Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison, Simon Banks, and all other characters are property of Paramount and Pet Fly. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money has exchanged hands.
Educating Angels
by Lacy
Summary: Some life-altering letters could put Jim and Blair in a lot of danger, and suddenly a simple case becomes something much more. Rated PG-13.
Spoilers: Educating Angels contains heavy spoilers for S2, parts one and two, as well as heavy spoilers for TSbyBS. There are minor spoilers for other episodes, such as Fool Me Twice and Secrets sprinkled liberally throughout.
Classification: This story is to be considered Alternate Universe, since it takes place a year after TSbyBS and exists in the BlairCop Universe. To understand Blair's state of mind in this story you might try reading my earlier fic titled Sevens -- but it's not necessary to understanding the plot.
Disclaimer: Jim Ellison, Blair Sandburg, Simon Banks, and the other members of the Cascade Police Department's Major Crimes Division belong to Danny Bilson, Paul DeMeo, Pet Fly Productions and Paramount. All other characters are mine.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Kimberly (kimberlyFDR) for beta-reading and beyond. Since shortly after beginning this story, she was a tremendous help by being my sounding board, and all without knowing the complete details of the story. Thanks a million for all of your comments and suggestions. Also thanks to Bonnie (Bonni317) for being the queen of the English language and for sharing its rules and regulations with me.
This story has been more than four months in the making, and I enjoyed every single moment spent with Jim and Blair, who took up all-too-brief residence in my head. I hope they will grace me with their presence again soon. Thanks, boys.
Copyright Info: ©All literature found on the following pages produced by ::Lacy::. Unauthorized reproduction of this text is not allowed. Contact author :: xfwatcher@aol.com :: for permission
********************
Introduction
4:00 p.m.
Less chance of running into someone I know.
Used to know, he corrected himself, as he quickly pulled his new Toyota 4Runner into the empty space and placed it in park.
'The old stomping grounds, Blair thought to himself. He knew the buildings and the sidewalks as well as anyone who had spent fourteen years of their life here. He hadn't stepped foot on the Rainier University campus in over a year. Not since the day he had cleaned out his office and quietly slipped away, hoping he would not be noticed. Blair's eyes scanned the surrounding area, taking in the sight of the campus. The connection was gone, severed, and he felt just the tiniest bit of loss at that new revelation.
For a long time, he couldn't even drive past this place. After all, it was here that his old life had ended -- in more ways than one. He had died here, but that had been the easy part.
To his left, Blair could see the fountain that had haunted his nightmares for months. He had thought dying was the hardest thing he had ever done. But it was a bit like jinxing yourself, because as soon as you think you've faced your most difficult challenge -- as soon as you think it just can't get any harder -- life brains you with a whole new problem.
More than a year ago, Blair Sandburg, rising Anthropologist, had thrown away his career on a fraudulent dissertation that even he said couldn't be considered 'a good work of fiction'. For the most part, the fiasco had been forgotten, but here at the University it was sure to be gossip fodder for decades to come. They would never truly know what he had given up that day as he stood at the press conference podium and announced himself a fraud.
But they would also never have an inkling of what he had gained.
Blair wasn't here for woolgathering, though. That had been finished long ago. He was here to take care of unfinished business. He exited his vehicle, locking the door and setting the alarm, and set his mind toward his current mission.
The building was clearly marked with bold letters in stone: Student Union. Blair noticed that the building was practically empty, just as he expected for a Friday afternoon. He passed the main foyer (decorated smartly for the recent freshman orientation) and headed straight for the University Post Office. It was there -- just as it had been a year ago. The man standing behind the counter was tall and thin, his body language making it clear that he did not wanted to be bothered.
"Excuse me, sir?" Blair decided to bother anyway.
"What can I do for you?" The man sighed in a monotone voice, suggesting he was less than thrilled to be called upon to perform his postal duties.
"I received this in the mail yesterday." Blair retrieved a yellow post card from the inside of his worn leather jacket.
"Ah, yes, I see," the thin man answered, reaching out to take the card from Blair.
"There's something I don't understand, though…." Blair began.
"What's that?"
"Well, you obviously have my address, so why couldn't you just send the stuff on to me?"
"The problem, you see," the man began, explaining as though Blair were a five-year-old, "is that we don't have a 'Permission to Forward' form on file for you."
"I see," Blair sighed.
"So if you could just fill this out we can forward any mail sent to you, care of the University, on to your home address." The man, whom Blair had already come to think of as 'Disgruntled-Post-Office-Guy', slid the form across the counter to him.
He took the paper, filled in the necessary information, signed it with a flourish and slid it back across the counter.
"Thank you, Mr. Sandburg. I'll be happy to retrieve your mail for you now."
Now you'll be happy? Blair thought, as the man disappeared into the back room. He returned a moment later carrying a file box, which had the name 'Blair Sandburg' painstakingly printed on the side. The cardboard carton made a heavy thud as Disgruntled-Post-Office-Guy placed it on the counter. Not wanting to linger, Blair took the box, thanked the man behind the counter, and fled the Post Office.
********************
Chapter One
He could hear his radio squawking as he neared his vehicle. Juggling his keys and the carton he carried, he was able to unlock the car using the alarm remote. Opening the door, he tossed the weighty box onto the passenger seat and reached for the CB radio.
"David -135 here. Come again." Blair said into the CB transmitter, releasing the button so that he could hear the coming response.
"David 135, we have a homicide at 3694 Carlock Place. Your presence has been requested."
"Responding. ETA 2 minutes," Blair answered, pulling the car door shut as he placed the transmitter back on its cradle.
As he pulled out of the university parking lot, he turned on his siren and sped down the street, his experience in the post office already forgotten.
