Date:    Fri, 22 Aug 1997 22:07:15 +0100
From:    Dorothy Elggren <delggren@ES.COM>
Subject: Silent Echoes Part 01/16 

This story is a sequel to "All The Rest is Silence" which I wrote over
a year ago.  While is not necessary to read that story, you might
want to anyway.  It can be found at the ftp site, as well as Mel's
Website.  That story was therapy for Last Knight.  I never intended
to write a sequel, but back in April this idea came to me one day and
it wouldn't go away, and this is the result.  It's a much lighter
story, and one that was a lot of fun to write.  But nevertheless in
the vein of All the Rest, it does not answer all the questions,
for each answer there are always more questions  :)

As always, thanks to my sister Jeanne for her tireless corrections on
my grammar.  It is getting better :).  A special thanks to the real
"T.C" for graciously allowing me use his personality quirks as the
basis for my character.

As always it's fun to play in the Forever Knight sandbox, and as much
as I wish they were mine, we all know who they really belong to...


Silent Echoes  Part 1
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

Chapter 1
The Challenge...


        The canary colored Porsche slipped between the truck and the
passenger van with inches to spare.  An annoyed horn blared after him
as he wove through the traffic and turned onto Yonge Street in a
squeal of tires.  Detective Davis hummed the James Bond theme under
his breath as he shifted down and the Porsche ate up more pavement.
He pushed the pedal down a little harder and imagined himself zooming
down a dangerous road in the alps.  It was a pity, he thought briefly,
that it was only Yonge Street.  He had really missed his calling, he
ought to have been an agent like James Bond... He passed a patrol car
doing well over the speed limit as he dead-headed for the Queen Street
precinct.
        The patrol car's occupant's looked at each other and shook their
heads.
        "Looks like the detective is in a hurry again," Officer
Sherman (Sandy) Grayston said.
        "Think he'd learn, if we gave him a ticket?" his partner
asked.
        "Nah, they've already tried that.  Davis just lives in another
universe.  It's a good thing he's such a good detective or he'd be
working traffic."

        Detective Thomas Charles (T.C.) Davis unfolded himself from
the twenty-year-old mint-condition Porsche, patted it lovingly on the
roof as he headed at a run for the precinct.  At 6'7", with long legs,
it didn't take long to reach the building.  Humming a satisfied tune,
he threaded his way through the mayhem towards his desk, where his
partner, Jack Wisniewski, sat surrounded by a pile of folders that were
threatening to fall off his desk.
        "Hey, T.C.," Office Wight said, laughing as she passed him, "why
didn't you bring me a donut while you were at it?"
        TC stopped and teetered a moment in mid-step and looked back
at her.
        "How'd you know I had a donut?" he asked with a grin.  His
wire-rim glasses flashed in the lights as he tilted his head.
        "Because," Wight teased him, "you're wearing the powdered
sugar in your mustache.  You look like Santa."  With a saucy wave, she
turned and left him standing there shaking his head.  Slowly he wiped
his mustache with his hand, and ruffled it a bit to clear away the
remnants of his powdered-sugar donut lunch, and headed for his desk.
        Jack watched him glumly as he sat down with a satisfied smirk
and leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head.
        "What are you feeling so happy about?" Jack asked.
        "You are looking at the man who has just solved the mysterious
murder of Anna Plevinsall," T.C. said cockily. "Single-handedly," he
added.
        Jack shook his head and laughed at that, "Yeah, right.
Single-handedly.  Excuse me?  But what about all that leg-work we did?
The investigations?  The interviews?  Huh?"
        T.C. shrugged his shoulders, "But they didn't give us the clue
that solved the case.  I tell you I ought to be Sherlock Holmes."
        "I thought you were James Bond...?"
        "No, no, ... that's only in the Porsche.  In the precinct I'm
Holmes, my dear Watson.  And you haven't yet asked me who did it and
why."
        "Well, I still think it's Terry Carvell."
        "AHA!  See, you have been led astray by all the red-herrings,
too."  T.C. said as he leaned forward.  His chair squeaked and he
stopped, wriggled a bit listening to the squeak turn into an unhappy
chorus, and dived into his drawer.
        Jack leaned his head on his hand and waited for T.C. to
surface.  T.C. pulled his WD-40 out triumphantly, knelt by his chair
and administered first-aid to the squeak.  He sank his tall, lean body
back into the chair and swung around a bit, verifying that the squeak
was duly abolished.  Seeing Jack waiting for him, he wrinkled his brow
for a moment.
        "Terry Carvell and the red-herring?" Jack prompted.
        "Oh, yes... Terry Carvell couldn't have done it for one simple
reason only.  Yes, he had motive, he certainly had ample opportunity,
he even had.."
        "So who did?" Jack interrupted what looked like a windy
explanation.
        T.C. raised an eyebrow and looked at him.  Placing a hand
dramatically across his heart, he said, "I'm insulted.  Don't you want
to hear the story?"
        "Nah.  I'll wait for the book.  It's mostly dramatic fiction.
Just cut to the chase."
        "You know, there's only one reason why I like working with
you."
        "Yeah, what's that?" Jack asked dryly.
        "You have an intimate relationship with that computer that
defies all logic."
        "Gee, thanks.  I'm touched.  Who did it?"
        "Allan Lewis," T.C. said, suddenly serious.  "The little
shrimp who put on a nice front, and calmly tossed all those red-herrings
for us to find.  Ninety-nine point nine percent true, but he tripped
up when he said Carvell planned to buy those options."
        "But he did, didn't he?"
        "Yeah.  But Carvell didn't tell Anna to place the order until
after Lewis had left. But Lewis told us that the Anna placed the order
while he was there.  But the phone records--which I checked--showed
the call for the options was placed at 2:38 p.m, and Lewis..."
        "...And Lewis couldn't have known about it, unless he was the
one who killed her.  He overheard her make the call," Jack said
excitedly.
        "Exactly.  And I just proved that he wasn't at BCE place,
because I spent the last three hours looking at the security films and
saw him leaving forty minutes before he said he did.  Plenty of time
to slip over and commit a murder. Am I good or what?"  T.C. asked as
he smiled.
        "So, shall we go bring him in?" Jack asked.
        "Sorry, too late.  I went over to ask him a couple of
questions and found him packing--can you imagine?  Anyway, after some
really superb questioning by yours truly, guess what?"
        "He confessed?" Jack guessed, knowing how T.C. would have
"questioned" him.
        "Yeah.  He did.  It would have brought tears to your eyes.
They are bringing him in for booking.  So, pard, we are done.  Might
as well take some time off, enjoy the sun..."
        "Except for the other homicide we've got outstanding,"
Jack interjected. "Not too mention the suicide and the missing
person..."
        "Why spoil the moment with minor details?" T.C. asked.  "My
dear Watson, I think I could solve any crime this afternoon. I'm
feeling very, very hot."  T.C. smiled and sank bank in his chair
looking smugly satisfied.
        "Yeah, right.  Well, then solve our other case..."
        "It's just a matter of timing, Watson.  We already know who
did it, we just have to prove it.  I'm thinking more along the lines
of a Holmes-type crime.  The mysterious, the unusual, the unsolvable.
That's my forte..."
        Jack narrowed his eyes and a nasty look crossed his face.
"Any crime?" he asked sotto voice.
        T.C. sat up abruptly, and looked at him.  "What is going on in
that shifty mind of your's, Jack?"
        "Any crime?" he asked again, looking like he'd just won the
lottery.
        T.C stared at Jack suspiciously.  Gary Wilkes at the next desk
perked his ears at this latest game between the precinct's craziest
partners.
        T.C., rising to the challenge, leaned forward.  "Any crime.
Within reason.  Like say, in the last ten years, in Toronto.  Not Jack
the Ripper, or anything historical.  It's got to be fairly current.
So what are you thinking about, Jack?"
        Jack smiled.  "I'm just thinking I've got the crime you can't
solve.  At all."
        "Oh, you do, do you?  The unsolvable crime."  T.C. thought
about it for a few moments.  "I like it.  I solve the unsolvable."
        Jack snorted.  "Not this one, Sherlock."
        "Are you serious?  Are you challenging me to solve this
crime?" T.C. asked, his curiosity suddenly peaked.
        Jack thought about it a moment.  "Yeah, I am."
        They looked at each other, grinning.
        "But you can't have until you retire to solve this, T.C.
There's got to be a time limit.  Like, say a month."
        All right.  I have a month to solve it, BUT there's got to be
a few live witnesses or something.  No fair if everybody is dead."
        "HAH!  Okay.  I've got one that fits, perfectly.  And, T.C.,
if you can solve this one, you will be Sherlock Holmes and James
Bond, rolled into one."
        Gary Wilkes scooted his chair across the aisle, all pretense
of doing work gone.  "What is the bet, gentlemen?  There's got to be
some stakes, here, don't you think?"
        Jack and T.C. looked at him, then at each other.  T.C. grinned
widely.  He always loved a challenge.  "Okay.  The Stakes."
        "A hundred bucks," Jack said, "for starters, and you admit
that you are nothing without me at the precinct picnic, which is
exactly one month and one week away."
        "Or you admit that I am the greatest detective alive at that
same picnic, if I win?"
        "Okay," Jack said with glee.
        Gary rubbed his hands together, laughing.  "I can hardly wait.
What is the case you have in mind?"
        Behind him, Margie Travins and Jerry White joined the party,
interested.  "You guys got another bet going?" Jerry asked.  "Is there
going to be a pool?"
        "Yeah," Gary said, "I'll be holding it.  Guaranteed.  So,
Jack, let's hear the details."
        Jack smiled and straightened up in his chair.  "Okay, here's
the deal.  This case was one I worked on when I was doing a rotation
through forensics nine years ago, you know, the one where you get the
crash course for a couple of months.  Well, I was doing the course,
and going to all the crime scenes.  You know, learning the drill: walk
through, don't touch the body until you've observed, photographed and
fingerprinted everything in sight and all that.  I was thinking
seriously about transferring to forensics, too, but this crime...well,
I went in there with the forensics team, and before it died down, I
decided to move into homicide instead.
        " I wanted to solve that crime more than anything.  So did
everybody...  It was long before you transferred in from Vancouver."
Jack continued looking at T.C.  "So I suspect you haven't heard much
about it.  In fact, people still don't talk about it.  It hurts too
damn much."
        "Why?" T.C. asked, softly.
        "Because it left more questions than answers, and spooked the
whole precinct, hell, the whole of Metro P.D., and there were so few
clues at the actual scene.  It was 'unsolvable' then, and now."
        Miller sucked in his breath, and Travins and White exchanged
uneasy glances.  Suddenly, they all knew what case he was talking
about.  It was THE case...
        "So, what happened?" T.C. asked interestedly, as three more
detectives joined the growing numbers around their desk.
        "The M.E. and one of Metro's best homicide detectives
disappeared on the same night.  Disappeared without a trace.  Pfft.
Gone.  Both of them."
        A hush spread over the group.  Most remembered it or had heard
about it.  It was a dark stain on Metro's record, and for any involved,
a painful memory.
        "And...," T.C. prompted, quietly, suddenly aware of the mood
shift of the group.
        "There had been a lot of things happen in the preceding
forty-eight hours prior to their disappearance, incidents which had
left both of them emotionally unstable.  Dr. Lambert had a friend
commit suicide, and she up and quit that night.  People said she
wasn't acting rationally.  And then Knight's partner was killed at the
96th precinct, covering Knight when a perp got loose.  It was the
second partner he'd lost in less than a year.  The reports said he was
devastated.  So he may have been irrational, too.  He left the
hospital and vanished.  The next night Lambert and Knight's cars where
found at his place.  Inside they found a pool of blood, a bloody
wooden staff, and one of Dr. Lambert's shoes and some other personal
effects.  What they didn't find were any bodies.  Ever."
        "Really," T.C. scratched his head and leaned back in his
chair.  Then he asked delicately, "Were they...close?"
        "Yeah, but no one knew how close, if you get my drift.
Anyway, there was a lot of speculation.  All kinds of speculation.
One theory was that Knight might have killed Lambert and then ran.
Some thought he killed her and then killed himself--but if that was
so, they should have found his body.  Others thought that they had
both been attacked there, but no one could ever figure out why, or who
would have done it.  The evidence seemed to suggest an attack on both
of them, but no one knows for sure.  They never found a motive, they
never found their bodies, and they never solved it.  It's still on the
books.  And it's bugged me for years."
        "How many of the people who knew them well are still around?"
T.C. asked.
        "Depends on what you mean by well.  There are people still
around, but how well they knew them?  Don't know."  Jack shrugged.
"Dr. Connors is still here.  Knight's Captain went for early
retirement a year or so ago, but he still comes to all the picnics.
Lambert still has family in the city, I think.  Knight, though, he was
an enigma then, and still is now.  No family, not a lot of friends
that anyone knew of.  If anyone knew him, it was Lambert, which made
it even harder.  Everyone else close to him died, that we knew of.
And he kept his personal life--well, personal.  He was known to hang
with a rather sultry-looking woman at the Raven, back when he was
working at the 27th, but she wasn't findable either.  Which didn't
help.  In fact, he was known to frequent the Raven right up until he
disappeared, but it had closed down about that time, too--some murder
investigation, I think.  It was really weird how everything was a
dead-end.  Want to try it?"  Jack asked, softly.
        "Weird, you say?"
        "Yeah, really weird."
        T.C. drummed his fingers on the desk.  "Case files still
around?"
        "Yeah, I can get my hands on them."
        "Okay.  I'll go for it.  Maybe we can find some answers and
put these ghosts to rest."
        To himself, T.C. thought, well, Sherlock, you've really put
your foot in it now.
        Over his head, the Captain said dryly, "Just don't let this
little investigation get in the way of your case load, gentlemen."
        Jack and T.C. exchanged looks as everyone melted away.  As
Captain Mitchell disappeared back into his office, Jack asked in a
whisper, "How does he do that?"
        T.C. shrugged and guessed,  "Magic?"

