concluded he wasn't involved.

Det. Ford: Were you satisfied with Detective Prior's conclusion?

Ellison: Yes, I trusted his judgement.

Det. Ford: And you had no idea Ryan Frazer was in fact guilty until you saw the DNA test result.

Ellison: If I had known, Ford, believe me, I wouldn't have let it go so easily.

Was Jim lying? It was certainly possible. Jim was first on the scene when Carolyn died, it was possible he had witnessed more than he admitted, and had seen the perp. Seen Frazer.

"When we find the man who did this to her, Simon, you'd better not let me near him. This would be worth going down for life."

Could Jim have been planning murder, even then?

*"Simon, I wanted Frazer dead. I wanted him dead more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. Except her."*

Simon put the papers away and closed the case file. He was looking for answers, but he didn't like the conclusions he was reaching. He didn't like that at all.

The cell door closed behind him with a clang. Automatically, Jim turned to face the door as the cop locked the cell. Their eyes met briefly before the cop walked away.

The cell was small and unpleasant. Three of the walls were bare brick; on the fourth wall the door took up the entire width. The door was metal with a barred window at head-level. It allowed him minimum privacy. Inside the cell there was a pathetic excuse for a bed: a metal frame with a thin mattress and a single blanket. A seatless toilet was the only other furniture: it stank of bleach and waste. There was nothing else. Not even enough room to pace.

Jim rolled up the blanket to use it as a pillow and lay down on the bed.

He was fucked.

The ceiling was made up of large, bare concrete blocks. Having nothing else to do, Jim studied them closely, learning every crack and imperfection. It was boring, but it passed the time and helped him to block out the sounds all around him. Jim did not expect to sleep at all.

Consequences were something he didn't allow himself to think about five years ago. Now he had no choice. He had to figure out what to do next. How much of the truth could he tell?

The rattle of a key in his cell door broke into Jim's thoughts. He stood as the door opened and Simon walked in.

The cop at the door wasn't the same one who was on duty when Jim first arrived here. If the shift had changed it must be very late. Jim's sense of time was screwed.

Simon nodded to the cop who closed the cell door and locked it. "Thanks," Simon said. "I'll call you when I'm done." He turned to face Jim.

Part of him wanted to tell Simon to fuck off. Another part of him recognised that impulse for the cowardice it was: he had nothing against Simon, he just wanted to avoid the inevitable questions. Or, rather, the answers. Answers he knew Simon wouldn't like. But Jim owed him the truth.

"Jim."

"Simon." Jim sat down on the bed and waited.

"I went back to the file on Frazer. I found some things I'd forgotten."

"Like what?"

"You requested the DNA profile. It wasn't even your case, so there's only one reason you would have done that. You knew, didn't you?"

There didn't seem much point in lying any longer. "Yeah. I knew."

No surprise showed on Simon's face. "Well, I think that answers my next question."

Jim met Simon's eyes. He had some idea what this must be doing to his friend. Jim had already confessed to one murder. Anything he said now would not be admissible evidence but even so, admitting to more seemed a bad idea. He remained silent. If Simon asked him directly, he would answer.

Simon sat on the opposite end of the bed, facing Jim. "Jim, if you knew Frazer was guilty, why didn't you come to me? If you had evidence..."

"I had nothing. Just instinct."

"I would have helped you."

"No, you wouldn't. Today you would. Simon, think back for a moment. Five years ago I was new to your team. You didn't know me, you didn't really trust me. If I'd come to you with wild suspicions about another cop, you'd have given me a week off and told me to see a therapist. I tried to find proof, Simon, I really did. I failed."

"If you told me you witnessed a crime, Jim..."

"But I didn't witness it. I can't explain it to you, Simon; I just knew it was him."

"Did you kill Ryan Frazer, Jim?"

It was hard to believe he was actually doing this.

There were a hundred reasons to turn the car around and head home, but the only reason that mattered was going to be buried the next day. It would be a closed casket. Jim had done what he could to help her family through this, but this day was for him. A long drive. The first step toward a point of no return.

Jim drove out of state to buy a gun. He needed a gun that wouldn't be registered to him, one that couldn't be traced. There were plenty of gun dealers in Cascade where he might have obtained an unregistered or falsely registered firearm, but he couldn't risk being recognised as a cop. In another state, there was no such danger.

He was acutely aware that this meant he would be committing a federal crime if he went through with his half-formed plan. Which of course he wasn't going to do.

He convinced himself that the fantasy would be enough.

Jim drove back to Cascade with the gun safely concealed in his vehicle and several other things he had purchased stashed in the trunk. He reached home in the early hours of the morning and slept soundly for the first time since she died in his arms.

The following day he did all the things a grieving partner is supposed to do. He wore the black suit, accepted the sympathy and condolences, told a room full of people how much he loved the woman they were mourning. He managed not to look at Frazer, who was there with other friends from work. He nurtured the anger and hate because it was easier than crying for her.

That night he found himself outside Frazer's building. He stood in the shadows, looking up at Frazer's second floor window, imagining all of the things he would like to do to the murdering bastard. He did nothing, though.

At Cascade PD the investigation into her death appeared stonewalled. Jim tried talking to Gregory and Prior, even dropped hints about Frazer. Prior did pick up on Jim's hint and interviewed Frazer, but the son of a bitch must have been convincing. No one considered him a suspect. Jim knew that if they got Frazer to provide a blood sample they would know he was guilty. But for that they needed probable cause...and they didn't have it.

*On his next free night, Jim returned to Frazer's place. This time he went inside. He stood outside Frazer's door. There was a very familiar scent in the air. At first Jim didn't recognise it as Carolyn's perfume: he was so used to smelling it on her, and that was different somehow. Then he heard something and immediately recognised that sound.*

From that moment, there was no turning back.

