Jim Ellison smelled the mouth-watering aroma of meat on the grill from the parking lot. What he wouldn't give to have that smell coming from his own balcony. Since his balcony was on the opposite side of the building, he allowed himself to believe it was his dinner as he rode up the elevator to the third floor. The smell grew stronger as he neared his door.

"Hey, Jim. Just in time, man." Blair Sandburg walked out of his bedroom wearing comfortable worn jeans and a cotton Henley, tucking a brown curly strand of hair behind his right ear. He looked like a participant for the original Woodstock Festival. Jim could see the blue light from a computer over Blair's shoulder. Normally on Blair's night to cook, if he was working on his computer, he barely remembered the time, let alone to get dinner started at a decent hour.

"What's on the grill?"

"Burgers, man. I'm just getting ready to add the Swiss cheese. How did the court hearing go?"

"Fine, the defendant entered a plea. State made a sweet deal." Jim stowed his holstered handgun into a drawer. "Why the barbeque tonight?"

"No special reason, just thought you'd like burgers."

Jim walked back to the front door, opened it and studied the numbers mounted on the outside.

"Okay, the number's right, this looks like my place, you look like my roommate..."

Blair laughed and picked up a long handled spatula from the sink. He pointed it. "It's not too late to deliver these bad boys to the local food bank and defrost my Tofu Casserole, Ellison," he warned.

Jim closed the door quickly, holding both hands up in a classic surrender stance. "Sorry, sorry. Just joking, just put down the spatula, Sandburg."

"Damn straight, man," Blair said, giving the older man a stern look and headed towards the balcony to finish preparing their dinner.

Picking up the mail left for him on the kitchen table, Jim automatically sorted the Visa card offers from the bills. The scent from the balcony was distractingly aromatic to the hungry cop. He'd seen Blair eat meat a few times in the last nine months they'd been working and rooming together, but normally his health-conscious friend preferred a more wholesome menu. Just when he thought he had the kid pegged for a hopeless vegetarian, he went and pulled something like this.

After ripping the Visa applications in two, he tossed the junk mail into the trashcan under the sink. Pulling on the knot at his neck to loosen his tie, he headed up to his room to file the bills away and change clothes.

"By the way, man. Simon's coming over for dinner," Blair called out from the balcony.

Jim paused as he climbed the stairs.

Uh oh.

He jogged up to his room and changed out of his clothes. Leaving his suit on the bed, he donned jeans and a sweatshirt. Returning to the lower level in his socks, he headed for the phone. If he was lucky, he could reach his boss before he left.

As Jim dialed Simon's cell phone number, his hearing picked up the sound of the elevator pinging its position on the third floor and the whish of the doors opening. The scent of expensive cigars met his nose. Jim returned the phone to its base and headed for the door. Maybe he would have a second with his boss before Blair came into the room. Not waiting for the knock he knew was about to come, he swung open the door.

Captain Simon Banks entered the loft with a small brown paper sack in one arm, which he promptly handed over to Jim. Rubbing his hand together in greedy anticipation, he eyed the platter of patties with melted cheese that Blair carried into the room.

"Oh, yeah! I see I'm just in time. Hi, Jim," he added, shrugging out of his coat.

Jim sighed, peeking to see the contents of the brown bag he was holding: a red and white bag of Tim's Cascade Style potato chips and two tomatoes. Blair placed the platter down on the kitchen table.

"Hey, Simon. Okay, the game starts in five, we got the meat, toasted buns, lettuce, onions, sauted mushrooms...Simon, did you get the tomatoes?" Blair asked.

Jim wordlessly handed over the tomatoes.

"Great! Let me just slice these. You guys start fixing your burgers."

Simon already had his plate in hand and was helping himself to the fruit salad. "Open the chips, Jim. I could eat a horse."

Setting the open bag of chips out on the table, Jim eyed the meat patties suspiciously. "Sandburg...."

Without turning from his task at the cutting board, Blair smiled and whispered, "It's not horsemeat, man."

Oblivious of the dialogue, Simon happily fixed his burger. "I'm glad you were already gone when Sandburg called, Jim. A small bag of groceries are a cheap price to pay for a home cooked meal and a game," he said, spooning mushrooms onto his burger.

Jim picked up a plate and started helping himself. "Simon, you know you're welcome anytime. You don't need an invitation."

"Yeah, man. Just drop in," Blair joined in, setting a plate with the sliced tomatoes down and his eyes sweeping over the items on the table as if to make sure that everything was set out.

Jim saw his chance and took it. "It's just nice to hang out with good friends and not have to talk shop."

Simon finished building his burger and eyed his plate happily as he headed towards the sofa. "That's for sure, the last thing I want to talk about tonight is the latest serial killer who decided to set up shop in Cascade. What channel is the game on?"

Jim stifled a groan as he watched Blair become still. His arm froze in the act of reaching across the table for an onion slice.

"Channel four, Simon," Jim answered, glancing down at his burger. No one could do the injured look like Blair. And right now, he didn't want to see it. "Can this wait till later, Sandburg?" Jim suggested softly.

Blair unfroze, finished his burger and went to sit next to Simon.

Jim slapped a tomato slice on his plate.

It was going to be a long night.

Several hours later, Simon stood and stretched his arms over head. A soft light from a table lamp illuminated the loft. The lights from the shoreline and harbor were visible through the large windows. The food was eaten; the dishes were stacked in the kitchen waiting to be washed. The game had ended with favorable results for the home team.

"Great meal, Sandburg. Now I can tell my friends I ate emu burgers."

Jim snorted as he collected the pop and beer cans from the coffee table. "I'll bet it's the first time you ever did homework after a meal."

"Hey, I told you guys, it's a survey! Your responses are needed in my friend's paper on why the American eaters are avoiding anything that's not beef, chicken or pork," Blair defended from the kitchen as he started filling the sink with hot water. "Emu meat is way healthier than beef and just a good."

"Well, never let it be said that I shirked my duties towards higher education." Simon stood by the opened door and removed a cigar from an inner pocket. "See you in the morning." He patted his stomach and left.

Silence settled in the loft. Jim sorted the recyclable cans and glass into small plastic bags they saved from the grocery store. He set them by the front door and went to retrieve the trash. Blair stepped to one side to allow him access under the sink.

"Be right back."

Jim glumly noted the lack of response as he exited the apartment and headed down the stairs towards the alley. Blair had acted normal enough when Simon was present, but Jim saw the effort. He'd gotten to know Blair over the past few months. It did not take a PhD to learn how recognize when he was upset. Returning to the loft, he picked up a dry dishcloth and took up the duty of drying the dishes and putting them away.

Damn, this treatment reminded him of his married days with Carolyn. For a brief instant, he longed for the time he used to live alone in the loft. Having to navigate through emotional mine fields in your own home was not a task he enjoyed.

"Get if off your chest, Chief."

Blair shook his head, "You lied to me, man."

"I didn't lie, Sandburg."

"I asked last night if anything was happening at work," Blair accused quietly, "and you said `no'."

"You asked if anything new was happening. We've had serial killers before," Jim calmly explained.

"To create a false or misleading impression, `lie'," Blair quoted.

"Thank you, Mr. Merriam-Webster," Jim quipped as he picked up a plate to dry. He'd rather fight with Blair than Carolyn any day; guys didn't get all emotional.

"Why? Did you think I was going to mess up again?"

Jim turned towards his friend in surprise. "Where did that come from?"

"Or maybe you think I won't follow orders."

"No, damn it." Jim retracted his earlier observation about guys not getting emotional. "What's up with you?"

Blair dropped the fork he'd been cleaning into the water and turned away abruptly. Before he could take more that a few steps, Jim reached out to tether the man with a firm grip to his upper arm.

"Wait! Shit, Blair. Wait a sec." Jim held him back. "Let me try this again."

He felt Blair relax a bit.

"Okay. We found the fourth body two days ago," he said, talking to Blair's back. "The bodies have been showing up for the last three years, first three in California." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just didn't want this case to drag up any bad memories for you." Jim released the arm, relieved that Blair remained standing in place.

Blair turned back to his dish washing. "So, tell me about it, man."

God, he did not want Blair involved in this case.

When the file landed on his desk, he'd tried to get out of taking it. But the Chief himself sent word that he wanted Jim to lead the investigation. Sometimes being the best was `not' a good thing. Simon reluctantly vetoed Jim's request to reassign it, knowing very well that the IA investigation was just beginning to cool off from the Lash shooting.

Jim sighed; Blair was still waiting for his answer. They resumed their washing and drying. Jim related the new case with a slow and steady recital of facts. The victims were three men and one woman, ranging in ages from eighteen to twenty-seven years old. Causes of deaths were from broken necks or blunt trauma to the skull. The first body was found three years ago in California. The latest victim was the first killing in Washington State.

"Any sexual abuse?"

"None, in fact little evidence of physical abuse. Just some faded bruising," He crossed to the bathroom door and tossed the dishtowel into the hamper.

Blair rinsed out the sink. "So what connects them?"

"Well, for one thing, the lack of obvious reason for their abduction. No ransom demands, no rape, no torture, no weird ritual killing. Why keep them for so long and then kill them?" Jim ran a hand through his short hair. "But the biggie is a standard door key found on a cord around each victim's neck. So far, no one has had any luck finding a match for the keys."

Blair stood with his hands crossed across his chest. Jim was pleased to see the hurt look missing in his friend's eyes.

"Okay." Blair flashed a brief smile. "Tomorrow, I'll come in after my morning classes. You can show me the files."

Jim shook his head. Why did he think he could keep Blair from this case?

Simon walked into the converted interview room that housed the headquarters for the small task force. He noted Blair at the table, his head bent over a file as he read. Blair's usually messy practice of spreading the paperwork out to cover the entire surface was in full swing. A board hung on the far wall displaying pictures and brief profiles of the previous victims. Cascade's own Marc Thompson, age twenty-two was holding the last position on the board. His identity had just been confirmed yesterday. Before becoming the killer's forth victim, Thompson was an out of work dock laborer, last seen by his mother a month ago. She told the police he'd been living on the streets.

"How's it going?" Simon asked as he closed the door.

"Slow, Simon." Jim looked up from his report, rubbing his eyes.

"Any insight from the emu chef?"

Blair removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'm still reading. This is really sad, man. Why hasn't the media run a story on this?"

Simon pulled out a gray office chair and joined the team at the table. "We've managed to keep the connection to the other murders quiet for now. The `key around the neck' thing is an absolute secret, we don't want to start any copy-cat killings."

"Like they did with the Green River Killer?" Blair asked. "They held back a lot of vital information that only the killer would know."

"Right." Simon slid the file he had carried in across the table to Jim. "The M.E. finished his final report."

Jim picked up the file and spread out the contents. Blair stood and circled to stand behind him to read over his roommate's shoulder.

"Anything new?" Jim asked.

"Not that I saw." Simon tapped an entry with a long finger. "Blunt trauma to the temple, fracturing the skull. He died quickly. Nothing else of interest."

Jim read the report. The victim had been found wrapped in a blanket and left in a city maintenance truck. So far they had a partial print on the key that did not match the victims. The lab also isolated several blond human hairs from the blanket.

"You know, I think I'd like to take another look at the victim." Jim picked up the report and headed for the door. "I think I overlooked something."

Blair followed the two cops down the hall and into the elevator. They entered the subbasement level that housed the Medical Examiner's department. The floors were immaculate, reflecting the harsh florescent lights from the ceiling. The main office area had colorful travel posters of Hawaii and St. Thomas decorating the walls, which looked out of place next to the posters of anatomy and large trash containers with biohazard warnings.