End Part 1

I don't think this is going to put that smile on the Captain's face.
  -- Nick to Schanke, Father's Day

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 2 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

Chapter 2
The Case...

        T.C. was carefully cutting an orange rind with his Swiss Army
Knife(TM) when the doorbell rang.  Slowly he wandered down the hall as
he neatly peeled the orange and calmly answered his door.
        Jack brushed past him with a grunt, two large file boxes in
his arms.
        "Need any help?" T.C. called after him as the files hit the
floor with a thud.
        Jack sat down heavily in T.C.'s leather recliner.  "Nah,
that's all, but you can take them back.  I ain't lifting them again."
He rubbed his side and sighed, "I must be getting old."
        T.C. sat down on the couch and began popping orange slices
into his mouth as Jack opened up the top case file.
        "You know, T.C., this is going to be the easiest hundred bucks
I ever made.  My wife, whom I am going to wine and dine, is going to
be very happy, and I'm going to be very happy because then she'll be
in a very romantic mood and...," he stopped as T.C. raised an eyebrow.
        "Well, never mind."
        "No.  No, don't stop on my account," T.C. said.  "I'd love to
hear all about her romantic mood."
        "Yeah, but she'll kill me if she thinks I'm telling people
about our sex life."
        "I won't tell."
        "That's because I ain't gonna say anything."
        "Oh.  Well in that case, I guess we'll have to talk about
these dusty file boxes that are now trashing my living room.  Julie
will not be happy, you know."
        "Your problem, Sherlock, and this is now your case.  I brought
them.  You read them and solve it.  See you tomorrow," Jack said as he
heaved himself out of the recliner and headed towards the door.
        "Thanks for dropping by.  Nice chatting with you, and all
that..."
        Jack laughed as he let himself out.
        T.C. looked at the boxes, and decided to finish his orange
first.  As he popped the last slices in, he wondered why he did this
to himself.  "Get a clue, Davis," he murmured to himself.  "Stop
bragging and you won't get yourself in these tight corners."  With
that, he opened the boxes and began to sort through them, happy to see
they were in chronological order.
        "Thank you," he said, and started sifting.

                                  *****

        T.C. began working his way through the mountains of paperwork
left from the unsolved case.  First, he thought, let's find the
profiles.  He needed to know the people who had vanished.  Sometimes
he thought he should have been a profiler; he had an uncanny ability
to see people, to know them, both victims and murderers.
        He sifted through the boxes, making the living room floor look
like a paperwork disaster area.  Julie, he thought, is going to kill
me when she gets home, as he made a stack that consisted of profiles
and histories of Detective Nicholas B. Knight (he puzzled for a moment
over what the 'B" stood for) and Natalie Lambert, M.D.  Another pile
was the history of the investigation.  A third comprised interviews
with family and friends.  A fourth stack was filled with evidence and
forensics data.  The fifth was the cross-examination of their lives
with previous case histories in a vain attempt to find a motive.  The
final stack, T.C. labeled as miscellaneous.  Everything else went on
that stack.  There wasn't room for any more stacks, so that would have
to do.
        T.C. glanced at the clock and was relieved to see Julie would
not be home for another hour yet.  He still had time to review and
clean up before she walked in the door and read him the riot act for
making a disaster area out of *her* living room again.
        And so he began to read about Nicholas B. Knight. He'd
transferred from Chicago's Metro P.D. in 1991.  *Why the transfer?*
T.C. wondered and found an empty notepad to make his own list on.  He
already had two questions and he'd hardly started.
        Knight had worked in homicide from the start of his career
with Toronto's Metro P.D.  His first assignment had been at the 27th
precinct under the control of Captain Joe Stonetree.  Knight,
T.C. noted with interest, had worked alone for almost a year.  That
in itself was highly unusual.  T.C. made a note.  Even more unusual
was his request for the night shift on a permanent basis--due to his
allergy to the sun.  T.C. made another note.  What, he wondered, kind
of allergy made you allergic to sunlight?  Very odd.
        T.C. continued skimming the file.  A series of killings called
the 'Vampire Killings' by the media had spooked the city.  Stonetree
had assigned Donald G. Schanke to work with Knight on it.  Knight had
apparently not been too happy, initially, but the partnership seemed to
have worked and grown over time.  Together they had solved the crime.
Lambert, T.C. noticed, was the M.E. filing the report on the perp's
death.   So, he thought, they'd known each other at least that long,
and probably since Knight joined the force.
        Schanke and Knight had worked together until the fall of 1995.
They'd worked together at the 27th until early 1994, and then been
transferred to the 96th precinct under Captain Cohen when a major
realignment had occurred in Metro P.D.  Stonetree had not been happy
to lose his star detective.  And Knight had been just that.  The list
of commendations for meritorious valor under fire was lengthy.  It
seemed that Detective Knight had a predilection for taking
chances--and he was lucky, too.  Nice combination.
        Not that he didn't have detractors.  Perps seemed to be scared
of him, and more than once, his temper was listed as being 'scary',
whatever that meant.  T.C. smiled.  Knight was a hotshot.  Schanke
even complained on occasion that Knight upstaged him.  Apparently
Knight was the kind who was very high-handed and did things his way.
He wished he could have met the guy.  He reminded T.C. of himself--a
lot.
        Immediately after arriving at the 96th precinct, Knight was
arrested by Internal Affairs on suspicion of murder.  T.C. quirked an
eyebrow at that.  Knight had escaped his jail cell--no mean feat--and
gone out to prove his innocence.  Apparently Schanke had helped, and
the real perp had been found.  What T.C. found interesting was that
Lambert had been reprimanded for poor handling of the DNA testing,
which had been a catalyst in the whole affair.
        T.C. stared into space.  Odd, he thought.  Why would Lambert
screw up a simple DNA test, especially when her boyfriend was
involved?  Somehow, he suspected there was a lot more to the story
than ever made it into the official record.  This was getting very
interesting, indeed.
        In the fall of 1995, Knight had once again accomplished the
miraculous and apprehended a bomber.  He had declined to fly to
Alberta in the hand-off, and Schanke--along with Captain Cohen--had
taken the prisoner to Alberta.  They never made it.  The flight had
been blown out of the sky.  Knight lost his partner and Captain in the
same instant.  He'd also been an eyewitness to the event.
        T.C. leaned his chin on his fist and thought about that for a
while.  Talk about a guilt trip.  Knight probably felt guilty for
being alive when he was supposed to take the flight.  T.C. could see
that Knight must have been dealing with a lot of emotional stress in
his last year among the living.  The profile indicated that Knight had
resigned in the aftermath, but then changed his mind.  Why, T.C.
wondered, did he come back?  What happened?  He wondered if he'd ever
know.  After a few moments, T.C began reading again.
        Knight'd spent the last nine months of his career working
under Captain Joe Reese with a rookie partner, one Tracy Vetter,
daughter of Commissioner Richard Vetter.  Knight, a high-profile hero
cop, had been given the baby-sitting job of keeping the Commish's
little girl alive.
        "What a pain in the ass," T.C. muttered.
        And yet the profile indicated that Knight had seemingly pulled
himself together and given her a chance to prove herself--more than
most people would do.  T.C. found himself becoming intrigued by the
complex picture of Knight that was emerging.
         It seemed the two had a problem being in the same place at
the same time.  They had trouble jelling as a team, but in the last
couple of months, they had settled down.  Maybe Knight had finally
worked through his grief and moved on, because they finally started to
work in tandem.  Maybe Vetter had gotten past being Papa's little
girl, or began to feel comfortable with her larger-than-life
partner.  As T.C. saw it, they had some real problems, probably
communication problems, but it looked like they'd found their rhythm.
According to Captain Reese, it looked like it was going to work--but
then Vetter had played cowboy--and died.  And then all hell had broken
loose.
         T.C. stared at the picture of Nick Knight.  He took note of
his good looks, two-day stubble, and fashionable clothing.  All in
all, a dangerous man, not only in behavior, but looks.  He had a
presence, that even the two-dimensionality of the black and white
photo could not hide.  Women, T.C. thought, must have really gone for
him.  They loved that combination.
        Knight looked dangerous, he looked--haunted--by what,
T.C. didn't know, but he could feel it.  His eyes burned into T.C.'s,
challenging him to solve the mystery of his life and death.  His life
was as much a mystery as his death, full of secrets.  Knight was
hiding something.  His faced was closed and shuttered, revealing
nothing.  But his haunted eyes...  "What are you hiding?"  T.C. asked
him.
        "Who are you, Knight?  What was important to you?  Why so
dangerous?  What made you that way?  And what happened?"  Knight
didn't answer, but only stared back at him, as T.C. pondered the
mystery of Nicholas B. Knight.  "Well, if you won't tell me that, how
about telling me what the B stands for?"
        "What have you done to my living room, Thomas Charles Davis?"
a frustrated voice broke into his ruminations.  T.C. looked up
guiltily into his wife's face.  His fifteen-year-old son stood
slightly behind her staring at the mess in awe.  T.C. instinctively
knew he was in deep, deep trouble.

                                  *****
End Part 2

Don't you think that's a little weird?
Weird is B A U.  Business As Usual for Nick.
  -- Natalie and Schanke, Faithful Followers

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 3  - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

        T.C. folded his long body into his chair with a sigh.  Jack
looked up in surprise to see T.C. in early.  He was notorious for being
late.
        "What brings you here so early?  Can't wait to start on all
this paperwork we have after you solved the Plevinsall case?"
        "No.  Julie.  She's mad at me."
        "No kidding.  What'd you do now?"
        "That damn case you left in my living room last night.  I
sorted it out on the floor, and when Julie walked in, she went
ballistic.  She'd just cleaned because her folks are coming in from
Calgary tonight, and...well you get the picture," T.C. said shaking
his head.  "Hell, I cleaned it up, but she thinks I did it
deliberately because I don't like her mother."
        Jack laughed sympathetically.  "Sorry, buddy.  But you do know
better."
        "Yeah, if only I could keep the rules straight."
        "Forget it, the first rule is only the women know the rules."
        "Ain't that the truth," T.C. agreed.
        Jack looked at him appraisingly.  "So, you get into the case?"
        T.C. snorted, "Why do you think the floor was a mess?"  He
leaned forward.  "I didn't get as far as I'd like, what with having to
make the living room perfect, but I did read Knight's profile.
Interesting guy.  Did you know him?"
        Jack sat back and stared away for a moment.  "Not really.  I
met him.  He used to drop by the lab a lot to see Lambert."
        "I gotta ask, what did he seem like to you?  What did he
*feel* like?"
        Jack looked at T.C. oddly, and then stared at his desk.  He
began to trace patterns on his pad with his pen as he answered.  "He
had this air about him, I don't know how to describe it.  Just...
different, I guess."  He looked up at T.C.  "Dangerous, maybe.  Not
the kind of guy you'd want to cross, and yet, there was this feeling
that he cared, that he took it personally when someone died.  I saw
him angry once.  He was having a yelling match with Reese.  He walked
out, right past me, and when he looked at me...well, let's just say it
wasn't pleasant.  I think I was actually scared.  And yet, sometimes
he looked like he was carrying around more pain than it was possible
to bear.  Sounds weird, doesn't it?"
        "Very interesting," T.C. said.  Jack's description dovetailed
with his own impressions.  Oh yeah, he ought to have been a profiler.
It was eerie how close he could get to people just from reading about
them.
        "Why?" Jack asked, curious.
        "Oh, I just kept looking at his picture, and I felt like he
was haunted.  Haunted and dangerous.  Almost like he's challenging me
to find him.  Give him peace."  T.C. shook his head.  It was weird.
What kind of peace, he wondered, would a guy like Knight be looking
for?
        Jack raised an eyebrow at that.  "You are weird, T.C., anyone
ever tell you that?"
        "Yeah, but not today.  Lucky you, you're the first.  Now,
before Mitchell comes over here and tells us to get to the real work,
hand me that file on Lewis that you stole from my desk and let's get
this thing tied up so tight that he never gets out."


                                  *****

        T.C. walked into pandemonium when he arrived home ten hours
later.  The in-laws had arrived. "They're heeeerrrre," he whispered as
he walked into the kitchen.  "Hi, hon," he said as he took in the
scene.  He was relieved to see Julie has forgiven him, and took
advantage to kiss her lightly.  Maybe the bed wouldn't feel like the
artic regions tonight.  "Hi, Terry.  Eileen.  How was the flight?"
        His mother-in-law looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Bumpy, Thomas."
        T.C. felt a long night coming on.  Why Eileen didn't like him,
he didn't know, but she always made him feel like a piece of low-grade
pond scum.
        His youngest, Peggy, waved at him happily.  She was helping to
roll out the pizza dough.  It looked like the dough might need
rescuing.  At eight, she still didn't quite have the hang of it, but
she was giving it a monumental effort.
        Kelly, his twelve-year-old son, was liberally applying
pepperoni to another pizza.  He could feel heartburn coming on.
Great.  Eileen wanted him in the cellar, and his son was ensuring that
his dinner would make his cellar existence complete.
        "Dad, I need help with my calculus," Mike said, suddenly at
his side.  "Mr. Jensen's throwing a quiz tomorrow and I'm dead.  I
don't get these integrals."
        "Okay, Mike.  Let's go see what we can do."  With a relieved
wave, T.C. followed his fifteen-year-old savior out of the room, glad
that math was something that came easy.

