The Lambs Shall Suffer- by shylo

Part 9

The remainder of the day came and went without any notable events. Skalaney and Jody had drawn a blank on any leads they had on the Grayson case. Peter fidgeted every time he saw the familiar dog-eared file on either of their desks. He wanted badly to snatch the file up and pour over the contents, sure that he would see something that they missed. He showed remarkable restraint, however, stopping himself several times halfway to their desks. Kermit helped in that regard, as well. He appeared from the blue several times when Peter’s resolve failed. The former overthrower-of-governments did nothing. He simply stood at whichever desk had the file on it and blocked Peter’s path. There was no implied threat, only a reminder of sorts.

Peter returned to the Johnson file, scanning the crime scene photos one more time. Something in his gut told him to look at the crime scene photos again. He did not believe that it would help, but it did keep his eyes away from the "other" file. The color photos did nothing to lessen the horrifying effect of Tom Johnson’s blood. Peter nearly put the pictures away, feeling the sickness he had experienced at Billy’s house threaten to return. There had to be something that he missed the first time, a voice within him spoke. A bit of white in one photo caught his eye. Hanging on the counter among a group of receipts and orders, secured by a single tack, was a sheet of paper. On the paper was a single red number "1".

The cop dropped the picture as if it were on fire. He shoved himself back from the desk and stood up, running both hands through his brown hair, never losing site of the photo. Turning away, he looked up at the ceiling as if asking for divine intervention. Kermit appeared at his side instead.

"Got something, kiddo?" Kermit asked a little too casually. He could see the look on Peter’s face, and he didn’t like it one bit. The kid was strung too tight. The loss of the small child had shaken something deep within his soul.

"Kermit, look,"Peter said, barely loud enough to hear. He pointed to a picture of the Johnson crime scene. Kermit had seen the picture several times over the course of the investigation. It was bloody. He saw nothing new, though, that would have elicited this sort of reaction from his fellow cop.

"What, Peter? What is in the picture?" Kermit asked, looking over his sunglasses so that he could make eye contact with his friend. He sensed that something in the photos had once again brought back the horror of Billy Grayson’s murder.

"Look at the damned number!" Peter nearly shouted, pointing to the paper tacked to the counter. The red number "1" was clearly evident. Kermit lifted his sunglasses and looked closer.

"I’ll be damned," he commented as dread filled him. This is all Peter needed, for another murder to be tied to Billy’s.

"It was no accident that Tom died on top of *my* shirts," Peter voiced his greatest fear. *Another death on my soul. . . another innocent caught in the crossfire,* he thought to himself as he grabbed the phone to get in touch with the evidence room. When the officer answered, he requested that all evidence from the Thomas Johnson homicide be sent to his office immediately.

"Kermit, Tom Johnson died because of me, just like Billy died because of me. Who the Hell is doing this?" Peter asked his friend plaintively. "Why in the Hell don’t they just come after me? Damn it, I’m the one they want." Kermit could only shake his head.

[end part 9]

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Part 10

"What is going on here?" a stern voice sounded over Peter's shoulder. He and Kermit both looked up to see Chief Strenlich watching them. His eyes said that he had seen Peter's reaction but he didn't see what caused it. Concern was written all over his face. The Great Peter Caine had finally lost it. He had heard that Peter had fallen apart when he saw the dead kid, one of his roller hockey team, but he thought

that the one episode would be the end of it. Peter was a tough cop, he'd bounce back. . . but there he was . . . sweat beaded on his face, panic in his eyes. Maybe the dead kid was just the beginning.

Kermit read all the Chief's doubts and more in the ex-Marine's face.

"Take a look at this, Chief," he said, pointing to the picture. He made sure that the red number was clearly visible. "Looks like we have a serial killer on our hands."

The Chief of Detectives looked closely at the picture, saw what Kermit pointed out, and turned away for a moment. *Oh, God,* he thought. *I've got a wacko stalking one of my detectives.* The fact that the dry cleaner had died on Peter's shirts had become a joke around the precinct. They were not laughing at the death, just using the bit of bad luck on Peter's part to ease the tension. Strenlich could hear some of

the ribbing that Caine had taken.