Dan Wolf sat at his desk typing on his computer. After hearing their request, the M.E. led them through the tidy examination room and into a back storage room. Blair shivered as the temperature dropped ten degrees during their trek. The back room was lined with a wall of stainless steel drawers stacked three rows up from the floor to ceiling. Dan pulled out the drawer with the young man's body inside.

"Let me know when you're done, Jim," he said, leaving them alone with the body.

"What are we looking for?" Simon asked.

Jim tossed the white sheet back to expose Thompson's waxy face. He watched as Blair swallowed and pulled the collar of his outer flannel shirt tight against his neck. Jim moved to one side, blocking Blair's view of the body.

"I never put it together until Sandburg started talking earlier today about reasons for being homeless. Look at his hair and fingernails."

"What about them?" Simon asked, standing on the other side of the drawer.

Blair took a brief peek over Jim's shoulder. "Oh yeah, I get it," he said. "For a guy living on the streets, he's too groomed, right? Too neat."

"Exactly. The report lists the clothes he was found in. Good brand names and in good condition."

"Why kidnap a man from the street, clean him up, dress him, hold him for three weeks and then kill him?" Simon asked, his confusion obvious. "What? We got a psycho deprived of Ken and Barbie dolls as a kid and is making up for it with real people now?"

"Anything else, Jim?" Blair asked, stepping around to stand beside him. "You know..." He pointed to his own nose.

Jim shook his head. "I tried when the body came in, but I couldn't smell anything then."

"Try it again, man," Blair urged.

Jim nodded and closed his eyes. Blessed, or cursed, depending upon Jim's mood, with exceptionally superior senses, he tried controlling his gift. Breathing gently through his nose, he searched for and found the signature scent of his roommate first, then filtered out the smells from the lab. He tilted his head, there was something...

"An herb...rosemary?"

Blair leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing Jim's arm. "Where, man?"

"His hair, it must be a shampoo or something." Jim opened his eyes and pointed.

Blair looked at the man's head and swallowed hard as he saw the ugly dent in the left temple. "Uh..okay, that's good. Anything else?"

"No, that's all I get."

"Well, it's more than before." Simon nodded. "Good observation about the condition of the body. We need to check the other reports and see if any other victims were `well cared for'."

"The report says he has family in Cascade. Has anyone talked with them yet?" Blair asked as the Jim covered the body and closed the drawer.

"Yeah, Brown and Taggart went out yesterday. We'll do a follow up interview ourselves," Jim said as they retraced their steps. The men gave the M.E. notice they were done and returned to the elevator.

Simon clapped Jim on the shoulder as they reached the floor for Major Crimes. "Well, I've got a meeting to attend. Let me know if you come up with anything new." He punched the button for a higher floor as the two men exited the lift.

Once they two men returned to the interview room, Blair started shifting the paperwork around on the table. Jim reached out and stilled his hands.

"We're not shuffling a deck of cards here, Sandburg."

"Where's the list you started, Jim? The one that had the similarities of the victims," Blair asked.

Jim pointed to the board with a smirk. "You posted it, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Blair retrieved his glasses from his flannel pocket and hooked them over his ears. Perched on the edge of table, he studied the board. "Okay, they were all young, but not underage."

"Right, and they're all white," Jim agreed, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Yeah? That's odd. I wonder why?" Blair chewed on his lower lip briefly. "He hates white people?"

"How do you know it's a he?"

"Oh, come on man." Blair waved his hand at the photos. "Some of these victims were strong, the reports showed no drugs in their system when they were found, a few healing rope burns to some of the wrists. No way a woman could handle these guys."

"Unless she had a gun." Jim rocked his chair back on its rear legs as he watched his friend explain his theory.

"Then explain why none of the bodies were shot," Blair insisted. "No, it was a man, a big man."

"Not a group of men?"

"Maybe, but I doubt it. Not normal behavior for groups. This has a weird purpose behind it, man. It's unlikely a group would share in the motivation, unless we're looking at some kinda cult activity." Blair absentmindedly tugged on a strand of hair, staring blankly at the wall. "But where's the ritual? And symbolism? I'm betting this is a single person." Blair nodded his head as he studied the faces on the board. "We need to find out why he chooses these victims."

Jim smirked, bringing his chair down on all four legs with a bang. He sorted through the paperwork on the table and handed over a report. "This is a profile from the third California case. It pretty much matches your theory."

Blair snatched it up and read it, breaking into a broad smile. "Really? Cool!"

"Come on, Scully. We need to finish reading these California case reports." Jim returned to his review.

Blair frowned at the back of Jim's head. "Scully? Mulder was the profiler, why can't I be him?"

Jim turned a page. "Missing the vertical requirements necessary, Chief," he replied without looking up.

Using his sentinel ability, he nimbly dodged the crumbled sheet of paper aimed for his head.

Jim lay on his bed staring at the skylight above. The cloud cover prevented him from studying the stars, a trick he usually did to fall asleep. Earlier that night for dinner, Jim fixed simple sandwiches. With the leftover fruit salad from the night before, it was a nice change from the usual routine take out.

"Uunnnngghhh..."

Jim sat up in bed, clutching the covers in tight fists. Damn, he couldn't listen to this anymore. For the last half-hour, Jim had listened to Blair making quiet noises of distress, nothing major, no shouts or screams for help, but enough to make Jim know the dreams were ugly.

Three guesses as to what the dreams were about, and the first two didn't count.

Jim tossed the covers off with more force than necessary, sending them skidding across the floor. He snagged his robe and slipped it on. Jogging down the stairs, he filled the teakettle with water and purposefully closed the cupboard door with a bang. In a minute, his efforts were rewarded.

"Wha' time is it, man?" Blair asked around a yawn as he shuffled into the kitchen in his favorite sleeping attire; a `Save the Whale' sweatshirt and sweatpants with missing elastic in the cuffs.

"Almost two. Couldn't sleep." Jim took down two cups and the basket of teas that Blair kept. "Which one of these works for sleep?"

Blair moved to join him, pushing him gently back toward the table. "I'll do it, go sit down."

Jim sat as ordered and watched Blair take the tea ball out of the drawer. Selecting a bag of dried tea that reminded Jim of stuff he used to see in the catch-bag attached to a lawnmower, Blair packed the ball firmly with the mix of dried plants and lowered it into a brown teapot. He leaned against the counter and rubbed his eyes.

Jim almost felt guilty.

"Why can't you sleep, man? Problems with your senses?"

Oh, boy. He hadn't thought past his plan to wake up Blair from his nightmare to have a good answer ready. "Must be that chocolate bar I ate this afternoon, extra caffeine?" He said the first thing that came to his mind.

Stupid mistake.

Blair gave him a suspicious look. "Since when does a Hershey bar keep you up?"

Jim tried for a blank expression.

Blair's eyes widened with understanding. "Oh, man. Tell me I didn't wake you..."

"Wish I could, Chief. Want to talk about it?"

He watched as Blair scrubbed his face with both hands. "No, it's nothing." Pushing away from the counter, he turned to check the water on the stove.

"Okay." Jim waited.

The water started to make pre-boiling noises.

"It's that damn key," Blair admitted quietly, watching the teakettle.

"What about it?"

Removing the near boiling water from the heat, he carefully poured the water into the pot. Jim tried to remember the name Blair gave the pot, oh yeah, `Brown Betty'. He watched as Blair dipped the tea ball a few times and set `Betty' on the table next to the mugs. After retrieving a honey container shaped like a bear and a spoon, his roommate joined him at the table.

"I dreamt the key was around my neck...on a ...yellow scarf," Blair muttered as he poured his tea.

Jim watched as Blair's hands started shaking. He reached out and took the pot out from unsteady hands. Filling Blair's mug first, Jim poured his own. "I'm not surprised, Sandburg."

Blair kept his eyes lowered, drawing a pattern with his finger in the small puddle of tea on the table. "These cases are nothing alike. Why am I thinking of ..."

Stirring a large spoonful of honey into his tea, Jim wished for a degree in psychology; not that he found much use for the profession. He decided to stick to what he knew.

"Don't know. But I do know that similar things have happened to me in the past. I'd be surprised if Simon or the other guys haven't gone through it."

Blair turned hopeful eyes on his friend. "Really? It's a normal reaction?"

"Sure, you've got the minor in psychology, isn't it an association thing?"

Blair blew out a short breath. "Yeah. Of course, man." His face broke into a grin, leaning back in the kitchen chair. "Unless it's the tuna from your sandwich at dinner tonight."

"Finish your tea, Sandburg," Jim ordered sternly.

Blair softly snorted his response. Placing an elbow on the table, he rested the side of his head in his palm. "So why does the killer give each victim a key?" Blair continued after a few seconds blowing on the hot liquid and trying a sip. "What's that all about?"

"Some sort of symbolism, probably."

"So why does he keep delivering the bodies so soon after they were killed?"

"What's your point?" Jim asked.

"It's just that most serial killers I've heard about hide the bodies. Sometimes they're not found for years." Blair made a face and shuddered. "But our `key' killer literally hands them back to the authorities within hours of their death according to the reports. That's weird, man."

Jim nodded, "You're right. He's not trying to hide his actions. Maybe he's proud of what he did?"

"You'd expect some sort of gloating. A note or message to the press."

"I agree," Jim mused, swirling his tea. "What if he wants them to be cared for? You know, he wants proper or respectful treatment that he can't give?"

Blair sat up straight. "Yeah! That goes along with the care he gives them while they're alive, man!"

"Could be," Jim agreed. They still had a long way to go, but he was sure they were on the right track. He gave his partner a look. "What time are you coming in tomorrow?"

"You mean today?" Blair smirked. "I have a class to teach at one. I'll ride with you and catch a bus."

Jim tossed the last of his tea back and stood. "No, I'll drop you off."

Blair set his empty mug in the sink next to his roommate's. "'Kay, good night, man."

Simon set the phone down and studied the framed picture on his desk. Blair's friend, Buck, from Eastern Washington had snapped a candid shot of both of Jim, Blair and himself working on rebuilding Buck's house. He smiled at the expression on his face in the picture. That had been a great time. He enjoyed working with his hands, doing something physical, something that could be looked at afterwards with pride.

Studying the progress reports on his desk, he sighed unhappily. Then there was his real life. Before he got one problem solved, two more arrived to take its place. And now he had the pleasure of breaking this latest bit of news to Jim. Should be a load of fun.

Simon found Jim back in the conference room. Brown, Taggart and Blair were all present and reviewing the interview of Thompson's mother. The reports were spread out; reminding Simon of the times he'd seen Blair grading papers in Jim's living room.

"The mom didn't have a lot of information. The victim was living on the streets after losing his job down at the docks. Sometimes, he lived with an ex-girlfriend. The girlfriend broke it off over six months ago." Brown checked off notes from a small notebook he was referring to. "She thought he might have been hanging around some union halls to get on a list for an apprenticeship."

Simon interrupted them. "Jim? Can I talk to you for a second?" He waited until they were in the hallway, far enough from the closed door so they would not be overheard.

"I just got a call from the Chief. We have an East Coast psychologist arriving this morning to help us with this case," Simon informed him. Seeing the hardened expression settle on Jim's face, Simon held up an authoritative hand. "Jim, don't give me any grief over this. I've already had this conversation with myself, so I know what you're going to say."

"I highly doubt that, sir. You rarely use the words that are coming to my mind," Jim bit out.

