Author's Note & Disclaimer: Usual vault rules apply: Touch not lest ye be touched... or something to that effect. IOW, I own nada. Except for some characters and the plot line but other than that... nothing! I'd also like to thank the wonderful Miles Cowin who had written an excellent book called "Homicide Special". Wonderful book that helped to give me a better understanding/appreciation of police procedures and investigation of a homicide. Thanks to that book, I'm a bit more confident in writing the next chapter... which is on its way... soon. Until then, Enjoy!

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CHAPTER EIGHT

Home of Will Girardi

April 15, 2006 -- Saturday

She could have killed him.

She would have too...

However, thanks to human vanity, Joan Girardi decided that a cute guy like Agent Jon Michaels was worth more alive than dead.

He had snuck up behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and not just startling the young woman, but was thisclose to giving the rest of her household a heart attack were she to let out a frightened scream. Instead, her reaction allowed a stunned gasp, a whirl of her body to face her "grabber", her eyes to widen and a...

"Holy ssh--"

Michaels silenced her attempt at profanity by raising his brow. He watched as a flustered -- yet soon to be pissed off -- Joan Girardi collect herself. Referring to her sneaking out, he softly smirked and said, "Actions have consequences, Joan."

Realizing what he was saying, Joan nodded, though her eyes were twinkling in the same mischievous manner. "Right... so let me get this straight. You scaring the hell out of me -- action." Surprising both herself and Michaels, she then reached out to administer a slap on his arm -- albeit a light one. With one more understanding, not to mention satisfying, nod, "And that was a consequence of such. Makes perfect sense. Thanks."

Michaels slightly glared at Joan, though an amused smile played on his lips while he lightly coaxed his arm. "Glad I could be of service."

Joan glanced to the side and, upon noting that her family was still preoccupied in the kitchen, anxiously tugged at Michaels's elbow. She pulled him towards the privacy of their living room. "What're you doing here?" She hissed.

"Was about to ask you the very same question, except substitute the word 'here' for 'sneaking out.'" He softly replied as he crossed his arms. Michaels began looking down at her in the very same fashion as her father would were she faced with the dilemma of whether she would benefit more from lying or telling the truth.

"I... I-I..." She began stammering before shutting her mouth. Joan took a moment to contemplate her answer before she gazed up and gave him a feeble shrug. With a nervous laugh, "I shouldn't even bother coming up with a pathetic excuse, huh? Since you'll probably see right through my BS."

To her surprise, Michaels smirked and with an encouraging wave of his hand, "Just... humor me and give it a go. Get it out of your system. C'mon, what's your excuse?"

Joan looked at Michaels, then towards the door, then back at Michaels, who seemed actually serious about her coming up with a lie, "I... I..." With a timid shrug and a meek smile, "I. Was... getting the newspaper?"

His eyes remained on her, though he gave a silent nod to continue.

"Getting the newspaper..." She repeated herself, but slowly trailed off in realizing that there's no way she can get away with a lie. At least not with Michaels. With a punctured reluctance per phrase, "At a diner... downtown... with some friends?"

"So," Michaels smiled all too amusingly at Joan, which slightly irritated her. "You were going downtown... with your friends... to a diner. Just to get a newspaper?"

She glared up at him, "Okay, Mr. Polygraph, you had your fun. Now may I please be excused to... pick up my paper?" She added with a teasing smirk, "Gonna check out the classifieds to see if there are any jobs that don't involve dealing with annoying government agents."

"Good luck with that," He chuckled before seriously adding, "And no, you may not. At least not until you let your parents know of your... job hunting aspirations." That last part Michaels threw in with another smirk.

She gaped at him before replying, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because they won't let me go! Not with a psycho on the loose and after this morning's literally bloody disaster!"

Michaels shook his head, "Nope. You can't use that type of reasoning, Joan."

"Why not?" She challenged, "It's true."

