Title & Summary -
Behind Closed Doors - Detectives Ellison and Sandburg struggle to find Blair's place as a police officer in the midst of a murder investigation.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, Paramount and The SciFi Channel. No money has been made from the writing of this story.

Note from the Author: Takes place after TSbyBS. Many thanks to TAE for her beta work.

Behind Closed Doors
By Jael Lyn
Fall 2000; Revised August 2001

"This was a better effort, Chief. You've got some strays down in this direction, but the overall pattern is a lot tighter." Jim handed the paper target back to his partner.

Blair Sandburg accepted the results and frowned. "Since when did you become the self esteem monitor? I spray those any lower and they'll ricochet off a belt buckle."

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

"Like you wouldn't be? I take that back, Jim. You probably set records during your first qualifying round back in boot camp, or in nursery school. I can see it. Cascade Preschool and Firing Range. Bring your lunchbox and your ammo."

"Are you done, Sandburg? Look." Jim grabbed a discarded target from the floor. "The last couple targets you were jerking shots high. You're just overcompensating and pulling about every fourth shot low. You'll get it. Try again. We've got the time."

"Try again," Blair mimicked in a whiney voice. Then he lowered the gun, clasped in both hands. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "I retract that and apologize. I hate shooting, but that's no excuse to take it out on you. Sure we have time, just like you don't have other things to do on your day off."

Jim said nothing for a moment. "If you need my help, I don't have anything better to do," he answered quietly. "Would you rather do this with an instructor? Dave King owes me a couple of favors. He said he'd work with you whenever you wanted."

"No. Dave's a nice guy, but you're better. At least you appreciate why this is so important." Blair popped out his clip and started to reload, using a lot more concentration than the task really required.

"Actually, Sandburg, I'm not sure I do. We were here at the crack of dawn." He shrugged when Blair glared at his exaggeration. "Well, okay, not dawn, but it was early for not being on duty. Why put all this pressure on yourself? You did fine at the Academy and you qualified for active duty. There's nothing wrong with striving for improvement, but this is becoming an obsession."

"Jim, tell me the truth. How many guys would have made Detective with my scores and experience? Don't answer - we both know. Zero, as in not a chance, nada. You and I aren't the only ones who know this."

"But you bring other skills, and you've proved yourself dozens of times," Jim argued. "Everyone in Major Crime knows it."

"Exactly. Major Crime isn't a secure bubble. The sooner you can answer that question without a 'but', the better. Not to mention that I'm hardly the level of backup you need on the street." Blair held up one hand and scowled. "Please don't say it. Just accept it as the way I feel, even if you feel better denying it." He snapped the clip in and settled the ear protection in place. "Ready?" Jim nodded. Four targets later, his pager went off. It was Captain Banks.

*****

Two Cascade PD patrol cars were pulled up on the broad lawn next to the three vehicles that already populated the driveway. Jim and Blair had to be content to pull off the main road and park on the shoulder. Yellow police tape already sealed the porch and doorways of the well-kept Victorian farmhouse. Spotting them from a distance, one of the uniformed officers already on the scene jogged over.

"A neighbor in the house down the road called in about hearing shots fired. We took one look and sealed everything. It's bad. I sent the other guys around to knock on doors, but the closest one is at least a quarter mile off. Forensics is on the way, but they're backed up and it'll be a while still."

Blair looked down the road to the last house. The back deck just peeked through the trees. "Long way off. Did something else catch their attention? From that distance."

The uniform shook his head. "When you see the scene, you'll understand."

As they approached the house, Jim looked back across the lawn. "This long grass is damp in the shade and trampled when we walked over it. Before forensics comes in, have them photograph all the approaches to the house. Keep everyone else back well away from the house. Maybe we'll pick something up."

"You got it, Detective." The young man started off, then turned back. "I don't want to tell you guys how to do your jobs, but brace yourselves."

They hadn't taken two steps down the wide covered porch when Jim almost staggered back. "Blood," he whispered. "A lot of it." Pulling on gloves, he carefully pushed the front door open and stepped across the threshold. The scent alone had his head spinning. Bits of plaster covered the floor. Holes peppered the walls, ceiling, and floor.

Blair gave a low whistle. "How many rounds, Jim? No wonder someone called. It must have sounded like a war."

Jim shook his head. "Too many to count. You're right, they couldn't have been worrying about the noise."

They'd halted in the entry, side by side. "Unless there's a tank in the next room to account for the damage, I'd say our shooter was seriously angry," remarked Blair. "Or maybe seriously crazy. You said you smelled blood. Where is it?"

"Around there. Must be the stairs." Jim crept forward, carefully picking his way around the wreckage." A few steps farther brought him around a corner, with a clear view of a stairway. Even Jim's stony face blanched at what he saw. Draped on the stairs, twisted as if he had fallen in flight, was a middle-aged man. His jeans were shredded from bullet holes. Despite those obvious wounds, the blood which pooled on the two steps below his head flowed from a gaping slit in his throat.

The two detectives stood in silence. With a quick glance behind them, Blair ensured they were alone. "Do your senses tell you anything, Jim? Smell? Sight?"

After visibly concentrating for a few seconds, Jim nodded. "There are faint blood smudges on the stair treads almost to the top stair. There's blood on the railing. I think he was wounded and was trying to run away. If there are entry holes from the back, I'd say our shooter kept at it until he went down."

"And then he got his throat slit?" Blair asked, shaking his head. "Why use all the extra fire power? Why blow holes all over the walls? Why not bring him down quick with a few shots to the chest? He'd be just as dead."

Jim was crouching, examining the body more closely, but not approaching it yet. "There's not a single bullet in the upper body. The shooter wanted to bring him down, but not quickly." His eyes searched the bottom stairs and the passages leading away from the spot. "I see partials of different shoe prints, and there's a blood trail that leads back that way. Go easy, Chief, and step where I step. We're going to need photos of everything."

The first floor of the home extended farther than they expected. Even a person with normal vision could have seen the blood evidence scattered throughout the house, along with the wreckage of wood and plaster. Jim picked his way carefully, occasionally asking Blair to freeze in a particular spot while he studied the pattern more closely. He pointed out a particular section to Blair. "Forensics will have an expert evaluate, but our guy doubled back through here. It looks like he was dodging the shooter, trying to get away."

"Or maybe the guy with the firepower was toying with him. - cat and mouse, you know?" Blair offered.

"Maybe. That might fit with the sliced throat. As if the murderer wanted the guy to die slowly, drawing it out. I don't like it. We either have a true psycho or someone bent on very serious revenge."

"Excuse me, but I don't like the sound of either one," Blair answered. "The idea of someone with that much hate gives me the creeps. I wouldn't want to be on his list."

"Who says it's a he, Chief?" remarked Jim mildly, motioning Blair through another doorway.

"Gut instinct, man." Blair followed behind, balancing carefully on his toes. "I can see a woman with a gun, but I just can't visualize a woman grabbing the guy and cutting his throat like that." As Jim disappeared through the next doorway, Blair shrugged. "Then again, some of your former girlfriends might be capable," he murmured.

A snort from around the corner told him that sentinel ears were still at work. They ended up in a large kitchen. The remains of an upended table and shattered dishes were the only sign of damage. There were no signs of blood except some splatters on the wall. Jim was motionless in the center of the room. His eyes were half-closed, but his posture screamed tension.

"Just take it slow, Jim. Sight or smell?"

"Smell. It was in other parts of the house, just little whiffs. It's like an after shave, maybe."

"The victim, or the shooter?"

"Shooter. If it was the victim, I would sense it more strongly around the house. Whoever it was stood here for awhile."

Blair glanced at the remains of the table and frowned. "Assuming the meal is for the victim, did they talk? Did they know each other?"

Their musings were interrupted by shouted conversation, followed by a woman screaming. "Victim's wife, Chief. The uniforms are keeping her out of the house. We'd better get out there."

*****

Hours later, Jim jingled the keys in his hand, watching his partner hop into the truck with less than his usual energy. It was difficult to judge Sandburg's mood. The open book Observer had become a tougher read as a Detective. "How're you holding up, Chief? You want to take a break before we head back to the station? It's nearly three - we could eat."

Blair leaned his head back against the seat of the truck with his eyes closed. "I know you have the best intentions, but I couldn't eat right now. God, Jim, that was an awful scene. From beginning to end, it was awful, and I'm not just talking about the crime, you know?"

"You did a better job with Nancy Fielding than the social worker did, Sandburg. It took a lot out of you, that's all. It's never easy to deal with a grieving spouse, but you kept your cool when everything was going nuts. We were lucky to get any information at all."

"What did you expect, Jim?" Blair answered, the frustration evident in his voice. "The lady leaves to drop off the kids for school and run some errands. She comes back, her home is blown to hell, her husband's dead, and no one will let her near him because it's a crime scene. Can you blame her for freaking out?"

"No, but the uniforms on the scene did the right thing. We're going to have a hard enough time figuring this out without contaminating the crime scene."

"I know they did the right thing in a law enforcement sense, but it's just so inhumane. Shit, they take in foster kids, Jim! They seem like good people, and then they land in this nightmare." Blair rubbed a hand across his brow, still slumped in the seat. "Do we have any aspirin anywhere? I have the headache from hell." Jim let his vision drift from his stricken partner to the brick school across the street. So like Sandburg to be the emotional support for a bunch of strangers and then pay the price himself. Only a handful of officers could have managed the all-out hysteria back at the house, much less conduct a productive interview. How many detectives would have ended up accompanying the victim's spouse to school to break the news to her three foster children? Not to mention that all the while Sandburg was instinctively maneuvering his partner into situations where Jim could collect information. "I'll supply the aspirin only if you'll let me buy you coffee, and you take a break."

Blair cracked open one eye. "If you make it a mocha, I won't say 'No'. Can you talk to me while you drive back to the station? Tell me what you think?"

"You got it." Jim started up the truck. "There's a Starbuck's on the way back, and there's aspirin in the glove box. I put it in last time we shopped. What do you want to know?"

"Was Nancy Fielding telling the truth? That she didn't know what could have happened? What did your senses tell you? It was just so crazy at the time I couldn't really pay attention to you."

"Her heart rate was all over the place, but that's understandable. She was in shock, emotionally and physically. Anything I could detect sentinel-wise bore that out. I don't think any of it was an act. Still, there were a few moments, when she was calm and you were talking to her on the way over to the school."

"You heard that? Over the street noise? In a different car?" Blair's eyes popped open. Despite his change in profession, he still rose to the bait when something new about Jim's sentinel abilities came to fore.

"Well, yeah, I did. I didn't really think about it when I did it. A couple of times her heart rate spiked, even though she was crashing from all the stress. At worst, I think she told us mostly the truth, but maybe she knows more than she wanted to say. Hedging, rather than outright lying."

