Yo! After about a week and a half, I believe, I have returned with the second chapter of my story! Thank you to everyone who read, and and even bigger thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations. For the record, I'm excited about tonight's premier of season 11; duuuude, I remember when I first started on SVU back in season 7.

DISCLAIMER: If I owned L&O:SVU, I'd be Dick Wolf.

Onwards!

Munch's mood had yet to improve. Since he had walked out the door of the principal's office and swooped out of the school, Munch had been broody and unusually quiet. Fin had thought nothing of it until they were in the school's parking lot, getting ready to make their way to the witness. Where the pair usually exchanged ideas, assumptions, and conclusions after a canvass (even one as unsuccessful as this one), Munch had told Fin to drive and sat in silence for the majority of the ride to the witness' address. Once Fin had gotten over the initial shock of John Munch, who insisted on driving everywhere lest he become carsick from Fin's less-than-smooth car handling, actually handing him the keys with instructions to operate heavy machinery, Fin had noticed that his partner was not bouncing theories and ideas off of him, but was instead looking pensively out the window. One could always tell that Munch's gears were turning when he had his chin propped up on his hand.

Usually, Fin would have inquired as to Munch's state of mind, but he knew that doing that today would be tasteless and unnecessary. While he had been caught off guard by how quickly Munch had been to anger with the school principal, Fin needed no explanation as to why his partner was so edgy. Fin knew that the look in Munch's eyes was one of remorse and anger at himself; he knew what Munch was thinking. And all the talking in the world would not be enough to convince John Munch that he was wrong in his thinking.

It was very clear that Munch was blaming himself for the present situation.

And as understandable as that was, it simply was not right of him to do so. As he allowed his partner wallow in silence, Fin recalled how personally Munch had taken their three for nothing score with this case. A year and a half ago, when SVU had first picked up the case, Cragen had appointed Munch as Primary Detective. Always one to take his work seriously, Munch had worn himself out following obscure traces, interrogating suspicious people, and writing up reports; this task was made even harder by the fact that the case was littered with horrible deeds of victim mutilation, torture, and rape. The entire squad had delved into the disturbing case with high hopes of finding and capturing their perpetrator. But three days into it, Fin remembered everyone in the squad having a very strong negative reaction to it. They spoke of general uneasiness and sleepless nights, startling images engraved in their minds. At the end of those days, when their painstaking labor and sacrifice of their mental well-being had proved inconclusive and insufficient to find the person responsible, they had all been very relieved to see the case go away, even if they had known it would be back for them. Munch had been disappointed in himself, but his years on the force had taught him well that not every case was a simple open and close, so he had taken the blow in stride.

When the case resurfaced, Munch and the squad had again chased down their possible leads and witnesses, but come to nothing. The trail had suddenly gone cold one day, and they had been stumped wondering where to go. It had been as if suddenly none of their traces had made sense, their suspects didn't match, and their evidence pointed in every direction possible. At one point, Elliot had frustratingly expressed how it seemed that they were pulling every sick, twisted pedophilic pervert in New York off the streets, expect for the one they needed. This particular chapter in the case had been even more gruesome than the first, prompting each detective to set up a mental barrier or emotional stopper to keep themselves from being too affected. The strategy had worked, of course, but only to a point. During those two days, it had been easy to see which detective picked which barrier: Elliot had suddenly become edgy and snapped at anyone who sounded like they might have been disagreeing with him; he had never been good at turning off emotions. Munch withdrew into the confines of his mind, analyzing evidence, clues, and over-thinking everything just to keep himself from feeling. Fin remembered how only himself and Olivia had been able to find a suitable balance between the two options and function somewhat-properly; he wasn't sure just how affected Olivia had found herself, but in Fin's case, his coolness in the office caused him nightmares in his sleep.

