Walking Seperate Paths - Chapter VI

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 VI:

Oswald Maximum Security Prison, Albany, 5:09 p.m.


Sister Peter Marie would have smiled, years ago, to be told that she was going to become a nun. That was a plausible, if not probable possibility. If anyone had gone on to tell her that she was going to be a nun, working as a psychologist at one of the most infamous correctional facilities in the state, she probably would have laughed that person out of her office.

Life threw you some odd curveballs. No one knew that better than she did, and she knew that every moment, every thing she did now was precious, and there was more to life than what you expect out of it. She had a sense for things, and this little development with Leo was one of the few moments she’d had recently that was completely unexpected. Now, looking at Tim, rubbing his hands over his face as they walked, she was almost positive that he had even less of an idea of what was going on than she did.

“You okay, Tim?” He looked like he was nursing one hell of a headache.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s just one of those days, you know. I walk in, expect a little trouble, and there’s always a monsoon.” He cursed as his shoelace caught under his feet and tripped him, sending him flying sideways into the door to the Warden’s outer office, his elbow breaking his full body fall into the door.

“Fuck!” He practically screamed it, pain radiating up his entire arm, shooting down to his fingertips, momentarily numb with the agony.

Sister Pete made no move to help him, simply waited until he’d picked himself up. “I think it’s about time that you started expecting monsoons, Tim. This way, when all you have is a little bit of trouble, you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He snorted and stormed his way past Floria, the Warden’s secretary, and knocked on Leo’s door.

Thanks to Floria, Leo’s office had been redecorated in warm tones, and to Sister Pete’s discerning eye, it definitely looked more inviting now.

She and her companion were brought up short to see quite a few people in a normally empty office, seated around the long common table that dominated the center of the room. A quick glance around affirmed for her that there were, at least, a few people in the office she was familiar with. Leo, Tim, and Father Mukada were all present, as well as four other men she did not immediately recognize. Catching Mukada’s eye, she was met with a look of confusion that must have mirrored itself on her own face.

Leo Glynn looked tired, and to someone who knew him well, he also looked confused. He motioned for them to take seats around the table.

“Tim, Sister Pete, I’m sorry to break routine like this, (Tim snorted) but I need you to be here because I value your opinions, and I would definitely appreciate your expertise.” He waited, allowing the full attention of the table to rest upon him before continuing. He motioned to the man on his left, who stood to be introduced.

“This is Assistant District Attorney John Cahill. Sir, please meet Tim McManus, the director of “Emerald City,” our experimental unit on Block 5, and Sister Pete Reimundo, our on-staff psychologist. This is also Father Ray Mukada, our prison chaplain. After introductions are settled, I’m going to let ADA Cahill brief you about our situation. I’ve also been informed that you will be required to sign confidentiality agreements, as this appears to be a matter of some sensitivity to the FBI.” He turned and motioned to the man next to the ADA.

“This is Detective Lenny Briscoe, of Manhattan.” Briscoe inclined his head.

“This is Captain Don Cragen of the 16th Precinct. He heads the Manhattan SVU team.”

Father Ray cleared his throat. “Wait a minute, SVU, that’s sex crimes, right?”

Cragen nodded. “Yep, we handle most of Manhattan’s rape and sexual assault cases. Each borough has its own unit.”

Leo motioned to the last man at the table. “This is Special Agent George Huang, of the FBI, working directly with Manhattan SVU.”

Sister Pete raised an eyebrow. (Finally, she thought, someone who might actually have a harder day than I do.) She caught his eye and smiled, noting the similarity in facial structure to Mukada. Huang was definitely not related though, and he definitely exuded a confidence she wasn’t sure Ray knew he had. Something also ticked at the back of her mind that Huang might be a bit gay. He was covertly staring at Mukada, who, oblivious to all, had not noticed the attention.

“Ok, I think that about covers it, and as soon as you all sign these, I’m going to cede the table to ADA Cahill.” Leo sat, with some restraint, and looked peeved, but interested. They all were. This had to be one of their most unorthodox meetings to date. They signed, each in turn, and pushed the papers into a stack in the center of the table. Pete had to give Tim credit. He hadn’t mouthed off yet.

Cahill didn’t bother to stand, he just began to speak, looking at each of them in turn.

“Since there are no problems with paperwork, I’m going to begin.” He nodded to Huang, who stood and began passing out thick manila folders to each of them.

“Every single one of you now has a folder in front of them. Inside each of these folders are the pictures and hospital records of over 70 children, each of whom has been brutalized, abused, raped and murdered over the past 30 years. I don’t think I need to go into specifics, because those are listed for you if you care to look. Each of these cases took hundreds of man hours to identify and bring back to the same source. We have been working with the FBI and the Federal Marshall’s Unit of New York to try and secure the information we have and tie it back to a child prostitution ring that has been operating on the East Coast for over 30 years.