                                  *****

        At 11:30, T.C. finally found some time to get back to the
case.  It had been lurking in the back of his mind all night.
Knight's eyes haunted him, and it irked him he had to spend all the
time with Eileen and Terry.  But Julie had been watching him like a
hawk, so he'd spent time making nice.  Hadn't helped, much.  Eileen
looked through him as much as she could.  Terry was an okay, though,
he just objected to his son-in-law being a cop.  He worried, T.C. knew
about his little girl losing her husband.
        T.C. shrugged it off, and sat down in the ratty old chair that
graced his den.  It was Julie's only concession to his idea of
comfort.  She let him keep his beloved chair.  He picked up Natalie
Lambert's profile and started reading, curious to find out what kind
of woman would hold Knight's attention.
        Natalie Lambert had graduated Magna Cum Laude from the
University of Toronto in Biology and gone to McGill for her Medical
degree.  She graduated Cum Laude, there, too, specializing in forensic
medicine.  She had returned to Toronto and applied at the Toronto
Coroner's Office.  She had been hired promptly and luck had been with
her.  One of the Medical Examiner's had retired shortly after her
arrival, and she had been promoted right into the job.  Lambert had
been a real ground-breaker; she'd been the youngest M.E. they'd
hired and a woman, to boot.  She had been very good at her job.
        In late 1991, she had requested the night-shift.  T.C. sat up
at that.  Most people tried really hard for the day shift.  She had
gone the other way.  Eight months after Knight landed.  There was
definitely something going on.
        Her record was exemplary.  No matter the caseload, she pulled
it off.  He found a note in her own hand, written to her superior,
stating that she believed that the real detective work took place in
the forensics lab.  Natalie Lambert had been as much a hot-shot
detective in her own way as Knight was in his.  Just in different
fields.
        Her life, though, was a battlefield of emotional losses.  Her
brother died mid 1992, shot in the 27th precinct.  She had heard the
shots and walked in to find him bleeding on the floor.  Richard
Lambert had died two days later.  Lambert, as a Doctor, must have known
he was dying.  T.C. thought it must have been very difficult for her.
In an odd note, the profile contained a copy of Richard Lambert's
death certificate.  Natalie Lambert was identified as the attending
medical physician, and Knight had been a witness.  Yeah, T.C. thought,
they were close.  Very close.  Richard Lambert had been survived by
his wife Sara, child, Amy, and sister, Natalie.  No other family.
Natalie Lambert was very much alone in the world.
        In the fall of 1994, her god-child had been abducted, sexually
assaulted, and murdered.  T.C. winced.  And Lambert had been the
M.E. of record.  She had seen the body before being pulled off and
replaced.  For all her strengths, T.C. began to wonder how she had
held up against all the death around her.
        In the fall 1995, she and Knight had a falling out.  In the
precinct.  In public.  Someone had thought it might be of value in the
investigation and recorded it.  So maybe a rocky relationship.  No
sign of commitment on Knight's part.  Perhaps a lot of frustration on
Lambert's part.  The same handwriting detailed the fact that Knight
had a roving eye.  He seemed to fall for women he was investigating.
Three names were listed with question marks:  Anne Foley, Emily Weiss,
and Marion Blackwing.  Two were dead.  One had left Toronto and never
returned.  Very, very interesting.  Knight didn't seem to have a lot
of luck with women.
        T.C. looked at Natalie Lambert's photo.  She was beautiful
with large, intelligent, caring eyes.  Her knowing eyes watched him.
A slight smile lit her face from within.  He could see what might have
attracted Knight.  Beautiful, caring and smart.
        He looked back at the last page of the profile.  Lambert had
been the recipient of Dr. Laura Hayne's suicide note.  She had been
completely shaken.  In shock, perhaps?  Knight had taken her home.
But Lambert had come back to do the autopsy.  Gutsy woman.  And yet,
it seemed to have been the last straw.  Whatever held her together had
broken.  The night of the shooting, she had gone to the hospital to
see Tracy Vetter, then returned to the labs, written her resignation,
packed her bags and left.  Only she hadn't gotten very far.  All of
her files had still been in the back of her car--found at Knight's
place--along with her purse, jacket, and one shoe.
        Natalie Lambert had never been seen or heard from again.  She
had left the Coroner's Office and obviously gone straight to Knight's
place.  And from there she had vanished.  T.C. put the profile down in
his lap and leaned back against the threadbare chair.  "Where are you,
Natalie Lambert?  Did you love Knight?  Of course you did,"
T.C. answered himself. "But what was going on between you?  Why no
commitment?  Neither of you were teenagers.  Something held you apart,
perhaps?  And that night, you went to see Knight.  Before anything
else.  You were emotionally devastated by Laura's death, he by
Vetter's.  What was waiting when you got there?  What happened?  What
the hell happened?"
        Natalie stared back at him. Confrontation, she seemed to say,
destiny, fate.  The crossroads had been reached.  No going back.  T.C.
closed his eyes and listened to that voice.  "What crossroads,
Natalie?  Why was there no going back?  Was it Knight?  Laura?  Tracy
Vetter?  Was it the job?  Or something else?"  Something else it
seemed to say.  He looked at her face one more time.  Unlike Knight's
haunted, secretive face, her face was full of hope and unrealized
possibilities.  But he suddenly had no doubt she knew whatever haunted
Knight.  And whatever haunted Knight was pivotal to everything else
that happened that night.  At that moment, T.C. didn't like his uncanny
abilities, because he felt he had touched a maelstrom.  A hidden storm
of emotions and events that had spun out of control long ago, and
reached out to swallow up Natalie Lambert and Nick Knight.  Something
that had everything and nothing to do with all the death around them.
Secrets.  Their secrets...

End Part 3

You might be selling, but I ain't buying.
  -- Schanke, The Fix
------------------------------

Chapter 3
Revelations....

        T.C. pulled his Porsche into the parking space that wasn't
quite big enough and spent a few moments going from reverse to forward
to wedge it somewhere near the curb.  He unfolded himself from his car
and bounded up the walk to the porch, taking in the neatly trimmed
lawn and garden.  It reminded him that he was supposed to be mowing
the lawn--it was, after all, his day off.  He should have asked Mike or
Kelly to do it, he thought as he put his thumb on the doorbell.
        Then there was the fact that he had wigged out of the day's
activities with the in-laws.  Julie had not been happy.  But the case
had hooked him, and he was taking the chance to interview some people
and find out what the written facts could not reveal.  He just had to
be home in time to go out to dinner with them.  They had reservations
at La Caille.  He would rather go to a hamburger joint.  His tastes
didn't run to the expensive nouvelle cuisine they served.
        Distantly he could hear the chimes echoing in the house.
Moments later the door opened to reveal a slim, strawberry blonde in
her early 40's.
        T.C. pulled his badge and introduced himself.  "Mrs. Carver?
I'm Detective Davis.  I phoned you this morning about..."
        "Oh, yes," she said softly.  "Do you mind if we talk on the
back patio?" she asked as she opened the door.  "I think we will
have more privacy there."
        "No, no problem," T.C. answered, wondering if privacy was
really the issue.
        She lead him through the living and dining area and out a
sliding door onto a large patio shaded by maple trees, and gestured
towards the patio furniture.  "Actually," she confided as she looked
at him shyly, "I don't want to bring back any unpleasant memories for
Amy.  Amy was really hurt by her Aunt Natalie's disappearance.  It was
difficult for her, especially after her father's death.  It took her a
long time to recover."
        Sara Lambert Carver sank down onto an overstuffed patio chair
as T.C. relaxed into another one, appreciative on a subconscious level
that the chair was high enough to be comfortable for his long legs.
        "I suppose I didn't handle it very well, myself," she
admitted, looking at T.C, "Why are you investigating it now?  Has some
new information come up?"
        T.C. hated to shattered the fragile hope on her face.
"No. Not really, but I've been asked to look into it because of my
particular skill with solving unusual cases," T.C. said, massively
embroidering the tiny grain of truth.  Better than telling her it was
a bet.  "I wasn't here at the time, and have a different perspective
than those who knew your sister-in-law, and they're hoping I might be
able to bring something new to light."
        "Oh."  Sara was silent for a long moment, then looked at him
earnestly.  "I know there isn't much chance of finding out what
happened, but it would help us so much...just to know.  To find some
closure.  An answer."  Tears formed and threatened to spill onto her
cheeks.  "I still sometimes hope she'll come back.  I hope that she's
alive somewhere.  It's silly, but..."
        "It's never silly," T.C. said softly.  "Until you know,
there's always a part of you that hopes.  I hope I can find the
answers, bring her home to rest."
        Sara smiled, her gentle face lighting up.  "Thank you,
Detective.  How can I help you?"
        T.C. leaned forward.  "I was hoping you could tell me about
Natalie's relationship with Nick Knight, as well as your impressions
of him."
        Sara's face took on a distant look.  A sad smile touched her
lips.  "Natalie was always a private person when it came to
relationships.  Very different from Richard.  She didn't talk about
Nick much, but they were very close.  When they would come over to
visit, she always seemed so comfortable with him.  And he with her.
They seemed to fit, you know.  They weren't alike, but they fit."
        "What do you mean, they weren't alike?" T.C. asked curiously.
        "Oh, Nick was often moody.  He was dark.  I know I'm not
saying this very well, but he had a dark personality.  Sort of edgy
and dangerous.  He seemed to live in his emotions.  Nat, on the other
hand, was very logical and scientific.  She was a very calm person.
Didn't get high or low very easily.  I've often thought that she
was like an anchor.  For Richard, for me, and certainly for Amy.  When
Richard died, she was the one we all leaned on for support.  Despite
her grief, she was the glue that held us together."
        "Do you think she was Nick's anchor?"
        "I don't know, really.  I didn't know him that well.  He
wasn't the social kind.  I think she had to drag him kicking and
screaming out of his loft.  He could be very charming, and he had a
lot of grace.  But he was a very challenged person.  He had some kind
of medical condition that made it so he couldn't eat what you and I
take for granted.  And, of course, he couldn't go out in the daylight,
and I think that may have affected his personality a lot.  I can't
imagine what it would be like to be a prisoner during the day, can
you?"
        "You mean, he literally couldn't go out in the day?"
T.C. asked, astonished.  The profile had not made that clear.  An
interesting omission, to his way of thinking.
        "Not really.  It had to be a major emergency, I think.  But
I'm not sure.  I know he had to really protect himself, wrap up in a lot
of protective clothing.  At least that was what Natalie told me."
        "Hmmm.  I guess I'll have to check that out...  Mrs. Carver."
        "Oh, please, call me Sara."
        "Sara.  Did Natalie behave oddly, or differently in the weeks
before her disappearance?"
        Sara looked away, staring at the sky.  "I don't know, really.
I didn't see her during that time, I'm sorry to say.  We hadn't been
seeing as much of her.  I had just met David, my husband, and was
beginning to date him seriously.  I felt really awkward about it.  I
know Natalie wanted me to be happy, but I felt like a traitor,
especially when I saw her, so I avoided her.  It was really stupid,
and now...,"  Sara trailed off, and she wiped away a tear before
looking at T.C.  "You should always take care of relationships,
because you never know when they'll be gone.  Both Richard and Natalie
were taken away so suddenly.  There's so much I still want to say, but
I can't.  Sometimes they haunt my dreams."
        Sara shook her head, as if it would clear away the pain.
        T.C. was disappointed at her lack of knowledge, but didn't
think the visit was a lost cause, yet.
        "Was her relationship with him a stable, calm one, or was it
rocky?  Do you know?" T.C. asked, patiently.
        Sara took a breath, and then another.  "I don't think it was
an easy relationship.  But that's just instinct, you know.  I remember
when his partner died, and there was so much panic because of the
bomber, that Natalie was terribly upset at Nick.  He resigned and
didn't tell her.  It was odd, because he had just lost his partner and
his Captain, and I told her she was being awfully hard on him.  It was
odd because she just looked at me with this funny look, and then
said...," Sara paused as she tried to remember.  "Sorry, I'm trying to
remember as closely as possible exactly what she said.  I think it was
something to the effect that Schanke's death was an excuse for him to
'move on' and that he was just running away again."
        "What did she mean by that?" T.C. asked, curious.
        "I don't know.  She wouldn't say.  She used to leave a lot of
things unsaid, when it came to Nick.  She would just say 'I can't talk
about this.'  I would ask why, and she'd just say she couldn't.  And I
don't mean in the sense that it was too upsetting, but that it was
like she'd be breaking a promise, or something.  It doesn't make much
sense, but that's what it felt like.  Silly, I suppose."
        "No.  Impressions are usually more accurate than most people
realize.  Did you tell this to anyone in the original investigation?"
        "About my impression?  No," Sara said, shaking her head.  "They
were more interested in whether they had had any fights or enemies,
stuff like that.  And I didn't know.  Well, except about the big fight
where she told him it was over, but that was the previous September or
October.  It wasn't all that long after the crash, though."
        "So he came back to the force, and they resolved their
problems over his resignation, and then they broke up, is that right?"
        "Well, I don't know if broke up is it so much as Natalie was
fed up with him, and told him she was through.  Nick, obviously, didn't
accept it--and I guess he was right--because she did go back to him.
She came to see me right after she told him.  Family, I guess.  She
really didn't have anyone to talk to other than Nick and her work
friends.  She gave up a lot of her friends for Nick over the years.  I
didn't realize that until afterwards.  So many of her old friends came
by and said they were sorry they had lost touch with Natalie...  Nick
was her closest friend--in some ways they were each other's only
friends."
        T.C. held onto her second statement while he pursued the
first.  "Why was she through?  And do you know why they got back
together?"
        "No, not exactly, but I think she wanted more than he was
giving.  But that was my guess.  I never realized how little she
revealed about her relationship until after she disappeared.  I guess
I wasn't there for her enough that she could confide in me," Sara said
sadly.  "As for getting back together, I think he apologized, told
her what she needed to hear."  Sara laughed, "I suspect he groveled.
But I don't know for sure.  I'm sorry."
        "Do you think he forced her to choose between her other
friends and him?"
        "No.  I think it just happened over time.  Like I said, they
weren't alike, but they fit, they meshed.  They made each other whole
in some way.  It sounds odd, but even after all this time, I still
believe that.  And if they died, at least they died together, and
one of them wasn't left behind, emotionally crippled by the loss..."
        She didn't say, like I was, but T.C. read between the lines.
        "Just one last question.  Do you have any other impressions
about Nick or Natalie that stand out as unusual or out of character in
some way?"
        Sara twisted her hands together as she thought about it.
After a long time she looked at T.C.  "Not really, no.  Not unless you
count my dream, and that's just a dream--probably because I couldn't
accept Richard's death.  Besides, it started long before they
disappeared."
        "Would you tell me about the dream?" T.C. asked, feeling a
sudden tingling in his psyche.
        "It's not much, really.  More a nightmare, I suppose.  Very
vague.  But Richard was alive and he called me to tell me he loved me.
He called from Nick's loft, of all places.  I went there to see him,
but he had turned into some kind of horrible monster.  Richard was
going to attack me, but then Nick was there, and in the dream, he was a
monster, too.  He fought Richard, and stopped him, and he saved me.  I
don't remember how, though.  It's just an odd dream, really.  I read a
psychology book once that said that in dreams people become what you
need them to be.  I guess he had to be a monster to have the strength
to fight another monster.  But why Richard would be a monster...I
don't know.  Anyway, I've had that dream off and on ever since
Richard's death."
        T.C. filed it away.  You never knew.  "Thank you, Sara.  If I
have further questions, may I call you?"
        "Of course," Sara said, rising.  "Anything you can do for
Natalie...anything."
        T.C. shook her hand and left, full of uneasy, prickly
thoughts.

