Murder, By Definition
part 1
by: ysone

~*~

Prologue: Death

noun
1 : a permanent cessation of all vital functions : the end of life
2 : the cause or occasion of loss of life
3 : the state of being dead

~*~

It was the bitter bite of the frigid waters that brought him fully conscious. With it came a pain unlike anything he'd ever known. It cut through him with the force of a thousand tiny daggers, dragging every vestige of warmth from him in its wake. Confused, he didn't fight at first, but as awareness sharpened with the icy cold, a flash of panic-induced adrenaline shot through his limbs, and he flailed against the black molasses that sucked at him, pulling him lower into its inky blackness.

Gravity ceased to operate. There was no other explanation, because he was falling up. Wasn't he? If he could have drawn a breath, he might have laughed. Funny how bizarre life became when you were dying. Funny. At least he'd go out laughing. But he'd still be dead, and oh, God, he didn't want to die!

Fight, he commanded his arms, and they weakly obeyed. His legs, on the other hand, were deaf to his pleas, hanging limply below... above?... him. And always there was the crushing pain. The bone-deep cold. The burning of lungs that wanted nothing more than to suck in a breath of air that wasn't there. How long could a man hold his breath? He didn't want to have to find out. Not now. Not like this. Take a breath, and die. Don't take a breath, and die. Was there no third option?

Whoever said drowning was like falling asleep had clearly never drowned. Because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. His arms, legs, the sheer agony that was his lungs... and his head... God, his head had long since exploded and was probably lying on the river floor somewhere.

And, then, oh God, there it was... the light. The one he'd only heard about, read about. The one he'd hoped to never actually witness -- at least not for another forty, fifty years. So it wasn't the inky, frigid waters of the river that were sucking at him like molasses, it was the inky dark, frigid, black "tunnel" -- the one which led to the light that any sane man would fight to avoid for as long as possible.

And God he didn't want to die. Not now, not today, and certainly not like this. This hurt, goddammit! Another minute, and his lungs would surely explode, joining his already shattered head beneath him... above him?

Mentally sighing -- because he couldn't very well actually sigh -- he ignored the agony that was his arms and flailed his way toward the damned light. No point prolonging the inevitable.

And then it hit him, with a force that would have shattered his poor aching head, had it not already been shattered and scattered -- he was going to die! And it was with both sadness and relief that he realized that it was true what they said, all knowledge did come with death.

~*~

Chapter 1: Grief

noun
1: deep and poignant distress caused by bereavement
2: a cause of such suffering
3: an unfortunate outcome

~*~

There was no relief on the other side. Alex knew this because with each step toward full consciousness that her body made, the agony grew until she groaned with the enormity of it. The sound, small though it was, reverberated through her brain, bouncing around until it finally ended up roiling miserably through her viscera.

"Good Lord, did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?" she said, but what came out of her mouth was a whispered, "... tru'k...hit..." The roughness of her voice was startling. It screeched like a door badly in need of a little lubricant.

"Alex...?"

Her features twisted. She knew the voice, but trying to place it only made her head pound harder, so she shelved the idea. Opening her eyes would likely do the same, she decided. She made no attempt to test the theory, but was content to simply lay perfectly still and hope it all would just go away.

Even that small wish was too much. Mere seconds later, the summons sounded again, this time followed by a soft touch on her arm. "Alex... you awake, baby girl?"

Baby girl? Mystery solved. There was only one person who'd ever called her that. "Dad?" Damn squeaky voice.

"That's right, baby girl. It's Dad." There was no mistaking the relief in his voice. "You with me? Can you open your eyes?"

Alex thought about trying, for all of two seconds. It would hurt, and she was hurting enough without adding anything more to it. "Nuh..." she grunted, hoping he could interpret the negative in the sound. The touch on her arm tightened briefly in what she interpreted as understanding.

"'s okay," her dad replied, his voice betraying only a slight disappointment. "It's okay, just rest."

Rest. Yes, a very good idea. Alex quit trying to decipher the myriad messages her body was broadcasting. There would be time and, hopefully, energy for that later. Right now she wanted nothing more than to find the door she'd come through and slip back to the other side where sleep waited. Her father's gentle voice guided her to it and through, and within seconds, she was sleeping.

When she awoke again, her head felt more or less normal, though she still felt like a truck had not only hit her, but had then backed up to get her again.

She weighed the risk of opening her eyes and decided to give it a shot, saying a silent prayer that the action wouldn't inflate her head once again to Hindenburg proportions. A slight splitting of eyelids without an ensuing explosion gave her hope, and she risked opening one eye fully, followed a few seconds later by the other.

Hospital, she deduced, letting her eyes take in as much as they could without moving. The location explained the various aches and pains that were vying for attention. The fuzzy subtly of their attempts told her she was very likely on some kind of pain killers.

"Pain killers..." she muttered with a humorless snort. Pain reducers would be a more accurate term. It was like taking a teaspoon of water out of a five gallon bucket. It might be less water, but it was still a hell of a lot.

"You need something for the pain, baby girl?"

Alex rolled her head carefully toward the voice. "Dad..."

Her father smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Yeah, baby. How do you feel? The nurse was just here putting something in your IV for pain. If it's not working, I can call her back..." He made to move away, and Alex felt a sudden, overwhelming need for him to stay.

"No... please, Dad... don't go."

He turned back, his smile fading to a frown of concern. "It's okay, Alex. I'm not leaving. I was just going to call the nurse. They wanted to know when you woke up anyway."

She lifted the hand nearest him, and he caught it between both of his, holding it gently. "Not... not yet, please. I'm okay. Really."

John quirked a bushy, white eyebrow in disbelief, but didn't call her on the bluff, for which she was grateful. "Okay" might be stretching the truth to the breaking point, but it was a relative term anyhow. "Really, Dad, I'm okay for now. I just... some water would be nice."

John released her hand and turned away. A moment later, he held a bent straw to her lips. Alex sucked gratefully at it. The icy fluid that slid down her throat was sheer bliss.

"Better?"

Alex risked a short nod, aborting the attempt when a wave of dizziness forced her to close her eyes. "Yeah, much," she elaborated while she waited for the vertigo to pass.

"Alex..." John began, taking her hand once more, "don't lie to me. How do you really feel? Do you need the doctor?"

She opened her eyes again, meeting her father's. Deciding on a shortened version of the truth, and hoping it would satisfy him, she replied, "Like I've been ten rounds with that damned proverbial truck. You know the one -- it hits and runs, then hits again. I think I must have met it more than once."

John lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile. His gaze dropped, and he shifted his stance, moving slightly away from the bed, though he didn't release his hold on her hand.

"Dad..." she waited until he lifted his gaze, "What happened? Why am I here?"

John started to shift his gaze away again, but Alex tugged on his hand, stopping him. He took a deep breath that sounded as though he were trying to suck in all the air in the room. Leave me some, she wanted to tell him, but one look at his much-too-serious expression and the lame joke died a rightful death unspoken..

John took his time answering, which set her internal alarms to screaming. Whatever he had to tell her, it was bad enough to spook him, and that spooked her. Had she been shot? She did a quick survey of her pain, but none of it was centralized enough for a gun shot wound. She was more sore than hurt, as though she'd gone a couple dozen rounds with an Olympic boxer, or fallen head first down a garbage shoot... from the fiftieth floor.

Alex's focus turned inward, searching for something in her memory that would support either theory. Had she and Bobby been out on a case? Had some perp gotten violent? What was her last memory?

Bobby...

"Oh, God, Bobby..." Alex turned panicked eyes up in time to see moisture gather in her father's eyes. He never cried. Never. "Bobby?" She sat up, ignoring the vertigo that made her vision swim, as well as the tight pull of pain across her ribs. "Dad, please, tell me. Is he okay? What happened? Where is he?"

"Shh... Alex... settle down. You're going to pull your IV out, and then they really will sedate you." His hands pushed gently at her shoulders. "Shh... It's all right, baby, calm down."

Alex didn't want to calm down, she wanted answers, but she was clear-headed enough to know that she wouldn't get them unless she did as she was told. She forced her panic to the background and let her dad push her back into the pillows, She clung frantically to his hand, not willing to give up the comforting contact. Once she was settled, she turned fear-filled eyes to him. "Dad, please, I have to know. What happened? Where's Bobby?"

John once again took a deep breath, followed by another one, then stepped in closer to her, bending slightly to meet her gaze as he spoke. "You were attacked, baby. Tied up and-and beaten. You were hurt badly."

Alex took stock of her pain once more, but it still didn't seem so bad. She'd felt far worse on more than one occasion.

As though reading her thoughts, he added, "You're on some pretty heavy duty pain killers. It's keeping the worst of it at bay."

Still, it couldn't be too terrible; she was alive, awake and in pretty much one piece, so why was her dad so upset? So shaken that he had come to tears just moments before? "Bobby?" God, it had to be Bobby! They must have been together. They were, weren't they? She tried once more to remember, and groaned in frustration when the memory wouldn't come.

John didn't answer. Alex tightened her grip on his hand, her eyes begging for a denial. No, she waited for him to say, Bobby isn't dead. He's outside, waiting to come in and see you. He's fine.

But he didn't speak. No denial was issued. He didn't say a word one way or another, and for Alex, that said plenty. His damning silence said it all. A sob tore loose from somewhere deep inside her. She released her father's hand at last and covered her face, only peripherally aware of the swelling and bruising her fingers touched there. Her father's arms wrapped carefully around her, pulling her head to his shoulder.

Long after her tears ran dry and she was left with nothing but sloppy, wet hiccups while her father rubbed her back and shushed her, she continued to wail in internal, silent screams. When even that was silenced by exhaustion, she fell asleep.

~*~

"Alex?"

Alex ignored the gentle summons. She was awake, but she didn't want to be. She wanted to be asleep, where there was no pain, in the body or in the heart. And if her traitorous body wouldn't allow that, then she wanted, at the very least, to be left the hell alone.

Besides, she didn't know this voice. Did she? It might have been vaguely familiar, but she wasn't concerned enough to even attempt to place it. What did it matter? What did anything matter. Bobby was dead.

Bobby was dead, she was hurt and no one would even tell her how that had come to be. Granted, the only people she'd spoken to were her father and brother, but all they'd tell her was that there'd be time enough to talk about it after she'd rested.

All she really knew was that Bobby was dead. She sobbed aloud before she could stop herself.

"Alex?" The voice could not be ignored this time, laden as it was with compassion, understanding and a gentle insistence.

Alex opened her eyes to find her vision blurred from unshed tears. She blinked a couple of times and it cleared, the blurred figure standing over her focusing into the image of a woman she knew, though not well. Olivia Benson. Alex had worked with her before, but not since she'd been with Vice, and that was too long ago, the friendship too casual for Olivia to be here now in the role of friend. Which only left...

Oh, God! Alex sobbed again and was unable to stop the tears. Olivia's face twisted in a grimace of compassion. She punched the control on the bed rail that raised the head of the bed, lowered the rail and sat on the edge of the mattress, gently pulling Alex into a careful embrace.

Alex had to know, had to hear the words, despite what they would mean. She could deal with the repercussions later, but right now, right this minute, she had to hear it. "Was.." She stopped, swallowed the bile that rose in her throat with the words. "Was I... raped?"

Olivia didn't answer straight away, and for Alex that was answer enough. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment her vision danced. Rape... it was terrible, horrible to even contemplate, but it wasn't the end of the world. She could survive it. She could deal with it. At least she was alive... not like... oh, God!

Alex pushed herself back from Olivia, a bizarre, misplaced sense of calm washing over her.

Olivia grabbed a box of tissues from the bedside table and pulled a few out the top, handing them over to Alex. Alex accepted them with a watery, "Thank you," wiped at her eyes and blew her nose. "Tell me, Olivia. I need to hear it from you." Alex looked up, meeting the taller woman's eyes. "I was raped, wasn't I?" She shook her head. "Of course, I was. You're an SVU detective. You investigate rapes, so--" She cut herself off, recognizing that she was rambling and on the verge of incoherence. "I was raped... wasn't I?"

Olivia glanced over her shoulder briefly, and Alex became aware of someone standing behind the other woman, just out of her line of vision. When Olivia looked back at Alex, her expression had softened. "We think so, yes."

Alex latched onto the words like a Chihuahua on a mailman's ankle. "You think so? Think? " Maybe it was a mistake. Please, God, let it be a mistake!

"We can't be sure," Olivia said. "The rape kit didn't really turn up anything, and there were no fluids, but there were signs of relatively recent intercourse."

"Intercourse?" Alex laughed before she could stop herself, the sound very close to the razor-edge of hysteria. "That might be because I had intercourse yester-" She broke off, not sure exactly how long she'd been in the hospital, but certain it was more than a matter of hours. "I was with someone recently," she finished. "And I'd prefer not to give you a name, unless you can convince me it's important to your investigation." But to Alex's surprise, Olivia only looked slightly relieved. "What? There's more, isn't there?"

Olivia glanced over her shoulder again, then stood, taking a step back from the bed. "We can talk about that later, when you're feeling more like yourself."

"No, please. Olivia, I have to know. I need to know what happened, what's going on. Everyone is walking on egg shells around me. I wasn't raped, you know that now, so it's something else. There's something you're keeping from me."