"Listen, you and Sandburg have come up with some interesting concepts. What's the harm with using this guy as a sounding board, maybe he'll actually help."

Jim tossed his supervisor a doubtful look. "Right. I just hope `this' time we get proper I.D. and a records check."

Simon felt his blood pressure spike. He glanced down the empty hallways to make sure they were alone. "That's enough, Ellison. I think the department learned from its earlier mistake, you are not to take it out on this new doctor, am I understood?"

"Yes, sir." Jim's posture was stiff, almost standing at attention.

Simon watched as Jim slid into the `pissed-off-Ranger-dealing-with-commander' mode. He sighed, again longing for the job that required just a tool belt and a strong back. "Jim, I just want to make sure Sandburg gets a heads up. He doesn't need to be blind sided in front of the other cops."

Jim relaxed. "Thanks, Simon. We needed a break anyway. How about a trip to Starbucks?"

"I'll get my coat."

The office was quiet. Blair sat without fidgeting at the conference table, carefully studying his thumbnail. Jim sat across the table re-reading reports from the lab, occasionally glancing up as he turned the pages to check on him. Simon sat behind his desk, going over his own workload.

The coffee break had gone well. Blair hadn't even blinked when Simon broke the news of the impending visit from the psychologist. Although he showed no outward reaction to the news, Jim noticed the real reaction: elevated heart rate, slight stutter on his intake of breath, a minute twitch in his left upper eyelid. And now he was acting like a ghost was about to walk through the door.

Jim listened as footsteps neared Simon's office. A light knock caused Blair to look up with a start at the closed door. He quickly looked away, catching Jim's eyes. Jim made a fist and lightly tapped the younger man's clasped hands and was rewarded with a lopsided grin.

Simon opened the door and invited the visitor in. He was an older man, shorter than Simon by at least five inches. His dark wavy hair was combed back from his face in a style from the late fifties. Jim guessed his age to be close to retirement, but he seemed fit and in good health. He wore a tailored suit with a rumpled London Fog raincoat draped over one arm and a briefcase in the other.

"Hello I'm Dr. Marks," the stranger said in a tired, but friendly voice.

Blair quickly stood and walked around the table to join Simon in greeting the newcomer.

"Simon Banks." Simon took the man's hand in a strong shake. "This is Blair Sandburg from Rainier University, he's volunteering to help us on this case and that's Detective Jim Ellison, he's lead on the case."

"Hi." Blair took his turn shaking the visitor's hand.

Jim nodded coolly from his position at the table.

"Thank you for coming straight from the airport, doctor," Simon said with a smile, leading him to the conference table.

Marks set his briefcase down and laid his coat on the back of an empty chair. "Before we get started with this case, I'd like to show you all something." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a slender leather wallet.

The three men watched as the he removed and placed a Virginia Driver's license and a social security card down on the table for everyone's inspection.

"I want to put your suspicions to rest. I truly am Phillip E. Marks."

Simon held his hands out. "You don't have to prove anything to us, doctor..."

"Yes he does," Jim interrupted his boss as he picked up the small cards and studied them carefully. "How did you get involved with this case, Dr. Marks?"

"Jim!" Simon admonished the man.

"Jeez, man," Blair muttered quietly.

Marks laughed and sat in an empty chair. "I totally understand. Your Chief called me yesterday. We've know each other for many years." He waved at the standing men. "Please sit down, gentlemen. Detective Ellison's caution is understandable. The ENTIRE psychology profession was horrified by what happened in Cascade earlier this year."

"You heard about ...?" Blair asked as he returned to his seat.

"Lash?" The psychologist nodded gravely. "We did, it's mandatory reading now. Believe me, my peers allow for no assumptions when they consult with any agency now." He turned to Jim. "Are you satisfied?"

Jim nodded and slid the cards back. "Thanks."

"Okay, then. What do you say we get to work?" Marks looked at the coffee maker in the corner of Simon's office. "Is that coffee fresh?"

Blair strolled down the sidewalk towards Hargrove Hall. The meeting with Marks had gone well. He was in agreement with the theories they had formed on the killer. Blair remained quiet at the beginning of the meeting, but soon found himself pulled into the discussion. Marks promised to spend the rest of the day reviewing the reports. He didn't want to make any comments until he had all the information possible.

Blair liked him, he seemed professional, calming, normal, but mostly he didn't single Blair out. Never looked at him with admiration or special consideration. It was nothing like his first meeting with...

"Hey, SAND BUG!"

Blair turned in surprise; only one person had ever called him that. But that guy was supposed to be in Brazil.

"Chad?" Blair laughed out loud as a tall man wearing baggy fatigues jogged down the sidewalk, bumping into a temporary scaffolding set up by construction workers. "What are you doing here, man?"

Chad reached out to steady the support to the scaffolding he'd nudged with a broad shoulder. "Sorry, dude," he called up to a man wearing a tool belt standing twelve feet above their heads.

Blair shook his head as he joined the ex-football player turned archeologist. "Mooney, you are a walking disaster! Why aren't you in Brazil? Don't tell me you pissed off the locals and they threw you out."

Chad grinned down fondly at Blair. "Nope, just got my turn at running down some supplies. A little mini vacation from the dig. I stopped by your place and it was gone, man. What happened?"

Blair shrugged with mock sorrow. "Burned up. I'm homeless now."

"What?"

Blair punched his arm playfully. "Now you have to buy me a meal since I'm penniless. I'll tell you my sad story." He waggled his eyebrows.

Chad swung a long arm around Blair's shoulders. "Okay, orphan child. Let Uncle Mooney buy you a coffee."

"What! I'm trying to squeeze you for a meal and you're `only' offering coffee?" Blair let himself be led down the sidewalk. "Man, I'm losing my touch."

Jim cradled the handset against his shoulder as he shrugged into his jacket. He'd almost given up on his partner answering when the ringing ended.

"Blair Sandburg."

"Hey, you need a ride home?"

"Oh, hey, Jim. No I'm good. I meant to call you. I'm gonna be late getting in tonight, so don't wait dinner for me."

"Sandburg, it's your night to cook," Jim pointed out.

"It is? Shoot! Can I do the next two nights? I've got a buddy--"

Jim flinched painfully away from the phone as the sounds of a circular saw drowned out Blair's words.

"Sorry!" Blair raised his voice over the noise. After a few seconds it stopped all together. "Sorry, the university is doing some repair work. This stuff has been going on all week. I was saying that a friend of mine is back from a dig in South America. I haven't seen him in almost a year, so we're going out tonight to catch up. He's gonna drop me off later, okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Who's the friend?"

"Chad Mooney, he used to play college football at the University of Washington. This is his only night to hang out."

"Whatever, just be careful."

"Jim, relax. We'll be fine."

Jim frowned at the phone on his desk. "I'm serious, Sandburg. If he ends up not fit to drive, I expect you to call for a ride." The frown didn't go away as the sound of laughter floated across the phone line.

"Chad doesn't touch the evil brew. He's the permanent designated driver," Blair explained. "See ya, man."

The loft was dark as Jim climbed the stairs to his room. After talking with Blair, he'd gone to the gym for a serious workout. Then, with tired muscles and a firm justification, he picked up a medium pizza with extra cheese and polished it off in front of the TV while watching a ball game.

It was a nice evening. Quiet. Like the old days before his senses had gone on line. Before he'd needed a college student to help him figure out how to control his senses. Back when he'd lived alone in the loft and didn't have to listen to lectures about cholesterol and empty carbohydrates. When the loft was always tidy and smelled of lemon Pledge and bleach.

He glanced at his watch then at the native mask that adorned his brick wall.

He wouldn't go back to that life for all the pizzas in Cascade.

The familiar sound of steps in the hallway caused the cop to pause in the act of getting ready for bed.

Blair was home before midnight?

"Hope you're still awake, big guy. I can't find my keys."

Jim jogged down the stairs in bare feet. Blair stood in the hallway with a happy grin. His hair was windblown, his face red. He looked like someone who had spent the last several hours standing on a windy mountaintop.

"Hey, Jim." Entering the loft, Blair dropped his pack on the floor.

"Sandburg." Jim closed the door. He turned the dead bolt and secured the extra chain. "How was your night on the town?"

"Good! We went to dinner, then Chad wanted to go indoor go-cart racing." Blair made driving movements with his hands. "I was a speed demon on the track, man! I just pretended I was you chasing a bad guy and I blew away the competition."

"Yeah?"

"Yep, `course then I drove `too' much like you and got a warning that if I didn't settle down, they'd kick me out!" Blair laughed as he ducked the swat to the back of his head.

"Yuck it up, Mario. I'm specially trained to pursue the suspects," Jim replied in defense of his driving skills. "So, what did you do with your keys?"

"I don't know! I had the keys at the station, but after that...I can't remember!"

"How'd you get into your office?"

"Got security to let me in." Blair hung up his coat. "I must have left them at the station, maybe in Simon's office?"

Jim laughed as he started for the stairs again. "We can look tomorrow. I never figured you for a latch key kid, Sandburg."

Blair opened the old fashioned fridge and retrieved a pitcher of juice. "What's that?"

"You know, when families started having double incomes and the kids were coming home from school to an empty house, they were called latch key kids."

"Really shattered the whole `Leave it to beaver' myth, huh?" Blair laughed as he poured the juice into a small cup. "Naomi usually just left the door unlocked, when we actually stayed somewhere that had a lock. She probably thought a key around my neck would give me bad karma."

Jim froze on the steps. "What did you say?"

Blair looked up, surprised at the cop's reaction. "Which part, the Beaver part? Or the key around my neck....Oh!" Blair slammed the juice glass down on the table.

Jim trotted back down the stairs, heading for the phone. "Simon should still be up."

He was. Jim quickly filled him in on the possible meaning for the keys found on the bodies.

"Latch key kids?" Simon repeated.

"It's a thought. What if the killer is seeing the victim as his family?" Jim explained. "It could explain why Thompson was well dressed and cared for."

Blair wiped up a small spill with a paper towel. "Yeah, up until he caves their head in," Jim heard him mutter under his breath.

"I guess it's possible, Jim," Simon agreed. "Maybe Marks will have some ideas for us in the morning."

After finishing the conversation with his boss and returning the handset, Jim watched his roommate drink the juice. "What's your schedule tomorrow?"

Blair rinsed the glass and placed it upside down on a paper towel next to the sink. "No classes tomorrow. You've got me all day, man."

"Good, get some sleep." Jim slapped him on the shoulder. "We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"You got it, Wally."

Jim snorted. "Just do yourself a favor, Beav; don't call Simon `Ward'".

The rain was falling from the sky in earnest when they made the short dash for the parked SUV the next morning.

"Burr! I love the way the weather around here messes with your head," Blair complained, blotting the raindrops off his face with his coat sleeve.

"Without the rain, we can't call Washington the Evergreen State," Jim replied as he turned the key and watched Blair lean over to turn up the heat.

"Yeah, well I for one wouldn't mind changing the name to `Pleasantly Warm and Dry'. I'm growing mold on my body parts, man."

Pulling out into the morning traffic, Jim snorted at the comment. "Try changing your socks more frequently, Junior."

"I once knew a guy that waited till his socks turned a nice pale green before he washed them."

Jim mocked a gagging noise. Blair gave him a wicked grin. "Thanks for the mental imagery, Chief. The less I hear of your friends, the better my breakfast stays down," he said, stopping for a red light.