                                  *****
End Part 4
Will you please tell me what's going on here?
  -- Schanke, The Fix

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 5  - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

        He drove fast, with the windows rolled down, allowing the wind
to blow through, letting it clear his mind.  Sara's recollections and
comments were disturbing.  T.C. kept coming back to the fact that
Knight had been unable to be out in daylight.  Why wasn't that
specified in the profile?  Was it such common knowledge that nobody
thought anything of it at the time?  Or was it deliberately omitted?
He rather thought it was the second.  So that meant somebody was
covering up.  T.C. did not like that thought at all.
        He also didn't like the isolation that Knight and Lambert had
lived in.  Deliberate seclusion and isolation on Knight's part.
Gradual on Lambert's as she got closer and closer to Knight.
Something definitely hinky here.  He could feel it.  Secrets.  The
wind whispered in his ears.  Secrets.  It was a chorus.  If he could
find the secret, T.C. thought, it would all unravel.  But somebody
inside the investigation had perpetuated the lies.  Why?  The most
obvious answer was dirty cops.  Knight and Lambert stumbled on
something big and were eliminated.  T.C. didn't buy it. Too obvious,
and too public.  Scandals like that usually developed fissures and
leaked all over the press after a while.  The timing was wrong, too.
So that left a private, personal secret that someone decided was
better left private.  Why?  Everyone had dirty laundry these days.
Nobody seemed to really care anymore.  It obviously had to be
something really sensational, or ugly, or painful for someone to want
to cover it up after death.  No wonder it wasn't solved.  Somebody was
making sure it wasn't solved.  T.C. didn't like that one bit.  It
meant he could be in danger.  Julie, he thought, would not be happy.
Well, he just wouldn't tell her.
        T.C. stopped brainstorming long enough to realize he'd missed
his turn.  Pulling a U-turn to a quartet of annoyed horns, he took the
street that led him to Myra Schanke.  It was a quiet tree-lined
avenue.  Older brick homes with covered porches graced the street.  A
wooden sign by the curb announced to the world that this was the
home of Donald and Myra Schanke.  Ten years, T.C. thought as he shut
the door of his Porsche, and she still hadn't removed the sign.  Myra
Schanke must have loved Donald a lot.
        It was cool on the porch, cool and shady.  T.C. rang the
doorbell and let the peaceful cool air soothe his overheated brain as
he waited.  The door squealed as it was opened, and T.C. instinctively
wondered if he had any WD-40 in the car.  This door needed help.
Behind the screen, a petite woman somewhere around fifty greeted him.
        "Yes?"
        "Mrs. Schanke?"
        She nodded, her green eyes watching him calmly.
        "I'm Detective Davis, I phoned you earlier this morning,"
T.C. said as he showed her his badge.
        "Oh, yes, Detective, come in."
        Mrya Schanke opened the door wider and T.C. hesitated.  "Do
you mind if I try and fix your door first?  I'm a little compulsive
about squeaks," T.C. said with an engaging grin.
        Myra smiled, amused.  "Not at all."
        "Just hold that door a mo," T.C. said and ran back to the
Porsche.  Opening the trunk he, found his beloved WD-40.  Relieved, he
grabbed it, slammed the trunk shut (and winced at the unintended
abuse) and went back to attack the door.
        Myra watched as T.C. liberally applied WD-40 to the hinges.
"I carry some with me everywhere," T.C. admitted.  "I can't tell you
how often it comes in handy.  My partner thinks I'm nuts, and maybe I
am, but at least I can sleep at night, knowing I've left no squeak
alive to annoy."
        Myra laughed.  "Don was like that.  He had quirky habits,
too.  I think it's a necessary survival tool if you're going to be a
cop."
        T.C. thought about it as he tested the now quiet door.  "It's
probably true.  It's self defense, I guess.  It's either be a little
nuts or really go nuts.  There, I think this squeal is D.O.A."
        "Thank you," Myra said.  "Now would you like to come in?"
        "Oh, absolutely," T.C. said as he slipped through the door.
        "Please, sit down," Myra said, leading him into the large,
well-used living area.  The furniture was old and worn, but everything
was clean and welcoming.  The Schanke's might not have had a lot (what
cop ever did?) but it was comfortable.
        "I hope I'm not imposing?" T.C. asked.
        "No.  Not at all," Myra said with a small smile.  "I think
you've paid your dues."
        T.C. settled into a large recliner, suspecting it had been the
refuge of the late Don Schanke, as Myra perched on the sofa.
        "So you want to know about Nick, is that right?" Myra asked.
        "Yes.  I'm doing a follow-up investigation on Detective Knight
and Dr. Lambert's disappearance, and I hoped you might be able to help
me."
        "Why are you doing an investigation now?" Myra asked
curiously.  "They've been missing for over nine years.  That's a long
time. Has there been some new evidence come in?"
        "No.  I happen to have some abilities and skills that the
department thought might help actually find some answers," T.C said
with a smile.  He figured he'd stick with the same lie.  It was safer
that way.
        Myra Schanke gave him a measuring look.  "I will be glad to
answer your questions, but I must be honest and tell you that I don't
think you will be able find anything."
        "That might be true," T.C. conceded.  "But we cannot ever give
up trying to find the truth, for them as well as those who are left
behind.  Dr. Lambert's family deserves to have some peace and closure,
and I can't help but think Dr. Lambert and Detective Knight would
appreciate somebody giving their friends and relatives that closure."
        "Yes, they do," Myra agreed softly.  "But Nick's life was full
of secrets.  And without the key to his life, I do not think you can
find the key to his disappearance or Natalie's."
        T.C. looked at Myra narrowly.  "That," he said slowly, "is
what I'm looking for.  An understanding of Nick Knight, and I think
perhaps you may be able to help a lot.  Your insight is very
interesting, Mrs. Schanke.  I happen to agree with you fully that he
was a man of secrets.  And I'm beginning to believe very much that he
was the key to what happened, and it's time those secrets were found
and aired out."
        Myra looked at T.C. assessingly.  "Perhaps.  But I don't think
I know what they were."
        "Well, maybe, maybe not.  Why don't you tell me what you
thought of Nick Knight, for starters."
        Myra was silent for a moment, as she cataloged her thoughts.
"Nick," she said slowly, "was in a category all by himself.  There was
nobody like him.  Physically, when he walked into a room, you were
aware of him.  He had presence, charisma, if you will.  People were
drawn to him, whether they liked him or not.  A good analogy would be
to say that he was a tiger, and we...the rest of us...were ordinary
house cats by comparison.  He was truly...extraordinary."
        T.C. raised his eyebrows at that, but remained silent.
        "Don used to tell me that if they encountered a single woman
in their investigation, she would inevitably be attracted to him.
Married women weren't far behind, sometimes."  Myra laughed as she
remembered.  "It really annoyed Don, because he wanted to be thought of
as a ladies man--and he wasn't.  He was just a big pussycat.  And Nick
who was, well he didn't care.  And make no mistake, Nick was very
good-looking, but totally unaware of it.  He was impervious most of
the time to those women.  Well, maybe not impervious, but he
deliberately chose to ignore them.  He kept himself apart from people.
It was a major victory when we could get him over to visit or come to
a party."
        "So, he avoided people?" T.C. asked.
        "Yes, he did.  He didn't like parties.  He didn't like being
in large crowds.  He didn't like people." Myra stopped and thought for
a moment.  "No that's not true.  I think he liked people, but he
didn't want to be around them for some reason.  So that made him very
much a loner.  He would shut himself up in that loft and hibernate.
Natalie was the only one who could really get him to come out.  And
that loft!  It was like a castle, practically, all he needed was a
moat and drawbridge!  He had a state-of-the-art security system and
these huge metal shutters that were on a remote control.  When the sun
came up, they came down.  Don called it 'his high-tech dungeon of
doom.'"
        "Really?" T.C. said.  This was new.  There had been very
little description of the more exotic aspects of Knight's home in the
profile.  Metal shutters?  T.C. decided he would have to find out more
about this 'sun allergy.'  Sounded like the guy had expended a lot of
money specifically because of it.
        "Do you know if he had any friends outside of the department?
The profile didn't have a lot of information because, as you know, his
closest associates died or disappeared at the same time."
        "And Don was dead, too," Myra said softly. "It took Don a long
time to get Nick to trust him and talk to him at all.  I doubt Tracy
Vetter got that far.  And with Natalie gone, there wouldn't be a lot
of information."  Myra sighed and stared at her hands for a moment.
        "There were only a couple of people that Nick associated with
that Don knew of.  One was that woman who owned that nightclub he hung
out at.  I believe it was called the Raven.  I think her name was
Janet or Janette, or something like that.  Don thought she was a
shark--a real predator.  *Very cold.* He couldn't see what Nick saw in
her at all.  Nick told Don they were just friends, but Don said they'd
obviously been more than friends in the past, and he sometimes thought
that they still had something going.  It used to infuriate him because
of Natalie."
        "So Nick and Natalie did have a relationship?" T.C. asked.
        "That's a tough question.  Not at first.  I think they were
friends for a long time.  Natalie was trying to help him with his
allergy problems.  Don used to tell me that she would make these
really bizarre protein shakes.  I gather Nick wasn't too fond of them,
either.  But eventually, Natalie fell for Nick.  You could see it in
her eyes, and Nick--well it was hard to tell.  He didn't reveal what
he felt.  I'm sure he was an excellent poker player.  But he was
always hugging and kissing her in the precinct, and according to Don,
he never treated anyone else that way.
        "Anyway, Don came home one night and couldn't stop talking
about the fact that he was sure they had gone off the deep-end for
each other in a big way.  I think it was around Valentine's Day.  We
had gone to Hawaii, and when we got back, Don kept saying that
something was different.  But neither of them ever admitted it.  And
Nick still went to the Raven to see Janette.  Don just couldn't figure
it out.  Being a cop, he was always trying to figure it out.  I'm sure
you know the feeling," Myra said with a smile.
        T.C. nodded, "Yeah.  It's an occupational hazard.  You said
there were two people Nick was friends with.  Who was the other?"
        "He was this late-night talk show guy called the Nightcrawler.
He had a really creepy show.  Don said that Nick always listened to
him, and then one day he came home practically in shock because he
found out Nick was friends with the Nightcrawler.  In fact, Don said
he thought this guy was as close to family as Nick had.  I don't think
I ever knew his name, though."
        "Do you remember what radio station he broadcast on?"
T.C. asked.
        Myra shrugged her shoulders.  "No, I'm sorry, I don't."
        "That's okay.  I'm sure I can find out.  What about Nick's
past?  Did Don know much about his past?"
        "No.  Nick just didn't talk about his past.  Ever.  Don was
always bothered by that.  It didn't help that Don and Nick did NOT hit
it off well at first.  Don thought Nick was a good-looking clothes
horse that didn't know the score.  I don't know what Nick thought of
Don, but it probably wasn't very complimentary, either.  Eventually,
they developed a lot of respect for each other, and became friends,
but I'm digressing.  Don used to try and find out where he was from,
exactly; whether he had family, and anything about his childhood.
Nick was like a blank wall, he revealed nothing whatsoever.  Don
speculated that perhaps he'd been abused emotionally and/or sexually.
But he didn't know.  It was just a guess, based on Nick's behavior at
times.  He also thought that either his family was dead, or as far as
Nick was concerned, they were dead.  Either way, Nick did not talk
about his past."
        "Yeah, I've noticed that.  There's surprisingly little
information of a personal nature in his file.  He seems to have been a
very private person."  T.C. hesitated, then said, "I'm sorry to ask,
but how did Nick take your husband's death?"
        Myra was silent for a long time.  When she finally answered,
her voice quavered slightly.  "Not well at all.  I think Nick took it
almost as hard as I did.  Don was very important to him.  I think he
truly loved Don, whether he wanted to or not.  He let Don in, as much
as he let anybody in, and it devastated him to lose Don.  He felt
guilty that Don had taken the flight for him, but it was more than
that.  He really missed him.
        "Nick was very good to Jenny and me.  He used to come and see
us about once a week.  He made sure we had everything we needed.  In
fact, thanks to Nick, Jenny is getting a college education.  And after
his death, I found out I was the benefactor on his pension fund.  I
didn't have to work, because of Nick."
        "So...he was providing for you out of his salary?" T.C. asked,
slightly amazed.
        "No.  Nick had money.  Quite a lot of it, I suspect.  He just
didn't ever show it off, and never mentioned it.  I don't think it
meant much to him, except as a way to help others.  Oh, and to collect
things.  That's how we knew.  He had some very wonderful art and
archeological pieces in his place.  Originals.  Don wasn't a detective
for nothing, you know," Myra said, forestalling T.C.'s question of how
she could possibly know."
        T.C. was silent for a moment.  Money.  This was a new twist.
Nobody had said anything about money.  That could be motive.  He
guessed he'd better look through the miscellaneous pile for Nick's
financial records.  And the final disposition of his possessions.
        "One last question.  Did you or your husband ever notice any
odd or uncharacteristic behavior in Detective Knight?"
        Myra laughed loudly at that.  "I'm sorry Detective.  Nick's
behavior was always uncharacteristic.  He never did what you expected
him to.  He was very unique.  It would be very hard to come up with
any single incident.  Unless...," Myra trailed off.
        "Unless what?" T.C. pursued, leaning forward.
        "Well, I don't think it counts.  Don had been working around
the clock and he'd missed being killed by millimeters, because Nick
knocked the suspect to the ground.  Unfortunately, when Nick turned his
back, the guy tried to shoot Nick, and Don had to kill him.  It was
very hard on him, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.  I think he
had a major adrenaline-induced hallucination."
        "What kind of hallucination?"
        "I shouldn't even mention this, because he'd probably turn
beet-red and roll over in his grave.  He was totally embarrassed to
even tell me."
        "But?"
        "He thought Nick had hypnotized him, somehow."
        "To do what?"
        "That was the point.  He thought Nick had made him forget, and
it had worked.  He could only remember that he was supposed to
forget."  Myra noticed T.C.'s expression. "Well, I told you it was a
hallucination.  And that was only the start.  He spent a day nosing
into Nick's life because he thought Nick took too many risks and put
Don in danger.  So he wanted to know whether his partner was crazy or
not.  It was really funny, because he ended up thinking Nick was a
vampire for a few hours.  Then the adrenaline rush ended, sanity
returned, and Don felt like a first-class idiot."
        Myra smiled fondly, remembering.  "He never told Nick.  He
booked off for about a week to recover from the stress.  And he made
me swear never to tell Nick.  I never did."
        T.C. shook his head.  "Yeah, the job sometimes does really
funny things to your psyche."
        "Yes, it does.  I can't imagine how Nick felt losing another
partner so soon after Don's death.  He was strong, but not that
strong.  No one is."  Myra twisted her hands together, then looked up
at T.C. with an odd vulnerability in her face.  "I missed him almost as
much as I missed Don.  He became a very important part of our lives
after Don died.  I hope you can find out what happened, truly. I've
often thought that Tracy Vetter's death was just the tip of the
iceberg."
        "Why do you think that?"
        "I don't know.  I just do.  Instinct, maybe.  Knowing Nick,
having him watch over Jenny and me that last year.  I think he carried
a lot of guilt around.  It was there in his eyes.  They looked so...so
old.  Haunted.  And when Tracy died, I just think it was just the
final blow.  He had been struggling for a long, long time.  And
everything fell apart.  And then he went home to his loft and
something else happened, something catastrophic, and it took both Nick
and Natalie."
        "Mrs. Schanke, I think you could be a detective yourself.
You have made some very acute observations.  And oddly enough, they
seem to be missing from the case files," T.C. said quietly.
        "Detective?" Myra said quietly.
        "Yes."
        "Be careful, please?"