"What did you hear?"

Simon listened to Jim's story with a kind of sick fascination. The horrifying part was Jim's logic made a kind of sense. He was right about the dangers of accusing a cop, and Simon had to admit that had Jim come to him with the accusation, he might not have listened. Not under the circumstances.

Jim was silent and Simon repeated his question. "Jim, what did you hear?"

"I heard the fucker jerking off." Jim rubbed his face with both hands, leaning back against the cell wall. "He had something soaked in the perfume Carolyn always wore and he was jerking off."

Jim wasn't looking at Simon. His attention was inward; back in the past.

"You did kill him." Simon was sure now. The collar of his shirt felt too tight; he ran a finger along the inside to loosen it. He realised what he was doing and jerked his hand away.

Jim met his eyes. "You need me to say it out loud? Okay. I shot Frazer. But it wasn't murder. The son of a bitch had it coming."

If someone Simon loved had died that way, how would he have felt? "Maybe he did, but..." Simon shook his head. No, he just couldn't go there. There were always choices better than murder. "Jim, you didn't just kill him. The autopsy showed Frazer was tortured. The scene was..."

"I did what I had to," Jim interrupted harshly.

"Jesus." Simon swallowed. "I'm afraid to ask..." The words wouldn't come. Ryan Frazer. Tania Roca. How many others, Jim? Are there others? Can I believe you if you say no? It was safer for both of them if he didn't ask.

A cynical smile turned the corners of Jim's mouth. "I think two counts of murder is enough."

Simon held Jim's eyes, but couldn't say anything. Couldn't make sense of this at all.

Jim gazed up at the ceiling. "I don't know if our friendship is still worth anything, Simon. But if it is..." He shrugged, meeting Simon's eyes again. The hurt and anger drained away before Simon's eyes and Jim just looked tired. Bone tired. "I can't ask you to keep this to yourself, can I? You're too good a cop for that."

Simon looked away, ashamed of the relief he felt. Be a cop, he reminded himself. "You asked for the DNA test on Frazer because you knew it would prove he killed Carolyn."

"Yes."

"But he was already dead. The evidence made no difference. So...you were setting up a defence?"

"No. Maybe that was part of it, but all I really wanted was justice. I wanted everyone to know."

"What's the connection between Frazer and the Roca girl? Why did you kill her, Jim?"

Jim looked at Simon for a long time. "Tell me, is there any answer I could give that would make sense to you?"

Good question. "Probably not," Simon confessed. He stared at his friend, wanting to say so much more. There were no words for this.

"Then let it go, Captain."

Simon watched the cell door close. His heart was like lead in his chest. Jim had been about to ask him to choose between being a friend and being a cop. Then he stopped, refusing to make that request. Had he known?

Simon walked past the cells. At the end of the corridor, he collected his gun from the officer on duty and turned to walk out.

Melissa was there, waiting. Surprise, surprise.

When Simon saw her she walked toward him. Her eyes were full of sympathy. "Simon, I'm so sorry," she began.

He stopped her with a gesture. He reached under his shirt collar and pulled out the wire, handing it back to her. "I hope that was worth it," he told her.

"Simon..."

"No. Don't. It's not your fault, 'Liss, but I think I should go home now."

He saw she was hurt, but he couldn't deal with that. Simon lifted a hand, touched her hair gently. "Tomorrow, alright?"

"Tomorrow," she repeated.

Simon walked away.

It was easy for Jim to find out Frazer's schedule. It was even easier, so soon after Carolyn's funeral, to get some time off. Captain Banks seemed almost relieved when he requested some time. Jim wasn't sure what to make of that.

Outside the building, Jim hesitated only for a moment. He felt the weight of the gun in his shoulder holster. He had no intention of using it. He didn't want to shoot Frazer: that would be too quick. Carolyn didn't die quickly. She died slowly, in agony, her lifeblood spilling out into Jim's hands.

The locked door of Frazer's apartment was no barrier. Once inside, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves and set about searching the apartment. It was an illegal search, he knew that. If he found anything, it wouldn't be easy to do anything about it. He needed enough evidence to get a legal warrant and repeat the search. That wasn't likely to happen.

Jim found a stack of videos. He had only recently transferred out of vice and he recognised some of the titles: not things an upstanding citizen should own. This collection alone was probable cause to arrest Frazer. But not for rape or murder.

In a box beneath the bed, Jim found a collection of toys that would have shocked him had he not already seen Frazer's film collection. Leather handcuffs and collars, probes and clamps, gags and hoods. Jim never liked Frazer but this was a surprise. He'd figured the man for an obsessive geek, not a dangerous sexual deviant. You think you know someone...Jim also found women's lingerie, red silk, drenched in Carolyn's favourite perfume. The lingerie wasn't hers, Jim was sure of that. But it told a clear story. He had hoped to find more: photographs, perhaps, or something of hers, anything that would prove Frazer's obsession with Carolyn. He was either smart enough to have burned everything or the goods were elsewhere. The lingerie was the only real evidence and that couldn't conclusively link him to Carolyn.

Through his disappointment, Jim realised that whatever he thought he had planned to do that night, he wanted to find evidence, even now. Something, anything, to get Frazer arrested.

It was then that Jim heard the key in the door. Shit! He darted into the bathroom, drawing his gun. He screwed the silencer into place quickly and held himself flat against the wall.

