Disclaimer: The X-Men characters,
and all other recognizable characters are copyright to Marvel
Entertainment Group. This work of FanFiction is not meant
to infringe on that copyright or defame Marvel Comics or the
X-Men and related characters in any way. No copying, distributing
or editing of this material is permitted without the express
permission of the creator, K-Nice, under United States copyright
law. I just want to make sure I don't get MSTied by someone
who's MSTie could be MSTied :)
This story is majorly and beyond all excuses graphic in some
places. Please do not read this if violence and rape offend
you, which they should. Another thing, I don't have
it in for Jean or Xavier, but in the police world, profilers
don't get that much respect.
Dedicated to Whitewolf, Araignee, Edana_Ni_Emer, Sparks, Yona
Blood and Bone
The prisoner didn't even flinch as the barred door clanged
shut on the visitation room. Detective Lebeau stood just inside
the gate, his eyes running quickly over the man he had come
to visit. Sitting hunched over, his dirty blond hair fell
into burning blue eyes, the skin of his face pale and slack.
Momentarily disconcerted, Lebeau caught sight of the bulging
muscles under the orange jumpsuit. No amount of solitary confinement
could take the killer out of this monster. He was grateful
for the cuff-and-chain ensemble that now attached that monster
to the twin steel rings in the floor.
"Victor Creed." Remy moved toward the only other chair in
the room, across the plain steel table from his adversary.
When he was on the outside, Creed liked to tool around town
in yellow and brown leather outfit, the kind that had to be
custom-tailored. Remy had braved the dangers of Westchester
and the additional half-hour it took to get into Sing-Sing
on the off-chance that Creed and the guy in red leather had
the same designer. That, and to turn the screws a bit. "C'mon
Creed, you still know how to talk human."
"Yeah, but I only talk to people -- not trussed up little
swamp dogs like yourself." Creed lifted his massive head,
piercing eyes staring right through the detective.
Lebeau glared back, resting his hands on the chair back and
looking down the room at Creed. "Listen Vic, and pay attention.
There's some guy running around, banging hookers then ripping
out their insides. Likes using a serrated blade. Wears a lot
of leather. Kinda like your old MO." Leaning in, Remy tried
to catch Creed's eyes. "You leave a Junior Psychopath Club
out there to continue your work, hehn?"
"Yeah right! Can't nobody be me. I'm the best there is, baby
boy. Ask Logan." Creed grinned. When he was finally caught,
he killed four police dogs and ripped Logan from hip to rib.
Eyebrows to his hairline, Lebeau sunk the hook with a sneer,
"Maybe one of your old gang, the Marauders?"
The reaction was swift and violent. Creed hacked and spat
a wad of saliva on the table. The glob slid almost to Remy's
chair. Victor Creed sat full up in his chair, straining forward
like a junk yard dog on a chain. "Those rat-bastiches wouldn't
know a good kill if cut them wide open. The whole lot of them
are cowards. I know that's why they keep moving me around.
Afraid if they leave me in one place for too long I'll find
those lousy turncoat informers and rip them new blow-holes."
Seething with rage, Creed's hard breaths made the line of
spittle on his chin vibrate. The guards were at the door,
but Lebeau waved them away.
"Then who, Creed?" Remy would let him think what he wanted.
Most of the Marauders had turned state's evidence against
him in Subway Massacre case, but they were all serving time
for their mile long rap sheets anyway. Each of them was way
upstate some place, except for Quested, who was killed in
a knife fight, and the chick with green hair had hung herself
after two weeks in Bayview. The state moved Creed around simply
because no one facility could keep death row guards on his
block for more than a few months. Even in solitary, he was
one scary freak of nature.
"I don't know. And if I did, I'm not about to spill for milk-sucker
like you, baby boy." Creed leaned back, the picture of cool,
calm, collected mania.
Remy smiled, a cold, cruel expression that made Creed look
twice, narrowing his cat-blue eyes to get a better look. "Y'know
sumt'in': I wasn't always a cop. In fact, once upon a time,
I was one bad mutha." His gun was back at the front desk,
but Lebeau somehow managed to be threatening without it. "I
know you don't care. I know I don't scare you. But I know
people Creed. I know people who know people who know how to
make other people miserable." Remy approached the prisoner
straight-on, like the fact that he was outweighed and outskilled
did make much of a difference to him. "Whadya think Creed?