"Exactly." He looked at her dead in the eye, "Because that's also the type of logic I'd use into stopping you from going." Softening his gaze, "But I'm not going to stop you. You're a young somewhat mature adult and..." He added, with a reluctant grin, "I also have this thing about a person's free will."

Despite herself, Joan scoffed with laugh, "You're not the only one, trust me."

"Right... so now trust me. Tell your parents, Joan."

"Tell us what?"

Both Michaels and Joan turned their attention towards the Southern voice coming from behind them. Joan glanced from between both her curious and expecting parents to Michaels. The young agent raised a questioning brow, as if silently asking, "What are you going to do now?"

To which she reluctantly sighed. "Fine. You win..." She mumbled to him before putting on a charming smile towards her parents.

"Mom... Dad... See, there's something I have to ask you..."

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"You didn't have to do it."

Michaels gave a modest shrug as he held open the car door for Joan. Before stepping in, she spied a thick three ring binder on the front seat of his Porsche, to which he reached over to casually toss it into a cardboard box sitting behind the driver seat. "Hop on in, Miss Girardi."

As soon as they were both settled in and Michaels began backing his car out of the driveway, Joan continued, "I mean it. You didn't have to lie for me. Telling my parents that you wanted to take me out for lunch..."

He glanced over at her with a surprised look, "Who said that I was lying?" Michaels flicked the radio on and adjusted its volume, while Joan gazed over at him with a confused expression on her young face.

As she reached over to lower the music, "But you told my dad--"

"I specifically told them that you wanted to get something to eat and that I was going to drive you to this diner downtown for lunch." He reached over once more, resuming the original volume of his radio.

"Right..." She nodded and, unintentionally, lowered the volume.

As Michaels began explaining, he pumped the music back up. With classical rock coming through the speakers, "So which scenario sounds a lot more acceptable for parents whose daughter is being targeted by a serial killer; Said daughter asking if she can leave the house alone to go downtown and meet her friends for lunch? Or an older authority figure in good graces with said daughter's father asking if he may be allowed to accompany her downtown for lunch. And if said daughter's friends happen to be at the same diner, we'll just chalk it up to mere coincidence."

He took an intended pause, allowing Joan to digest his words, before adding, "And try not to lower the volume from its designated level."

Joan tossed him a smirk, "Well, how are we suppose to hold a descent conversation while you're having the Golden Oldies blasting in the background?"

"The Golden Oldies are golden for a reason, Joan."

"And how old are you, exactly?"

Michaels softly chuckled, "Old enough..."

Much of the drive downtown soon lapsed between comfortable silences and a random jab at each other here and there. Joan still didn't know what it was about Michaels that attracted her attention. With him, she felt... ease?... comfortable?... safe? Or maybe it was a mixture of all those things plus other emotions that she hadn't felt since the last time she was with--

The car came to a halt, causing Joan to break her thoughts. She gazed out the window and noticed that they were at a Post Office. Before she turned her head to ask Michaels what they were doing here, the agent opened his door. As he stepped out, "There's a special order that's suppose to arrive soon. Just going to check if it came in today."

With a nod of her head, "Okay."

Michaels added with a wink before taking his leave, "And remember what I said about the radio."

Joan mock saluted him, laughing, "Yes, sir!" However, the moment that Michaels stepped inside the building, she reached over and lowered it a couple of notches. Grateful that he left the engine running, allowing the cool AC to wash over her, Joan laid her head back and gently closed her eyes.

A few seconds passed before she opened her eyes and began curiously checking out his car. "Well, technically not his car... though I wonder what he actually does drive." Joan mused as she removed her seat belt so that she had more room to poke around. It took a minute or two for the young woman to realize that the real goods were found not in the front half of the Porsche, but in the back... in that box she had spied earlier before getting in.

Noticing that the black three ring binder, that had been on her seat earlier, was the only thing that stood out, Joan reached for the thick binder and sat back to browse through it...

"Oh my God..."