There was no turning back now, he realised as Frazer entered the apartment. Jim felt very calm. Every sound Frazer made was sharp and clear. Jim could almost see him as he moved about the room, oblivious to Jim's presence. Frazer stripped off his jacket and tie, throwing them across a chair. He lit a cigarette, turned the TV on and headed into the bathroom.

Jim stayed where he was, unmoving. Frazer walked straight past him. People were always complacent in their own homes, but Jim was almost shocked when Frazer gave no sign he noticed Jim. Frazer pissed into the toilet. Jim waited, watching. Frazer started to zip his pants and turned around.

Jim shot him. At the last moment he corrected his aim, going for a non-fatal wound instead of the heart-shot. Frazer stared at him in shock as he fell back against the toilet. Jim leapt toward him, covering Frazer's mouth with his free hand as Frazer drew breath to cry out. Still holding the gun, he hooked his arm around Frazer's neck, twisting his body so Frazer faced away from him. Holding him that way, Jim dragged his captive into the main room. Frazer struggled against Jim's hold. He bit down on Jim's hand covering his mouth. Automatically Jim reacted to the pain and Frazer wrenched away from him.

Frazer would be no match for Jim Ellison even on a good day. With a bullet in him he should have been an easy mark. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. When Frazer swung wildly at Jim, his fist connected. Jim blocked the punch an instant too late. Not that Frazer did much damage; Jim would have a black eye but it didn't faze him for a moment. He returned the blow, punching Frazer in the solar plexus and grabbing the front of his shirt as he doubled over, pulling the man up until they were face-to-face. He saw Frazer's eyes widen as if he'd only just recognised Jim. Jim threw him to the ground and followed up with a hard kick where it would hurt the most. Frazer curled up in agony, gasping for breath.

Jim looked down at the writhing body. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

Jim turned over in the narrow bed, trying to find a comfortable position. A police cell wasn't designed to be comfortable.

Ryan Frazer deserved every moment of pain he had endured. Jim regretted none of it.

But he remembered the look on Simon's face and he did regret that. Simon was a good friend. He had been Jim's closest friend for five years. Maybe Simon would have helped him five years ago. Maybe Jim should have told him everything then. How different everything would be now if he could have punished Frazer some other way.

Jim had to assume Simon would tell IA and probably the Feds that Jim admitted to another murder. If they could find more evidence than his confession, Jim was in serious shit.

He was not an impulsive man. He planned things, thinking through all the angles before he acted. When he killed Ryan Frazer, he expected to be caught. He knew that, at the very least, he would be a suspect. Even as he tried to cover the evidence, he did not believe he would succeed.

It wasn't the weight of Frazer's body that made it difficult to carry. It was the stink of blood and shit. He had been to fresh crime scenes many times and not had difficulty with the smells, but this time he was choking on it. Jim tried to breathe as shallowly as possible as he travelled the few necessary steps into the bathroom. He dumped the body in the bath and leaned over, steadying himself against the wall, relearning how to breathe. His gloved hand left a scarlet smear on the wall when he straightened.

Jim crossed to the sink and washed his hands, still wearing the latex gloves. There was a plastic shower-head attached to the bath tap; he turned the tap on and sprayed water liberally around the room, obscuring the foot and hand prints he had left. He left the water on trickle and walked to the doorway.

From the doorway he surveyed the room, trying to think like a cop again. What assumptions would he make, confronted with this scene? The ball-gag he'd used to shut Frazer up, the dishevelled clothing and still-open zipper suggested a sex-game gone badly wrong. Not all of the scene was consistent with that, but it was a good working theory. It might do.

Jim's cleanup in the main room was less thorough than it should have been, but he was gagging on the smells of blood and death. If he added the contents of his stomach to the evidence, he'd be caught for sure.

He managed to leave the building without anyone seeing him. His SUV was a couple of streets away, but it was dark and if anyone saw him, they didn't see the state of his clothing. He had a change of clothing in the SUV. His sweater and jeans were ruined; Jim bagged them up and would destroy them later. Finally, he sat in the driver's seat and gripped the wheel hard as the delayed shock reaction finally hit him. He was shaking so much it felt like there was an earthquake going on outside the vehicle. His breath was uneven, gasping. He held onto the steering wheel for dear life, as if it were the only anchor he had.

He had committed murder.

He, Jim Ellison, was a murderer.

The reaction began to fade and Jim leaned back in the seat. As he moved, he caught a glimpse of his face in the rear-view mirror. He turned the mirror for a closer look. A dark bruise was forming around his eye and Jim remembered Frazer hitting him. There was dried blood on his upper lip, too: a nosebleed, though he didn't remember that happening. If he was to survive the next few days, he needed a story that would explain the eye. He needed a story that no one would question.

Jim shivered suddenly. His careful planning succeeded, perhaps too well. The night he killed Frazer, he went to a bar near the docks, one with a certain reputation. It wasn't long before some punk gave him an excuse to provoke a fight. He'd let it go on for a short while, to explain his injuries, then played the cop and shut it down. It was exactly the alibi he needed: plenty of witnesses who would remember his face, remember his eye was blacked in the fight.

The weeks that followed were not easy. It was hard to pretend he knew nothing as his colleagues began looking into Frazer's murder. Because Frazer was a cop, they all helped out a little on the case. Jim took the crime scene analysis: it allowed him to offer the suggestion that the bloody crime scene might contain the killer's blood among the gore. He ordered a full DNA workup on several samples.

His pretended shock and grief when the results showed what he knew all along must have been convincing. He had to answer questions, of course, but no one seemed to think he might be lying.

Jim got away with it, clean.

How coldly he planned that murder!

