Synopsis for : The Lambs Shall Suffer

Main Characters: Peter Caine and Kermit Griffin

Guests: The gang at the 101st, as well as a surprise guest star. Various and sundry villians as well as nice people will pop up from time to time as well.

Time line: Does not strictly follow the series, but doesn’t quite go into the AU catagory.

Storyline: A serial killer has a terrifying effect on Peter Caine’s life.

Warning--This story is not a Mary Poppins/happily-ever-after fairy tale. It has objectionable language and violence. It even has some adult content. Those who are faint-of-heart, turn back now.

The Lambs Shall Suffer -by shylo

Part 1

"Hey Pete, you still coaching that Pee Wee roller hockey league," Brodrick teased "or have you decided to start a new career as a pro?"

"Ha, Ha. Very funny, Brodrick," Peter Caine responded to the desk sergeants comment. He was trying to negotiate his way through the bullpen carrying a large sport bag and a couple of hockey sticks. "Oops, sorry, TJ" he apologized as he knocked a stack of folders off the young detective’s desk with one of the sticks.

"Why didn’t you leave that stuff in the Stealth?" Jody Powell questioned somewhat petulantly as she approached with a stack of her own files.

"The Stealth is in the shop getting a rear window replaced. Remember, the hostage situation at the bank. . . the guy with the Uzi? " Peter retorted, his patience wearing thin. "I caught a cab. I’ll pick it up after work tonight, but I wouldn’t have time to go back to my place and get my stuff. . . and we better not get tied up tonight, because the other coach isn’t going to be there either. If I don’t show on time, it’ll be just the rink manager and twenty very unhappy little kids."

"Okay, okay," Jody put her hands up in surrender. Peter had been running on the ragged edge lately, sharing his very limited spare time with a fledgling roller hockey team. He often left the precinct at quitting time, spent a couple of hours at the rink with the kids, then returned to his desk to finish paperwork. The schedule was beginning to show on his face. Dark circles lined his hazel eyes and fatigue dogged his every movement.

The caseload at the precinct had been heavy, too. It seemed as if crime had decided that now was the time to hit full force. The stack of cases on Peter’s desk was taller than Jody could remember. Her own files seemed to have become rabbits, multiplying faster than the eye could see.

Peter set the sports equipment down and ran a hand through his silken brown hair, combing it with his fingers. It was a nervous habit, one that indicated he was stressed. As much as he loved working with the kids, he was beginning to think that he had bitten off too large of a mouthful. The schedule he was keeping was leaving even less time for sleep than usual. It had been weeks since he had seen Annie or his foster sisters. Every time he saw the blinking light on his answering machine, he cringed, automatically feeling the guilt kick in at neglecting his foster mother. She needed him, too, with Paul gone. There were just too many places to be and not enough of him to be at all of them.

Strenlich noticed the detective deep in thought, and made his way across the crowded room. In his hands were more files.

**

The day had not gone well.

Peter and Jody spent three hours following up what turned out to be a false lead on the Johnson case. The murder of the dry cleaner was threatening to go perennial on the pair. Neither were willing to give in just yet, however. Thomas Johnson’s shop was just down the block from Peter’s apartment building. Peter had liked the man, and had often visited with him when he dropped off or picked up his cleaning. Tom was a hockey nut and loved to discuss the game at length with Peter. His murder had been a robbery gone bad. Tom’s wife, Jennifer, had gone to the store looking for him when he did not come home for supper. What she found was an empty cash register, the drawer open. . . and her husband lying atop a plastic-wrapped bundle of shirts.

Blood had been everywhere. Tom had not died easily. The robber must have been armed with a large kitchen knife, because there were stab wounds on both his arms and hands. *Defensive wounds,* thought Peter upon arriving at the crime scene. A bloody injury to the throat explained why no one had heard him shout. The final blows had been to his chest and abdomen.

As an added insult, the shirts had belonged to Peter. He was to have picked them up that evening before closing, but had gotten tied up with the roller hockey team and the precinct. He did not admit it to Jody, but he felt guilt over Tom’s death. If he had just gone to get his shirts, he might have been able to stop the robbery and save his friend. The vision of the dry cleaning man lying dead among his blood-soaked clothes haunted his nights and stole what little sleep he might have otherwise managed.

When the duo finally admitted that the tip was a bust, they headed back to the precinct to tackle the ever-mounting stack of paperwork on their perspective desks.

They were greeted at the door by Strenlich, with a folder in his hand. His usual air of indifference was missing.

"Powell, Caine, this one just came in. I tried to get you on your cell phone but I got that message about being away from the phone or out of service. . ." His eyes apologized as he handed the folder to Jody. "It’s a homicide at 3514 Hollister. Black and whites were called about five minutes ago."