Their most recent encounter, however, had been the worst by far. Not only had the level of bodily mutilation among the victims escalated to the point where Dr. Warner had been forced to identify the bodies using dental records, but the perpetrator had actually begun to like taunting them, Munch in particular. This, of course, did not help the fact that Munch very much cared about the victims and their well-being, and often managed to make a strong connection with them. His compassion and empathy, which served him so well, had trapped him. Once again taking up leads and evidence, SVU had come to realize a common factor within the case; further expansion of this theory by Munch and Elliot had led them to the beautiful conclusion of who their perpetrator was. Cragen had been difficult to convince, as his reservations about the possible suspect had made the most sense. Munch had argued passionately and incessantly with him for the better part of three hours before convincing the captain that their move was the correct one. After calling in a special favor, Cragen had signed the order to allow Munch to lead a full-scale SWAT assault on an upstate country home. The assault operation had run smoothly, as if making up for the fact that they had gone through so much trouble to get there; they had found the victim alive in the basement of the country house, but she had died within minutes of SVU arriving. When the arrested suspect's only plea of innocence, "I didn't fuckin' do it!", proved to be insufficient and his alibis did not check out, the case had been closed.

It was a horrible surprise three months later to find an envelope addressed to all four SVU detectives and their captain containing pictures of the perpetrator's latest victim. Words did not exist to describe the feeling of such a powerful slap in the face. Not only did it mean that they had once again failed to capture the real suspect and bring him to justice, but it meant that they had done someone innocent a terrible injustice. The horror and hurt that comes with realizing that the world is just that bit more dangerous all over again is a feeling that can put even the most seasoned sex crimes detective out of his mind. After hearing the news of their misdeed, Captain Cragen had been livid, positively on fire at Munch's fatal mistake; it was the first time Fin had heard the veteran captain use foul words when speaking to any of his subordinates.

But his anger had not compared to that of Munch. Munch had not refuted any of Cragen's shouts and insults, and instead felt that he deserved every drop of unprofessionalism his captain had given him. Munch had been angry, snappy, and at the point of raging outbreaks for days on end. He had kept saying how innocent women and young children were losing their lives day after day and he had no idea how to help them. He continually said that he had failed, that he was no good to anyone, and that people would continue to die because of his stupid mistake; he had been an inconsolable mess for weeks. After his initial flare of anger had subsided, much had become very quiet and easily irritable around the precinct. Everyone had been careful not to bring anything regarding the Mind Games Rapist to his attention, and when they did, to use supreme caution, like employing Fin to deliver the news. Munch's tirade of bad moods had finally ended one very late night at the 1-6 when he had literally knocked everything off his desk, sent the drawers and their contents flying to land elsewhere in the bullpen, literally flipped his desk, and huffed out of the squad room. Olivia, who had been left in the wake of Hurricane John, had patiently waited fifteen minutes before making a routine round to the roof, where she had found Munch. A lengthy conversation later, the pair had returned to the bull pen, straightened out the mess, and gone out for drinks.

SVU had taken some very hard criticism from the public, the courts, and, of course, One PP, which had taken a very hard swing at their moment of human error. The squad had suddenly found themselves the butt of a lot of jokes and heavy teasing from other police divisions. Cragen had lost most of his credibility among the more senior police officers. Worst of all, and very much apart from the fall of their reputation, the SVU squad was mostly worried that this erroneous conviction meant that there was still a real danger wandering the streets of New York. So Fin knew that this time, they must not fail. It was not an option, not even a remote possibility. They had to capture the societal menace. And as he glanced over at the man in the passenger's seat next to him, Fin knew that Munch would not rest until this case was properly solved; he wasn't doing this for himself, Fin knew. No, Munch had to clear up his mistake for all the people who had died at the hands of the maniac so that they may finally rest in peace.

Pulling up at the witness' given address, Fin turned the car off and waited for a moment before turning to Munch. Fin was astounded that Munch had remained quiet for the entirety of the ride, when it was his usual protocol to complain about Fin's driving every three or so miles. "You ready, John?"

"Let's go," Munch said, placing his hat once again a top his head. He swung the door open and stepped onto the sidewalk, his gaze following the building up to its third story, wherein lived their witness. He eyed one of the four balconies on the third floor and swept across the street to where the crime had allegedly taken place. "Missing Person's must have moved on from here. Time to find out why this guy saw the crime happen but did nothing to stop it."

The world began settling back into focus.

The swirling colors that had circled her head for so long were finally beginning to solidify into distinguishable shapes. This time, the shapes stayed where they formed and didn't float off into a general congregation of grey nothingness, which is what they had been doing for as long as she cared to recollect. At the feeling of finally being able to distinguish what was light, what was dark, and what was really there, Haley Owens allowed herself to feel the least bit triumphant. She had beaten it. She had managed keep herself from succumbing to the horrible stuff that had been on the rag. And now, at long last, it was finally wearing off.

