A/N: the timeline is wherever you desire during Casey's years as ADA, after the attack in her office: Fin and Casey have known each other for awhile, but I've kept Casey's hair red. Munch & Fin are partners. You read the pairing right, but be aware that they move slo-o-o-wwwly, because that's how I think it would be between these two fascinating people.

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"Is that all?" Munch leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, head cocked to the side to indicate that he didn't, at all, believe that that was all. The suspected perp across from him unfolded from his duplicate pose to incline into the table between them. Oddly light blue eyes glinted back at the detective.

"For now," the man drawled while a grin creased his lean cheeks. He hiked his eyebrows suggestively. "But I'm pretty sure my memory could be jogged by that long-legged red-headed cuteness I passed on my way in here." Strangely, a hint of genuine interest gleamed through his sarcasm; the first hint of anything genuine they'd seem out of the man all day.

From the other side of the room's two-way mirror, Fin arched one brow. Cuteness? He didn't glance at the red-headed woman beside him, but from the corner of his eye he saw Casey's lips thin in exasperation. Fin knew exactly what the ADA was feeling. James Kirnel was the suspect in a string of three especially violent rapes, the latest having culminating in murder. Playing the part of a witness, he'd been slowly doling out tidbits of information over the course of the afternoon, but only what he knew the cops already had. He was game-playing; not well, but it had gotten annoying long ago.

They were sure this guy was the doer, and Fin had thought himself past patience. It'd been a long week, most of it spent chasing this guy. It had been an especially long day, pretending to intend to use him as a material witness in order to catch up with him, haul him here from two hours away upstate, and then question him. All this been straight-up, old-fashioned police work, about as old-fashioned as it came; since there was hardly any physical evidence, the theory of the crime had been made entirely from descriptions and timing and opportunity. Despite their certainty that Kirnel was the guy, Fin and Munch needed a confession to make this stick. That was why the ADA was in here.

Fin, on the other hand, was in here because Kirnel had refused to talk if the black detective was at the table, and he and Munch had decided to hold off on using the race angle. The man had plenty of other issues that could be played. Four hours was long enough, though, and by the time the paperwork on this was done, it was going to be near midnight. Fin had thought he was beyond the point of being interested enough to play the game any more. But now . . .

"That's weird," he said, and beside him Novak nodded in agreement. He observed her from the corner of his eye for a moment more. Her fall of red hair glinted dully in the fluorescents overhead; the lines of her cheek and jaw were fine, and without ever having touched it he knew her skin would be soft. Her jacket and skirt were some rusty red color that suited the time of year, and her body was slender with enough curve to be appealing. Long-legged … yeah, the legs were nice. Kirnel had something there. Casey was attractive, certainly. But 'cute'? It just wasn't the word he'd have picked to describe the unit's striking, stylish, focused, demanding ADA.

She was definitely appealing, though. He found himself tilting his head at the thought. He sure couldn't fault their suspect's taste.

Fin stood listening to Munch cajole Kirnel for anything more, clues as to where he'd buried the last, missing – presumed dead due to the amount of blood found at the crime scene – victim. But his partner wasn't getting anywhere, probably blocked in part by his own frustration.

"We've been at this too long," Novak said from beside him, abruptly. "Let's try giving him what he wants." She turned to pass him on her way to the door. Fin nodded.

"For a few minutes," he said as she put her hand on the knob. "And then we'll try giving him what he doesn't want. I'm sick of this nice-guy shit."

Novak smiled at him grimly before exiting.

Fin watched her entrance to the interrogation room only peripherally; his eyes were on the suspect. He got the impression that the man would have perked his ears up, if he'd been able; every cell in the perv's body seemed to flip from lazy smugness to wired alertness in an instant. He practically vibrated.

Yeah, now that was interesting, because Novak definitely didn't fit the type of person they'd seen that Kirnel chose to victimize.

Novak sat down at the table's empty chair, the one that would have been Fin's, without speaking. Picking up his cue, Munch extended a debonair hand.

