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"Blood and Bone"

Blood and Bone

Warning: This story contains references to rape and descriptions of graphic violence.

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6

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 :)
Notes: 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 and Hyjnx.

Blood and Bone

Chapter 5

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 an instant.

"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 himself."

"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 your back-stabber."

"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 think?"

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 sigh.

"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 his tool."

"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 main office.

"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, Homicide."

"Um, hi 'Ro, its Kitty." The contrition in her former friend's voice was not enough to quell the revulsion that quickly gripped Ororo.

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 face.

"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 sour cream.

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 well.

"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 6


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