Arriving at the P.D, they found Dr. Marks and Simon with the other detectives already in the conference room. A fresh pot of coffee sat in the corner and the files were neatly spread out on the table. Simon had already updated the psychiatrist on the latch key theory.

"I think you might be right about the key, Detective," Dr. Marks complimented. He handed out copies of a report. "I did a down and dirty profile of the killer, just to get us started. It's too vague to be of any use, of course." He let the occupants of the room glance over the report for a moment. "Your guy is rather rare. Most killers pick on weak victims: women, the elderly, or children. But this guy has taken four healthy young people, three of which were men. Another factor that is different is there's no evidence that he's keeping trophies."

Jim nodded in agreement as he scanned the report. "We have a fairly decent print that hasn't matched anything on the system. That supports your theory in here about no previous record."

"Plus, I don't think the guy is prone to play with guns or has a military background, so you may never match that print," Marks admitted. "But, please keep in mind, this is all speculation."

"Why is he killing?" Blair asked, still reading the report.

Marks sighed. "It's not in the report yet, because I'm still working on it, but I believe he doesn't mean to kill. He may be driven to kidnap a victim fully intending to `save' or `adopt' them, maybe a religious compulsion or something. But he becomes violent when they don't co-operate. Then he kills."

"Save them from what?" Banks asked.

"Who knows for sure, but I noticed each of the victims had less then stellar living arrangements." Marks pointed to each picture as he spoke. "Lester Harris, first year college student; Coleen Benton, moved from Idaho to California two days before disappearing; Frank Van, working with a Labor Ready company, no address on file at the time of his disappearance. Now we have our guy, Marc Thompson, living on the streets or with friends for two years."

"That's a pattern?" Banks asked, frowning as he crossed his arms.

"No, wait," Jim picked up the file. "The report says Harris had been kicked out of his dorm for repeated violations of their rules. He was living with different friends or whoever would let him sleep on the couch."

"Exactly." Marks leaned both hands on the table. "None of the victims had a permanent residence. If the key does have the significance that you two suggest, it ties in with the killer wanting to `adopt' them, to give them a permanent home."

"Wow, that's kinda sad, in a sick way," Blair commented with a shake of his head. "How does a person get so bent?"

Marks stood up and shrugged. "Lots of reasons; dysfunctional family life, childhood abuse, drug abuse, the list is endless."

"So, now we might know why he targets his victims, maybe we should visit the shelters in Cascade," Jim suggested.

"Worth a shot. Flash his picture around, maybe someone remembers Thompson talking with a blond stranger," Simon agreed. "Perhaps Dr Marks would like to ride along with you."

As the meeting broke up, Simon turned back towards Blair. "By the way, Sandburg. You missing anything?"

Blair grinned at the familiar looking keys that dangled from the captain's hand.

"Chinese?"

"Mexican."

"No way, man. You picked last time."

"Mexican, `cause you didn't fix dinner last night," Jim said smugly.

"Oh sure, play dirty. But not that dive on Elliott Street. I want good food."

"Taco Mama's."

"Cool. Maybe Marie is working today." Blair leaned back in his seat and smiled.

Dr. Marks watched the two men from his position in the front passenger seat of the Ford Expedition. They had spent the last several hours talking with workers from various shelters and soup kitchens in town. Marks was amazed at the dynamic relationship of the two friends. Jim would start each interview but if it appeared as if the person they were speaking with showed any apprehension in the fact they were talking with the police, Blair would smoothly take over the conversation. The result almost always soothed the person's fear. A few people remembered seeing Thomas around as recently as last month, but no one had noticed any strangers talking with him.

Jim parked in the small lot next to a brick restaurant near the waterfront. The parking lot was wet from the rain, but the sky looked promising as the clouds began to lighten in color. A brightly painted sign above the entrance to the business advertised `Quality Mexican Food'.

"Is this okay, Doc?" Jim asked as he opened his door. "The food is simple, but good."

"It's clean too," Blair added, jumping out of the back seat.

Marks nodded. "Sounds great. Chicken burritos are a hobby of mine. I've tried one in every state I visit."

The lunch crowd was thinning out as the three men entered the small diner. Blair waved at an attractive Hispanic woman standing by the cash register. She returned the wave with a warm smile as she finished ringing up a lunch order for an older couple getting ready to leave.

"Blair! Jim! Find a seat, I'll be right with you."

Jim selected a booth against the wall. Turquoise and red colored trim lined the edges of the ceiling. Long strings of large red chili peppers hung from the walls. After the older couple left, Rose came to stand by their table with a pen and pad in her hands.

"Hi, Rose, this is Dr. Marks, he's visiting Cascade from Virginia."

"Welcome!" Rose said in a thick Hispanic accent. She gave Marks a smile.

"Thank you, Blair says this is the place to come for good food." Marks picked up his menu. "Do you make chicken burritos?"

"Oh, si! You want to order the mucho burrito, very good lunch." Rose scribbled a note, nodding when Blair ordered the veggie and Jim ordered beef. She gave Blair a knowing grin before taking their order back to the kitchen. "Marie is in the back."

"Great!" Blair slid out of the booth without hesitation. "Be right back, guys."

Marks watched as the younger man walked through the swinging doors with the woman.

"Is he always that...energetic?" Marks asked Jim with raised eyebrows.

"Mostly."

"Marie is someone he goes out with?"

Rose returned with a tray carrying three water glasses, a basket of chips and homemade salsa. Jim waited until she left before answering.

"No, Marie is Rose's fourteen year old daughter. Blair's helping her with schoolwork. She was failing science." Jim scooped a large helping of salsa with a chip.

"Working on his PhD, volunteering with the police department and tutoring kids? When does he sleep?" Marks reached for the chips.

Shrugging, Jim swallowed and took a drink of water. "Sometimes he doesn't."

Marks caught the odd tone in the detective's voice. "So, how's he handling the Lash memories while working with you on this new case?" He was not surprised when Jim's facial expression became guarded.

"What do you know about that case?"

Marks kept his posture loose and non-threatening, dropping his eyes to the chips he shrugged slightly. "I know that Sandburg was kidnapped and almost became one of his victims. The report said that you saved him and killed Lash."

Marks glanced up. He noted the stiff way Jim held his upper body and wondered if he'd wandered into a subject that was off limits. But then he seemed to relax slightly while reaching for another chip.

"Yeah, it was close. Blair's having a few restless nights lately, but he's okay."

"Maybe I could talk to him. You think he'd mind?"

Jim shrugged. "You can ask him. He saw the department shrink once afterwards, but he didn't go back."

Blair chose that moment to return to the table. Sliding back into the booth next to his friend, he reached for the chips. "Maria got a `B' plus, man. She's really doing great in class."

"That's great," Jim said.

"So, what did I miss? What were you guys talking about?"

Marks watched Jim give him a look as if to say `you field that one'. "Just taking about some old cases that you guys have been on. I asked Jim how you manage to do so many things in twenty-four hours."

"Oh, don't even get me started. At least we're not doing any stake-outs with this case."

"Not yet, anyway," Jim smirked, loading another chip with salsa.

"You keep that up, man, and you're gonna need the pink bottle."

"This is the mild stuff. Rose keeps it in the back specially for me." Jim popped the loaded chip defiantly into his mouth.

Blair rolled his eyes and turned to the third man at the table. "Have you worked on cases with serial killers before?" he asked, lowering his voice.

Marks nodded. "Once or twice."

Blair scratched his neck and then dropped his hand to trace the pattern on the tablecloth with his finger. "Uh, so if a person was... I mean, if you interviewed a suspect and could... make a preliminary observation that caused you to suspect he was a ...."

"Killer?" Marks finished.

Blair gave a little shrug. "Yeah, something like that. Do they act totally normal? Or do you see behaviors that give you clues they might be ... off."

Marks leaned back in the booth and studied his water glass. Rose reappeared with a tray of food and the answer was delayed as the plates were arranged and soft drinks were set in front of Jim and Marks. Blair had opted to stay with just water to drink.

Marks was aware of Jim's displeasure over the subject matter being discussed. The cop's expression had hardened again, his shoulders squared, his back ramrod straight.

"I've learned enough not to apply generalizations when it comes to a serial murderer. I did hear about a question that was asked of several subjects that had tendencies for homicidal behavior." Marks cut into his meal with his fork and sampled the lunch. It tasted good. "It goes like this, a woman goes to her mother's funeral. While she's there she sees a man that she falls in love with. She pictures the man as the man of her dreams."

Blair listened as he ate, his attention fixed on the doctor.

"Two weeks later, she kills her sister," Marks explained. "The men were asked to guess what the woman's motive would have been, based only on that information."

Blair leaned back with a frown on his face. "Is this like when you listen to a long story about two trains heading towards each other and after a bunch of detailed stuff you're asked how old the first engineer is?"

Marks laughed. "No, just think of a possible motive, there is no right or wrong answer."

Blair rocked his head side to side. "Okay, I'd guess that maybe the man was dating her sister and she wanted to have him to herself?"

"Congratulations, Blair. You are not a psychopathic killer," Marks announced with a smile.

Blair looked puzzled. "What answer means you're a killer?"

"Easy," Jim said, he had slowly relaxed as Marks had told the story. "She killed her sister in the hope that the man would appear at the second funeral. Then she could see him again and introduce herself."

Blair looked at Jim with surprise. "That's sick, man." He looked at Marks. "Is that the answer?"

Marks shook his head, giving Jim a wry grin. "I always suspected cops were criminals at heart."

"Sometimes it takes one to catch one," Jim said, returning the grin.

They dropped Dr. Marks off at the police station after lunch. He had expressed a desire to continue to work on his profile and review the reports.

"He's pretty cool for a shrink," Blair commented after they headed for the address of Marc Thompson's mother.

"Yeah, he's okay," Jim commented as he glance up at the sky, patches of blue were appearing between the clouds. The rain was finished for a while. "Maybe you should talk to him about your dreams."

"Nah, I'm cool. Hey, how'd you know about the woman killing her sister story?" Blair questioned his partner. "Is there something I should know about you, man?"

"I think I read it somewhere, Chief. Don't worry, you're still safe with me."

The address that Taggart gave them for the victim's mother led the two to a dreary side of Cascade. Empty broken down buildings that once held small family-run businesses stood out like leftovers from some forgotten war. The windows were boarded over with large pieces of plywood that the gang members had used as canvas for their spray paint art.

Pam Thompson had told the police that this afternoon would be the best time for a follow up interview. Jim and Blair climbed the cement stairs to the second floor balcony of a rundown apartment complex placed between a deserted bowling alley and a small wrecking yard. Locating the correct door, Jim knocked lightly. Blair stood next to his friend while they waited in silence for the door to open.

"Who is it?"

"Detective Ellison, ma'am. Cascade Police."

The sound of multiple locks being manipulated met their ears. A woman in her early fifties opened the door. She wore a brown shapeless housedress, her gray streaked hair pulled back into an unattractive ponytail. Giving Jim's badge a blank-eyed examination, she opened the door wide to allow them into her small apartment.

"I already talked with that other cop," she stated as she led them through a small kitchen and into a slightly larger room with a dingy sofa and a broken down recliner. A small TV sat in the corner with a set of rabbit ears tipped with pieces of foil on the ends. The back of the room had a large sliding glass door. The rays of light worked hard to get through the years of accumulated grime and cigarette smoke on the glass. Pathetic full-length curtains hung at one side of the wall from a bent curtain rod. The last three feet of fabric had been shredded into strips of cloth and loose threads. The woman slowly walked over to a recliner to sit, leaving the sofa for the men.