"What aren’t you telling us?" Caine asked, his irritation evident in his voice. He drug his hand through his hair for the millionth time that day. He would be late for practice. That meant calling in a sub coach. . . again.

Strenlich hesitated. Peter had rarely seen his facade crack, but there were huge gaps in the ex-Marine’s composure. His voice broke as he uttered the words that all homicide cops dread. "It’s a kid."

[end part 1]

*************************************************************************

The Lambs Shall Suffer- by shylo

Part 2

The ride over to the crime scene was silent and tense. Peter had called the substitute coach on his cell phone while negotiating the twists and turns of residential streets. He drove faster than usual, but without the reckless abandon that was his trademark. Any pleasure he might have had at that moment was gone. . . stolen by three words. *It’s a kid.*

The street was lined with black and white units, their lights flashing blue and red against the early evening sky. One uniformed policeman was stringing the broad yellow "Do Not Enter" tape around the perimeter of the property. The house looked innocent enough, a pale blue suburban home with a mini van parked in the driveway and children’s toys strewn on the lawn. Peter stared at the bicycles and wondered silently which one belonged to the child he had come to see.

As he stepped out of the car, Peter glanced over at his partner. He could tell by her expression that she was deeply affected by the scene as well. Swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat, the detective put on his "game face" and prepared to enter the crime scene. The door stood open and the pair entered without knocking. Two uniformed policemen stood beside a couch near a short, overweight woman. Her face was buried in her hands, and sobs wracked her body. Dishwater blonde hair hung limply to her shoulders, and her body sagged, seeming ready to collapse into the cushions. One of the officers stepped away from the woman when he spotted Peter and Jody. He eyed their badges without seeming to, anything to distract him from the horror he had seen. The pain on his face rivaled that of the woman beside his partner. Peter recognized him as Jamie Teller, a five year veteran with the 101st.

"Petie, it’s a bad one," he whispered, not wanting to upset the civilian anymore, as if anything could be more upsetting than the loss of her child. "We got the call about 15 minutes ago. He’s a latch-key kid. The mother is divorced for the second time. She gets off about an hour after he gets out of school. The bus drops him off and he lets himself in. There are two other children, both younger. They are normally here, but this week they’re staying at their father’s house. The mother just got home from work today and was getting ready to take him to practice. She tried to call him for supper but he didn’t answer. She found him in his room. Upstairs, first room on the left. Forensics is up there now."

Jody took the lead. Something about the house, the mother was familiar to Peter and he unconsciously held back, trying to get a handle on what it was about the woman that made him think he had seen her before. His partner was inside the door and standing along side of the race car-shaped bed when he entered the room. Avoiding the inevitable, he glanced around, scanning the walls.

Peter didn’t feel his knees buckle. He staggered back against the wall without realizing that he had moved, unaware that all eyes in the room had focused on him. He did not hear the crash as a brass-colored plastic sports trophy tumbled off the dresser beside him. He didn’t see or hear anything but a single picture on the wall. . . a team picture of the Northern Dark Stars. . . his Pee Wee roller hockey team.

The air in the room grew too thick to breath. Peter clawed at his shirt collar, hoping that he would somehow get more oxygen by doing so. The officers and forensics people stepped toward him, almost as one, clearing his line of sight to the bed. There, dressed in his Northern Dark Stars game uniform, was nine-year-old Billy Grayson. Peter threw up his arms as if to shield his eyes, but he had already seen. His eyes had already indelibly etched on his mind the form of the young boy, clutching the hockey stick that Peter had given him. His face was unmarred with the exception of a neat, nearly bloodless hole in the center of his forehead. The boy’s sightless eyes stared into space, the light gone from them. On the headboard of the bed, a piece of paper hung, held by a single tack. On it was written the number "2" in red felt permanent marker. . . nothing else. . . just the single number.

Peter lost his struggle to maintain a professional detachment and bolted from the room. He fled blindly down the steps and out past the lawn, gasping for air as he went. He did not slow his flight until he reached the gray Police-issue sedan in which he and Jody had arrived. He didn’t notice. . . didn’t care. . . that all eyes were watching him. All he knew was that the child upstairs was one of his.

The distraught detective braced himself against the roof of the car, holding himself up by sheer will. His stomach rolled, threatening to expel what meager contents remained from his breakfast hours earlier. He was breathing too fast, and he knew that if he didn’t get himself under control, he would pass out. The blackness already danced at the edges of his vision. The pain in his chest was too sharp, though; the ache was too strong.

"Peter," a voice spoke from somewhere over his left shoulder. He did not turn to face his partner, but used her voice to focus on.