Remembering those days, Jim was no longer surprised by it, but at the time he had wondered about himself. He thought he'd left that part of him in Peru. The part that could plan a hunt with human prey as calmly as he shaved himself each morning. The part of himself that could kill without feeling. The part of himself that knew torture and pain -

• - redblack stars behind his eyes - throat too raw to scream - his spine bowing in agony - *
  • from both sides, now.

It never truly left, did it?

10.30 PM

The pool was covered, but Blair could smell the chlorine in the water. It was dark, the decking lit only by the lights in the house behind him, but it was easy to imagine this place on a summer noon...the family around the poolside...a big beach ball floating in the pool...Matt in swimming trunks, dripping wet...but Blair pushed away that pleasant thought.

"Are you okay, Blair?"

Blair turned and found Matt's arms around him. He returned the embrace, holding Matt close. "No, man, I'm not okay."

"You said it was possible a cop was involved in Tan's death."

"Yeah, but not...my god, Matt, he was investigating her case!"

"I remember," Matt was holding Blair tightly, nuzzling into the curve of Blair's neck. "Dad said they seemed very sure."

"I trusted him," Blair whispered.

"Come inside, baby."

Blair drew back a little so he could look into Matt's face. "Your family...I feel like I'm intruding."

"You're not, but I understand. Blair...if you feel that way, let's leave. I really want to be with you tonight."

Blair moved closer and kissed Matt deeply. This wasn't easy for either of them; their reasons were different, that was all. Matt had lost his sister; he didn't see past that and there was no reason he should. Blair's feeling were more complex. He felt Matt turn on as their tongues met. The heat between them rose rapidly; Blair had an urge to drag Matt down to the ground and tear his clothes off. Matt's hips ground into his, encouraging his wayward thoughts. With a superhuman effort, Blair pulled back. He recognised the impulse for what it was: a need to forget the news and distract themselves.

"I think," Blair said regretfully, "your family needs you here."

Matt smiled sadly. "I love you."

Blair was still holding him. "I love you, too, man." He ran his fingers through Matt's thick hair. "I'm here for you. I promise."

11.09 PM

Simon held a half-smoked cigar in one hand and two fingers of whiskey in the other. His TV was on, but he wasn't really watching. It had been a long day.

One image stayed with him, refusing to get out of his head: Jim's face as he spoke calmly of planning a murder.

Jim Ellison had been Simon's friend for five years. He thought he knew him. But the Jim he knew was not a murderer, no matter the provocation.

When he heard the doorbell he sobered up quickly. It was far too late for visitors. He went to the door, cigar in hand. Through the glass he saw Melissa's slight frame and relaxed. He opened the door.

"Not tonight," he began.

"This can't wait," she answered firmly. "May I come in, Simon?"

"If you must." He opened the door wide to let her in and followed her into the house. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Thanks, but I'm on a caffeine high already." Melissa glanced around the room with some interest.

Simon had hoped she'd see his place for the first time under better circumstances. "Have a seat," he offered, reclaiming his own.

She sat down on the couch. "Simon, please believe me, I wouldn't have asked you to wear the transmitter if I had known..."

"Then why did you?" he interrupted. Perhaps she hadn't known Jim would confess something to him, but she had to have hoped for it.

Melissa looked directly at Simon. "I thought you were right about him. You've known Ellison a long time. I trusted your judgement."

And that judgement was wrong. Simon said nothing.

"I know he's your friend. That's why I had to come. You know Ellison will be arraigned tomorrow."

"Yes, I know." Jim would be charged with first degree murder. If his attorney was any good at all he should be able to plea-bargain that down to a lesser charge, but with a confession on the record Jim was going to do time.

"Patrick Craven drew the case for the DA's office...I see you know him."

"Yeah." Craven was exactly who Simon would normally want to see on a murder trial...but not with his friend in the dock.

"Well, the charge is going to be murder one, but with Ellison's second confession Craven thinks he can establish that Ellison killed Tania Roca to cover up his earlier murder. And maybe others. He specifically asked if we can tie Ellison to any of the other murder victims..."

Simon saw where this was going. "Damn it, I didn't agree to - " He needed to move. He stood, pacing the room. "There's no way that tape is admissible evidence."

"I agree, but there's a chance a judge will allow it. It was technically legal. We had the earlier warrant and Ellison had been mirandised before you spoke with him."

Simon lifted the glass and drank. "You wouldn't have that tape without my help. You're telling me that evidence is going to put Jim on death row."

Melissa's face fell. "You must hate me. I truly didn't intend this."

Simon believed her. He watched her for a moment. "I don't hate you, 'Liss. It was my choice to wear a wire." He took a long drag on his cigar, then set it down in the ashtray and sat down beside her on the couch. "If Jim killed Tania Roca - which I still find hard to believe - and if he killed Ryan Frazer, then I have to accept he may be the same man who killed nine other people. If that's true, I should be pushing for the maximum penalty possible. But I can't, 'Liss. Not on this one."

"It looks a little different when it's your friend," she nodded, understanding. Melissa glanced down at her clasped hands, then back to Simon. "Simon, I need to ask you something. What do you believe about Ellison? Now you've heard his story, is he guilty of the other nine? What does your gut tell you?"

Simon took a deep breath. "Frazer murdered Jim's fiance. I was with him that night, 'Liss. What Jim did was wrong, but I understand it."

"That doesn't answer my question."

No, it didn't. Simon was silent for a long time, before he finally confessed what had been on his mind since he left Jim that evening. "I went to see Jim this morning." Less than twenty four hours ago; it felt like weeks. "I told him I knew he was holding back some information and I asked him if the reason was something to do with Frazer. Jim admitted he knew who killed Frazer."

"But not that it was him?"