"So, maybe she's hiding something. Well, I asked the question, but I'd hate to find out she was involved." The blue eyes went closed again.

Jim mused thoughtfully for a moment. "Maybe not involved. Maybe she just suspects something. Not that we have any evidence along those lines." His tone became more sarcastic. "Not like we have any useful evidence at all. We know the man's dead, but any grade school kid could figure that much out."

The truck bounced into the parking lot. Sandburg groaned and rubbed his forehead again. Obviously the headache was a killer, but Starbuck's beckoned. "Stay put, Chief. Let that aspirin work for you. I'll be right back." He almost shut the door, and then poked his head back in. "Now would be a great time for one of those out-of-the-blue, I-read-it-in-National-Geographic-when-I-was-ten theories of yours."

"Get out of here, Jim, or I'll do something drastic." Blair sighed as he watched Jim's tall frame saunter into the coffee shop. "Bring us back some answers along with the order, Jim," he whispered. "I don't want to take this one home - not even for one night."

Taking the brutal nature of the murder into account, Simon had used his authority and assigned additional resources to work the case. While Ellison and Sandburg were working the scene, other Major Crime personnel began the painstaking task of examining the life of Bryan Fielding, looking for some clue to his assailant. Fielding had just passed his fortieth birthday when he was murdered and had lived in Cascade all his life. He'd been the owner-manager of a large, successful auto repair business with three shops scattered around Cascade. Joel Taggart spent the day interviewing people associated with Fielding's business dealings. Brown and Rafe had followed up on the list of friends and family they had managed to get from the distraught Nancy Fielding and the couple's address book.

As was often the case, Ellison and Sandburg didn't head straight to Major Crime when they returned to the station. Jim maintained many of the habits he had developed during the years when he worked without a partner. He rarely waited for a report to reach his desk through normal channels. After a stop in Forensics to pick up some preliminary information, they made a detour to the Coroner's Office. Following some intense coaxing from Jim, Blair stayed outside in the reception area. While Blair chatted half-heartedly with one of the technicians, Jim discussed the details of the knife and gunshot wounds suffered by their victim with Dan Wolf. Wolf promised to bring any additional information directly to Jim when the autopsy was finished.

Jim waited for the elevator doors to close before speaking. "Thanks for not arguing with me about the morgue, Chief. You've done more than your share today."

"You kind of give me a complex when you ask me to stay behind like that. I'm not an observer any more, you know. I went to autopsies when I first started. Why make a big deal out of it now?" Blair replied. His irritation flared, and then he went quiet. "I just don't have the energy to argue with you about it."

"Exactly my point, Sandburg. You're going to contribute a lot more by looking at the big picture than getting the details about some gruesome knife wound. I'm saving you for where you're best."

"I suppose it's too much to ask to let me make that decision?" Blair didn't look up, as if eye contact would open the floodgates to a full-fledged argument.

"I'm not going to answer that, because what's done is done. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone, Chief."

"Who said anything about proving, Jim? I'm trying to function in a normal capacity here. It doesn't help..." The doors of the elevator opened, and Jim was gone. Blair left the remainder of the sentence unsaid, but not un-thought. Swallowing his frustration, he followed Jim.

Taggart joined them in Simon's office. He had pages and pages of notes, but no answers. "I don't know what to tell you. I talked to everyone at the main shop, and followed up with some of his major suppliers. I get the same story." Taggart flipped through his notepad. "Bryan Fielding was a good businessman, successful, well-liked and fair. Family man. He runs a good shop. Few disgruntled customers, and he was good at handling the ones that were. No significant money problems. He kept the main shop open in the evenings two nights a week, so he wasn't expected at work until afternoon. His schedule was no secret." He looked up, shaking his head. "Sorry, guys. I didn't get a whisper of a motive, or who the murderer might be."

"Any ideas for follow-up?" asked Simon.

"A few. I'll check the other two shops and more suppliers. Maybe see if they let anyone go recently, or if someone quit, and try to talk to them." He shrugged. "I'm open for suggestions, Captain."

Simon looked at his lead detectives. With no signal from them, he nodded. "Take it where it leads you, Taggart, but do it tomorrow. I'd rather you came in fresh in the morning than keep going tonight. Stay in touch."

Before he left, Joel turned and asked, "Was it as bad as the rumors? That his throat was cut?"

Jim made no reply, but Blair nodded. "You heard right. Angry, Joel. Angry and full of hate."

****

No matter how frantic the day, the paperwork that accompanied it always went at a crawl. Henri and Rafe reported back with little to show for their efforts. No one seemed to have a bad word to say about Bryan Fielding and his wife. They found no marital problems, no disputes with neighbors, in short, nothing that might be a motive for a brutal murder. As the afternoon and evening wore on, the general grousing over a long day had an added twinge of frustration.

"We have no leads," stated Jim flatly, looking over the top of his computer at Sandburg. "Not so much as one pathetic, flimsy lead. These people are perfect. We need to come to work tomorrow and I have no idea what to do."

"There must be something." Blair tossed his glasses on the desk. "What about the scent? The aftershave or whatever it was."

Jim pushed back in his chair, flexing his neck and shoulders, trying to work out the kinks. "I can try, but unless it's some custom-made product, it won't give us a suspect. It's pretty sad if that turns out to be our only investigative plan."

Blair stopped his typing and focused on his partner. "Maybe it was just a random killing, and not a serial, or premeditated. Just the solo work of some drugged-up crazy. A one time thing. That would explain the lack of leads. Unless we get a witness or fingerprints, we might never find the murderer." Jim showed no signs of agreeing, so he continued. "Think about it, Jim. The homes are really spread out. Someone could easily cut across the woods and be in and out of that house with no one seeing. The getaway vehicle could have been a mile away."

"I'll call forensics again. They've got to get something. They were poking around the scene all day."

"No you won't, Jim," Blair said firmly. Jim halted with the phone in mid-air, taken aback by his partner's tone. "Even forensics technicians get to go home at night. We've called them twice since we got back to the station. Leave the helpless underlings in peace."

Jim dropped the receiver back on to the phone, clearly disgusted. "I hate unsolved cases."

"And the rest of the world hates irrational detectives who hate unsolved cases." Blair hit the print command on the computer. "Come on, print what you have and we'll leave it for Simon. We'll think of something by morning."

They were headed out the door when they almost collided with two young patrolmen coming on to the nightshift. "Hey, sorry about that. One of you guys Ellison? Or Sandburg?"

Jim answered. "Yeah, that's us. You need something? What have you got?"

"Nothing, really. Forensics isn't finished with your crime scene, and they want someone to baby-sit for the night. The watch commander said to come talk to you guys, because you were still here."

Blair looked at Jim and shrugged. "That's what we get for sending out for those sandwiches. Everyone knows where we are. Go ahead, man. I'll go get the truck and meet you in front." Jim wordlessly handed over the keys and motioned the two officers back into Major Crime.

"Hey, Ellison, we're sorry about this," said the taller of the two. "This has been all over the news today. We just didn't want to screw up."

Jim made a conscious effort to wipe the scowl off his face. It wasn't the fault of the uniforms that they were hitting one dead end after another. "Actually, I appreciate your asking. Did forensics say if they were finished with any areas in the house?"

"They're done in the kitchen and the porches. There must be a hell of a lot of blood evidence if it's taking this long."

"You don't want to know," agreed Jim. He pulled out some photos from their report. "This place is real isolated. If you stay in the patrol car in the driveway, someone might come in through the back. Why don't you trade off? Keep one guy on the front porch, and one in the kitchen. Pick up some extra gear before you go out so you don't freeze."

"And some coffee," chimed in the other officer with a grin. He took a second look at the photo. "Where did you say this place was?" Jim rattled off the address, surprised by the question. "You know, I think we took a call here, or real close to it. Remember, Todd, about a year and a half ago? Some juvenile disturbance, or something like that."

His partner nodded. "Yeah, you might be right. I don't recall much about the call, though. You're right, Ellison. This is as close as Cascade proper comes to the boonies."

Jim shoved the photos back into the folder. "You know, when you come back in, would you mind pulling the file on the case? We're coming up so empty here that any little thing might help."

Both men nodded, but the one named Todd answered. "Sure. I'll try to get it when we come off shift. Shouldn't be that hard to track the paperwork. Come on, we ought to hustle. Some poor forensics tech is waiting for us to show up."

"Don't forget about that case file, guys. We'll owe you one," called Jim. A wave was his only answer. He tapped the file on the desk for a moment, and then left to join his partner in the truck. A late night beer sounded pretty good.

****

Morning. Jim groaned. He'd hit the snooze on his alarm twice already, and now Sandburg's alarm was going off. He started to shout something rude and stopped himself. "Shit, Sandburg, if you can't hear the alarm, you won't hear me," he grumbled, forcing himself out of bed.

The bare floor sent chills up his legs as he struggled down the stairs into Blair's room. Whacking the alarm into silence, he scowled at the unmoving lump on the futon, buried under two quilts and a blanket. He whipped back all the covers, leaving the bed's occupant to the elements. The cold air succeeded where the foghorn alarm had not. Blair struggled up, groping for his lost comfort. Jim stood calmly in the middle of the small room, the warm bedclothes now prisoner in his arms. Blair barely had his eyes open before he identified his tormentor. His comments were colorful, if not quite acceptable for polite society.

"It speaks," commented Jim wryly. "You deserve to be cold. I had to come down and turn off your alarm."

Blair recovered one of his quilts, wrapped up and pushed a tangled hank of hair out of his eyes. "It went off? What time is it?" Spying the clock, he flopped back to the futon in mock despair. "It can't be that late, and taking my blankets is cruel and unusual, man. No one deserves that."

"The guy who left a warm bed to come down here makes that call, Chief," Jim retorted, snatching the covers again. "Since I'm on my feet first, you get to make breakfast while I shower."

"It's too late for breakfast," snapped Blair. He snagged the trailing end of one of the quilts and jerked it back. Jim didn't bother to retrieve it. Blair promptly curled up under his one recovered quilt.

Jim sized up the possibilities from the doorway and barked at his roommate. "Chief, if you don't get out of that bed and at least make coffee, I'm not going to leave you one drop of hot water! Now get up, or you'll have to spend the day at the station impersonating a poodle."

Blair flipped back enough quilt to expose his face. "You are evil, man. You're going to come back in your next life as a cockroach."

Jim dropped the quilts on the floor and grinned, noting the slight smile on Sandburg's face while he grumbled. Blair never stayed mad long. It was a gift. "Yeah, yeah. At least I won't have to turn off alarms for other cockroaches. Coffee, Chief. Face the day."

As Jim retreated to his shower, he heard Sandburg continue the lecture. "Seize the day! Seize. And you will be a cockroach!"