End Part 5
There's more bad news.  Come as soon as you can.
  -- Natalie to Nick, A More Permanent Hell

------------------------------

Silent Echoes Part 6 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997


        T.C. left, troubled as much by Myra's plea as the information
she had passed along.  Secrets.  Money.  Knight's charismatic
presence.  The friends that weren't listed anywhere in the case
profiles.  And despite what Myra Schanke might say about
adrenaline-induced hallucinations, for a cop there was usually some
grain of truth in it.  So did Knight hypnotize Don Schanke?  And why?
And even more intriguing--how?  The more he learned, the more he
realized that this case was far from ordinary.  Again he wondered who
was covering up.  It was becoming more and more obvious that somebody
had cleaned up the case files.  Why?  Whywhywhy?  T.C. glanced at his
watch and realized that if he didn't step on it, Julie would divorce
him for missing the dinner party.  He put the pedal to the medal and
prayed he'd get home in time.  He really didn't want to get divorced.
Well, except maybe from his mother-in-law.

                                  *****

        T.C. sprinted into the house with only minutes to spare.
Julie gave him a dirty look as he slipped past her into the shower.
        "Kelly mowed the lawn.  I paid him.  You owe me.  Mike should
have done it, but he had a soccer game."
        He looked over the top of the shower, covered in lather. "I
would have done it."
        "When?  This was supposed to be your day off--and you were out
there working.  And it would have been nice if you would have been
here while my parent's are visiting.  It's only a couple of days.  The
case could wait, couldn't it?"
        T.C. rinsed off and stepped out grabbing a towel to wrap
around him.  He noticed a slight sagging of his gut. Even though he
worked out at the police gym, once you hit 40, it was all over.  You
couldn't stop the disintegration.  Ignoring that and about twenty
other stray thoughts, he concentrated on Julie.
        "I'm sorry, hon.  I know I should have stayed home, but it was
the only opportunity I was going to have to talk to these people for a
week--and I'm kind of on the clock, here."
        "Why?" Julie asked.  She stared at him through narrowed eyes.
"You and Jack haven't made another bet, have you?"
        T.C. had the grace to look ashamed.  "Yeah."
        "I don't know what to do with you," Julie said with a sigh.
"I'm not even going to ask how much.  If you lose, it's coming out of
your lunch money, okay?  Now promise me you'll be here the rest of the
weekend, please?  Or else Mom is going to take out an ad and defame
your character."
        T.C. hugged his wife, wondering why he was so lucky to get
someone so accepting and calm about his idiosyncrasies.  "I promise,"
he whispered as he kissed her.  And then he kissed her again as her
arms slipped around his waist.
        Julie whispered against his lips.  "Get dressed, we are going
out to dinner, remember?"
        T.C. sighed, "I remember."

                                  *****

        T.C. had barely gotten his chair warm when the Captain leaned
out of his door and yelled at T.C. and Jack.  They exchanged glances
and headed for his office.
        "We've got an attempted homicide over on Front Street.  You
two lucky stiffs go sort it out," he said succinctly as he handed them
the initial report.  The Captain had never been one for small talk.
        Jack grabbed the paper, and with T.C. trailing behind headed
for the parking lot.  "Your car or mine?" he asked over his shoulder.
        "Yours," T.C. said grumpily.
        Jack stopped and looked at him.
        "The Porsche is not feeling well, okay?" T.C said.  "We went
up to the Beaches yesterday with her parents and it kept dying on me.
I think I've got a clogged fuel line.  Julie dropped me off."
        "So, James Bond is on foot today, huh?"  Jack said with a
smile.  "Pity.  The Porsche is much more fun than the old Nissan."
        Settling into the cramped quarters of the Nissan--T.C. felt
like he was folded in half--they headed for Front Street.
        "How's the investigation going?" Jack asked as he swung out
into traffic.
        "Weird," T.C. said, wriggling around, hoping by some
miraculous chance the Nissan would grow an extra two feet of
leg-room.
        "What do you mean 'weird'," Jack asked curiously.
        "Just that.  Weird.  For starters, there's stuff missing from
the files, Jack.  I think somebody is covering something up."
        "You're kidding?  Right?"
        T.C. didn't answer.
        "Who would want to cover up when it involved Metro's own?"
Jack asked puzzled.
        "More to the point, what were they covering up?  I don't think
it's the murder that's being covered up.  It's something else.
Something in Knight's past.  The guy was full of secrets."
        "You're telling me that somebody covered up Knight's past,
but not the murder.  That the murder is incidental or something?"
        "Yeah.  I told you, weird.  My best guess right now, is that
somebody else followed the path I'm following and found out *the
secret*," T.C. made quote marks with his hands as he said it, "and
decided it was best if it never came to light, even if it was at the
expense of the department's reputation."
        Jack stopped for a red light and just stared at T.C.,
dumbfounded.
        "Not to mention," T.C. continued, "it meant they chose to let
the murder remain unsolved.  Weird."
        The light turned green and Jack put the Nissan in gear and
moved forward.
        "And you know what else, Jack?  Knight has got to be the
strangest guy I ever investigated.  People talk about him like he was
larger than life.  He was charismatic, moody, a loner, and apparently
women swooned when he walked by." T.C. exchanged looks with Jack.
"Now there is a talent I wouldn't mind having.  Women have never acted
like that around me.  Not once."
        "You know," Jack said slowly, "you were drawn to him.  I had
forgotten that.  He could just walk in a room and people noticed."
        "Yeah, well, apparently there was a real down-side to it.  He
seems to have avoided people like the plague.  Maybe because everybody
wanted to be his buddy.  And you know what else?  He couldn't go out
in the sun at all.  Did you know that?"
        "Yeah, I seem to remember it coming up.  Some kind of weird
disease where his skin couldn't handle UV or something.  Missing some
proteins or something, I guess."
        "Too weird," T.C. said, looking out his window.  "I talked to
Dr. Lambert's sister-in-law and Knight's first partner's widow.  Man,
the guy was death on his partners, wasn't he?  Anyway, they sure had
some interesting things to say.
        "But then I had to play with the in-laws, so that was as far
as I got.  They're leaving today to go visit Julie's sister, so
tonight I can get back to it.  Drove me nuts all day yesterday to have
to leave it alone.  I think you did this just to torture me," T.C.
groused.
        Jack grinned and pulled the Nissan to a stop. "We're here,
pard."
        T.C. gratefully extracted his body from the Nissan's cramped
quarters.  "Thank you.  By the way, Jack, you need a bigger car."
        "Hey, it's big enough for me.  We can trim a few inches off
your legs and that would solve the problem."
        "Oh, thank you," T.C. retorted as they headed into the knot of
spectators surrounding several patrolman.
        "Time to get to work, buddy," Jack said and pushed through the
throng.

End Part 6

I'm really concerned about Nick.  Something's not quite right
about him.  Something weird.
Nicholah?  Weird you say?
  -- Schanke and Janette, Close Call

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 7 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

Chapter 4
Secrets...

        T.C. was beginning to feel a little obsessed as he sneaked into
the den after dinner.   But he had a lot of questions and he hoped he
might find something in the case files.  He headed straight for the
miscellaneous stack and started skimming.
        "Financial statement, financial statement," T.C. muttered
under his breath as he searched.  Halfway down the stack he ran across
a picture of Nick Knight and an unknown woman with a note attached to
it.  The photo was crinkled and folded, as if it had been hauled
around in a back pocket.  The note said simply:

        Captain Reese,

                As I was going through Tracy's personal effects,
        I came across this photo of Detective Knight.  I don't
        know why she had it here at home, but I thought it might
        help you in your investigation of his disappearance.

                I would like to thank you again for all your help
        and thoughtfulness during this very difficult time.

                                        Sincerely,
                                        Barbara Vetter

        T.C. stared at the photo.  It was one of those professional
jobs with a dark background.  Knight and the woman were partially
silhouetted.  The woman was beautiful and exotic; she had presence
just like Knight did.  T.C. was intrigued and turned the photo over.
There were no identifying marks or notes.  Turning it back over
T.C. discovered a photographer's logo in the corner.  If need be, he
could track it through that.
        He couldn't help wondering why Tracy Vetter would have had a
photo like this in her possession.  He closed his eyes and tried to
imagine Tracy's actions.  Carrying the photo around.  Worrying over
it.  Maybe wanting to ask Knight about it, but afraid to?  In the end
doing nothing with it.  Hiding evidence.
        He wondered what she had known.  Maybe she had gotten closer
than Myra Schanke thought.  The dynamics of a male-female partnership
were very different from that of a male-male partnership.  But still,
T.C. couldn't see Knight confiding in a rookie related to a
Commissioner.
        T.C. opened his eyes at that.  Was it evidence?  If so, from
what case?  Why would she hide it?  Had Tracy helped perpetuate
Knight's secret's, too?  Protecting her partner, perhaps?
        He laid it aside for further consideration and continued
looking for the financial statement.  Near the bottom he found it.  He
read it and silently whistled.  "Wow!" he murmured.  "Where'd you get
the dough, Knight?"
        The bottom line--three million dollars in various accounts.
It looked like Reese had requested the records and made some
notations on it. Knight'd had the money before coming to Metro,
possibly family money.  Except for his checking account, which went up
and down from paycheck to paycheck, with his living expenses, Knight
didn't seem to touch the bulk of his money, he was not a big spender.
He lived simply on what he was paid as a homicide detective for the
most part.
        Attached to it was the inventory of his possessions.  Myra
Schanke was right.  Knight was a collector.  The list was impressive.
Several archeological pieces, several sculptures and other objets
d'art, original paintings, excluding Knight's own.  That opened T.C.'s
eyes for a moment.  Knight was a painter.  The guy seemed to have a
lot of different talents, for his profile said he was also a pianist.
A good one.  T.C. checked the inventory and saw he owned a very
expensive grand piano.  But it was not the most expensive item by a
long shot.  They had found a very old painting of a woman that looked
like a 15th century Italian Renaissance piece.  The person making the
inventory had written in the margin two words.

                        "Unknown DaVinci?"

        T.C. raised his eyebrows and pulled at his mustache as he
thought about that.  A DaVinci would be priceless.  So how would
Knight come by one?  Three million wouldn't even begin to cover
it...unless that was just the known assets.  It was possible he had
more, like say, in a numbered Swiss account.
        "Knight," T.C. said, "you are one very interesting guy.  Why
don't you give me a break and hand me a clue or two that I can make
sense of, huh?"
        Shaking his head, he skimmed through the list, and smiled when
he saw what Knight had driven.  A '62 Cadillac convertible.
        "Well, well, well," T.C. said.  "A man after my own heart.
Stick with the classics, eh?"
        Attached was a series of photos of the valuable pieces.
T.C. flipped through them only half interested until he ran across the
purported DaVinci.  He stopped dead, and felt the blood drain from his
face--literally.  Looking around wildly, he grabbed the photo of
Knight and the exotic woman.  He compared them.
        "I'll be a...," words failed him.  Somehow he didn't think it
was a coincidence that it looked like the same woman.
        "What the hell is going on?" T.C. asked.  Weird didn't begin
to describe this case.

