Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 16:42:43 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (01/5) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com The Unsuiteds Challenge possessed me! Instead of working on my current project, this story screamed for scribbling. It takes place between seasons Two and Three. This story contains an unlikely pair in addition to our dear Unsuiteds, but Don and Lucian run the show. Adoration and praise to my beta readers: Ann Raper, Amy Reed, Amanda Sridasome, and Lee Hickling streamlined this puppy proper with their corrections and suggestions! Their work was phenomenal! Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of "Forever Knight" were created by Parriott, et al. and are owned by Sony/Tristar. Nunkies Alert: Annie says sensitive Cousins should prepare themselves before reading this story. ********************************************************************** UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (01/5) by Bonnie Rutledge That wretched holiday for lovers snuck closer for yet another mish-mash of hearts, flowers, candy, and misguided sentiment. Lacroix's mood gradually cankerized as February 14th approached, evidenced by the cowering CERK employees and his oratory broadcasted a week before the detested day: "Speak no more to me of love...That fickle oasis of emotion...A misbegotten shrine at which you sacrifice your plastic roses and stale chocolates in tribute to your sweetheart. But the illusion soon fades doesn't it, my children? The poetic whispers disintegrate into nagging chatter. Comfortable routine stifles your rapturous embraces. Your lovers of yesteryear -- where are they now? Drinking another beer while watching the game on television, sleeping with your best friend, or do you even remember their name? A collection of cells -- that is the heart -- layered in an amalgamation of chambers, valves, and vessels. The blood pumps in --the blood pumps out. The heart is life, sweet, luscious life, not love. This is the Nightcrawler, and I am waiting for your call. Whisper to me words of life and death." The phone lines blinked frenziedly, they always did. Lacroix chose one to answer at random, prepared to verbally rip any mild-mannered callers to shreds. "This is the Nightcrawler -- who has the pleasure of speaking with me?" The voice that echoed from the speakers was low and seductive, quiet, not out of shyness, but in indifference to the radio listeners. This woman spoke as if for his ears alone, privately and confidentially with a teasing lilt added to spark Lacroix's interest. "Call me Desdemona." "Ah. A woman fated to die at the hands of a jealous lover -- is that how you see yourself?" She laughed indulgently, tauntingly. "Hardly. But since everyone dies in some form or another, I personally want to do it in bed." Those phrases seemed almost an invitation. "A name is simply a word, changeable at whim, don't you think, Nightcrawler?" "A metaphysical approach, how enchanting. I'll bite -- how do you perceive the nature of your existence, Desdemona?" Lacroix's tongue rolled around the syllables of the caller's name in a vocal caress. "I am a killer...you understand that nature, don't you? In fact, I've just disposed of a tasty morsel in the CERK lobby. Consider dinner my treat." Lacroix's fascination with the woman's conversation immediately withered. His lips drew into a stiff line, his eyes sizzled with anger, and his reply was carved in ice. "Really, Desdemona. What an overt tease you are. I trust you will be present for my 'treat'?" Another taunting laugh cracked over the airwaves. "I may be overt, but I am not naive. We will meet when I am ready." The line clicked at her disconnection. Lacroix's fingernails raked over his console with fury. He spoke again into the microphone, his tone a smoldering threat. "That dear listeners, brings us to another subject -- naivete. We all know the expression 'Curiosity killed the cat'. Let me explain why..." ******************************************************************** Schanke kissed a passing, and very male, traffic cop juicily on the lips then engaged in a triumphant pseudo-rumba around his desk. "What's with him?" the traffic cop wondered aloud. "Beats me," replied the young, blonde detective. She watched the performance in wonder. "I just said that I was here to do catch-up on Detective Knight's paperwork while he was away." Schanke paused in mid-hip wiggle. "No. No. *Our* paperwork. You said *all your* paperwork." She shrugged in capitulation. "Okay, okay. *Your* paperwork." She observed the Detective recommence his joyous jigging and sighed. "I still think assigning me to desk work is a waste. Why not give me something more useful to do? I'm a detective, too, you know. I could join you on the streets -- crack the big cases!" Schanke ceased his dancing and gave her an indulgent grin. "Sure you could, hon. And how long have you been a detective?" "Two weeks," she announced defensively. "Bingo! There's your answer." A desk clerk approached, interrupting the young woman's frown. "Detective Vetter? The Commissioner, uh, I mean, your father is on line two. Detective Schanke? You're needed at a crime scene at the CERK radio station." Schanke's mouth dropped open as Tracy reached for the phone. "Commissioner's daughter?!? I thought she said her last name was 'Vedder', like the grunge guy." He leaned over and gave Tracy a wink. "Hey, I'll let you take it easy -- just worry about *my* paperwork. Knight can do his own when he gets back. Enjoy the coffee!" He gave a wave, then left. Tracy groaned as she pressed the button for her call. "Hi, Dad. Gee, thanks for preserving my anonymity." *************************************************************** For eight whole days, Don Schanke was on his own. El Hombre solo, with keys to the Caddie as a bonus. His freedom resulted from Nick and Captain Cohen traipsing about in Ottawa, extraditing a collar from the week before. Since the sojourn lasted until after Valentine's Day, Nick volunteered for the journey so that Schank could, quote, have a romantic evening with Myra, unquote. Don personally considered the holiday a chance to stay out of the doghouse until the wife's birthday. Muy expensive. Muy worthwhile. The next out of town trip would be Schanke's, no matter what, Nick promised. Regardless of the cause, a week of calling the shots was just what the doctor ordered. Having no paperwork to fill out made the week sublime as souvlaki with extra cucumber sauce. Arriving at CERK, Schanke straightened his suit jacket out of habit, and brushed past the reporters swarming around the station with a curt 'No comment.' He entered, bypassing the facing stairs and made a right turn towards the lobby. Natalie noted his arrival and rushed to greet him. "Good! You're finally here, now I can go." Natalie appeared wary and ready to run out the front door. Schanke tagged one of her arms. "Whoa-ho-ho, Nat. Aren't you going to run some of that dead-people terminology past me?" Nat gave him an impatient look. "All right." Identifying the victim for Schanke as she approached, Natalie swept its temporary covering away for a view. Two puncture marks the size of peppercorns leapt out from the pale expanse of the victim's neck. "It's pretty obvious what happened," she said. "The skin of the throat was meticulously pierced just above the jugular in two locations, splitting the vein apart, as