"We understand, Mrs. Thompson," Jim soothed.

"Ms," she wheezed as she lowered her thin frame into the chair.

"Sorry, Ms. Thompson. But we have a few more questions for you about your son." Jim sat down on the edge of the sofa. The strong odor of cat urine caused him to wrinkle his nose.

Blair perched next to him smiling warmly at the woman. "Detective Brown told us that you work for Target. How long have you been with them?"

She blinked. "About four years I guess. I'm a cashier." She made that announcement with a little pride, interest showing in her eyes for the first time since she'd opened the door.

"Oh yeah? My friend Sara worked for Target, but she just stocked the shelves. It was a summer job."

The woman nodded. "We get a lot of summer help. You have to take tests to be a cashier."

"Ms. Thompson." Jim leaned forward seeing the woman was a little more relaxed. "You told Detective Brown that your son was working at the docks?"

"That's right."

"When did he stop working there?"

"He got laid off about two years ago. Lived with some girl for a while, lived with me for a while." She sighed sadly. "You can see how that went, this place is barely big enough for one person."

"Did he try and find work?"

"Yeah, but he has that problem where you see letters turned around when you read." She shook her head. "Was hard for him to get a job. Never did finish high school."

"What about the union halls?"

"That got him some work, men would come by and just hire folks for odd jobs. I guess it's not totally legal, but no one wants to do the dirty jobs, so the union guys don't mind."

"Which union hall would he go to?"

She paused and stared at the ceiling. "The one on Tenth, by the freeway."

"When was the last time you saw Marc?"

Her eyes began to tear as she studied her folded hands. "Early last month. He would call or visit me every Thursday. About four weeks ago he came by for money. I only had a twenty, but I gave it to him."

Both men remained silent for a few seconds to allow her time to regain her composure. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a tissue to wipe her eyes.

"Ms. Thompson, we just want you to know that we're doing every thing we can to find his killer. This is my card, my number's on the back. Please call if you think of anything else." Jim handed her his card as he stood to signal the interview was over.

Blair sighed as they drove away from the complex. "Oh man, that is so sad."

"Yeah."

"You think she was telling us everything?"

Jim nodded. "Her heart rate stayed pretty consistent. I think she was telling the truth."

"Are we going to check out the union hall?"

Jim nodded, glancing at his watch. "It's still early. If we're lucky we can get a list of businesses that might have hired him in the last month."

"I don't know, Jim. If he's been off the streets for three weeks that's a long time to remember a homeless person." Blair studied the passing scenery. "Most people try and forget they saw someone living on the streets within minutes of walking past them."

"Can't hurt to ask. Besides, I don't see any other leads."

"What about the girlfriend?"

Jim accelerated to merge into the freeway traffic. The union hall was on the other side of town. "Taggart and Brown interviewed her yesterday. She hadn't seen Thompson for over six months."

"Oh."

The union hall provided a list of businesses that hired temporary non-union help. After their third job site with no positive responses, Jim decided that they'd done enough for one day.

"Man, did you ever see so many Dodge trucks?" Blair said as he climbed into the Ford. "I mean, what is it? Some sort of unwritten law that construction guys have to drive Dodge Rams?"

"Sounds like a good topic for a dissertation, Chief," Jim told him, as he drew the seat belt across his body and buckled in. "You can title it `Friends don't let friends drive Dodge'."

Blair snorted as he released his hair from its tie. "Spoken like a true Ford snob."

"I'm not a Ford snob, Mr. I-drive-a-classic."

"Hey, I `do' drive a classic. And you are `so' a Ford snob." Blair gave his friend a knowing grin. "You know what Ford stand for, don't ya?"

"Which one? Fix Or Repair Daily or Found On Road Dead?" Jim saw the grin on Blair's face evaporate and he laughed out loud. "Sandburg, I've been around the block once or twice." He laughed again when he caught Blair crossing his eyes at him.

He was still laughing as he pulled into the afternoon traffic.

The next morning, Simon sat in on the taskforce briefing. Dr Marks had completed his profile, being very careful to explain that profiling a serial killer was not an easy task.

"It's like trying to standardize all police officers or all ministers. It can't be done. We can guess this killer is a male, probably Caucasian and between the ages of twenty-five to forty-five." Marks looked up at the group of cops. "Doesn't help you much, I know. In the past, we've looked at what motivates a killer. Commonly we find it may be sexual or racial. But this guy doesn't seem to fit either profile."

Marks picked up his coffee mug and took a taste. He held it in both hands as he continued. "Historically a serial killer had to have the brains to keep on killing and not get caught. Look at Ted Bundy and recently Gary Ridgway, for examples. Your guy is probably close to the same caliber, even though he's only had four victims in the last three years we've known of. Yet he's managed to keep a low profile, continue with his life, his work and not get caught."

"How does he control his victims?" Brown wondered. "The evidence doesn't support them being restrained. Several weeks are a long time to be someone's prisoner."

Taggart spoke up. "He could start by using drugs. Maybe he has a secure room that he holds them in, somewhere isolated, where no one can hear cries for help. Plus he's probably strong enough to overpower the victims if he needs to. The largest victim was Frank Van at five-nine and one-sixty. That's not a midget."

"I agree," Jim said. He handed a list of contractors to Joel. "This is the part of the list Sandburg and I got yesterday. Doc and I will take the other half. We need to find anyone who may have hired Thompson. We should be able to finish checking the businesses sometime today."

The door to his office was ajar. Blair stood in the hallway at Hargrove Hall and eyed the doorway as he chewed on his lower lip, unsure what he should do. He was positive he had closed and locked it before going to class. He shook himself with a snort. It was broad daylight and he was in the middle of a large college campus. What could happen?

"Hello?" He gently eased the door open with his foot, standing back to avoid some unknown blunt object that could swing down and hit him on the head.

Man, he thought, I've been hanging around cops too much.

A tall man in light brown Carhartt overalls stood by the back wall of his office, measuring a window. He was at least a tall as Simon; his upper chest muscles developed from a life of hard physical work. A tarp had been laid out to protect the shelving unit directly beneath the window and a large wheelbarrow stood off to one side, looking strangely out of place among his artifacts and books.

"Sorry, your window is next. Didn't you get the memo?" the man asked as he let the measuring tape in his hands snap shut.

"What memo?" Blair asked, entering the room and setting his backpack down on his desk.

"All the windows are being replaced. I thought that the lunch hour would be the best time. The new window will be much better at keeping the winter drafts out."

Blair nodded and relaxed. He recognized the man now, he was the one who had been working on the scaffolding that Chad had bumped into when they first met this week. "Cool, I am certainly down with a warmer office. Do you want me to make myself scarce so you can work?"

The big blond-haired man nodded and gave Blair a piercing look. "Exactly."

Without warning, the contractor pulled a small device out of his overalls and pushed it into Blair's chest. A loud snapping sound was the only warning Blair had before he was hit with a jolt of white fire as the stun gun dropped him to the floor. His arms and legs twitched uncontrollably as his nervous system fought to reconnect to his brain.

Closing and locking the office door carefully, the big man removed a baggie from his pocket and withdrew an ether soaked cloth. He crouched down next to his victim and held the cloth against Blair's nose and mouth. Satisfied that his prey was unconscious, he replaced the cloth and shoved the cloth back into his pocket.

Picking Blair up, he curled him into a fetal position in the wheelbarrow, using the tarp to hide him from view. Then he wheeled his new victim out into the empty hallway. As the door behind the man closed, the cell phone in Blair's abandoned backpack began to ring.

"Nope, sorry officer."

Jim nodded his thanks. This was the third construction office he and Marks had been to that morning. So far the results were identical to that of yesterday's, nothing. Jim was starting to believe they were chasing smoke.

"Where to next?" Marks asked. Jim noticed he had dressed that day for fieldwork in comfortable slacks and a polo shirt.

He got the impression that Marks was enjoying this chance to get out and help with the investigation. Although Jim didn't mind the company, he found himself wishing his roommate were along instead. What were the odds of talking Blair into joining the police department? Jim smiled at the thought. Right.

"TJ Construction. It's one of the smaller businesses. We've checked out all the big names."

They parked in front of a small white house with the address painted in bright blue letters above the front door. The postage stamp size yard held a tired looking lawn of dull green grass. The gravel driveway was lined with stacks of PVC pipes, rolls of electrical wiring and a few old wooden framed windows. A tall young man in his mid twenties answered the door while hobbling on one crutch.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Jim Ellison, this is Dr. Marks. We're with Cascade P.D. We'd like you look at this picture and tell us if you've seen this man?" Jim held up the photo that Thompson's mother had given Brown.

"Oh, sure. That's Marc. Is he in trouble?"

Jim and Marks exchanged brief glances. "Can we come inside?"

They entered a front room-turned-office. The young man eased himself down into an old office chair with a low sigh. Metal bookshelves filled with thick books on building codes and materials catalogs lined the wall. A spider plant hung from the ceiling, obviously growing healthy starter plants in front of the window with the northern exposure.

"I have to keep this ankle elevated," the man informed them as he lifted his cast onto a pile of phone books setting on the floor. "I get a walking cast in a few days, then I can at least get back out to one of the job sites. I'm the `J' in TJ Building. Stands for Jeff. My dad's my partner, Thomas. What's going on with Marc? We haven't seen him in weeks."

Jim sat in a metal chair that looked similar to the one he used in the conference room at the station. "I'm afraid Marc Thompson is dead. We're investigating his murder and would appreciate anything you could tell us."

Jeff's eyes widened. "What? No way!" Jeff fell back in his seat shaking his head in side-to-side motions. "Who... I mean, shit, Marc wasn't a rocket scientist, but he was harmless and a good worker. Who would kill him?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. How did you meet him?"

"Dad picked Marc up at the union hall. We needed some clean up help." He leaned down and absentmindedly scratched above his splinted ankle.

"When did you last see him?" Jim asked.

"Oh wow, let me think." He glanced up at a wall calendar from a local lumberyard. "I guess about four weeks ago. He was with us for maybe three days before he stopped showing up. I only saw him a couple of times on the Jacksons' remodel job."

Jim nodded. He noticed Marks had a notebook out and was jotting down the information. The guy was handy to have around. "Could we have the address for the Jackson job?"

"Sure." Jeff leaned towards the desk and dragged a large ledger book closer. He flipped open the cover and flipped a few pages until he read off an address and phone number. Jim watched while Marks dutifully wrote it down. "You should talk to Jerry. He worked with Marc a lot."

"Jerry?"

"He's Dad's sub-contractor. Jerry sort of took to Marc, helped him out. Dad and I just couldn't figure out why Marc stopped coming to work. Jerry was going to teach him about construction and try and help him get on the list for an apprenticeship. Man! I can't believe he's dead!"

"Where is Jerry now? We'd like to talk to him."

"He's on the Rainier job, we're running a little behind with that one."

"Rainier?"

"Yeah, they're replacing the windows. Those old ones were costing the school a ton each winter in heating bills."

"You're talking about the university, right?" Jim asked.

"Right."

Marks leaned forward and spoke up for the first time since the interview started. "How did Jerry react when Marc stopped showing up for work?"

Jeff shrugged. "I guess he was okay about it. He never said anything to me."

After getting the full name for Jerry, Jim and Marks headed towards the university. Jim had tried calling Blair's cell number several times with no answer.

"Maybe he's teaching," Marks suggested.