Wanna take your meals t'rough a straw? Wanna play soap games
wit' de guards? I can make your life very interesting, 'baby
boy.'" Nose to nose, neither backed down. Lebeau fought the
desire to look down and check the chains that were the only
reason his head was still attached to his body.
Creed wasn't about to back down. Remy gave up before fear
could climb up from his belly and into his eyes. "Fine, Creed.
Have it your way." Turning away, Lebeau only hesitated for
"I remember this dude. Brock was his name. I busted my hands
up punching brick walls and we were in the infirmary together.
His cellie broke his head open with a library book because
he didn't agree with his politics. No big deal right, only
after I get moved, Brock sends me a letter. His cellie is
stone cold loony and he wants advice on how to ice him. Says
he taught the guy all his moves and now he has no way to defend
"Nice story. And I care because..."
"I don't care if you care. Brock worked for Corcraft, like
most of the guys in medium security. Made leather stuff. Kasady
did too, but they put him in solo after a while."
"Why?" Remy was already done with the conversation. Creed
was jerking him around and he didn't like it.
"Brock wrote me. Sent me a leather key-chain, which the screws
stole. Kasady broke botha Brock's knees and tried to kill'm
with a roughed up shiv." Creed sighed and shook his head.
"Your cellie is supposed to be your buddy, your back up, not
"Not like Phillipa, or Michael, or John, right?"
Creed spit again. "Yeah, only Klet ain't no coward. He's
just plain crazy."
"Crazy like you?"
"Worse. Has some kinda political agenda. Me, I just like
the way they scream. Like Genny, you remember Genny don't
you? You guys almost got there in time. Almost." Creed chuckled.
He wasn't sure why he'd given Kasady up, except the guy was
an insult to cold-blooded killers everywhere.
Lebeau grimaced. Officer Genny Darceneaux had been first
on the scene when Creed was finally found. She should have
waited for back-up. "Oh, I remember, Creed. See you at your
next appeal." Signaling the guard, Remy stepped to the door.
The tall, Native American guard smiled as the walked down
the hall. "Can't wait till they push the plunger on that one."
His name tag read J. Proudstar, and he looked the part.
"Yeah, but whenever it happens, it won't be soon enough."
Remy tried to shake off the rage that filled him every time
he even thought about Victor Creed. He shouldn't have come
alone. He should have waited while Munroe and Gray-Summers
talked to Sinclair. Should have, but didn't.
Saying good-bye to his escort at the front counter, Remy
grabbed the manila envelope that held his personal items.
Gloves, keys and wallet went to their respective pockets.
His cell phone beeped at him as he pulled it out. His voice
mail could wait until he was out of Sing Sing. There was a
time he thought he would end up in a place like this, only
in Louisiana they called it Angola.
He was twenty minutes into his ride from the suburbs back
to the mean streets of Manhattan when he was calm enough to
listen to his messages. The first two were from Munroe, that
Summers was pissed at his disappearing act and that she wasn't
too pleased herself. The third was from Summers himself, a
very short, very pointed missive that basically told him to
get his derriere back in the office or pick it up off the
floor. The fourth, which he replayed over and over from the
Taconic State Parkway to the Major Deagan Expressway, was
from Cecelia Reyes, A.M.E.
"Hey, listen I found something else. All that pretty blond
hair is a dye job. I've got Richter washing it out as we speak.
I should be able to tell you what color for sure later, but
for now, the roots were kinda brownish-red. I don't know if
that helps, but I'll send a full report ASAP. This whole case
has been kinda sucky. Sorry."
It wasn't bad news or anything. It wasn't even unexpected
since prostitutes tended to dye their hair or wear wigs to
get a particular look. But even as he pulled off the MDE,
he couldn't shake the ache gripping his skull. Spotting a
Greek deli, he pulled over for a real lamb gyro.
Jean Grey-Summers lead the way into her husband's office,
shucking her suit jacket off as Ororo closed the door. She
flopped into a chair, deflating instantly. Frost was already
in the office, her cream suit a complement to Ororo's own.
Summers was behind his desk, foot propped on a low shelf
as he discussed the Carpenter case with the District Attorney.
DA Dayspring was threatening to try the case himself, but
Frost was already all over Scott for the details. He had already
faxed him Sinclair's typed confession, but he was going on
about coercion and Miranda violations. Scott was just glad
the little animal was finally behind bars. Sinclair was the
ultimate wolf in sheep's clothing, using her father's ministry
to select her victims.
