"You *could* help me with this files..." his partner Jim Ellison had muttered a few moments ago and it took the grad student a while to respond.

"Yeah, I could. But then I have to do this " he gestured over the tomb and the papers scattered around him " tomorrow. And I thought you wanted to leave town for the weekend. I can't take this book with me - it's an antique ... expensive, you know, man. So anytime, with pleasure, but not today"

"But this paperwork is giving me a headache..." Ellison could barely keep the whine out of his voice.

"Which case?" The voice of long suffering belonged to Detective Michele - no-it's-not-Michael-and-what's-wrong-with-my-last-name Rafe who bent over his co-worker's desk to take a look at the forms.

"You can hand those and those to me - we worked on the Armand-theft together; That'll leave only this Stringer-file for you. Howzat?"

The barely recognisable south-african lilt in his friend's voice had never sounded more appealing to Ellison. Grateful and very carefully he handed over two of his paperstacks: "I guess I owe you; big time. Thanks."

"Yeah, well, a cracked rib is kinda ugly and you took some nasty blows during the Stringer-wrapup. So, don't sweat it. "

The younger man was already sifting through the papers while he walked back to his own desk and not for the first time Ellison had to ponder if he was ever *that* young and enthusiastic - even over paperwork. With a sigh he bent over the Stringer-file.

An hour later - and still not the right time to go home - Rafe's phone disturbed the unusual quiet of the bullpen and for some moments Ellison and Brown held their breaths - please; no new case - it's *so* close to weekend. Both exchanged a relieved grin, when they heard the soft quality in Rafe's voice as soon as he recognized the caller.

"Heyyy, good to hear from you. ...yeah... uhung, unhung ... no, no, I promised, remember? Okay, no problem; tomorrow morning, then... right. Yeah, me too." He hung up. And smiled. A very soft, fond smile. Even Sandburg looked up from his notes. Brown looked like he was going to ask a question, then shrugged, when Rafe resumed typing without volonteering an explanation. Ellison watched with his head cocked, then started to sign the papers in front of him. Half an hour later he got up, collected his partner and his coat, in this order and addressed the pair across the room

"So, what about we make it to Lucky, celebrate the weekend?" The Luck of the Irish was their favorite pub, but the name Hernan O'Callagheran too complicated to pronounce - especially after some pints of bitter, so the owner of this very special place favored by the cops had soon become "Lucky".

Brown beamed and took his coat. Rafe signed the last of his reports and grabbed his jacket.

"The first beer's on you, Ellison, remember, you owe me."

"I knew you'd say that! okay, then, let's leave."

They were nursing their second beer and sharing increasingly weird stories about car-chases and snitches, when Rafe suddenly glanced at his watch and downed the rest of his draft. "Sorry, guys, gotta go. Have an appointment tomorrow morning I don't wanna miss. It's been a great evening, take care everybody."

And with that, well dressed and unruffled, he exited the cosy pub before anybody had a chance to change his mind.

"She must be married", Brown mused.

"Who?" Blair's curiosity was barely disguised.

The goodnatured dark man grinned: "The lady who called an hour ago. She must be married. She always calls on short notice and he always manages to make time for her. Must be quite a lady. Too bad, this can't have a future."

"Well, who knows, maybe she's getting a divorce..." Sandburg was planning ahead as usual when Brown sighed and heaved himself off the bar-stool.

"Gotta - you know, take the beer out."

When the door of the men's room closed behind him, Ellison said

"That wasn't a lady..." "Aw, c'mon Jim, just because she's still married -and we don't know that for sure, either. In what time and age are you living..."

"No, you are jumping to conclusions again, Chief. The person that called, that wasn't a woman. It's been a man." The tall detective shrugged and blushed faintly - an awsome sight on a tough cop. "I thought it might be a case and listened in.

When I realised it was private, I dialed it down. I just heard the voice; I didn't get the whole conversation..."

" oh, I see --- well, then, maybe *he* is married."

"Sandburg, get your mind out of the gutter."

"Aw, c'mon man."