"Yeah." Jim tucked his cell phone back into his pocket. He was not happy about the latest turn of events. The last person that may have seen the victim alive was working at Rainier.

Sandburg was working at Rainier.

Jim lightly smacked the steering wheel with his palms as he braked for a red light. Blair did not fit the victim profile, though. He was within the right age, but he was far from homeless. It didn't help that the kid dressed like a thrift store customer, but a lot of young people dressed like that.

Parking in the lot that Blair used frequently, Jim quickly located the Corvair with his eyes. Jim took the steps up to the front doors of Hargrove Hall two at a time. They wove through the crowd of students and headed for Blair's office. Lunch was over and students were scurrying for their next class. Blair's office door was locked. Jim sorted through his key ring until he located the key that Blair had given him as a back up.

As soon as the men entered the office, they spied the backpack on the desk. Jim's gaze circled the room and saw a contractor style measuring tape sitting on the windowsill.

"Doc, would you go down to room number 104, Blair may still be working there."

"Sure."

Jim removed his phone again and called Simon. He knew Blair was no longer in the building. The familiar heartbeat was missing. But he was picking up the scent of ether. It was too faint for Marks to smell.

He quickly explained the situation. "I'm in Sandburg's office now. He's not in the building and I can smell ether, Simon."

"What!"

"There's a scaffolding set up just outside his office. I think Porter's been in the office. We need to get everything we can on him. He could be the killer."

"Sandburg doesn't fit the killer's profile, Jim."

Marks arrived back in the office doorway; he shook his head sadly at Jim's hopeful expression.

Jim ran a hand through his short hair. "I know that, sir. But the trail led us here and now Sandburg's gone."

Jerry Porter parked his truck in the garage of his small rental home on the outskirts of Cascade. He had the room ready for his son. Now he could prove to his wife that he was a good father. She would come back to him and they would be a happy family again. Humming happily to himself, he opened the passenger door and pulled out the unconscious body. Slinging his son over his shoulder, he entered his home and headed for the stairs to the full basement.

Unlike his home in California, this place was perfect. He was a simple man with simple needs. One of those needs was his family. He had been married for fourteen years when she left him. No warning, just up and left with his two kids. She left a note with a long list of her reasons, but the one that he remembered to this day, seven years later, hurt the most. `You are not a good father'. A man shouldn't have to worry about things like that happening. He was forty-three years old; he should be looking forward to grandkids now.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he gently rolled the body off his shoulder and onto the twin bed. He studied the face of the sleeping kid. He had been surprised to find Kevin so quickly after the last imposter had made him so angry. But this time, he was sure. This was his son. So typical of his wife not to be able to take care of their kids. Imagine Kevin living in a warehouse! No wonder it burned up, that was no place for person to live. He rubbed the small of his back, then bent down to make his son comfortable by removing his tennis shoes and covering him with a cotton blanket.

Climbing back up the stairs, he paused to check everything out. He'd fixed up this basement for a special reason. Now that he'd found his son, he needed to undo all the damage his wife had done. That took time and sometimes a firm hand. Jerry smiled, he didn't mind. He was just happy to have his son back, safe and sound. He closed and locked the solid door.

"We only have his motel address, when he first moved here. Jerry has been working for us about a month." Thomas Franklin, the owner of TJ Building explained to the cops that were standing in his office. "He was still getting settled in the area. Mostly we use cell phones to reach our contractors. I just tried calling it, but he's got it turned off right now."

"Where's Porter from?" Jim asked. Further investigation by Jim at the University had turned up nothing. The only link they had to Blair's whereabouts was the sub-contractor. Now, Marks and Jim were back at the office of TJ Building. Simon had driven over to join in the search.

"California," Thomas replied. "He said he moved up to Washington to search for his wife and kids."

"What kind of vehicle does he drive?" Simon asked.

"A GMC truck, green with a canopy. I think it's a mid-eighties model. There's primer on the right front, in front of the tire," Jeff answered leaning on his crutch. "What's going on? You think Jerry has something to do with killing Marc?"

Jim let his boss answer the question. He wanted to find Blair. None of this was getting him anywhere.

"I'll be outside, Simon," Jim said, not waiting for approval. Standing by his Ford, he pulled out his cell phone. Maybe Taggart had something by now. When they realized Porter may be a suspect, Joel promised personally to go to the clerk's office and find Porter's license application.

When Simon and Marks joined him outside, Jim was putting his phone back in his pocket.

"Joel is still getting the records clerk to find the license," Jim told them. He drummed his fingers on the hood of his Ford, then slapped it loudly. "Damn it, we need an address!"

"Okay, let's go back to the station," Simon said. "We can regroup." He placed a hand on Jim's shoulders before he could object. "Jim, listen to me. Blair's safe for right now."

"You don't know that, Simon," Jim said angrily. "Those head wounds on the other victims were probably made from this guy's hammer."

"Well, actually, I think Captain Banks is right." Dr. Marks stepped up to join in. "If Porter is the killer, he continues to work during the day even after kidnapping his victim. So even if we wait and do nothing tonight, he may very well appear tomorrow for work. You can get him then."

"I've told Thomas and his son not to let on that anything is wrong, Jim. We need to form a plan for tomorrow morning," Simon coaxed as he gently shook Jim's shoulder. "It's going to be fine. Sandburg is smart, he'll know enough to play along until we get him back."

"Simon, all Blair has to do is piss this guy off with one word or try to get away. We've got to find them now! Not wait for the morning, hoping he shows up to work," Jim said hotly. The idea of returning to the station made him ill. Every muscle in his body wanted to act, to do something to find Blair.

"I didn't say were giving up tonight, Jim. We're just going to regroup and look for another lead."

Blair was having a bad dream. He must be dreaming. He didn't want this feeling to be real. He felt his stomach roll again. Oh God, he wasn't. His stomach was churning. Throbbing pain in his head fought with his stomach for attention. His body was a battleground.

He moaned. Strong hands rolled him sideways and held his shoulders off the bed as he threw up. When his stomach settled down, he was guided to lie on his side while a wet cloth cleaned his face. Blair didn't even open his eyes.

"Oh, man. I feel awful, Jim," he said weakly.

"Here."

Blair felt the rim of a plastic cup on his lip. Pushing with his arms, he opened his eyes and lifted his upper body into a semi-sitting position. He took the glass and rinsed out his mouth with the water, spitting it into a bucket beside his bed. Finished, Blair handed the glass back and returned his head to the pillow.

"Thanks, man."

"You're welcome, Kevin."

Blair's eyes opened in confusion. What did Jim just call him?

"Huh?"

Blair looked up at the man sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. Oh, shit. The last moments in his office came rushing back as he saw the face of his kidnapper.

He would have liked to believe that it was nerves of steel that kept him from shouting out in fear or recoiling from the man in terror. But in truth, it was just the side effects from the ether that slowed his reaction and allowed his brain to kick in.

Stay calm, man. Stay Calm.

"Uh, I'm Kevin?"

"Yes, you may have been called something else by your mother when she took you and your sister from me, but your real name is Kevin." Porter smiled and patted Blair's arm. "I'm your father. You can call me Daddy, or Dad if you'd like."

Blair felt his stomach churn, as if getting ready to repeat its last performance. Taking a deep breath to calm his nausea as well as his nerves, he studied the man sitting on the edge of his bed. "You were working on campus."

Porter nodded. "I was. Hard to believe. I spend years looking for you and end up working right outside your school." He frowned. "Why were you living in a warehouse? What have I told you about staying out of dangerous places?"

Blair's eyes widened at the sudden switch in tones from the man. He shifted back on the bed, trying to distance himself. "I...uh...needed some space for a project I was working on..."

Porter pointed a long finger at Blair's nose. "Listen to me. You are back home now. Just forget about that crap your mother let you get away with. Understand?"

Blair nodded wordlessly.

"While I'm thinking about it." He reached his right hand into his overalls' hip pocket and pulled out a leather cord. "This is for you. Just in case I'm not home and you need to get into the house."

Blair watched as the man let the cord drop so it swung from his fingers. Threaded through the cord of leather like a necklace was a common looking brass colored house key.

"Okay, we've got a plate!" Brown entered the bullpen with a slip of paper held high above his head like a trophy.

Jim slammed the phone down. He was just about to leave a message on an answering machine. He could do that later. "Let's get an APB out."

"Already done, babe." Brown handed over the paper with a smile. "We're going to get Hairboy back, Jim."

Jim nodded, studying the paper as he followed Brown into Simon's office. They were looking for a 1984 GMC. Now they had another piece of the puzzle. They knew a lot about Porter thanks to the good will of several California police departments and state licensing personnel.

Jerry Porter's wife had filed for a divorce and then disappeared with his daughter and son. He filed a police report against his wife and even hired private detectives to try and locate them. But the location of his family remained a mystery. Porter had no arrest record, nothing more serious then a few speeding infractions. He sold his house and his business four years before, basically dropping out of sight with any previous contacts or friends he'd made while married.

"He's a real loner," Dr Marks noted as they worked around the conference table in Simon's office. "He's isolated himself from his fellow workers, so they know very little of his private life."

"Makes it almost impossible to locate him," Taggart added. "We're checking for credit history, but so far, nothing."

"TJ Building paid him in cash or money orders," Jim said, dropping down into the empty chair at the table. He twirled the empty coffee mug listlessly between his hands. The table was littered with coffee cups, faxed copies of reports and a city map. It was close to the end of shift, but no one was making any effort to leave.

Simon picked up the copy of the sub-contractor's license that Taggart had made. "He used a motel address for his license, but the motel records show he hasn't been there for over two months."

"He doesn't use a bank, no phone records except for his cell phone which he purchased in California, how else can you create a paper trail?" Brown asked.

"What about trying a less orthodox means of record keeping?" Dr. Marks suggested from the end of the table.

The cops turned in one accord to stare at the man. They had forgotten the man was even in the room.

"After you finish your dinner, you can watch a video."

Blair sat at a small table with a plate of macaroni and cheese and a glass of milk. He looked at the orange pasta, even during all the times Naomi had been pressed to find something to eat growing up, he'd never had this dish.

Porter watched from across the table. They were still in what Blair was guessing was a basement. After Blair's headache had receded, he noticed that the large room was equipped with everything a person could need, except a kitchen. The room was long; he suspected it ran the length of the house above him. No windows at all. A few lights recessed into the ceiling were the only source of light. No switch was visible, probably upstairs. The white walls were bare, painted cinder block.

He had investigated the small bathroom under the staircase already while the man had been upstairs fixing dinner. Inside he'd noticed a popular brand of hair shampoo with rosemary scent on the edge of the back tub. But nothing he could effectively use as a weapon against the older man. Blair had even climbed the stairs to check if the key around his neck worked on the dead bolt. It didn't but he had to give it a try.

Out in the sitting area, a love seat and TV with a VCR sat in the corner. A few paperback books were neatly stacked in a particleboard bookshelf. The titles were all of classic novels for enjoyment by a youth, maybe early teens. Now the two of them were sitting down to a meal of Mac-n-cheese.

Blair realized he was still being watched. Taking his fork in hand, he tried the dish. The other man decided that was his cue to start eating. Keeping his eyes down, Blair gave his situation some thought.

As long as he didn't upset this nut, he was safe. The problem with that plan was he really wanted to get out. Something told him that escaping was a surefire way to upset his captor. Blair peeked up at his eating companion. The guy was a few years older than Jim, but years of construction must have kept him in good physical condition. So far, the contractor had not given Blair an opportunity to try and overpower him, as if he could. He barely felt strong enough at the moment to lift his fork.