********************
When he arrived at 3694 Carlock Place, two patrol officers were blocking off the front yard with yellow crime scene ribbon. Blair was the first detective on-site, and as far as he could tell, neither Jim nor the Forensics team had arrived yet. Blair flipped up the armrest of his new car, to reveal a hidden pocket. Probably designed for tapes and CD's, the pocket instead contained a box of latex gloves. He removed two gloves from the pocket and stuffed them inside his jacket as he opened the door of the car and stepped out onto the street.
He didn't recognize the officers as he approached the yard; however, he easily recognized their eagerness, as they both stepped forward to keep him from ducking beneath the ribbon.
"This is a crime scene, sir."
Anticipating the patrol officers' defense of the area, Blair reached into his back pocket and pulled out his identification. Opening the wallet ID for the officer to see, he introduced himself. "Detective Sandburg." Not waiting for the officer to apologize, Blair jumped right in with obligatory questions. "Whatcha got for me?"
"The victim has been identified as Doctor Diane Westmoreland. She was a professor at the University."
Blair didn't recognize the name, but he flinched at the mention of the victim's place of employment. "Who called it in?"
"One of Dr. Westmoreland's assistants. She's inside with Officer Drew."
Just then, Blair turned to see Jim's truck speeding around the corner. The blue '69 Ford pick-up truck slid haphazardly into the space behind Blair's 4Runner. It was rare for Jim and Blair to show up separately at a crime scene, but Blair hadn't expected to be called in on a case when he had left the station to take care of his personal business. Jim's quick strides ate up at the ground as he approached his partner, stooping to bypass the crime scene ribbon. Like Blair, he flashed his badge at the scene officer.
"Whatcha got, Chief?" Jim asked.
"Not much, Jim, I just got here myself," he answered in self-defense, thrusting his palms into the air. Blair updated Jim on the victim's identity and her place of employment.
"Officer Manning." Jim turned to the officer who had patiently listened to Blair's explanation. "Start a canvass, please. Find out if anyone saw anything. Find a witness, bring them here. You think you can handle that?"
"Yes, Detective," Manning answered, already moving towards the house next door.
"Why are we on this case, Jim? Shouldn't this go to Homicide?"
"When the officers called it in, Homicide sent it our way. They seem to think Cascade has another serial killer. Homicide couldn't wash its hands of this case fast enough, Chief. Let's have a look, shall we?" Jim suggested.
"After you, man." Blair held out his hand to offer Jim the lead, and then fell into step behind his partner.
Short and stocky, Officer Burke was doing his utmost to keep Dr. Westmoreland's assistant calm and collected as he looked up to see Cascade's most unusual detective team enter through the opened front door. Saying nothing, he nodded his head in the direction of the back bedroom, as he stood from the couch and approached the detectives.
"Her name's Phoebe Garland. She's Dr. Westmoreland's TA at the University. When Westmoreland didn't show for her classes today, Ms. Garland came by to check on her.
"Thank you, Burke. We're going to have a look at the scene now, but I'll be out to speak with her in a few minutes." Blair placed his hand on the officer's shoulder, silently suggesting that the older man should continue to look after the fragile witness. The patrolman nodded in understanding and went back to the young woman's side.
Walking down the hall to the back bedroom, Blair reached into his pocket and removed the latex gloves. He snapped his left hand into the first glove and then quickly donned the other. Both detectives walked in a straight line, Blair stepping exactly where his partner's feet had been and being careful not to touch the walls.
The bedroom door was ajar by only a few inches. Jim reached out to urge the door open, his eyes scanning the room before he stepped inside. The bed sheets were covered with blood; the woman clearly murdered in her sleep. There were no signs of struggle, suggesting that the victim had never had a chance to realize her own peril. She had been sleeping on her stomach when she had been stabbed viciously in the back. The autopsy would undoubtedly reveal more, but judging from the amount of blood on the sheets, and the single stab wound in her lower back, Blair hypothesized that her renal artery had been slashed. The blood had pumped so forcefully out of her body that it left a spray pattern on the ceiling above her. She died within heartbeats of suffering the fatal wound.
Two minutes. That was about his limit. Jim looked up at him, sensing his unease, and nodded. Blair turned on his heel and exited the room, not to return until the body had been removed. He passed the Forensic technicians in the hallway and nodded to Serena as he made his way back to the living room.
Blair had been dealing with these types of things, in one form or another, for more than four years, yet he still found it impossible to distance himself emotionally from the violence. He and Jim had a silent agreement, the kind that came from years of working together and knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses. Blair dealt best with the living, while Jim could often glean more from the dead.
********************
Later, after Blair had completed his initial interview with Ms. Garland, and Forensics had removed the victim's body from the scene, he reentered the house. Now was the time when he would go over the crime scene with his partner. He found Jim standing outside the bedroom door, waiting for him.
"Witness tell you anything?" Jim asked.
"She's hardly a witness, Jim. She showed up after the fact. She didn't see anything. Didn't hear anything. And she's not aware of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dr. Westmoreland."
"Well, Serena's prelim puts the time of death at or around 3 a.m. The killer rifled through the victim's jewelry box. I doubt we'll ever know what was taken. Also, her wallet was left behind, but the cash and the credit cards are gone."
"Robbery?" Blair asked, incredulously.
"Looks that way, but the perp was only looking for the quick stuff. There's plenty of expensive items here, but the killer must not have wanted to take the time to visit a pawn shop."
"Killed for a lousy couple of bucks," Blair sighed. "That doesn't fit with a serial killer's profile."
"Unless the killer wanted to make us think it was robbery," Jim suggested.
"Well, we'll just run ourselves in circles thinking like that. So, did you find anything unusual?" Blair asked, knowing that Jim would know what he meant.