*****

Monday had them back at the crime-scene of a brutally slaughtered man. The victim was found early in the morning by a jogger in one of the parks of Cascade, next to one of the many fountains. He was dressed in jeans and a simple flannel button-down shirt that had once been blue but now was stained with blood beyond recognition and torn from more than a dozen cuts of a big knife. Rafe was already there, bent over the mutilated dead body, when Sandburg and Ellison arrived. The student saw the blood, the gaping wounds, all color left his face and he looked away.

Rafe stood up, took one look at Blair and discarded his bloodied plastic gloves: "We still have no identification, but my guess is, the guy was in the army. At least during the Crosing-attack. He is marked that way..."

Ellison didn't know what surprised him more: That this young, innocent-looking rookie knew about the Crosing-attack, one of the more hideous military *explorations* that had taken place even before Jim's own time in the army, one that was another terrible failure, or that he knew about the tattoos that some special-ops-guys got themselves after surviving this episode. He had seen only one soldier, who had made it back home again after Crosing, had seen the guy suffering from various illnesses, always one after the other, 'till he was transferred to a special clinic that treated diseases inflicted by socalled unfriendly environment. It was common knowledge in the army that the cynical depiction meant nerve-gas or abc-weapons.

But Rafe was right: The dead man had a tattoo in the palm of his hand. Three points and a cross - for the time spent there, three agonizing weeks, and the many lives lost.

"They are already checking military files. We should come up with an identification, soon. If they want us to identify him."

"What do you mean?" Was he really that long out of the army, Ellison mused, while asking the question nevertheless.

"Well, could be, he knew details on special operations - then they'll cover his ID. And we don't even know if he lived in Cascade."

Ellison cocked his head and seemed to sniff the air. All of a sudden his shadow, Sandburg, was standing behind him, mumbling something. long seconds later, the older detective moved gracefully, went to the bushes and carefully picked up an item using one of the small evidence-baggies.

"He is no resident. He used very cheap liquid soap and he smoked. My take, those are his matches. Heyn's Motel. That's the one on Southern Street, isn't it?"

"Man, did you actually *see* those?" Rafe looked more than just puzzled.

"Oh, hey, man, " Sandburg started to talk with his arms, hair, whole body "That's my healthy cooking, you know - lots of carrots..."

Then the two men were gone, to investigate the Motel, while Rafeonce again bent down next to the dead body, while flashlights hissed and the MT's packed away there things. Wrapup-time. It had taken only little more than an hour to examine the corpse and collect all the evidence that was left. And a couple of hours ago this man had been alive and breathing and probably very ill and hurting but alive and then somebody had decided that this life had to end. Rafe shook himself out of his reverie and combed his hair out of his face. That was one of the reasons he had joined the police-force. To stop criminals who thought they could make those decisions. Nowadays it sometimes seemed to him he was using a teaspoon to shovel away the debris of a whole city. He sighed. It was a common cop's syndrome. He turned around and was a little bit startled when Brown addressed him:

"How do you do it, Rafe: No matter how filthy the crime-scene is, no matter how deep you are into the undergrowth, you always look like you are just coming out of your dressing room. And now just look at me" The wide gesture of his partner encompassed his rumpled slacks, the muddy shoes and the various stains on his shirt.

"And I really watched my steps this time!"

Rafe cast one last glance at the wasted body that was now efficiently packed away in a body-bag and shrugged: "Well, Brown, it's the story of your life. You are partnered with a reborn cat. And you know what they say about cats?"

"They are finicky?"

"That too; And they always catch their prey. Gotta check something. Wanna come with me?" Somehow the ever present smile on the handsome face had vanished and the bright blue eyes looked uncharacteristically somber.

"Can't let you go alone, Rafe! That's what partners are for, eh? Any chance I might get any dirtier?" He slapped the smaller man on the back and extended the gesture into a one-arm-hug.

They grinned at each other and got into their cars.

'Where is he going?' Brown was following the black Jeep of his partner as it left the town and turned to the outskirts. When the suburban houses petered away Rafe's jeep took a sharp turn to the right into a small road that seemed to lead into a small forest. The car stopped in front of an iron gate that was equipped with a camera and a phone. Brown got out of his truck and stepped into the one puddle left from an early morning shower. Cursing, he shook the water out of his left shoe.