                                  *****

        The afternoon sun shone brightly as T.C. pulled to a stop
across the street from the home of the late, unlamented Raven.  The
Raven had been owned at one time by Janette DuCharme, according to the
city tax records.  Presumably 'the' Janette.  Now it was called Steel
Chains.  A place frequented by the young and frenetic, trying to find
themselves.  He remembered his college days.  His favorite haunt had
been the Bongo Drum Bar.  The tables had been covered with Butcher
paper, and crayons had been provided for the artistic.  Other than
that, there hadn't been much there besides the guitar players playing
for tips.  It had been the poor college student's hangout.  Obviously
he was a little challenged in up-scale clubs.
        He slipped out of the Porsche and ran across the street.
Technically he was investigating the whereabouts of Phillip Anson on
the preceding day.  He was suspect Numero Uno in the attempted
homicide they had waded into on Front Street.  But, this was sort of
on the way--okay not at all on the way--and he wanted to see if he
could pick up any vibrations.
        The door banged shut with an echo as he entered.  It was so
dark he had to stand there and let his eyes adjust.  It was as bad as
a movie theater.  Gradually the place began to reveal details, and he
made his way down the stairs to the bar.
        The bartender eyed him with a complete lack of interest.
        "The owner or manager here, by any chance?" T.C. asked.
        The bartender nodded towards the back, his earring glinting
in the dim lighting.
        T.C. found the door more by feel that sight, and slipped into
a corridor lit by a light bulb of less than adequate wattage.  The
door at the end of the hallway bore the title manager.  T.C. knocked.
        "Yeah, what is it, now?" a surly voice asked.
        T.C. opened the door and poked his head in.  He held up his
badge.  "Detective Davis, Metro P.D.  I was wondering if you could
help me?"
        "We ain't doing nuthin' illegal, here," a bald-headed,
over-weight man with a cigarette glued to his lip, blustered.
        "I'm not here to talk about your club's activities,"
T.C. interjected.  "I'm actually interested in trying to trace down
anyone who might have known the owner of this club when it was the
Raven.  And since that's a tall order, I'd even settle for someone who
used to work here, then."
        The guy scratched his two-day growth.  "What Raven?" he asked.
        "This club used to be called the Raven, until about eight-nine
years ago," T.C. said patiently.  "I'm trying to trace the owners, and
I'm starting here.  With you. Know anything, Mr...?"
        "Do I look like I know anything?  Hell no.  And it's Jahnke.
So if you don't mind?" Jahnke said, irritation making his voice
strident.
        "Well, actually," T.C. said delicately, "I do.  I have a
couple of questions.  And if you answer them, I won't look into your
club's activities."
        "Is that a threat?"
        "Oh no.  Absolutely not.  Just a statement."
        Jahnke looked at him in anger.  T.C. couldn't decide whether
good sense or emotion would win out.  But finally he put his pen down
and asked.
        "What do want to know?"
        "How long have you been the manager here, for starters?"
        "Three years."
        T.C. waited, but he said nothing more.  "Well, that's
succinct, anyway.  How long has Steel Drums been operating?"
        "About nine years."
        "Great!  Now we're getting somewhere.  Do you know who the
previous owner was?"
        "Hell no.  Why should I?" Jahnke asked, his temper flaring.
        "Does the owner?"
        "How should I know?"
        "I thought you might be in his confidence," T.C. responded
feeling a little irritated himself.  "Why don't you just give me his
name, and I'll take it up with him."
        "Fine," Jahnke said and pulling open his drawer he found a
business card and handed it to T.C.  "That all?"
        "Just about.  Anyone happen to have worked here all that
time?"
        Jahnke stared at him hard, and then on an exhale of hot air
replied, "Yeah, we got a bartender that has.  His name is Curtis."  He
glanced at his watch.  "In fact, he ought to be here by now.  Now you
done?"
        "Yeah, I'm done.  I really enjoyed this little tete-a-tete.
Let's not do it again," T.C. said and left.

End Part 7

Not even a thank you.
  -- LaCroix, Baby Baby

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 8 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997


        He looked at the information Jahnke had given him with little
hope.  The place was owned by Everett Cope.  Cope owned a lot of
Toronto.  It was highly unlikely he had even come within a right angle
of the previous owner.  He did most of his transactions through his
overblown law firm.  But maybe Curtis would pan out.  He walked out
of the dimly lit hall into the dimmer room, and by dint of focusing
hard, was able to see the bartender lounging behind the bar.  In a few
strides he reached the bar.
        "Is Curtis here?" T.C. asked.  The bartender looked at him
with as little interest as before.  T.C. began to wonder what
combination of drugs he was taking, when he nodded and pointed behind
T.C. to a booth.  T.C. looked over his shoulder, got his bearings and
pushed off.  "Thanks."
        He made to his way quietly to where a man sat in a booth,
working.
        "Are you Curtis?" T.C. asked.
        A dark-eyed man in his mid-thirties looked up from the account
books he was working on.  His hair was pulled back into a sleek
pony-tail.  "Yeah, who wants to know?"
        T.C. pulled his badge out.  "I'm Detective Davis, and I'm
hoping you might be able to help me."
        Curtis raised an eyebrow and gestured at the other side of the
booth.  "I guess it depends on what you want, Detective."
        T.C. slid into the booth.  "What I'm looking for is someone
who used to come here when this place was called the Raven.  You're
the closest I've come, so far.  Your 'manager' tells me you've worked
here ever since Steel Drums opened.  Which would have been soon after
the Raven closed.  Any chance you used to come here, then?"
        Curtis looked at him for a moment and shook his head.  "Man,
that is not at all what I thought you'd want to know about."  He
laughed in amusement.  "Yeah, I used to come to the Raven.  In fact, I
worked here as a bartender for the last six months it was open.  That
was why I was available when it changed owners.  Why?"
        "I'm investigating a disappearance that took place a little
over nine years ago.  In fact, it occurred about two weeks after the
Raven closed.  One of the people who disappeared was apparently a
close friend of the owner.  Janette DuCharme.  I'm hoping to learn a
little more about her."
        Curtis looked at him a little puzzled.  "When I worked here, it
was owned by a guy.  Mr. LaCroix.  You sure you got the right place?
        T.C. in surprise, pulled out his notes and squinted at them in
the dim light.  "Yeah, I thought so. But tell me about this guy,
anyway."
        "He was scary, man.  That's what I remember most.  That and
the fact that he was a radio talk-show guy.  The Nightcrawler, I
think.  He used to broadcast from here."  Curtis shook his head.  "The
place was pretty down and wild.  It was a grunge place.  Lot of weird
types.  Weirder than it is now, that's for sure."
        T.C. struggled to keep his face from landing on the table at
the news.
        "The Raven was owned by the Nightcrawler?  Is that right?"
        Curtis nodded.
        "What did you say his name was?" T.C. asked.
        "LaCroix.  Lucien LaCroix.  Normally I'm not good with names,
but that guy was unforgettable.  Had a lot of negative energy flowing
around him.  He was a fair boss, but if you crossed him--he was
scary.  Didn't get mad, but he could scare you spitless."
        T.C. tried to imagine Knight hanging around a grunge
nightclub, and failed.  Probably he had come here to see the
Nightcrawler.  But he was supposed to have hung with the woman.  Then
he realized that had been during Schanke's time.  There was almost
nine months between Schanke's death and Knight's disappearance.
        "By any chance, did the club change owners in the last year it
was in operation?" T.C. asked.
        Curtis thought about it while he scratched his chin.  "Don't
know, but when you say that, it does remind me the place got remodeled
about three-four months before I started working here.  Before that it
wasn't so low, you know.  But I couldn't tell you who was in charge.
It was a long time ago, you know.  I only came here a few times before
the makeover.  Sorry."
        "That's okay," T.C. said with a smile.  "Do you remember what
station LaCroix broadcast for?"
        "Oh yeah, that's easy.  CERK.  I can tell you he made a big
impression on me.  Strange guy."
        "Do you remember if he had any close friends that
would drop by?"
        Curtis thought for a while.  "Not really.  Well, hang on a sec.
There was this blonde dude who would come in and see him.  The word
was to treat the guy like he owned the place.  I guess he was somebody
special.  But I wouldn't recognize him from Adam, you know."
        "That's okay, Curtis.  You are being incredibly helpful.  You
may have just made my day."
        "Yeah?" Curtis asked with a smile.
        "Yeah.  Oh, do you happen to remember why the Raven closed
down?"
        "Wow.  Yeah.  Couldn't forget that.  There was a body found in
the beer fridge.  Without the head.  The head was gift-wrapped or
something and Mr. LaCroix found it.  There was a major investigation
and he got hauled in for questioning.  He was the kind of guy that
just looked guilty, you know.  But they released him.  He was planning
on letting things cool a bit and then reopen, but he never did.  He
just sent us all notice that the club was closing permanently, and
gave us a month's salary in lieu.  It was really nice of him."
        "Did he give any reason why he decided not to open?"
        "Nah.  At least not to anyone I knew."
        "Hmmm.  Okay.  Curtis, one last thing.  Was there anything
unusual or out of the ordinary about the Raven or it's clientele?"
        "Man, are you kidding?  There was like an inner circle of
people that came here.  They would go to Bryan or Miklos for their
drinks.  Some house special, but I never got to try it--you had to
have some kind of credentials or know the secret password--or
something.  I used to think they had some kind of drug in it or
something, because the people who got it were one weird set of
people."
        "Really?  Did they stand out in any way?"
        "Yeah, they all did.  Once you knew about it.  They all had
this lean and hungry look.  Like they'd eat you for dinner.  What was
even stranger was none of them ever came back when the place
reopened.  It had to be more than just a really fine wine, if you know
what I mean."
        "Yeah, I do.  You don't know if the blonde was one
of the inner circle, do you?
        Curtis thought about it for a moment.  "I think he was.  I seem
to remember him drinking the stuff, but it's a long time ago."
        T.C. nodded.  It was a *long* time ago.  He was amazed at how
well people remembered the events of nine years ago.  He was hard
pressed sometimes to remember what happened last week.
        "Thanks, Curtis," he said, "Would you mind letting me know
where I can reach you in case I have any more questions?"
        "No.  Here let me give you my card," Curtis said, and dug into
his shirt pocket to produce a psychedelic card.
        T.C. took it gingerly.  It was so neon bright, he was afraid
it might burn him.  He thrust it quickly in his pocket.
        "Thanks, again.  I really appreciate it!" T.C. said and left.
Glancing at his watch, he decided he'd better apply some speed.  He'd
spent longer there than he intended.  If he was to get any info on
Anson before his shift ended, he'd have to hustle.  Problem was, he
didn't want to research Anson.  He wanted to go off and think about
the implications of what Curtis had told him.  Janette had apparently
sold the club to this LaCroix--who just happened to be the
Nightcrawler.  It was beginning to be a very tight little circle of
friends.  And apparently, they catered to a very specific kind of
people under the guise of doing business with the world.  What kind of
people?  Who and why?  And what was Nick's connection?  What was going
on?  T.C. had a feeling he was getting closer to the secrets.  Perhaps
the Raven had been pivotal.  It was certainly interesting how it
closed down when Knight vanished.  Too pat.  Certainly no coincidence.
He wondered about the murder that Curtis had mentioned.  It was time to
take a peek at some of Knight's last case files.  How had Knight
handled his buddy being arrested on suspicion?  He couldn't wait to
find out.
        "Damn it, Knight.  Can't you give me even one easy clue?  How
about a freebie?  Just one!" T.C. muttered as he pulled the Porsche
into traffic.

                                  *****

        Jack came back from the morgue to find T.C. typing search
commands as he held the phone in place with his shoulder.  He hadn't
seen him that multi-plexed in a long time.  Curiously he walked behind
T.C. to see what he was working on.  The search was for any
information on Lucien LaCroix.  Jack raised his eyebrows.  There were
no other fields filled in besides the name.  Not much to go on.
        "New suspect in our attempted homicide?" he asked.
        T.C. glared at him, and then suddenly turned his attention to
the voice coming from the phone.  "Yeah, I'll wait.  I know.  Thanks."
        He looked at Jack.  "No, it's not a suspect in the Gruder
case, this is one of Knight's buddies.  Elusive doesn't begin to cover
it."
        "Yeah.  Well, don't let Mitchell catch you."
        "It's not a problem.  I'm working on Anson's whereabouts right
now."
        "The phone call?"
        "Yeah.  He might be...well, look at that.  At last!" T.C. said
as the search began to scroll data up the screen.  Lucien LaCroix had
begun paying taxes in Toronto in 1993.  His address was in a posh
apartment building in downtown Toronto.  Sometime in 1995 he moved.
His address was then listed as the Raven.  Coincidentally he paid
taxes on the Raven in 1996.  Then he seemed to have stopped paying.
No other payments were shown for anywhere in Canada.  The only other
piece of information was a birth date: 3/21/47.
        "What?  You only pay taxes in Toronto?  Where you been,
LaCroix?  Out of the country?  Are you an immigrant?  Geez, why can't
I find anything of use, here?  Well, at least I have another address
to check out," T.C. muttered.
        "So who is this guy, anyway," Jack asked, curious.
        "According to Don Schanke via Myra, the closest thing Knight
had to family.  According to an ex-employee of his, a very scary
dude.  According to CERK radio, one of the most innovative talk-show
hosts they ever had.  According to me, a pivotal character in the
plot, and someone who was using an assumed identity.  I can't find
anything on him in Canada, anywhere.  Yet his tax return says he's a
Canadian born and bred.  I tell you, Jack.  Somebody is lying here and
it isn't the government."
        Jack shoved some papers aside and perched on T.C.'s desk.  "So
why do you think he's pivotal?"
        "Because...  Yeah.  Mr. Keil?" T.C. said as the phone
suddenly got his attention again.  "I'm Detective Thomas Davis with
the Queen Street precinct.  We are trying to locate Phillip Anson.  I
understand you might know where he is? ... Why?  He may have been
involved in the commission of a major felony.  ...  Yes. ... It would
be in his and your best interest to help us.  Really?  Where?"
T.C. grabbed a scratch pad and began scribbling.  Jack read over his
shoulder.  Logan Avenue, near Withrow Park.
        T.C. hung up.  "Well, shall we go see if we can find Phillip
Anson and bring him in for questioning.  Seems his friend has an
apartment that Phillip asked if he could use for a while."
        "Let's go.  My car?"
        "No.  Thank you very much.  I've got the Porsche running
again," T.C. retorted.
        "Ah, James Bond is back with us," Jack said knowingly as they
left the precinct.

