Walking Seperate Paths - Chapter II

Title: Walking Separate Paths
Author: Tara
Rating: R/NC-17 (m/f, m/m)
Pairings: Benson/Stabler, Stabler/Beecher, Beecher/Keller, Keller/m
Summary: This is technically an AU: We know that OZ is definitely in NY, and Stabler’s wife Kathy hasn’t left yet. This is set around OZ Season 5. A child prostitution ring leaves Elliot with new answers to his own origins, and redefines a new meaning for family. I suck at writing Summaries, but this is one of my better pieces of fanfic, so enjoy.


CHAPTER II

Brooklyn, Verrazano Bridge 4:09 a.m.

Olivia mentally cursed her car as she made her way down the steep embankment towards the flashing lights and groups of milling people that worked down by the reflective surface of the chilly water. November winds cut through her coat, freezing her to the skin, the chill cutting through the dark denim on her legs, making her skin ache with the cold.

Whatever this was, it was definitely going down in the books as her own personal definition of hell, because nothing in her sensory memory could possibly be as horrible as skidding down this pile of muck and garbage, gloopy on her feet and ankles despite the cold. Nothing could be worse than the smell of decay, and fetid water coming up from under the bridge. She could see the deep mucky tracks of others who had come down the embankment before her, and she tried to step in their prints, finding that she sunk less when she did.

She was still a little more than a hundred yards away when she realized that she could finally discern different bodies, and faces among the throng. Finn was yelling something into a cell phone, and Munch was accepting a cup of something steaming from one of the beat cops at the scene. She smiled. She could definitely go for a cup of whatever that was. Pulling her coat tighter around her frame she searched quickly for Elliot. He technically should have gotten here before her, but she knew that with a family, there were definitely gaps in getting around quickly.

Suddenly, she saw him. As if in slow motion she saw him striding purposefully towards a barely discernable tarp covered bundle on the ground. From Finn's brief description of the victim, she had been mentally prepared for the worst, but nothing could prepare her for seeing Elliot's large frame stagger as he stepped back from the bundle, and crumple, almost in slow motion, to the ground.

"Elliot!"

She started to run, watching as one of the officers ran to help him stagger to his feet and away from that tarp on the ground. Catching up to them faster than even she could have believed, she sought out Elliot first, blanching as she saw her partner's face, drained of all color, tinged with green as he gasped for air. He grabbed onto her arm as though clutching at a lifeline and gasped, "How, Liv, how could anyone do this? It's a child. It's just a child..."

She saw the anguish in his face. She sighed inwardly, not even daring a glimpse at the green water stained tarp in front of them. She's never seen him like this before, his fear and disgust as a parent, empathy for the parents of the child under the tarp etched on his face.

Olivia looked around quickly, searching for help. She breathed an inward sigh of relief to see Finn coming towards them. She was on unfamiliar ground her. She didn't know yet the universal empathy of parents for their children, and it made her feel awkward to know that there was nothing she could say now that would make Elliot feel more comfortable than Finn would.

Reluctantly releasing her partner into Finn's care, she made her way over to John, standing tall and black coated as ever, with two steaming cups in his hands. He handed one to her, scowling at Elliot, standing with Finn.

"You know, if he had given me a chance to say anything, I would have told him what he was going to see before he saw it. It may not have made a difference, but at least it might have prepared him for the shock of it," said John, sipping more of the bitter coffee.

"Then why don't you make up for it and tell me what I'm going to see under there John, because if it's effected El like this, then I don't even want to think about how I might react." She grimaced, burning her tongue on the coffee.

"It's one of those cases, Benson. This is just a lot to handle all at once, you know. Even I admit to tossing my guts back there. Elliot came walking right past me and if I wasn't engaged in the process of emptying my stomach at the time I might have given him a heads up, you know?" Munch looked at her apologetically.

"What's under that tarp, Munch? Tell me. If I'm going to have to see it anyway, I might as well know now."