Olivia looked at her for several long, silent moments, then nodded once, as though to herself. "Just because you weren't raped, doesn't mean that the attack wasn't sexually motivated." She stepped back to the bedside and rested her hand on Alex's forearm, softly, barely touching her. Alex's eyes were drawn to the point of contact. She was surprised to see a mottling of dark bruising beneath Olivia's hand. Beaten, her dad had said. She'd not stopped to wonder what she looked like.

"You were found only partially dressed, Alex. We think... " Olivia stopped, and appeared to be searching for words. "We think that, at the very least, your attacker planned to rape you. It's possible that something stopped him. Or maybe he..." She stopped again.

"Maybe he regained enough control to stop himself short of the deed." The flat, emotionless voice came from behind Olivia. A balding, sharp featured man stepped forward, into Alex's line of vision.

Alex didn't miss the pointed look thrown the man's way by Olivia before the other woman turned back to Alex. "This is Elliott Stabler, my partner."

Partner. A flash of face filled Alex's memory. "Bobby!" She cried out, pressing her hand to her mouth as a flood of emotion threatened her already tentative control. Whispering around her hand, she asked, "He's dead, isn't he? My dad wouldn't say, but I could tell. He froze up when I asked about him, and he wouldn't deny it."

"We're not sure, but it... it looks like it. I'm sorry, Alex."

Hope latched onto her heart with a grappling hook. "But you're not sure." It wasn't a question.

"Alex, don't..." Olivia began.

"You said it yourself," Alex said. "You're not sure."

"She also said it looks like it," Stabler pointed out.

Frustration was giving birth to a full blown migraine behind Alex's eyes. She pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?! I may have been raped, I may not. I may have been sexually molested, I may not. My partner may be dead, he may not." She opened her eyes, forcing a calmer tone. "Just tell me what you do know. Please! I can't stand the confusion -- the not knowing. Whatever the truth is, it can't be as bad as what my imagination is filling in the gaps with."

Olivia sat down on the bed's edge once more. "I wish that were true, Alex."

Before she could say any more, her partner cleared his throat, drawing both women's attention. "We need to ask you a couple of questions if you're up to it."

Alex wanted to strangle him for the interruption, but the more disciplined side of her, the detective side, knew it was procedure. They needed to know what she knew, before her memories were tainted by what she'd be told. She nodded.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Stabler asked, pulling a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.

Alex's gaze turned inward. What did she remember? Her date, a concert... and what followed, she almost smiled, but the gravity of the situation stopped her. That was Thursday night. Friday... Friday was harder. "Friday morning," she said at last. "I remember getting to the station early, before Bobby. I finished up some reports while I waited for him." She frowned. "That's really the last clear memory I have." She looked up. "What day is this?"

"It's Tuesday."

Alex looked at Olivia, horror-struck. "Tuesday?! I've lost five days?"

"Well, you were pretty much unconscious for three of them," Stabler said, smiling kindly, his features softening. "You were found Saturday morning. You didn't start waking up until Monday -- yesterday. That's when they moved you out of ICU. You've only been really aware today."

Alex glanced toward the window. The light filtering in through the open blinds was dim, with a glow of red. Dusk.

She looked back at the SVU detectives. "So... concussion?" That would explain the headache from hell.

"Partly," Olivia answered. "You did take a few pretty nasty blows to the head." She hesitated. "You also had Rohypnol in your system."

Alex let her head fall back against the pillows and closed her eyes. It just kept getting worse and worse. She deliberately detached herself from the emotional roller coaster car she was strapped into, letting the cop side of her take over. She'd deal with the emotions later, after she had all the facts. "What-" Her voice cracked. She stopped and started over again. "What aren't you telling me?" There was more. There had to be, because they thought Bobby was dead. There had to be a reason why they thought that, and even though it was the last thing she wanted to hear, she had to know what they knew. "What did you find at the... at the crime scene?" She braced herself for the answer.

"Blood," Stabler answered. "Yours and Detective Goran's."

"Bobby's hurt?" Because he wasn't dead. He couldn't be. "How bad?"

Stabler repressed a sigh, and Alex knew he was growing frustrated at her refusal to accept what they'd yet to prove to her. Good, she decided. Let him get frustrated, because he damned sure deserved to feel exactly what she was feeling. If they'd just come out with it and actually tell her something...!

"Probably not too bad, there wasn't much of his blood."

Not at all relieved, considering the hard tone the news was delivered with, Alex prompted, "What else?"

"Fingerprints. Again, only yours and Goren's."

"The perp wore gloves," Alex stated what seemed obvious to her. "He's careful, smart, but no one is ever perfect. He had to leave something behind."

"He did," Stabler continued, his expression growing as hard as his tone. "We also found some of Goren's clothes. His jacket, shoes, tie... belt."

Alex's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Why would his clothes..."

"Maybe he was undressing," Stabler said.

The penny dropped. The hard tone and expression, the pitying looks, the tiptoeing around the truth. "Oh my God! You think... you think... that Bobby...! God! No! You're wrong! Oh, God, you are SO wrong it's funny." To prove her point a short, somewhat hysterical bark of laughter burst from her. "He would never, could never hurt anyone, much less me. He doesn't have it in him. He's not like that. I know him. He could never do... what you're suggesting. Never. He would die first."

And there, that deafening echo in her ears -- that? Was the other shoe hitting the floor beside that previously dropped penny. That Bobby would die first was exactly what they were suggesting. Stabler had almost said as much just scant minutes ago, though Alex had not had the presence of mind to decipher the damning comment at the time. Maybe he regained enough control to stop himself short of the deed.

"No!" She shook her head adamantly, determined that they would hear her and understand how ludicrous what they were thinking was. "NO! Bobby didn't... Bobby did not do this. He couldn't. He would never! How could you even suggest it, even think he could...? And based on what? This flimsy, purely circumstantial evidence? No judge in his right mind would so much as issue you a warrant based on what you've told me. Hell, they would laugh at you for even asking for one." Her voice rose with every word. How could they think such a thing? Of Bobby? Did they not know him at all? He was the last person on the planet she would ever suspect of violence against anyone, much less her. He just didn't have it in him.

Olivia laid a hand on Alex's arm. "That's not all, Alex. There's more..."

Alex shook her head. "No, Olivia, I don't care. It doesn't matter what you've got, what lousy circumstantial evidence you've scraped up in an effort to pin this on Bobby. You're wrong. You're mistaken." She laughed, the sound more like a mad bark of a wild dog than anything humor-laden. "You don't know Bobby--"

Olivia's grip on her arm tightened. Alex winced as she pressed against the bruises there, but she welcomed the pain. It was a cold dose of reality in the surreal hallucination that the past few minutes had become.

"Alex, listen, we haven't tried and convicted your partner," Olivia said, her voice soft enough that Alex had to focus to catch the words. "We're merely looking at the evidence we have in a realistic manner. You know we have to be open to all possibilities, no matter how distasteful they might be."

"But you're wrong, Olivia. I don't care what evidence you have, you don't know him like I do."

"Can you really say you know him?" Stabler asked.

Alex shot him a glare that she hoped he could read, though after a few seconds she decided he couldn't or he'd be curled up in a nearby corner, slowly dying in a most painful way. "I know Robert Goren as well as anyone does," she hissed at him.

Stabler swallowed hard before continuing, and Alex allowed herself the briefest moment of satisfaction, knowing that, at the very least, he was uncomfortable, even if he wasn't smart enough to just shut up and leave the room. "Well, as far as our investigation has shown us, that isn't saying all that much."

"Elliot," Olivia shot a look toward her partner, "just stop, please. You're not making this any easier."

"You're investigating him?!" Alex shot a wide-eyed look at Olivia. "Based on what? That he was at the scene? That his blood was there? That some of his clothes were there? All that tells me is that he was abducted and hurt, too, by the same attacker I was. Don't you think your time might be better spent out there looking for him? For whoever did this to the both of us? There must be some other evidence -- evidence that there was someone else there -- that... that someone else did this." Her gaze turned pleading, begging Olivia for something that she couldn't express with words.

Olivia's expression softened, saddened, and Alex knew that what she was about to say was only going to make it look worse for Bobby. She wasn't wrong.

"There's more. There was skin and blood under the fingernails of your left hand. You fought back against your attacker, you didn't go down easy. Alex, the blood and skin were both Goren's."

"That... that... there could be an explanation for that." She searched her muddled brain for a quick one to stop this line of information before it could go any further, but she couldn't come up with one. "We don't know what happened. There might well be a perfectly logical explanation."

"We're open to suggestions," Stabler said.

"I need to ask you something," Olivia continued, ignoring her partner. "About a coffee cup we found in the trash at the station. The cup came from a coffee shop near there. We were told you and Goren often got coffee for each other from this shop."

"It's convenient," Alex stated simply, thrown by the abrupt shift in subjects. "And we avoid the stuff in the break room if we have a choice."

"Do you remember getting coffee from there Friday afternoon?"

Alex frowned, searching her Swiss-cheese brain for the appropriate memory. "Not specifically, but it's likely I would have."

"Or Goren could have gotten it for you," Stabler pointed out. "That's likely, too, isn't it? I mean, you're upstairs working on reports or whatever, busy, and being a gentleman, Goren might have thought it nice to bring you a cup of the good stuff. That wouldn't be a far fetched idea, would it?"

Alex's frown deepened. "You already know that we sometimes bought each other coffee. Olivia just said as much. Clearly, you've already talked to the other guys in the squad room."

"Yes, we have," Stabler verified. "And more than one remembers Bobby bringing you coffee on Friday afternoon."

"That's not unusual," Alex repeated. "I thought we'd established that. Where are you going with this?"

"Alex, we found traces of Rohypnol in your cup, and there were only three sets of prints on it. The kid who was working the counter at the coffee shop on Friday afternoon, yours and Goren's."

Alex was shaking her head before Olivia even finished. "That doesn't prove anything... only that Bobby brought me the coffee. The drugs could have been put in there at any time -- anyone at the station could have had access to that cup." She took a quick, ragged breath. "Do you know how many people come in and out of the squad room on any given day? Especially on a Friday afternoon. Everyone's trying to get things wrapped up for the weekend -- it's a mad house around there."

Olivia patted Alex's hand and stood. She smiled down at her, but the gesture didn't reach her eyes. "You may be right, Alex. Like I said, we haven't tried and convicted anyone yet."

"If Goren is innocent," Stabler said, his tone surprisingly soft, "the investigation will prove it. I promise you that."

"We'll send in your dad," Olivia said.

Alex waited until the door closed behind them, then curled onto her side, suddenly aware of the myriad aches and pains vying for attention. She squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the urge to throw her hands over her ears and hum to block out the world. It'd be useless anyhow; she couldn't so easily drown out the thoughts rampaging through her head.

The door opened with a snick, a second later closing with the same soft sound. She didn't open her eyes or turn over, but said in a quiet, small voice, "They think Bobby did this, Dad."

The edge of the mattress dipped down and a hand came to rest on her back. "I know, baby girl."

Alex opened her eyes, but still didn't turn. "Do you believe it? Do you think he could have hurt me?" She was afraid of his answer, but had to know.

For a long moment, there was only silence. If he couldn't immediately deny that he believed such an outrageous claim, then Alex dearly hoped the delay was so that he could give the question serious thought. Finally, he said, "I don't know Bobby as well as you do, Alex, but I know him well enough to like him. He's a good and decent man. Gentle and kind."

Alex rolled in the bed to face him, wincing at the pain that shot through her with the movement. "But...?" She'd heard the unspoken qualifier.

John dropped his gaze to where his hand rested on her arm. "You know Bobby hasn't really been himself lately. You said so yourself just last week. You were asking my advice on how to get him to open up to you about whatever was eating at him."

"He was depressed, Dad, not... not violent." Alex couldn't believe what she was hearing. "He has a lot to deal with. And yes, he can be withdrawn and even secretive, but there's been so much pain in his personal life. He has so much that he's ashamed of, right or wrong. You just don't know--"

"I know about his mother, sweetheart."

"What... How?" Alex was sure she hadn't said anything. It wasn't her secret to tell.

John shrugged. "Word gets around."

"People are talking about it, you mean." Alex couldn't keep the bitterness from her tone. She hated the idea of something so personal, so private being the topic around the water cooler. "Especially now." And she realized it was the truth. The fact that Bobby was the chief suspect in her attack had to be known. It must be making the gossip rounds even now. She buried her face in her hands. "God, Dad, how many of them are happy about this? How many have just been waiting for something like this to pin on him? They'll be so quick to condemn him, to believe the worst."

John, gently pulled her hands away and waited until she looked up, meeting his eyes. "I think you're underestimating your colleagues, Alex. Yeah, sure, there are always a rotten few who are sick enough to enjoy something like this. My guess is they're just jealous of Bobby's record and reputation. He's more than a little smart, in case you haven't noticed." He smiled, but Alex didn't feel much like returning it. "Those people don't matter, sweetheart, unless you let them. The vast majority of people know there are extenuating circumstances--"

"His so-called questionable mental state, you mean."

"His... situation. They know he's had a lot to deal with, both professionally and personally, and they understand that he would never hurt anyone if he was himself."

"But they don't believe he was himself." Alex pinched the bridge of her nose.

Again, John gently pulled her hand away from her face. "Don't do that, sweetheart, you're only hurting yourself."

Alex looked at him, confused.

"Your face," he said by way of explanation. He glanced around the room. "I'd show you, but I don't see a mirror. Let's just say, you could pass for Mike Tyson's twin sister right now."