End Part 8

I'm in search of an overall explanation.
I know Captain.  I could make something up.
  -- Cohen and Schanke, Baby Baby

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 9  - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

Chapter 5
Deep Water...

        The following afternoon, T.C. nervously opened the door to
Commissioner Stonetree's office.  His secretary, a calm-looking woman
somewhere near fifty, with graying hair, looked at him enquiringly from
behind her cherry wood desk.  "May I help you?"
        "Uh, yeah.  I have an appointment to see Commissioner
Stonetree.  I'm Detective Thomas Davis."
        "Have a seat, Detective.  I'll let the Commissioner know you
are here."  She rose and disappeared into the inner office.
        T.C. sat down in a soft leather chair, and wondered if this
was a very good idea, after all.  Maybe he should have started with
Captain Reese, but he wanted to leave him until last.  The more he
understood about Knight and his background, the better he would be
able to judge what Reese had to say, and whether he was saying it
truthfully.  Reese was rising rapidly to the top of his short list of
people in a position to white-wash the file.  T.C. knew he would have
to be careful, and being careful required lots of preparation.  So bad
idea or not, here he was waiting to talk with Commissioner Stonetree
about one of his Detectives.
        The secretary came back out and smiled at T.C.  "Come on in,
Detective," she said.  As T.C walked across the floor, feeling the
thick carpet give slightly under his feet, she asked, "Would you like
something to drink?"
        T.C. nearly asked for a beer, but thought better of it.
"A coke would be great, thanks."  Then he entered the Lion's den.
Stonetree rose and shook T.C.'s hand with his big beefy hand.
        "Have a seat, Detective Davis," he said calmly.  T.C. sat down
and surveyed the Commissioner.  He was a big man with a fringe of
graying hair.  But his face was a good face.  It exuded trust and
honesty.  "Now, what can I do for you, Detective?"  Stonetree asked as
the secretary reappeared with a coke and placed it on the desk near
T.C.
        "Commissioner, to be really honest, I'm investigating a
nine-year old case in my spare time."
        Stonetree leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow.
        "I'm investigating the disappearance of Detective Knight and
Dr. Lambert.  I was hoping you could give me some information about
them."
        Stonetree took a deep breath and sat up.  "Your Captain know
about this, Detective?" he asked.
        T.C. nodded.  "Yes, sir.  He doesn't mind as long as it doesn't
interfere with my current duties."  Feeling a little jumpy, he
swallowed a good portion of his coke.
        Stonetree nodded at that.  "Well, this takes me down memory
lane.  Nick Knight.  I was really sorry to lose him to Cohen.  He was
unpredictable, but a hell of a Detective.  It kind of leaves an ache
in my gut to think we lost him and Lambert like that."  Stonetree
shook his head in regret.  "It's always bothered me, them disappearing
like that.  Didn't make any sense.  But it wasn't my investigation,
much as I wanted it to be.  It'd sure be nice to know what happened."
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes focused somewhere in the
past.  Then he looked at T.C.  "What do you want to know?"
        T.C. sat up, grateful he wasn't being kicked out summarily.
"I understand that Knight transferred here from Chicago.  Do you
remember the details of why he transferred here?"
        Stonetree hitched himself up a little straighter and thought
for a moment.  "As I recall, and my memory is not what it used to
be, it came through the usual channels.  I'm sure I was notified I was
receiving a new Detective and to put him to work someplace.  The only
thing different was that he wanted the night shift on a permanent
basis and he wanted to work alone.  Never had anyone who wanted to
work night shift permanently before, you know.  It caught me off
guard, I guess.  I was so happy to have him, that I went along with
the working alone thing.  It went a little against my instincts, but
he did okay.  Actually he did really well.  He had an uncanny ability
right from the start to solve cases.  I wish I had instincts like
his."
        T.C. nodded in agreement.  "Yeah, everything that I've read
about his cases has made me just a little jealous.  I thought I was
pretty good, until I read some of the case profiles."
        Stonetree smiled at that.  "He was the best damn detective I
ever had.  I fought like hell to stop that transfer, but I lost.  I
used to wonder if they had stayed whether things might have turned out
a lot different, but there's not much point in wishing.  They went to
Cohen and the rest is history.
        "As for why he transferred to Toronto, I can't say I know.  If
he ever told me, I don't remember.  Getting old, I'm afraid,"
Stonetree said with a grin.
        T.C.smiled sympathetically.  "Do you happen to know when
Knight met Lambert?"
        Stonetree paused and thought about it.  "I was going to say
they met in the course of work, but I don't think that's right.  I
have a vague memory of introducing them right after he started and
Dr. Lambert being really surprised.  If I recall right, I think she
had met him somewhere around Toronto before he started working here.
She was really amazed he was a cop, and that's what stands out.  So I
think they met by accident someplace and got talking, but for some
reason he didn't tell her he was a cop.  I dunno, maybe he thought it
would be funny."
        T.C. took that in thoughtfully.  "Do you think anyone might
remember anymore about that?"
        "Hmmm, maybe Grace Balthazar would.  She was Natalie's
assistant back then.  She quit not long after Natalie's disappearance.
It really shook her up.   She works at Mercy Faith, I think."
        "Thanks, I'll check that out.  What about Knight's
personality?  What kind of personality did he have?  Was he a joker,
or serious or what?"
        Stonetree leaned back, and his chair gave a slight squawk.
T.C. felt his pocket, but he wasn't carrying any WD-40, so he let it
go.
        "A lot of the time he was somber, really serious.  Solving the
case was really important to him.  It was almost like he was on some
kind of mission.  Proving something.  He was very aloof and
professional with the others--except for Natalie.  He had a real
soft spot for her.  Used to catch him kissing her on the cheek or the
forehead all the time.  He treated her like she was family.  Course
Natalie never really looked at him that way.  I think she was always
interested, it just took her a while to figure it out. And, of course,
it took him even longer to figure out he was interested.
        "After I partnered him with Schanke, though, he lightened up a
lot.  Schanke was good for him, drew him out, made him laugh at
himself.  They used to pull some pretty good pranks on each other,"
Stonetree said placidly, remembering.  "It was one of the best
partnership I ever made.  You wouldn't think it looking at them.
Knight was sort of a real-life Don Johnson."
        T.C. looked puzzled for a moment.  "Oh, you mean like in Miami
Vice or Nash Bridges?"
        "Miami Vice.  He really had that slick grunge look.  Schanke,
on the other hand was sort of laid-back and rumpled.  A little
overweight; he was really fond of souvlaki, donuts, and any kind of
junk food.  Knight, on the other, used to order double hamburgers and
never seemed to gain an ounce.  That was before he went on that
special diet to try and help his allergy problems.  But anyway,
Schanke made him laugh; he probably also irritated the hell out of
him, but in the end, those two really bonded.  Maybe because they were
so opposite."
        T.C. made a couple of notes, and then asked, "What can you
tell me about this allergy of his?  I understand he was allergic to
sunlight or something?"
        "Yeah.  I don't remember the details now, but he had some
exotic disease, and his body didn't manufacture some protein or other
that protects you against ultra-violet.  If he went out in the
daytime, he had to be completely covered up.  He would burn in
seconds, blisters, third-degree burns, the works.  Prolonged exposure
could be fatal, but he sure didn't let it stop him.  I don't know how
he ever managed to pass his physicals and do his training, but he did.
Good thing, too.  He still tops my list as best detective.  If he
could have been assigned to work his disappearance, *he'd* have solved
it.  He just had this ability to figure things out."
        "You mentioned he went on a special diet?  What was that
about?" T.C. asked.
        "Oh, he was trying to find a cure, or a least something that
would help free him from being so vulnerable to sunlight.  Kind of
funny, because he was the least vulnerable guy, physically, around.
He didn't ever seem to get beat up or bruised or even sick.  Anyway,
he went on this protein diet about the time he started working with
Schanke.  I don't know if it was helping or not, but he was pretty
faithful about it.  He went cold turkey on the regular food."
        T.C.'s brow furrowed as he thought that one through.  He made
a note, it might require a little more thinking about before he was
done.  It didn't quite match up with what Sara had said.  Then he
looked at Stonetree seriously, "Was Knight the kind of cop you could
really trust--with your life?"  He asked the question because there
were cops who were good at their jobs, but you somehow never really
trusted them.
        Stonetree stared back at him.  "Yeah.  He saved my life.
Couple of times.  Between his uncanny instincts to figure out what was
going down and his ability to be in the right place in the right time,
he saved my bacon.  Didn't save me from getting shot, but at least it
wasn't fatal...

End Part 9

You in charge here?
I'm Captain Stonetree.  You talk to me.
  -- Hostage-taker and Stonetree, 1966

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 10 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997


        "This one time, I got involved in a shoot-out.  Forensics
couldn't find any evidence to prove my story that I'd shot in
self-defense.  IA was on my case, and I was having a psychological
meltdown.  Anyway, I finally figured out that the bullets--the
evidence--were in a car that got towed, so I went out to the dump to
find them.  The kid that got away came after me there, and would have
killed me, but Knight came out of nowhere at the last second and
knocked the kid down.
        "He came and saw me later, when I was practicing over at the
gunnery range, and we had a little talk about ghosts and not letting
stuff like that haunt you.  I asked him if he'd ever shot anybody in
the line of duty, and he said no.  But he sure seemed to understand
the guilt that goes with taking a life.  I've had plenty of time to
reflect on that conversation--and hundreds of others we had.  Now, I
tend to think that somehow, somewhere, he had some experience that
gave him a lot of empathy and understanding--and an incredible desire
to stop people from killing and destroying.  Like I said, it was like
he had a mission.  But I trusted him.  Still would.  No matter what
anybody said about him."
        "Did they say something about him?  After his disappearance,
that is?"
        "Yeah.  He had a lot of detractors.  He stepped on some toes
pretty good.  He didn't care, as long as he got the perp.  Politics
wasn't something he was interested in, or for that matter, a
promotion.  He could have cared less.  Anyway, there were some who
took the opportunity to be pretty nasty, once he wasn't there to
defend himself.
        "Nick had made himself pretty unpopular with a couple of IA
types.  He made them look like idiots--well, actually they were
idiots--and they implied he was dirty.  They figured his
extra-curricular activities had caught up with him." Stonetree snorted
at that.  "What the hell did they know?  Nick was the most honest cop
I ever met.  He wouldn't stop until he found the truth.  Period.  He
made me face that fact when he disobeyed my orders over the Fiori
case.  I told him to drop it, and would he?  No.  He knew that
something was wrong.  And he was right.  That was very hard for me.
The Fiori's were good friends.  But they were living a charade and
Nick knew it.  Truth was his God.  He always tried to do the right
thing, and that sometimes put him at odds with everybody.
        "There were also some other Detectives who were jealous and
they used the opportunity to gloat.  Fools," Stonetree said placidly.
"Never realized that spreading dirt about Nick was the worst thing
they could do for their career.  You don't knock a cop who's done
what Nick had done, gone through the losses Nick had, and then
vanished like that."
        T.C. took it all in.  His picture of Knight had been getting
pretty heavy on the hinky side, so it was good to hear somebody round
out his character and remind him that he was still just a human
being.  Somebody with faults and virtues, good and bad.  But still he
had to ask, "I've talked to a lot of people about Nick, read a lot
about him, and everyone and everything seems to indicate that he was
different--that he had a charisma or presence.  That he was larger
than life.  Is that true?  What was he like?"
        Stonetree was silent for a long time.  He looked at T.C. as if
measuring him up.  T.C. was beginning to wonder if he'd failed some
test when Stonetree finally responded.
        "Yeah, he was different.  I don't know how to describe it.  He
was sort of like a magnet.  When he was around, things happened.  There
was a natural tendency to gravitate towards him.  Whether you liked
him or not.  Call it what you will, he definitely had it.
        "And he could look at you and without a word make you change
your mind about something.  He could be very intimidating, if you let
him.  Not that he was intentionally trying, mind you.  And his temper,
when he lost it, was an experience you didn't want to have.  Luckily,
he seldom lost it.  He was one of the most controlled people I knew.
Probably because his temper was so dangerous.
        "And women--it was amazing.  We'd get a new female officer in,
and almost without saying, she'd make a run at him.  He could have
been the western world's greatest playboy, the way they acted.  But
he would just sit them down and tell them to forget it.  He was very
kind and careful about it.  Did it privately, but word got around.
Women talk, you know.  Anyway he had to tell a lot of them to go away.
For a while, some people wondered if he had a different sexual
orientation, but when Schanke started working with him, we found out
different.  Schanke was a blabbermouth."  Stonetree grinned at the
memory.  "For a while he had something with that woman that ran the
nightclub.  I forget it's name."
        "The Raven," T.C. supplied.
        "Yeah, that's it.  Anyway, Knight would go in there with
Schanke tagging along to get information, and he would apparently have
a serious lip-lock with this woman.  I don't remember her name,
either."
        "Janette."
        Stonetree looked at T.C. with respect.  "Well, Detective, you
do seem to have done your homework, haven't you?"
        T.C. grinned, and pushed his glasses up.
        "Anyway, Schanke couldn't believe how public Knight was with
her.  So that answered everybody's questions about him.  He was
already involved.  He might have been willing to show public
affection, but he sure as hell never would talk about his private
life."
        "I've already noticed that," T.C. agreed.  "His reticence
about his personal life has made it difficult to find a lot out about
him," T.C. said. "However, it appears, he and Dr. Lambert became very
close over time.  Natalie seems to have ousted Janette, who apparently
left Toronto sometime in the summer or fall of 1995.  From what you've
said, this relationship was developing while Knight was at the 27th
precinct, is that correct?"
        Stonetree smiled at that.  "Yeah, there was a pool on them.
Everyone had a dollar in it, even me.  Like I said, Knight was always
really friendly with her, and vice versa.  I think Natalie fell for
Nick first.  And somewhere along the way, he fell for her; it was
developing when he was transferred.  But they seemed to have had some
problems.  Kind of sad, really.  They ought to have been married and
all.  I suspect it was Knight more than Natalie.  But whatever it was,
I'm sure she knew it all.  She had just about complete access to his
life.  More than once when she was on call, they found her at Knight's
place.  She was working with him on his allergy problems, and if
anyone knew why he was in a mood, it would be Natalie.  She would take
him off to an interrogation room and talk to him, and when he came
back, he'd be a lot more reasonable, but not always, mind you.
        "I guess I kind of wandered there.  The most important
pointer, to me, how close they were, was how Nick was there for
Natalie when her friend committed suicide, and the fact that when she
walked out of her office that last night, she went to his place rather
than home.  He was home for Natalie.  I know that after Schanke was
killed, they really relied on each other to get through it.  Even
though Knight wasn't working for me anymore, I used to keep my eye on
him, especially after Schanke died.  I know they had a lot of
problems, but it was a sign of all the stress they were dealing with
because they were closer."
        T.C. nodded in agreement.  "I just wish one of them would have
been a journal writer.  It would have made it a lot easier to figure
out what the dynamics of the relationship were and how that played
into their disappearance."
        "Yeah," Stonetree agreed.  "I've spent a lot of time trying to
figure out what happened over the years.  It's kind of a sore spot
with me.  I've often wondered whether there was any relation between
the suicide and Vetter's death and what happened in the loft that
night."
        "What do you think happened?" T.C. asked curiously.
        "I really don't know.  But since there were no bodies, that
means one of two things to me.  One of them killed the other and then
disposed of the other's body and conveniently disappeared without a
trace, or somebody else killed them and disposed of the bodies.  And I
can tell you, I can't see Natalie killing Nick, and while Nick had a
temper, I can't see him laying a hand on Natalie.  Nor can I see
either one of them disappearing so completely--especially without
touching their money.  So that leaves someone else as the killer.  But
I don't have a clue who would want to kill them both.
        "I think Natalie walked in on something and saw too much, and
was killed because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time,"
Stonetree shrugged, "but that is just speculation.  I really hope,
Detective, that you can find the truth."
        "I do too," T.C. said, and shut his notebook.  "Well, I've
taken enough of your time, Commissioner.  Thank you very much."
        Stonetree pointed a finger at him.  "You have any more
questions, you just call.  Okay?"
        T.C. stood and shook hands with Stonetree.  "Okay."
        As he walked out the door, Stonetree said quietly.  "You solve
this, Detective, you hear?  For them, and for us."
        T.C. turned and looked back at Stonetree.  "I'll do my best,
Sir.  I didn't know them, but I feel like I did.  I want to find them
and bring them home, too."
        Stonetree nodded, satisfied, and T.C. let himself out.