* "Hey , you’ve got to watch these cleaners. They’ll do anything to get more business."*

* "Pete, the guy probably killed himself trying to clean around all the bullet holes in your clothes. You get shot anymore often and you'll have to start wearing disposable clothes." *

* "Jeez, Caine. I knew you spent more time in the ER than at your desk. Now they're knocking off your dry cleaner, too? Can't catch a break can you, kid?"*

The comments were not meant to hurt. They were just station house jokes. Morticians probably made bad jokes about the bodies they buried as well. Seeing the evidence that the dry cleaner's death was linked to that of Peter's roller hockey kid made the jokes seem somehow cruel and obscene. Even worse was the connection between the dead kid and Peter. . . the photographs found under the boy's body. The Chief did not voice his thoughts. He turned back to the pair, his *game face* in place and picked up the Johnson file.

"Caine, you're off this one, too. Give what you have to Powell and Skalaney. I want the evidence from that place rechecked and I need someone to go over and check the scene again. I don't suppose that it will do any good, though." His gruff manner did not betray his empathy for his detective's pain. The job came first.

"Chief," Peter's voice was almost a howl. You can't do this to me. You have to let me work on these cases. These people died because of me." He made a dive for the folder that Strenlich held, but was met by 200 plus pounds of ex-marine.

"Which is precisely why Jody and Mary Margaret get the hand-off. You're about as close as you can get to these two homicides. I am not going to have a looney tune killer get off because my detective was too involved. Am I making myself understood?"

Peter did not answer. His eyes dropped to the floor, and his heart with them. Who was doing this? He had to know. He didn't care if he had been pulled from the case, they couldn't stop him from doing a little checking in his off time. The young cop's head flew up and he looked at the clock suddenly panicked.

"DAMN!" he cried as he bolted for the door. "I'm late for practice!" The harried young cop raced down the stairs and to his car. He hadn't taken anything with him, nor had he put anything away on his desk. He would be back after practice, after Strenlich left, to do some "follow up."

Peter entered the roller hockey arena at a dead run, nearly colliding with Jay Lephan, his assistant coach, as he rounded a corner. Jay reached out and caught him before he went past.

"Pete, whoa," he commanded, keeping a firm grip on Peter’s upper arm, not letting him by. "There's something I have to talk to you about first."

Peter stopped, breathless and looked questioningly at the building contractor that shared coaching responsibilities for the Northern Dark Stars. Jay's dark brown eyes spoke volumes, none of it good. He released his grip on Peter and buried his hands deep in his jeans pockets. His eyes suddenly found the floor very interesting.

"Pete, the head of the rec committee has had some phone calls from several of the parents," he started, not sure how he was going to say what he had to say. Peter Caine had become a good friend over the six weeks that the pair had worked together with the kids. He looked up at the breathless cop. The hurt that appeared in the hazel eyes opposite him told Jay that Peter already knew what was coming. "Peter, I don't know how to say this without making it hard on you, so I'll just say it. They are scared. The papers are full of stories about the pictures found with Billy Grayson. They think that somebody is gunning for you and they don't want their kids around when he finds you. The committee has asked me to take over the team." Jay placed a comforting hand on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter shook off Jay's touch and turned his back, fighting the urge to double over. He felt as if he had been smashed in the gut. *Oh my God!* he thought *What if it happens again?* Tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away with his hand before turning back to Jay. He felt sorry for his coaching partner. It had to be a hard thing to tell someone. He balled his fists to get control of his emotions. Looking at the rink, over his right shoulder, Peter spoke to his fellow coach.

"They're right," Peter said softly, his voice breaking. "I don't have any right to put the lives of this team. . . these kids. . . at risk. Damn it, what was I thinking coming here?"

"Peter, you were thinking that you could help these kids and maybe teach them some roller hockey. You had their best interests at heart. . . but you better go before some of the kids see you. They don't know what's going on and I don't think they will like what their parents are doing. It would be better if they didn't know you were here."

Peter nodded and wheeled around. The walk back to the Stealth was a million-mile journey, barefooted over broken glass. By the time he pulled away from the rink, his soul lay in shreds on the asphalt behind.

[end part 10]

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