"No." That was a shocking piece of manipulation on Jim's part. A huge lie of omission: just enough truth in there to put Simon off the scent. "I then asked him if whoever killed Frazer was responsible for the other murders."

Melissa's eyes widened slightly. "What did he say?"

"He said he couldn't answer that question. Yet. But if Jim is the one who killed Frazer - I don't doubt he is - then he knows the answer. Why wouldn't he just tell me, if the answer is no?"

Melissa looked thoughtful. "Is that sort of evasiveness typical of Ellison?"

"No, definitely not. Why?"

"I'm wondering if the evasion is because he respects you too much to lie outright."

Respect? After everything that happened since that morning, it seemed an odd word to use. Simon nodded. "Maybe. I don't know. None of this makes sense, Melissa. Jim Ellison is not a serial killer."

Melissa relaxed and Simon realised she'd been waiting for him to say that. He asked with his eyes.

"When we began this investigation, I told you that my only goal is finding this serial killer. That's still true. If Ellison is innocent of the other murders, I need to prove it. Or the reverse."

"You'll need to go to IA for that."

"No." Melissa shook her head. "Detective Irwin is convinced of Ellison's guilt. Simon, can you be objective about this? Look at the evidence and accept it if it implicates your friend further?"

It won't. It can't, Simon thought, but he answered honestly, "I don't know."

"Well, at least that's honest. As I see it, this could be your last chance to help Ellison if he is innocent."

And if he's not, I'll be helping to convict him of a capital crime.

"Melissa, this is an IA investigation. Irwin involved me as a courtesy, but that's all."

Melissa reached out to touch his arm gently, smiling. "You're forgetting something."

He didn't move away from her touch. "What am I forgetting?"

"In Ellison's confession to you he stated clearly he went out of state to obtain a gun for the express purpose of killing Frazer. That means this case is now in my jurisdiction."

She was right. He had forgotten.

Melissa added, "I don't plan to make an issue of it, but as of now I'm inviting you to assist the FBI with this investigation."

"Can you make that stick?"

"If Sheila wants to make this a pissing contest, yes. Will you help me, Simon?"

He nodded. She was right: this could well be Jim's last chance. "What do you need?"

A busy police department is never entirely still, even at night.

Simon had survived some horrendous night shifts in the bullpen but this night seemed mercifully quiet. Simon saw Joel Taggert at his desk and muttered a hello in passing as he headed into his office. Melissa had gone ahead to the incident room they'd set up for the murder investigation.

Simon sat down at his desk and bent down to unlock the drawer. The Frazer file was on top of the other papers. He removed it and looked up as Joel tapped on his door.

"Simon, we need to talk." Joel's expression was very serious; Simon could see this was not good news.

"Can it wait, Joel?"

"It's about Jim."

Simon's heart sank. "I'm on my way to the incident room. If it's about Ellison we'd better talk there." Whatever Joel had to say, Melissa should hear it, too. Simon had promised her full disclosure. It was a promise he intended to keep. Starting now.

Melissa was looking at the display of Verne Jansen's murder when Simon and Joel walked in. She spoke without turning around. "I think we should concentrate on Jansen and Roxanne Cruz. They seem to be the best documented and they're both early cases. Third and fourth victims, if all eleven are on the list."

"Works for me," Simon agreed. He took a seat at the table. "Joel?" he prompted.

Taggert looked at Melissa uncertainly. "Uh...Agent Heywood, you said you got a warrant to search Jim's loft yesterday. Is that still valid?"

"Of course," she answered, turning away from the display and asking him to sit with a gesture. She sat down.

"Why?" Simon asked.

Joel took a seat. "Jim's truck was in the basement. I searched it. I found this." He laid a gun on the table, wrapped in a handkerchief. "And this." He put an evidence bag beside the gun. It contained a key.

Melissa reached for the bag, sliding it across the table toward her. "Any idea what this opens?"

"I think it's for a long-term storage facility. There are four in Cascade that use this type. I don't think we can identify which one before morning, though."

"Joel, you sound like you think Jim's guilty," Simon objected.

"He confessed, Simon! How much more do you need?"

"Proof would be nice."

"I don't like it, Captain, but I'm a cop and I'm doing my job. That gun was in a concealed compartment inside the driver's door. No way that's standard issue. I'll bet you a month's salary the gun isn't registered to Ellison. And the key - that was taped to the steering column. It wasn't meant to be found."

Simon looked at the gun on the table. "I thought Jim was your friend."

"Damn it, Simon, so did I!" Taggert pushed his chair back, half-standing. "If he murdered Tania, then he did it to cover something up. If Jim is capable of that..." He moved out from the table, slamming his fist against the wall where the pictures of Brent Kraemer's charred body were displayed. "...If he's capable of this, then I don't know him at all. And neither do you."

There was nothing he could say to that. Simon had forgotten Taggert knew Tania Roca. It wasn't too surprising he was taking it personally now.

Melissa broke the silence. "Simon, have you told him about Frazer?"

"No."

"I think we should."

"What about Frazer?" Joel demanded.

"You know that when Ellison came in this afternoon he confessed to one murder."

Joel nodded. "Tania Roca. Yes."

Simon stood and walked away from the table.

"Later," Melissa went on, "in a private conversation with Simon, he confessed to another. Ryan Frazer. But in this case he had a clear motive. Frazer raped and murdered his fiance."

Taggert was nodding. "I knew Frazer killed Detective Plummer. If Jim killed Frazer...that means he killed the others. Doesn't it?"