Alex reached a hand up and gently ran her fingers over her features, surprised to find they didn't feel at all like her own. There was clearly a lot of swelling. The bruising must be spectacular.

She dropped her hand and laid her head back with a deep sigh.

"Get some rest, baby. I'll be right here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere."

Alex closed her eyes, too worn out to argue, but she wasn't ready to sleep just yet. Her swirling-out-of-control thoughts wouldn't let her even if she tried, she was sure. She felt her dad rise and then heard chair legs scrape the floor. She opened her eyes again as a thought came to her. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Olivia said they think Bobby is dead. Why did she say "think"? They didn't find..." She couldn't bring herself to say the words.

Her father, though, had no such reluctance. "His body? No, they didn't."

"Then why do they think he's dead?"

He pursed his lips and sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. "Alex... " He let the breath out in a huff. "Alex, you have to know that Bobby wasn't himself. You said yourself he would never hurt you if he was."

"Dad, just tell me, please," Alex begged, not sure she wanted him to comply.

"There's a 911 call."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah." He didn't immediately continue.

"Dad, please..."

"He was almost incoherent."

"You heard the tape?"

John nodded. "He apologized over and over. He begged forgiveness. Said he didn't mean to do it. Couldn't stop himself. The 911 operator had trouble getting anything intelligible from him, then Bobby got silent. He didn't hang up, but he wouldn't answer the operator... and there was a loud splash in the background..." He stopped, his expression growing even sadder. "They found a bloody handprint on the railing of the pier, and on the pier they found Bobby's cell phone, still open."

Alex stared at her dad in stunned silence. Where were the tears now? Now that she had verification, now that she had the damning evidence staring her in the face? Where was the heart-breaking agony of grief? There was nothing. She was numb.

Pulling the thin white hospital blanket up to her chin, Alex rolled away from her father and closed her eyes, praying for the blackness of sleep to take everything away.

~*~

Chapter 2: Temporary

adjective
1: lasting for a limited amount of time
2: impermanent

~*~

Fin stood as Benson and Stabler entered the SVU bullpen. Their grim expressions told him everything he needed to know, really, but he heard himself asking anyhow. "I take it that didn't go well."

"Understatement of the year," Stabler muttered, tossing his notebook onto his desk.

"How did you think she was going to react?" Fin snapped. "You go accusing her partner of raping her, beating the crap outta her. You think she'd take that well?"

"Fin," Olivia said, "we handled it with a bit more finesse than that."

"I'm sure you did, Olivia." He glanced at Stabler from the corner of his eye. "It's your partner's methods I'm questioning."

"You know what I'm questioning?" Stabler asked, taking a step toward Fin. "I'm questioning why you're so gung ho to be carrying Goren's water on this."

Fin wasn't intimidated. He calmly crossed his arms over his chest. "Because I know Bobby Goren, and I know he didn't do this."

"With this much evidence against anyone else, you'd be first on board, Fin, and you damn well know it. Just because he's your friend--"

"Exactly!" Fin announced, pleased that Stabler had made his point for him. "This much evidence against anyone else, and I'd buy the whole package. This much evidence against Bobby... no, sir, it ain't right."

"I'm not following," Olivia said. "You think he's innocent because of the evidence against him?"

"Hell, no. I know he's innocent because I know him. There ain't no way he did this. The evidence just supports my belief." He stopped and took a calming breath. He was going to have to spell it out for them. "Look, what's Bobby's reputation in the department?"

"You mean that he's eccentric? Quirky? To put it politely."

Fin shot Stabler a look that he hoped expressed everything he was thinking, then looked to Olivia for help.

"He's a boy wonder," she filled in. "His intuition is almost supernatural. He sees details no one else does. Picks up on clues everyone else misses."

"Right," Fin nodded. "In short, he knows his stuff. All this so called evidence? It ain't Bobby. Not the Bobby Goren I know."

"You're saying he's too smart to leave behind so many clues." Olivia, at least, seemed to be on the road to reason. "He wasn't himself, Fin..."

"Don't matter. Bobby could no more turn off his brain than you or I could stop breathing."

"He offed himself," Stabler pointed out. "He wouldn't have exactly been concerned with covering his tracks."

Fin shook his head. He was wasting his time, there was no way to make Benson and Stabler, Stabler in particular, understand anything about Bobby Goren. They didn't have a history with him. Hell, they'd likely never met anyone like him before. They couldn't possibly know how a brain like that worked. He gave it one last shot.

"Bobby wouldn't 'off' himself."

"Not even if he'd come back to reality and seen what he had done, was about to do to his partner?" There was heavy skepticism in Olivia's voice.

"No, not even if -- and he didn't, because he did-not-hurt-Eames!" How much plainer could he put it? He was quickly losing the tentative hold on his patience. "Bobby's sense of responsibility is as strong as his brain. Years of taking care of his mother taught him that, not to mention the backlash he suffered because of his father's complete lack of any sense of it. I know this about him, Olivia, and if you can't let your own sense of fair play keep your mind open to the possibility, then trust me. I wouldn't go out on a limb like this unless I was completely sure. And I am."

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Fin breathing heavily in the wake of his passionate defense of his friend. Elliot was the first to break it.

"Look, Fin, I respect you for going to bat for your friend, but how many years has it been since you worked with Goren? Can you really say for sure what he would or wouldn't do, given the right set of circumstances?"

"All I'm asking is that you keep your mind open, Elliot." He looked at Olivia. "Both of you. Just don't convict him yet."

"It don't think it'll matter how open or closed our minds are," Olivia said. "Looks like Alex wasn't raped, so it's likely Cragen will bounce the investigation over to Major Case. I hear they're chomping at the bit to get hold of this one."

Stabler turned toward the captain's office. "Let's go find out."

Fin watched them go, his mind sifting through possibilities and ideas until one took hold. He searched the squad room for his partner, finding the lanky man exiting the break room, a sandwich in one hand and a coffee in the other.

"Dinner," Munch said, approaching. "Gonna be another long night."

"Maybe not," Fin said, grabbing his coat. "Eames wasn't raped."

"One bright spot in this whole ugly mess."

"Olivia and Elliot are in with the captain now, filling him in, but it looks like Major Case might get the case after all." Making a sudden decision, Fin grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "Look, I got something I gotta do. If I'm wrong and the case stays here, gimme a call, okay?"

He was out the door before Munch could reply.

~*~

Fin knocked and waited until he heard the summons before opening the door and entering the office. The slim, gray-haired man behind the desk watched him in open curiosity.

"Captain Deakins? Odafin Tutuola."

James Deakins stood and rounded his desk with his hand extended. Fin shook the hand, then stepped back, not yet relaxed. He'd jumped through plenty enough hoops last night and again this morning, but all of that would be for naught if the man standing before him, openly studying him, withdrew the welcome sign.

"I just hung up with the Chief of D's less than five minutes ago. I didn't expect you quite so soon."

Fin shrugged one shoulder. "Time is a precious commodity in any investigation."

"True," Deakins said, noncommittally. "Have a seat." He waited until Fin sat to continue. "This is more than a bit unorthodox. You must have called in every favor you have to get the brass to agree to this transfer."

"Temporary transfer," Fin pointed out, "and yeah, I did. I pulled every string there was, and used up a lifetime's worth of favors."

"This case is that important to you?"

"Bobby Goren is that important to me."

Deakins leaned back against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?"

"Let's just say I owe him." Fin leaned forward in his chair. "Can I be frank with you, sir?"

"I wouldn't expect any less," Deakins said, a sly smile lifting one corner of his mouth.

Fin figured his reputation for bluntness had preceded him. "I doubt there are many, if any, around here who believe in Bobby's innocence. I'll even go so far as to say most of them have already tried and convicted him in their own minds, if not in the water cooler courts. I just wanted to be sure there was someone on the investigating team who'd give him a fair shake, balance it out."

Deakins expression took on a sharp edge, though his tone remained neutral. "Are you saying we can't conduct a fair investigation without you here to keep us honest?"

"No, sir, that's not what I'm saying. I just want to make sure someone is looking out for Bobby's interest, and like I said, I owe him."

"My detectives might have formed their opinions by now. Hell, I'd be surprised if they haven't. That's what cops do in every case, like it or not. It's that gut instinct that helps solve cases. I guarantee you, however, Detective Tutuola, that they all know better than to see what's not there, or read more into a situation than there is. Goren will be given a fair shake. All any of us want to do at this point is get to the bottom of what happened. For the department's sake, for Eames' sake, and for Goren's sake."

Fin accepted the mild rebuke with a nod.

Deakins studied him in silence for a minute. Finally, the captain said, "You used to work with Bobby."

"We did a couple of undercover operations together when we were with Narcotics."

"You knew him well?"

"Know him, yes, sir, I do," Fin answered, emphasizing the present tense of the word.

For the first time, Deakins' carefully neutral expression wavered. Something unidentifiable flashed in his eyes. His tone, however, revealed nothing. "You think he's still alive?"

Fin considered his words carefully. "I think it's possible, and I'm not willing to think otherwise until I see his cold, dead body for myself."

"He went into the river," Deakins pointed out, not unkindly.

"Maybe, maybe not. Ain't nobody found his body yet."

Deakins sighed, uncrossing his arms to run a hand through his white hair. "It should have shown up by now, I'll grant you that, but it could still wash up somewhere further down river. We haven't given up on finding it."

"Assuming he really did go into the river," Fin added.

"Evidence says he did. You thinking otherwise?"

Fin shrugged. "I'm just trying to consider all the possibilities."

"Despite the bloody handprint on the pier and the 911 call?"

"All that handprint tells me is that he was on the pier, not that he jumped in. I'm telling you, Captain Deakins, I know Bobby Goren, and there ain't no way in hell he committed suicide, I don't care what might have happened to drive him to it. Bobby did not kill himself, and no one will ever make me believe otherwise."

"And the 911 tape?"

"I don't know yet, but give me time and I'll find an answer for that, too."

Deakins stared at him a minute longer. A ghost of a smile played across his lips, and Fin got the distinct impression that some invisible hurdle had just been cleared, though he wasn't sure what. Neither did he care, so long as he got what he wanted -- to be a part of this investigation.

Deakins straightened and crossed to the door, opening it and sticking his head out. His eyes searched the squad room until he saw what he was looking for. "Waine!"

Fin sat back in his chair, finally allowing himself a breath of relief. It hadn't been an easy sell. Hell, the Chief of D's had been might near impossible to convince, not to mention Captain Cragen, but it was beginning to look like it might have been worth the fight.

Deakins sat down at his desk, and a few seconds later, a tall, athletically built young man entered the office.

"Yes, sir?"

"Come in, Waine. Have a seat." Deakins leaned back in his chair, letting it rock a bit. "This is Detective Odafin Tutuola, your new temporary partner. Tutuola, meet Detective Theodore Waine."

"Ted," the man said. He extended his hand readily, though his smile was guarded.

"Make it Fin." In the space of time it took to complete the handshake, Fin had sized the man up. Too young, though not as young as he'd first thought. Likely new to the rank of detective, judging by his overeager air. Every blond hair in its place, close shaven, perfectly groomed, with an immaculate, well tailored suit and shoes that were so shiny Fin knew without looking that he'd be able to see his reflection in them.

"Temporary, huh?" Ted said, moving to the chair, but not sitting. "Something I need to know?" He looked to Deakins with the last question.

"Detective Tutuola is on loan to us from the Special Victims Unit. He's here to help with the investigation into the attack on Detective Eames."

"And Bobby Goren's disappearance," Fin added pointedly.

Deakins nodded. "Of course."

"So, it's true then, what I heard. Eames wasn't... you know..."

"Raped?" Fin supplied. "No, she wasn't."

"That's good news, but I imagine it's not a lot of comfort to her... considering the rest of it." He rubbed the palm of his right hand on his pant legs as he spoke. "Are you saying we've got the case?"

Deakins laced his fingers across his stomach. "Detective Tutuola will be taking lead, and since you haven't been assigned a partner yet, I'm putting you with him on it. He'll bring you up to speed on what SVU's turned up so far."

"Thank you, sir. I know every detective out there," Waine gestured toward the busy squad room, "wants a piece of this case. I appreciate you giving me a crack at it. I won't disappoint you."

"I don't expect you to." Deakins leaned forward, signaling the end of the meeting. "And Waine," he pinned the young detective with an intense gaze, "don't assume this case is open and shut. I want it treated with the respect both of those detectives deserve." He spared a quick glance to Fin, before looking back to Waine. "Let's find out exactly what happened before we make any judgments. You got that?"

"Of course, sir."

Fin nodded his thanks to the captain before rising to follow Waine out of the office and into the Major Case bullpen.

Waine led the way to a desk on the far side of the room. Fin followed, nodding to the few Major Case detectives he recognized. He let his eyes rest briefly on the two empty desks in the middle of the room. Everyone seemed to be giving the desks a wide berth. Bobby's and Eames', Fin surmised. He resisted the urge to detour to them. There'd be time enough to check them out later.

Waine stopped before a pristine desk. Fin couldn't help notice that it was the polar opposite of every other desk in the room. Hell, it was the opposite of every cop's desk Fin had ever seen. Not so much as one paper was out of order, and there were no personal effects visible. If he had to guess, Fin figured the drawers were either empty or perfectly arranged.