"Not yet. I was waiting on you, Chief."
"Let's do it then." Blair gestured toward the room.
Jim entered the room with Blair at his back.
"Okay, Jim. Let's start with your sense of smell. Filter out my scent and the smell of the blood and go from there."
Jim closed his eyes and followed Blair's instruction. Unconsciously, he catalogued his Guide's familiar scent and went past it, to the overwhelmingly sweet, metallic scent of blood. Filtering out the blood, he found a myriad of other scents, all of them related to their victim. Shampoo, deodorant, perfume, and spearmint mouthwash. The aroma emanating from the potpourri and scented candles which lay undisturbed on the bedside table. Dying roses on the dresser gave off a musty odor and the water inside the vase was beginning to turn moldy. All of these smells, he catalogued and filtered out, looking for something -- anything, that didn't belong. Something that would tell him that an unwelcome stranger had been in the room.
Hidden by the odors that had the priority of time, he found it -- a cloying combination of dirt and sweat. Hanging in the air was the stench of a body that had gone without washing for a very long time.
"You got something, man?" Blair asked, squeezing Jim's arm to bring him back into the moment.
"Yeah, Chief." Jim pinched his nose. "Our perp wasn't exactly the cleanest guy on earth."
"Great, filter it out and look deeper, man. You can do it." With his Guide's encouragement, Jim continued the process and discovered that the killer's odor hid something else. Something a bit more unusual.
"Iron Oxide," he said, turning to Blair. "I smell rust."
"Good, Jim. Now, focus in on that." Blair watched as Jim closed his eyes again and took another slow deep breath. When Blair was sure that Jim had locked on to the scent, he said, "Now, piggyback your sight onto the smell, and find out where it's coming from."
Jim slowly opened his eyes and allowed his sense of smell to guide them. He moved to the right side of the bed and knelt to the floor. "There," he said.
"What is it?"
"A streak of rust. It must have been on the killer's shoe. Get me a collection bag. If we can find our killer, this might be enough to tie him to the scene."
Blair's eyes couldn't see signs of any evidence on the forest green carpet. Dark carpet could hide a multitude of sins from the average naked eye, but it couldn't keep its secrets from Jim. Blair handed his partner a fiber collection panel and an evidence bag. "Bag it, Jim, " he said.
Jim took the panel and placed the adhesive side facedown on the carpet. Lifting it up, the adhesive brought with it several excellent samples. Jim quickly folded the panel in on itself trapping the fibers inside. Next, he placed the fiber sample inside the collection bag and handed them to his partner.
"Tag it, Chief. "
"Hey, Jim, did you find the POE? "
"Forensics said he came in through the mud room. Broke in a glass pane and unlocked the door from the inside."
"What are our chances of finding prints? "
"They'll go over the place, but the doorknob looked like it had been wiped clean. Whoever he was, he was careful."
"But not careful enough to wear gloves. Same thing at the other crime scenes?"
"Haven't seen the files yet. You got a theory, buddy?"
He shook his head. "Gotta see the case files on the other murders."
"Well, I think we've done all we can here, for now. What say we go back to the station for the files and grab some take-out on the way home?"
"How ‘bout you go back to the station for the files, I get the take-out, and we meet back at the loft."
"Strategy looks good on you, Sandburg."
"I learned from the best, my friend."
********************
Jim made it back to the loft first, noticing immediately upon his arrival that Blair's new truck wasn't yet parked outside. He rode the elevator to the third floor apartment, dropping his keys in the basket by the door as he entered number 307.
He crossed to the table to set down the files he carried, and shrugged out of his jacket. Turning to the metal coat rack bolted to the wall, Jim hung his jacket neatly on the first hook. He unclipped the holster and gun from his waistband and placed it on the kitchen counter. Setting up for dinner, he pulled two matching plates from the kitchen cabinet and set them on the place mats. Detective Jim Ellison wasn't just any police officer. A decade earlier, when he was an Army Ranger assigned to Covert Ops, he had been sent into Peru on a classified mission. It was there in the jungles of Peru, one hundred and fifty miles from anything that remotely resembled civilization, that Jim's senses went online. The struggle for survival in the most primitive of situations became the catalyst that brought forth Captain Ellison's most terrifying curse -- and his most spectacular blessing.
He was what Blair referred to as a Sentinel. A human being genetically predisposed to heightened senses.
It wasn't until years later that he met Blair Sandburg, an Anthropologist searching for someone to study. Someone like Jim Ellison. At the time, a hyperactive, ultra-liberal, tree-hugging Anthropologist had been the last thing the hard-ass, cold-hearted, emotionally unavailable detective had wanted in his life.
Once in a lifetime, life throws something extraordinary your way. Maybe once in a thousand lifetimes, you get something that's so unique that mere words just can't do it justice. For him, that was Blair. He couldn't question it; he didn't want to. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is turn your face to the heavens and say ‘thank you'. And even that wasn't enough.
It seemed that now, Jim was finally starting to get the hang of this friendship -- if one could call it that. Is there a word for a relationship that transcends friendship? Whenever he introduced Blair as his friend, Jim felt that was somehow an insult to Blair. The word ‘friend' just barely began to scratch the surface. Blair's determination and compassion had pulled Jim back from the brink of insanity. It was Blair's touch, and the sound of his voice, that anchored Jim to the world when his senses threatened to swallow him whole. The word 'friendship' just didn't cover that.
Jim must have been caught up in his thoughts because he didn't hear Blair until the elevator door opened. The sound of Sandburg cursing softly to himself drew Jim to the door to see what was causing the problem. Blair was carrying a bulky, cumbersome cardboard box with a brown paper bag balanced on top. There was also the obligatory backpack slung over one shoulder, and Blair looked as though his entire house of cards was about to tumble down around him.