"Simon and I are here because we're not sure. If you remember my profile of these murders, there are nine we can be confident are the same killer. A serial killer. The two we are less certain of are the ones we now know Ellison killed." She opened a file, turning it so Joel could see the pages within. "I see two realistic possibilities. One: Frazer and Roca were murdered by Ellison, the other nine by someone else. Two: Ellison is our serial killer. Detective Taggert, it's absolutely imperative we prove which of these theories is correct. Because if Ellison didn't kill these nine people, we still have a serial killer out there."

Simon watched Taggert think that one over. Finally he nodded, looking at Simon. "Do you have a plan of action?"

Simon indicated the gun on the table. "I think you should get that down to forensics. Have them dust for prints at once and order a ballistic analysis for tomorrow."

"Will there be someone in forensics at this hour?" Melissa asked.

"Oh, yeah," Taggert forced a smile. "Cascade is an unfriendly city. We always have emergency cover."

She smiled back. "Okay. The key will have to wait until morning, but you'd better log it as evidence if you haven't already. Simon and I are going to examine some of these cases. Are you willing to pull an all-nighter with us?"

"I'm here," Joel answered.

27 FEBRUARY 1998

Jim Ellison was a fucking hero.

They'd all known that, of course, when he first joined Cascade PD. The army ranger who toughed it out in the jungle for a year and a half. Call it celebrity or notoriety, Ellison got his fifteen minutes of fame out of that. He even made the cover of Newsweek. So yeah, they knew he was a hero.

Joel worked with Ellison a couple of times before the Switchman case, but it was on that case that he and Joel became friends. Joel was still with the bomb squad then and Ellison spent a lot of time with his team, analysing the Switchman's bombs. Ellison was the first to welcome Joel to major crimes when his transfer came through.

Ellison was a hero, in the old fashioned sense of the word. If the job called for it he'd leap onto a helicopter or run into a burning building. Joel had seen him do it. He knew the stories about what Ellison did when Simon and his son were kidnapped in Peru. He believed them all.

It hurt, more than Joel knew how to articulate, to think of Jim Ellison as a murderer.

But he had also seen the hate in Jim's eyes when he faced off with David Lash. He'd heard what he almost did to Dawson Quinn. He knew that one of the reasons Jim was such a good detective was his instinct for the hunt: he never let go until he had a case solved. He had seen Jim struggle to contain his anger when a case got personal.

Joel knew Jim could have committed murder. He didn't want to believe that he had.

The key he found in Jim's truck was for a unit at the EZ Store storage company, a big converted warehouse in eastern Cascade. The owner was Phil Harley. When Joel gave him the serial code stamped on the key, Harley identified it as the key for a unit rented in the name of James Grant. Joel asked for a credit card number and was told Grant paid cash.

Harley was going to have to identify his customer as Ellison, or their search warrant was useless. Harley agreed to meet the police on-site. Four of them drove to the warehouse: Simon and Joel from the PD, Agent Heywood and Agent Ross of the FBI. Ross did the driving, as three of them had been awake all night. All the way there, Joel was hoping Harley would look at the photograph and declare he'd never seen Jim in his life.

He was disappointed.

Harley looked closely at the key before confirming it was definitely one of his. Simon showed him a photograph of Ellison and Harley nodded. "Yeah, that's Grant. He in some sort of trouble?"

Agent Heywood showed him their warrant. "We need to search the unit this man rented. Can you show us the way, please?"

"Sure. Sixteen. This way." Harley let them around to the unit. The door was large, a garage-style door built to accommodate a large van. Harley unlocked it for them. "You need me to stick around?"

"That's not necessary," Simon told him. "Thank you for your help."

Joel pulled the door open and, ducking inside, searched for a light switch. Yellow light flooded the unit and he looked around. It looked like a typical storage. The sort of junk you'd stuff in the attic if you had one. Old furniture, boxes neatly stacked and labelled, a couple of battered trunks. Partly used tins of paint. Nothing at all that seemed remarkable or suspicious. There was a faint smell that could have been paraffin or paint thinner: perfectly normal. Had Jim not rented the unit using an alias, Joel would have thought they were wasting their time.

"Let's get to work," Agent Heywood suggested.

At first, they found nothing significant. A heavy crate turned out to hold tools: hammers, screwdrivers and drills, all well used and the kind of thing any practical man keeps around. Boxes held exactly what the labels claimed: old clothing, shoes. There was a surfboard and with it a box of rope. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Simon found the first piece of worrying evidence. At the bottom of a trunk containing old bedding he found a plastic box. It contained a glass vial two-thirds full of liquid and a syringe. He called Melissa over. "What do you make of this?"

She picked up the vial, turning it over in her gloved hand. "It's a medical vial, the type they use for prescription injectable drugs like insulin. The label has been removed but there's a manufacturer's serial number here..." She traced the base of the vial with her fingertip. "The contents could be anything."

"Some sort of poison?" Agent Ross suggested.

Melissa looked at Simon. "None of the victims were killed with poison. Most prescription drugs are deadly in overdose...insulin, methadone...but I don't remember anything in the toxicology."

"Neither do I, but whatever is in here has been used. We'll get it analysed." Simon bagged up the box and contents. Joel saw his face as he did it: Simon looked like Joel felt. They were both tired because they'd been awake all night reviewing every detail of the case files and the day was feeling more and more like a train wreck.

Joel made the next find. He was going through the contents of a wooden crate full of books and old magazines. He rapidly flicked through the pages of each one before setting them aside. But he reached the bottom of the box far too quickly. He looked more closely and discovered it had a false bottom. Joel's stomach did a backflip or two. He tipped the remaining contents out onto the floor, righted the box and felt around the edges of the base. He found a gap, got some leverage and yanked the fake base up. It snapped in his hand, driving splinters into his flesh. He jerked his hand back, muttering an obscenity. Then he looked down into the box. "Oh, shit."