"It's a boy, Olivia. He's about 11, I'd say, the M.E. will probably have a better guess once she's through, but that much I'm pretty certain of. He's naked, and he's been...broken. His whole body has been strapped down onto itself so that whoever did it could make him...fuck, make him suck his own dick. Except that he'd been strapped so tightly that his whole back snapped, the lower part of his spine puncturing up through the skin. He's covered in healed-over whitish whip marks. His head's been pushed down into his crotch, and it looks like whoever did it stuffed his genitals into his mouth post-mortem.

He's covered in bruises and bleeding marks, and his back and arms showed small circular burns that looked like healed cigarette burns. I know there's more, I just can't tell you any more, because if I do, I'm going to be sick, and I just got the taste of bile out of my mouth." He turned from her, and stalked away, a pale figure in black against the dim lighting from the bridge above.

She just had to stand there for a moment and process. Munch had been explicit, and right now, she guessed that she deserved it. She knew now that she had to see it. Seeing it would prove that this was real, and not just some bad dream that had turned into a horrible nightmare. She wasn't even conscious of moving, and when she finally stood above the bundle on the ground, she wasn't even aware of lifting the tarp. Facing the reality of the body was definitely worse than anything that Munch could have told her.

The boy's skin was blue, and she couldn't even see a part of him that wasn't discolored from bruising. Her stomach was turning, and she mentally guessed that she had just a few moments left to establish a visual before she had to get rid of her dinner. Turning slightly, she could see that the boy's backside was brutally torn and bruised, and a brief glimpse established rape, the evidence of multiple trace fluids present. She knew she had over guessed her own will as her stomach forced bile into the back of her throat and she turned quickly and ran blindly into the dead reeds a few feet away. Her last damning thought as she watched her coffee resurface was, "At least he's dead."

1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, 8:47 a.m.


There were definitely the beginnings of a migraine brewing...right there, behind his eyes, just close enough to the surface to feel, and just deep enough to avoid comfort. Don had been up for 38 hours straight, and he felt like a drink. Then again, he always felt like a drink. Drugs, alcohol, sex, it was all the same, just an addiction that never left. It lay dormant, but it never left.

The clock on the wall was a typical plastic covered deco piece. It ticked so loudly that every single time it ticked, a nerve behind his eyelid would twitch. The pants he wore were uncomfortable and stained with coffee. His tie had long since joined a pile of clothing in a bag beyond his desk, and his eyes had trouble focusing on anything right now. If he'd even been the remotest bit worried about his appearance at that point he might have remembered a suit jacket over under his outer jacket. But Don wasn't worried about his appearance. He didn't want this now.

There was nothing like impeccable timing as far as the Feds were concerned. His two best teams had come back from the on site scene a little over five seconds before he'd gotten the call from the big guns. He'd expected a reaction from Elliot, the quintessential "dad."

He'd even expected reactions from Olivia and Finn, who had a tendency to get emotionally involved. They each had their own demons, cases that ate at them each individually as they worked and played, made love and paid their bills. Every single one of them admitted it. Seeing them walk in together was expected; they usually got together to discuss the initial case details and divvy up the case load. What had been completely unexpected was the silence. None of the usual camaraderie his detectives approached their cases with was there now, each man was an island to himself, silent and alone with what they had seen.

He hadn't seen the crime scene photos yet, but he knew his detectives. Whatever they had seen had stripped each of them in his own way, to the core. The phone call that followed, with demanding instructions from District Attorney Cahill to meet him at Police Plaza had been the last nail in this case. Something was going on, that much he was certain of. Hopefully soon, he'd find out what.

The room was stark and white, and Captain Cragen was intimately familiar with what an interrogation room looked like. It occurred to him now, though, that this was the first time he'd ever been on the either side of the glass. About 10 feet by 12 feet, It housed nothing more than four walls, two chairs and a table, that ugly clock, and a two way mirror built into one wall.