                                  *****

        T.C. left Stonetree's office with a burning desire to drop
everything in pursuit of Nicholas B. Knight (he still didn't know what
the B stood for), but as he reached his car, his phone demanded his
attention.  It was Jack.  There was body in the subway, and he was
invited.  Biting back his frustration, he got in the Porsche and
headed for the crime scene.  Knight would have to wait a little
longer.  But then he reasoned as he rolled down the windows and let
the wind clear his head, he'd been waiting nine years, what was one
more day?

                                  *****

        At precisely 9:20 p.m., T.C. walked in his front door, tired to
the bone.  The subway murder had proved messy, ugly, and complicated.
A zillion witnesses had seen nothing.  Typical, really, but
frustrating.  Riders were concerned and edgy.  There had been a
similar murder two months ago.  Someone in the 43rd precinct had
handled it, but since there were so many similarities, everybody was
thinking serial.  T.C. hated that.  Why did people go on killing
sprees?  He had never understood it, and never would.
        Julie looked up from where she was helping Mike with his
homework.  Probably his Calculus.  That would be interesting.  Julie
was not a fan of Calculus.  Mike looked up, too, relieved.
        "Hi, Dad, what do you know about differentiation?"
        T.C. shrugged off his jacket and joined them at the table.
"Enough I guess, but how about I get something to eat first.  My last
meal was at lunch."
        Julie smiled sympathetically.  "I saved dinner, I'll just heat
it in the microwave.  It'll be ready in a minute."  She headed for the
fridge talking over her shoulder.
        "Were you on that subway murder?  I assumed it might be you
because of where it was, and then you didn't come home."
        "Yeah.  That was me.  Being brilliant.  I hate to say it, but
it might be really time-consuming."
        Julie popped a plate in the microwave.  "Oh, why is that?"
        "It looks like it's tied to another one a couple of months
ago."
        "Oh, dear..."
        "Yeah."
        They sat in companionable silence while the microwave hummed.
Mike muttered over his homework and took a peek to see how long it
would be before real help arrived.
        The microwave beeped, and Julie pulled the plate out and
placed it in front of T.C.  He had to admit it looked good, but then a
dead rabbit would have looked good by now.  He was starving.  He dug
in.  He thought briefly about the case, but waved it goodbye for the
night.  Between the long day at work and the long night of math in
front of him, it would just have to wait.  Fate was conspiring against
him, just when it was getting really interesting.

                                  *****

End Part 10

Did he have any friends, enemies, any relationships?
Probably all three.
  -- Schanke and Monica, Feeding the Beast

------------------------------

Silent Echoes  Part 11 - See Part 1 for Disclaimers and Notes
by Dorothy Elggren
copyright August 1997

        T.C. ran his finger down the board looking for the Pathology
Lab.  It was in the basement.  Why was it, he wondered, that Pathology
Labs always seemed to be hidden in basements?  Was there some
conspiracy here?  Perhaps there was a world-wide agreement that they
all had to be underground.
        He took the elevator and followed the big gray and white signs
to the Lab.  Three people looked up in surprise (didn't anybody ever
visit?) as he walked in.
        "Uh, I'm looking for Grace Balthazar?"
        A curly-headed brunette pointed towards a door.  "She's
working in there."
        Well, T.C. thought, this is a really talkative bunch!  He made
a beeline for the door and stepped into another lab which looked
pretty much like the last one.  An amply-built woman with warm mahogany
skin was humming to herself as she looked at a slide.  Gray was
beginning to dust her hair.  T.C. cleared his throat and she looked
up.
        "Grace Balthazar?"
        "Yes."
        "I'm Detective Davis, I called you earlier..."
        "Oh, yes, come in Detective.  Have a seat."  Grace gestured to
a chair with four books stacked on it.  "Just dump the books on the
floor, they aren't doing any good anyway."
        T.C. complied with a grin.  "Thanks."
        "So, you want to know about Natalie Lambert?"
        "Yes, I do."
        "Why?"
        "Because I want to find out what happened.  I *want* to solve
this case.  I *want* to bring them home."
        Grace looked at him over her bifocals, skeptically.
        "Son, they've been gone a long time.  What makes you think you
can solve now, what they couldn't solve when the blood was still
fresh?"
        T.C. shrugged.  "I don't know.  Maybe because I'm impartial.
Back then, everybody was involved and unable to separate their
emotions from the events.  And because back then," T.C. said
deliberately, "somebody made sure it wasn't solved."
        Grace sat up and looked at him severely.  "Why are you telling
me this?"
        "I don't know.  I think it's because you remind me of my Aunt
Thelma.  She could be trusted to do the right thing with the truth,
and I think you can, too."
        "Well, that may be so, but it's still a long time ago.
Nothing you can do will bring them back."
        "That's true, but it's still important.  It doesn't matter
whether it's a week, nine years or sixty years."
        "What's sixty years got to do with anything?"
        "Did you learn about the Hindenburg?"
        "Yes, everybody did.  It was one of those old airships that
caught on fire and burned up back in the thirties, didn't it?"
        T.C. nodded.  "There was a big explosion, it fell out of the
sky and a lot of people died.  And you know what?  They didn't know
why it did.  People thought it might have been sabotage, but they
didn't know for sure.  Here's the interesting part, about eight
years ago, some NASA scientists finally determined the cause.  The
lacquer they used to varnish the Hindenburg was as flammable as rocket
fuel.  The Hindenburg passed through a storm cloud where there was a
lot of static electricity.  All that was needed was a spark and boom!
The Hindenburg went up."
        "I'm sure there's a point to this," Grace said dryly, but with
interest.
        "The point is, that there are always people looking for the
truth when a disaster occurs.  They may not find the answer, the 'why'
right away.  Sometimes they may not even find it in the lifetime of
the survivors or family members.  But we do eventually find the
answers, because people keep looking.  And right now, there are still
people who knew Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert.  What happened to
them is a tragedy.  It's had as much impact here in Toronto as the
Hindenburg disaster.  We aren't going to stop trying to find out the
truth--we can't!  And your memories are important in helping me do
that."
        Grace smiled at him.  "Natalie would have liked you.  You are
a good arguer."  She shook her head and the crossed her arms across
her bosom.  "So what do you think I can tell you that isn't in those
reports and somebody else hasn't already told you?"
        T.C. felt an affinity for her.  Grace was a plain-spoken woman
with no use for dancing around difficult issues.
        "I'm hoping you can tell me how Natalie Lambert met Nick
Knight."
        Grace raised her eyebrows in surprise.  "Well, that isn't
exactly the penetrating type of question I was expecting, Detective."
        "But it's important."
        Grace's brow crinkled up. "Well, I don't know if I remember
for sure.  It's a..."
        "...long time ago," T.C. finished.
        She smiled.  "Guess you been hearing that a lot."
        "Yeah.  I have.  So?"
        "Do I know how they met?"
        "Yes."
        Grace thought for a few moments, moving back into her
memories.  "I don't know for sure, to be honest.  But it was before
Nick came to work at Metro.  That I'm certain of.  Natalie was a
really intelligent woman, and that, unfortunately meant a lot of men
were intimidated by her.  So she wasn't exactly dating, you know.  We
used to eat our lunch together, and I think it was over lunch one
night that she told me about Nick.  She was in this strange mood, kind
of high and excited. I'm sure I asked her what was going on, because
that wasn't like her.  She had a very even personality, which is why I
even remember this.  Anyway, it seems to me, if I remember this at all
correctly," Grace said with a knowing look, "that she was excited
because he was working on the force.  She was saying stuff like 'she
couldn't believe it' and 'he's a cop', and just giggling."
        Grace shook her head and laughed at the thought.  "It was very
out of character.  So I asked her what the scoop was, and she said
she'd met this guy--and that I'd never, ever believe how they met, but
it turned out he was a cop.  And she thought it was very funny,
especially that he was in homicide.  She just couldn't stop laughing.
I remember, now, asking her why and she said she it was a private
joke, something that just wouldn't make sense to me.  I suspect there
was more to it than that, but I don't suppose we'll ever know."
        "So," T.C. asked leaning on his chin on his hand, "there was
something unusual in the way they met?"
        "I'd say so.  But she wasn't talking.  In fact, she never
talked about her personal relationship with him.  It was kind of odd,
because she always at least gave some outline when she dated other
men--not that it was that often, mind you, but with Nick she was a
clam.  What with you asking questions, you make me think that there
was a reason for it."  Grace looked at T.C. severely.  "I'm not sure I
like having my memories redefined."
        T.C. shrugged, "Sorry."
        Grace swatted him playfully on the check.  "Oh, that's okay.
I'm just getting old."
        T.C. laughed, "Aren't we all...Grace, I hate to turn this
conversation serious, but I need to know about Natalie's state of mind
after her friend's suicide."
        Grace looked at him over her glasses again, her smile
disappearing.  "Well, you do like to dump water on a body, don't you?"
        Grace took a deep breath.  "Natalie was in shock.  It devastated
her.  She never saw it coming.  She had not been in close contact with
her, but they did see each other every couple of months.  She just had
no idea Laura was suicidal.  That her life was that empty of meaning.
I think it scared Natalie.  It scared her, that her life might be
empty, too.  If Nick hadn't been in her life, I think Natalie believed
that could have been her.  It was like she got hit with this
sledgehammer and she was looking at everything very differently."
        "Do you think it made her suicidal, or even homicidal?"
        Grace snorted and looked at T.C. like he needed a brain
transplant.  "No.  Absolutely not.  What she was, was lonely and
afraid she would end up alone."
        "I thought she and Nick were quite the couple." T.C. said
treading carefully.
        "Most people did.  But they had some problems.  Things seemed
to be going well for a while, but after Schanke's death, everything
fell apart.  Natalie was often unhappy and frustrated.  Why, exactly,
I don't know.  But I know unhappiness and frustrations when I see it.
And Nick was directly responsible.  In all fairness, I'm sure he was
dealing with a lot of pain and guilt over Schanke that probably
accounted for a good portion of it."
        "So, if she was concerned about being alone, why would she
quit like that?"
        Grace swallowed and seemed to lose her composure.  "I don't
know.  I've tried to understand it, and I can't.  I just don't know.
It was like something snapped.  I'm sorry I'm not more help, but I
wasn't there that night."  A tear slid down her cheek unchecked.
"I've often thought if I'd been there, maybe I could have talked some
sense into her, but I don't know.  I wasn't there, and I can't change
what happened by wishing--and believe me, Detective--I've wished a
lot."
        "The reports