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Night	By : kattanon Category: S through Z > The Shield Views: 1080 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Disclaimer: - I don�t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.

Night � Chapter 2

Claudette sat at her desk with a sigh and took a sip of her coffee. First things first she wanted to go through her mail. The amount of rubbish which ended up in her pigeonhole never failed to amaze her. She glanced over to her left and frowned slightly, then when she�d glanced down at her watch the frown deepened. It was 7:10 a.m. and her partner Dutch Wagenbach was 10 minutes late for work, and with the exception of his first day when he�d been a spectacular 2 hours late, Dutch was never late, in fact he usually arrived before her. She shook her head slightly irritated with herself for being such a worrier, after all Dutch was a grown man and perfectly able to look after himself. He had probably over-slept or had car problems, god who was she his mother or something. She returned her attention to her post. It all looked pretty routine until she spotted a padded envelope near to the bottom of the pile. Picking it up she saw "Detective Wyms" hand written on the outside. It carried no stamp or address so it must have been hand delivered, curious she ripped the top off and tipped the envelope�s contents out onto her desktop. What she saw made her heart falter. She gasped and suddenly the background chatter of the squad room seemed to disappear as her whole existence narrowed down to the piece of metal and single piece of paper on her desk. For a moment her head spun and she could feel the blood drain from her face. She knew what this was and she was terrified. Pushing the contents back into the envelope with a pencil so as not to contaminate any evidence she rushed to the stairs and for Acevada�s office, while dialing Dutch�s number on her mobile phone.

David Aceveda had just settled dow beg begin reviewing last months crime figures for the Farmington district when his door was flung open and a very harassed looking Claudette Wyms hurried in unannounced. In her hand she clutched a brown padded envelope the contents of which she tipped onto his desk,

"This was in my pigeonhole this morning, Dutch isn�t in, something�s wrong," She gasped.

Aceveda looked down at the contents of the envelope, a detective�s badge and a piece of paper that had the words "number six" written on it. Just as Claudette had known he to knew instantly what this meant, what it meant for Dutch, and for them. There wasn�t a policeman in the country who wouldn�t have recognised what this was, it was the calling card of The Stalker. His eyes met Claudette�s and he sucked in his breath sharply at the fear, pain and growing panic he saw there.

"I�ve tried calling him, but his mobile�s switched off and all I get is his machine at home. I need to get over to his place now," She stated firmly, not waiting for an answer she began to move quickly to the door of his office.

"Wait," he commanded "you need back up. Get Mackey and the Strike Team, I�ll put in a call to personnel and get Dutch�s home address."

"No need he lives at 1310 Hoover Street. I�m going now," with which she disappeared from view.

Pausing only to glance at the badge on his desk Aceveda quickly put a call through to the Westwood division to request some uniformed back up at Dutch�s house, and then through to the CSI squad to request a team to pick up the envelope and its contents from his office. Finally he put a call through to the chief knowing he had to be informed and to request that the FBI be brought in immediately. Finished with this he got up and went to his office window and looked down to the squad room below, down to two empty desks.

"God," he thought, "this is so bad and it�s only going to get worse."

Claudette was in her car driving towards Dutch�s house. She knew that the Strike Team were right behind her, as they had been since she�d burst into The Clubhouse and told them that she needed backup, that Dutch had been taken by The Stalker. They had paused for a moment in shock before bursting into action.

"Fuck," Shane muttered, reaching for his jacket.

"You got an address," asked Mackey. His eyes registering his own shock, but Claudette had been relieved to see his professional mask slipping into place.

"1310 Hoover Street," she told them already moving with them out into the carpark.

"Right," Mackey acknowledged, "you lead the way and we�ll be right behind."

Looking in her mirror she could see them there. Mackey could be a bastard but there were few people better that she�d rather have covering her back. Well there was only one she would have preferred, at this thought her hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and her mouth thinned into a grim line.

The journey to Dutch�s house seemed to have passed in a blur and suddenly Claudette found herself pulling up in front of his drive. A black and white from Westwood was already there and two uniformed officers came forward to greet her. As she movovwforward she could hear the Strike Team�s SUV pulling in behind her car with a screech of tires, the doors slamming as the Strike Team jumped out. Pausing she looked at the house in front of her, the front lawn and small hedge were neatly trimmed and the lemon and white paintwork on its walls was immaculate. She could see that the blinds at the front windows, both upstairs and downstairs, were still drawn. Everything looked neat and quiet and she had to suppress a shiver that ran up her spine. Mackey turned to her,

"How do you want to do this," he asked. Claudette was slightly surprised relirelived that he understood that this was her partner and so her operation.

"Two of your guys go around the back with a uniform and try to gain access that way, and the rest of us go in through the front door," she instructed him.

