Detective Lionel Fusco has always understood he's a better follower than a leader.

Oh, not that he can't bark orders with the best of them…but in his universe he's much more comfortable letting someone else take point. So comfortable in fact, that as far as he's concerned he's reached the pinnacle of his career with no desire to move any higher. And besides, he's very aware that the political blade swings back and forth just above his pay grade, regularly slicing away some poor chump, to be replaced of course by another poor chump.

He'll stay where he's at - thank you very much - safely buried in the bullpen.

That personality quirk has always been there: he sat in a back seat of every class he ever attended, made sure all group photos showed him partially hidden by those in the front rows, and he never, ever, volunteered to lead a committee, start a project, or facilitate a discussion. And if he was assigned to such a position he would always find someone more ambitious to take over…at which point he simply provided support, something at which he is much better.

In his marching band of life, he is very comfortable playing the tuba in the back, behind the trumpets and trombones, and far removed from the over dressed baton tossing dude that generally leads the parade. The tuba is just fine. It requires some heft, which he has, and can produce some really loud notes…and nobody expects him to play the top-line.

Which is the point of course. Providing the melody is for leaders, not followers.

He reminisces about all this while driving into an area where he'd much prefer not be. But this is likely the sort of place this particular band is going to lead him more often than not, as long as the majordomo, or domos in this case, are the Dynamic Duo.

Just when he started to follow that peculiar pair is becoming increasingly fuzzy…but he does remember he held true to his creed originally and didn't volunteer to participate in their parade! In fact, in the beginning he put up a bit of a fuss - even tried to off the guy trying to blackmail him into marching to his beat.

But that proactive out of step behavior didn't sit well with him even then, and after a while it was easier, and a lot safer, just to give in and stay in the band block. After all, he may hit a sour note occasionally, but he's tuned up enough to understand that bucking Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deadly can be hazardous to his health.

"So what am I doing here, Professor?" Fusco asks, more than a little annoyed that he once again has been put in the position of a go-for.

Not exactly what he signed up for when he joined the force, but he supposes that's also the result of following rather than leading. At least he's go-foring for a higher class guy now than the HR scum who usually send him on errands! Glasses is someone he can admire, even if he doesn't understand him much. And the fact that the older, crippled male is able to control a killing machine like Reese...? That made the man downright scary, worthy of extra respect!

"Wonder Boy in trouble again?"

"Just drive Detective. I'll let you know where to turn." The answer came from the same phone that had rung not 20 minutes earlier, a number he always recognizes and doesn't dare ignore…doesn't want to ignore. "Are you on Waverly yet?"

"Coming up on it. I should get hazardous duty pay for this ya know. Not exactly the best part of town…"

"I need you behind that storage facility, Detective. There's an abandoned building just down the street," is the dispassionate response. "You'll find Mr. Reese in the alley between the structures…"

"Storage facility…Ok. There it is. And I guess you mean this crappy green building. But I don't see…wait… " Fusco replies, and then in a tone filled with disgust, "Oh, great! You expect me to go alone into that pit? If the thugs don't get me, the rats will!"

"Please hurry, Detective. Time is of the essence." And he detects a thread of urgency in that normally calm voice. "The police have already been notified of shots heard…"

"Wonderful. So what am I going to find? Your boy bleeding out…?"

He's already out of the car and approaching the entrance to the darken alley, slipping the ITE device in position. He's never going get used to that thing in his ear, jumping every time he hears someone talking to him. And how his nemesis puts up with the constant eavesdropping is beyond him…though he supposes military training has something to do with the easy acceptance of this lack of privacy.

"I sincerely hope not."

He hears the anxiety escalating in that remote voice and it automatically heightens his own level of concern. Just what happened here? What's he going to run into?

Gun drawn - since you never know what to expect from these dark holes – he enters the shadowy passageway. Just as bad as he'd feared. Garbage, trash, and from the amount of empty bottles and used needles strewn about, evidently home to more than just vermin of the four legged variety. Walking carefully along the wall, he moves toward a wider area formed by the end of one building and the start of another, more narrow one.

And comes to a full stop.

Two…no, three…bodies. Two males lying very still face down, and one on his back, emitting the pitiful moans to be expected from someone shot in the kneecap. The cop in him takes over as he dutifully checks the wounded scrub and the two bodies dropped like so much litter on the filthy alley ground.

He turns over the dead two, and what da ya know - these are mugs he's seen before: like on the roster for one of the more vicious east side gangs. He's pretty sure he's bagged these bozo's some time in the past, so no big loss there. Just two more low-lifes sieved from the shallow end of the gene pool.

And the third one won't be walking for a long time, if ever, since he doubts the thug is carrying any type of insurance that would provide for a total knee replacement.

"Detective! Do you see him?" Finch's voice is now beyond urgent and edging into panic. The geek definitely knows what's gone down here and is expecting the worse. Not good news.

"Still looking, Professor. Don't get your panties in a wad."

With that profound statement he moves deeper into the alley toward a better illuminated area where the weak winter sun spills over the lower roof part of the building. Even so, filtered as it is through several layers of clouds, the light doesn't completely penetrate the gloom. But after carefully scrutinizing the area he thinks he can see something: the shadow formed by the building cuts across a pair of human legs, the rest of the body they're attached to lost in the shade of the wall. And...

Aw, jeez..!

He doesn't have to get closer to recognize those long legs, the pricey shoes, or the expensive slacks. As he picks up his pace, a litany drums in his brain to the beat of his feet on the pavement: "Don't be dead…don't be dead…don't be dead…"