Blair was at least half right. After they had both showered, there wasn't time to eat. They grabbed a bagel on the road, and Sandburg opted for a mocha to go with his mug of coffee from the loft. "Double dipping, eh Sandburg? Store-bought coffee two days in a row! What happened to the frugal guy that used to count every penny?"

"Leave me alone. This is the meager blessing I get from having a paycheck. I can buy stuff instead of just dreaming about it." He took a grateful sip. "I don't even care that it's ridiculously overpriced." He started to say something more, and then abruptly closed his mouth.

"Say it, Chief."

"Say what? I'm just happy being mocha man here," Blair answered, alternating sips between loft coffee and his new purchase.

"Cut the innocent routine. You were going to say more, and both of us know it. Spit it out."

"Okay. You never told me what Dan said about the knife. You trying to shield me again, Jim?"

"No." Jim looked at Blair, reading the reproach in his eyes. "Okay, so yes."

"So, go on. I'm waiting. You shouldn't keep trying this, Jim. I'm not going to let you get away with it in the long run."

Jim shrugged in resignation. "Even from the prelim, Dan could tell it was no ordinary knife. No sawing motion, no second try on the wound. Edge was serrated, with a wide blade. Very large, extremely sharp. Not the kind of weapon you'd want for a stabbing, and not one that's easy to carry around inconspicuously." In his peripheral vision, Jim watched how Blair took that news.

"I can't imagine how Bryan Fielding must have felt. Down by gunshot, and then some guy advances on you with that in his hand? If he was conscious, he must have been terrified. I would be."

Jim nodded. "Ordinary people don't have that kind of knife in their kitchen drawer. I'm thinking military, or a no-nonsense hunting knife."

"It sounds like a bad slasher movie. Could we track it through suppliers? We're kind of short on leads, that is unless someone has turned themselves in while we slept."

Jim shook his head. "Don't think so. If we ever get a suspect, we might be able to tie a purchase to strengthen our case. But to generate an initial suspect? It's a dead end."

"So why..."

"...keep it from you? Because of the way you reacted just now. You put everything in terms of people; how the guy would have felt, the element of terror. You would have seen it in your dreams."

"I saw this case in my dreams anyway, Jim," Blair answered softly. "Didn't you?"

Jim frowned. "Don't mess around in my head, Sandburg. That's not the point. Your great strength as a cop is that you do think in terms of people. Like any strength, it's also your weakness. My sentinel senses can be a drawback, too, and for the same reason. I try not to take personal offense when you watch out for me. Let me do the same for you. It has nothing to do with your competence."

"It feels that way." Blair stared out the window, silent. He gave no sign of accepting Jim's reasoning.

Jim pulled the truck to a stop in the PD parking garage. He was well aware that his partner wasn't a happy camper. "I'll try to remember. Can we let it go this time? Just to prove how much I trust you, I'll let you explain to Simon how bad off we are with this case."

"Oh, goody," said Blair sarcastically. "Your confidence is overwhelming. Just the way to start the day."

Without much discussion, the two men retraced a familiar path, hitting the morgue and forensics before making the trek upstairs to Major Crime. It was too early for Dan Wolf to have completed the autopsy or his final report, but he came out and spoke with the two detectives anyway.

"Sorry, guys," apologized Dan. "Forensics is waiting on me to finish the ballistics. The poor guy took hits all over. I can tell you that most of the shots were from very close range. The guy with the gun was hitting exactly what he was aiming at. I don't like what that says about the mental state of the shooter. Oh, and he was using a handgun and some kind of a shotgun." Blair shuddered.

Jim just shook his head. "Nothing that helps with identification?"

"Not so far. I sent the first batch of slugs up to Forensics, and some photos of the knife wound. Serena seemed jazzed about something, so be sure to talk to her. Get going, so I can get back to work. I just can't help you yet."

As they worked their way through the halls, the two men spoke quietly. There was no point in generating more gossip about this case. "How do you feel about a random crazy today, Sandburg?"

"I don't know. Two different firearms, plus a knife the size of a machete. Sounds either pretty crazy, or pretty damn purposeful. Who are we looking for, Rambo?"

"Don't even think it. Let's find Serena. We need some kind of a break before we talk to Simon."

"YOU think we need some kind of a break? After you stuck me with giving the report?" Jim just grinned at his partner. A sarcastic, bantering Sandburg was easier to live with than a solemn, sad Sandburg.

Serena was waiting for them. She dragged them off to the back of the forensics lab, babbling about some new image enhancing software she was trying out. "Take a look," she said, clicking away at the keyboard. "This is a composite of the photos you asked us to take of the grass around the house. By the way, everyone thought you were crazy, Ellison." Jim ignored the comment, and whapped his partner on the arm for snickering. Serena just smiled. "Now, take a look after the program does its thing."

The screen went blank for a moment. A new version of the composite sprang to life. The trampled grass on the front lawn gleamed purple, set against a neon green. Blair leaned toward the screen, captivated by what he saw. Two thin trails of purple, nearly side by side, led from the woods behind the house to the back of the home. "That's the kitchen, Jim," he said, matching Serena's excitement. "What do you want to bet that's our shooter, coming and going?"

"Call Simon. Tell him we won't be up until later. Serena."

The graceful young woman smiled. "I know, Ellison. Here's a copy of what was on the screen. Go get this guy. I'll try to have more when you get back."

When they arrived at the Fielding home, a forensics team was still hard at work. The supervising technician happened to be en route to the crime scene van when the two men arrived. It was a good time to catch her. The conversation wasn't encouraging. They were still bogged down cataloging the blood and ballistics evidence on the first floor and the stairs. The team estimated finishing by late afternoon, but it was slow going. Jim encouraged them to take their time. The critical piece of evidence might go unnoticed with the team so overwhelmed.

The lead tech breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad to hear that from you, Detective. I know you're under a lot of pressure to get this one solved. I saw the news reports last night. We've had news crews try to crash the scene or catch us outside for a sound bite. Speak of the devil." A Channel 4 news van swung into the driveway.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Detectives Ellison and Sandburg were not in the mood for an interview. The technician jerked her head in the direction of the front porch. "Go ahead and cut through the house. I'll get rid of them. Besides, we'd be grateful for any suggestions you might have for prioritizing things."

Most of the forensics crew could be heard in the living room, organizing a batch of samples. After a brief conversation, Jim just told them to keep at it. He couldn't see any means of screening for what was important and what wasn't. They set off for the kitchen, but when he neared the base of the stairs, Jim stopped.

"What is it, Jim?" asked Blair. "You want to talk to forensics again?"

"No. I'm getting that scent again, Sandburg."

"You're kidding. You didn't notice in here yesterday. Is it fresh?"

"No, not at all. Maybe I just lost it in the scent of blood yesterday, but it's here now." He looked at Blair with a stunned expression. "There's a draft from upstairs, and it's being carried from there. We need to check." After several false starts, Jim traced the primary source of the scent to a back bedroom. It had a deserted look to it, and certainly wasn't being used by the younger children or the Fielding's. Jim stood in the center of the room, his face drawn with concentration, as he tried to pinpoint the locations where the faint odor was strongest. "I think they were at the dresser and the closet. Will you get one of the technicians? We need to dust this area for fingerprints."

Blair nodded, but didn't leave right away. "Why would someone commit a murder and then come up here? He had to have been looking for something. The question is, what?"

"Let's get the prints done while we're outside. Then you and I are going to take this room apart."

Using the printouts from Serena, the two men traced their way back to where the grass ended and the woods began. Using skills he'd learned from the Chopec, along with his senses, Jim went to work. It wasn't easy. Nearly twenty four hours had passed since the murder, making clues difficult to find. Blair did what he could, but the exercise was fast wearing away both Jim's patience and energy. "Here. He was here."

Blair stayed back, careful not to trample through the area Jim was examining. He looked around, puzzled. "Why stop or stay in this spot, Jim? It's in the middle of nowhere."

Jim stared off in the direction of the house. "You can't see it, but with a scope, you could watch all the activity in the house and wait for the right moment."

"You're talking about a stalker, Jim. Someone who knew his target and was willing to wait."

Jim nodded, still looking off into the distance. "Not only knew his target, but wanted to have him suffer before he died. Someone who risked discovery by searching the house after the murder was committed. So how does this match with Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Fielding?" Both men remained silent, considering the ugliness of their hypothesis. "Can you find your way back here, Sandburg?"

"Give me a break. We're not that far from the house." A wry grin told Jim that he wasn't really offended, but wasn't above a little good-natured complaining.

"We've got some shoe prints here, and maybe some clothing fibers on this log. If you'll drag a forensics tech back here, we can collect some evidence. I'm going to back-track as far as I can, and see if it leads anywhere significant."

"So, Jim, you make sure you don't get lost, okay? I'll catch up as soon as we get done here."

Jim waved. "I'll find you, Sandburg. Just try to get back without the TV cameras on your tail. THAT we really don't need."

****

Captain Simon Banks was not a happy man. Repeated phone calls from the Chief of Police and the Mayor tended to do that. He stared across the desk at his two detectives. "Go through the whole thing, one more time." Since Blair was busy studying his shoe tops, Jim answered.

"We found the place where the guy waited behind the house. We have shoe prints, which Forensics will analyze. I followed the prints back to Sampson Road, which is a long way from the murder site. I've asked to have some officers to go out tomorrow and canvass the neighborhood, and maybe flag down some motorists that use the road regularly. We have two firearms, both untraceable, a knife, also untraceable, and fingerprints from the upstairs bedroom, which haven't hit on any of the law enforcement databases. We have no witnesses."

"So we have zilch," growled Simon. "No motive, no suspect and no leads." He cast his eyes skyward. "You two are the best I have, but even you need something to go on. Talk to the wife tomorrow. If nothing turns up from that conversation or the other questioning we're doing, put it on the back burner. I'll call the mayor and the Chief, and I'll try to keep the media off your back."

For lack of anything else to do, Blair volunteered to check in with Serena, hoping for a miracle. Jim retreated to his desk to call Mrs. Fielding and set up another interview. She was staying with friends, and it took awhile to track her down. Fiddling with stuff that had piled up on his desk during the day, he discovered a file folder he didn't recognize. "Damn," he muttered, "I forgot all about this."

*****

Blair wanted nothing more than to bang his head against the wall, go home and go to bed. Everywhere he and Jim turned, they ran into dead ends. The latest trip to forensics had been a feeble excuse to get out of Major Crime, and more specifically, get out of Simon's office. To top it off, it wasn't like they were failing in secret. Blair didn't have Jim's ears and he'd overheard enough poorly concealed comments to know that significant numbers of the Cascade PD thought it was a hoot that Ellison the Great and his Little Buddy were out on a limb. More than a few were willing to place the blame on the shoulders of Sandburg, the overnight detective. He planned to camp out in forensics with Serena for as long as possible, enjoying her easygoing, warm personality.