Munroe turned to the profiler, sympathy and disappointment
warring in her eyes. On the one hand, her profile had set
them back God knows how many months. On the other hand, they
might have been completely lost without her. They had considered
those first victims random deaths, then gang activity. It
was Dr. Summers who suggested a serial murderer when the third
body turned up. Ororo wasn't sure how she felt about Jean,
but her responses would help Ororo decide. "So, what do you
The profiler was quiet, contemplative. Ororo leaned against
the door, willing her partner to return. Only Remy would pull
a Mulder at the very end of a case like Carpenter. Checking
her watch, she hoped he had made it to Ossining and back with
a minimum of hassles. There was still the murder of the last
victim to solve.
Frost finished her cell-phone call with a snap of her wrist.
"What do we care what she thinks? She's had you guys running
in circles for months." There was a glare shared between the
two women that Munroe took careful note of. "I need to start
planning my depositions. I'll contact you and your partner
when I need you. Detective Munroe, Lieutenant, Doctor."
Sighing, Jean seemed to deflate even further. "I can't imagine
... I mean that girl ... I've never seen anything like it."
She shook her head and leaned back in the chair. "I don't
think anyone could have predicted that."
"Perhaps." Ororo spoke quietly, so as not to disturb her
boss. When Frost had arrived to assist in taping Sinclair's
confession, she had turned a hostile eye on Grey-Summers from
the first moment. Munroe had tried to contain her own irritation.
"Well, you tried anyway."
"Oh, I did more than try, I was right." Jean heaved another
"Really! Because, for some reason, I just can't match our
suspect with the profile you've been feeding us for the past
six months! For Godssake Jean, if you were wrong, you were
wrong, just admit it." The Lieutenant was off the phone and
on the warpath.
"Think about it Scott. She might not fit the profile but
you should have heard her talk about her father. That Reverend
Craig is the real perp, he fits the profile. Rahne was just
"Try proving that in a court of law!" Summers roared at his
wife. The anger burned hotter, fueled by embarassment.
"Why would you even want to?" Munroe had always been leery
of psychiatrists and psychoanalysts. They always seemed intent
on blaming people's actions on someone else. Ororo believed
in personal responsibility. Sinclair was the Carpenter. If
her father's training had warped her mind, fine, but he never
wielded a knife. On the other hand, she was eager to find
out who the man in red was. Leaving the husband and wife team
to argue it out between them, Munroe slipped back into the
"Hey 'Ro, your phone's been buzzing off the hook. I didn't
come get you 'cause, well you know how the boss gets." Detective
Shard grinned and turned back to the suspect she was interviewing.
Munroe found that her phone was indeed ringing. "Munroe,
"Um, hi 'Ro, its Kitty." The contrition in her former friend's
voice was not enough to quell the revulsion that quickly gripped
Gaining control just as fast as she lost it, Ororo answered,
"Hello Kitty, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Actually, I've been calling to give you the results on those
prints you gave Forge."
There was an uncomfortable pause which Ororo was forced to
end, by saying, "Yes?"
"Oh, um, the first one came up Rahne Sinclair, she's a naturalized
citizen. Kletus Kasady is an ex-con, I'm sure you can look
up his sheet now that you have his name. And the last one
must have been a contaminant. It's for Rebecca McKenna, but
she's a detective, from Vice or something according to the
compy. 'Ro? You still there?"
Ororo barely felt a pang as she hung up the phone. Her rudeness
could certainly be justified seeing their past history. That
was an extenuating enough circumstance, not to mention the
fact that her partner was back, with a sack from 'Zoey the
Greek's' in each hand.
"You hungry?" He smiled sheepishly, apology all over his
"Yes, as a matter-of-fact, I am." Ororo returned the smile,
and now that he was safe, one knot in her stomach untied itself.
It wasn't really a relief because it just made room for a
new and larger ache. She kept the grief and anger off her
face, willing herself to break it to him gently. "Did you
learn anything from Creed?'
"Possible suspect, guy by the name of Kletus Kasady. This
might fit his MO. And Creed's still a waste of good oxygen,
no matter what the experts say." He sat down at his desk and
handed her one of the bags. After booting his computer up,
he grabbed his gyro and set into it, hoping to banish his
headache with pita-wrapped lamb slices slathered in oil and
Munroe joined him in the meal, albeit more neatly. She debated
confirming his find with the data Kitty had given her, but
she wanted to postpone opening that can of worms until she
had a hook to put them on. "Hmm. If he's a con, we can check
his file, get lists of addresses, aliases, associates."