He was looking at a stash of weapons. A .38 with a silencer. A baton garrotte. A long stiletto and a hunting knife. A few things Joel couldn't name.

"Simon," he called.

Simon came to his side. He knelt beside the box and lifted out the knife. "Jim's special forces trained. This doesn't necessarily mean..."

"No," Joel agreed, but he knew Simon didn't really believe it.

"No," Agent Ross called, "but I think this does. Heywood, take a look at this." Ross had been working on the lock of an old wood chest. He had the lid open now but Joel couldn't see clearly what was inside. It looked like business stuff: papers in buff folders and large envelopes.

Heywood knelt beside the chest and reached inside. She pulled out a sheaf of papers, held together with a butterfly clip. She leafed through the papers and set them aside, picking up a folder and opening it. She looked up at Simon. "Copies of police reports that definitely shouldn't be outside the PD. A few newspaper clippings. But this...I think this is it, Simon. The smoking gun."

Simon crossed to her side and took the folder from her hands He looked at the contents. Joel saw the truth hit him like a bullet.

Simon handed the folder back without a word and walked out of the warehouse.

"Simon!" Heywood started after him.

Joel stopped her by stepping into her way. "Better give him a moment alone, Agent Heywood. Simon and Jim are close." He could use a moment himself. "What have you got?" he asked, mostly just to distract her.

She opened the folder to show him. It was a sketched plan of what looked like a house and garden. There were some numbers written in one corner: 5 11 10-10. Joel didn't make the connection at first.

"Verne Jansen's property," Heywood prompted. "Is that Ellison's writing?"

Jansen. Of course. "Yeah, it is." Joel looked again and realised he'd misread it. S11, not five-eleven. Saturday the eleventh, ten minutes past ten. Which was damn near exactly the time Jansen died.

It was the evidence they had been looking for, but finding it made Joel no happier than Simon.

Some hero.

12 JUNE 1998 (FOUR MONTHS LATER)

It was by no means the first time Simon had visited the prison. Before he made captain, he had been out here two or three times a year, on work-related business. This was, however, the first time he came out here to visit a friend.

Simon submitted patiently to the routine search, but because he was a cop they let him keep his gun. He followed the guard through the corridors, wondering what kind of reception he was going to get. Would Jim even agree to see him? Simon's testimony in court had not helped Jim's case. He had tried to soften it, but what could he do? The facts were the facts.

There were two other people in the visitors' room, as well as the inevitable guards. A woman in a bright yellow dress sat opposite a prisoner at least twice her age. Probably her father, Simon guessed. There were six booths with the glass-screen and telephone arrangement that was becoming standard in prisons. It enabled a visitor to talk with a prisoner in privacy (or at least the appearance of it) but eliminated any possibility of direct contact. Simon selected a booth as far from the others as possible and sat down.

He didn't wait long before the door opened on the prison side and Jim walked in. He seemed surprised to see Simon.

Jim did not look good. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed lack of sleep. There was a cut on his chin that was probably (hopefully) from shaving with a poor blade. More than that, there was something about the way he moved, even just crossing the room, that told Simon there was something wrong. Perhaps that was only to be expected.

Jim sat down and picked up the receiver on his side. Simon did the same.

"Hi." Jim's tone was perfectly neutral.

"How are you doing?" Simon asked. It was a lame beginning, but his concern was genuine. Whatever else Jim had done, he saved Simon's life more than once. Hell, he saved his son's life. Simon wasn't about to abandon his friend completely.

Jim shrugged. "Prison food sucks. Other than that I guess I'm okay. How is...everyone?"

Simon sighed. "Joel handed me his resignation."

Jim's eyes widened. "From the force?"

"That was his plan, yeah. IA offered him a promotion to join their team. He might accept it. Right now he's taking an extended leave."

Jim nodded, but didn't ask the obvious question: had Joel resigned because of him. Perhaps the answer was equally obvious.

"I hear the trial isn't going so well."

Jim hesitated, an odd smile fleeting across his lips. "Depends which side you're on."

"Do you have to ask?"

"That wasn't a question. I heard your testimony, Simon. You could have said a whole lot more."

Simon felt his tension ease. He should have known Jim would understand. "I told the truth," he said simply.

Jim nodded. "Yes, you did."

"Jim, I came because Maury Stirling called me." Stirling was Jim's attorney. "He asked me to testify on your behalf at your sentencing."

Jim's nod confirmed this wasn't news to him. He said nothing.

"It seemed...odd. Or at least premature. The trial isn't over yet."

"They're not going to acquit me, Simon. You know that."

Unfortunately Simon did. "You told Stirling I'd testify? What is it you expect me to say?"

"Only the truth." Jim rested his elbows on the shelf in front of him, leaning on the phone he held. "I'm not asking you to condone anything I've done, or to defend me. Maury wanted someone who can talk about my 'state of mind' when Carolyn was murdered. You're the only person who was there for all of it. Most of it," he amended.

Yeah, Simon could do that. He wasn't sure it would do much good, though. "Jim, if you're so sure you'll be convicted, why not change your plea? You'll get some credit for that. Better than hoping for a sympathetic jury."

"Because that bastard DA won't deal. Even if I plead guilty, Craven will ask for the death penalty. I think he sees an election coming or something."

"Shit," Simon swore with feeling.

Jim shrugged. "He's doing his job. Will you testify, Simon?"

"You know I will. But I have a condition."

Jim's expression became closed. "What condition?"

"A straight answer."

"Are you wearing a wire again?"

I guess I deserved that.