Serena was no fool. She read people as well as she read evidence. She made him a cup of tea and sent everyone else on useless errands. "You know, Blair, even the best can't make up evidence," she said, handing him a mug right out of the microwave. "Try some honey with that. I keep a stash on the shelf over there."

Blair blew across the top of his cup and took a tentative sip. "This is great, Serena. Honey goes great with the peach flavor."

"Don't avoid me, Blair. You look like someone ran over your dog."

"I never had a dog."

"Don't be smart. Flushed your fish. Skinned your cat. Stuffed your iguana, knowing Naomi. Like I don't know what you're thinking. That everyone blames you, and Jim would be better off without you." Blair said nothing. Serena sniffed. "For someone that spends his days with the original tough guy, you need more work on that poker face."

A pair of huge blue eyes surfaced over the edge of the tea mug. "I don't need a pity party, Serena."

"No, but you need a reality check. Some of us have been here long enough to know Ellison before and after Sandburg. I used to dread the sight of him. Extinct dinosaurs and axe murderers had kinder personalities. Not only is he a better person with you as a partner, he's a better detective. Still, even the two of you are going to have cases that don't pan out, just like everyone does."

"I appreciate the thought, Serena, but sometimes I don't see it. You know, if you go up to the Patrol Division, you can buy a square for five bucks. My personal favorite is Sandburg shoots Ellison in the ass and Ellison kills him. I'd buy it myself, but I think someone already took it. Sandburg runs over the mayor with Ellison's truck is still available. The pool's probably over a couple hundred bucks by now."

"What do you take me for, Detective?" Serena answered in mock indignation. "I bought the 'turns Ellison into a vegetarian' square. I figured that had a chance." They shared a laugh, but she turned serious. "Does Jim know?"

"Do you think there'd be a soul left alive on the third floor if he did?" Blair rolled his eyes. "Henri Brown keeps egging them on, getting them to add more squares. I think he wants to set one up and split the take with me."

"I know it hurts, but the people you work most closely with think it's ridiculous. Does that help at all?"

"Logically, yes. Emotionally, no. I wasn't an average student in Anthropology. I was excellent. I worked hard at it. I liked being good. I don't like having other people view me as marginal." He stared at the ceiling, clearly disgusted with himself. "That's my foolish pride talking. Like a little kid who has to be at the head of the line."

"We're not talking about idle vanity here. Remember who you're talking to. I was the chubby little smart girl. They don't vote you homecoming princess for being able to do the best frog dissection." She caught Blair smiling in spite of himself. "You think I don't know how important it is to be the best, and have everyone know it? You've been here for four years, but it's still an alien environment. Give it time. Cream rises, you know?"

"I didn't know you cooked."

"Shut up, Sandburg, you're not changing the subject on me. Just don't be so hard on yourself."

"Jim said the same thing."

"And he's right, but probably for the wrong reason. He wants you to relax, and just be content. I want you to stop beating your head against the wall trying to out-Ellison Ellison." Blair gave her a blank look. "Don't be dumb. If you keep trying to be super-cop on macho terms, you're going to be miserable. I want you to be super-cop on what's uniquely you."

"What if I can't?"

"That's why you need me. To remind you not to play someone else's game. Play and win your own game. Most of those homecoming princesses have ten kids, work at some warehouse store, eat macaroni and cheese out of a box and hate their husbands." That had Blair snickering. "I'm not kidding. I won the game I cared about," she continued. "You will, too." The phone rang, interrupting their conversation. "Forensics, Serena speaking. Yes, he's here. Yes, I'll tell him to wait." She hung up the phone. "Okay, Blair. You've been holding out on me. Want to tell me why the Director of Social Services came all the way over here just to talk to you?"

****

Jim skimmed through the file, then flipped back to the first page reading more carefully. Keeping the folder propped up, he opened the department data base. He clicked tentatively at the keyboard. After a couple of tries, his irritation was beginning to show. For some reason, he caught the attention of Rafe, who had been busy filling out his own paperwork.

"Hey, Ellison - don't you usually get Sandburg to do that stuff for you?"

"For your information, Detective, I'm perfectly capable of running my own computer." He glared at Rafe. "Don't you have enough to do? I'm sure Simon could find you something."

"Of course I have enough to do. How can I pass up a chance to ignore it for a little while?" With a firm push, Rafe scooted his desk chair across the floor until he sat next to Jim. "Hate to break the news to you, but comparing your computer skills with Sandburg's is like putting a finger painting and the Mona Lisa on the same wall. You're way outclassed."

"Like I don't know that. Damn!" Another attempt disappeared under the delete key. "I thought this new interface was supposed to be user-friendly."

"It is user-friendly. That's the point, you have to use it to learn it. How many times have you tried? Or was it just easier to have Sandburg do it for you?" Rafe took in Ellison's silence and grinned. "Thought so. Here, let me take you through database kindergarten. Put the cursor on attributes. How do you want to search?"

"Location." Jim pulled up the appropriate screen. "Okay, select the map area you want. Right. Then click an area around the site. Shape doesn't matter." They waited as the search processed. "Now select what you want again."

"I want everything," growled Jim. "This isn't so hard. Uh, how did I get a listing for parade routes in 1999?"

Rafe laughed. "We probably don't want to know. This is your murder scene, isn't it? What are you fishing for?"

"Don't know. That's why they call it fishing." Rafe gave a low whistle as the screen filled with case file numbers. "What the hell? That's a lot of activity for a nowhere, middle class suburb. You guys had to have done a background search when you got the case!"

"We did, but we ran the address and Bryan Fielding. None of this came up."

"This is crazy. There must be six different departments here. Each of these case files will have to be pulled from Records. They've apparently never been related to each other." Rafe stood up. "Dump it to the printer. I'll ask Simon if I can come help."

"You really are desperate to escape the paperwork! Who volunteers for a Records search, unless they're trying to get a date? You taking lessons from Sandburg?"

"Hey, Brown and I felt bad when we didn't get a single thing you guys could use. Consider it payback. You want to track down Sandburg?"

Jim shook his head, still studying the screen. "Nah, he needed a break. I'll leave him a note. This is probably a wild goose chase."

Rafe shrugged. "Well, you know the saying, 'where there's smoke, there's fire', and that looks like an awful lot of smoke to me."

****

"Blair Sandburg, you are sitting in my lab, drinking my tea, with my honey, that I don't happen to share with anyone. Now give! Why does the lady who runs the biggest department in the city after the PD want to talk to you? No, she doesn't just want to talk, she comes down and looks for you personally." Serena's eyes twinkled. It was a rare occasion to catch Blair totally off guard.

"Serena, I swear, I have no idea! I've never met the lady, much less talked to her." A cloud darkened his eyes. "It must be our case. I'll bet it was the social worker - she probably complained that I was too pushy. How do I do these things to myself?" He hopped up, nearly dumping his chair on the floor. "Thanks for the tea and the pep talk, Serena, but I've got to get out of here. Tell her - tell her I had some kind of emergency."

"Blair, why not just talk to her?" Serena trailed the young man across the lab. "It might not be bad. Besides, I already said you were here! You wouldn't just leave me here out on a limb, would you?"

"Serena, I love you, but in a word, yes." He was reaching for the knob, about to bolt, when the door opened inward, bumping him on the forehead.

"Oh, excuse me. From your description, you must be Detective Sandburg. I'm Marla Cooper, Director of Social Services." The smartly dressed woman extended her hand.

Still rubbing his forehead, Blair smiled sheepishly. "Hi." Realizing the moment for escape had passed, he shrugged. "Would you like some tea? Serena has some great tea."

*****

"Ellison, I think we need to cross-reference and do the computer search again. Look, check out the officer's notes. They allude to some related calls made by other officers, but they didn't come up on our first search."

Jim looked up from a similar dusty file that he was reading. "I'm getting the same impression here. Can you set up the search?"

Rafe nodded. "I can, but I think we should take the whole batch upstairs and go over it with Sandburg. We can design a better search if we organize first. Besides, Sandburg's a lot better at these than I am."

"We could start though couldn't we?" Jim started to hunt for a box while Rafe gathered up the files they had pulled so far.

"If you insist, yes, we could start." Rafe's voice carried a hint of exasperation. "I thought you wanted to escape your own paperwork," Jim replied crankily. "You don't have to."

"That wasn't my point!" Rafe snapped. "Sorry, it's none of my business. It's just that Sandburg has a real gift for this kind of stuff, and everyone knows it. Well, I think everyone knows it." He bent over to grab another file.

"Who are you referring to?" Jim's interest in his file search vanished. If someone was hassling his partner, he'd put a stop to it.

Rafe shook his head. "Clueless, Ellison, absolutely clueless. I'm referring to you. Everybody in Major Crime knows we pulled off the coup of the century getting him full time. We tell him, but that's just us. Excuse me, Detective, but it wouldn't hurt his self confidence to hear it from you once in awhile." He dusted off his hands. "I'll go tell the duty clerk what we're taking before you get over the shock and kill me for that little speech."

Detective Ellison wasn't paying a lot of attention. His current concerns were overridden by the memory of his partner. The one who spent his most recent day off firing round after round on a deserted firing range as if his future depended on it.

*****

Serena was getting a little desperate. Her heart sank as Blair demurred one more time. For nearly an hour one of the busiest women in Cascade city government had been in her lab, trying to convince Sandburg, correction, pleading with the young man to serve on her working group to reform social services. He was going to turn it down and stay in Jim Ellison's overwhelming shadow.

After Blair had gotten over the shock, and realized he wasn't on the Social Services hit list, he'd enjoyed the conversation. Blair's unique combination of anthropology, police work and people skills made him a natural and it was obvious that Marla Cooper could see it. Oh, but he had a million excuses. He was busy with a case, he was new to the department. There were others with more expertise. His efforts with Mrs. Fielding were just a onetime thing. Blah, blah, blah. Her sharp kicks toward his shins every time he said, "No," just weren't doing the trick.

Serena's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Sometimes bright men just needed a little...direction from the smarter half of the universe. She scooped up their mugs, smiling. "This is a fascinating idea. I'm just going to get us some more tea and let Major Crime know where you are, Blair."

"I should be going...," Blair started to say, but his voice trailed off. Serena scooted out of the immediate vicinity so fast that it would be rude to leave Ms. Cooper just sitting there. He smiled politely, and drifted back in to Cooper's next question concerning his recent training at the academy.