Jim reached out to grab the box and the dinner balancing atop it.
"Thanks, man. I thought my arms were about to give way." Blair kicked the door shut with one foot and shrugged off his backpack, dropping it to the floor beneath the coat rack. Noticing that Jim was still trying to keep the Chinese food balanced on the file box, he reached out and saved their dinner from imminent disaster.
"What's with the box, Sandburg?"
"Oh…uh…old mail from the school. They sent me a notice to come pick it up and fill out some paperwork giving them permission to forward anything else that may come in."
"You went to the University? Why didn't you tell me? I would've gone with you."
"I'm fine, Jim. I didn't need you to hold my hand. It was something that had to be done, and I wanted to face the monster on my own."
"And did the monster rear its ugly head?" Jim set the box on the couch and marched over to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator door, he retrieved two bottles of beer, handing one to his roommate.
Blair considered the question for a moment. "No. In fact," he said, twisting the cap off his bottle, "it was like there was no connection. It was weird, Jim."
"No connection?"
"Well, I have a lot of memories about the place, but it's like those aren't my memories. I'm not that person anymore."
"No regrets?" Jim wasn't sure if he was ready to hear the answer. They had discussed this issue before, but that was when the pain was fresh and the wounds still bleeding.
"I thought I'd made myself clear since I left that life, Jim." Blair stood slack-jawed in disbelief, appalled that his partner could ask such a question. "Are you still worried that I trashed my dreams for you? That one day I'm going to wake up and hate you for the choices I made? Get a grip, man!" He punctuated his words, gesticulating wildly. "This is where I'm supposed to be. I have no doubts and I sleep at night. You know that."
"I guess sometimes I worry that one day you're going to ask yourself 'what the hell was I thinking?'" Jim spoke into the bag of Chinese take-out, as he removed the paper boxes and placed them on the table.
"I ask myself that every day, man. It's just usually about how I decided to become friends with a genetic throwback like you." Blair's face split into enormous grin, showing his perfect pearly whites.
"You're killing me, Sandburg." Jim pulled his chair away from the table and sat down as he began opening the boxes of food.
The grin slipped slowly from Blair's face. "Jim." Blair took in a deep breath. "I'm where I'm supposed to be. I'm who I'm supposed to be. You got that?"
"You never wanted to be a cop, Chief," Jim reminded him.
"Because I never knew what it meant to be a cop, Jim. C'mon, man, you've met my mother. You know how I grew up. My earliest images of cops were of men in black uniforms in riot gear, throwing tear gas and strong-arming helpless women with their nightsticks. Don't get me wrong, man, I'd be lying if I said I believed that those kinds of cops aren't on the job. I mean, you and I both know that just because you wear a badge doesn't mean you're ethical. My point is, that my first opinions about cops came from the stories my mother told me, but when I started working with you my views changed. I changed."
"But this wasn't how you pictured your life."
"Life never turns out the way you picture it, Jim. That's why it's Life. If everything had fallen into place the way I had planned, I would've been bored. Stagnated. Growing up with Naomi, we were always on the move, never staying in one place too long. She always used to tell me that sticking around and getting attached was like locking yourself inside of a cage. But that was her trip, man! But, she taught me something else. She taught me that if I look back on my life and discover that I'm the same person today that I was five years ago, then I've failed, Jim."
"Failed?"
"Yeah. It's not about how much you can take with you. It's about how much you can leave behind." Blair took a breath, and decided to take a different tack. "I was a student, Jim," he said by way of explanation, "but when the time came, I passed on the legacy by teaching others everything I'd learned. I enlightened new minds. When I met you, a completely new world opened up to me. True, it's not a great world, but that's the point, isn't it? Now that I've seen it, I can't turn my back on it. I can't walk away from the death and the crime and not try to do something about it. I have a duty to do something about it. 'Evil thrives when good men do nothing', Jim."
"Boil it all down for me, Chief." Jim smiled.
Blair rolled his eyes and exhaled in exasperation. "I'm a cop, Jim. It's who I am."
"But you miss being an Anthropologist."
"I'm still an Anthropologist. That's the beauty of it all. Just because I'll never get my Ph.D. doesn't take away the years of work that came before. Being an Anthropologist makes me the cop I am, Jim."
"Dinner's getting cold, Sandburg."
"Well, why didn't you say something earlier?" Blair took the chair across from Jim and dug in the bag for his chopsticks.
"'Cause you were on such a roll," Jim said with a laugh.
********************
Chapter Two
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, stuffing themselves with Kung Pao chicken and steamed rice, before Jim reached for the files sitting next to him. Pulling the first folder close, he flipped it open to the crime scene photos.
"Please, man, I'm eating here," Blair balked at the site of the victim's photograph. Jim picked up the folder and removed the photos, passing the file back to Blair. He did the same for the two other files.
Blair perused the original detectives' report on the first murder, noting the victim's vital stats before reaching for the second folder. "Well," he began, "the first victim was a black male, 31 years-old, financial analyst. Our second victim was a Hispanic female, 23 years old and a waitress at a truck stop on Route 27. Then you add in Diane Westmoreland; a white female, 52 years old, and college professor."
"Theories, Chief?"
"Nope. Just a certainty."
"What's that?"
"This isn't a serial killer, my friend, this is a spree killer. Plain and simple." Blair leaned back in his chair, laying his forgotten chopsticks across his plate. "There's a steady frequency to these murders, but no pattern that I can see. He's obviously not killing for sexual fulfillment. Most serial killers tend to kill within their own ethnic group. The victims here from different races -- different backgrounds. They had nothing in common. The first rule of criminal profiling is 'to find the killer you must first get to know their victims'. My instincts are telling me the exact opposite on this one, Jim. I think, to the killer, the victims were inconsequential."