Even as Haley formed the thought in her lethargic mind, her head felt lighter, but not light to the point where she would be dizzy again. Just light enough for her to be able to lift it without feeling the horrible urge to throw up from the strain of her neck working against gravity. Haley was vaguely aware that the back of her head was throbbing, yet the ache became more present as she become more clear-headed.

Still lying on her back, arms spread at her sides as if she had passed out after creating a particularly intricate snow angel, Haley followed the intensifying pain from its origin in her head down into the rest of her body. The pain settled in her back, pooling somewhere between her hips and shoulder blades, and burned. Her stomach, unsurprisingly, was churning like an upset ocean. She took deep breaths to steady its temper, but gained nothing from it save a sore chest. Haley closed her eyes, not ready for the visual world just yet, and recollected the events of the day.

She had awoken to the dreadful sound of her alarm clock after another fit of insomnia. Her third, she noted pointedly, sleepless night in a row. Sadly, this was nothing new; Haley had suffered from insomnia for the past nine years, and her current record of sleeplessness stood at one full week without sleep. Usually her fits happened within days of each other, lying awake one night and sleeping badly the next, but the fact she had spent over seventy-two hours without achieving REM sleep worried Haley. She was not interested in breaking her present record. Taking her disappointing night in stride, Haley had hopped out of bed and gotten ready for school. By seven in the morning, Haley had been shooed out of the apartment by her temperamental mother, who had insisted that Haley take her breakfast to go because she was running late, and hadn't even given Haley a chance to explain how her tardiness was due to her younger sister monopolizing the hallway bathroom.

Her walk to school took a little over thirty minutes, and though she could have walked it easily with the time she had, Haley had jogged the majority of the way to school, stopping only to catch her breath when she had a few blocks to go. She had hit the offensive block at around seven-twenty. She had walked to school countless times, and never thought twice about making her way down a few city blocks. Minding her own business, Haley had made it quickly down the block when someone had grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into an alley.

Instinctively, knowing something was very wrong, Haley had begun to struggle. She had kicked, flailed, stomped, and even tried to bite herself out of the sickeningly strong grasp. Her protests had earned her a rag to the face – it had smelled sweet, then rotten as it pressed against her mouth, nose and cheeks. The smell had made her feel sick and weak. Her head had spun, her throat had begun to burn. Haley had pretended to pass out long enough for her assailant to loosen his grip, ripped out of his hands, and taken off down the alley only to collapse from sheer ill-feeling and disorientation. In her mad escape, she had toppled over a garbage can and fallen flat onto her face into its lid. She had found herself unable to get back up, and was dragged away by a man in a red baseball cap.

And now she was here.

And she didn't know what here was. Which was a problem. A very big problem. Her abductor, because now she knew she had, in fact, been kidnapped, had spoken all of two words. He had thrown her onto the cold concrete floor where she currently lay and instructed gruffly to "Wait here". Not that the order was necessary, as Haley would not have been able to go anywhere in her heavily drugged state. She couldn't even recall what the voice had sounded like; it had just been an instruction that echoed through her mind in a dull, empty tone. Wait here. Wait here.

As Haley groggily sat up, she wondered just how long she had been "waiting here", wherever here was. A few hours, maybe; maybe, more. Slowly, she took in her surroundings: the thick-looking walls with chipping white paint and the steel-lined ceiling of her holding pen. She sat on hard, dirty concrete, which had dark stains running across it. She knew it was blood, but refused to accept it. The room was relatively large, a very big square, with a heavy steel door on one end and a small rectangular window at the very top of the right wall. Through the thick glass and bars, yellow sunlight streamed lazily into the cell. Haley was suddenly reminded of an old-fashioned meat freezer, the kind butchers stacked giant blocks of dry ice in to keep the hanging meat fresh.

Haley ran a hand down her face, wiping sweat from her brow, cheeks, and eyes. Her head rolled toward her chest, protesting Haley's imprudent assumption that it was ready to be held high by her neck. "What a mess," she said, talking into her school sweater. "What a fuckin' mess." Her watch glistened in the incoming sunlight, shining a small white reflection onto the ceiling. The time read 11:03 am. Assuming it was still the day of her abduction, Haley realized she had been missing for a little under four hours.