"Been with Major Case long?" Fin asked, wondering if the man had just transferred in, and more than a bit peeved that Deakins would partner him with a newbie.

"A couple of months." Waine looked at him. "Look, if you're worried about my abilities, don't. I didn't get this promotion because I sat on my ass in Homicide. My arrest and conviction rate led the department the whole three years I was there."

"I didn't say anything about it."

Waine laughed. "No, but I guarantee you were thinking it. It's my baby face." He waggled his fingers in front of his face. "It's a curse. Not only does everyone think I'm younger than I am, but it makes me look inept. How old do you think I am, Fin?"

Fin didn't want to play the game, but figured it was easier to give in than waste time arguing. "Thirty-two."

Waine's eyebrows crept toward his hairline. "Not bad. Guess they didn't make you a detective for nothing. Thirty-four, actually, but most people guess much lower."

"Not with three years in Homicide," Fin pointed out. "Let's get started. There some place we can talk? Go over what we got so far?"

"Sure, conference room over there." Waine pointed off to the left. "There's an empty desk over there," he pointed over his shoulder. "I'll see about getting someone to move it over closer to mine, if you want."

"Don't bother." Fin headed toward the conference room, speaking over his shoulder as he walked. "I don't plan on spending a lot of time sitting around in the squad room."

~*~

"It's pretty damning."

Fin pursed his lips, but didn't reply. It was nothing more than the truth, and there was no denying it. Bobby's blood at the crime scene. Bobby's fingerprints at the crime scene. That damned -- and damning -- 911 tape. Not to mention the handprint on the pier.

"I know I promised to keep an open mind, but..." Waine trailed off.

"You saying you can't do that now?"

"No, no... that's not... I'm not saying I've condemned Detective Goren already, but Christ, man, admit it. It doesn't look good for him."

"Maybe not," Fin admitted, "but we're going to finish this investigation with the assumption of innocent until proven guilty, and that beyond any shadow of a doubt."

Waine leaned back in his chair. "You knew him before, didn't you?"

"We've worked together."

Waine nodded. "I understand why you would want to try and clear his name. People who know Goren, hell, all the guys around here, they like him. He's a likeable guy. I admit I haven't known him long, but I'm having a hard time believing he could just snap like that, especially on Eames. Hell, even I've seen how close they are, how well they understand each other."

"Sounds like you got your mind made up."

Waine stood and paced to the far wall, then turned back, pushing back his suit coat to plant his hands on his hips. "Look, Fin, I know why you're here. You're Goren's friend, and you don't want to see him railroaded. Fair enough. I get that, and I guarantee you that if it was one of my friends, I'd feel the same way. I'd do everything in my power to make sure he's treated fairly. So, that's cool, you know, but I've got to be the other side of the coin. I've got to make sure that you don't overlook the obvious just because that's not what you want to see."

Fin let his expression answer for him.

Waine sighed. "Okay, I get it, you're assuming Goren is innocent--"

"I'm assuming that the man I know would never hurt his partner."

"Are you sure you know him as well as you think you do?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, for instance, did you know that for the past few weeks Goren has been... well, moody, might best describe it. Did you know that he's nearly taken off Eames' head in the squad room in front of everyone on more than one occasion?"

"So what? My partner and I go at each other all the time."

"Maybe I don't know Goren all that well, but the other guys do, and from what I've been told, it's not like him. They say he's pretty easy going and mostly even tempered. The depression--"

"Okay, now, which is it? Was he moody? Or was he depressed?"

"From what I saw? Both. He was up and down like an elevator. But mostly depressed... morose."

Fin sat on the edge of the conference table. If anyone had reason to be depressed, it was Bobby, but the man Fin knew didn't give in to it. He'd perfected the art of keeping his personal and private lives separate.

He looked up, finding Waine studying him. The other man dropped his gaze when their eyes met, turning away to pace across the floor again. "How long had this been going on?"

Waine stopped. "A few weeks, I think. But I'll admit, I don't know him well enough to have really noticed."

Fin stood and headed for the door. "Let's go."

"Where?" Waine asked, hurrying to follow.

"To talk to someone who does know him well."

~*~

Fin rapped softly on the door and waited for a summons. It was almost a full minute coming. He pushed the door open and entered the room, his eyes going immediately to the tiny woman in the hospital bed. She was awake and had the head of the bed raised so that she was almost sitting up. She was alone. Her battered face carried the tell-tale signs of recent tears. It was clear he was intruding on a private moment and that gave him pause.

"Detective Eames? I'm Detective Tutuola."

"Yes, I know. We've met before."

Fin smiled. "I wasn't sure you'd remember. It's been a while."

She dabbed at her nose with a damp wad of tissues. "Hey, Ted."

"Is this a bad time?" Fin asked. "We can come back..."

She looked up. "No, it's fine. I'm fine."

"Are you, Alex?" Ted asked, moving to the bedside. "You look like you're having a rough go of it."

She tried to smile up at him, but it was a miserable attempt. "No, I guess I'm really not fine. Not yet."

Fin planted himself beside Ted. "I think I can understand some of what you must be feeling."

She lifted red-rimmed eyes to meet his. "You do, don't you? You and Bobby..." Her voice cracked ever so slightly. "You were friends."

"Yes, we are. That's why I'm here, to tell you the truth. I've been temporarily reassigned to Major Case. Ted and I are working this case now."

"Major Case... not SVU?

"Well, there was no rape, and your captain was anxious to get the case, so the brass reassigned it."

"And sent you over to work it?" Her brow wrinkled.

Fin smiled slyly, looking down at his hands. "Well, it wasn't exactly that easy. I pulled so many strings I feel like that old dude in Pinocchio."

"You did that for Bobby?"

"I owe him." He cleared his throat, looked up at her. "Detective Eames--"

"Alex," she said. "Please."

"Alex," he acknowledged with a short nod, "I know you don't remember the attack."

She closed her eyes. "No, I don't." Her voice was filled with bitterness. "I can't remember a damned thing about it."

Ted placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "That might not be such a bad thing, Alex, considering what you obviously went through--"

Her eyes snapped open and she pinned him with a withering glare. "Not a bad thing? Are you serious, Ted? My memory could be the key to clearing Bobby's name! I have to remember!"

Ted gave her a small, sad smile. "That's not likely to happen, Alex. Rohypnol messes with your mind. It's not likely those memories will ever return."

Fin cleared his throat again, drawing both sets of eyes to him. "Ted is right that you probably won't ever remember everything that happened that night, Alex, but that's why I went to the trouble to get myself on this case. I fully intend to find out what happened, both to you and to Bobby, and I will clear his name. I give you my word on that."

Alex's eyes brightened with moisture. Her voice was just a whisper. "You don't believe he did it." It wasn't a question.

"No, I don't." He shot a look to Ted, daring the younger man to dispute his words. "And I have every intention of proving that, but it's gonna be a tall order, given the evidence we're working with."

"Why?" Alex said, straightening in the bed. Fin didn't miss the wince that accompanied the movement. "Why do you think he's innocent? Olivia and her partner..."

"Stabler," Fin supplied.

"They seemed pretty convinced Bobby attacked me," she took a deep breath, "and then killed himself. Everyone I've talked to seems convinced. Is there something else? Something I don't know?"

"I got my gut, Alex," Fin replied. "I know that ain't much to go on, but I learned a long time ago not to ignore it. My gut tells me ain't no way the Bobby Goren I know attacked you."

"Alex," Ted interrupted with only the briefest glance at Fin, "we actually came here to talk to you about Goren's behavior before the attack."

"What?" Confusion wrinkled her forehead. "His..."

Fin frowned at Ted. That wasn't exactly the way he'd wanted to approach the subject. "Word is Bobby had been depressed lately. Is that true?"

"He's been a little withdrawn the past few weeks, but that's not all that unusual. He's always gone through spells of that, especially if there's something going on with his mom."

"This was nothing worse than those previous spells?" Ted asked.

Alex closed her eyes for a brief second, and when she opened them again, Fin saw an emotion he couldn't identify. "He was depressed, okay? And yes, it was a little more than usual."

"Did you ask him about it?" Fin asked. Alex made a rude noise. "I learned several years ago that you don't ask Bobby Goren questions like that. You have to wait for him to come to you, and he will eventually, if it's something he needs to share. That's just his way."

"Did he?" Ted pursued. "Did he say anything about what was bothering him?"

"No, nothing."

"How long ago did you notice the change in his behavior?"

Alex frowned at Ted. "I didn't notice a change in his behavior. I noticed he was a little down. That's it. And that started a couple of weeks ago."

"I'll call up to Carmel Ridge and see if anything's going on with his mom," Fin said. "Someone needs to tell them something anyhow."

"Oh, God, his mom!" Alex exclaimed, covering her mouth with her hands. "Does she know? Has anyone thought to tell her?"

"Don't worry about that, Alex. I'll take care of it." Fin was already planning just what to actually tell Mrs. Goren. God only knew how the mentally fragile woman would handle the news, but he wasn't going to worry about that until he had to, and unless and until they found her son's body, Fin didn't figure they had to tell her the whole sordid tale.

Fin pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket and opened it to a blank page. "Alex, what can you tell me about the case you and Bobby were working last week?"

Alex blinked at him, seemingly unprepared for the line of questioning. "The case...?"

"Yeah," Fin hooked a toe around a nearby chair and pulled it closer, noticing Waine's curious glance in his direction. "I just wanna make sure I'm covering all the bases. Captain Deakins told me you were investigating that string of murders near the river. I know it's been in the papers, but I've been covered up with other cases, so I haven't followed it as close as I probably should have."

"Prostitutes," Alex supplied. "Four that we know of, but we were running a search of cold cases to see if any matched the M.O. The last one we have was found nearly three weeks ago, well, four now. There was one the middle of last month, and two in the month before that. You'd have to check Bobby's notebook for the exact dates." She glanced up. "Bobby's notebook... do you have it? Was it found?"

Fin glanced at Ted, who shook his head. "It wasn't at the warehouse," the younger detective said "Nor the station or Goren's apartment. We're still looking."

Fin looked back at Alex. "Anything about this case unusual?"

Alex laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Everything about this case was usual. The dead women were absolutely immaculately clean, right down to their fingertips and toenails. Their hair had been freshly washed, and all four were dressed in brand new, generic clothes."

"The perp's handiwork?"

"The scrubbing was all pre-mortem, but I can't imagine that all four of them decided to bathe, wash their hair, get a manicure, brush their teeth and change into brand new clothes right before they were murdered. That'd be an awfully big coincidence."

"Any suspects?"

"No. Bobby had some theories about the psychology behind it, but we didn't have anything solid. This guy is good. He covered his tracks like a pro." She stopped, her gaze turning inward for a few seconds.

"Something else?" Fin pressed.

"I think Bobby might have had some ideas he hadn't yet shared. That's the way he works," she explained. "He gets these wild ideas -- or what would seem like wild ideas to anyone else, and he lets them percolate. When they get to a point where he feels like it's something worthwhile, he shares. And he's not often wrong."

"So you think he might have been onto something?" Ted asked, moving closer to the bed.

"I don't know. Maybe." She lowered her head. "I guess we'll never know what he was thinking now."

~*~

Chapter 3: Mission

noun
1. a specific task with which a person or a group is charged
2. a pre-established and often self-imposed objective or purpose

~*~

Damn.

He'd done it again -- fallen asleep with the window open.

An icy wind cut bitingly across him. He shuddered and tried to burrow deeper into his blankets, but felt no warmer for it. There was little choice but to get up and close the offending window, only he knew that once he put his feet on the floor, he'd be up for the day, and it was too damned early to be up. Hell, the sun wasn't even up yet. Or his eyes were closed. Either way, it was dark.

And brutally cold.

Another shiver racked his body, and he couldn't suppress a groan at the sheer agony it educed. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" The cry, clearly articulated in his brain, was voiced as nothing more than a rasping grunt, reminiscent of the sound a dog made when you kicked it.

He searched the working part of his brain, which admittedly wasn't all that large, but try as he might, he could find no memory to explain the unrelenting agony he was currently suffering.

Dad?

Oh, shit, dad...

Of course. He couldn't remember the particular specifics, but it was always dad, wasn't it? Well, not that one time in third grade when he'd managed to royally piss off a guy in sixth grade. That beating had been nothing short of spectacular, and worth every one of the ten stitches it'd taken put him back together and the four day suspension from school. Hell, it was one of the few times his dad had ever shown a bit of pride in his youngest boy. If that wasn't worth an ass whooping, then surely nothing was.

He groaned aloud as another pain, this one deep in his chest made itself known. Was it safe to be awake yet? He stilled his movements and listened hard. Someone was close by; someone with a hell of a cold, judging by the harsh, whistling breaths.

Frank?

His head hurt too bad to figure it out. In fact, his head hurt too bad to do much of anything other than breathe. Oh! It finally clicked -- the wheezing noise, that was him. God, he hoped his nose wasn't broken. He was gonna end up looking like that sixth grade idiot he'd picked the fight with. What was his name...something from the Archie comics... something befitting a bully with a broken nose... God, what was it? His headache jumped up a notch so he let the thought go. He'd figure it out later.

A broken nose wasn't so bad, though. A broken rib would be worse, because then he'd have to go to the ER again, and that meant the social worker lady would be back out for a visit. And of course, dad would charm her and flirt with her right in front of mom. Then he'd give her his same old song and dance about what a troubled, trying lad he was raising. Just couldn't keep him out of a fight no matter how hard he tried. Shit. He wanted to throw up just thinking about all that bullshit. Or maybe that was from the roiling in his guts.