"Wrong place, wrong time?"
"Understatement." Blair stood and carried his plate to sink. Turning on the faucet, he left the water running to allow it to heat up. He walked back over the table and spread the files out in front of him while reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve his glasses. Blair's blue eyes focused on the pages before him as though a pattern would jump out at him simply because he willed it.
Jim noticed a sudden shift in Blair's facial expression. "What is it, Sandburg?" Blair straightened, and for a moment stared off into the distance as though he had not heard Jim's voice at all.
"I think we need to go back to the scene of the crime, Jim." Blair spoke as he came back into the moment.
"Which one?"
"All of them," Blair answered unequivocally.
"I know that look, buddy. You're on to something, aren't you?
"Maybe," he answered, but refused to say more.
"Well, spill it," Jim demanded.
"Not this time, Jim." Blair waved him off. "When we go back to the crime scenes I want you to be completely open-minded. I don't want my theories to taint your perceptions. Now, let's go over the M.E.'s findings." Blair went over to the kitchen sink to turn off the water.
"You sure, Sandburg? I mean…you just ate."
"You look at the photos. I'll read the reports."
********************
"Well, the reports certainly seem to confirm your belief that we're not dealing with a serial killer." Jim leaned over to place the Marina Fuentes file on the coffee table.
"So, maybe we should bounce it back to Homicide. Fortune cookie?" Jim took the offered treat from Blair's hand without looking up.
"If you've got a theory, we're not bouncing this case anywhere, Chief. Let's see where it takes us."
"You will take a journey far beyond your expectations."
"Huh?"
"My fortune cookie, Jim." Blair held up the fortune and chuckled at the confusion on Jim's face. "What's yours say?"
Jim cracked open the cookie and removed the white strip of paper. "Do not fear new alliances."
"Cool." Blair lifted his feet to the coffee table, but quickly rethought the idea upon noticing Jim's glare. At that moment, Blair would have sworn he heard growling. "So, tomorrow we'll see what Dan has to say about Westmoreland's murder and then we'll go on a crime scene tour. ‘Please keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times'."
"You know, according to Dan's report, our killer used the same or comparable weapon in the first two murders."
"Yeah, but Roland Harris' throat was slit, and Fuentes was stabbed in the chest." Blair countered, using his hands to stress his point.
"Spree killers almost always kill with a weapon of their choice, but the very nature of the crime is one of opportunity."
"Oh, man! Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Who was on point when Homicide had this case?" Blair sat straight up on the couch to grab the cordless phone on the coffee table.
"Everson. You're not going to call him, are you?"
"Hell, no! But I might have him called in for review for gross incompetence." Blair hit the speed dial on the phone and waited for the line to pick up. "Robbery, please," he politely requested when the operator answered. Jim listened to the quiet clicks as the operator transferred the line.
"Detective Brickston speaking," a nasally voice answered.
"Yeah, Bill, it's Blair. What's up, man?"
"You called me, kid," laughed the man on the other line. "You tell me."
"You know that Jim and I just got bounced this case from Homicide, right?"
"I might've heard something along those lines. You calling about that case?" Brickston's voice became suddenly serious.
"Yeah."
"Damn. I knew it was too much to hope that you were sniffing around for a new partner," he deadpanned.
"What can I say, Bill? I've got my partner trained just the way I like him."
"Ouch!" Brickston laughed. Turning back to the seriousness of the call, Brickston anticipated Blair's request. "So, let me guess. You're looking for robberies that took place within the time frame of the murders with the same MO, minus the blood and death. How am I doing so far?"
"Damn you're good, Detective."
"That's why I make the big bucks."
"So can you do a little digging and let me know?"
"Sure. If I find anything, it'll be on your desk in the morning."
"Thanks, man." Blair rang off, looking over at Jim.
"My God, Sandburg! Are you actually having, dare I say it, a cop hunch?"
"Does a cop hunch come with this incredible rush of adrenaline?" Blair leaned forward, and thrust his hands out to demonstrate his current state of exhilaration.
"Yep. That's a hunch, all right. So, you think our killer's only killing when he has to."
"I think he's looking for quick cash. He's picking a location, not a victim, Jim. He breaks in, takes what he needs, and if someone's unlucky enough to be at home…too bad, so sad."
"Well, we'll find out in the morning if this piece of the puzzle fits into the big picture. It's late. I'm going to bed. Get some sleep." Jim stood from the chair, his knees making a disheartening popping sound, and he went to check the locks. "Oh, and Chief?"
"Yeah, Jim?"
"Got your partner trained just the way you like him?"
"Hey, man, it was just a joke, okay?"
Jim growled and then, "Don't forget to put that box in your room." He pointed at the forgotten cardboard carton on the couch.
"Sure thing, Jim."
********************
Why is everything so blue? He was himself, and yet, not himself. He was lucid, aware that he was dreaming, but unable to take control. He stood on two legs in the middle of a jungle. He could hear the sounds of the rainforest around him, and could even smell the scent of the wet earth and leaves beneath his bare feet. Suddenly, a sharp keening sound to his right made him turn. At first, his eyes could see only a moving mound of wet mulch, but then the squirming foliage fell away to reveal the bright yellow eyes of a coyote pup. The pup was thin, and sickly, but still full of life, and it sought his eyes for signs of danger. The pup stepped toward him, but then, changing its mind, stepped back and tried to burrow back under the leaves.
He leaned down toward the pup, to call it forward, and before he could recognize the change, he was on four legs covered in fur. His own keen eyes could see the pup's quivers, and his nose could smell its fear. However, he could also sense something else -- something more. The scent wafted over him and he knew at once its meaning.