"So what's this - except wet?"

"This is a hospice. " When Brown only frowned, Rafe elaborated "A hostel. Where people come to be treated when they are suffering lethal diseases. There are some army-fellas here I happen to know. And our victim seemed to be ex-army. So maybe my friends can help us."

"You mean, they are dying? And they know it?"

"Well, yes. Don't look so shocked. Once they acknowledge their fate, they find an inner peace I sometimes envy. Just remember: Don't waste their time with pity..." With that the younger man turned to the phone and pressed a button. The camera zipped into life and whirred. Seconds later the gate opened and with a last wave to the eye of the camera he started to walk down the road into the small forrest. Reluctantly Brown followed him.

The large house they found in the middle of a clearing did not look like a hospital. It was painted brightly blue with darker blue window-shutters. There were flowers in front of the windows and rosebushes on the lawn. They heard the thunk-thunk of a tennisgame from somewhere behind the house and two men were playing boccia on a sandy track.

Rafe beamed and waved :" Hey, Gifford! Howya doin'?"

One of the players, a tall guy in grey sweats and a darkblue sweater, maybe fifty years old, looked up, and brushed his sleeved arm across his sweaty forehead. When the Cops came closer, the tall guy growled:

"Since when am I Gifford to you? Or do ya wanna hear your *real* name yelled over the whole nine yards, fella?" Gifford let himself be carefully hugged, then extended a hand to Brown: "I'm Hunter; Don't pay attention to whatever *Michele* says." His handshake was firm and Brown took an instant liking in the tall fairhaired guy who had obviously lost much weight over a short period of time.

"So Rafe; It's not your day. I take it, you are here on business; police-business", he elaborated to his co-player, a pale-looking small man in his late fifties.

"Should I get lost?" Even the voice was small and weak. Rafe smiled with a warmth Brown seldom saw and pointed towards a bank next to one of the rosebushes:

"It won't take long, Mr. Granter. Why don't you wait over there?"

When the smaller man had left them, Rafe turned to Gifford again.

"I think I need your help. You still in touch with your army-buddies?" "'Course. We're scattered all over America, but there aren't that many hospices. And most of us are already very ill. I mean, you should have seen me two hours ago - boy, that was not nice."

"We found a guy with your tattoo."

"Ain't possible, I'm still wearing mine." Hunter grinned and turned the palm of his left hand upside: Three points and a cross. Then he sobered. "Who was it?"

"We still don't know". Rafe described the victim, his habit of smoking and the matches of the motel Ellison had found near the dead body.

Hunter nodded, then looked up sharply. "You're painting the picture of Johnny Velas. He's about my age but he lived in Cascade for the last six months. His daughter is a teacher - sorry, was a teacher around here somewhere. She died a month ago. She was born with the same ... problems that we are suffering from. What a waste; she was but twenty. A week ago he payed a visit and told me he had found out something about this disease that's eating us alive. He said that someone would pay for the death of his daughter. Seems that he was the one to pay the price."

"So it could be the killer ...." Brown muttered and Rafe yanked out his cell-phone.

"Sandburg at Ellison's phone"

"It's the killer that lives in that Motel-room! Warn Ellison!"

"He just got out of the car and instructed me to ... wait here" "... wait here. I know. But he'll have to deal with a killer, not a victim!"

"Jim ... stop..."

"Sandburg, he won't hear you, if you don't raise your voice..."

"No, it's ok, Rafe, Jim's already coming back."

A minute later while Rafe explained his results to Ellison some small part of his subconscious pondered the fact, that it had taken Ellison almost forty seconds to get to answer the phone. So either he was just unwilling to talk to him or he really had been that far away - but then - how was he able to hear Sandburg talking?

"Well, Rafe, " Ellison finally answered "this motel is a bit like Bates hotel. Straight out of a Hitchcock-movie. Only one room rented. And there's still one person in there."