Blair sighed as he picked up his milk to wash down the sticky pasta. God, how could parents give this stuff to their kids?

"What's wrong?" Porter asked. "You used to love macaroni and cheese."

"It's fine." Blair decided to try a more direct route. "I'm just worried about my roommate. He's expecting me tonight. Do you think I could call him? Let him know that I'm with you now?"

Porter smiled. "We'll see. Finish your dinner."

Blair forced himself to return the smile. He gave the meal his attention; well, at least it wasn't a Wonder burger happy meal.

Porter washed the dishes with a smile on his face. After seven years, he was finally on the right track again. He'd found his son, although he expected Kevin to have grown a little taller. He was certain things would start to work out now. Maybe finding his daughter would be a simple matter of fate as well. Then he'd give up.

Who needed a worthless wife when you had your kids back?

Kevin was down in his room, watching a video he'd rented a few days ago for that imposter. He needed to remember to return it tomorrow. He knew tonight his son would sleep soundly thanks to the tasteless additive he'd put in his milk.

He glanced out the small window above the sink. The backyard's fence was in desperate need of repair. He could see the alley that ran behind the houses through the broken down fence. While he gazed out, lost in thought, a dark shape darted past a break in the fence, closely followed by another.

Porter lurched sideways, out of sight of the unknown enemies sneaking up into his back yard. The part of his brain that had kept him free from the police for the last three years kicked in to give him orders.

Grab Kevin, run!

He ran to the door that led to the basement. Unlocking the sturdy deadbolt, he opened it and checked on his son's location. Kevin was sitting on the edge of the bed, ignoring the TV that was playing in the corner.

"Get up here!" Porter hissed loudly.

Blair looked up dully. His `dad' was standing at the top of the stairs waving at him to come up. He had just spent over an hour trying to think up ways to get out of the basement and now he was being escorted out. Why was this not a good thing?

"Move it, Kevin."

Blair stood slowly and weaved towards the stairs. The man rushed down the staircase and roughly grabbed him by the arm. Blair found himself pulled up the stairs and through the doorway.

"Hey!"

"Quiet!"

Blair was yanked through the kitchen and into a single car garage. A green truck was waiting for them. The kidnapper was opening the passenger door.

Blair pulled back feebly, his tennis shoes scrambling for purchase on the concrete floor. He searched with fuzzy vision for something within reach he could use as a weapon. He shook his head to try and clear the cobwebs from his thoughts.

Jim was here!

"Jim! We're in the garage!" Blair didn't have to shout, but he found himself raising his voice in desperation. Before he could say more, he was backhanded across the face with enough force to knock him off his feet.

He began kicking out at his kidnapper's legs as the older man tried to pull him back up. The truck door was open and Blair found himself being dragged backward towards it by a hand in his hair and another on his arm.

A loud crash from the house startled them both, then, in the time it took the contractor to grab Blair and lift him up by the neck to create a shield for the big man, a group of armed men poured through the doorway.

"Freeze, Porter! Cascade Police!"

Blair gasped, pulling desperately at the large forearm that pressed against his windpipe. The arms that held him shifted position and he found his neck completely encircled, his head now tilted slightly to one side. He tried not to panic as he recalled one of the previous victims had died from a broken neck.

"Porter, let him go. There's no reason any more people have to die," Simon said in a calm voice.

Blair watched as Jim moved slightly to one side, the large automatic pointed just above his head. Closing his eyes, he stilled, putting his trust in Simon and Jim. As desperate as the situation looked, Blair felt immense relief flood through him. He'd been found.

"You can't have him. He's mine!" Porter shouted at the intruders, shaking Blair by his neck like a rag doll.

More men entered the garage cutting off any chance of escape. Porter edged down the side of the truck, dragging his shield along. By standing on his toes, Blair was able to keep the pressure from cutting off his windpipe all together. He pulled once more on the thick arm, but strength wasn't going to work. Blair's brain struggled to think of another way to defuse the situation. Why was it so hard for him to think straight?

"Da...daddy..." Blair managed to get the word out in a gasp. He felt the pressure on his neck lessen. "Please... Don't hurt me..."

The words seemed to steal the strength from the big man. Blair felt the thick arms lower to his shoulders and then circle him in a tight hug. A forehead rested in his hair.

"Oh, God, Kevin. I just found you..." Porter broke into a sob as Simon and Brown each grabbed a hand. Together they yanked opened the man's embrace and Blair fell forward. Jim barely had time to tuck his gun into his belt before Blair was in his arms.

This time when he was gathered up and swept out of the way, Blair went without a fight. He found himself standing back in the kitchen, holding his roommate's shirt tightly with both fists.

"You okay?" Jim asked still circling Blair's shoulders with his left arm and running his right hand down Blair's neck to check for injuries.

Blair nodded, shaking visibly from the adrenaline rush. His legs were starting to feel like rubber. Jim backed him up until he felt a kitchen chair behind him and he sat down hard.

Jim hooked a second chair with his foot and pulled it out to sit facing his friend. Finishing his examination of Blair's neck, he ran his fingers lightly down his face where Porter had hit him. Jim seemed to be satisfied with his findings. Blair sat as Jim removed the leather cord with the key from around his neck.

"You think you can turn me loose now before I'm forced to retire this shirt to the rag pile?" he teased gently as he placed the necklace on the table.

Blair opened his fists and patted Jim's chest clumsily in an attempt to smooth out the wrinkles. He took a shaky breath. "Sorry, man."

Simon entered from the garage, followed closely by a handcuffed Jerry Porter and Taggart. They led Porter past the reunited friends and out the front door. Blair tracked him silently with his eyes and noticed the front doorframe was splintered.

He returned his gaze to his friend. "How'd you find us?" he asked slowly, barely hearing himself over the ringing sound growing in his ears.

Jim shook his head. "You'd never believe this, Chief. We were forced to bring in the big guys."

"FBI?"

"Nope, Blockbuster Video."

Blair blinked at his friend. What was Jim talking about? A huge yawn surprised him. Jim snorted as he steadied Blair's weaving head with both hands and thumbed open one eyelid, then the other. He gently ran his fingers over the back and sides of Blair's head, careful not to pull his hair.

"How you doing, Blair? You sleepy?"

"Uh huh." Blair yawned again.

Jim stood, hoisting his roommate up and steadying him with an arm around his waist. "Okay, let's get you out of here before you plant your face into the floor."

Simon walked back towards the house with long strides. He was satisfied the suspect had been informed of his rights and was now secured in the back of a police car, en route to the station with Joel for booking. He wanted no screw-ups on this case. No one took one of `his' men, even if the man in question was just an observer. Simon reached the front steps in time to see Jim struggling to support Blair and steer him towards the door.

He wordlessly moved up to drape a slack arm over his shoulder. Together they supported Blair towards the Expedition parked a block down the street, out of sight.

"I think he's been drugged, Simon. I'm gonna drive him over to the hospital."

"Nooooo," Blair moaned, he rolled his head sideways towards Jim.

"Just to be checked out, Sandburg," Jim insisted, opening the passenger side to the Ford and helping Simon lift him into the seat.

Simon stepped back to give Jim room to pivot the younger man forward in the seat. He watched Blair's efforts to push the cop away. Jim finally grabbed both of Blair's wrists in his left hand and awkwardly crossed over his arm to draw the seatbelt across Blair's chest and lap. As soon as his hands became free, Blair started to fumble for the release on his seatbelt.

"Sandburg, stop it!" Jim ordered.

Simon shook his head as the two men fought over the seatbelt buckle. Blair tried waving his hands to avoid being grabbed again. Jim easily captured them both and placed them in Blair's lap.

"Don't move!" Jim pushed the hands firmly to make his point clear. "You need to get checked out. End of discussion, understand?"

"Want my cuffs, Jim?"

"I just might, Simon." Jim released the hands and waited a moment. Blair remained still, breathing fast, his eyes closed and head down. "You're okay, Chief."

Blair opened his eyes and nodded slowly. "Sorry," he said in a small voice.

Jim grasped Blair's shoulder lightly. "It's okay, I understand. I'll get you in and out as fast as I can. I promise. Okay?"

Blair nodded. His eyes closed again.

Waiting until the man closed the door, Simon cleared his throat. "Call me when you get the doctor's report. I'm going to stay and make sure the place is properly checked out. Be sure and get a full work up on his blood, I want to nail this guy to the floor with everything we can get."

"Right."

Simon smiled. Jim was a man of few words when he was being delayed from a mission. "Get out of here, then."

Jim jumped up from the sofa, hearing the soft sound of snoring come from Blair's room. It was late, after ten. When they arrived home from the hospital, Blair had been asleep on his feet and wasted no time crawling into his bed. Now Jim entered the small bedroom to find his pillow had slipped out and onto the floor. Blair was sleeping on his back, the layer of blankets wrapped around his form like a warm cocoon.

"Okay, Chief." Jim picked the pillow off the floor and knocked off imaginary dirt. "I'm not going to play this game with you all night." He lifted Blair's head gently and placed the pillow back where it belonged. The snoring stopped and Blair continued to breathe without obstruction.

Jim studied the dark bruise on this friend's right cheek. Earlier that night, when he and Simon were preparing to move in on Porter, he'd heard the sounds of a struggle coming from the garage as he got into position at the front door. He had nearly taken the door off its hinges when the sharp slap of the backhand reached his ears. He was so sure the next sound would be that of a hammer hitting Blair in the head.

Jim's foot stepped on something soft. He picked up the flannel shirt and searched for the laundry basket Blair used. Jim worked silently in the dark room. Before he knew it, the normal clutter was picked up and put away. He continued to monitor his roommate's breathing. Finally, nothing was left to keep him busy. Approaching the small futon, he lightly checked Blair's forehead with the back of his hand; skin temperature was within acceptable range. He counted the heart rate and respirations for a full sixty seconds, both were normal. Blair was going to be fine. Jim scrubbed his face, God, he was wiped, but he felt too wired to go up to his own bed.

Sensitive ears picked up the sounds of footsteps approaching the loft door. Jim slipped through the doorway and had the loft door open before Simon could accidentally wake Blair.

Simon entered with a satisfied look. "Hey, Jim. How's everything going?" he whispered.

Jim nodded as he locked the door behind his boss. "Good, you want a beer?"

Simon stretched out on the sofa and nodded. "I shouldn't, but why not? We deserve a celebration toast." He glanced around the dark loft. "You sure you don't want to kick me out and get some sleep?"

Removing two bottles from the fridge, Jim detoured to the wall switch for the living room area. He flipped it on and handed a beer to his guest. "Sorry about that, Sandburg went straight to bed and I forgot the lights were off." He took the smaller sofa and stretched his long legs out comfortably. "I'm not ready to sleep yet. Thanks, by the way, for calling the hospital with the name of the sleeping pills Porter used on Sandburg."

Simon took a long pull from the bottle. "The doctors obviously weren't too concerned if they let you bring him home."

"Nah. They took some blood for testing and some neck x-rays," Jim said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "He'll be sore tomorrow, but he's okay."

Simon let his head fall back to rest on the sofa. "Good, if this goes to trial, we should have an airtight case for murder one. We've got the print and blond hairs to match Porter, as well as the kidnapping charge. Porter told us he saw Blair while working at Rainier. He overheard him telling some guy he was homeless after his warehouse blew up. Good Lord, Jim, what are the odds Sandburg draws the attention of two serial killers in one year?"