A photograph of eighteen year old Vanessa Gales smiled up at Joan. It was a smile that Joan could have sworn possessing herself on the good days. Vanessa was sitting on a swing, her eyes thoughtful and her grin sparkling under the sunlight. Next to that photograph were random notes and lists. Mostly personal information (from birth date, place of residents, family and friends, daily routines) about the young woman whose true beauty will remain frozen in the photograph.

A page or so over, Harriet Gaines. Harriet had her arms wrapped around a little girl, possibly her sister, and not older than thirteen years old. Both brunettes sported the same ponytail and brilliant carefree smile. Next to her photograph also held personal notes and information about the young woman.

The pages gave way to more photographs of young women. Girls that -- Joan realized to her dismay -- were the unfortunate victims.

Helena Gibson -- Though the look in her eyes held much reluctance and annoyance -- a look Joan often found in her best friend, Grace Polk -- there was no mistaking the pride shining though her smile as the young woman held up her high school diploma.

Odina Gold -- She obviously had gotten her brilliant smile from her father. Rabbi Gold had his arm around his beautiful daughter. Though he was grinning at the camera, Odina was beaming adoringly at her father. It was at this photograph that caused a lump in Joan's throat, for it was a reminder of her own relationship with Will.

Agnes Gabriel -- There was an aura of innocence around Agnes. The settings looked to be a hospital and Agnes was surrounded by many children. Little boys and girls that through their bleak mortality, their own eyes sparkled with so much life. And Agnes stood right in the middle of such a miraculous sight. Is it any wonder why Agnes herself resembled that of a young Mother Theresa?

Edna Gregory -- Sitting at a desk, one hand on the keyboard while the other gave a small wave, Edna tossed a timid, even bashful, smile at the camera. Her eyeglasses were propped on her head, while her hair was neatly prim in a simply ponytail. In her humble appearance, Edna symbolized a perfect combination of brains and beauty.

Joan flipped two pages after Edna Gregory's profile... thus stumbling onto her own. To her stunned silence, she began staring at not just her personal information, but of herself. The photograph was taken during a family outing one Fall afternoon, to a lake park a few miles from home. It was an impromptu photo opportunity of Will carrying Joan over his shoulder. All for a bold attempt at stopping her from catching the football that Kevin had tossed her way. Despite it all, team Joan and Kevin triumphed over team Will and Luke with the score of 17-9. It was a beautiful day and it obviously showed in that photograph.

She stared at that picture, confused as to how it had come in Michaels's possession. Logical explanations ran through her head, mainly that in the form of her father knowingly giving it to him. However, that didn't quite explain as to why he had it and what this binder was about... that is, until a slip of paper fell from between the pages and into plain sight.

In what Joan could assume as Michaels's handwriting:

VANESSA GALES = lamb -- death
HARRIET GAINES = lamb -- death
HELENA GIBSON = lamb -- death
ODINA GOLD = lamb -- death
AGNES GABRIEL = lamb -- death
EDNA GREGORY = lamb -- death
JOAN GIRARDI = lamb -- alter/ALIVE

V H H O A E J --- J E H O V A H
Jehovah --- one of god's name

Gales Gaines Gibson Gold Gabriel Gregory Girardi
G = GOD

lamb = Joan Girardi --- God ???

Joan didn't know why, but the paper started to tremble. It wasn't until she realized that its cause began with her own hand shaking. She dropped the slip, watched it flutter to the floor before laying gaze upon her trembling hands. Her heart started to beat at a furious pace, her breathing not far behind in the race. Why was she shaking?

That familiar claustrophobic feeling washed over, filling her with a desperate need to escape. Was it not last night that she felt this way? The cause for such a need in the form of discovery that her life was threatened.

Fear. Confusion. Anger. Doubt... and now, especially as her eyes rested upon the black binder in her lap, suspicion. More so now that she began to wonder; Why does Michaels have all this information?

The extremely logical side of her brain tried to reason with her paranoia. Explaining that Michaels is an officer. No, he's more than that... he's a government agent sworn by the law to protect people. Innocent people. People like you, Joan Girardi.