*Get a grip, Caine,* he chided himself. *You can’t help if you’re the one falling apart.*

"Peter?" Jody’s voice questioned again. She reached out to touch her partner, to give him comfort. He shrank from her touch, but his breathing slowed, and the urge to vomit subsided. He pushed away from the car, turning to face her. She was shocked to see how ashen his face was, and how wildly his eyes danced about. Whatever had caused the cop to flee the crime scene had shaken him to his soul.

"He-he-he’s one of m-my roller hockey team," Peter managed to get out, shivers suddenly taking control of his body. He shook violently, his teeth chattering. The detective wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to ward off the chills that originated deep within himself.

Jody jerked open the passenger door and steered Peter toward the seat. He didn’t resist, but rather appeared dazed. The shaking continued even as Jody pushed him down into the seat.

"Peter, you’re in shock," she said as soothingly as she could manage. She had seen him in a variety of situations but never had she witnessed anything like this before.

"Put your head down between you knees and breath deeply," she instructed, trying to remember her first aid. Making sure that he followed her instructions, the blond cop pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed a familiar number.

"Strenlich?. . . This is Jody Powell. You need to get Kermit down to this murder scene ASAP and send down another team of detectives," she spoke tersely into the phone. "I’ll explain as soon as I get back to the station, but. . . Just do it!"

**

At the precinct, Strenlich stared at the phone for a moment, listening to the dial tone before he returned it to the cradle. The conversation had him puzzled. Jody never yelled at him, never showed disrespect. She may argue, but always with a hint of subservience in her tone. The officer that had just demanded that another team as well as the services of Kermit, the wonder wizard of the computer world, was not the Jody Powell he knew.

"T.J., Skalaney," the ex-Marine bellowed. "Front and center. Griffin, I need you, too."

**

Total, mind-numbing exhaustion replaced the choking and shivering of moments before. Peter leaned back in the seat, too tired to move, too tired to think, almost too tired to breathe. He dug deep within himself and came up with enough strength to open his eyes and face his partner. She stood by the open car door, one hand on the door, the other on Peter’s shoulder. The contact seemed to ground him and give him something to hold on to.

"I guess I blew my image as Joe Cool," Peter tried to joke. It came out flat, however, but Jody was grateful for any sound from her partner.

"Don’t worry about it, Peter. We all have our moments," she said softly.

"Moments?" Peter spat out bitterly. "Our moments? Jody, I just ran, not walked, out in the middle of a homicide investigation. I have seen people shot, blown up, stabbed and cut into so many pieces we couldn’t tell what parts belonged to which body. It bothered me, sure, but I got through it. I have seen people I loved die. . . Kira. . ." he choked, looking away, then continued, "but I held it together."

"This is different, Peter," Jody spoke as though to a toddler, taking his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her. "This is a child, an innocent little boy that you knew."

Peter turned away then forced himself upright. He drew a deep breath and stared over Jody’s shoulder to the house. Horror tied knots in his stomach and his chest was being crushed in a giant’s fist. He breathed as his father had taught him, however, and gently brushed past Jody, walking toward the house.

"Are you sure you want to do this, partner?" Jody asked, concerned. Her eyes never left the brown haired man striding with determination toward the house.

"No, I’m not sure I want to do anything, but I *have*to do this," his voice steadied as he neared the doorway. Tears leaked silently from his eyes. He wiped them away before entering.

All the police personnel in the room stared as he entered, but he ignored them. They did not matter. Only the woman on the couch mattered. . . and the small boy lying in the bed upstairs.

"Mrs. Grayson?" he asked gently, touching her shoulder. By then, the woman had stopped crying and was staring, puffy-eyed and blankly, into space. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and she rocked gently--an infant seeking comfort against the cruel night. She looked up at the source of the touch, seeing someone standing near her. The man was dressed in a black leather jacket and black jeans, but he had to be a cop. She could see the badge clipped to his belt and the gun in it’s holster.

"Mrs. Grayson?" the voice repeated. She focused a little more, frowning as the face in front of her neared. He looked familiar, but she didn’t know any cops. Maybe he was one of current boyfriend, Jerry’s, friends. In a flash, she remembered him. She’d seen him at Billy’s roller hockey games. He was the man that took Billy to ball games, and to an occasional movie. He filled in for Billy’s good-for-nothin’ father who was always busy or drunk.

"I am Peter Caine," the man spoke softly. "Do you remember me? I am Billy’s roller hockey coach."

"Of course I do, Coach Caine, but Billy can’t make it to practice tonight," she said automatically, not thinking, not feeling, only reacting. "Billy’s. . .B-Billy’s. . ." and she broke into body wracking sobs once more. Gentle arms pulled her close and she grabbed on to the detective as if he were the only thing that could save her. Her whole world consisted of pain and the feel of strong leather-clad arms holding her close.

[end part 2]

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