Serena made quick work of the tea. She snatched her cell phone and retreated to the hallway, furiously punching in the correct number. "Rhonda? Serena. Listen, remember when we were talking about Blair? Yeah, well he's here and the Director of Social Services is down here personally trying to recruit him to serve on this really cool task force...of course he'd be perfect, but he's turning her down. I know, I know. The ladies need to take charge here. Tell Ellison to get his butt down here and do something good for his partner. I need him a half hour ago. I can't keep them both here much longer. Right. He just came in? Perfect. So if he yells, yell back, or guilt him in to it! He has a soft spot for Blair if you know how to push it. Yeah, I'll hold." She fidgeted. If she didn't get back in there, Blair was going to find a successful excuse to leave. Over the phone she heard the rise and fall of voices, but couldn't quite make out the conversation. At least they weren't shouting. "Rhonda? He did? Oh, cool! He was running? Okay, gotta go. No, we are not going to have a beer to celebrate. We're ordering champagne!"

*****

"You don't want to hear this, but I found some more files." Standing with another stack of files in his arms, even Jim had the good sense to be apologetic.

"Where did these come from?" Blair asked, not looking up from the keyboard.

"I started calling. It's like there are all these bits and pieces that no ones ever put together. Everyone I talk to has a little, 'oh, by the way, I didn't mention.' and it's driving me crazy." Jim scooted his chair up to sit by his partner. Blair's fingers were flying across the keyboard. They'd been at this for hours and it still might just be a wild goose chase. "Maybe it's all meaningless,and I've chained you to the computer for nothing."

"Or maybe not." Blair tossed his glasses on the desk. "Unless someone comes in and confesses, we're toast on this case. We're going to have to manufacture our own breaks. Personally, I'm with Rafe. A neighborhood like that, I'd guess one call every five years. Instead, there are tons of minor nuisance calls. Something's going on."

"I think we're both beat. Can we do these tomorrow or something?"

"That's exactly what I was going to suggest. I can start a run, and we can analyze the results tomorrow. Then we can decide if it's worth pursuing." He went back to the computer, efficiently going through the final set up. "You want to leave a message for Simon?"

"Already did. I told him we'd see him at noon."

"Noon? Oh yeah, that meeting, and you're doing the follow-up interview with Mrs. Fielding. Why did you do that anyway? I should be with you, not tap dancing with social services."

"Because I'm perfectly capable of doing the interview, and if anyone is going to have effective ideas for improving a people-oriented system, it's you."

"It feels like you're trying to get rid of me." Blair said it jokingly, but Jim didn't miss the worry in his expression. Jim promptly threw a wad of paper and hit his partner between the eyes.

"I'm doing this in self defense. I'm a selfish bastard and I'd love to keep you all to myself. I didn't learn to share as a child, Sandburg. Unfortunately for me, other people KNOW I'm being a selfish bastard, and they let me know when I'm unfairly monopolizing your valuable time. When Rhonda gets in your face, you'd better shape up in a hurry."

"Rhonda? Our sweet Rhonda got in your face?"

"Yes, and I'm not stupid enough to stand and be slaughtered. Make Simon mad and it's normal. Make Rhonda mad and it's the apocalypse." Jim grabbed their coats. "If that thing's running, I'm buying pizza."

Blair hit one more key. "It's running."

"Just be real clear on one thing, Chief," Jim continued as they headed into the deserted hall. "I'm going to screen some of these ideas you've got. You're not signing me up for a bunch of touch-feely stuff, you know." He was laughing when he said it.

"Jim," Blair answered reproachfully. "Did you know that the respective departments get almost no training in the areas where responsibilities overlap? The academy sort of mentions that Social Services exists, and that's it. Wouldn't it be great if the PD actually referred stuff in the social service area, and social services didn't treat us like the boogey-man? More time to solve crime. Just think how efficient it would be."

Jim just smiled as Blair continued to talk a mile a minute. He'd left a more than a few pointed comments in his note to Simon. Major Crime was going to make sure that Detective Sandburg had all the time he needed to spread his wings and fly.

*****

Jim stifled his temper one more time, trying to maintain a sympathetic tone and coax something, anything, out of Nancy Fielding. She was the perfect distraught widow, but all of Jim's alarm bells were going off. This woman might be justifiably grieving, but she was also lying through her teeth. It wasn't just that she was lying, she was also very, very good at lying. No one was this smooth without having a reason.

Each time he mentioned one of the many items in the police reports, he was deftly deflected with another bout of tears or some equivalent distraction. Each time the woman's heart rate soared, only to drop as soon as Jim moved on to another topic. Each probe was the same. It was far beyond the realm of coincidence. Any suspicions Jim had earlier were now rock solid. This

woman may not have pulled the trigger on her husband, but she knew why he was killed, and ordinary investigative techniques were not going to drag the information out of her.

*****

The meeting was finally wrapping up. Blair had to admit, he was excited about the discussion. As Marla Cooper had promised, the group was diverse, motivated, and truly looking for innovative solutions. He hoped Simon and Jim would think it was worth his time to attend the next meeting.

Blair drained the last sip of coffee. One thing for sure, Social Services had better coffee than the PD. They also had better snacks. Blair looked longingly at the croissants and pastries that had been set out for their meeting, and decided against making a pig of himself. It had been fun, but he needed to get rolling. Jim should be back by now, and he would be impatient for his partner to show up. As he said his goodbyes, it was gratifying to accept a few compliments for his contributions.

He was finally heading for the lobby when he heard a female voice calling his name. Dashing out of an adjacent hallway, the social worker who had been assigned the Fielding murder caught up to him. "Detective Sandburg, you came! That's just great. I was so afraid you wouldn't go for it, but I told Dr. Cooper that if she was persistent, it would be worth it."

Blair chuckled. "Well, it did come out of the blue, and they might be better off with someone more experienced."

"Oh, I don't think so," answered the woman, shaking her head firmly. "Anyway, I owe you an apology. I certainly wasn't at my best on that call. We've placed a lot of children with the Fieldings, and it was such a shock."

"What happened with the children? They were so upset." Blair hated to think about the heart wrenching scenes at the school. Those foster kids had so little. It was beyond cruel to strip away what pathetic stability they had.

"Nancy wanted to keep them, but since the house is still off-limits and she's so stressed, we put them in temporary placement. It's hard, but it's for the best. At least there weren't any extras to deal with this time."

"Extras? What do you mean, extras?" Blair chuckled again. "That doesn't sound like a politically correct social services term to me."

"Well, it's not official or anything. The Fieldings were such reliable foster parents, well, we overlooked a few things. They frequently took in older kids, teenagers, that weren't formal placements. Runaways, or kids that just opted out of living at home, that kind of thing. That's a big no-no, but we're so short on good homes, it was awful easy to ignore it. One of those unwritten rules of fieldwork that everyone knows but no one talks about. Come on, I know you were on your way out. I'll walk you to the door."

Blair was too stunned to reply at first. He kept seeing pages and pages of police reports that never got officially connected to the Fieldings. He didn't want to blow this. He needed more information without alarming this woman, who obviously sympathized with Nancy Fielding. "They must have been a very generous couple. I know it's all off the record, but did they keep a lot of kids in addition to the regular placements?"

"Well, I'm not sure. We're not assigned in a one social worker to one family kind of a thing, so no one would really have continuous contact over time. I'd say several a year, off hand. Those kids had nowhere else to go, and they certainly were better off in a home than on the street."

"Better not to notice, huh?" Had the young woman known Blair better, she might have seen through the feigned nonchalance.

"You got it. I hope you can find the murderer, Detective. We're all pulling for you."

Blair smiled and waved goodbye. He needed to get back to Major Crime. For some reason, he had a gut feeling that an important piece of the puzzle had just slid into place.

****

"I pushed as hard as I could without starting a confrontation, Chief. I'd like to get a better handle on this before letting Nancy Fielding know we don't buy the entire package." Jim shook his head in disgust. "That's a lousy excuse. I know she's covering something up, and I just sat there like an incompetent rookie."

"Hardly. Jim, she's smart. If our timing's wrong, she'll just play on everyone's sympathies and obstruct the investigation even more. Besides, the funeral is today. Common decency only allows us to go so far." The two detectives were closeted in a deserted conference room, waiting for Simon.

"Murder isn't very decent and police work isn't a great respecter of personal feelings. I was too easy on her. Way too easy."

"Time and place, man. We've got to get enough information to rattle her somehow. What do you think about the extra kids in the home?"

"Right now? I don't know. I sort of see social services' point. If they've already been approved as a foster care home and the Fieldings have a good track record, what's the harm with a few drop-ins that weren't in the system anyway?" It's just another piece of information that doesn't fit. It might help if we knew who they were."

"No dice there, Jim. The social worker implied there was nothing official in the files. I was in the same spot. If I pushed, I think we'd lose them as a potential source of information."

"What information? Please tell me we've had a break." Simon Banks joined the two men at the conference table. Easing his big frame into one of the chairs, he looked bleakly at his lead detectives. "We've been scheduled for a 3PM press conference. The mayor doesn't want to have news reports on the funeral filling the airwaves without something from us. For some reason, he thinks it will stifle any speculation that we're dogging the investigation."

"Great logic," growled Jim. "I suppose it escapes our illustrious leader that when we announce what we do know, which amounts to a bunch of nothing, the media won't have to speculate on our incompetence. They'll have black and white proof."

"Well, in the next few hours we need to come up with something to say that sounds good." Simon hesitated, obviously bothered by something. "Sandburg, I don't know how to say this, but Jim and I will be doing this alone. The mayor - uh, he thinks it would be best."

Blair stiffened, but kept his face neutral. "He doesn't want the fraud in front of the cameras when the case is going badly. I can find something else to do."

Jim didn't take the news quite as well. "Forget that! We're the lead investigators and equal partners. I'm not going to treat Sandburg like he's some poor stepchild."

Blair cut him off. "Leave it alone, Jim. There's no point in pretending that I'm not a liability in the limelight. It just gives the press another excuse to speculate." Ignoring Jim's protest, he stared at Simon. "I have some things I want to pursue. I'm going to lunch, and I'll meet you guys back here after the press conference." Without really waiting for an answer from his commanding officer or his partner, he vanished from the room. Jim started around the table to bring him back when Simon's stopped him.

"Sit down, Ellison. There's nothing to be done. Let him work it out his own way."

Blue eyes and brown met in silent challenge. Jim finally looked away with a pained expression and whispered, "Yes, sir. I suppose we have statement to write."

*****

"Captain Taggart, we're closing up for the day. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I really have to go or I'll be late for the funeral." "I apologize for having kept you so late, Mrs. Landine. I can come back tomorrow." Joel surveyed the desk he was using, now littered with personnel files and interview notes.

Jeanette Landine hesitated. This officer had been nothing but understanding and polite, and Mrs. Fielding had said to cooperate completely. "Look, why don't you just finish up. I'll leave the file drawer open, and you can put the folders back in, or get whatever else you need. I'll lock up, and you can just close the door on the way out. Mrs. Fielding said to let you work with anything you needed."