"James Kirnel," he murmured dryly, "meet our esteemed ADA Ms. Novak. She's been awaiting, patiently, your description of where the remains of Elias Zwinsky are."

"If my being here will boost your memory in any way, Mr. Kirnel," Casey said politely, "I'm at your service."

At your service. A leading phrase if there ever was one. So Novak wasn't going to play this subtle. Good. Fin was tired of subtle.

Kirnel moved further in over his bent elbow, a thrilled grin on his wide lips. His thin face was more animated than it had been in hours. Fin's own lip curled in aversion. Such puppy-dog attentiveness sat oddly on the rapist's craggy, handsome face. "At my service is just where I'd love to have you," he replied predictably, his southern drawl amplified from what it had been five minutes before. "I bet you're good at servicing, aren't you, honey?" Somehow he pulled off this vulgarity with an abashed, yes-I'm-bad-but-I'm-cute air that might just have worked on the average woman off the street.

Casey, Fin had reason to know, was not the average woman off the street. But she played her part well, letting a half-second of amusement show through before clamping it down with sternness. Nice. Kirnel tilted his head smugly, the dumbass, thinking he'd titillated her, and he was opening his mouth again when Munch forestalled him.

"She's here," he said with snide expansiveness, "I'm here, you're here, we're all waiting for this troublesome memory of yours to kick in. Where did you 'see' the body?"

"Well, where was I?" Kirnel hitched backward a little with an expression of mock studiousness. Fin saw him sneak a look at Novak to see if she noticed his cleverness. She rewarded him with a slight quirk of one lip. That seemed enough to encourage him.

"You were rather drunk, but not so much that you didn't notice the strangeness of the bag someone carried out of a nearby back door that opened into the alley." She folded her hands calmly before her on the table.

" 'Rather drunk'." Kirnel grinned again. Fin gritted his teeth. "That's not quite how I remember describing it, ma'am, but I respect you cleaning up my language. It's kind of nice to have a genuine lady in here, isn't it, Detective?"

"Oh yes, Ms. Novak. You're a breath of fresh air." Munch squinted at Kirnel, and asked outright what Fin had wondered. "Forgive the personal question, Mr. Kirnel" – oh, dry, no one did sardonic like John Munch – "but I'd gotten the ... impression ... that you preferred males. Ah, rather young males." The rape victims had all been boys in their early teens.

That was treading close to not playing the game, and Kirnel's eyes narrowed for a moment. Rage and anger broke through for a moment, before he covered it with a thin smile. "I have no idea how I could have conveyed such an impression."

"Right." Munch glanced sideways at Novak, then back at Kirnel. "Moving on. The body?" He accompanied the question with a finger drummed pointedly on the table.

His gaze on Novak most of the time, Kirnel finally did tell the story he'd come in here prepared to eventually tell. He'd followed a man of uncertain height, weight, clothing, and ethnicity who was carrying a long, heavy duffel bag of uncertain color. He'd seen him dump it in the trunk of a car of uncertain tags, age, make, color, and type.

"You can't even tell us if it was a sedan or an SUV?" Munch's dryness was reaching that of the dirt in the pot of the one lone plant Fin had ever tried to grow. More arid than the Sahara, in other words.

Kirnel shook his head sorrowfully. "I can't. The alcohol, you know." He gazed earnestly at Novak; the façade was gone for a moment. "I have a problem." The words were quiet and shame-tinted. Fin cocked his head.

Novak nodded back, gravely. "It really must be a problem, if you couldn't tell the color of a vehicle that you saw in broad daylight under circumstances that made you suspicious."

"Well ..." Kirnel stared pensively at the opposite wall, a deliberately over-the-top portrayal of Lost in Thought. Novak and Munch played the game, sitting still and portraying Waiting Patiently. "It was a ... a dark color, I think." He cut a glance at Novak. "Perhaps ... blue?" he furrowed his brow. "No. Green. Yes, dark green!" He'd leaned even further forward, and aimed his triumphant smile into Novak's face. Novak raised her eyebrows anticipatorily, while Munch ostentatiously wrote down the 'fact'.