Haley thought of her parents. Had they been informed yet? Or for that matter, had anyone noticed her sudden absence? Would the school call home to tell her parents she never showed? Would they call the police? Were there officers currently scouring New York City for her? For some reason, Haley thought of her mother more than her father. If her mother knew, then she was probably in hysterics at the moment. Haley knew her mother couldn't remain calm under normal circumstances, like being separated at the mall, or letting Haley ride the train by herself, and couldn't even begin to image what her mother's state of mind was now that her daughter had been kidnapped by someone with the intent to harm. Haley's siblings were at school, so they probably didn't know yet. And they were probably better off for it. In a second of childish imagination, Haley pictured herself escaping from this room and rushing back home before her siblings even got out of school. She would get home before them, and when they arrived, nothing would be out of place. Everything would be alright.

She was surprised how the first thing that had come to her mind had been her family, and not escape. But when she took a look around the room a second time, she realized why escape had not occurred to her. It was impossible. The ceiling was lined with steel, the floor was concrete, the door was solid steel (and very probably locked); the only possible option was the window. But even that was improbable. The window on the right wall was at least seven feet up, something she would never be able to reach at her height of five-foot-six. On top of that, the damn thing was barred. She frowned and let herself fall back onto the ground. "God damn it…"

A sudden noise from beyond the door brought Haley back from her thoughts. She looked toward the door, half-expecting it to be burst open at any given second by the wild man with the beard and cap. She sat up as quickly as her hurting body allowed, and stared at the door. Nothing happened. I imagined it. Just my head playing tricks on me…She felt no reassurance in the still silence so she spoke aloud to keep herself from being flooded by more fear than she was already feeling. "I must have imagined it." She was surprised at how confident her voice sounded.

Haley got to her feet, her knees shaking, and walked as best she could to the door. She placed her palm flat upon it, and winced at the cold steel that greeted her touch. A very long handle was set into the left side of the door. She knew the door was locked, probably by a thick chain and a sizable bolt on the other side of the wall, but Haley gripped the metal handle anyway. She held her breath before pushing down hard on the handle. Nothing happened. The handle didn't even budge. She pushed down again to the same result. "Damn it." She pushed down harder the third time, just to make sure she really had tried to open it. Nothing. She began tugging the handle, wanting nothing more than to rip it from the door, or better yet, tear the door from its hinges and step into freedom. "Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

Her frantic tugging turning to pounding. She began beating the door savagely with her fists, pummeling them into the unmoving steel. "Won't you budge! Move, get out of my way! I have to get home! I have to get home!" Her punches became more vicious, less careful, and insistent. "I need help in here! Please, someone help me!" She angrily let go of the handle and kicked the door. "SHIT!"

Haley stopped, suddenly exhausted, and listened for anything on the other side of the door. The only thing she heard was the echo of her frustrated voice on the bare walls, her curse ringing in her ears like an unfavorable verdict. Her breath was coming in rasps and her hands were shaking at her sides. Agitation ran through her entire body like an electric current. "Goddammit, sunovabitch!" She banged her head against the door, "I'm fuckin' screwed."

The thought hit her suddenly, as if someone had winded her. Her words sank in this time, full of meaning and implication, and it was as if the world had caved in on top of her. The realization crushed her. Feeling her knees start to go weak, Haley sat down before the door as a wave of panic and hopelessness engulfed her. She caught herself before another attack erupted from within her body, and sighed, "Relax, Haley. Calm down, girl. Just breathe." She took a deep breath and let out the tense air from her lungs. "Think. There must be a way out, there must be a way out. There always is."

But even as she said it, she knew she was lying to herself. Where, exactly, was the way out of a steel-enforced basement cell? She had no idea, either. Still breathing heavily, Haley convinced herself that there was no way she could do anything until her captor came back. He was the only one, she assumed, that had keys to the door, so he would have to come back and open it sometime. She would have to take her chances with the madman if she wanted to escape. Face him, overcome him, escape him. That was her plan, and that was what she had to mentally prepare herself for.

Facing the door with fear, apprehension, and a goal in mind, Haley sat and waited.