Joel thanked her and continued with his work. He was just finishing up with the last few names when he heard the front door snick shut. Discouraged, he walked over to the file cabinet. He'd done dozens of interviews, made unending lists of names, and still had turned up nothing that would help with the investigation. No one seemed to have anything negative to say about Bryan Fielding, much less have a motive for murder.

As he slid the folders back into the drawer, he noticed a series of files, stuffed toward the back, that he hadn't seen before. All were tagged with the notation TERM. He pulled one out and frowned. It was the personnel file of a terminated employee. He'd specifically asked for these types of files, but had been told no one had been let go or quit in Bryan Fielding's company in the last three years. After a moment's consideration, he started removing the hidden files. After all, they had Mrs. Fielding's assurance of complete cooperation, and Jeanette Landine had said to get what he needed. A faint smile crossed his face. Being alone in the deserted office hadn't turned out so badly after all.

****

Blair munched quietly on his croissant sandwich, trying to enjoy the view of the park. This part of downtown Cascade was a grassy oasis, bordered by the main city library, the art museum and the performing arts center. Long before the Cascade PD became his home away from home, he'd spent many hours here. A spin through the art museum and some quiet time on the plaza usually went a long way toward banishing a depression. It seemed like a good choice on this particular afternoon. He had plenty of depressing thoughts to banish.

Blair watched with amusement as a group of about thirty giggling teenagers gathered on the steps of the art museum. He was close enough to figure out that they were from a local high school, taking a field trip with their creative arts class. Their teacher had his hands full, but it was easy to see the rapport between student and instructor. He felt a pang for that lost life - the joy of enriching an eager student's life, the give and take, the fulfillment of teaching. He watched for another ten minutes as the students were coaxed into a semblance of orderly behavior, met their tour guide and were herded into the building.

Teenagers. Where do you find out about displaced teenagers if the Department of Social Services doesn't really want to talk to you? Blair allowed his thoughts to wander, and then abruptly stood. The remains of the croissant were abandoned on the bench. Blair jogged across the park, headed back to the PD. He had a couple of hours to pull this off.

*****

Joel Taggart sat impatiently in his vehicle, waiting for dispatch to radio him back with the information he had requested. He looked again at his hastily copied list. The concealed, or overlooked, if you were charitable, files had given him a new avenue of inquiry. It was a long shot, but he needed addresses for these six names, hopefully addresses that were close to Cascade. The radio crackled to life, and Joel scribbled the incoming information as it came. Four hits - four out of six. It wasn't much, but considering what they had to go on so far, anything was a potential blessing.

*****

"Detective Sandburg, student records are confidential. I'm not sure we can help you. As vice-principal, I can't allow it."

"As I tried to explain, I don't need access to individual student records. All your information is computerized, right? All I want to do is a search for the Fieldings' address. This is an active murder investigation. I'm sure you want to help us find the killer, and I just can't bother Mrs. Fielding so close to her husband's funeral." Blair studied the man across the desk, hoping he'd buy this.

"You're sure that's all you need? Additional information from the records wouldn't be required?"

"Not a bit," Blair answered reassuringly. "Just the names. Any additional follow-up won't involve the school or personal records at all."

"All right. I'll introduce you to our registrar, but I must insist that you keep your request strictly to the areas we've discussed."

Blair breathed a sigh of relief. Step one accomplished.

*****

Detective and Captain stood side by side, waiting for the Public Information Officer to complete his opening remarks. Jim, in particular, dreaded the ordeal. It would have helped to have Sandburg around, but his junior partner had not returned. The whole situation set Jim on edge, and he didn't hesitate to let Simon, and anyone else within earshot, know how he felt about it.

They were motioned into the room. By pre-arrangement, Simon handled the opening statements. Jim needed time to adjust to the lights, the noise, and the shouted questions. As the two men began to field questions, the tone gradually shifted from inquisitive to accusatory. How many of the departments resources had been committed? Was there a cover-up of a serial killer? Were there any suspects? On and on and on.

"Detective Ellison, what comment do you have about the vandalism at the Fielding family plot, and the disruption of the funeral this afternoon? Do you have some officers on the scene now?"

Jim kept his face blank, and looked down at the podium. Simon was hastily scrawling in awkward block letters, "WHAT?"

The two men made eye contact for just a moment. Sometimes it was a blessing to be able to read a colleague without a lot of conversation. Simon's wordless expression said, "Run with it, buddy. Whatever works, and fast."

Jim looked back into the glaring lights and focused his vision on the back of the room. The reporter who had shouted the question was nearly in the last row. Simon would never have known, but the guy had a cat-with-the-canary look on his face. They'd either been set up, or whatever had happened at the cemetery had been deliberately concealed from the investigative team. Jim wasn't fond of either possibility.

Jim made an effort to keep his voice just short of hostile. "I'm sure all of you are aware that we're here to give you a summary, not a copy of the case file. Events that are just breaking won't be discussed. We can't compromise the investigation."

A flurry of related questions rained down on them. "Excuse me," barked Simon, "but Detective Ellison just made very clear what the limits are. If you can't keep your questions within those guidelines, we won't comment further." There was a momentary lull. Taking advantage of the break, Simon continued. "Once again, the investigation is active, we are pursuing new leads, and the background information has been provided for you in the press release. Perhaps we'd better close with that. Further statements will be released through Major Crime and our Public Information Office tomorrow at noon." Simon picked up his notes and left the podium, looking for all the world like he'd planned to leave just now anyway. Jim followed close behind, ignoring the racket behind him.

As the doors closed on the elevator, Jim leaned back against the smooth metal sides and half-glared at the only other occupant. "Tomorrow at noon, Sir?"

"Don't start with me, Ellison. You and Sandburg have plenty of time to pull our fat out of the fire by then."

*****

Blair scooted around in the seat of the Volvo, trying to make enough room for himself, his ominously long list of names, and the phone book he'd sweet-talked out of the high school secretary. He selected another name and address that was close to his current location. He could make a few more stops before hooking up with Jim again after the press conference. Besides, the drive would give him time to sort out the information that had trickled his way.

So far, he'd located none of the students who had spent time with the Fielding family. However, on his fifth Kramer, and his second Leeds, and his seventh Johnson, he had spoken with a parent. A none too happy parent, as it were.

The three stories had been surprisingly similar. Each had existing conflict within the home; normal teenager-parent stuff. All had some prior relationship between the child and Nancy or Bryan Fielding. In one case, Bryan Fielding had been the girl's softball coach when she was ten. An offer to come stay temporarily, to let things cool off, that turned into a permanent dissolution of ties with the family. One tearful mother had described how she hadn't seen her daughter since the second week of her departure, and had no idea where the young woman was now, nearly four years later.

The father of Trevor Leeds had put it more succinctly, just before he slammed the door in Blair's face. "That bastard stole my boy. I didn't pull the trigger, but I'm glad he's dead." The comment was in stark contrast to the picture of Bryan Fielding they'd been getting since his death.

Blair considered the possibilities while he drove the short distance. This was either sheer coincidence, or the beginnings of a potential motive. Could one of these disgruntled parents be this killer? What would move a parent from anger or despair to the kind of rage that seemed evident at the murder scene?

As the Volvo shuddered to a stop in front of his newest selection, Blair was shocked to see the large form of Joel Taggart climbing out of the car parked in front of him. They rendezvoused on the sidewalk, with the same question for each other. "What are you doing here?"

"I got a lucky break. I wasn't supposed to, but I found the records of employees that have quit at the repair centers. I'm following up on the addresses."

"You found?" Blair asked. "I thought Nancy fielding was being very cooperative."

"I think we could call that selectively cooperative." Joel spread his notes out on the hood of his car. "I've spent the afternoon chasing from one side of Cascade to the other. Some of these people left for just normal stuff; a better job, moved from the area, that kind of thing. I was ready to call it quits. The last one convinced me I'd better keep going. She quit because Bryan Fielding made repeated unwanted sexual advances. She was only twenty two at the time, and she's still pretty upset about it."

"So according to her, Bryan Fielding isn't the pillar of family values he's supposed to be? Would it surprise you that I'm getting the same thing from a totally different direction?" Blair looked down at his list. "I'm trying to track down a girl that lived with the Fieldings for almost a year. Her name's Jenna Wilkenson."

Joel's normally gentle expression turned ominous. "Well, now isn't that a surprise. I'm here to talk with Miss Wilkenson, too."

*****

It was nearly dusk when Simon and Jim managed to secure an unmarked car and get to the cemetery without an entourage. The funeral director had already gone for the day. One of the groundskeepers was willing to direct them to the graveside. Several strips of red carpeting still covered the grass.

"Mr. Taylor wasn't too happy about this, you know. I think he wanted to call you guys, but that Fielding woman, she talked to him, real angry and private-like. He came out and told us to cover everything up until we could figure something out."

The young man rolled up the strips to reveal the grass beneath. Even in the dim light, the phrase, spray painted in fluorescent orange, spoke its condemning message:

"YOU DESERVED TO DIE"

****

There was no car in the driveway or the garage, and Blair was all for hustling to the next name on his list. After all, since it was late afternoon, Jenna Wilkenson was probably at work. Taggart, who had been a little more successful with his personal wild goose chase, insisted they give it a shot. Their second try at the doorbell was answered by a tall, dark haired young woman dressed in jeans and an oversized white button-down. A calico cat rubbed a colorful chin against her bare feet. She seemed startled, perhaps, even wary of having two strange men on her front porch. She examined both badges carefully, and then reluctantly invited them in.

The small home seemed somehow out of sync with its occupant. None of the normal trappings of a young woman in her early twenties were visible - no stereo, no VCR, no television. A stack of paintings stood by one wall. The top one was a bright abstract in pastels. They were the only sparks of individuality in the whole place.

"Are these yours?" asked Blair, examining the paintings. "This is really beautiful."

Jenna Wilkinson nodded. "I take art classes in the mornings. I work nights."

"I hope we didn't wake you, Miss Wilkinson," Joel remarked apologetically. "We'll try to keep it short."

"Oh, it's okay. Wednesday and Thursday are my days off." Her voice was so quiet they strained to hear it.

Blair frowned. Something wasn't right here. "If you don't mind me saying so, that sounds awful. You work weekends and nights? It must be terrible for your social life. This isn't permanent or anything, is it?" He smiled, trying to put her at ease. She seemed almost afraid of them.

"No, it's not permanent. I could have had any shift I wanted, but I asked for this one. This schedule suits me. Right now anyway." She looked at the floor while she spoke. Blair got the impression of a small child who wants to run away.