Our SCUs, Manhattan and Brooklyn Street Crime Units, have recovered more than 15 children in the past year alone, and this dramatic increase in victims has left us with even more questions, and even fewer answers. We do know that the same people have been spearheading the ring, but as yet we have almost as little information on them now as when we started.” He paused.

Tim took this opportunity to dive in. “Ok, I’m with you on everything so far, but I’m confused, why do you have so little information after 10 years, and what does this have to do with us?”

Cahill didn’t answer him directly, but looked towards the end of the table and nodded. “Dr. Huang?”

George Huang looked more than a little put out, but he stood with grace and addressed the table. “In my opinion, this ring is being operated by one person, a white male, in his late fifties, early sixties, with a history of violence. He has an above average IQ, and he is very calculating, and quite possibly has past relations with paranoia. What makes this case so confusing is the definite lack of any viable DNA evidence in each case. He was careful enough to wipe each child down, inside and out with a combination of ammonia and hydrogen peroxide.“ He paused, and pointed to the folder in front of him. “This is definitely a money issue. Each child, with the exception of the first victim on record, shows impeccable dental, medical, and internal work-”

“-Internal work?” Sister Pete interrupted.

“Yes, by internal work I mean that each child had undergone numerous anal and penile implant surgeries, and in over 50 cases, there was evidence of anal tissue rejuvenation surgery, to retighten and repair torn tissue.”

Cragen winced, even though he’d heard it before, and judging from the reactions of everyone else around the table, they definitely had varying degrees of the same disgust he’d felt. Huang glanced at him briefly, allowing them all to digest this new information before he continued.

“Each child was well cared for, and numerous breaks and tears on many of them were well attended, by medical professionals. In one case, a child found in May 1999, the body showed signs of healed compound fractures, including a 2 skull fractures that were obviously treated by professionals. We believe that this man is working with a network of people, some within the medical profession, to protect his “investments.” Despite the fact that all of the victims are male, we have no connections as of yet to NAMBLA, or any other known child prostitution rings.” He looked at Cahill directly, inviting him to continue.

ADA Cahill had a normally deep voice, but his volume was low as he addressed the rest of the table. “We’ve brought this meeting together today to ask for your help regarding this case. To the best of out knowledge, the very first victim of this case was the only one to have survived, and we’ve come here to try to gain his help in putting together the pieces that are missing. After his unexpected survival, he was removed from his adoptive home and placed in foster care, where he ran though the gamut of the system until eighteen, when he was removed from the system and sent to prison for petty theft. After he finished his sentence, he roamed up and down the East Coast for a while, finally getting himself arrested for robbery, assault, and driving while under the influence.

It has come to our understanding that he is now serving a life sentence for felony murder and two counts of attempted murder. He might be beyond saving, but we believe that it may be possible for him to shed some light on this case, and maybe make some reparations by saving other children.”

Sister Pete sighed audibly, and she looked Cahill directly in the eye. “I’d ask you to tell me who it is, but I believe I know already. It’s Chris Keller, isn’t it?”

Cahill looked startled, and looked like he was going to ask a question, but she held up her hand. “Don’t ask me how I know, Mr. Cahill. I could say something about having a sixth sense for all of this, but I’d be lying. This is God personally kicking me in the ass.”

Ray Mukada snorted, drawing her glare. No matter what she said, he could have told her that God worked in mysterious and fucked up ways, and maybe, just maybe, this was God’s penance to her for all of the time she’d spent avoiding Chris, despite his need for counseling. His face downcast, he considered a few things, as Sister Pete gave Cahill and Huang a brief psychosocial makeup of Chris Keller.

Now that he thought about it, he rather blamed himself. How many abuse patients had he counseled? For that matter, how many rape victims had he helped find the right path to God? He couldn’t even count how many had been under his care, and he supposed that with all of the symptoms right under his nose, he had every right to beat himself up. Keller was overtly sexual, he demanded attention, and he deliberately used his body to try to gain perceived needs. Ray knew that these were often classic signs of early abuse, and rape.

Rape victims often expressed themselves through promiscuity and attention problems to try to gain acceptance and love. Now that he thought about it, sex was probably the only constant that Chris had ever known. He was dragged sharply back to reality by Leo’s voice breaking into the background noise.

“Keller is a killer, gentlemen, and I don’t exactly understand what the whole covert operation is all about here. He may have been a victim of abuse, but he’s also a murderer, and he’s serving a life sentence. Why didn’t you just go through the proper channels and question him yourselves. Why involve me and the rest of my staff at all?”