Nodding he sent Lem, Ronnie and one of the uniforms down the alley beside Dutch�s house. Letting Claudette lead the way he followed her to the front door with Shane and the other uniform, all of them drawing r wer weapons and trying to prepare themselves for what might await them in the house.

They took up position by the front door, her and Vic Mackey on one side while Shane and the uniform stood on the other. They paused for a minute to allow the others to get into position at the back of the house. That minute seemed to stretch out like an eternity for Claudette, her entire body seeming to quiver with tension, and her hand sweating onto the grip of her gun. She wanted to wipe her hand on her trouser leg, more than that she wanted to bmewhmewhere else. She wanted to be in the squad room listening to Dutch talking about profiling an unsub, about what tendencies were suggested by the evidence found at their latest crime scene. Not here about to find that her partner�s house, Dutch�s house, was about to be that crime scene.

"Don�t go there," she warned herself, focn thn the here and now, distractions led to mistakes and this was not a situation where you wanted to make any mistakes. Your life and that of your colleagues depended on everyone having cool, professional heads on their shoulders. Taking a deep breath she turned to Vic, who nodded and she reached out to the doorknob. To her surprise it turned easily and she noiselessly pushed the front door open.

They stepped inside, alert for any sound any movement from within the quiet, stiluse.use. Claudette had to resist the urge to shout out Dutch�s name, that little grain of panic that had taken seed in her chest since she had first seen the contents of that envelope had to be quickly suppressed. They stepped forward, their movements smooth and practiced, turning to the left they checked out the living room, but everything there was undisturbed and perfectly normal. A slight sound from the direction of the kitchen grabbed their attention and as one the four police officers swung their weapons towards the sound, their bodies tight with tension. Again as one they relaxed slightly when they saw it was only the other group who had gone to the back of the house. Evidently their entrance into the quiet house had been equally uneventful. Vic signaled to Lem and Ronnie to stay in the hallway covering their backs and to the two uniforms to go out and secure the perimeter. Then Claudette, Shane and Vic began to climb the stairs.

They froze as one when only a couple of steps up the stair creaked, to their ears it seemed deafening, but still nothing stirred. When it happened again they kept moving upward while keeping a wary look out for trouble. Finally at the top of the staircase they checked the landing was clear and took up position at the first door. Claudette pushed the door open to find an undisturbed, neat guestroom, turning to the door next to it she found herseookiooking into an equally undisturbed bathroom. Moving further down towards the front of the house they found a home office complete with desk, computer and book shelves filled with files and books on forensic psychology and FBI profiling techniques if the titles Claudette could see were anything to go by. Nothing here had been touched either by the looks of things, it was typically Dutch, everything neat and in its place, Claudette smiled sadly and turned to face the last door. Guns raised they moved forward and at a nod from Claudette entered the master bedroom.

It was so much worse than Claudette had imagined her gun lowered to point to the floor and she felt as though her heart had faltered in her chest.

"Shit," murmured Shane next to her.

Mackey seemed to recover first,

"Shane get downstairs and contact Aceveda, tell him what�s gone down here and get him to send the crime scene boys over here now. Tell him we need more uniforms to secure the scene and start house to house." He ordered.

"Yeah, sure boss," Shane replied before hurrying out of the room, glad to be getting away from the scene.

Vic moved slowly forward, careful not to disturb anything, stepping over a small bottle that had been discarded on the floor. He paused to look down at it but it was empty.

Claudette hadn�t moved, she wasn�t sure if she could. It was obvious that a struggle had taken place here. The bedside lamp was broken on the floor, a glass broken on the cabinet. Finally her feet moved her forward. There was something at the foot of the bed; Vic was looking down at it. He had frowned and leaned forward before wrinkling his nose and jerking back,

"Fuck," he exclaimed.

He turned to Claudette as she to looked down at the bed, there were black and white photographs strewn all over the foot of the double bed. They were all photos of Dutch. Pictures of him shopping, walking in a park, at a crime scene, leaving the station house at Farmington with her and they were both laughing. If that wasn�t disturbing enough there were other photos to. Photos of Dutch asleep in this very bed, working on his computer, watching the television downstairs, drinking a cup of coffee in his kitchen,

"Jesus," she murmured, looking upward, "the bastard�s got cameras planted in here."

"Yeah, and that�s not all he�s planted," Vic said, looking back at the photos.

When she looked back she notice the drying semen that had been ejaculated across the pictures. She felt her stomach roll and thought for a moment she was going to throw up. Looking away she saw the blood which was spattered across the crisp white sheets, and finally the bloody handprint on the pale lemon wall, she groaned and turned away, head bowed.

Concerned Vic moved to her side and gently touched her arm.

&quo"Jesus this is real isn�t it," she asked him. "We have to get him back, I have to get him back."

"We will," Vic reassured her. He looked into her pain filled eyes and promised her, "we�ll get him back and make this fucking bastard pay."

In the distance they could both hear the wail of approaching sirens.
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