"Let's work on numbers now," the detective said to Kirnel, as though to a five-year old. "Doors. How many doors were there?"

Back to the pensive, struggling-to-recall production. Finally coming up with the astounding number of four for the quantity doors that the fictitious car could claim, Kirnel sank back into his chair with a sigh, as though he'd just completed the SAT.

"I could really use something to drink," he said in what he obviously believed was his suave voice. Novak didn't even glance at the three half-empty soda cans littering his side of the table. She just nodded, stepped outside to send someone for another soda, and came back in again.

They began again with the story, but didn't get anywhere. Could Kirnel remember any details at all about the man with the duffel? Sorrowful head-shaking. What about the duffel itself? More sorrowful head-shaking. Had he been able to recall the approximate location of the bar he'd been in? Kirnel shook his head again, even more grief-laden. They'd reached such a point of absurdity that an operatic aria wouldn't have seemed out of place in the room. Fin wanted to pound his head on the glass.

"I think," Munch suddenly shoved his chair back and stood, "I'm done here." His abruptness was startling after all the layers of cracked congeniality that they'd been wading through. His height was intimidating, too; Fin could tell from how Kirnel leaned away from the detective. Good. This was the first time he'd been on edge since Novak had gone into the room. That had been a mistake, adding her to the mix.

More than ready to switch tactics, Fin entered through the door as soon as his partner –eyes rolling - exited. Kirnel had obviously thought he was going to get some time alone with Novak; his soda had never arrived and he was leaning in requesting it again. When he caught sight of Fin, though, his head reared back on his neck and he scraped his chair backwards, tripping over its legs in his hurry to get out of it.

"Not you!" he practically screeched. "I told you I wouldn't give my statement to you!"

Casey had risen, too, an alert expression on her face.

"I know you did," Fin growled, letting his impatience and disgust grate clearly in his voice, "but I'm not here to take your statement. I'm here to arrest you."

Kirnel's eyes narrowed. "You can't arrest me," he said with certainty, all his former mock pliability gone. "You've got no evidence."

"Not for the rapes and murder," Fin snapped back as he pulled out his handcuffs. "For all the time you've wasted in here this afternoon." He moved toward the other man, who scooted back into a corner.

"That's not even a crime!" Kirnel barked, appealing to Novak. "Ma'am, he can't arrest me for time-wasting!"

Fin noted that although he'd momentarily dropped his façade, he was still calling her 'ma'am'.

Casey crossed her arms, cooler than ice. "Sure he can. It's called obstruction of a police investigation. Deliberately providing misleading information. Giving false witness ... ever read the Old Testament, Mr. Kirnel?"

Kirnel was staring at her, blinking, all expression arrested.

"N-no ..." it was the first time he didn't have a ready answer, just tripping off his tongue. Fin pressed.

"You've been spinning a story that you know none of us believe since you got here. I'm tired of pretending. You did it. We know you did it. You know we know you did it." He grabbed Kirnel's arm to spin him around; the man resisted. Fin wondered why Munch hadn't popped back in here to help him wrestle the cuffs on.

When he ran through Miranda, Kirnel, still struggling against the cuffs, shook his head. "I don't need a lawyer. I've got nothing to hide because I didn't do it, no matter what you think you know!"

"Not just me; ADA Novak knows you did it, too. Don't you?" he threw over his shoulder at her. She moved immediately to stand behind him.

"Yes," she affirmed. "I do."

Kirnel froze. Fin finally got the cuffs on and finished the Miranda-izing before he took in the guy's face. It held shock, which slowly suffused into confused hurt. Defused, he let himself be led back to the chair at the table without an objection to Fin's touching him.

Huh. The psycho actually felt Novak had betrayed him by quitting the little game they'd been playing.