The reason Miranda T. Emerson had witnessed the kidnapping of Haley Owens from the safety of her third-story balcony and done nothing to stop the crime in progress was because she was in a wheelchair. Paralyzed from the waist down, Miranda had been witness to the kidnapping but been powerless to stop it, and had instead alerted the authorities before the kidnapping had even been finalized. "By the time I rolled out of here, they probably would have been gone – I didn't really want to lose sight of the two so I could know where they were going. I live alone, so it's not as if I could have very well sent someone to help the girl."

"Why didn't you call out to the kidnapper when you saw what he was doing?" Fin asked.

"I don't know if he was armed or anything," Miranda replied. "I didn't want him to be startled and hurt the girl because he knew someone was watching him. I mean, what if he'd shot her and run off?"

Fin nodded at the logic behind her answer. He sat down on one of the apartment's couches next to Munch, who had eaten his words seconds after being greeted by Miranda. Munch leaned forward on his knees to face Miranda. "Did you see him clearly?"

"Yes, he was a tall man, he was White, wearing a faded denim jacket and a red baseball cap. He had a thin beard, like a goatee – I saw his face as best anyone could from ten feet away and three stories up," she said. "The girl was slightly shorter than he, wearing a school uniform, brown hair, heavy-looking backpack." She looked at the floorboards. "She was so scared. I'll never forget the look in her eyes."

Munch suddenly felt a knot form in his throat. The man Miranda had described fit the picture of their suspect all too well; he began to feel fear and worry creep into him. Munch cleared his throat, and continued, "Can you recount the actual crime for us? What you saw and maybe anything Haley may have left behind?"

Miranda nodded, "She…Haley…always walks through here to get to school. I happen to see her every now and then if I'm at the window when she happens to be passing through. You know, it's funny…I never learned her name until today. Anyway, the man snuck out of an alley after she passed it, and I guess Haley didn't really think it odd that someone would be walking behind her on the sidewalk. He followed her for a few feet before grabbing her and shoving something into her mouth." Miranda cringed. "Haley fought and kicked, but the guy still dragged her away, back into the alleyway."

"If we brought in a sketch artist, do you think you would be able to work with them?" Fin asked.

Miranda nodded. "I suppose I could give it a shot. I did get a clean look at his face, but like I said, he was about fifteen feet away from me and a good thirty below me."

"Right, well thanks for your time, Ms. Emerson," Munch said with a sigh. He got to his feet quickly, and shook the woman's hand. "We may have to contact you again in the event of a line-up so that you can identify him for us. Have a good day."

"Anything I can do to help, I will," Miranda replied, playing absently with the wheels on her chair as the detectives made to let themselves out of the apartment. "I hope you find her, Detectives."

Fin nodded in understanding, as did Munch, and the pair walked from the apartment without another word. "Alright, so I did a little preemptive judging on our dear witness."

Fin snorted. "Is that what we're calling asinine assumptions nowadays? Though I gotta say the look on your face when she opened the door was priceless." Munch shot a glance at his partner, a very reluctant smirk breaking over his lips despite his struggle to keep his face straight. Fin smiled back victoriously at the sense of his partner's good mood returning. He's had his brood, now he's on his way back to normal.

"You smile as if you know what I'm thinking," Munch said with a hint of humor.

Fin shrugged, "Those glasses may shield you from the rest of the world, John, but to me, they're just like magnifying glasses. You're my Jew, after all." The term, which Munch had once detested because of its crassness, had grown on him to become a term of endearment uttered only by his detective partner, and on rare occasions when said partner felt like remind Munch he was not alone.

"And you're my boy, Fin," Munch replied, retaliating the feeling. He gave Fin a mock punch on the shoulder and a wide smile as they exited the building. When Munch got to the car, he looked up across the street and stopped. "You wanna give the alley a quick canvas? I know Missing Person's already combed it, but they were looking for a lost girl, not necessarily signs of a rapist."

"Fair enough," Fin said. The pair walked across the street to the alley, retracing what they'd pieced together to be Haley's final steps before the kidnapping. Physically acting out the scene Miranda Emerson had described to them, Fin began walking down the sidewalk, while Munch awaited in the alley. "So she's walking along here, and sees someone out of the corner of her eye…" Fin passed the alley and continued on his way, whereupon Munch crept out of it and began to follow him.