The two men exchanged glances. After a slight nod from Blair, Joel took the lead. "Would it be all right if we sat down?" She didn't answer, just motioned them toward the sofa. "Miss Wilkinson, we're investigating the murder of Bryan Fielding. I understand you stayed with them."

He didn't finish. Jenna jumped to her feet, her voice rising in panic. "He's dead? Bryan's dead?"

Joel nodded, dumbfounded. "You didn't know? It's been on the news - the TV, the radio. Miss Wilkinson, calm down. No one's accusing you of anything."

"Nancy. Did you tell Nancy? Does anyone know you came here?" Her panic was becoming hysteria in short order. Tears were streaming down her face. Blair moved toward her, trying to calm her.

"Jenna, tell us what's wrong. No one knows we're here. Whatever you're afraid of, it's okay."

"It will NEVER be okay!" she shouted, stumbling as she back-pedaled across the small room. "I can't talk to you." She dashed toward the kitchen and the back door. Before either man could make a move to stop her, she was gone.

Blair looked out the back door, and caught a glimpse of her rounding the corner of a neighbor's house as she fled. "No way we're going to catch her, man. Did you hear that last thing she said?"

Joel nodded his head. "It sounded like 'I can't talk about him. He'll find me.' Now why would she act like that? What do you want to do?" Joel glanced around the kitchen. "We could chase her, cruise the neighborhood, or wait here for her to show up here."

"Joel, the way she acted, I don't think she'll come near this place if she thinks we're here. Let's leave a note, try to reassure her and ask her to call either one of us. We can have a cruiser drive by a few times and see if she comes back. If she doesn't contact us, we can try to track her down tomorrow."

They left the back door open, but securely locked the front as they left. Standing near the cars, they compared lists. Jenna was the only name they had in common.

"Blair, we really need to talk to this girl. I think she's too important to lose."

"I agree, but she was seriously spooked when we told her about Fielding." Blair checked the time. "Jim and Simon must be done by now. You mind checking with a few places up and down the street? Maybe a neighbor can fill us in. I'll try to see if Jim has anything new."

When Jim's cell phone didn't ring, Blair tried the main desk at Major Crime. A minimal conversation with Rhonda sent him careening through the streets, hoping to catch his partner.

*****

Blair jogged up the grassy slope. Simon's silhouette, outlined by the nearly setting sun was unmistakable, even from a distance. As he got closer, Blair realized that Jim was examining something on the ground.

"Sorry," he panted. "I got here as soon as I found out. Oh, no. Did the family see this?"

"Yes," replied Simon tersely. "And did a pretty fair job of keeping it from us. You find anything, Jim"

"No," he answered angrily. "Maybe if I could have gotten here before the service, but not now." He glared at his newly arrived partner. "Where have you been all day?! I could have used some help here."

"Hey, Jim, take it easy. It's not like I haven't been working on the case in my own way." Blair quickly summarized their new findings, and Jenna Wilkinson's dramatic reaction. Simon exploded, furious that Nancy Fielding might be interfering with their investigation. Jim listened intently. Then his attention seemed to be drawn off into the distance.

"Jim? Jim, don't zone on us. What's up, partner?"

"There - over there," was all Jim mumbled before dashing off into the growing darkness.

"Ellison, come back here!"

"Simon, let him go!" Blair's insistent tug on his arm pulled the big man back. "I'll trail Jim. Get us some flashlights. No matter what Jim can see, you and I are going to need some light."

They found Jim at the far end of the cemetery. He was searching the ground intently. Without speaking, he motioned Blair to shine the light along the surface of the grass. Digging for an evidence bag, he retrieved some trophy that was invisible to the other two men.

"They were right here. A man and a blond woman." He handed the evidence bag to Blair. In the bright gleam of the flashlight, Blair could see a single, long human hair. "He had her by the arm, and was sort of shaking her. They were arguing, and he was pointing down toward the gravesite."

"At us?"

Jim shook his head. "No - I don't think so. I caught a bit of conversation before they saw me and took off." Jim caught Simon's glance, anticipating the obvious question. "Sorry, sir. I heard a vehicle, but I didn't get here quick enough to see it." Jim stared at the ground, as if he could coerce the turf into revealing another secret. "The guy kept saying, 'He's dead, and don't you forget it' - over and over again."

****

The loft was dark, illuminated only by firelight. Jim was sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed, clearly exhausted. Blair had volunteered to cook a meal while Jim showered and changed. He was halfway through preparing the clam chowder before noticing that Jim hadn't even made it down the hall yet. Blair filled two bowls with the steaming soup and arranged them on a tray with bread and some sliced fruit. He set it down softly on the table next to the couch.

"Hey, Jim. Dinner's ready."

Jim straightened up quickly. "What? Did I just crash here?"

"Yeah. Don't apologize. It gives me the opportunity to break house rule Number 103 and eat in the living room. Did you eat at all today?" He stared reproachfully at his partner as he passed the soup bowl to his friend.

"Of course I ate. Don't hover, Sandburg."

"Jim, four candy bars out of the machines at the PD does not constitute 'eating'. You'd be better off drinking sugar water. Don't give me that look, either." Blair sipped at his creation. "This is a good batch. Eat some. You'll feel better."

Jim tore off a hunk of bread and sampled the chowder. "It is good - a Sandburg gourmet creation. Besides, I was doing fine until we had to fight our way through the reporters outside the loft. That news conference was beyond a disaster."

"You weren't fine. You were just on delayed collapse." Blair grabbed the remote. "You want to watch some football? Forget the case for awhile?"

"No. With my luck, they'll skip the first quarter to do an in-depth examination of this damn nightmare case. I don't need to be reminded of how pathetic it looks. Do we have any real butter, Sandburg? Bread like this deserves real butter."

"Yes, Charlie Cholesterol, we have real butter. Sit down, I'll get it. You still look like you're ready to fall over any minute." With his head stuck in the refrigerator, Blair called in the direction of the living area, "What do you think about Jenna Wilkinson?"

"I think she's the key. Actually, would you hand me the phone? I want to keep a seal on the Fielding house for another day. I think I have an idea what we need to be looking for."

"Jim, we can't keep Nancy Fielding out of her house forever."

"Well, tomorrow isn't forever. You and I need to regroup, and I really want to get in that house again." Jim made his call, and the two men ate in silence. Jim looked at his now empty bowl. "Do we have any more of this?"

Blair snickered. "I rest my case." He watched Jim trek back to the kitchen and fill his bowl for a second time. "There's more bread - I put it back in the oven. I'll see if I can find something for dessert after a minute. Why do YOU think Jenna is important? I was kind of pleased with myself finding her, but I'm not sure how it all fits together."

Jim came walking out of the kitchen, careful not to dump his very full bowl of soup onto the floor. He smiled fondly at Blair. "Nice attempt at deference, Sandburg, but the day you don't have any ideas is the day you croak."

"Well, I have lots of ideas. I'm just not sure which one's right."

"You said it when we first examined the crime scene. What motivates that kind of out of control rage, or that level of hate? We've bounced back and forth between a random crazy and revenge. We keep picking at the edges of Bryan Fielding and there's something dark underneath. His wife's trying to keep it hidden. I'm sure of that. You see fear in Jenna Wilkinson, I hear anger and 'it's over now' from our mystery couple in the cemetery tonight. Find the connection between the two and I think we'll find the real motive for murder."

"So it's revenge." Blair stared uncomfortably at his partner. "We might be talking about kids, Jim. These people were supposed to be caring for kids. I really don't like where this seems to be going."

Jim didn't answer. They both knew there wasn't really anything to say.

*****

Blair shuddered as they reentered the Fielding home. The cleaning crews hadn't been allowed in, and the scene was as gruesome with dried blood as it was with fresh. He followed carefully in Jim's footsteps as they picked their way up the stairs. His partner had been decidedly uncommunicative, but seemed to have a very definite idea of what he wanted. Blair wasn't all that surprised when they ended up in the back bedroom.

"Glove up, Sandburg. Start with the dresser. The answer is somewhere in this room. We just have to find it."

Blair was carefully removing the contents of the second drawer when he heard a soft, "Gotcha!" come from the other side of the room. He turned to see Jim holding up a single, long strand of golden hair. Blair didn't doubt for a minute that it was a match for the one found on a deserted cemetery slope.

*****

"That's the house? The green one?" The two detectives had pulled the truck up to the curb. Down the street about half a block, Jenna Wilkinson's home was dark. There was no sign of life.

"Maybe she never came back. She was pretty freaked out, Jim. I blew it. Joel and I should have gone after her last night."

Jim smiled at his discouraged partner. "You didn't blow it. She's there. I can hear her. You go to the front, but I'm going to go around back."

"You think she'll panic and take off?"

"I'm sure of it. Hey, bring that picture you found."

Blair looked doubtfully at the snapshot as he gave Jim time to cross the street and get into position. Besides the single strand of hair that Jim had found almost immediately, this picture was their only other discovery. It had been trapped at the back of one of the drawers, hidden from all but the most thorough search. Blair smoothed the evidence bag to look at the image one more time. A blond woman, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties, dressed in jeans and a cut off tank top, holding a bottle of beer. From her stance and expression, it wasn't the first bottle she had consumed. The clothing gave no clues to the age of the photo, although forensics could surely pin it down. More importantly, standing next to the young woman was Bryan Fielding, with his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

Blair looked up the street. Jim had disappeared. Time to play his part. He pocketed the photo and hustled over. He rang the bell, wondering if Jenna would answer the door again. He waited through a second ring, and then a third.

"Sandburg, get back here!"

By the time Blair made it to the back yard, Jenna Wilkinson had obviously given up the fight. She sagged in Jim's arms, sobbing hysterically.

"Jenna, it's Detective Sandburg. I know you're scared, but we're not going to hurt you. Just calm down." The sobbing didn't stop, but slowed. Pushing herself slightly away from Jim, Jenna tried to gather herself. Jim gave her some space, but didn't turn her lose, wary of the previous day's disappearing act.

"You don't understand," she stammered. "No one would understand."

"Why don't we go inside?" suggested Blair gently. "Just give us a chance, okay?" He held out his hand. The sobs quieted. Tentatively, she touched his palm with her fingertips. Blair wrapped her smaller hand in his. Tears still streamed down her cheeks.

"Why would anyone believe me? Why would you believe me? It all happened behind closed doors."

They took Jenna inside. She was shaking uncontrollably. Jim located the thermostat and turned up the heat. Blair dug through cupboards until he found some hot chocolate mix and made her some, along with a piece of toast. The story came out in slow, painful, agonizing bits.