It had never occurred to him before how intimidating it feels to know that you're possibly being watched, acutely aware that every move you make would be studied and analyzed for flaws. A fanciful daydream of picking his nose or scratching his crotch in front of the mirror for spite seemed momentarily reasonable, but he checked the impulse. He was about to get up and start flashing his badge around when the door opened.

"Captain Donald Cragen?" The voice was smooth, even tempered, and slightly haughty.

"Yes, I'm Captain Cragen. Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on here? I've been sitting in this fucking office for over an hour! No one has told me what the hell is going on, and if this has anything to do with the rape/homicide we found this morning I want to know about it!" Cragen gave himself a pat on the back. He'd kept his voice low, also even, and if this Yuppie wannabe in a suit knew anything at all about police politics, he'd back off with the condescension.

The man was average build and height, with sandy hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. There was a slightly whitish line across the back of his head; he'd had a recent haircut. His suit was indeterminate gray, his shoes indeterminate black; this was a man you'd pass on the street and forget in a New York Minute. He pulled something from his back pocket, simultaneously dumping an armload of manila folders across the table. His FBI identification was thrust into Cragen's face before he pulled it back and sat down facing him.

"Captain Cragen, I'm Special Agent Terrence Field. I work with the Bureau as a Field Agent, and in an Advisory Capacity in regards to a certain high-priority caseload. The case you've stumbled into is something that we've been working on for years."

Cragen settled back in his chair. "Where's Cahill? He was supposed to meet me here for this little chat. Nobody ever said anything to me about the brass stepping in."

"Unfortunately, Captain, District Attorney Cahill has been detained. He did however, wish me to give you all assurances that he would be joining us as soon as possible, and that I was to give you the details of this case as pertains to your homicide."

Cragen smirked. "Ahh, so you're here to actually do the dirty work and tell me what's going on, and he gets to step in just as you're finished and ask me for a favor. Isn't that how this works?"

The agent remained silent.

"You know that this isn't going to work any other way so you might as well tell me what's going on."

Field pushed a piece of paper and a pen towards him across the table. "This is a confidentiality agreement, Captain. You will be asked to sign it so that we can be assured that none of the sensitive information I'm about to tell you makes its way outside of this room. This is strictly on a need-to-know basis. Eventually, it may come to more than that, but for right now, there are too many things at stake, and too many man hours put into this operation. We need to know that no one can destroy this chain of evidence. Do you agree to these terms and conditions?"

Cragen smirked inwardly. This guy was good, but not that good. Tiny beads of sweat were barely visible along his hairline. This must be some huge deal, the confidentiality agreement cinched it. There was definitely something big in the works. Grabbing at the piece of paper, he read it through carefully, twice, before reaching for the pen and quickly scrawling his signature across the bottom of the page. "Done." He pushed it back.

The man appeared relieved, imperceptibly so, and carefully tucked away the paper. Then, taking off his jacket, he draped it behind his chair, and rolled his sleeves up. Grabbing the top case file, he handed it to Cragen.

Don accepted the file and noted the date. May 16th, 1974. There was a picture inside of a boy, no more than nine or so, at a birthday party. His cheeks were full and red, and he smiled cheekily into the camera, his blond hair wild under his party hat. His eyes were wide and smiling, and brightened his whole face. The picture underneath that one was a ghastly echo of the first. The same boy, tied down to a crossbar, obviously dead, so bruised and broken that his skin looked gray and blue post mortem. He'd been brutally raped, and subsequent photos showed piercing, obscene in the tiny genitals of a child. There was significant anal tearing, and the medical examiner's report listed the cause of death as exsanguination, as a result of internal tearing and bleeding directly related to the rape and the subsequent abuse.

The next folder was the same, different child, similar rape and signs of abuse, similar cause of death. This case was also a boy, this time about ten, smiling at the camera from the back of a very shaggy pony.