********************
Jim awoke, to the sound of Blair's muffled, "Ouch! Damn it!" He could hear his Guide jumping up and down on one foot and trying to be quiet about it.
From the comfort of his feather cocoon, he yelled down, "I'm awake now, Chief."
"Sorry, Jim," Blair replied.
"What happened?" Jim slowly removed his sleep mask, careful to allow his eyes to adjust to the early morning light.
"Nothing. Just tripped over this damn box!"
Jim heard the sound of a foot connecting with cardboard and the box sliding across the wood floor of Blair's room. A beat, and then, "Ouch! Damn it!"
"One good bruise deserves another, huh, Sandburg?" Jim began to crawl out of the warmth of his bed, coming to the realization that there would be no more sleep today. He reached to the bedside table and turned his clock towards him to read the bright green 7:30 on its readout. "Hey! Five hours of sleep too much for you or something?"
"I woke up hungry. What can I say?" When Blair Sandburg woke up hungry, getting back to sleep was a lost cause.
"Great! Whaddya say, you cook and I'll get all the hot water."
"Not an even trade, I'd say. You know, I've got this great recipe for sheep sausage that I learned from a tribe of native Chileans…."
"Eggs, scrambled firm. Bacon, crispy. Toast, with butter." Jim lumbered down the stairs, the tone of his voice making his feelings on Chilean sheep sausage perfectly clear.
"All right, all right. Have it your way." Blair wiped one hand through his thick curls as he opened the refrigerator door, and began to remove the ingredients he would need for making breakfast.
By the time Jim finished his shower Blair had breakfast ready and on the table. Jim took a seat, and served himself a large helping of eggs.
"I'm sorry about waking you up," Blair apologized again.
"It's okay, Sandburg."
"I was trying to be quiet. Didn't you have your earplugs in?"
"Yeah, but the batteries in the white noise generator ran down yesterday, and I didn't get a chance to replace them.
"Man! Did you get any sleep last night?" Blair's eyes widened with surprise.
"Some. Well, Chief, since we're up this early we might as well get crackin'. Get a quick shower and we'll go up to the station and see if Brickston found anything for us."
"Great. You can do the dishes," Blair replied.
"Damn. I walked right into that one."
********************
"Ellison! Sandburg! My office!" The 'dulcet' tones of Simon Banks' voice wafted across the Major Crimes bullpen. NOT a sound you want to hear first thing the morning. Jim and Blair had barely had enough time to hang up their coats, before the Captain bellowed his customary summons.
Jim entered first, followed by his partner.
"The Westmoreland case." Simon growled. "Progress report."
"And a good morning to you too, Simon…I mean, Captain."
"Are you sassing me, Sandburg?"
"Me?" Blair pointed to himself, his eyes widening with his best innocent expression.
"Sandburg, it's just too early in the morning for me to have to deal with you." Simon turned to Jim. "I had an 8 o'clock meeting with the Commissioner and he is all over butt about this one, Jim. Please tell me you've got something, so that we don't look like a bunch of Keystone Kops around here."
"Well, sir, we've got some theories, but we're a little slim on leads at this point."
"Jim. Get out there and find some leads. Sniff out the killer, or something. Just give me something I can go to the Commissioner with."
"That's the plan, Simon," Blair chirped, rocking back and forth on his heels. "I mean, Captain." Simon grimaced. It had become a running joke over the year since Blair had graduated from the Academy. As an observer, Sandburg had always called Simon by his first name, and after four years, well, old habits die hard.
"You. Go. Now." Simon pointed at his door, and watched over the rim of his glasses as the detectives made their escape.
Simon Banks, Captain of the Major Crimes Unit, could growl and bark with the best of them, but everyone in the unit knew that he was just a big softie beneath that stern exterior. Moreover, everyone knew that Simon had a substantial soft spot in his heart with Blair Sandburg's name all over it. When Sandburg had first entered the department as an observer everyone thought he was a nosy interloper with entirely too much energy, and Simon Banks had been no exception. Over the course of four years everyone in Major Crimes learned that, given enough time, Blair Sandburg could charm his way into even the coldest of hearts. The changes in Jim Ellison over the past five years were proof of that.
Of course, Simon would never admit he liked the kid, it just was not in his nature; but his actions when Sandburg was in trouble always spoke of a deep and abiding affection.
When Alex Barnes had rolled into town, upsetting the balance between his best detective team, Simon had done everything in his power to hold Ellison and Sandburg together. Banks had been wholly unprepared, however, for the havoc the female Sentinel would wreak. Blair, too trusting for his own good, had discovered the Sentinel abilities of Alex Barnes, a.k.a. Alicia Bannister, purely by happenstance. He had taken her into his confidence, offering to help her learn to control her abilities. What none of them had known at the time was that Alex Barnes lacked the one thing that would have made her a true Sentinel: the protective instinct. Instead of protecting the Tribe, she used her abilities to steal and kill.
Jim had sensed Alex's arrival in town, despite the fact that Blair had kept his knowledge of her a secret. Ellison had known, on an instinctive level, that something threatened his Tribe. When the pieces began to fall into place, Jim realized that the thief he was looking for, and the Sentinel Blair was helping, were one and the same. Jim's territorial nature kicked into high gear and everyone in Major Crimes busied themselves with calculating minimum safe distance for the explosion they all sensed was imminent.
Simon had known something was wrong, but since he viewed the problem as 'a Sentinel thing', he trusted Sandburg to work it out. He didn't realize, of course, that Sandburg was not in any condition to solve anything. Jim, in a moment of territorial frenzy, had ejected Sandburg from the Loft, leaving his Guide vulnerable and unprotected. Alex, having discovered Jim's greatest weakness, went straight for the jugular in an all out battle for dominance. It had all come to a head early one morning when the detectives of Major Crimes found Blair Sandburg floating facedown in the fountain outside of Hargrove Hall on the Rainier University campus.