"But she doesn't really take him into account because she guesses he's just another pedestrian on the street," Munch finished, coming up behind Fin faster than any normal pedestrian with common sense or a set of personal boundaries would have been comfortable with.

"So she just keeps walking along, minding her business." Fin continued, walking ahead of his quickly-approaching partner in a normal stride. "And doesn't notice that the guy's creeping up on her until it's too late." He turned to see Munch's face inches from his. "But they then, he's already got her and gags her with…"

Munch clapped a hand over Fin's mouth and held his arms behind his back. He pondered for a moment what the perpetrator could have used to knock the girl out, and the answer came to him instantly. "He gags her with a rag of chloroform! Oldest trick in the book! So she struggles against it until it takes effect" – at this point, Fin went slightly limp in Munch's arms for the sake of play-acting – "and he drags her off into the alley."

"Maybe he discarded the rag in here before taking off," Fin suggested. They perused the alley for a sign of anything that would prove useful in the gagging on an unsuspecting victim. When they had exited the alley one street up from the one where they'd entered, Fin finally saw something that caught his eye. "John…"

Munch wandered over to him, spying a clump of overturned garbage burying a maroon corner flapping in the morning breeze. The detectives approached it carefully, as if they were scared that too hasty a movement would make the flapping corner aware of their presence, and it would, in turn, scamper and hide. Fin grabbed the corner carefully and pulled from under the trash heap, a decent-sized maroon rag. He held it aloft at eye-level with both his and Munch's faces. Munch brought his face closer and sniffed the rag. At first, he could smell nothing but the acrid stench of garbage, but upon clearing his nose and taking a second whiff, he noted the very faint smell of a sweet, tangy substance that quickly turned rotten. "Bingo. This rag's defiantly had chloroform on it. But most of it has evaporated. We should get in into a bag before the rest of it goes."

"I've got some plastic bags in the car," Fin said. He straightened up and began to hustle in step with Munch toward the other end of the alley and ultimately to the car. "We could probably lift some DNA from this. Some hairs, maybe even saliva samples."

Munch felt his world jump with excitement at the possibility of having actual DNA. It was the fastest he had gotten to the perpetrator ever in one of these cases, and he was filled with renewed hope at the finding. He ignored the cynical, pessimistic tones in the back of his mind that were beginning to creep into his consciousness. The negative thoughts that told Munch that there was very little good a rag could do them, that it was unlikely that anyone's DNA was on it, that he had failed again. But Munch pushed the thoughts back and ignored the beginnings of frustration wanting to reenter his system. He didn't want to let it happen, not twice in the same day.

As sudden gust of wind ambushed them in alley, and Munch felt the warm perched atop his head disappear and be replaced by a very unwelcome chill as his hat was lifted and carried away back down the alley. His hands clasped around his head, too late to grab what he was really aiming for, and he cried out needlessly, "My hat!"

Fin broke his stride and turned to see Munch walking quickly down the alley to catch the black hat, currently rolling jovially along on its rim, as if enjoying the sudden romp. Fin suppressed a laugh at his partner's expense and continued to walk towards the car. "I'm gonna go get the bag. I'll be right back."

Without turning, Munch gave a slight wave to acknowledge his partner's announcement, and continued to fixedly follow his headwear. When the hat rolled to a stop at the end of the alley, Munch had trotted over to find that the rim was now dirty, but that the hat had narrowly missed a gooey lump of something green before settling into the concrete. He bent to pick it up, thinking that maybe his good look today would continue to spill into his workday, when he noticed a pair of boots appear next to his hat. He raised his eyes to see who the owner of the boots was. Through the sunlight falling into his eyes, Munch was only able to discern a beard and cap of some sort before he was clubbed in the head for his troubles.

He was not aware what, exactly, had made contact with his skull, Munch was just able to register some seconds before passing out that it had hurt, badly. His knees went inexplicably limp, and his body jerked forward suddenly exhausted. Munch dropped onto the hard concrete sidewalk without a sound and was effortlessly dragged away.

Play the dramatic music, Johnny! Well, this is chapter two, hope you enjoyed it. I felt it was a but lackluster, but I'll make it up in Chapter 3.

As always, reviews are LOVE.

-Greens