"We can be there in twenty minutes. Wanna wait for backup this time?"

"There's a car coming - thank God, they can't see us. Three more men; At least two of them are wearing handguns under their jackets."

Again Rafe wondered how Ellison could be so sure about that, but instead he hurried to say: "Listen, you're heavily outnumbered. Don't endanger Sandburg - remember the paperwork. We're there in twenty." And started to run towards the gate, Brown closely at his heels.

"Hey, Rafe, don'T forget, next Saturday is Sil's birthday!"

"Yeah, see ya then!"

'So it's not a married woman - in fact, doesn't seem to be a woman at all. Aw, Sandburg's gonna be so disappointed...' Brown thought while he sped his truck to catch up with the black jeep racing in front of him.

"They're still inside." Ellison wore his baseballcap the wrong way round and had slipped into his teflon-vest. Sandburg ws sitting in his partner's truck, uncomfortably writhing in a vest and answering questions on the phone.

"Simon tries to get us more backup, but they are wrapping up their talking in there. The killer had handed over some computer-discs five minutes ago and the three guys seem to have payed him."

"Thank God they didn't see you while you were spying on them" Brown pulled on his vest while risking a glimps around the corner of one of the motel-bungalows. Rafe watched intently as Ellison cringed and sighed. From their vantage-point they could only see two empty bungalows parted by a small piece of grass and behind that the backside of the flat building that currently hosted a killer and his orderers.

Then Rafe stopped pondering about the incredible Ellison-luck and fastened his vest. He tucked his hair under his baseball-cap, not for the first time wondering if this habit of wearing a cap during heavy action was kind of mimicking wearing an army-cap.

Then Ellison turned one last time to Sandburg "You stay here" and they took off. Moving with the grace of predators hunting for prey they crossed the distance to the hotel-bungalow where the four men were still debating. While Ellison hid behind the left building, Rafe and Brown took shelter behind the right structure. They readied their guns. Ellison held up three fingers, then two, then one and Rafe started to sprint. He heard Ellison right behind him. In front of him the door opened and four men exited. Before he could do or say anything, two of the suspects had drawn their guns and fired. Rafe leapt to the right, rolled, felt the pain, aimed and shot. At his left he heard Ellison shout:

"Freeze, police" but that seemed only to inspire the perps. Rafe aimed again, shot and one of the gunmen fell down. Brwon was shooting, too, now, but didn't seem to hit anything except the house. Then two sharp blows from Ellison's gun and two more men were down. The fourth tried to run, but Brown was right behind him,jumped and floored the criminal. A moment later Rafe heard handcuffs clasp.

"How're you, Michele?" Ellison's face was very close all of a sudden.

"Stay put. I can hear our backup and an ambulance; As far as I can see, your left shoulder has been hit, nothing critical..."

"What a relief" Rafe managed. "But that does not give you the permission to call me Michele;" Rafe grinned. Then he had to take a breath and he stopped smiling for a while. It took the ambulance more than three minutes to arrive - and only after two minutes Rafe was able to hear the sirens. His subconscious stored this memory away to deal with it later.

Brown stepped close to the stretcher, on which they had put his partner. He brushed another round of dirt from his nosedive off his jacket: "Hey, when I joked about getting dirty, I didn't mean that you bleed all over yourself. You could have just stepped into a puddle, ya know?"

Rafe chuckled, then whinced and a medical assistent shooed Brown away. They loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. The car raced away while they still closed the doors.

It was a great gathering two days later: Simon Banks was there, unhappily chomping on an unlit cigar, Ellison and Sandburg had brought grapes - which were just sort of a token for a box of italian wine that was waiting for Rafe as soon as he was thrown out of this room, as Ellison had put it. Brown was there - he had brought some books and clothing from his partner's apartment. And while Blair was already leafing through 'Celestines Prophecies' and not for the first time wondered, what else he did not know about this very special group of men surrounding him, the Captain, Brown and Jim were filling Rafe into the details.

"Seems that Johnny Velas had indeed found proof of a biological weapon that had been used during the Crosing-attack. His daughter was teaching computers - she hacked into a secret army file."