That's what Michaels is... Her fear snipped at her reasoning. But that doesn't answer why he has this binder!

Like a bitter debate that could only end with both sides in disagreement. Gathering information! That's what investigators do! You're father does it, why not Michaels? Especially if it'll help solve the case faster. Catch the bad guy sooner.

How?

How else? Finding clues. Discovering patterns. Even thinking like the bad guy would help the good guys in the long run. Because it could trace them towards the next victim.

Joan's eyes landed once more on the pages of the binder. Her hands delicately tracing over each smiling victim's face. Looking at not just the women's faces, but also at the little trivias and nuances that define who they were and the lives they've led. Personal information that no outsider could know... Unless they took the time to know them... like Michaels is taking the time to know you. Her fear hissed at Joan, sending a chill down her spine.

She tossed the binder back in the box, as if its mere presence was beginning to burn in her hands. She shook her head to clear her mind from such accusations and paranoia. Joan wouldn't allow herself to go crazy over this. It was bad enough that her brother snapped, and it would do her family no good to have her sanity just as lost as Luke's own.

Joan would not permit herself to suspect that Michaels, who she had come to undoubtedly trust, could be the--

The driver door swung open, startling Joan to snap her head in that direction. Michaels, smiling his humble boyish smile, slid into the seat. With a nod and a tired sigh, "Killer."

"What?" Joan's voice squeaked, which earned a raised look from the agent.

"The line." He nodded towards the post office building. "The line in there is a killer. Sorry I took so long, Joan." He added with an apologetic grin.

As he restarted the vehicle, Joan feigned a nonchalant laugh. "Oh... That's-- that's fine. It's okay..." With her hands still trembling, a motion which she silently prayed for control over, she reached to tug on her seat belt.

Joan could feel Michaels's eyes on her. She glanced back at him and found that he was regarding her with a mixture of suspicion and disbelief. She tossed him a small -- albeit nervous -- smile before turning her gaze towards the open road. Joan was searching for words to break the uncomfortable silence that was settling upon them...

When the passenger door suddenly clicked and locked itself into place.

"What're you doing?!"

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Arcadia Police Department -- Squad Room

April 15, 2006 -- Saturday

"Hey, Sam?"

Rita Samstone glanced over her shoulder, tossing an acknowledgment to her partner. With her back facing him as Rita continued setting up the case board, "Yeah?"

David Christian rustled through one of the boxes they had brought with them from Los Angeles. "You seen the murder book anywhere?"

The compiling of the murder book -- David considered -- was both a pain in the ass, tedious task and a blessed necessity. By definition, the murder book was a standard three-ring binder that summarizes a homicide case. Consisting of all the data gathered throughout the investigation (from evidence lists to photographs, statements and diagrams), the binder was of importance especially when it came to serial homicides. In this particularly huge case, started by Agent Michaels and now assisted by David and Rita, the investigators decided to divide the murder book up to various sections.

One in which profiled all the victims... including potential victims. Or in this case, potential victim.

"Which part?" Was Rita's reply as she joined David's side. She watched as David began picking up the various black binders present and flipping through each one.

"The vics." Not finding the particular book, "Don't tell me that Junior, who spent majority of the plane ride putting that section together, managed to lose it."

"Ye of little faith, Chris." Rita clucked her tongue in mock disappointment. As she returned to the board, "Relax, alright? He didn't lose it. Michaels has it with him in his car."

David sat himself on the desk and crossed his arms, "Why exactly?"

"Why what?" Rita bit back an exasperated sigh to opt for a gentle rolling of her eyes.

"Why does he have it with him? Junior's not the only one working on this investigation."

"Y'know," Rita turned to face David, her eyes glaring suspiciously at him. "What I want to know is why do you have it out for Michaels?"

"I thought we've been over this."

"Yeah, we have. I've made it clear that we should work together instead of against each other... but since you insist on beating this horse way past submission..."