well as the tissue almost all the way through to the back of the neck. I know -- I poked. The weapon was probably something like an icepick." Standing up, she started anew for the exit. On the way, she paused and called, "See the puddle? Death by exsanguination. I'll see you at the morgue. Have fun." Schanke waved befuddledly as Natalie hurriedly departed. "Was it my breath?" he wondered aloud. "M-maybe she's just sp-spooked," stuttered a beat officer shakily. "This is k-kind of creepy." Schanke inspected the wounds once more. They weren't totally dissimilar to a bite. Schanke shook his head. Best stick to the facts."Tell me -- who was first man on the scene?" The beat officer cleared his throat, then replied, "I-I was. That's why I'm st-standing here." "Well, Officer First Man, start talking! Or are you gonna mime your report for me?" The cop looked confused at Schanke's question, until he realized it was a joke. Then he sighed with a relieved smile and spoke. "Well, I was driving my rounds as usual, listening to the radio--y'know that Nightcrawler guy?" Schanke nodded. "Yep, I know him. Go on..." The officer seemed confused again by the Detective's comment, but carried on with his description. "So this female dials in to the Nightcrawler's show, calls herself Desdemona, and says she's left a body in the CERK lobby for him. Since I've never actually seen a dead body before, I stopped by to check it out, and sure enough..." Schanke interrupted. "Wait a sec -- you've never seen a dead body before? How long have you been a cop?" "T-two w-weeks." The officer was nervous again. "Man, it must be something in the water. You're name isn't Vetter, is it?" "No, sir. It's Lapinskiwitcz." "Okay, two things Lapinski," Schanke ordered. "Change your name, then go over and look at that dead body until it's as familiar as your mother -- and it's not *spooky*." "Yes, sir," Lapinskiwitcz warbled. "What are you going to do Detective Schanke?" He aimed a stalwart glance at the elevator. "I'm going to have a chat with Mr. Nightcrawler." Lapinskiwitcz sputtered. "But sir, the radio people said he was not to be disturbed until the night's broadcast was complete. Plus, he's creepy." "He isn't creepy. Well, maybe he is...but the radio folks were referring to you, not me, and I don't believe in 'off-limits'." With that swarthy statement, Donald Schanke waltzed to the elevator -- who needed stairs, anyway? -- leaving Officer Lapinskiwitcz to gape in admiration. *************************************************************** Lacroix was staring at the door as Schanke came into sight, as if he expected someone to ease his way down the hall and enter. Don pushed away the shiver of creepy feelings -- damned if that Officer Lapin-whatever hadn't gotten to him -- and projected an earnest, business-like demeanor instead. Lacroix granted him a reserved smile. "Well, well...If it isn't Don Schanke. What happenstance brings you to my lair this evening, Detective?" Schanke squinted at him. He couldn't just say 'Hi. What's up?' like a normal person, could he? "There's been a murder." "Do tell." Schanke nodded, then sat down in the chair across from Lacroix's desk without waiting for permission. "I will," Schanke emphasized, causing Lacroix to raise an eyebrow. "The body was found in the CERK lobby, which you no doubt are aware of, seeing how the killer called in to your radio show announcing the deed. I believe there are a few things that we need to talk about." Lacroix steepled his hands together and watched, a snake observing a tasty field mouse. "Yes, Detective Schanke. Perhaps there are." "First of all, did you recognize the woman's voice? Did she call the show often?" Schanke inquired. Lacroix seemed to come to a decision, and broke the spire of his palms. "No. I believe she was a virgin to my airwaves." Schanke shifted slightly in his chair at the terminology. "Really?" The vampire nodded. "Really. I am rather surprised to have you visit alone, Detective -- what would your partner think?" "Nick's away for the week. I'm handling affairs," Schanke offered confidently. "Of course," Lacroix responded. "I am curious, though. How do you intend to 'handle' this affair?" Schanke found himself divulging what he knew so far. It wasn't exactly an orthodox practice, but something about the Nightcrawler made it feel more productive to share his thoughts rather than conceal them. "The victim was a CERK employee -- one of your technicians. Her name was Patricia Rodger. You know who I'm talking about?" "Yes. I am aware of the employees who wander in and out of my booth. Please, continue." "She was killed by two puncture wounds to the jugular." "Fascinating." Lacroix's eyes appeared full of dare. "Does this method appear strange to you for any reason?" Schanke gave Lacroix a conspiratorial grin. "Well, I gotta admit some of the cops downstairs, they're less experienced than me, mind you..." The vampire nodded in agreement. "Of course they are." "Yeah." Schanke leaned forward a bit. "The crime scene has them freaked out. The puncture wounds kind of look like a bite from a..." Lacroix's expression seemed to prod him onwards. "A...you know. But I'm different -- who needs that hocus-pocus goofy stuff?" "Who indeed? That is a very reasonable position for you to take, Detective." Schanke settled back in his chair again, then gestured between the two of them. "Exactly. You and me, we're practical guys. Why would we carry on about a...you know...when it's obvious the victim was skewered like a shish kebab by some wacko." Lacroix rose from his chair to approach a piece of recording equipment. "I appreciate the style of your observations...Don. I expect that you desire a copy of the conversation? You may listen to it while I duplicate the call." Schanke listened intently to the replay, a frown descending over his features as the woman's comments progressed. As the sounds of the conversation clicked to a close, he echoed, "We will meet when I am ready...I'm sure you realize this Desdemona character is probably an obsessed fan?" Lacroix shrugged casually. "She is hardly my first." "Which you may find nice and dandy," Schanke replied. "But I bet all of them don't run around killing people for your attention." "The lobby *would* get crowded," Lacroix drawled. "And there's that suggestion that she's like you -- a killer. Why would she say that?" "It is her obsessive fantasy, Detective. The reason behind her words could lie within her imagination." Schanke stood and leaned over the desk. "I'm not a psycho-babble genius," he cautioned. "But it doesn't sound to me like she intends to stop with one murder, and eventually, she's coming for you. We might have to put you under police protection." The vampire was very amused at this pronouncement. "I assure you, I am well able to guard myself. Your care will *not* be necessary." "Normally, I would agree with you. You strike me as a man of action, which I can relate to. But you're also Nick's family, and while he's away, I feel honor-bound to look out for you. Call me traditional." An indulgent smile broke over Lacroix's features, and he glanced away momentarily as he stifled the expression. "I am touched by your devotion. I, myself, have quite a few long standing traditions." Schanke nodded in understanding. "You'll be seeing me again," he promised, then headed for the hall door. "Don?" Schanke turned at the commanding voice. "Don't forget your tape." "Oh, right." He