"Just what I was thinking." They ate in silence, greasy fingers
stealing over their keyboards in between bites. The printer
was humming and spewing out sheets of paper when Dr. Summers
emerged from the Lieutenant's office. The detectives exchanged
a look as the profiler came toward them. This could not end
"Before you say anything, I'm sorry. My profile was misleading.
I congratulate you on finding Sinclair, but I have to protest
the fact that you haven't charged Craig Sinclair as well."
Summers held her arms akimbo, righteous indignation oozing
from every pore.
"Why, because he fits your expert profile?" That was as close
to snarky as Ororo would let herself get but Dr. Summers was
already the fall-girl for the Carpenter case. When people
asked why it took so long, it would land squarely on her lap,
no matter how much of a help she had been. That's just how
office politics work, from boardroom to cell-block.
"No, because his influence made Rahne act the way she did.
If we hold her responsible for the act of murdering those
women, we have to hold him responsible for making her want
to in the first place." Jean was secure on her high horse,
completely unaware that she was about to be knocked off.
As she stalked over from the coat rack, Emma Frost slammed
her briefcase down on a nearby desk, her white wool coat still
in her hands. "That's the second dumbest thing I've hear you
say. If Rahne Sinclair is responsible for her actions, then
no one else is. The Reverend might be a fanatic, and we don't
even know that much since no one can seem to find him for
questioning, but he didn't stalk and kill 12 young women in
the name of religious zealotry!" Frost's eyes burned cold
fire as she spoke.
Ororo had to side with Frost. Munroe did not want to go down
this road with Summers. She liked the woman, but this line
of reasoning was in complete conflict with what it meant to
be a officer of the law, a defender of justice. For example,
you couldn't punish every person that ever upset the suspect
and eventually lead his losing control of his anger in the
middle of a commuter train. It just didn't work that way.
And if the law could not fully serve justice, Munroe saw no
need to force it through illegal means. The Goddess would
return things to balance in her own time, and bending the
law until it splintered served neither justice nor balance.
Dr. Summers was getting set to defend herself when Frost
jumped in. "You studied under Xavier didn't you? "
"Yes, but that doesn't--" Scott had told her to leave that
off her resume when she joined the department. For some reason,
they didn't like Xavier much around here. Frost was living
up to her name and Jean now knew why.
Remy took up the thread immediately. "Oh, yes is does. You
know, I spent the afternoon with a raving animal that should
have been put to sleep years ago. Only your Professor Xavier
of Columbia University shows up and declares Victor Creed
curable of his killer instinct. Curable, so they send a psychologist,
Elizabeth Braddock, really bright lady, to fix him. He put
her in traction for two months. His lawyers keep on appealing
based on your Professor's findings. That monster should be
under the ground, instead he's up here: breathing air I pay
for, eating food I pay for, sleeping in a cell I pay for,
because of some profiler. Sinclair kept killing and we couldn't
stop her, because of some profiler." Remy stood grabbing his
papers off the printer. Ororo was already putting on her coat.
Green sparks seemed to surround Jean's face as she counterattacked.
"Listen to me. Craig Sinclair is the Carpenter. He's got it
all: the age, the religious background, the history with prostitutes--"
"Whoa, where did you get that from?" Ororo had sat through
the entire interview. From what Rahne said, her father was
exemplery. They had no evidence of misconduct on his part,
something Dr. Summers seemed reluctant to admit.
"Didn't you hear her? That's girl's mother was a hooker.
I'm telling you, Craig fits the profile top to bottom." The
two detectives started for a moment. That did make a heck
of a lot of sense.
"Fine. If the police find Rahne's mother buried somewhere
with spikes in her hands, then maybe your theory has merit.
Otherwise, keep your expert opinion to yourself." Frost turned
her back on Jean, focusing on the two detectives. "I want
to meet with you two tomorrow at ten for a briefing. Bring
your case notes." Then she stalked off toward the elevators,
leaving stunned, angry silence in her wake.
"You're a good doctor, Mrs. Summers. Your just not good enough
for this kind of work. You can't be wrong with this sort of
thing, because when you are, people die." Ororo tried to convey
the weight of her words without giving too much information
to her partner. She still didn't know how to tell him exactly
who the victim was. As he pulled on his trench, Munroe pointed
at a pad on her desk, which bore three names. "Make sure the
Lieutenant sees that, would you?"
As Ororo walked away, she almost heard, "But I was right.
In a way."
Concluded in Chapter
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