David looked down, his arms still crossed. It took a moment, as Rita patiently waited, for David to reply with an answer. He gazed back up at Rita and with a sincere nonchalance, "He reminds me of my father."

That answer certainly threw Rita off. The detective bit her lower lip, contemplating whether or not this was the right time to inform David of Dean's presence in Arcadia. An hour or so ago, as the partners met up in front of the Girardi residence, David was briefly informed of the St. Joseph's incident. While Michaels had headed inside, Rita took it upon herself to bring David up-to-date. She had mostly told him everything... mostly. Exception being that she kept the identity of one of St. Joseph's parish priests. Rita decided, at the last moment, that this information was best given to David -- who was extremely sensitive when it came to his family, on or off the job -- later that evening, once they were off the clock.

"I don't understand..." Was all she could muster without giving too much emotion. Just enough to reveal sincere confusion and concern.

With a shrug, "Michaels.... he has this look. This-- this knowing look in his eyes. Like he just knows something that either we don't know, or we won't know until later on."

Rita nodded, silently encouraging David to continue. She knew of the look he was speaking about, often or not taking note of it herself.

David's eyes glazed over, as if he was looking far and away into the distance. With remorse in his voice that quickly hardened, "After the accident -- y'know, the accident? The one that occurred before I was born? The one that had left father clinically dead for seven minutes? -- he had that look. And I hated it. Because when daddy dearest wasn't giving his sons that 'I know something you don't know' look, the bastard would be off preaching some random biblical apocalyptic BS that I could give a damn about."

"And that's why you're giving Michaels a hard time? Because he looks at you the same way that your father used to? David, it's just a look. We're all capable of giving knowing looks once in a while."

David jumped up from his seat, once more tossing a nonchalant shrug. He turned his back on Rita for a moment as he dug into the box for a file. Just as Rita opened her mouth with words of comfort, David spoke up with a bitter laugh.

"For eighteen years, I've lived with that look. Day in and day out. It's not just the look itself, Rita... but the knowledge behind it. Live under its gaze long enough and you'll learn to sense the truth behind the look. I didn't like what I saw behind my father's eyes... and I sure as hell don't like what I'm sensing behind Michaels's." David picked up the manila folder he was searching for. He gazed into it, then asked as an afterthought, "By the way, where is he?"

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"What're you doing?!"

Joan cried at the abrupt nature of the door locks clicking into place. She grasped the door handle and began to tug at it. Fear swept through her body as her panic-filled gaze met with Michaels's surprised and concerned own.

Michaels held a defensive hand up, and with a small smile, "I..." He gently moved back, allowing her to notice the automatic lock button on the door, "I accidentally brushed my elbow against the button while trying to put my seat belt on. I'm sorry, Joan... Did I startle you?"

It took a moment for this to register. And once it did, Joan felt a blush start to rise on her face. She didn't say anything except to give an embarrassed laugh.

"Are you okay?" Michaels asked, smiling at her laughter though still gazing at her with concern.

She immediately despised her paranoia. "I'm... I'm okay." Seeing that he wasn't exactly buying her line. "Michaels, I'm fine... Really. I- I think that my mind's just playing tricks on me. With everything that's been happening lately... I just need to something to eat and to see my friends."

Though Michaels didn't say anything, his silence and the look that he was giving her spoke volumes. They continued to drive on in silence. An awkward stillness at that.

Soon enough -- much to Joan's relief -- the APD came into view. A minute or so later, as they drove further down a block, they arrived at Ava's Diner -- a quaint city diner that most people, from the lawyers and cops to average Joe's, consider as a second home. Kevin had introduced Joan and her friends to the little establishment. They enjoyed not just the food but the warmth the place brought. So much so that Adam, most particularly, would often suggest grabbing a bite from there.