walked back to the desk to grasp the recording from the vampire's waiting hand. "Thank you, Mr. Nightcrawler." "Please, call me Lacroix." *************************************************************** End of Part One Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 18:44:34 -0600 (CST) From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (02/5) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com *********************************************************************** UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (02/5) by Bonnie Rutledge "Tell me you found something terribly interesting, Doc." Natalie looked up from the remains of Patricia Rodger, and smiled in welcome. "My, my, Schank. For some reason, I expected to see you sooner. How did things go at CERK?" Schanke peered at Natalie s written notes, answering nonchalantly. "I had a good shooting the breeze with Lacroix. That's the Nightcrawler's real name." Natalie did a double-take of Schanke's calm and lackadaisical demeanor. She opened and closed her mouth several times before commenting, "You...you questioned this Lacroix fellow?" He nodded. "In person?" A nod. "Alone?" Another nod. "And your talk went fine?" Schanke rolled his eyes. "Geez, Nat - what s with the third degree? Yes, I talked to him, mano a mano, with no problems. We established a rapport, you know what I mean?" That statement had Natalie panicking. "Maybe you should lean back on this one until Nick returns, Schanke. Isn't this Lacroix supposed to be a friend of his?" "He's a relative, and that's exactly why I'm staying on top of this one. The radio caller also made threats against the guy's life. I'm not about to sit on my duff until Knight gets back, leaving Lacroix a sitting duck." Schanke continued talking, ignoring Natalie's sudden coughing fit. "He may need to hide out. Lacroix has his doubts, but I'll bring him across." Something was making Natalie cough again. "Hey, Lambert. You should do something about that cold before you pass it on. From your notes I see that Patricia Rodger was tied up with rope and gagged before the killer stabbed her." Natalie collected herself, then nodded. "I found multiple indentations around the wrists, legs, and jaws, as well as fibers from a rope type common in this area." "Thank you, good doctor," Schanke gave her a little bow with a hokey grin on the side. "Don't be a stranger, now." "I won't," Natalie chuckled. "But *you* had better watch yourself." She punctuated this comment with a poke in the chest. She shook her head as Schanke left the morgue while staring with trepidation at his hands, mocking her warning. She had a feeling this case was going to be bad. Very bad. ********************************************************************* Two nights later, Schanke was impatient for a lead. He had assigned Tracy the task of finding the number that had dialed the radio station, only to have her discover Desdemona had employed a phone in the CERK lobby. There had been no fingerprints. That would have made it too easy. Schanke had positioned a few suits at the building entrance to check who entered and left the building, and the night before had yielded nothing but quiet. Except for Detective Vetter, that is. She was determined to have watch duty, and Schanke had yet to release her from the desk. Tonight, he saw that his paperwork mound had decreased in proportion to Tracy's grumbling. To boost morale, Schanke promised she could monitor a door tonight, but Vetter had to wear a uniform. She rode with him to CERK in the Caddie. "I hope you're aware that old cars like this one wheeze out a lot of pollution." "I'll be sure to tell Knight. It's his car," Schanke retorted. "And what's a part-per-million of carbon dioxide compared to a classic auto with the most trunk space of its kind?" "Trunk space? Who cares about trunk space?" "My partner does. He has a skin allergy to the sun. So when work runs into daytime, Knight needs the large trunk for his health." Tracy glared at him. "You don't have to be so condescending. Just because I'm the Commissioner's daughter, it doesn't mean that I'm gullible." Schanke pulled the car up to the curb in front of CERK and got out. "Vetter, trust me. Your family tree has nothing to do with it. I'm equally offensive to all the new guys." He swept towards the lobby, not bothering to hold the door open for Tracy. "One of the guys," she murmured. "Cool." *************************************************************** Up, up, up, the elevator rose, delivering Schanke into the dim passageways that led towards Lacroix. There was one extraneous night employee still on duty. He sent her home and continued towards the studio while impatiently thumbing the walkie-talkie that hung from his belt. The unit was to coordinate with the officers below if there was any action. This time, those cold, blue eyes weren't waiting for his entry. The Nightcrawler seemed to perceive who he was without looking. With an elegant gesture he indicated that Schanke should use the extra chair without interrupting the flow of his words. "This is the Nightcrawler, and tonight, I am considering obsession in its many forms. What obsesses you, my children? You have such filthy habits - let us parade them forth in their detestable glory. What inescapable need do you feed? You addicts, fetishists, compulsives - bring out your needles and whips, your passions, and share them with me..." Schanke was fantasizing about another souvlaki when Lacroix gestured to the blinking phone lines. Don sat up straight and leaned forward, preparing to listen intently to the first caller. "Yes. Hello, Mr. Nightcrawler. This is Myra Schanke, and I have a fetish for husbands who call home every day or so to find out what their families are doing. Don? Are you listening?" Schanke leapt out of his chair and lunged for one of the phone receivers. Lacroix, meanwhile, replied amusedly. "Let me assure you, Myra. I can guarantee *Don* will satisfy this urge momentarily." He put her back on hold and led into the next caller. Schanke picked up off-air. "Hey, honey...What a surprise hearing from you like that...What s up?" Suddenly his voice rose. "She did what?!? Is she okay?...Well, I hope you told her she's grounded for eternity...Yeah, lock it away somewhere and flush the key. I'll deal with her when I get home...This is serious, Myra. She's gotta learn the consequences of her actions." Schanke caught the name 'Desdemona' coming over the radio and turned to see Lacroix smirk at his expression of horror. "Listen, sweetie. An emergency just came up here -- you ll see me when I m there...Love you, too. Bye." He crashed down the receiver in time to hear Lacroix introduce a musical piece. "She's gone? Damn!" Lacroix interrupted the tirade, instructing calmly, "Listen." Schanke recognized the seductive voice from the earlier tape. "You didn't partake of the feast that I left you the other night -- I'm struck." "Good evening, Desdemona. How amusing to hear from you again," The Nightcrawler's voice had an undertone of wicked glee. If the caller heard it, she paid no attention. "Wasn't she to your tastes?" Her tone had developed a more urgent, accusatory note. The Nightcrawler tsked. "No fair, my dear. If you wish to talk, you must play by my rules," he chastised, his voice resembling fingernails scratching across satin. "The topic is obsession. Do you have anything to contribute, Desdemona?" "You know that I do," she