God, it was dark in here. Mom usually left the hall light on at night. The bulb must'a burned out. He should go turn on the bathroom light. Yeah, and while he was up, he could close that damned window. It was so cold! He couldn't stop shivering, and that just made everything hurt. He should do that. Get up, close the window. And turn on a light somewhere, because it was darker than God's pockets.

But Jesus, he hurt so bad!

Something cold and wet touched his forehead, and he jumped.

"Shhh... lay still..."

Mom? I'm cold, Mom..

Something heavy was laid on top of him, and though he was grateful for the bit of warmth it provided, it stank. Like garbage and beer... and piss.

"Just you lay still, big fella, it's gonna be all right. Shush now."

"...mom..."

"Shh... You gonna bust open that lip again, if you keep on tryin' to talk. Jus' shush now. Go on back to sleep."

"...'s he gone...? ...safe...?"

"Who? The fella what done this to you? Yeah, he gone, sugar. I expect he long gone by now."

She sounded so worried. He wanted to tell her not to be, that he was fine. Shoot, he'd had way worse than this. Like that time in third grade... Reggie! Reggie Wagner, that was the son-of-a-bitch's name. He started to smile with the victory of finally remembering that small bit of information, but a painful tug on his lower lip at the movement stopped him short. Split lip. She said something about that.

"Shush now and go to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up, I expect."

God knew he couldn't feel much worse, so he decided to take her advice. Besides, Dad was gone. She's said so. It was safe now.

He settled into the lumpy mattress beneath him, soothed by the gentle lull of her shushing noises. The coolness on his forehead lifted, and he wanted to object, but making his mouth work in tandem with his brain was just too damned difficult with his head beating to save the band. After a few seconds the coolness was replaced by a large, soft hand.

"Fever's back," she said, but he could tell she wasn't talking to him, so he ignored it. "He's gon' be needin' a doctor, D. There ain't a whole lot more I can do for 'im."

"No, no doctor!"

Panic shot through him at the sound of the man's voice. She said he was gone. Why would she lie?

"No, doctor! I got first dibs, you know that. You know the rules."

Get up, he mentally commanded himself. You can fight back if you're on your feet. It won't hurt as bad. Fear of the rage in the voice was stronger than his fear of the pain. He rolled to his side, preparing to push himself to his feet, and nearly screamed at the agony in the arm he was now laying on. The pain overwhelmed him and awareness began to slip away... which, he decided as consciousness fled, might be the best thing after all.

~*~

Mom...

No, that was a dream. She couldn't be here. Just a dream.

But he had heard voices, he was sure of that, and he was pretty sure that hadn't been part of his dream. Someone said something about a doctor... and... something else... something that alarmed him. But he couldn't remember, and that frightened him even more. He had no idea where he was, or what had happened to bring him here and take away his memory.

Bobby wrinkled his nose, as an odor, as strong as it was repugnant, assailed him. Rotting garbage and...urine?

For a minute, he thought maybe he'd fallen asleep on the subway. That would explain the smells and the voices, wouldn't it? God knows he wasn't in his bed. It felt more like he was sleeping on a pile of knotted-up rags. Soft in some places, not so much in others. He moved his right hand, running it across the surface beneath him and decided his first impression wasn't too far off. Cloth of some kind and gritty, covered in dirt or sand.

He risked cracking open his eyes and instantly regretted it. Not only did his headache ratchet up a couple of hundred notches, but the blurriness that met him set his stomach roiling. He instantly slammed them shut, deciding that he'd have to rely on his other senses to figure out the puzzle.

Scent was out. Definitely. The odors closest to him were overwhelming and sickening. As far as feeling went, he wished he could shut that sense down as effectively as he could his eyes. He doubted there was a single place on his body that didn't hurt, starting with his head and ending with his feet. God, his feet hurt. Like there were a thousand needles sticking in them. He risked flexing his toes, just to make sure they were still attached, and was only marginally relieved to find they were.

He tried his fingers next and gasped aloud at the pain that met his efforts. He knew without looking, his left arm -- specifically the wrist, judging by the way the fiery pain seemed to radiate from there -- was broken. His chest hurt, too, every time he took a breath, the sound of which was harsh even to his own ears. More concerning, though, was the deeper ache in his guts that told him something there wasn't right.

He stopped the inventory. That was enough bad news for the moment, and he was sure he'd figure out the rest of it once he started moving. Not that he thought he'd be moving anytime soon. Just the thought of trying made his head swim and his stomach churn.

Where the hell was he? And what, precisely, had happened to bring him here in less than working condition? A quick search of his memory turned up nothing useful. He had a vague recollection of water and cold, followed by gut-wrenching panic, but nothing more. His last clear memory was leaving the station on, what? Friday? Yeah, it was Friday evening. What was today? How long had he been here, wherever 'here' was?

Most of him was warm, but there was an icy breeze blowing across his face. And the air felt damp, not like rain, more like a musky, old cellar.

He tried opening his eyes again, waiting impatiently for the vertigo to pass and his vision to clear. The dizziness did pass, after too many long minutes, but his vision did not get better. There was a flickering light somewhere off to his left. A candle? Or maybe his vision was worse than he thought. He couldn't make it focus and trying only made him sicker.

But he was alone, as best he could tell. At least, no one was moving anywhere near him, if his ears were to be trusted.

Bobby closed his eyes and sank back into the gritty nest he was lying in, trying to will away the nausea that was working through him. He didn't want to vomit. His environment smelled bad enough as it was, and he was sure it wouldn't make his head feel any better.

Damn. He was in a fine mess. Hurt, no clue where he was, and not even enough information to know whether or not to be scared, which in itself was enough to scare him.

He was still trying to decide what he was going to do about it when he fell asleep.

~*~

Bobby knew instantly when he awoke again that he was no longer alone. He could hear someone very close by humming softly, the tuneless song being broken here and there as a random word was inserted. The voice, he decided, was female, soft and low. He was still trying to figure out if he recognized it when a hand touched his forehead.

His eyes jerked open at the unexpected touch, and he found himself looking up into a fuzzy face. A woman -- he was right about that much. He blinked and the decidedly unfamiliar features almost came into focus. Another blink and his vision cleared. She was dark-skinned, with very tiny, brightly painted features set into a broad, round face. The dichotomy was interesting, though not unattractive.

As he stared, bemused, the vivid red lips parted and the pleasant, low-pitched voice rang again in his ears. "You 'wake this time, sugar?" The words were colored with a strong southern drawl, the long vowels stretched nearly to the breaking point.

Bobby blinked again, knowing an answer was called for, but forgetting for a second how to form a response. Didn't matter. What would he say anyhow? He didn't know if he was awake or not. He thought he was, but he'd thought that before, too, when he was sure his mom was here, taking care of him.

"Well, maybe not," the black woman said with a chuckle. "That's okay, too. Just you lay there and rest. Doc says that's what you need most anyhow."

"...doctor...?"

The woman lifted an eyebrow that had been plucked almost into nonexistence. "Oh, so you are 'wake, huh?"

"Doctor..." Bobby stopped, and tried to clear his throat, surprised by how much just that one word had hurt.

"Shh... don't be trying to talk now. Here..." She turned away for a minute.

Bobby tried look after her, but quickly abandoned the effort when it was met by a dagger of pain behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut tight against the onslaught.

"Try some of this, sugar."

Bobby opened his eyes again. She was holding a coffee cup with a chip in the rim to his lips.

"Think you can lift up a bit so's you can drink without chokin'?"

Bobby started to shake his head, then thought better of the movement. There was no way he was going to attempt actually sitting up.

"Oh, now, come on, baby. Doc says you got to have this stuff every few hours, and God hisself knows I been doin' my best to get it in ya. If you can't lift up, then at least just open your mouth and try not to choke this time."

Expecting an offering of water, Bobby dutifully opened his mouth, but the vile liquid she poured down his throat was definitely not water. He coughed and turned away, clamping his lips shut like a petulant child.

"Well, now, that's a fine show a gratitude. Here I am, tryin' my best to take care of your sickly, white ass, and now ya'll gone and spit this shit all over me."

She sounded so offended he turned back to look at her, only to find her grinning ear to ear, displaying a row of very white, but uneven, gapped teeth, one of which was capped in gold.

"Heh heh. I can't blame ya. This shit looks like pine tar and smells like my last John's ol' dirty drawers, but Doc says it'll help hold down that coughin' you been doin', and honey, I guarantee, if it feels half as bad as it sounds, you don't wanna be refusing this shit, shit though it might be."

Bobby took a breath, his intention to find enough air to make an argument to the contrary, but was taken by a coughing fit that made his lungs and throat feel like they were lined with straight-razors. His vision grayed as he struggled to catch his breath again. When it cleared the woman was bent over him, her left arm under his head, holding it up.

"Ya see now what I'm saying? Even God done took my side of this here spat." Her voice softened. "I bet that hurt like hell, too, didn't it?"

Bobby was too exhausted to do anything but open his mouth and let her force feed him the vile liquid. He could only hope she wasn't poisoning him. Once he'd drank enough to satisfy her, she took away the cup and wiped gently at his mouth.

Bobby swallowed hard, resisting the urge to spit again to rid his mouth of the flavor. "...bayberry bark... ginger root..."

"Wha's that?"

Bobby gestured weakly toward the cup. "In the...the drink. Bayberry bark, ginger root, and some... some other stuff I-I didn't recognize."

The woman laughed. "You'd hafta ax' Doc 'bout all that."

"Doc?" Bobby was finding it easier to talk now. "There was a... was a doctor here?"

The woman sighed and pushed her large frame back, then climbed to her feet. She towered over him, and he realized he was laying on the floor. He took a minute to look around. Yes, definitely the floor. There was a high ceiling, so he was inside, though the air felt as cold and damp as outdoors. He was laying on what looked like a pile of old, dirty clothes. Surrounding him, in an area roughly as large as his apartment's living room, were boxes, crates and old lumber stacked into makeshift walls. It looked vaguely familiar to him, but with his brain not currently firing on all cylinders, he didn't even try to place it. There was an opening in the "walls," directly across from him, that led out of the "room." His nurse appeared to be the only person with him.

Bobby's eyes were growing heavy. He wanted nothing more than to give in and sleep until everything stopped hurting, but there was too much he had to know first.

He looked at the woman, his caregiver. She had moved nearly out of his line of sight, and turning his head was out of the question. He was sure it would fall off and roll away if he even tried. He studied her as best he could, looking for some clue that would tell him who she was, why she was taking care of him in this place, and most importantly, what had happened to him.

Given the season and the temperatures, her choice of clothing was confusing. She was dressed in a denim skirt that was much too short and at least a size too small for her very large frame. Her bright pink sweater didn't cover much more, and again, was a size too small, leaving a double roll of flesh around the middle exposed. When she turned and moved back into his line of sight, he could see that her more than ample bosom was nearly spilling out of the low, rounded neckline.

Her face, though large with disproportionately small features, was pretty. She was wearing far too much make up, her eyelids a bright purple and her lips and cheeks a matching, vivid red. Long, yellow ringlets surrounded the garishly painted face, each hair perfectly in place, as though sprayed within an inch of its life.

"He ain't no doctor, exactly," she said, answering the question Bobby had nearly forgotten he'd asked. "I mean, he ain't got no degree or nothing. But he does what he can. Helps out when he's needed." She moved back to his side and kneeled down.

Bobby averted his eyes from the exposed flesh until she was settled, more out of self preservation than decorum.

"I think he was a medic in some war or somethin'. But you can trust he knows what's what. Admit it now, you feelin' better all ready, ain't cha?"

Bobby was surprised to find her words were true. Even his headache was taking less of his attention. "Y-yes, I am. Thank you, Miss...?"

The woman laughed. "Ain't you the polite one? Bambi," she said. "Bambi Rochelle."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Rochelle," he said, trying to smile.

"Miss Rochelle? Hell, ain't never been called that before." She laughed heartily. "You a polite one, ain't cha? Your mama done taught you some manners. Bambi's good enough for me, though, mister. Ain't no denying I ain't nothing more than a three dollar hooker, and you're a cop."

Bobby blinked in surprise. "You know who I am?"

Bambi shook her head. "Not me, well, just that you're a cop. D, he knows you. He said ya'll had a run in down here once. He said you was a ballsy fella, and you treated him decent. That's why he went and found Doc and sobered 'im up so's he could take care of ya."

"D... " It clicked. "Donald? A tall man, with crossed eyes?"

"That's him, 'cept his eyes ain't crossed." She shook her head. "Well, not unless he wants 'em to be."

"He fakes it?"

"He likes folks to think he's crazy. Keeps 'em away, and D, he likes to be left alone."

"Except for you. He doesn't mind you coming around. Is that because... because he's a customer?"

Bambi frowned. "Now don'cha be going thinking stuff like that about me and D. We're friends, we look out for each other, and that's it. Nothing more. I got some respect. Not much, I'll grant you, but that much."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-to imply anything disrespectful. I just want... I'm just trying to understand what's going on." Bobby lifted his right hand to bring it up to his face, but Bambi grabbed his arm, forestalling the action. He stared at his hand where she held it, surprised and confused to see how raw his fingertips were. Though beginning to scab over, he could tell they'd been scraped down to the raw flesh.