Simon had mentally tagged that day as ‘The Day at the Fountain', and before that morning, he could've honestly said that he'd never witnessed a miracle. Nevertheless, if what happened ‘The Day at the Fountain' was not a miracle, then he didn't know what was.
Jim was inconsolable and insisting that Blair was still alive. Simon had pulled Jim away from Blair's lifeless blue corpse while begging him to let Blair go. The combination of Blair's death and the sight of Jim losing his grip on sanity right before his eyes had caused Simon to face a cold, hard fact. This was more than the simple partnership he had wanted to pretend it was. Suddenly, it became clear to the Captain just how powerful the bond between a Sentinel and a Guide was. What happened next would only serve to sear the unexpected discovery into Simon's brain.
Breaking away from Simon's grip, Jim knelt beside the body of his best friend and placed his hands on Blair's cold face. Casual observers might have thought they were watching a friend say his last good-byes to a departed loved one, but Simon knew differently. There was energy in the air. The kind of energy that made the hair on your arm stand on end, or your skin ripple with gooseflesh. Jim's expression of equal parts desperation and determination was frightening to behold. At first, in what seemed like the action of a man violently in the throes of denial, Jim announced to all present that he could hear a heartbeat. But then, Blair's body jolted as his contaminated lungs began spewing forth fountain water.
When the adrenaline had worn off, Simon Banks, who had never really held to all of that spiritual mumbo-jumbo, was left to accept an even harder fact. The Sentinel had resurrected his dead Guide through sheer force of will.
Simon's fingers poked through the Venetian blinds of his office window and he peered out to see Jim Ellison standing at Blair's shoulder, as both men read from a file in the younger man's hands. ‘The Day at the Fountain' came back to haunt him less and less these days, but as sure as he was that it was only a memory, he was equally sure it was one that would stay with him for the rest of his life. He had been given a glimpse of something mystical and powerful that early morning outside of Hargrove Hall. That day Simon Banks, Regular Joe, had been witness to the unbreakable bond between Sentinel and Guide, and if he lived be a hundred years old (although he was sure Sandburg would drive him to an early grave) he would never forget it. And he would always respect it.
********************
Chapter Three
"What do you want me to tell you, Jim? That our perp only strikes on Mondays and Wednesdays? It's not that simple. The files Brickston sent over have the same MO, but there's no clear pattern that would allow us to predict when he might strike next." Blair removed his glasses and placed them in his breast pocket as he leaned back in his chair to look up at his partner.
"I was afraid you were going to say that." Jim crossed his arms as he peered down at the files on Sandburg's desk.
"So, what did Dan have to say?"
"He placed the time of death at about 2:30 a.m. You were right, by the way; Westmoreland died from massive blood loss due to a severed renal artery. A quick death, he said, so at least she didn't suffer."
"You mean other than the fact that she was murdered?"
"Yeah," he replied under his breath. "Dan also said that ragged edges of the wound suggest a homemade weapon, possibly a shiv of some kind. But, get this; he did say he found something unusual when he ran a test on the tissue around the wound. He said there was a rather concentrated presence of iron oxide." Jim's eyebrows went up.
"Rust?"
"Yeah, and Serena's test on the fiber samples confirms the presence of rust on the carpet."
"Well, we knew that." Blair rolled his eyes, making a veiled reference to Jim's near flawless memory of mentally catalogued scents.
"If only I could figure out how the rust on the weapon and the rust on the carpet tie in together."
"I think I might have a theory on that." Blair stood, and readjusted his shoulder holster before reaching for his jacket on the coat rack. "Get your coat, man. I might not be able to figure out when our killer will strike next, but I might be able to tell you where."
********************
Blair used his Swiss Army knife to cut through the crime scene tape sealing off Marina Fuentes' apartment door. Thirty-eight Venice Lane, apartment 101, was on the outskirts of Cascade's rural area, and some twenty miles from the scene of the Westmoreland murder. The city of Cascade was expanding into the district, but the neighborhood still had a farm quality to it. The vicinity was quiet and secluded. The perfect place for a murder to take place.
The detectives entered the apartment, already swept by the Forensics team just one week before. Noting the point of entry at the ground floor window, Jim knelt for a closer inspection. Pieces of glass still lay on the floor beneath the window, indicating the pane had been broken from the outside. Unlike Westmoreland, Marina Fuentes had been awakened by her intruder and had entered the living room to investigate. Her body had been found there, when a fellow waitress had come to pick her up for work the next morning. The woman, Amber Dennis, had noted the broken pane of window as she had approached the apartment's door. Sensing that something was wrong she knocked on the door several times, but when there was no answer she went looking for the building's super.
The tape on the carpeted living room floor reflected the position in which the victim had been found. Sprawled out, she had died where she had fallen, a stab wound to her chest causing irreparable damage to her heart. Blair stood over the outline, mesmerized by the sheer volume of blood on the floor. Six liters didn't seem like much until it was spilled on the ground.
According to the original report from Homicide, the bedroom had been rifled through, but like the Westmoreland case, only items that were easily cash-soluble had been taken. Marina's wallet had been emptied, and Amber Dennis had informed the original detectives that Marina's favorite emerald ring was nowhere to be found. The tender circle of flesh around Marina's ring finger mentioned in the M.E.'s report suggested that the piece of jewelry had been taken from her corpse.
