An Innocent Man

Author's Note: This story takes place sometime between the 7th and 8th seasons of Diagnosis Murder, though there are no real spoilers for any episode. It does not take into account any of the events in the movies Town Without Pity or Without Warning. Namely, Carol is alive and well and Steve has not yet met Ellen Sharpe.

Author's Note2: This story has also been sitting on my hard drive for about five years now. The story should end up approximately 15 or so parts, of which 7 are written. I stumbled over it, and decided to post it to see if there was any interest. If there is, I'll finish it off, and post a section every few days.

Part One: A Cry In The Night

Swing shift was never boring. The thought crossed Cheryl's mind as she wound her way past two uniformed officers who were trying to deal with an angry disheveled woman. She was certain that she'd never seen the stringy-haired blonde before, but she knew the scenario well. No doubt the woman's significant other was being held, and despite the fact that he had taken a few swipes at her, she chose to harass the peace officers who were there to protect her instead of trying to get herself out of an abusive relationship. It was the sort of marital loyalty that made no rational sense to Cheryl. But then, she thought, rational sense didn't guarantee a successful marriage.

Determined not to allow her mind to go any further down that path, she quickened her pace and moved through the door that led to the Robbery/Homicide section of the precinct, effectively muffling the woman's irate arguments.

She was brought up short as she moved to pass the work area of her sometimes partner, Steve Sloan. Several files were spread haphazardly across the wooden surface, a metal desk lamp shining down on them - just as they had been when she'd gone out to interview a witness two hours earlier.

She glanced around the office, and, unsurprisingly, found his tall athletic form near the coffee maker pouring dark brew into a mug. As he turned away from the counter and caught sight of her, she looked pointedly down at her watch.

"What are you, coffee monitor?" Steve asked, moving past her on the way back to his work station. "I put my $5.00 in the can like everyone else."

Cheryl chuckled at his transparent effort to divert her from the real point of her gesture and moved on toward her desk, where she settled her things in a lower drawer. "The coffee wasn't the issue," she informed him before following him to his desk.

"Oh? Care to share?" Steve put his mug down and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her his full attention. The look he directed toward her was one he occasionally used to throw her off guard, it was full of puppy-dog eyed pleading which tended to end all arguments.

Most days Cheryl would have called him on it, and then done what he'd wanted of her anyway. But instead, she simply smiled back at him, appreciating the simple normalcy of their relationship. In that moment of observation, she noted the lines of tiredness around his mouth and eyes, saw beneath to the heart of gold. Steve was a good man, and a good friend.

She realized that she'd lingered too long in consideration when his smile faded and gentle concern rippled across his expression. "Everything okay?" he asked softly, seriously.

Cheryl looked away briefly to compose herself before favoring him with a sheepish smile. "Swing shift," she shrugged lamely as an excuse.

"If you want to talk …." Steve said, not letting her off the hook quite so easily.

"I know." She acknowledged his offer, but didn't pursue the conversation. She had already bent his ear once during a weak moment while on stake out. She hadn't given him all of the details, only the bare minimum to explain her attitude of late. He hadn't offered advice or judged, but simply listened and supported. Though she appreciated those few minutes, she had no intention of going there again.

"How did the getaway go?" he asked, speaking of the three day couple's camp she and her husband were to have attended over the past few days.

"It didn't go so well," she admitted.

"I'm sorry."

She offered a wry half-smile. "Me, too." She then cleared her throat, effectively changing the subject. "So, what's the story with your desk?" She gestured behind him.

"My desk?" Steve looked over his shoulder toward the files and still running computer.

"Yes. Why not clear it up and go home? Unless my memory fails me, your shift ended about three hours ago."

"Would you believe I'm here for the coffee?"

"No." Cheryl crossed her arms.

Steve shrugged. "I've just got a couple more things I want to look into. You know how it is."

"What are you working on?" she asked, moving in closer to take a look at the files. The numbers across the top were very familiar. She shot a look back up toward him, a suspicion growing in the back of her mind. "I thought we ran out of leads on this one. And I know for a fact that you have enough other cases on your plate to keep you plenty busy."

"Believe me, I do." Steve agreed with her. "But I've been giving it a couple hours here and there."

"You mean you've been working late every night and probably coming in early to work on it." Cheryl corrected.

"I'm a homicide detective," Steve replied. "It's my job to solve murders."

Cheryl couldn't argue that, and wasn't going to try. "That doesn't mean that you should do it at the risk of your own physical well-being."

"What are you saying?" Steve asked. "Do you think I'm running myself into the ground over this case? I'm not, you know. I just want to help three families find some closure over the loss of their loved ones."

"That's noble, Steve. I'm not telling you not to try, just to go home, get some sleep and start on it again tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Friday," Steve said quietly.

"Friday? What does that have . . . ." She broke off, remembering something from earlier on in the case. Now they were getting to the crux of the matter. "He's still calling?" she asked, remembering Devlin Brody, the father of one of the victims. More details of the case came back.

Antonia Brody, thought by Steve to be the third victim of a single killer, had been studying nursing at night at St. Augustine's College before her death. She had been survived by a father and a brother. During Steve's interview of them, she had noticed his subtle reaction when father and son, in their grief, spoke of what Antonia had been like. After having been estranged for a time, she had returned and planned to make her life over.

Cheryl had learned part of the story of Steve's own strained relationship with his sister, and even she had to admit that Devlin Brody reminded her very much of Mark Sloan.