"You don't wanna be touching your face just yet, sugar," Bambi warned. "There ain't a lot of real estate there that's not gonna hurt like a bastard-birth if you do."

"What happened to me?" he whispered. He lifted his eyes to meet hers. "How did I get here like this? Who did this to me?"

"I can't answer that, sugar. I'm sorry, but all I know is Dictionary Mary found you and D brought you here."

"Here... meaning to the tunnels." He remembered that Donald lived in the tunnels beneath Penn Station. He looked back at Bambi, urgency filling his tone. "Miss Rochelle, I need you to do something for me. I need you to call the police and tell them where I am--"

Bambi was shaking her head before he'd even finished the sentence. "No can do, baby, so don't even be asking me to, 'cause I can't and I won't. I'm sorry."

"Please," he pleaded, "my friends, they'll be worried..." Not to mention he had a feeling he could use a real doctor, one with an actual degree.

"No, sugar, and don't be wasting your breath asking no more," she said, her tone firm.

Bobby could see there was no point in trying to argue with her. Not only did it sound like her mind was made up, but he just didn't have it in him at the moment. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open.

"That stuff's done gone and made you sleepy, just like it's supposed to, so you just lay back there now and get some rest. D'll be back by the time you wake up. Maybe he'll answer some of your questions."

Bobby sighed softly and stopped fighting it. He was asleep in seconds.

~*~

It was the heat that woke him next. A heat that flared from the inside, under his skin, deep as his bones. He pushed weakly at the heavy fabric piled over him in hopes of letting some cool air next to his skin.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you."

Bobby's eyes snapped open at the voice, searching for and finding the owner perched on a rickety chair on the other side of the "room."

"Detective Robert Goren," Donald said slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable. "Remember me?"

Bobby ran his tongue over his dry lips, absently noting the splits and swelling. "Donald." He was surprised at how weak his voice was. "Sorry, I don't think I ever caught your last name."

Donald pursed his lips and just stared at him. After a minute, Bobby broke the silence.

"Miss Rochelle was right... about your eyes, I mean. They're not really crossed."

"No?" Donald pulled a face and crossed them, giving him the look of someone standing on the far-edged border of sanity. It was an effective masquerade, Bobby decided. The man certainly didn't look like someone to be messed with.

After a few seconds, Donald uncrossed them and grinned. "Can't believe everything you see, can you cop-man?"

"I try not to."

Donald nodded. "I thought that about you that last time, when you came down here looking for that Kenny guy. I thought you was someone who lived righteous. You do live righteous, don't you, Detective Robert Goren?"

"It-it's Bobby. I try to be a good person, if that's what you mean."

"Nah, that's not it, and I prefer to call you Detective Robert Goren. It's got a nice sound to it, you know? All proper and upright. Because you, Detective Robert Goren, are a righteous man."

Bobby wasn't quite certain what the proper response was, so he made none.

Donald stood and wiped his hands on his pants legs. "A righteous man on a righteous mission. What's your mission, Detective Robert Goren? Hmm?"

Bobby shook his head, wincing at the pain that flared behind his eyes. "I don't know what you mean."

"You have to have a mission, or you wouldn't be down here in my lair, now would you?"

"I didn't come down here--"

"No?" Donald closed half the distance between them and stopped. "You got here somehow, didn't you? Now be honest, Detective Robert Goren. Just answer the question -- yes or no?"

"Yes..."

"So, you have to have a mission, wouldn't you say?"

"My mission..." Bobby paused, trying to find a response that would make some headway in the convoluted conversation. Trying to follow it was just making his headache worse. "My mission, I suppose, is to find out what happened to me."

"There you have it, then." Donald slapped his hands together once, loudly, the sound echoing in the tunnel. "You're here to find out what happened to you."

Bobby swallowed, and the pain that met the effort was like a knife blade in his throat. "Can I have some water? Please?"

Donald frowned, then disappeared out of Bobby's line of sight. He returned a moment later carrying a plastic cup. Bobby hoped it was indeed water, and not more of Doc's "cure." The foul liquid might have worked its purpose, but at the moment, Bobby wanted nothing more than plain, cool water to soothe the fire inside him.

Donald squatted on his heels beside Bobby's make-shift bed. "How you gonna drink laying down?"

Good question, Bobby decided. He gathered his energy, and with a quick prayer for strength, he used his right arm to maneuver himself into enough of a raised position to sip at the cup Donald placed to his lips. It was water, and it was cold, but beyond that, Bobby wasn't sure and didn't want to consider too hard. He only hoped it was halfway potable.

"Thank you," he whispered, laying back on the dirty rags of his bed.

Donald scooted back a few feet, but continued to stare silently at Bobby. When the silence had stretched on for several long minutes, Bobby broke it.

"Can you help me with my mission, Donald?"

Donald cocked his head. "Which mission would that be? The one that brought you here? The one that got you here? Or the one that's keeping you here?"

And people thought he was cryptic! "The one to find out what happened to me... how I got hurt."

"That'd be the one that brought you here." Donald shook his head. "Can't say."

Bobby blinked. "You don't know?"

Donald made a 'harrumph' noise. "Even I don't know everything, you know."

"But you do know some things... don't you, Donald?"

"I know plenty."

"Like how I got here? I mean, down here in the tunnels. You know how I got here, don't you?"

"Of course, I do."

Bobby waited, but Donald didn't seem inclined to follow up on the assertion. "Will you tell me?"

"I sent ol' Tuba to fetch you." Donald chuckled.

"Fetch me from where?"

"Where you were."

Bobby resisted the urge to sigh. He'd interrogated worse, but never when he felt this bad. "And where was that?"

Donald pulled his feet out from under him and settled his butt on the ground. He pulled his knees up and rested his forearms on them, clasping his hands. "I reckon you want the long version of it, huh?" He blew out a huff of air from his nose. "Rules around here are simple, if it's in my territory, I get first dibs. Simple enough. You was in my territory, so Dictionary Mary come to tell me. I got first dibs, and I dibbed you. Had Tuba bring you back here to me. Plain and simple."

Not exactly an answer to the question, but it was a step forward. "Where was Mary when she found me? Penn Station?"

"Penn? Naw, Mary, she's a river rat. Likes the shore, you know."

River... A flash of memory...inky black water... trying not to breath. The weight of it, crushing... "I was in the river."

"In it, on it, under it, around it... something. You was soaked through, though, and I reckon you must'a swallowed a good bit of it, too. You been trying to cough it all back up ever since I brung you here."

"But you-you know plenty more, don't you, Donald? You know something about what happened to me, maybe?"

Donald shrugged again. "Can't say I do. Can't say I don't."

Bobby tried to sigh, forgetting about the pain in his chest, and was rewarded with an intense coughing fit that left him gasping for air. Donald sat silently, watching him through it. Unlike Bobby's previous caregiver, he offered neither help nor comforting words. He simply looked on with unguarded curiosity.

"Bet that hurt," Donald said once Bobby's breathing had evened out again.

Bobby rolled his head to look at him. "Yes... that definitely hurt."

"I got some of Doc's concoction over there if you want it, but I figure you probably don't. Stuff looks like shit, smells like shit and likely tastes like shit."

Considering the nearly unbearable ache the coughing fit had left in his chest, Bobby nearly accepted the offer. It did taste like... well, shit, but it had helped. There was a good chance he would drink real shit at this point if it took away some of the pain and made his breathing easier. But it had also made him sleep, and he couldn't sleep yet. Not until he pried some kind of answers out of Donald.

"I'll pass," he told the other man.

"Suit yourself," Donald said. "I ain't the one coughing up my liver over there."

Bobby swallowed hard against another urge to cough, waited it out, then pursued his questioning. "You said you... have dibs. What did you mean?"

"Dibs, sheesh, you know... a claim to, the rights to. God, I sound just like Dictionary Mary."

The hair on Bobby's neck stood on end. "You can't own a human being, Donald."

"No? Who is it that says if you live or die? Who got you the doc, brung you food and water?" Donald moved forward, his movements swift and unexpected. Bobby flinched away before he could stop himself. The other man kneeled over Bobby, bringing their faces uncomfortably close together. The tone of his voice lowered to nearly a whisper. "Who saved your life, Detective Robert Goren? Hmm?"

Bobby forced a steadiness he didn't feel into his tone. "I can't say who saved my life, Donald, until I know what happened to me in the first place."

Donald let out a huff of breath through his mouth. The smell nearly gagged Bobby. It was through sheer effort that he didn't turn away. Finally, Donald sat back on his heels, then scooted back onto his butt a few feet away, crossing his legs in front of him. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his chin on his clasped hands.

"You got a point, Detective Robert Goren. A point you have," he grinned widely and exposed a row of crooked, brown teeth. "Yep. Okay, it was like this: Dictionary Mary's borderline crazy, but not really crazy, just a little, so you gotta take what she says with a heaping helping of salt and pepper." He stopped long enough to chuckle at his own words. "She says you came up out of the water like Jonah coming out of the whale. Well, not like that, she didn't, you know, 'cause Mary, she don't talk like that. You gotta make out what she says. Puzzle it out.

"She thought you was dead, but she knows the rules. She didn't waste no time coming to me."

"I thought everyone around here was afraid of you." That was certainly the impression he'd gotten during his previous encounter with the denizens of the tunnels.

Donald raised an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted my help with your mission."

"I do."

"Then shut the hell up and let me tell it." Donald pursed his lips and glared, his eyes crossing slightly, and Bobby wondered if it was a conscious effort to intimidate him. "Only people afraid of me are the ones I want to be."

Bobby nodded, but didn't interrupt again.

"Mary come to me straight away, and I sent Tuba right on back out to fetch you, but even so, you was gone when they got there. Not a hide nor hair. Zip. Nada. Tuba thought she'd made you up. You know--" he let out a breathy whistle, twirling a finger in the air on the side of his head, "--lost her marbles. What few she had, anyways."

He leaned forward. "But she insisted, so they walked up and down the rocks and finally found you. Hell, you'd managed to walk all the way down to Rocky Point, and you a dead man. Hell. Tore your feet up pretty good on the rocks and glass, but I guess you know that, don't 'cha?"

Bobby lifted his head, not an easy won accomplishment, considering it currently weighed more than a small forklift. He glanced down at his feet, but they were covered with a ratty blanket. Everything hurt so much it was hard to differentiate one pain from another, but yeah, his feet did hurt pretty damn bad, now that they had his full attention. "I was barefoot?"

"Don't know how you'd have tore up your feet if you weren't."

Barefoot and in the river, in the middle of November. There had to be some kind of reasonable explanation for that, but Bobby's muddled brains couldn't immediately think of one.

"Donald, I'm not trying to break the rules, or beat you out of something that by all rights you have a claim to, but you've got to let my friends know where I am."

"No."

The single word was said with all the pleasantness of two old friends passing the time of day, but the resolve in Donald's eyes was unwavering and told Bobby arguing would be fruitless. Nevertheless, he had to try. "My friends will be worried about me. If you don't want them down here, maybe you can help me up to the surface--"

Donald stood and walked away without a word.

Bobby sighed, fought down a cough and yelled after him, "Look, if it's property you're afraid of losing, I promise I can make it up to you. I-I'll trade you something that you need. Anything, just name it."

Donald passed through the opening that served as a door and disappeared from Bobby's line of sight. Bobby listened, but didn't hear footsteps heading away. "Donald, please. All I'm asking is that you get word to my friends, let them know I'm okay." When there was no answer, Bobby decided he'd guessed wrong, and Donald had left.

If help was to be gotten, it looked like Bobby would be the one to get it for himself. He did a quick poll of his pain and was dismayed by the results. Never mind how badly everything hurt, he felt as weak as a kitten.

There was no choice. He gathered every scrap of strength he could manage and pushed himself into a sitting position. Once there, he had to pause and wait for the room to stop spinning. It took much longer than he thought it should have, and quickly on its heels came a coughing fit that left him breathless. As soon as he could see past the bright spots in his vision, he looked for something to brace himself against to stand. The only thing close enough was the damp wall of the tunnel that made up the backside of the structure, and that was on his left side. He glanced down at his left hand, wondering how much use he could expect from it.

It was laying limply at his side. A makeshift splint had been fashioned out of a couple of short slats of wood. Thick, dingy white bandages held them in place. The splint ran from mid-forearm to the second knuckle of his fingers. The exposed fingertips were swollen and discolored. He wiggled them experimentally, stopping short when a spasm of intense pain shot up his arm. Not a good idea. That arm was definitely not going to be of use any time soon.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Bobby swung his head around, and the resulting dizziness nearly put him back on the ground. When it cleared, there was a man -- a stranger -- kneeling beside him. The man sported a thin cap of white hair. A roadmap of deep wrinkles creased his leathery, brown skin. Both of the older man's arms were wrapped around Bobby's shoulders, and Bobby knew that was all that stood between him and kissing the cracked concrete floor. As it was, he was keeled over like a puppet with broken strings.

"Damn fool," the old man muttered. He hooked his forearms under Bobby's armpits and with a strength that his small build hid well, scooted Bobby's much larger frame back until he was leaning against the damp wall. "You want to tell me just what the hell you were trying to do?" He laid a calloused hand against Bobby's forehead.

"Who..." Bobby had to stop and catch his breath before he could continue. "Who are you?"

"Folks just call me Doc. That's good enough for you, too, I reckon." He frowned. "Fever's back."