They were all the same, over 60 different boy's faces smiled and pouted for different snapshots, each murder and rape the same, different positions, different places, but Cragen's time as a police officer had given him an innate sense of pattern recognition, and he knew inside that each of these children had suffered at the hands of the same person, or persons. Somehow the obscenities, though different, seemed similar. Then, last night's case rang in his mind again, as he scanned the photos. From what he'd heard, his best guess told him that these cases and his precinct's were related. He hadn't even seen the crime scene photos yet, but his gut told him that he'd see the same patterns, the same feeling of similarity that he’d gotten from these other cases. It was definitely the same perp throughout, or that he was definitely certain.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked Field.

“We’d estimate over thirty years on and off. The problem is that it isn’t just one perpetrator, or they’d have messed up by now. We’re pretty sure that this is a close knit network. They’re farming boys anywhere from 6-14 out of foster care, shelters, or off the streets. All of the victims in these photos showed signs of surgery or medical intervention to repair or correct past assaults. Over two-thirds of the cases have showed signs of repeated anal reconstruction, and almost all of the boys were implanted with prosthetics or piercings.”

“Prosthetics?”

“We’ve found implanted anal beads and bars, scrotal piercings, and penile implants.” The agent began to neatly stack many of the folders.

“Do you have a confirmation on the first recorded case? Profiling usually lists someone as close to the original victim.” Cragen was slightly sick himself now, vaguely wishing that he had had more than a cup of muddy coffee on his way over here.

“That is where the situation becomes particular. The first recorded case on file is a fourteen year old boy, found in the summer of 1978, and his testimony in regards to this case has been paramount in finding and connecting many of the other victims.”

Cragen sat up straight in his chair. “His testimony? You mean this victim was still alive?”

“Not was, Captain, is. He was placed in protective custody immediately, and went into witness protection. When we found him he was almost beyond recovery, and it took six months of physical therapy to completely repair quite a bit of torn tissue and muscle. Unfortunately, the mental anguish and trauma he suffered at the hands of his abusers for over 6 years, and the acts he was made to perform on or in front of others, left him with very little ability to form or maintain any real relationships. Later on his actions and cries for attention turned criminal, and we were forced to incarcerate him when he turned 18. He spent several years in prison, where he earned quite a reputation for himself. He’s been married and divorced 4 times. He was reincarcerated recently, for armed robbery and will be spending quite a bit of time in prison for a laundry list of crimes.”

“What kind of reputation?” Cragen leaned forward on his elbows and looked pointedly across the table at the man in front of him. He was well aware that abuse victims often went on to become abusers themselves, and with this guy’s connection to rape and abuse, Don wouldn’t be surprised if he’s become another short-eyes himself. It didn’t add up though, because if this man had become a pedophile due to his own abuse, it was highly unlikely that he would have spent any time surviving in prison. Pedophiles were always at the bottom of the food chain, and usually the first to die.

“I’ve mentioned that this man has been married and divorced four times. As a matter of fact, he was married to the same woman twice. They all still come to visit him in prison.”

Cragen’s eyebrow hit his hairline. “This guy’s been divorced and remarried and ALL of his ex-wives still come to visit him? What’s he selling, and why isn’t he rich yet?”

“Captain, as I’m sure any psychologist could inform you, victims of rape and sexual abuse, especially children, usually end up as oversexed, very loose adults. This is also true in Chris’ case, but what supercedes his overt sexuality is a deep predatory presence. He knows who he is and what he’s about, and it’s hard to describe unless you’ve seen it for yourself. Under normal circumstances his actions would be profiled as purely passive-aggressive attempts to keep, control and maintain affection, but we’ve had a hard time with this guy. He’s highly intelligent, and most of his sarcasm is a well-placed façade. I’m no shrink, but I doubt anyone really knows this guy, really knows any side of him that could ever be peeled away to expose the surface.”

“Chris? Is that his name? Where’s he been sent up?”

“Oswald Maximum Security Prison, Albany.” The agent grimaced.

“OZ, he’s in OZ? He must be a fucking survivor. Didn’t that place have one of the most publicized prison riots ever a few years back?”

“Yes.”

Cragen was puzzled for a moment, and sat back in his chair again to study the man in front of him. There was definitely something else that had been unsaid, and Don was quick to notice that the file that must be Chris’ original case workup was missing from the rest of the pile on the table.