Jim entered the bedroom, which appeared barren now that many of Marina's personal items had been bagged for evidence. He worked the grid of the room, making a sweep with both his senses of sight and smell. Filtering out the odors belonging to the victim, he searched for something that did not belong. Jim was not surprised to find the odiferous remains of the killer just as he had at the Westmoreland house. Needing to tie these two cases together with more than just a single telltale scent, Jim filtered out the smell of body odor to look deeper.
Just as he suspected, the odor of iron oxide was present, but this time mixed in with the scent of something else. More organic, rather than metallic. Jim breathed deeper, dialing up his sense of smell a notch, as he wracked his brain to put a name to the smell.
Jim was so intent on his sweep, he had not heard his partner enter the room. Blair, realizing immediately that Jim was utilizing his senses, thought it best not to interrupt him. Jim pulled back, powering down his dials, and bringing himself back into the moment.
"Did you find something, Jim?" Blair asked, his voice kept at a low pitch with a soft timbre.
"Yeah. The body odor. The scent of rust. But there was something else, Chief. Something I can't quite put my finger on."
"Give me something I can work with." Blair shrugged his shoulders, the palms of his hands turning up.
"Well, it almost has this 'everyday' quality to it. You know, like when you pass a picture on the wall every day, after a while you just don't see it anymore. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, so this smell, it's like, something you smell everyday? So what is it that makes it stand out here?"
"Well, it's the same, but different."
"Man! I hate it when you say that. How is it different, Jim?"
"It's more…more," Jim said, working his hands in attempt to explain his impressions better. "It's heavily concentrated. Less refined."
"You mean raw?"
"Yes. Raw. That's a good word for it."
"No, Jim. What I mean is, it's possible what you're smelling is something you smell every day in its refined state, but here you're smelling it in its raw form." Jim nodded at Blair's explanation. "Let's a take a walk, Jim. I want to check something out." Blair turned and left the room. Jim followed behind, taking one last visual sweep.
When Blair said 'take a walk', he had meant 'take a walk'. They had walked a block down the rural one-lane paved road, when Jim stopped abruptly as he caught a familiar scent on the breeze.
"Got something, Jim?" Blair had been hoping for just this and recognized instantly when Jim located the scent.
"Yeah, Chief. I smell the rust. The exact scent from the crime scenes."
"You know what to do. Piggyback your sight and find the source."
Jim arched an eyebrow and his eyes squinted in suspicion. "You already know what I'm going to find, don't you?"
"Just a theory, man."
Jim followed the scent until it took him off the road and into the tall grass of a pastoral meadow. Filtering out the scent of meadow grass, he focused on the smell of iron oxide that now seemed to fill his nostrils. So intent was he on his sense of smell, he did not see what he was looking for until the meadow grass, touched by a breeze, moved aside to reveal the target of his search.
Railroad tracks.
Jim stared down at the tracks. He knew now that the odor of rust did not come from the tracks themselves, but there was a heavy concentration around them. The smell permeated the air. The train itself had to be the source. This time, Jim was aware the moment Blair stepped to his side.
"Does this confirm your theory?" Jim looked down at his partner.
"When I was reading the files of the first two murders, I thought it could have just been a coincidence, but I wanted to check into it before discarding the idea altogether. Then when I compared the location of the robberies from the files Brickston sent us, I knew I might be onto something."
"So, the murders all took place near a rail transportation route."
"Yeah. Jim, there are railroads all over this city, man! It's still one of the cheapest and safest ways to transport goods across country in bulk. We've got tracks that come in from Canada, and Oregon, not to mention Montana and Idaho. Most of the railroads in this country are still in use, Jim, even if they aren't used for transporting people; and you can connect to just about any city in this country and Canada via the rails. It's still the most cost effective way to transport goods like cattle, grain, steel, cotton…" Blair gesticulated outrageously as his listed the transported goods, his mind already thinking miles ahead of his mouth.
Jim held out his hand to halt Blair's speech before he could go further. "Did you just say cotton, Chief?"
"Yeah, cotton. It's transported in bulk to textile mills all over the country…" Blair trailed off. "What is it, Jim?"
"Cotton," Jim said. "That's what I smelled back at the scene. Raw cotton. The air was thick with it, like the killer had been rolling around in the stuff."
"Or sleeping on it," Blair suggested. Their eyes met in a sudden dawning realization. Just then, the cell phone in Jim's pocket began to ring, startling them both. Jim retrieved the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.
"Ellison," he barked. Listening to the voice on the other end, Jim responded with a series of grunts and 'uh huhs'. Folding up the phone as he rang off, he turned to his partner. "That was Simon. They found another body."
********************
Driving over to the latest crime scene, Jim and Blair continued to hypothesize based on the discoveries made at the Fuentes site.
"So, our guy uses the rails to get around. He jumps a train, goes where it takes him, and then chooses his targets based on proximity to his escape route."
"This guy has to know the train schedule. It's possible he takes the train to a nice secluded spot, hides out somewhere, and then waits to commit his crime until just before the next train comes by." Blair turned in his seat to speak directly to Jim.
"But the train is more than just a means of transportation to this guy. If we're right, this guy is around these trains all the time." Jim checked his rearview mirror as he changed lanes.
"Yeah, like he's some kind of hobo, hopping the rails whenever it suits him. Naomi used to know a guy that hopped the rails. He always said it was a life of freedom."
"That's 'cause he never got caught, Chief."
"This guy could be from anywhere, Jim. Like I said, the rails make connections to every major city in North America."
Up ahead, Jim spotted the familiar sight of Simon's sedan surrounded by patrol cars and the forensics van. Parking behind the Coroner's wagon, Jim scanned the area visually. Blair looked up to see Jim's pupils constrict as he narrowed his vision onto a spot that was some distance away.
"Jim?" Blair grasped his partner's shoulder.
"Tracks," he said, pointing off into the distance. Bl