"You're the one who set my wrist... who's been taking care of me."

"That'd be why they call me Doc, Einstein." The old man chuckled, and Bobby got a whiff of alcohol. "You feel as crappy as you look?"

"If I look as bad as I feel, then maybe you'd better just go ahead bury me now."

"Smart ass." Doc turned his attention to Bobby's left arm, lifting it and examining the fingertips. He gently squeezed the ends of the first two. Bobby winced and nearly jerked the arm out of his grip. "That's a good sign. Plenty of feeling. Now if they was numb, I'd be worried. Color's better, too." He set the arm across Bobby's lap.

"Broken?"

"Yep, snapped like a wishbone at Thanksgiving dinner. Clean break, though, and I got it set pretty straight, but you still need to be careful. That splint's make-do, and it won't hold up to too much jostling around. All the same, you go easy and I don't think you'll have any long term problems with it. How's your breathing?"

"Better sitting up."

Doc leaned toward Bobby and cocked his head to the side. "Take a deep breath."

Bobby complied. A deep, rattling cough accompanied the release of it.

"Still wheezing. Make sure you keep drinking that brew I left for you. I know it's bitter, but it's doing you some good, so make sure you get it down. Hold your nose or something. Whatever you have to do, but drink it."

"Is it pneumonia?"

"Don't think so," Doc shook his head, "but that's not to say it couldn't turn into pneumonia. That's why's it's important for you to keep taking that brew. Got that?" He waited until Bobby nodded before continuing. "I want you to try to spend some time sitting up, too. Not only will it help you with your breathing, but it'll help you get your strength back. And eat something. I don't care what. Whatever Donald offers you. I'm sure it's not as good as you're used to, but you can't afford to be picky if you want to get better. I'll make sure he knows you got to eat."

Doc turned his attention to Bobby's feet, throwing aside the grimy blanket that covered them. It was then that Bobby finally took note of how he was dressed. He was wearing dark-colored sweat pants and a gray flannel shirt, buttoned over a dingy tee shirt. Not the sweetest smelling attire, but it was warm. His feet were covered in thin bandages that were, surprisingly, clean and white.

He watched while the old man unwound the bandages, exposing his feet. From where he sat, they looked fine, but the sharp, burning from the soles told him he wasn't seeing the worst of it.

"You really did a number on these puppies." Doc poked at the soles with his index finger. "That hurt?"

Bobby sucked in a sharp breath when Doc touched a particularly tender spot.

"Guess that answers that. Looks better, though. They're starting to scab over." He sat back and pulled a tin can out of a plastic bag laying beside him and scooped something thick and brown out of it onto his fingers. He slathered it across the soles of Bobby's feet. It felt refreshingly cool against the heat of his skin.

"That feels good," Bobby said. "Thank you." He sniffed the air. "Lavender?" It was the first non-offensive scent he'd smelled since initially waking up in Donald's lair.

"And emu oil. Great healing properties. A lady I know over on Houston who makes it."

Doc finished covering the wounds with the salve and wrapped the bandages tight around them once more.

"How long before I can walk on them again?"

Doc spared him a quick glance. "Got somewhere to go?"

Bobby didn't answer.

"I'll put it this way, by the time you feel like getting up and around, you're feet will be ready to hold you up. Might not be pleasant at first, but you'll survive."

"A day? Two?"

Doc snorted. "Now be honest, son, you think you could stand up without falling over? Hell, when I came in here, you were barely sitting up, and you still look a little green around the gills from the effort, like you could upchuck any minute."

Bobby couldn't deny the truth in the observation, so he didn't even try. He looked up at the opening in the far wall. "Where's Donald?"

"Who knows where Donald goes?"

Bobby lowered his tone to barely more than a whisper. "Doc, I need your help. I need to get a message to a friend, let her know I'm okay. Her name is Alex Eames. I can give you her number."

Doc didn't say anything.

"Or if you could get word to the police. I just need to let someone know where I am. Could you do that for me? Please?"

Doc looked at him, frowning. "That's not a good idea, son."

"You know what I really need is a hospital. All I'm asking is that you let someone know where I am--"

"Look, I'll do what I can for you, as a favor to Donald, and because, well, that's what I do. I take care of those I can. It's going to have to be enough for you right now."

"Please, don't think I'm not grateful for what you're doing, Doc, because I am. I just need to get word to my friends. I have no idea what Donald has planned, and to be honest, I don't really think I want to have to find out."

Donald burst around the corner. "You think I'm keeping you prisoner here?" he yelled.

Doc made himself busy checking the knots on the bandages.

Bobby sank back against the wall and cradled his left hand with his right. "Aren't you, Donald?" His attempt at bravado was spoiled by a cough.

Donald stopped in the middle of the room. "You want to leave, Detective Robert Goren, you just get up and go. Go ahead, get out of here. I ain't holding you here against your will. I'm helping you hide out, that's what I'm doing for you. Keeping you safe."

"Hide from... from what?"

Donald gestured widely. "Them! Wolves in sheep's clothing!" He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it spiking up in all directions. "But the wolves here are the enemies and the sheep are your friends."

"Goddammit, Donald, just tell him," Doc muttered quietly. "All these bloody, damn riddles. What are you trying to prove? Who's smarter? I doubt you'd win that contest even if he hadn't gotten his head nearly hammered in."

"Tell me what?" Bobby asked, looking from one man to the other. Neither seemed inclined to meet his gaze.

"Oh, hell!" Donald stormed over to a cardboard box and rummaged through it's contents, eventually coming up with a neatly folded newspaper.

He closed the distance between them, and tossed it on Bobby's lap. Bobby's eyes dropped and he gasped. Looking back at him were side by side photos of him and Alex. Across the top of the pictures was the headline, "Decorated Detectives in Failed Murder/Suicide?"

~*~

Chapter 4: Difficult

adjective
1: hard to do, make, or carry out
2: hard to deal with, manage, or overcome
3: hard to understand

~*~

Alex heard the door open behind her, but she didn't turn. She was standing at the window, watching the rain that was blowing across the rooftops in sheets. The gray gloominess matched her mood.

"Alex ..."

The unexpected voice startled Alex. She turned, only remembering her bruised right hip when it protested the abruptness of the move. "Fin." She tried to smile in greeting, but the effort seemed too monumental for her to even attempt. "Waine not with you?"

"I'm not here in an official capacity. You're Bobby's friend; I figure he would want me to check on you, see how you're doing."

A smile now came easily in response to his statement. Alex liked Fin's directness and candor, but mostly she liked that he didn't dance around mentioning Bobby's name to her like everyone else seemed to.

"Street clothes?" Fin questioned with a raised eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're about to blow this joint?"

Alex moved to the bed and eased herself carefully down to sit on the edge. "About time, don't you think? Nothing really wrong with me that a soak in a tub of hot water with some bath salts won't cure. I'm waiting on the orderly to bring a wheelchair. My dad's gone to bring his car around to the door."

Fin crossed the room, stopping beside her. Alex looked up, and she could see he was struggling with something he wanted to say. "What is it, Fin? Did you find something?"

"When I said I wasn't here in an official capacity, I wasn't exactly telling the truth. I didn't lie about wanting to see how you're doing, though. I know that if Bobby was able to, he'd be here himself."

"But...?"

Fin sighed. "You've been told about the 911 call, haven't you?"

Alex nearly flinched at the question. It was sheer force of will that kept her voice steady. "Yes."

"I wouldn't ask this unless I thought it was important, Alex, believe me. I want you to listen to the tape."

Alex sucked in a breath. It was the last thing she'd expected him to ask her, and the last thing she wanted to do.

"Hear me out before you give an answer--"

"Fin... no, I... I can't. Don't ask me to."

"I know what I'm asking, Alex. I listened to it myself, a whole bunch of times, and I can tell you, it wasn't easy."

"Then you know why I can't do it."

"Look..." Fin sat down on the bed beside her. "You got to trust me on this, Alex. If it wasn't important, I wouldn't ask you to do it." He looked her in the eye. "Do you believe Bobby attacked you? I know you said before you didn't, but I need you to look deep down inside of yourself and tell me what you honestly feel. Do you think there's even the slightest chance that Bobby did this to you?"

Alex hesitated, not going with her initial, instinctive response, but instead opting for the truth. "I won't lie and tell you that in the deepest, darkest part of the night I don't wonder if maybe he could have... maybe he wasn't himself and maybe he might not have known what he was doing." She drew in a shaky breath. "But then my head and my heart tell me there's no way in hell he would ever hurt anyone, no matter how over the edge he might fall. So, no, I don't believe he attacked me."

Fin nodded, clearly satisfied with her answer. "Then trust me when I tell you that this 911 tape holds the key to proving that."

Realization dawned. "You don't think it's Bobby on the tape."

Fin frowned. "To be honest, I can't say it is or it isn't. I just don't know. I've listened to it a dozen times, and I just can't tell."

"Surely, they've had a forensics compare--"

Fin was nodding before she finished speaking. "The results were inconclusive. When you hear it, you'll understand why. The speech patterns are Bobby's, right down to his stutter and inflection, but the voice is so distorted it's impossible to say for sure. That's why I need you to listen to the tape, Alex. No one knows Bobby better than you do. You've worked beside him every day for the past few years. You've heard him talk in almost every circumstance there is. If anyone would know if it's him, you would."

Alex stared at her hands in her lap. The rope burns around her wrists had nearly healed. They'd been superficial, really. Not all that deep. She'd probably been too drugged to put up much of a struggle. She rubbed a finger lightly over the pink line that remained while she considered Fin's request. It would very likely be the hardest thing she'd ever done, listening to what might turn out to be Bobby's final words. But if there was the slightest chance it wasn't him on the tape, how could she refuse?

"When do you want me down there?" she asked, looking up.

Fin nodded, allowing the smallest of smiles to lift the corners of his mouth. "I'd like to say take your time. I know you're still healing, but--"

"But it can't wait, I know." Her gaze grew intense. "Fin, if it's not Bobby on the tape, do you think that could mean that he didn't... he's not..."

"That he's not dead?"

Alex nodded.

Fin looked away, but not before Alex saw the conflict in his eyes. "Just tell me what you think," she urged. "I know everyone else thinks he is. They all think he attacked me, too, so why should I give a rat's ass what they say? Tell me what you think, Fin."

He turned back to face her, pursed his lips and drew in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. Finally, he spoke. "In my book, until they find a body that proves otherwise, he ain't dead, but before you put any store in what I think and get your hopes up, I got nothing to base that on except gut instinct."

"And the lack of a body."

"And a dead certainty that Bobby wouldn't have jumped."

Alex nodded. "But if he's not dead, where is he? Why doesn't he come forward?"

"We can't answer that until we find out what happened."

Alex looked out the window at the driving rain. "He could be out there somewhere, cold, hurt, no place to go..." Tears welled. She blinked them back, hating the thought of Fin seeing her weakness. She'd worked hard to carry her own weight, knowing that because of her gender and her small stature, she had twice as much to prove as the men in her department. She had to stay strong, or she'd never be allowed to join the investigation, and she damn well intended to do just that... just as soon as she could stand on her own two feet for more than ten minutes at a time.

She turned back to Fin, resolve flooding through her. "I'll come in first thing in the morning. I'd say this afternoon, but I know my dad's not going to let that happen."

Fin smiled. "In the morning is fine. How about I pick you up so you don't have to ask your dad to drive you in?"

Alex jumped on the offer. She had no idea how she was going to present the plan to her father, but she was certain that it wouldn't be an easy sell.

Fin patted her knee and stood, just as the door opened and an orderly entered pushing an empty wheelchair. "Go home and get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

~*~

Half the people who greeted Alex when she entered the Major Case squad room kept their eyes averted, as though embarrassed or uncomfortable. The other half seemed only too eager to search her face, taking in every detail of the bruising and cuts there. She was grateful that the swelling was gone for the most part, and all that was really left of the bruises were some purple and black mottling, fading with every day that passed.

She bravely made her way through the squad room with Fin at her side. They headed straight to Captain Deakins office, where Deakins and Ted Waine were waiting for them. Alex took the chair closest to the captain's desk without being invited, her eyes on the tape recorder laying prominently on the desk.

"You sure you're up to this, Alex?" Ted asked, his soft voice laced with concern. "Everyone will understand if you're not ready, if you need more time."

"No." Alex tucked her hair behind her ear. "Let's do this while I've got my courage plucked up." She looked at Deakins. "I'm okay, sir, honest."

The captain nodded and sat in the chair behind his desk. He spared a quick glance at Alex and pushed the button which would start the tape playing.

A calm, flat-toned female voice filled the room. "Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"There's a... there's a woman... Canal and West Houston, near Rock Point Pier. She-she... she needs help. She's been hurt. Please, hurry... Oh, God..."

Alex understood now why no one could say for sure that it was Bobby on the tape. The voice was soft, as though far away from the speaker of the phone, and it was distorted with palpable grief. Sobs and anguished moans filled the long hesitations between words.

"What is your name, sir?"

"You have to hurry... she's... she's hurt and she needs help."

"Emergency services are en route. Sir, what is your name?"

A heart-rending sob filled the air in reply.

"Sir? Are you there?"

"I didn't mean it... God, believe me, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. I couldn't help myself. Please, God, I didn't mean it. Alex... I'm so sorry."

"Sir, please, calm down. I need you to tell me your name."