snarled harshly, then resumed her more lilting speech. "But I'm not convinced that you understand what I want. I'm getting closer, though. Closer to you. Just savor the taste..." Then she hung up. Schanke hefted up his walkie-talkie, ordering, "All floors, I want a full sweep NOW! And no one leaves the building. Copy?!" A multitude of crackled voices echoed in answer. ************************************************************** "Copy," Tracy said. "Out." She was torn. A woman, deeply bundled in a hooded overcoat, had exited just before Detective Schanke's transmission. , Tracy reminded herself furiously. The woman's name had been on the list of employees allowed inside...Maybe she could keep her post on the outside, and simply call the woman back. Pushing through the entrance and into the coldness of the night, Tracy spotted a figure in the familiar coat, already twenty meters away. "Halt! Metro Police! Would you please return to the CERK building, ma'am?" An unreal sensation passed through Tracy as the woman broke into a run. She immediately set off in pursuit, yelling her location into her radio as she unsnapped her firearm with one hand. Her quarry had a good head start, but Tracy was very fit with the speed to match. Her feet glided over the pavement, and within a minute Tracy had cut the distance separating them by half. "Stop!" she called. "Metro Police!" The woman could hear that Tracy was growing closer and chose to dart across the street, weaving through speeding cars and squealing brakes. Tracy frowned while dodging a taxicab. With renewed determination, Tracy rolled over the hood of a freshly braked sedan. The woman was almost within her reach. Tracy stretched out an arm, attempting a hearty grasp of the suspect's clothing, but she ended up with only a few square centimeters of coat which slipped readily from her hand. But the force of Tracy tugging on the coat caused the woman's hood to fall back. Tracy took a mental photo. She heard a loud airhorn groaned her way. Tracy looked up to witness a mammoth vehicle barreling towards her. she thought, then leapt the shorter distance backwards out if its path. In a blaze of air and machinery, the public transport swiped safely past. Through a cloud of the exhaust aftermath, Tracy couldn t locate the woman. She finished crossing the street, searching plaintively in each direction. Tracy thought with disbelief. Everybody who resented her because of her father s identity would have a field day. The young detective frustratedly kicked a fire hydrant, then dejectedly walked back to the CERK building. *************************************************************** End of Part Two Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 18:45:47 -0600 (CST) From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (03/5) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com ********************************************************************** UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (03/5) by Bonnie Rutledge "Stay here," Schanke ordered, causing Lacroix to frown in distaste. "I'm going to search this floor, and I don't want to get you confused with any Shakespeare wanna-bes." The detective pulled out his gun, holding it barrel-up by his shoulder. Schanke kicked the broadcasting booth door open, then with alert and matter-of-fact steps, proceeded cautiously into the hallway. Lacroix observed his progression with interest. Schanke was steady and confident, facing life-threatening danger with a silent fierceness and skill. He would have made an excellent soldier in another time. In a sense, the detective was a soldier...for justice. Lacroix scowled at this analogy. It reminded him greatly of Nicholas. Perhaps that was the reason he found Donald Schanke amusing since their first meeting, when the detective spouted impertinent questions about their nature. Schanke stepped slowly, his back to the wall, searching each room that pronged from the hall with precision. He saw no foreign shadows, heard no strange noises. When he reached a bend in the hallway, Schanke took a breath, then swung around the corner with his pistol raised. Schanke let the breath whistle out slowly, crouched down, then lifted the handheld from his belt once more. "All units. Standby. I found a body -- no sign of the perpetrator. Does anyone have anything to report?!" "Vetter here. Can I come up?" "Do you have something to share?" "Yes!" There was a slight pause, then, "But I'd rather give my report *privately*." Schanke sighed at the plea in her voice. "Okay, Vetter. Get up here and make it quick. Make a left out of the elevator." "Copy," she replied. "Jensen," Schanke ordered. "I want you to take Vetter's place at the entrance, and somebody -- anybody -- call this in!" Schanke returned his gun to its holster and re-hooked his walkie-talkie. He always carried latex gloves in a suit pocket for just such an occasion. He fished a pair out and slipped them over his knuckles. The method of murder was the same: two punctures in the throat, death by exsanguination. He could even spot abrasions on the wrists consistent with rope burns. Schanke stood as he heard brisk footsteps approaching and peeked around the corner. It was Tracy, speeding to the scene. "So what's the secret news flash?" he asked. Tracy gulped as she caught sight of the corpse. "Um, I chased a suspect, and she got away." Schanke scrunched his forehead incredulously. "Would you care to add a couple adjectives and a few more phrases to that description?" Tracy looked embarrassed. "Well...A woman who checked out on the list left the building just before your alert. I thought I should call her back, but when I did, she made a run for it. I pursued...I mean, I had my hand *right* on her...But there was this bus that I had to avoid being flattened by. By the time it passed, she was gone. I lost her." "Did you get a visual? Can you describe her?" "Not a good one," Tracy said apologetically. "She was dressed heavily, and her coat had a hood. I could specify her nose, height, and her hair, if it was real." Schanke nodded. "We'll make a composite when we get back to the precinct. You did get the name she used, right?" "Sure. Hilda Bryant." Tracy watched him suspiciously. "Aren't you going to yell at me for letting her get away? Make some nasty comment?" "What is this, some kind of persecution complex? Hey, in a perfect world every chase would end up with the suspect falling into your arms like they were coming home to poppa. But this is the real world, Vetter. Every cop has a perp escape sometime, and it's not because they did something wrong, or they're the Commissioner's daughter. Consider the alternatives -- if you hadn't gone after the woman, you'd be hanging out ridicule-free in the lobby, but we would have nothing in the way of vitals to go by. On the other hand, if you'd let the bus crush you flat as a pita, we'd still have nothing. Whoa, Vetter -- you did good!" She grinned in response. "I didn't think you'd be so...so decent. Thanks. Oh, call me Tracy." Schanke pulled another pair of gloves out of his pocket and handed them to her. "Don't mention it." He looked sneakily from side to side, then confided. "If anyone gives you trouble, make a list and I'll wedgie them at recess." Tracy huffed with indignation and prepared to protest, but Schanke pre-empted her by asking, "Did you see the crime scene report from the Rodger murder?" Tracy nodded. "Then put on those gloves