Jenna had been ten when she first met Bryan and Nancy Fielding. One of their foster children had invited her to a family picnic. Jenna's parents were going through a messy divorce. The Fielding home seemed like a paradise. By the time she was fourteen, Jenna's mother had split. She was left with a father who was a drunk, chronically unemployed, and who didn't hesitate to use his only child as a target for his frustrations. Jenna was on the streets most of the time, flunking school and desperate to get out. Somehow she ended up on the Fielding's front porch, strung out and exhausted, begging for a place to stay.

According to Jenna, the foster care for the younger children was above board, at least on the surface. The foster child who had made the original introduction was no longer there.

"What do you mean, Jenna?" Blair asked quickly. Did the Fieldings do something to her?"

"Oh, no, not like you're thinking," Jenna protested. "I meant she was placed out or went back to her family. The Fieldings only do foster care for younger kids. Greta, the girl I knew, was the oldest they've ever kept. This is really hard to explain," she stammered, swirling the hot chocolate in the mug. "It never occurred to me until years later that the foster care thing is a smokescreen. Don't get me wrong, they do a great job with the little kids, absolutely above reproach. They've got the social work people snowed."

"I noticed that," answered Blair. "How is it a smokescreen?"

"I think the younger kids give them a good reputation. They count on that. They also are a means to meet kids that aren't in foster care. Kids like me, that they don't use until years later."

The two detectives exchanged glances. "Jenna, you're going to have to explain what you mean by the word used," Jim probed gently. "The way you're talking, it doesn't sound good."

"It isn't," she mumbled, another tear streaking down her cheek. "I'm so ashamed. It's so - seductive. The older kids get a place to live, no restictions. They're real careful. There are never more that one or two living in at the time, but a whole string of teenagers have gone through that place. As long as appearances were kept up, the party never stopped." She looked at the floor, close to breaking down again. "Did you find the 'playroom'?" Jenna finally whispered.

The two men exchanged blank looks. "You'll have to tell us about it, Jenna," Jim finally answered.

"I'm not surprised," she continued. "That old Victorian. There are all kinds of odd nooks and crannies. If you know where to look, you can get from the third floor to the attic. Bryan has it all fixed up, soundproofed, the works. The little kids are never allowed on the third floor, and no one else can go up until the kids are in bed. Whatever you want - it's there - just as long as you can pull it together and look angelic the next day. If you want a hug, good ole Bryan is right there to help." Jenna's face twisted at the memory. "If you want more." She halted, struggling to find the words. "Well, he and Nancy share."

Jim's face and voice stayed neutral, but Blair could see the storm behind his eyes. "Did he force you, Jenna?"

Her dark eyes fastened on Jim's blue ones. "Oh, no. Not Bryan's style. He just baits the trap and lets you to walk right on in all by yourself. There was always plenty to go around. Kids who weren't actually at the house anymore would come back. He could just wait for something to start and just join in. "She picked the crust off her beleaguered piece of toast. "Do you know what it feels like, when you think you're all alone, and your own family's a mess, to have someone say they love you? Buy you stuff, flatter you, tell you you're too grown up for stupid rules? You don't examine the offer too carefully. It's pretty easy to buy the whole package. Whatever he took, I'm ashamed to say I gave first."

"He took advantage of you, Jenna," Blair interrupted. "It's called entrapment, and a lot of other fancy words that mean the same thing. You were underage, and it's illegal. It doesn't have to be rape to be wrong."

She looked at him solemnly. "I wish I believed that. For the rest of my life I'll feel like I was the one who was wrong. I let him."

"What about the police calls?" Jim asked. "When I checked, there were lots of them. How did that work? We should have caught him long ago, or had a clue that something was up."

"There were two rules - you couldn't be messed up in public or at school, and if you got caught, you didn't KNOW Bryan and Nancy. You could always come back as long as the nest was shielded."

Jim nodded. All those unrelated reports, never tied back to the source. It had worked for years. "Jenna, didn't anyone's parents ever come after them? No one ever made up with their folks and went home? We've talked to someone that said the Fieldings stole their child. How?"

She shrugged. "You know kids. You got a parent with rules and on the other side this smiling, charming couple that gives you freedom and treats you like an adult, covers for you. It is sooo easy. You're just too dumb at that age to figure out the price is your soul. Don't get me wrong, a few go back. They don't do the heavy stuff until you're committed. They're not going to mess around with families that might get it together and complain. Me? My dad never looked. He was glad I was gone. The only thing I ever got from him was this house, and that was because he drove his stupid car into a telephone pole. Drunk, as usual." Her voice was still soft, but edged with bitterness.

Blair looked around the small house. No wonder it had seemed out of step with its owner. "When I was here yesterday, you ran like you were afraid of Fielding. Can you tell us about that?"

"When I graduated, Bryan set me up with a place and I went to work for him. I was his trustworthy one. I kind of recruited for them, you know, got the party going, reassured anyone who got cold feet. Three years ago he sent me to a training seminar for work in Seattle. A computer inventory thing. I guess he figured I didn't have any brains of my own by then. For the first time in years, I was on my own, with people my own age. For some reason, I realized what had been happening. When I came back, I thought I had everything under control. I confronted him. Big mistake."

"What happened?" Blair's anxiety rose even higher. Whatever this particular memory was, it was twisting Jenna inside out.

"I can't. I can't talk about that. I ran. I lived in a homeless shelter for awhile, stayed out of sight. I got a job, finally, and then my dad died and I got this house. I don't have a phone, and I don't drive a car. He can't find me. If he can't find me, he can't hurt me." Her anguish was palpable.

"Jenna, he's never going to hurt you now. Neither will Nancy." Jim spoke firmly. He believed it. The bastard was dead.

Her face showed her disbelief. "I don't think I can tell you anything else. I'm really tired, you know?"

"Sandburg, I'm going to call the station. I'll be back." Before leaving, Jim gave his partner a nod. They weren't quite finished here.

"Jenna, I want you to do two things. First, I want to call a friend at the University. She runs a Victim's Crisis Line. I really think you need to talk to her. Would you be willing to do that?" Blair watched her face intently. It was time for this broken soul to start healing.

"Okay. I'll try."

"Good. If you'll let me, I'd like to call and make sure you're doing all right. Second, I want you to look at this picture. See if you recognize the girl." Blair laid the photo on the table in front of her.

Jenna nodded. "Her name's Trisha. Trisha Darlow. She lived with the Fieldings about the time I took off."

Blair shook his head. "I didn't get her name from the records at school. Didn't she go to school?"

"Oh, yeah. Bryan and Nancy aren't stupid. Having a truant kid will bring the all sorts of people your way. She was at the alternative school. Try there."

*****

It took another day of searching to follow the trail of Trisha Darlow to her father's home. Now, from the vantage of the truck, they watched the house in silence. Neither man wanted to examine their feelings too closely at the moment. Just an early, calm Saturday morning in a nice, average neighborhood. Jim tensed momentarily as the homeowner appeared and scooped his paper off the front porch. A few minutes later, a young woman with blond hair could be seen through the kitchen window. Jim dialed up his vision.

"That's her, Chief. That's our girl."

"How you want to do this, Jim?"

"Right through the front door. Call and get us some backup, but no sirens." Blair nodded. He trailed Jim across the street.

Trisha Darlow answered the door. Panic rippled across her face as Jim showed his badge and started to identify himself. He didn't finish. "Let 'em in, Trisha," interrupted a deep voice.

Trisha stepped back hesitantly, looking at her father. The two detectives followed her in, prepared for anything. David Darlow was a tall man, heavily built, with graying, short-cropped hair. He stood boldly in the hallway, making no effort to run. Without hesitation he brought his hands up shoulder high, palms forward. "Young man, there's a blue duffel in that room down the hall, right in front of the closet. What you want is in there. Trisha, honey, you go sit in the kitchen."

"Papa, I...."

"Trisha! I said go to the kitchen!" She took a few steps, then stopped. "Do it now, girl!" Darlow bellowed. She turned and fled.

Blair came back into the entry, his face drained of all color. The large canvas bag was unzipped. He held it open for Jim to see. Even in the dimly lit hallway, Jim could see the handgun, the shotgun and a large hunting knife, still bloody from its grim task. "David Darlow, you're under arrest for the murder of Bryan Fielding. You have the right to remain silent..."

"Cut the crap. I wouldn't have turned myself in, but you found me and I'm guilty."

"Mr. Darlow," Blair interrupted, "you really shouldn't say anything. Talk to an attorney. It's best." Jim snapped the cuffs around one wrist and reached for the second, but Darlow seemed to ignore him, concentrating his attention on Blair.

"Son, I don't need some mealy mouthed lawyer. When I found out what he did to my Trisha, I killed that bastard, may he burn in hell. If he could suffer and die more than once, I'd do it again." He paused while Jim fastened the second cuff. "You both seem like good men. You make sure my Trisha goes and sits with Mrs. Creason next door. If you want to call somebody for me, make it Father Tim down at St. Luke's. He already knows. I told him in the confessional." Without even the slightest look back, David Darlow straightened to his full height, strode out the door and into the morning sun, Jim at his side. Blair stared at the bag in his hands. Slowly, he set it down by the front door and headed for the kitchen to soothe another shattered soul.

Epilogue

Jim watched his partner, still standing on the balcony. They'd watched the sun lick the horizon, then slide into the waters of the bay. It had turned cold and Jim had retreated inside, but Sandburg remained on the deck. The man who hated cold and who hardly shut up was standing outside, shivering, refusing to speak. Jim silently poured two mugs of coffee and added a shot of his best to both of them. He joined his friend, willing to wait if necessary.

Blair gratefully accepted the mug, but continued to look out into the night. "Thanks, and I know, Jim. I need to come in."

"You're right, you do, unless triple pneumonia is on your to-do list next week. Come on, Chief. You can't let it consume you like this."

"Tell me we have the real criminal behind bars, Jim."

"He killed a man, Sandburg."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same. If she was your daughter, or your sister, tell me it would have been different."

Through the darkness Jim could see the challenge in the blue eyes, and the anger, and the heartbreak. "I'm not sure I can. Not honestly, anyway."

Blair downed the last swallow of coffee, balancing the porcelain in his fingers. "Do we care about this mug?"

Jim was puzzled by the question. "No, not really. Why are we talking about pottery, Chief? I'm a lot more concerned about my partner than a stupid cup."

With all the force he could muster, Blair hurled the mug towards the pavement below. Jim watched, half horrified, at the expression on Blair's face as it smashed to the sidewalk, caught in a small pool of light by the building entrance. "Next time I go to the firing range, I'm going to see his face and it's going to be a pleasure to pull the trigger." Blair turned and disappeared. Jim heard the French doors close with a smack behind him.

He should follow Sandburg. Say the right things, make the right gesture. Instead, Jim Ellison held his own mug over the railing and released it. He watched it plunge to its demise, its fragments scattered and mingled with those of the first.

The End