Jim sighed. Leaning back on his soft sofa, he copied the position of the other man. "I can't even insist that he stay away from the police station. He was kidnapped out of his own office! It had nothing to do with his working with me."

Simon snorted as he sipped his beer. "Like you could keep him away from the station. Face it, Ellison. Trouble is going to find Sandburg like fleas find a dog. He's a hell of a lot safer with you in his life than out of it."

Smiling at the ceiling, Jim had to agree. "Do me a favor, sir. Keep the fleas and the dog comparison quiet, okay? I have enough to pick up around here."

Late the next morning, Jim looked up from his reading to see Blair stumble out of his room. Blair's hair stuck out in several places causing Jim to bark a short laugh. Blair made a face and disappeared into the bathroom.

Jim returned to his newspaper with a chuckle. It was nearly ten in the morning. He'd finally kicked Simon out last night and got some sleep, feeling better after having the beer and a chance to talk with his boss. Simon graciously allowed him the morning off. They'd even made plans for another barbeque tonight, intending to invite all the officers involved in the task force.

He slept in, as much as he ever allowed himself anyway, eight a.m. After walking down the block for half a dozen glazed donuts, he made a fresh pot of coffee, and sat down to read the paper as he ate. It was a great morning.

Blair shuffled out of the bathroom and made a direct attack on the coffee pot. Jim could see his hair was now tied back.

"How you feeling?"

"Trashed," Blair said, dropping into the sofa next to Jim with a cup in both hands. "What time is it?"

"Little after ten. Sleep okay?"

"Yeah."

Jim looked up from the sports page. Blair sounded a bit off. "No dreams?"

"Give it a rest, man," Blair returned vehemently.

Oh, yeah, a bit off.

Returning to his paper, Jim didn't comment on the uncharacteristic behavior. If he were to guess, he'd say Blair was making some sort of preemptive strike. Question was, what was he expecting Jim to hit him with? Jim was clueless. He sucked when it came to figuring out other people, just ask his ex-wife.

"Donuts in the kitchen. I left you a couple." Jim turned the page.

Blair grunted and took another sip.

"Simon's having a barbeque tonight. We're invited. Need to bring some sort of finger food dish."

"Who's coming?"

"The taskforce. Anybody else that worked on the case with us. He wants you to call him this morning. He's gonna ask you about your emu meat recipe and where to buy it."

That got a reaction. Blair turned, his mouth open in amazement. "Really? He liked it?"

"He told you he did."

"Yeah, but I thought he was just saying that."

Jim set the paper down and gave his complete attention to his friend. "Sandburg, you know Simon. If he said it, he means it. It's pretty much cut and dry with him."

Blair shrugged and studied his cup. "What ever."

Jim watched the group of cops as they waited for the burgers to finish. Simon's back deck was crowded with the now disbanded serial killer task force. The afternoon was one of the rare, sunny warm days that made the Northwest a paradise to live in. He returned his attention to the handheld computer game that Simon's son had left behind after his last visit. He nearly had all the space aliens blasted back into the cosmos where the dirty little critters belonged.

"Are you sure we're going to like these, Simon?" Joel asked, standing beside the grill.

Simon looked up from his job of cooking. "Joel, you're going to want at least two of these babies, trust me. Have I ever led you astray when it comes to food?"

Jim snorted softly from his position by the back door. He was enjoying the down time, the friends, and the warm weather.

"No way! You guys got the address from a video store?"

Jim glanced up from his game. Brown and his date, Clair, were sharing a plate of Blair's raw vegetables. She worked in Burglary and sang in the jazz band that Brown was playing in.

Brown was nodding enthusiastically as he dipped another baby carrot into Blair's special party dip. "Yep, Joel's nephew works at one of the stores. All the chains are connected by computer, so it was just a matter of checking out all the J Porters in Cascade."

Clair shook her head. "Wait till I tell our captain about this." She laughed. "This could bring crime in Cascade to a screeching halt!"

Jim sipped his glass of iced sun tea and settled back into the cushioned chair to continue his new destiny as savior of the world. Yep, life was good.

Joel continued to eye the grill with a slight frown. "Sandburg gave you this recipe? Emu meat... that's that big bird from Australia that can't fly, right?" Joel moved closer to examine the patties.

"Back off, Taggart! Let a master chef work, for crying out loud." Simon swatted the air with his spatula. "I'm telling you, these babies only have 93 calories, 49 milligrams of cholesterol and less than 1.5 grams of fat. You're never going to enjoy healthy food this much again."

Joel shook his head in disbelief. "Nah, Simon. You're full of it. I'm going to ask Blair about this. I think someone's pulling my chain."

Uh oh. Jim set his game down, ready for battle. Stretching his long legs out comfortably, he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Excuse me, Jim."

"The house is currently off-limits, Joel."

Taggart stood still, staring in confusion at the man whose legs were effectively blocking the back entrance into Simon's home. Jim gave the bomb expert a sweet smile to remove any sting from his words.

"I just want to talk to Blair for a minute, he's inside, right?"

Jim nodded. "Yep, but he can't be disturbed. Why don't you wait till later? Simon's right, you'll like the burgers."

Taggart gave the man an indignant huff and wandered back to the grill. Jim continued to smile as he listened to muttering about crazy cops and weird foods. Relaxing his guard, he returned to his computer game.

Ten minutes later, Simon declared his masterpieces cooked. The crowd of off duty police officers gathered their plates and waited eagerly in line for their patty. Blair and Dr. Marks walked out of the house to join Jim at the end of the line. Soon everyone was wrapping hands around their emu burgers.

Blair sat cross-legged on a long bench, balancing his plate in his lap. Jim sat next to him, having lost his comfortable chair to Joel who was now thoroughly enjoying his meal.

"Have a nice chat with Marks?" Jim asked quietly as he wiped his chin with a paper napkin.

"Yeah, he's a great guy," Blair answered. He looked at Jim questioningly. "Hey, man. You didn't listen in on us, did you?"

"I'm hurt."

"Yeah, right." Blair snorted, stabbing at the air between them with a pickle. "You better not have, Ellison. That's invasion of privacy."

"Your secrets are safe with me, Sandburg."

"Hey, I gotta admit. These things are good, Simon," Brown commented.

"Yeah, when you first told us what we were eating, I almost got back in my car and drove to Black Angus." Taggart laughed. "But I like it."

"Good!" Simon nodded at the group. "I want you guys to think about your reasons for not wanting to try this. I've got a questionnaire for you all to fill out."

"Simon! You didn't!" Jim asked his boss with a bark of laughter.

Simon gave the man a stern look. "Ellison, do you know how much this meat costs? If I get it from Sandburg's friend, I only pay sixty percent. Do I look like an idiot?"

The party lasted long after the food was gone. Blair spent more time with Marks, but not in private. A few of the guests thanked Simon for the unusual meal and bid the group goodnight. Soon the party was whittled down to the Major Crime cops, Marks and Blair. It didn't take much effort for Simon to talk the group into starting a poker game.

"What were your total winnings?" Jim asked as the two men were driving home after the game.

Blair mocked the gesture of a gambler pulling down the arm on an old fashion slot machine. "Ca-ching! Seventy-two big ones, man! I'm one rich camper."

Jim's hearty laughter echoed Blair's, filling the inside of the Ford. "I thought Taggart was going to weep when you laid down that full-house on his three kings," Jim said.

Blair's laughter increased. "I know, I nearly folded because he was looking so happy, I wasn't sure I wanted to rain on his parade. But, man, did you see the size of the pot?"

"Don't sweat it. Taggart will just win it all back from you next month anyway. I'd be watching out for him if I were you," Jim teased.

Blair's laugher died with a happy smile and a sigh. He turned and studied Jim, his face becoming serious.

"Jim, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Did you ask Dr. Marks to talk with me tonight?"

Uh, oh. Busted.

"Never mind, man. You just answered my question."

Jim made a face. He really needed to work on that little trick of Blair's.

"So, you pissed?"

Blair snorted softly. "Nah. It's cool. Actually, I'm kinda glad you did, he told me a few things that I didn't think about before."

"What's that?"

"Just stuff." Blair shrugged and watched the dark buildings pass by.

"So, did you get any grief from the University for missing classes?"

Blair's good humor returned. "Oh, Jim, you should have heard it, the Dean called me personally to apologize! I think he's worried I'm going to sue the school for letting Porter kidnap me."

Jim turned into the parking stall and killed the engine. Blair's ability to make light of his kidnapping bothered him.

"Sandburg, the school is somewhat responsible for keeping their employees safe."

"You can't be serious, Jim. You think I should sue?" Blair's hand froze on the door handle as he turned back to stare.

"No, I'm just saying they may truly be sorry for what happened to you."

"It's not a big deal, man. It's not like it's the first time." Blair opened the door and reached down to the floor for his pack.

"Hold it, Chief." Jim placed a restraining hand on his arm before he could climb out. "Close the door."

"What?" Blair looked ready to bolt, but he closed the door and wrapped both arms around his backpack.

Jim studied Blair's profile for a second. Blair looked defensive again, similar to his behavior that morning when he had first woken up. What was going through his friend's head?

Jim took a shot. "It's not your fault you got kidnapped, Sandburg."

"That's what Marks told me," Blair muttered softly.

Bulls-eye.

"Why do you think he's wrong?"

Blair's shoulders sagged. "I saw the door to my office was open, Jim. I never should have gone inside, but I did. Why? Am I just stupid or what?" Blair shook his head, keeping his eyes downward.

"How could you have possibly known the killer was on campus?"

Blair shrugged. "We were talking to construction people, construction work was going on all week right in front of my nose...I just blew it, man. I never made the connection."

Jim looked at Blair in amazement. "Shit, Sandburg. There was `no' connection to make! It was just your dumb luck, nothing more." Jim leaned his head back on his seat and rubbed his forehead. "Look, I'm not saying you've never screwed up on a case before, hell, every rookie does. I sure did, when I started. You're probably going to screw up in the future, but I promise, now listen to me carefully, because this is important. I promise I will be the first one to tell you when you do. Because I'm here to tell you, Darwin, you've got a weird idea of what a screw-up looks like here."

Blair watched Jim's face as he delivered the speech, as if weighing the truth of the words by watching the muscles in Jim's face. Hell, Jim thought, maybe Blair can read me.

"Really?"

"Really."

"You don't think I screwed up?"

Jim wanted to throttle Blair himself! What had he just been saying! "Far from it. You kept your cool. Again, I might add. You even talked Porter into releasing you..." Jim held up a hand at the look on Blair's face. "At least you assisted with getting released, okay? You did everything right."

He watched as a small smile started to grow on Blair's face.

"Didn't Marks tell you any of this stuff?"

Blair ducked his head and started to fiddle with his pack. "He did. But that's not the same as you saying it."

That floored Jim. He gave it some thought. "Okay, then. Consider it said. So, if we're back to being okay here, let's get inside before you tell me how cold it is."

Jim locked up the Ford and led the way toward the lobby door, Blair falling in to walk beside him, a little spring returning in his step.

"Hey, Jim. You called me a rookie! Does that mean I don't have to stay in the truck any more?"

"It was just a slip of the tongue, Sandburg. Don't let it go to your head."

"You said it. I think that deep down, you're willing to believe I can back you up under any circumstance, man."

"You are not a cop."

"You said it, I heard you."

"You'd have to cut your hair when you start the Academy, Chief."

Silence. "You're right, man. Definitely a slip of the tongue."

The End.

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to LKY

Home

Search for another story

[an error occurred while processing this directive]