Briscoe spoke for the first time, and his voice carried over the table. “When I was a beat cop, I worked the 27 over in Rockland County. One night, my partner and I were called to the scene of a rape over in Munsie. When we got there, we found a boy, half hidden in a dumpster, bleeding so much that he’d stained the concrete. He couldn’t walk, and he couldn’t talk. Someone had beaten him so badly that his jaw had been broken, and he’d been tied so tightly, that he almost lost his legs, which were badly broken. We had to have four different medics carry him out. Right after that I was moved up and out, but that boy’s haunted me ever since. His name then was Meloni, Christopher Meloni, changed to Christopher Keller when he entered Federal Witness Protection. I tried to follow his case, but his records were sealed, and I’ve only just recently found out that he was here. Don asked for my help on this case because of my history, and right now, we need you to let him out, and into our care.”

Tim McManus looked like he was going to turn purple. “Let him OUT? Are you insane? This is a fucking criminal for Christ’s sake. We can’t just let them go every single time you people have a whim! Why the fuck can’t you just question him? He’s crazy, and he may talk to you, and he may not, but that’s not our problem. There is no fucking way you’re going to let someone with his kind of record out until he’s done his time.”

Cragen interrupted with a sigh. “Mr. McManus, I’m sure that under normal circumstances we’d agree with you, however, this just isn’t the case. Last night, my detectives discovered a body under the Verrazano. It was a boy, murdered, mutilated, and raped. My people are in shock, and I was too, when I discovered the details. We need that man to retrace crime pattern for us, work us through the mens rea of his rapists, and help us draw a net on these guys, or guy, as the case may be. We need him out and with us to help us recover the remains of whatever physical evidence may be left. We’re hoping that his memory can also give us the best places to start looking. We didn’t even realize that he was the first victim until just recently, when his records were released under trial law in Massachusetts, where I understood he was going to stand trial for murder.” He sat back, watching McManus’ reaction carefully.

Leo spoke. “I don’t know how you think you’re going to pull this off gentlemen. You can’t just pull a convicted murderer out of prison without raising eyebrows. It’s against the law for one thing, and it’s definitely going to cause gossip. Keller hasn’t exactly made himself popular around here, and I know that there’s going to be more than a few problems with this.”

Cahill cleared his throat. “We have to interview Keller first, and gain his permission to be used in the case. There is a possibility that, given the circumstances, the DA may shorten or waive some of his sentence, and if he is able to plead out with the assistance of an arrest that sticks, he may have any number of opportunities. But for right now, we need his help, and there’s no way around that, unappetizing as it might seem.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you think you’re going to get him out of prison.” Leo argued.

Cragen cleared his throat. “Actually, about that, we do have a plan. A crazy plan, but a plan.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

484 Columbus Avenue and West 82nd 5:41 p.m.

He woke slowly, completely covered in dried sweat, semen, and a bunch of other body fluids. It was almost dark out, the blinds in Liv’s bedroom making the room even darker. Her body was sprawled out across the right side of the bed, and as he adjusted to the room’s light, his eye could pick out shadows, darker blotches marring the gray-white of her skin in the dark room. He splayed out his hand, covering several with his palm over her hip. She arched into the touch, but continued to sleep.

Bruises. They were bruises from his hands up and down her hips and thighs, and a nasty bite on her shoulder showed fresh teeth marks. The blankets pooled around his hips as he sat up, and pressed his palms to his face.

They’d fucked four times, each time more brutal than the next, finally making it from the floor in her living room to the bedroom. He’d carried her, still sheathed inside her, as she scratched up and down his back with her nails. They’d fucked on her bed the last time, before passing out. She’d screamed like an animal, and so had he, and they’d clawed and bitten and scratched at each other until they both came, so hard that each of them felt as though the world had exploded. He could see each bruise, each bite, each scratch over and over again in his mind.

All that, and it hadn’t been enough. He’d cheated on his wife of over 17 years, fucked his partner like she was a whore, and he still wasn’t satisfied. He got up, dragging himself out into the living room, pulling his clothes and underwear on as he went. He’d hurt Liv repeatedly, fucked her until she’d cried with the pain of it and begged him for more. Why wasn’t it enough?

He had finished dressing and had tugged on his jacket when he finally realized the answer. His shirt dragged across the fresh scratches on his back and chest, stinging slightly, and he smiled. Fucking Liv hadn’t been the answer, but he didn’t really know how he was going to get what he needed anyway.

I want to be fucked.

I want the pain.

I just need to feel.

Why can’t I feel, something, anything?

He left, closing the door softly behind him.


TBC...


(Notes: ***I love SVU and OZ, but I'm pretty new to L&O. I love Briscoe's character, and using him here just seemed like a great addition. I took a few liberties with his history since I don't follow the show as closely as SVU, but since this is an AU, I'm working it into this story. I also mean no harm by using Chris Meloni's real name, and it was just fitting to the jist of the story, so it's there, just briefly. Enjoy!***)