and tell me what you think." Tracy peeped uneasily at the corpse. "Is that necessary? I mean, you've already looked at her already. You don't need me." "I might have missed something," Schanke insisted. "I need a second opinion. Take a look. It's part of 'cracking the big cases', you know," he added as an incentive. Tracy sighed, edged towards the body, and gingerly looked it over, her hands frozen at her sides. She turned away slightly before stating an opinion. "The wounds are similar to the first killing." Schanke snorted. "I need a little more input, Vetter." She snuck another glance at the corpse while nervously picking at the rubber fingertip of one glove."Um, there's reddish rubbing about the wrist and ankles like the killer tied the victim up to restrain her. The two stab wounds over the jugular are similar, too." Tracy looked up, waiting for another comment from Schanke. "Anything different?" "Everything here is just...messier, as if the killer was in a hurry. On Patricia Rodger, it was as though the wounds were pain-stakingly, delicately done just so." "Or maybe she's more emotional, more frustrated, about reaching her target this time," Schanke suggested. "Maybe." Tracy gestured to the blood on the floor and looked away again. "See how the stains are different -- with the first victim there was one big puddle. Here, we have a puddle and that trail of dots off to the side." Tracy stood up straight, unwilling to go further. "Maybe she was moved by the killer whereas the other body wasn't?" "See? You *do* know what you're doing," Schanke congratulated. "But next time, you might try actually touching the body. Make eye contact. Working with dead people is an important skill for a homicide detective." "Right." Tracy's agreement did not sound enthusiastic. "Why don't you go downstairs, Tracy? You can show forensics the way to the party when they arrive." Watching her walk out of sight, Schanke returned to his inspection of the spilled blood. "They are two different blood types," Lacroix said. Schanke looked up, startled. It was amazing the guy had noiselessly approached, whereas Tracy, half his size, had made the racket of mating bison. He glanced back at the blotches of red dying the industrial weave carpet, then once more at Lacroix. "How can you tell?" Schanke mimicked. "This reclusive red dot looks type AB, the big red splat is that pushy O?" The vampire glided towards the body. "It is more a matter of smell and palate." At Schanke's continued confusion, Lacroix added, "It is an acquired skill." "Oh," he nodded in pseudo-understanding. "So you can sniff the victim's blood," Schanke indicated the large puddle. "From this little bit... The killer's?" he guessed. "Exactly." "Oh yeah," Schanke muttered under his breath. "That's waaay normal." He looked away, distracted by the sound of forensics filing from the elevator. "Hey guys! Over here!" He returned his attention towards the spot where Lacroix stood, but the radio personality was gone. Schanke glanced about, perplexed. Schanke moved down the hall. Tracy led the entourage, and he pulled her aside. "Can you handle forensics and make sure they catch everything?" Tracy flushed with enthusiasm. "Sure." "Make sure they get separate samples from the different stains. One might belong to the killer." "Really?" Tracy eyed him curiously. "So what are you going to do?" "I want to talk some more to the Nightcrawler." Schanke frowned. "Where's Doctor Lambert?" Tracy shook her head. "She didn't come. One of her assistants showed up instead." Schanke mentally growled, waved her on, and strolled in the direction of the sound booth. Natalie should have been here; she knew it was better if the same M.E. worked potentially related scenes. He relented in his irritation, though, recalling her coughing of a couple nights earlier. Perhaps Nat was simply full-blown sick. Lacroix, enthroned once more at his console, was orating into the microphone. Schanke shut the door and elected to lean against it rather than grab a seat. As soon as the strains of Brahms' Violin Concerto in D Major coursed smoothly over the airwaves, Schanke spoke. "You certainly play a slew of string pieces, especially those with violin cadenzas. Like last night, Rimsky-Korsakov's Scheherazade and more quartets than you could shake a baton at," he observed. Lacroix, somewhat surprised at Schanke's insight, confessed, "I have a small interest in the violin. I play when the mood strikes me, and it makes for a pleasant diversion from Marilyn Manson." Schanke nodded enthusiastically. "I'm kinda partial to wind instruments, myself. Give me a lone oboe, and I'm a happy boy. Oom-pah bands and syncopation, both sides of the fence -- that's me." "I suppose we can arrive at a happy medium. The Polovtsian Dances, perhaps?" At Schanke's greedy nod, Lacroix cued the appropriate disc, then gazed at the detective approvingly. "Ready for questions." It was not an inquiry on Lacroix's part, or an offer. The words floated through the room as a statement, possibly a threat. "Oh, yeah," Schanke answered innocently, "There were a few things that I wanted to discuss." "Be my guest. Please, do sit down." Schanke capitulated to be polite. "Does the name Hilda Bryant mean anything to you?" "I cannot say I have had the pleasure of encountering anyone by that name," Lacroix offered. "Should I have?" "Maybe, maybe not. Our potential Desdemona used that name to get in and out of the building." "Ah." Lacroix's mouth splurged in a knowing smile. "And the victim?" "Another night tech, but you know that." "Yes, she was an employee, one of many, quite proper, yet no different from the others. Her name, for identification purposes, was Michele Cassidy, I believe." He considered Schanke for a moment, watched how his concentration attuned to each word Lacroix expressed, then prompted insidiously, "You met Ms. Cassidy, yourself, did you not?" His focus suddenly blurred, Schanke started, "Huh?" He caught himself, weaved into a more comfortable position in his chair, then answered. "I talked to her once." Lacroix corrected him. "You encountered her coming off the elevator when you arrived. You joked about the message on her shirt -- 'Husbands, can't live with them, can't shoot them.' 'My wife would argue with you about that one,' you replied. You both laughed. You instructed her to head home for the night. 'So long. Take care.'" "Wow. You heard all that? Does sound travel that well here? I thought you'd have these walls sound-proofed." "That is not my point," Lacroix gestured a ringed hand towards Schanke. "You were the final person to witness a laughing, smiling Michele Cassidy. I doubt that Desdemona and she exchanged jokes. What must spin through your head at seeing someone so vibrantly alive one minute, then lying in a pool of their own blood the next, their cold, blind eyes gelled into sobriety?" Schanke's countenance became stark, seeming to pulse in some sort of battle for balance. "I won't even try to pretend that it doesn't bother me," he began. "How can that be? Her corpse did not seem to affect you at all: Your examination was frank, your tone irreverent," Lacroix picked deeper. "You do not appear bothered. Au contraire, Don, you appear immune." "Well, that's not true," Schanke protested. "Nobody's so dead that they don't feel some kind of emotion for people who come and go in their lives." Lacroix seemed to flinch slightly at this declaration. "It's a matter of your heart and your head." Schanke tilted forward, propping one forearm on the desk surface. "I've had close friends die as I cradled them in my arms. Do you know what that's like? It's like a stake through the heart. Bam! You're as flat-lined as the corpse in front of you. A couple of quiet, cold hearts. But that's not all...your mind's still working, still puttering out signals. 