"No, but someone could still be listening." This was a prison: the only person Jim was entitled to speak with privately was his lawyer. One of the reasons they used this telephone system for visitors was so they could monitor it if they wanted to. Simon pressed ahead anyway. "Jim, you're a cop. You know the position I'm in."

"You want to close the cases."

"I want to know if I can."

Jim shook his head. "If I answer that now, you could be subpoenaed again."

Yeah, it could happen, Jim, but they can only hang you once.

"I don't think it would make things worse for you at this stage. Jim," Simon began reasonably. He saw Jim start to shake his head and he lost his temper. "I've had enough of your evasive answers, Ellison! I need to do my job and you know that." More softly, Simon added, "Jim, I've seen and heard the worst already. I'll do what I can to help you whatever your answer but I need to hear the truth from you, now."

Jim's blue eyes met his, appraising. "You haven't come close to the worst." He sighed heavily. "I can't explain it to you, Simon. Everything seemed so clear five years ago. I thought I was..." He stopped, shook his head. "The truth. Your girlfriend thinks I killed eleven people."

Girlfriend sounded disparaging, but Simon ignored the barb. "If you mean Melissa, yes. Is she right?" He instinctively held his breath, waiting for Jim's answer, praying he could believe it.

"No," Jim said. He paused before adding, "It was more than that."

Simon let out his breath. He struggled to keep his expression neutral.

"Don't ask me any more, Simon. Not now."

Simon wanted to argue. He wanted to demand answers and explanations. He understood Jim's position, though. Whatever else he might be, Jim wasn't suicidal. So all he said was, "I'll be back, then. After the trial."

"I know you will."

They had an understanding. It was the best Simon could hope for. "Is there..." the words sounded so trite "...anything you need, anything I can do?"

Jim's smile seemed genuine. "You agreed to testify. I can't ask for more."

The media circus surrounding James Ellison's trial was a nightmare for Tania's family. It wasn't enough that she was dead. When the news broke, it seemed to Blair that every reporter in the state wanted a front-row seat in the theatre of her family's grief and pain.

There's something about the phrase "serial killer" that makes journalists react like Pavlov's dogs.

Matt's phone rang off the hook. He bought an answering machine for the apartment and changed his cellphone number. It helped, but it didn't prevent the more persistent sharks from calling him at work or even stopping him in the streets.

It was a big test of their fledgling relationship. Blair did what he could to support Matt. He massaged the tension out of his shoulders and tried to keep them both laughing. He held Matt close while they watched the news reports of the trial. At night, their lovemaking became a little desperate, both of them using it to block out the day.

Blair, believing Matt's need was far greater than his own, refused to burden him further, but he was feeling the strain himself. Matt offered to go with him the day Blair had to testify. Blair initially accepted the offer but when he saw how much it was costing Matt he told him to go home. Blair had to fight off a few reporters himself that day. But he'd anticipated that, and solved the problem by giving an exclusive interview to one of Tania's colleagues at the Tribune. She was Tania's friend, would report with some sensitivity, and it allowed him to give a firm no comment to everyone else. Let them assume he'd been paid for the story. He didn't care as long as the Rocas knew the truth.

Tony Roca was in court almost every day of the trial. Lien was not.

On the day Ellison's trial ended, most of the Roca family attended the court to hear the verdict. Blair was with them; over the long weeks of the trial Lien seemed to have adopted him as another son, or maybe she was just that motherly with everyone. Either way, Blair was now part of the family. Had he and Matt been a heterosexual couple, he was sure she would be dropping hints about grandchildren by now.

He rather liked it.

Blair watched Ellison as the verdict was read out to the court. Ellison didn't look at the judge or the jury. He stared straight ahead, no emotion showing on his face. Three counts of murder in the first degree. Guilty. Guilty. And guilty. You'd have thought Ellison was a waxwork model for all the reaction he showed.

Across the courtroom, Blair recognised Captain Banks. He seemed unhappy with the verdict. It couldn't be easy for him: Blair knew he and Ellison were colleagues. Did he think it was the wrong verdict?

Blair's feelings were confused. Ellison murdered Tania. He should be happy her killer had been brought to justice, but he wasn't happy. Maybe because it was Ellison. An opportunity lost.

That evening, Blair begged off the family gathering and went alone to his office at Rainier. He locked the door, sat down at his desk and tried to work, reviewing the completed portions of his thesis.

*...vision cannot be considered a conventional research method. Nevertheless, the core of the Chopec shaman's message deserves close scrutiny. While I have long held the belief that a sentinel's heightened sensory awareness must be a genetic trait, it is clear that the shaman (and by extension, his tribe) require more. In addition to heightened senses, specific personality traits must be present before they bestow the title of sentinel.*

To the Chopec, a sentinel possesses the characteristics of protector and predator. The protector displays a fierce loyalty to the tribal group, an ability to identify a threat swiftly and deal with it decisively. The predator is a hunter and a warrior; one who kills but not indiscriminately.

The jaguar spirit so frequently associated with sentinels in South American cultures embodies both characteristics. It is worth noting that in tribal legends the jaguar most often appears as a defender or as a bringer of just retribution.

Was James Ellison a sentinel? If he was, what did that mean? Blair knew from his self-administered crash course in serial killers that Ellison did not fit the standard profile. Was it possible this was all connected somehow?

It didn't matter any more.

Blair opened his sentinel file and found the notes he had written after his encounter with Ellison in Memorial Park. He looked at them for a moment: two sheets of paper filled with his hurried writing. He tore the paper into small pieces and threw the pieces in the trash.

It was over. He would never know.

End Predator by Morgan: morgan32@gmail.com
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