"I – I don't understand-"

"You don't have to understand," Fin cut him off. "Just know that by this time tomorrow, we'll have lab results back that prove you raped and murdered Elias Zwinsky."

"I – I – what?" Kirnel's eyes had been on Novak across from him, but he managed to swivel his head toward Fin now. "No. No, there's no evidence. You're lying."

"There's evidence," Fin snapped back. "You just missed it, with all that carefulness. And it's going to put you behind bars."

"No! There's nothing! You're lying! Ma'am," he appealed, suddenly soft, "why are you lying to me?"

"There is evidence," she returned. "Strong evidence. You don't stand a chance."

Again, there was that cut look on Kirnel's face. More, Fin silently encouraged. Much as being pressured by a black man disturbed this creep, it was Novak's 'betrayal' that was really getting to him.

Novak leaned in, as though she'd heard Fin's silent admonition. She let a disgusted curl animate her lips. "Men like you give off an odor," she breathed harshly. Fin didn't think she was acting anymore. She was just taking the cap off her emotions. "We can smell the guilt on you. The perversion. The ugliness. How could you believe it possible that we wouldn't get you?" she'd moved in closer and closer, her voice dropping lower with every inch. "We do have you. You're trapped."

Kirnel was staring, riveted, caught indeed by her words and voice. Gotcha, Fin thought, and went in for the kill. "Tomorrow," he laughed, in deliberate sharp contrast to Novak's cruel softness. "You'll be discussing strategy with your defense lawyer. From behind bars, where you'll be on the basis of our evidence."

"NO!" Kirnel's eyes squeezed tightly closed. "There's no evidence! I know you've got nothing! I was careful!"

And there it was. Finally.

"You were careful?" Fin mocked. "Cutting into him that many times, leaving all that blood, you were careful!"

"Yes!" Kirnel's eyes blazed open, and there was so much anger in him that although he had to know what he was doing, he didn't seem to care. His words were like grit. "I covered every inch of skin, hair and nail. I sanitized and sterilized. I left nothing but blood, and I left that on purpose. You are a liar."

It was done. Fin let his shoulders relax with a sigh.

"Yeah," he agreed evenly, "I'm a liar. And you're under arrest for the rape and murder of Elias Zwinsky."

Miranda-ized for the second time in ten minutes, Kirnel was led off by Munch, who had appeared in the doorway with a soda can evidently intended for the prisoner. Pushing the prisoner ahead of him down the hall, he shrugged back at his partner's expression of exasperation. Left behind in the interrogation room, Fin shook his head bemusedly. He met Casey's gaze.

"That was weird," he said. "The way he reacted to you ... not something I expected from a guy who likes young boys."

She shook her head, too, as she rose. "From what he did to them, I'm not so sure 'likes' is an appropriate description. He's obviously deeply psychotic. I'll have Huang give him a 730, just in case."

"Well, anyway, well played." Fin nodded to his impromptu interrogation partner. She responded with that elegant smile of hers. Smiling was something she did well, Fin noted.

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"He sees the boys as himself," Dr. Huang explained to Casey later in the week. "He feels he needs punishment, and has a high degree of inner self-loathing that he's turned outward onto them. That's why the violence of his actions is so severe. He also needs to prop his fragile ego up … thus the game he played with the police. Re-enforces his clever self-image."

"What about his reaction to me?" Casey questioned.

"After we talked awhile, he mentioned an aunt with whom he lived for awhile as a child. She died when he was fifteen. But he's fixated on her. She was the only adult to provide him with security and routine. He trusted her, and says she's the only person who never let him down. He continues to have a deep-seated need to prove himself to her, and he seems to have sexualized her as well." Dr. Huang quirked a wry half-smile. "He specifically mentioned her pale skin and red hair."

Disturbed, Casey pursed her lips and frowned. She nodded her thanks to the psychiatrist and stared after him as he walked away. She wasn't seeing him, though; she was seeing Kirnel's odd, earnest blue eyes trained on hers.

TBC? Only if you want to read more ... let me know.