'Didn't I play poker once with this guy?,' or 'I love this woman with my every thought.' That's where the pain, the hate, the grief, the loss, and the cry for revenge come from -- your mind. But if you're smart and strong, you can tell when you could use the ache and when it's going to tear you apart. Sometimes you simply need anger for the bad guys and a rally for justice on the side." Schanke shrugged. "I'm not immune to the dead, Lacroix. I just feel what I can afford to feel." The faint passage of Brahms that underscored the conversation altered, tumbling into its second movement. An adagio violin began a yearning appeal that stretched through the silence, a plea draped in some ephemeral echo. Lacroix was still, frozen in a gaze that caused Schanke to second-guess whether the man had even listened to his defense. He could literally hear the seconds tick by, felt them drop like nervous sweat as he watched those hollow eyes stare. Then Lacroix blinked, and then tension was broken. "Some people," he said softly. "can afford nothing." ********************************************************************** End of Part Three Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 16:46:26 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (04/5) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com *********************************************************************** UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (04/5) by Bonnie Rutledge During the three days leading up to February 13th, the case had gained considerable pressure from the media. Employees had trickled away from work at the radio station -- not necessarily a bad thing -- he had even encouraged it. But the absentees talked to reporters, fanning the flames of public outcry. That made the higher-ups antsy, and antsy higher-ups put Schanke on the defensive. Having to defend his investigation irritated him immensely, because it insinuated that he wasn't doing his job, and Schanke did his job. Frustration was making it harder to keep a grip on his foul mood. Every lead Desdemona offered had turned into a dead end, until Schanke was ready to pull out more of his already lonely hair. The suspect Tracy chased through the streets had not been Hilda Bryant, CERK employee. The real Hilda turned out to be the 64 year-old secretary to the station manager. On the days of the murders, Mrs. Bryant had been in a hospital recuperating from hip-replacement surgery. The borrowing of the secretary's name was not an outrageous surprise to Schanke. Desdemona had no doubt observed the station for some time, whether as an outsider or an employee. She had known her two victims worked around Lacroix. The location of each victim grew closer to his sound booth, as if she worked her way to confront him. Schanke considered Desdemona's words again. An ominous suggestion, considering the last body had been down the hall. Natalie had tested the separate blood samples, and as Lacroix had said, they were different types. Desdemona's had been type O like the majority of CERK employees. This only narrowed the field of concentration by a third, and Tracy's composite had ended up too vague to single out any particular person. Unraveling the reason behind Desdemona's blood at the scene had been frustrating as well. If they could identify a cause or potential location for the wound that produced it, there would be physical evidence to search for on the remaining employees. Finding some sign of struggle on Michele Cassidy's body would have been a bonus, but she was clean of fibers other than that of the rope. Nothing under the fingernails, no bruises, nada. All the forensic evidence they had towards the killer's identity was the blood type and its DNA profile. The latter at this point would do Schanke little good unless he lined up the remaining employees for profiling, and it was impossible at this point to be absolutely certain Desdemona wasn't an outsider. There was no way he'd get that many tests approved on the Coroner's Office budget. Schanke felt somewhat stymied, passing each night on his duff. Tracy had tired quickly of guarding the station entrance as well, but resigned herself to the fact that she was the only person capable of potentially identifying their suspect. She'd had no bouts of recognition so far. There were more police patrolling each floor now ,standing at the elevator and stairwells, than there were actual workers. The floor of the Nightcrawler's outpost still had one technician willing to be on the job at night. A slender young man named Emile Manton, type A. He typically worked days, but with college loans to pay, he said he needed the overtime. Each night, officers would see Emile tinkering with transformers and editing commercials in one of the rooms off Lacroix's booth as they passed, studiously unaware of anything but circuits and tape. Schanke had taken to spending the evenings in Lacroix's studio. He drove there now, squalling at the top of his lungs: "And then she looked at me with those big brown e-yes and said: You ain't seen nothin'yet...Bowmp-bowmp... B-b-b-baby you justain't seen nothin' yet...Here's something that you're never gonna ffff-orget... Yaknowyaknowyaknowyaknowyaknow you just ain't seen n-n-n-n-nothin' yet...You need educatin'...Go to school..." He was not listening to CERK. Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler had another half hour before it began, so Schanke felt at liberty to spin the dial. He had not been able to persuade Lacroix to accept police protection during daylight hours. Any circumspect attempts to find his address had failed. Officers who tried to tail the Nightcrawler when his watch was over lost his trail immediately. The station didn't even have a personnel file; apparently Lacroix wasn't officially an employee. All in all, protecting Desdemona's ultimate goal morning to afternoon was frustrating, but Metro Police still had the nights. More specifically, Schanke had the nights. Lacroix stated plainly that he wasn't interested in anyone else's company. So with every sunset Schanke headed through the avenues to the radio station, and with every shift's end, it was home to Myra, Jen, and a fluffy pillow. Maybe it was that tiny frisson of panic that reamed from his nerves each night as he stepped over that sound room threshold. Lacroix was dangerous and fascinating. He didn't exactly fall into the category of Don's bowling buddies, he didn't encourage debates over hockey or fishing, yet Schank had been satisfied with their talks anyhow. There was something about the guy -- a statement from Lacroix could spark the adrenaline zinging in his blood and accelerate his mouth into overdrive. Schanke would catch himself thinking as his lips spouted a reply. Go figure. Schanke was also getting a sense of why Nick didn't hang around this relative as much as Janette. Talking with Lacroix was a challenge because he asked tough questions. He would attack, putting his company on the defensive, leaving them to bare their soul to change the subject. Considering how tight-lipped Nick