Grace was quick to note that it was because Adam had developed a "child-like fascination" to the diner's head waitress, Debbie. A nice woman in her mid-forties that, both Grace and Joan noticed, seemed to have gain not just the fondness of young Rove, but also of Rove Senior. Thus spawning off more good humored jokes from the girls and insisting that Adam might get his wish in seeing Debbie beyond the waitress attire and into something more... motherly.

A wide grin spread on Joan's face at the thought of her friends waiting inside. She could imagine her beloved trio of companions. Adam was probably away from the table and talking to Debbie, who often spent most of her time fixing up the counter for the next batch of customers. Joan knew that ever since Adam's mother passed away, he had been looking to find a sort of substitute to fill that void in his heart. A year or two ago, Adam had found part of it in her own mother, and Arcadia High art teacher, Helen. However, even Helen's presence didn't feel exactly what Adam needed... until he had met Deborah Potter. Since meeting her, Joan had noticed a spark in Adam's eyes that she had never seen before. Grace had explained that she had seen that look a long time ago... that it was almost similar to that same adoring gaze he'd give his own mother before Elizabeth Rove died.

And while Adam was striking up conversations with Debbie, Joan figured that Grace and Dane had probably found themselves, yet again, in a heated debate over the silliest of matters. While Dane joked about serious issues like war, government and politics, Grace had passionate things to say about almost anything. Having the two together, with nothing to do but talk, was like holding a barrel of gun powder over an open flame. Without the presence of Joan or Adam to lighten the mood, there's no telling how explosive their conversations would end up! At the thought of a possible outburst waiting to blow inside of that diner, Joan couldn't help but smile at the familiar distraction.

"Jeanne d'Arc."

Her hand had been on the door handle, her body in an eager position to jump out of the car and head towards the diner. However, the moment that Michaels spoke that particular name, Joan's entire form came to a sudden halt. Her body tensed up and her eyes landed on the agent, who had this small smile on his face. His voice was nonchalant, yet had this knowing edge that threw Joan off.

"What?"

"Also known as Joan of Arc." This time when he spoke, Michaels eyes locked onto her.

Hesitant, "What-- what about her?" Joan removed her grasp on the door handle and soon found herself leaning back on the seat.

He shrugged, "I... I just thought about her. Actually, I thought of her because of you. Or, at least because of your name." He added with a quiet awe and reverence, "As I recall, she was quite an extraordinary young woman."

"Because... she talked to God?"

Michaels thoughtfully looked away before responding with a wistful grin, "That... and what she had done for her country. What she had to sacrifice and, ultimately, die for." He paused, then continued, "And technically, she didn't literally hold conversations with God."

His last sentence perked Joan's interest, causing her to ask "What do you mean?"

"Jeanne," He started, using d'Arc's real name which Joan herself found interesting, "According to the legend, she received messages from saints and angels. Like Saint Catherine, Margaret, Michael... According to legend, through their messages from saints and angels on behalf of, obviously, God, Jeanne set out to fight for her beloved France."

Joan regarded Michaels before expressing her confusion out loud. "What are you trying to say? Are-- are you... you're not thinking that," a nervous laugh escaped her lips, "That because my name is Joan, I talk to God."

The agent gave her a small smile as he gazed at her in amusement. He took a thoughtful pause before replying, "If you use that sort of logic, then I'm right to assume that I'm as much as an archangel as my name is Michaels... right?"

"I don't understand..."

Michaels looked towards the diner, "You better get inside, Joan. Don't want to keep your friends waiting."

Without warning, Michaels leaned towards her, which startled Joan to press herself against the seat. She watched with flush cheeks upon realizing that he had only meant to open the door for her. "You sure you're okay?" He asked once he moved away from her.

She nodded her head in a silent reply. Joan couldn't exactly give him an honest enough answer. For it was an answer that basically screamed suspicion and doubt, and she was pretty sure that the agent wouldn't respond well to such accusations.

As Joan slowly stepped outside, Michaels tossed her -- what she hoped was-- a sincere smile. In an ironic twist, he warned, "Unless you know them well, you can't trust anyone... So be careful, Joan."

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