Sudden violence displayed in primitive, physical bludgeoning. No prior VT indicated through witness statements.

Physical symptoms evident several days before incident, as indicated through witness statements.

ME reports intercranial pressure, abnormal and massive swelling, damaged tissues. Terminal. Physical symptoms: headache, bleeding from nose and ears, sweating.

Halloway, Detective Kevin. EDD detective assigned to search and scan Cogburn unit. Check how many hours logged on subject unit.

Sudden violence displayed in deployment of police issue. Targets most specifically McNab and Feeney. Associate and direct superior.

Methods of violence suited to personality types? Consult Mira for profile verification.

No prior VT reported.

ME reports same results on prelim as Cogburn. Symptoms displayed match.

Death ensued without outside trauma or force.

Murder weapon=data unit.

It was murder, she thought. Technology was the instrument. But what was the motive?

"Dallas?"

"Huh?" She looked up, scooped her hair back, and stared blankly at Feeney until her mind cleared. "I figured you'd be at home by now."

"Rode over from the hospital with the boy."

His face had a few new sags, Eve noticed, and he looked exhausted. "Go home, Feeney. Give yourself a break."

"You're one to talk." He gestured toward her notes. "Just wanted to see McNab settled. It was a good thing you did, having him come here. He seems pretty chipper." He dropped into a chair. "Shit, Dallas. Shit. He's half-paralyzed."

"That's temporary. You know it can happen if you take a hit wrong."

"Yeah, yeah. Take it wrong enough, it's permanent. He's twenty-fucking-six years old. You know that?"

It curdled in her belly. "No. I guess I didn't."

"His parents are in Scotland. Spend most summers there. They were set to head back, but he talked them out of it. I think part of him's afraid to have them see him like this. Part of him's afraid he's not going to come all the way back."

"We let him think like that-wethink like that-we're not helping him."

"I know it. I keep seeing Halloway, the way he looked when he went down." He let out a deep breath. "I had to talk to his family, too. Didn't know what the hell to say to them. And the goddamn reporters, and my squad-my kids."

"Feeney. You've been through a bad one. It's different than when it happens in the field. You should talk to the department shrink." She winced at the look he shot her. "I know how that sounds coming from me, too. But, damn it, you were a hostage, you had a weapon jammed at your throat by one of your own men. You watched him die. If that hasn't screwed with your head, what would? So you should talk to the shrink or… Mira. If it were me, I'd go to Mira. She'd keep it off the record if you asked her."

"I don't want to open my head or spill my guts." His voice went tight, wrapped with bands of insult and temper. "I need to work."

"Okay." Recognizing the signs as she'd seen them often enough in her own mirror, she backed off. "We're going to have plenty. I'd as soon work from here for the time being, if it's okay with you. But the first order of business is to rig some sort of shield or filter on that unit. Nobody touches it until we have it shielded."

"From what? How are we supposed to design the right shield when we don't know what it's supposed to block?"

"That's a problem. I expect you and the expert consultant, civilian, you've already requested will figure out something."

He nearly smiled. "Thought that might burn you a little. But you know damn well he's the best."

"Then put him to work, and get me a shield." She got to her feet. It felt awkward, but it also felt right to cross over to his chair, crouch down until their eyes were level.

"Go home, Feeney. Have a beer, be with your wife. She's a cop's wife, but she's not going to feel easy till she sees you. And you're not going to feel steady until you see her. I need you on this. I need you steady."

There was a lot more said between them that didn't take words. "Kids today," he said at length, "think they know every damn thing."

His hand closed over hers, squeezed once. Then he got up, walked out. Went home.

She sat where he'd sat for a moment, laid her hands where his had laid. Then she got up, walked to her desk. Went back to work.

She brought up Cogburn's data, then Halloway's personal file. She was halfway through a search for any connections when her 'link beeped.

"Dallas."

"Got one you're going to want to see." Baxter's face filled most of the screen, but she could see the movements, hear the sounds of a crime scene behind him.

"I'm on a priority, Baxter. I can't take another case. Handle it."

"You're going to want this. Vic's a fifty-three-year-old male. First glance it looks like somebody got in, attacked him. But you look closer, he did all the damage in here himself. Including slitting his own throat."

"I don't have time for-"

"A lot of premortem bleeding. Ears and nose. And take a look at this."

He turned. She caught glimpses of a spacious room, thoroughly trashed. Then the desk unit that lay screen-up on the floor.

ABSOLUTE PURITY ACHIEVED

"Don't let anyone touch that unit. I'm on my way."

She was halfway out the door when she swore, strode back to the desk to hunt up a memo.

"Listen," she spoke into it as she crossed into Roarke's office. "I got tagged. Related death. I'll be back… when I get back. Sorry."

She tossed the memo on his console, then bolted.

Chadwick Fitzhugh had lived, and lived well, in a two-level condominium on the Upper East Side. His profession was, primarily, being the solitary male of the fourth-generation Fitzhughs, which meant he socialized smoothly, looked snappy in a dinner suit, played a mean game of polo, and could, if pressed, discuss stock options.

The family business was money, in all its many forms. And the Fitzhughs had plenty of it.

His hobbies were travel, fashion, gambling, and seducing young boys.

Baxter filled her in on the basic data while Eve studied the bloody mess that was now Chadwick Fitzhugh.

"Name popped on the data search. Known pedophile. Trolled the clubs, surfed the chat rooms," Baxter stated.

"He liked them between fourteen and sixteen. Pattern was to buy them alcohol, Zoner, whatever worked, lure them up here, with the promise of more. Then he'd pull out the toys. Into bondage. He'd do them, whether they were willing or not. Looks like he took vids if his homemade stash is any indication. Then he'd give them some cash, pat them on the head, and tell them if they squawked about it, they'd be in more trouble than he would."

Baxter looked down at the body. "Mostly they believed him."

"If we know this, have record of this, at least one of the kids squawked."

"Yeah, he got reported four times over the last two years." Baxter pulled out a pack of gum from the pocket of his on-duty suit, offered it. "In New York anyway," he continued while he and Eve chewed spearmint contemplatively. "Got charged. Family money and lots of high-dollar lawyers stepped in and made it all go away. Nothing stuck to this creep. World's a better place without him."

Eve grunted and fitting on microgoggles, examined the throat wound. It gaped like a wide, screaming mouth. "No visible hesitation marks."

"When you gotta go, you gotta go."

With a sealed finger, she turned Fitzhugh's head. His ear canal was thick with blood. "Surfed the chat rooms?"

"I got the statement here in the file from one of the complaints. That's how he roped this one kid anyway. Looked for young boys going through a sexual identity crisis, or those just playing around. Got a playpen upstairs. Room's done in black leather. You got your cuffs, your whips, your ball gags, butt plugs, and various mechanical devices. First-class vid setup."