was about his private life, it was no wonder Schanke never saw Lacroix at the loft. Schanke found himself doing most of the talking, but he didn't mind. He had bragged to Nat before that Lacroix and he had established a rapport. Now he actually believed these words. It was surprising the things they had in common. Like the night before... "Hey, Lacroix -- ever had kids?" Schanke asked distractedly. Lacroix did not respond right away. Schanke glanced at him, noticing one of those thinking stares the guy slipped into now and then. He could almost hear a switch click as the full force of Lacroix's attention focused on him again. "A daughter," he allowed. "Me too! I guess I don't have to tell you how hard it is to raise a kid." "Child-rearing has its obstacles," Lacroix agreed. "And its rewards." Schanke huffed in appreciation. "I'll say," Then his face lifted in a dreamy smile. "But there's nothing like their first words, their first steps..." "The anger, the betrayal, at their first lie, their first punishment..."added Lacroix cynically. Schanke sighed. "Yeah, that too. Y'know, a child is supposed to be a mixture of parts from both parents: your eyes, her face, her smile, your bowling arm...But it's not so easy to understand their behavior." "What is difficult to understand? It is a simple fact, despite our distaste at considering the source. A child claims foul temperament just as surely from their father as fair. They witness his actions over the years and develop blemishes as a result. We choose to espy the virtuous qualities first, for the evil stings too deeply." Schanke looked ready to protest, but capitulated. "What can I say, Lacroix? You're right. Do you remember the other night when Myra called your show?" He nodded. "She wanted to tell me about our daughter, Jen. Myra'd gone to the store for an hour...left Jenny there alone...when she got back, Myra caught Jen playing with a pistol I keep in the house...I mean -- Christ! What was the kid thinking? She's only nine years old -- she could wound up shooting -- no, *killing* someone else, not to mention losing her own head." Lacroix grunted in agreement with that statement. "So I tell Myra to lock the gun away somewhere and throw away the key. She put it in with the silver." Schanke shook his head. "So the next morning I'm at the locksmith's retrieving the pistol *and* the silver, thinking 'Jen's grounded three days short of forever, now what?' The kid wouldn't have been messing with a loaded weapon if Ihadn't brought it into the house. Even though the gun was there, Jen might not have been so curious about it if I wasn't a cop. She sees me leave for work every afternoon, strapped with a sidearm. I picture Jen's mind working -- if guns are so bad, why does my dad carry one?" "'The sins of the fathers and so on..." Lacroix echoed. "We are our children's fiercest protectors, and yet their worst enemies. Such a fiendish irony to bear." "Yeah," Schanke commiserated wholeheartedly. "I brought home some video footage we had on file of kids who'd hurt themselves or others in just Jen's situation. I showed it to her, discussed the films, gun safety, whatever I could think of...she was shook up. Myra says Jenny's having nightmares now...So did I do the right thing, playing cruel to be kind?" "What other way is there? To let your daughter continue unchecked, to endure, to risk the threat again and again?" countered Lacroix. "Tell me. Do you consider your child's freedom important?" Schanke pondered the question, then offered his opinion with certainty. "In most situations, sure. But if their behavior is only going to hurt them later on, you gotta step in and stop it. I protect my kid from themself." "So do I, Don," Lacroix murmured in content. "So do I." Schanke mused as he flipped through the CERK station entrance one more time, Tracy Vetter motioned for his attention as he strolled past. "Detective Schanke?" She eyed her list of people allowed to enter the building, now with a photo I.D.required, quizzically. "I cross-checked these names against the medical report of CERK employees. Three names on the list aren't on the chart, besides that Nightcrawler guy, I mean." Schanke frowned. "You got the list from personnel, right?" Tracy nodded. "So if they don't work for CERK, who are they? Lemme make a phone call." *************************************************************** End of Part Four Yes, I actually listened to BTO for those lyrics! Date: Fri, 7 Feb 1997 16:47:46 -0800 From: br1035@ix.netcom.com (Bonnie F Rutledge) Subject: UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (05/5) To: FKarchiver@fkfanfic.com WARNING: This part has some potentially graphic content. ********************************************************************** UNSUITEDS CHALLENGE: Quiet, Cold Heart (05/5) by Bonnie Rutledge He sensed when she entered the booth, but made no acknowledgment, preferring to force her to beg for his attention. She did that quite well. She had a guest -- an unwilling one by all perceptions. Two rapid heartbeats, desperately rhythmic, sang to his ears. "I'm here, Nightcrawler," she said. "Time to meet your biggest fan." Lacroix spun his chair around gradually, returning the flash of her wild eyes with a dispassionate stare. "Desdemona. The name doesn't really suit you, does it?" She shifted her weight between her rubber soles, jerked the gagged figure she supported closer to her chest, then used one knife-wielding hand to tug down her apron. "It does. It does." Her blade glinted as she pressed it close to her victim's throat once more. "Everyone dies because of her, you know. Every time he doesn't listen, he doesn't pay *attention* to her, but listens to the lies and pretenses, doesn't see through the facade, doesn't see how she loves him." Desdemona's lips drew back in a murderous snarl. "Someone dies!" She slanted the knife towards her, pulling the blade deep and horizontally, trilled a happy sigh as she felt the warmth of the blood course over her palm. The gash pulsed once, twice, then she let the body slide to a heap on the floor. "Poor Emile...No more songs will dance in his ears," she crowed like a child, then suddenly turned fierce. "Did you taste my blood?" "I perceived it would be a trifle...stale." Desdemona reared a foot back, kicking Emile's head solidly. "WHY?!" She spit out an exasperated sigh at Lacroix's raised brows, then stomped to the spared chair. She sat stiff and lady-like, flicking the bloody knife tip with her thumbnail. "I suppose I will have to explain *everything*." "Oh do, my dear. I am certain your explanation will be most diverting." "Your voice called out to me. You know that it did. 