“Where’s Chris’ file?”

“I’m sorry, but that remains confidential information, and I cannot reveal it to you until I have been given a green light by my superiors.”

“Then why are you wasting my time? The crap you’ve told me is something that could have been easily faxed to my office. My detectives are a wreck with this case and you’re preventing me from doing my job.”

The man remained silent.

Cragen’s anger was now nearing explosive. He pushed away from the table and rose, striding to the door quickly, hearing the man behind him rise also and head towards him. He was just reaching for the handle when the door swung outwards, and a familiar face looked up at him from the other side.

“George? What are you doing here?”

Huang’s face was impassive, but Don had known him long enough now to know when something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. Huang’s eyes flicked to Field, with that completely Asian inscrutability he was known for. “Leave.”

Field looked like he was about to protest and thought the better of it. Gathering the files on the table, he was about to pass them both when Huang lifted them out of his arms neatly. “I’ll be taking these. Now you can leave.”

He was almost out the door before one parting shot entered the room. “This is your ass Huang. Cahill’s going to have you sent down for this if he finds out that the chain of command has been broken.” The door clicked shut behind him, and Don turned to find Huang already settling himself into the chair Field had vacated.

“George, what the hell is going on? Cahill called me down here to meet with me, I haven’t even seen him yet, and then I had to deal with that putz. I need to know what’s so important about this case that the FBI won’t let me do my job.”

George sighed. “I know for a fact that what I’m about to show you will definitely get in me in trouble with my superiors, but since I’m the SVU’s on call Bureau liason, I normally get a heads up with anything that might already be floating through our chain of command. This caught my eye and I’ve been going over the caseload since I got in.”

“I commend your work ethic, but what’s so damn important that you look like you have a bug up your ass?”

Huang looked at him severely and drew in a deep breath. “I’m sure Field already informed you of the bare-bones network on this case, right?”

Don’s eyes flicked to the files next to him. “He did. He also neglected to show me the first file. He gave me some quick background on this Chris guy, and then left it at that. No photos, no writeup.”

Huang reached into his jacket and pulled out a similar manila envelope, and pushed it towards Cragen. He picked it up and found himself staring into the eyes of another boy. This one wasn’t smiling. He was standing by a bus stop and he wasn’t looking into the camera. His eyes were blue, from what Don could tell, and his hair was brown, but his face was hard to see in the grainy photo. Flipping forward, he steeled himself for the inevitable, and he found it. There were hospital photos of the body in a full body cast, and his face was mottled and purple, his eyes closed. Other photos were the same, close up shots of bruises, broken bones, and a write-up about the injuries. There was even a doctor’s note mentioning the removal of prosthetics and reconstruction done to repair the rectal walls.

Huang’s voice, though soft, was still startling when it came. “This boy, whose real name actually is Chris, suffered broken arms and legs and such deep tissue lacerations that he needed almost two years to heal internally. Oddly enough, though he physical injuries were great, he was left relatively unscarred, showing me that he just have been a favorite. It is the nature of us all to protect what is most precious, and Chris was lucky enough to have escaped death. He had been tied into something resembling a complete circle, and he was forced to fellate his own genitals for the entertainment of the spectators. His arms and legs showed multiple breaks, and he had been left for dead when the police found him."

Don had flipped through all of the pictures and was looking through the case file, bile rising in his through as he read through witness statements and hospital reports.

Suddenly, the image of his detective’s faces became a clear vision, and he wondered vaguely if he looked to Huang like they’d looked to him. He would have bet any amount of money on it. Stapled to the back of the case file was an envelope. Oswald Maximum Security Prison. Christopher Keller, Prisoner #98K514. Looking briefly at Huang’s inscrutable face, he opened the envelope and shook out the contents. There was a case file, and a picture.

Cragen’s mouth dropped and to his credit, he didn’t drop the papers he was holding. “Oh my God.”



TBC...