"I... wasn't myself. I-I-I would never... would never hurt Alex. I would never... I'm so sorry."

At this point it was nearly impossible to understand him he was crying so hard. Alex leaned forward, but she couldn't catch the next words at all. They were little more than incoherent mumbles. The sounds stopped after a minute, and Alex could hear ragged breathes, then a loud clatter.

"Sir? Sir? Are you there?"

There was no answer.

Deakins punched the button to stop the tape. "Other than some background noises, that's all there is."

Alex sucked in a breath, dismayed to hear that it sounded as frayed as she felt. She closed her eyes and took several more, until she felt steady and calm. When she opened her eyes again, all three men were looking at her in concern.

"I'm all right." She grinned at them to prove her point. "Really, I'm fine... because that wasn't Bobby."

"Are you sure?" Fin asked.

"Positive?" She shook her head. "No, not one hundred percent. But reasonably? Yeah, I'm reasonably certain that's not Bobby."

"What?" Waine was vocally surprised by her near-adamant declaration. "It sounded like him to me. Everyone who's listened to it agrees that it's him--"

"Not everyone," Fin said. "There's no consensus."

"Fine," Waine corrected throwing his hands wide in an exasperated gesture. "Most everyone, then. So why do you think it might not be Goren?"

Alex considered her reply, but there was really no way to say it other than the straight out. "I don't know. I just do."

"But you said you're not certain," Deakins said, sounding disappointed.

Alex didn't hesitate. "Completely certain, no, but I'm certain enough to stake my career on it, sir."

"Are you sure you're not hearing what you want to hear?" Waine asked. At the glare Alex turned on him, he added, "I'm only asking you to consider the possibility. No one blames you for not wanting it to be your partner who attacked you, a man you've grown to admire and respect, but you have to look at the evidence objectively."

Alex jumped to her feet and spun to face the young detective. "Do you honestly think I can be objective about this, Ted? I was attacked and possibly nearly raped, and everyone is trying to pin it on Bobby. I don't need my memories to know it wasn't him. I'm telling you that's not Bobby on that tape. The voice is off-"

"He was distraught," Ted said. "You couldn't really hear his actual voice through the distortion from his crying and carrying on. The stuttering and the long pauses between words, that's the way Goren talks."

A smile suddenly lit Alex's face. She spun back to Deakins. "That's why I know it's not Bobby! He doesn't stammer when he's upset. He only stammers when his thoughts get ahead of him, when he's working a crime scene or interrogating a suspect. When he's thinking too fast and his mouth gets left behind."

"You know," Fin said, "she may be on to something, Captain. Bobby doesn't really stutter like that when he's excited."

"He was distraught enough to kill himself seconds later," Waine said. "Who can know how he would talk?"

"Plus, he called me 'Alex' on the tape," she said. "He doesn't call me Alex. He calls me Eames. By itself, I probably wouldn't question it too closely, but coupled with the out-of-place stammering..."

"Bobby has unique speech patterns. It would make him very easy to imitate," Fin pointed out.

"You think someone faked the call?" Deakins asked. "For what purpose?"

Fin shrugged. "To frame Bobby maybe."

Ted laughed, a humorless bark of noise. "That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? I mean, there's absolutely no evidence that anyone else was at the crime scene. Only Detectives Goren's and Eames' fingerprints were there, only their blood. No one else's fingerprints were on Goren's cell phone--"

"Wait," Alex interrupted. "Only Bobby's prints were on his phone?"

Deakins rummaged through a stack of papers in a manila folder on his desk. When he found the one he wanted, he pulled it out and swiftly read over it. "His phone was found on the pier, near the bloody handprint. It was still open and still connected to the 911 operator." He looked up at Alex. "Only his prints were on the phone. Why?"

"My cell phone battery died Friday. My charger must have come loose or something, because it didn't have a full charge. I borrowed Bobby's that morning."

"Your fingerprints should have been on the phone," Fin said.

"Which means someone wiped down the phone, and then planted Bobby's prints back on it."

"Whoa, wait a minute." Ted held up his hands. "That's a mighty big conclusion to jump to. Maybe Goren cleaned the phone at some point after you used it."

"Maybe," Deakins agreed. "Maybe not. I'd say it's reasonable doubt, at the very least."

"Bingo!" Fin said, a satisfied smile twisting his lips. "Between the phony stutter and the wiped down cell phone, I'd say we have ourselves a case."

Alex sat back down and folded her hands in her lap. "Now all we have to do is figure out who had a motive to attack me and frame Bobby for it."

"Wait a minute, Eames," Deakins protested. "Unless there's something you've neglected to tell me, you haven't been cleared to return to duty."

Alex ignored him and turned to face Fin. "We need to look at old cases..."

"Even if you had been cleared," Deakins continued, "you know you can't work this case."

"...and check on recent parolees," Fin finished her sentence.

"You're too close to it. You're the victim for God's sake!" Deakins slapped the desk to punctuate his statement.

"Revenge is a strong motive." Alex felt excitement beginning to grow for the first time since she'd awoken in the hospital three days previous. "Bobby's got his share of enemies, heaven knows."

"We'll have to look at 'em all," Fin said with a nod.

Deakins huffed out a noisy breath and stood, glaring down at the detectives sitting across from him. "You're going to get me fired."

That quieted Alex and Fin. They looked up at him.

The captain planted his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling. "Okay, look..." He lowered his gaze, stilling Alex with the seriousness in his expression. "I don't think I could keep you out of here if I handcuffed you in your house, so I'm not even going to try. But I meant it when I said I could get fired for this, so listen to me carefully. If you're going to do this, you're going to follow my rules. Until you bring me a signed release from both your medical doctor and the department shrink saying you're fit for even light duty, then your contribution to this case will be limited to research and paperwork only. No field work! You got that?"

Alex frowned.

Deakins lifted his chin and raised a finger. "I'm serious Alex. That's a direct order, and if I catch you disobeying it, I'll not only ban you from the station for the duration of this case, but I'll call Johnny and tell him what his daughter is up to."

Sighing, Alex reluctantly agreed to the terms. "I got it." She frowned and added a bitter, "...sir," to the end.

"Good" Deakins nodded, a victory smile making a brief appearance. He sat back down. "Because you're really the only one who will know what to look for. I want the three of you going through your old case files. See who's fresh out of the pen, and who's got the means to pull this off."

"And by means, you mean brains." Fin pulled a face. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. They went to a hell of a lot of trouble to make us think it was Bobby."

"Not a lot of our collars are that smart," Alex said, "or know Bobby well enough to have made the frame up so convincing."

"That ought to narrow your search down," Deakins said. "Get to it."

~*~

Chapter 5: Comprehend

transitive verb
1. to grasp the nature
2. to contain or hold within a total scope, significance, or amount
3. to understand

~*~

"Hungry?"

Before Bobby could answer, Donald tossed a plastic wrapped sandwich into his lap. Food was the last thing Bobby wanted, and he was certain his stomach would never accept it. He started to set it aside.

"It ain't prime rib, but it's fresh. Mostly. One of the missions gives 'em out every now and again up top."

Lacking the energy or inclination to explain the real reason for his lack of appetite, Bobby picked it up and used his teeth and good hand to rip open the plastic. A whiff of sour mayonnaise hit his nose immediately and his stomach rebelled. He dropped the sandwich and rolled to his side, dry heaving. His stomach was too empty for anything else. When he finished, he straightened slowly. Donald, he noticed absently, was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the living area, happily munching on the abandoned sandwich.

"Your loss."

Bobby grimaced, but said nothing.

"You ain't said five words since you read that newspaper."

Still maintaining his silence, Bobby closed his eyes.

"Suit yourself. At least you ain't asking me to go get your friends no more. They think you're dead, you know."

"I know." The words were soft, lifeless.

"Suicide. After you beat the shit out of Detective Alex Eames."

Bobby heard Donald wad up the crinkly plastic wrap from the sandwich. The only other sound was the constant drip of water from somewhere deeper in the tunnel and an occasional scrapping noise that Bobby didn't want to question too closely. Rats, most likely.

"Did you?"

Bobby opened his eyes. "What?"

"Did you beat the crap out of Detective Alex Eames and then kill yourself?"

"I'm not dead."

"You sure about that?"

"Death wouldn't hurt this much."

"Good point. Unless you was in hell."

"Hell would smell better."

Donald chuckled. "You're avoiding the question."

Bobby sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. "I don't know," he said finally.

"Detective Alex Eames don't know, either."

"I know. I read the paper, too, remember?"

Donald continued as if Bobby hadn't spoken. "She don't remember anything that happened, they said. They found drugs in her. You want me to see if Bambi Rochelle can find you something you might like better to eat?"

Bobby blinked a few times while his brain struggled to catch up to with the sudden shift of subjects. "No... thank you. It's not necessary."

"Hell, it ain't. Doc said for you to eat something."

"Maybe later," Bobby said, certain time would make no difference.

"The paper said you had a mental breakdown, you know."

Bobby knew damn well what the paper said. He'd read the article a dozen times, and Donald had recited it to him at least that many more. "I know," was the only answer he gave.

"Said your mama's crazy, and that you got it from her."

"Damn it, Donald! I know what the paper said!" He pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his good hand, not even caring that it hurt. "I'm sorry. I didn't... didn't mean to yell at you." He continued in a more reasonable tone of voice. "I know what the paper said, but I told you, I don't know what happened. I don't remember."

"Probably because you hit your head."

"Probably." Unless it was because he really did have a breakdown. An icy chill dancing up his spine elicited another shudder. If he had, then that would mean he really had hurt Alex, and that was simply unacceptable. He wouldn't hurt her. Not ever, no matter what.

"I'm not crazy..." he whispered.

Donald laughed. "Shoot, I know that. I've seen crazy. Hell, I've been crazy, and crazy you ain't."

"I was in the river, though. They said I-I jumped in the river after... because I was remorseful, distraught over what I'd done. You said Mary saw me come out of the river, and I... I think I remember the water." His attention focused inward. "I can remember holding my breath. It was dark... I thought I was dead."

"But did you want to be dead? That's the more important question."

Bobby scrubbed a hand over his face, letting his fingers linger over his right cheek and the three deep scratches there. Had Alex done that, trying to protect herself from him? He dropped his hand as if it had been burned. The thought sickened him. Alex was strong... and fiery. She could hold her own in a fight, and he'd seen her take down men twice her size, but Bobby was a big man. In a crazy rage...? His stomach revolted again. He rolled to the edge of his pallet of rags and heaved.

"You know, if you ever actually manage to puke up something, you're going to have to clean it up yourself. That's where I draw the line on nursemaiding you."

Bobby leaned back against the wall.

"Of course, you'd have to eat something in order to have something to puke up. I'll tell Bambi Rochelle to see about getting you something. What do you want?"

"I'm fine." Bobby rubbed his throat. Between the dry heaving and the coughing, it felt like he'd been swallowing glass shards. "Really."

"Hell you are." But Donald didn't press it. "She's okay, you know."

Bobby looked at him. "Alex?" The paper hadn't said much about Alex's condition, other than she was recovering.

"Detective Alex Eames wasn't hurt all that bad. Not like you, leastwise. She's outta the hospital already."

"How do you know?"

"I know lots of stuff."

Bobby sat up straighter. "You've seen her?"

"Nah, but I know."

Bobby slumped again, unable to hide his disappointment.

"You better be glad I ain't seen her," Donald pointed out. "That'd mean she was snooping around down here looking for something. Do you really want her looking for you?"

"She thinks I'm dead." Even if she didn't, she'd only be looking for him in order to arrest him. Was he was fooling himself? Maybe he should just turn himself in and take his chances. If he was innocent, then Alex would get to the bottom of it. If he was guilty... well, then he'd deserve whatever happened to him. Likely, he'd be locked up somewhere for the criminally insane. Not somewhere nice like where his mother was.

Mom...

Who would take care of her if he was locked up somewhere? Who would visit her? Call her? She'd never understand what happened. She'd only know that he'd abandoned her. And she'd be all alone. There was no one else, except Frank, and who knew where he even was? God knew his older brother had inherited their father's limited sense of responsibility.

"If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you did it."

Startled from the depressing thoughts, Bobby looked up. It took him a full minute to grasp what Donald had said. "Why not? Looks like there's plenty of evidence against me. Even the cops think I'm guilty." Did Alex? Did she believe he'd attacked her? Bobby's breath hitched, trapped in place by the sudden weight on his chest at the thought.

"Because then why'd you get out of the river? Why would you have done that? Makes no sense."

"Wha-what?"

Donald shrugged one shoulder. "Look, if you knocked around Detective Alexandra Eames, and if you was so broke up about it that you jumped into the river, why'd you get out? You'd have wanted to drown, right?" With his index finger, he punched the air animatedly with his next four words. "So, why didn't you?"

Why hadn't he? Bobby considered the question. All he really remembered was the water, and the way he'd felt. Panic, fear. He remembered fighting to find the surface, but his sense of direction had been turned around. But if he'd been trying to kill himself, why would he have been afraid? Rather than fear and panic, there should have been calm... relief, perhaps, that it was almost over. Did he change his mind? No, if he really had hurt Alex -- God, it was hard to even think the words -- but if he had, then no, he wouldn't have changed his mind. That was the only scenario in which he could see himself even contemplating it. He'd have been distraught enough to kill himself rather than face the truth of what he'd done. If he'd hurt her.