'I want all of you to love me,' you whispered. I listened. "I love you all," you promised. I heard. I knew that we were meant for each other, but I wanted to know more than just the words that sang through the night...Those fantastic stories of betrayal, guilt, and greed. I had to get closer." Desdemona pursed her lips, savoring the memories, continuing her tale with anticipation. "I watched you from far, far away. Binoculars and a good telescope can do wonders," she bragged. "I saw you, what you are -- a vampire. The rest of the play seemed so clear. I've done my part, now you must do yours." She ran the knife luxuriously down an index finger, closing her eyes in satisfaction as the flesh split open. Then her lips snapped wide apart, her vision appearing clear and lucid. "Kill me." Lacroix laughed. "You really have provided me with some excellent entertainment, my dear, but the answer is 'no'." Desdemona had returned his humor with a smile until the final word. Her face hardened into a mask. "No? You can't mean that. I have alluded to what you are over the radio, left signs on the victims...You have to kill me -- I'm causing suspicion in the police-" "The police," interrupted Lacroix. "see nothing in your actions but the mad, dark fantasies of a criminal. When they find you, and they will, you will be dead. What was the argument you used?...Ah yes, everyone dies because of Desdemona. If you want this play to reach its proper conclusion, you know what you must do." Her eyes widened, and she whimpered a faint protest. "No." "Yes," he insisted. "You chose the name, my dear. You must finish the part." She scrambled from the chair, dropping the knife into her apron pocket and yanking off her bloody sweater. "I am your Desdemona. I'll prove it." Then she ran from the room. ******************************************************************** Schanke snapped off his phone with undue force. "Housekeeping. The extra three names are for the janitors, custodial engineers, whatever they call them, that CERK leases from another company. Damn! We should have thought of that!" Tracy studied the paper. "Only one of the three is a woman, and she's signed in today." "When?" "It says four o'clock. Right before I arrived. Her name is Mo Eddsane. You want to follow it up?" "Right away. Call Industrial Cleaning of Toronto -- squeeze her address out of them, and, if you're a genius, her blood type." Schanke seized his receiver to demand, "Attention all units, we have another suspect. Sweep all floors for a woman in custodial type clothing. Goes by the name Mo Eddsane. Copy?" All floors responded except the top one. Lacroix's. Schanke headed for the stairs. "While you're on the phone, Vetter, how 'bout calling for some backup?" He took the steps by twos, gun in hand and on guard for surprises. He breathed hard by the third floor, admitting to himself that too much souvlaki was not necessarily a good thing. He pushed on higher, freezing at the landing halfway to the last floor. A leg, familiarly shorn in police blues, projected down the final flight. He stalked the remaining stairs carefully, checked the man's pulse and found no sign of life. A hypodermic sprouted from the man's neck, and there was an overwhelming stench of bleach. Schanke moved into the hall, recognized the tint of old blood to the carpet, and turned the corner. Another body, another officer. His anger flared, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, stalking the final path to the booth, his firearm aimed and ready to fire. Lacroix waited, sending that cold, blue gaze that greeted Schanke the first time he entered this office. Lacroix gestured to the fallen Emile. "You've missed the finale, I'm afraid. It was a spectacular performance." "Desdemona?" Schanke clipped. "Escaped. Fifteen minutes ago. She was a maid. Can you imagine someone who cleans for an occupation making such a sloppy mess?" "You just sat there and watched." Schanke's voice was harsh, filled with a bitter aftertaste as he made the statment. "Should I have placed myself in jeopardy? Surely you aren't suggesting that?" "I'm suggesting you enjoyed it, and you want me to know it. But what can I do? You haven't technically committed a crime." Schanke turned to leave. "How quiet and cold is your heart now, Don?" Lacroix taunted. The door slammed, and the vampire leaned back in amusement. It was too enjoyable. The mortal had actually dared to sneer at him. This dance with Detective Don Schanke had hardly begun. ******************************************************************* Schanke quickly found Desdemona's path of escape. He found an open window marked in bloodstains. A glance outside revealed the fire escape within reach. He had been cocky enough to think that the officers on guard could have prevented someone using this ladder as a retreat. He had been wrong. He took the elevator down, briefed the officers on the situation, and called the three murders in to the station. Tracy quietly offered him a slip of paper with the address of Mo Eddsane. He looked at her young, earnest face, waiting patiently for the next step. "You wanna ride shotgun, Vetter?" She answered firmly. "Yes, I do." "Well, let's move on out." Desdemona lived in an apartment close by. Schank and Tracy took position on either side of the door. Schanke slammed his fist against it repeatedly, bellowing, "Metro Police! Open up!" No sound in reply. Schanke backed up and kicked at the door with all his might. It was made of metal, but the doorcasting was not, and it was old. The hinges gave in a groan, and after a heavy crash the entrance was wide open. They proceeded again with caution, covering each other, but found that it was unnecessary. Slack on her mattress, the figure of Desdemona, nee Mo Eddsane, imitated sleep, save for the plastic bag sealed over her head with duct tape. The slick, transparent surface clung to her nostrils and open mouth. "She suffocated herself," Tracy realized in shock, and dizzily backed away. Schanke solemnly pulled the bedspread up, covering the body as if bringing the curtain down. "Not wisely, but too well." ****************************************************************** Valentine's Day was sunny and full of promise. Don Schanke arrived at the Ninety-Sixth precinct for an early shift since he planned the night off to romance Myra. It was time to wrap up the Desdemona case and put it behind him. Tracy was placing a stack of papers in order at his desk as he approached. She looked up with a cheerful smile, then offered the mound of forms to him with pride. "I went ahead and completed all the paperwork on the case for you. I figured you'd have private plans today and all." Schanke looked down with budding joy. "Desdemona's all done? You are fantastic, Vetter!" Tracy beamed. "There's really no reason for you to hang around, so...since Detective Knight is coming back tomorrow...I guess I'm out of here. I just wanted to say thank you...for letting me do the job." Schanke shook her hand. "You know what, Tracy?" "What?" "Someday, you're gonna make some lucky cop a hell of a fine partner." Tracy glowed with respect. "I believe you." They heard the sound of some snickering across the room, and both detectives turned to the source. Two officers, Jensen and Donahue, snuck glances their way, exchanged whispers, and chortled. Schanke and Tracy turned back around. Tracy sent Schank an impish look, then gestured with her thumb to the men behind them. "Wedgie," she mouthed. Schanke rubbed his hands together, giving her a wink. "Time for the Don to go to work." ******************************************************************* "Ah! The night for love," the jubilant Nightwatch began. "What a monstrous creation it is, full of fancy and grace, and all those bloody hearts lined up for the feast. Tonight I come to you as Othello, a dark man of violence, cursing the fair Desdemona... 'Yet I'll not shed her blood; Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light...' I am the Nightcrawler, and I still love you all." ******************************************************************** End of Part Five End of "Quiet, Cold Heart" Did you catch all the wacky 'Othello' bits? Story comments/feedback to: br1035@ix.netcom.com