"Like clockwork," Steve replied in answer to her question. "He only asked the simple questions, like how am I progressing on the case? Have I found the man who killed his daughter? You know - easy stuff."

"You can't beat yourself up over this, Steve," she said gently. "Sometimes the clues just go away. You can only do the best that you can and then let cold cases have it."

"Yeah, and they'll get around to it in what? Ten years? And then they'll probably look at them all separately. I've got to do what I can, while I can."

"You're preaching to the choir, partner. Cold Cases is grossly understaffed. But you can't take that burden on yourself."

She thought momentarily to tell him that he could let the man leave a message, but thought better of it. Steve wouldn't do that. Mr. Brody was a good man who was simply devastated by the loss of his daughter. Dealing with surviving family members was always the most difficult part of working homicide.

Steve simply shook his head, looking off into the distance. After several moments he turned toward her, his expression changed. "Actually, it's pretty thin, but I may have found a link between the women aside from the place where their bodies were dumped."

"Really?" Cheryl was surprised. "And you're just now mentioning it?"

Steve chuckled, and put up his hands up in surrender. "I said it was pretty thin -- a real long shot. I was --" The ringing of his phone cut him off mid sentence. "Hold that thought," he told her, then moved around the desk to pick up the receiver.

"Detective Sloan. . . Yes, I did. Lauren Hudson, Jenine McFadden and Antonia Brody, yes. Are you sure? That's strange. When? What's the name? Did you give an address? Give it to me. Thanks, you've been very helpful. I'll be in touch. Goodbye." Steve finished scribbling something on a slip of paper and dropped the phone back into its cradle.

"Busy?" He shot the question in her direction. "Wanna ride back-up?"

"Are you kidding?" It was her lunch hour anyway. "Lead on, McDuff."

~*~*

Full night had fallen when Steve pulled out of the precinct parking lot on to Burbank Blvd. Road construction added unneeded character to the Thursday night traffic crawl. But even that mild irritation couldn't dampen the anticipation that was growing within him. After weeks of dead-ends, and no-ends, he might finally be getting somewhere. Maybe the next time he talked to Mr. Brody, he could tell him that there would be justice for his daughter after all.

"So, mind telling me where we're going?" Cheryl asked from the passenger seat. They had gone through every bit of background information that they could find when they had been working the case together. He was sure that she was thinking there wasn't much more that could be done.

Steve's look turned sheepish. "It was more sheer desperation than anything else. I entered modified versions of all their names into an Internet search engine. That got me about 50,000 hits - per spelling. When I finally got around to doing them all with the letter 'i', you know, Jenni with an 'i", Lauri with an "i" and Toni with an 'i', the very first link came up something."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope." Steve's grin broadened. It felt good to have a lead in the case, and it was especially nice to be able to talk to someone about it. The St. Augustine case wasn't one that he had taken home, nor intended to. It wasn't so much that Antonia Brody made him think of Carol. It was that her father, Devlin Brody, made him think of his own dad.

"So, how do names spelled with "i" relate to the murders?" Cheryl wanted to know.

"Well, that link lead to a webpage with a calendar that had been commissioned a year ago by a club up near San Francisco. I was waiting for the club's web master to get back in touch with me. He didn't remember all twelve of the girls in particular, but he remembers someone calling earlier today asking about Lauren Hudson, Jenine McFadden and Antonia Brody specifically. This person also asked about the photographer."

"The photographer?" Cheryl asked. "Any idea why?"

Steve shook his head. "No. But I think a chat with him is in order, don't you?"

Fifteen minutes later, Steve brought the dark blue police sedan to a stop outside of the address that the web master had given him. Peering through the windshield he looked up at the heavy brick structure. It was situated on a street containing similar buildings, all of which had been abandoned decades prior. In a recent stint of renovation, some had been transformed into lower cost working lofts for the city's many "starving" artists. The building belonging to the photographer did not look as if it had yet received the benefit of the renovators.

"Is this what they call atmosphere?" Cheryl quipped as they climbed out of the car and walked toward a heavy metal door emblazoned with the words 'Josh Brine Studio - Exceptional Photography for Exceptional People'.

Steve chuckled, and raised a hand to knock. The door moved slightly inward. The chuckle dropped away as he shot a meaningful look toward his partner. He knew that the same thoughts that were going through his mind were going through hers. If they entered this building, any evidence that they might find against Josh Brine would be inadmissible. An unlocked door did not constitute consent to have the premises searched. Yet, they were tempted. Some indefinable instinct told him that something was wrong.

Moving a hand closer to his weapon, he looked around the area. The street was quiet, no cars passing, no dogs barking. There wasn't even a breeze disrupting the branches of the trees in the distance, or the tall grasses in the field beside the warehouse. Everything was eerily still, almost as if for that moment, the world was holding its breath. Waiting. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

A soft, barely audible thud punctured the quiet. It was enough to send both their instincts to high alert. Their weapons were up and ready, and they had taken up defensive positions on opposite sides of the door. But still they waited. A bump in the night was not a good enough reason to enter uninvited, either. Now, a nice piercing scream, that would be reason enough.

Steve got his wish.

He physically jerked when it sounded, and stared at the door in confusion. Something was wrong with the direction of the sound.

"It came from the woods over there," Cheryl said, already turning in that direction.

Quickly refocusing, Steve set off after her as they moved as quietly as they could through the tall grasses.

(to be continued)