"And Velas called his former superior from his late daughter's home to tell him that he would give those information to the press. We checked the phone-bill."

"Now, this can be coincidence, but three days after this phonecall - our only suvivor Jack Niland arrives in Cascade, gets a bungalow at Heyn's Motel and tries hard to blend in. On the fourth day Velas is dead and Niland makes one call."

"A few hours later three more mystery men enter the scene."

"Now it gets interesting. Those three men have no names. They don't have a driver's license and they have no insurance-number. No taxes paid..."

"Yeah, just armed to their teeth" Blair chimed in before looking back into Rafe's book.

"And Velas really tried to help us - I mean: Murder and attempted murder of a police-detective: he *really* wanted to be helpful. But he knew nothing at all, and the three goons are dead."

"I'm not sorry bout that, Sir; It was them or us"

"I know, Ellison, I just wished, well..."

Rafe, who had watched his three colleagues deliver the story as if following a tennis game, grinning all the time his most irresistable smile - after all, this time they had to do the paperwork - suddenly remembered a few very important things.

"What about the computer-disc? What happened to it?"

"Oh, that" Banks kept muttering, then looked at his mutilated cigar and uttered: "Get well, I'll have to..." before leaving.

Brown suddenly pasted a false smile on his face and said: "Have to do your paperwork, too, remember?" and headed for the door.

Ellison chewed a handful of grapes and tried to look innocent. Finally Sandburg decided to spill:

"Jim found it in one of the perp's jacket-pockets. But it disappeared mysteriously. I do think, though, that it will reappear soon - maybe on Cascade TV or any other TV-station." The student managed to deliver the line with the pokerface that made him win every card game he chose to attend.

Rafe snickered - and cringed when his irritated shoulder shot sharp pangs of pain through his body. "Don't make me laugh - please..."

Sandburg sobered " So sorry, didn't think...."

"That reminds me ... " Rafe hesitated. Then he took a deep breath "I have to ask you a favour."

When he had both men's attention he said "I guess you asked yourself why I knew so much about those tattoos..."

Ellison's eyes bore into somber eyes almost the same color than his own. "This and how it came you knew so many men dying in a hospice..."

"Yeah. Well, it started with Sil."

"Your girlfriend?!" Sandburg bounced, eyes big and curious.

"Sorry to disappoint you, kid; Sylvie is my neighbour's daughter. She's fifteen now - in fact this Saturday's her birthday - and she's dying of AIDS. She got it when she was five - she played with another kid whose mother had been a drug-addict but changed her life when her boy was born. Only it was too late for a change then. The little boy had cut his finger on a shell on the beach and Sil had done, what her mother always did when she had a little cut: She suckled the wound so that the little boy would stop crying. She has lost one of her teeth the same morning and her own wound was still raw. Blood to blood. The little boy is already dead. " He stopped, sighed.

"Anyway; When I visited her for the first time in the children's ward of that hospice, I saw so many kids there, all gravely ill. None of them smiled any more. I wanted to make them smile. So desperately. So I started to do a clown-routine. Once a week, on Saturdays, I visit the hostel and to some tricks or read to them or dress up like a clown. They are looking forward to my visit. I have to be there. I mean, they need me there. Sometimes I talk to the grown-ups there. Some of them are ex-soldiers like Velas or Hunter. But the kids, they need the continuity. So this week I won't be any good there; cause I can't move my shoulder much. So will you substitute for me?"

He could do puppy-dog-look almost as good as Sandburg.

"I could hear that coming, comrad" Ellison grumbled. Suddenly something clicked in Rafe's mind. All those little things added to the puzzle and just fell into place.

"Exactly, Jim. Just like you could hear Sandburg talk to me on the phone or listen to the four perps two bungalows away. You saw them, too, didn't you. Oh man, they don't know how right they are when they call you Super-Cop..." he mused.

Then he saw Sandburg's panicked look and Ellison's stoney face with the telltale muscle jumping in his jaw. Both seemed to have trouble breathing.

"Hey, forget what I said. I won't tell anybody. But then - Of course, Simon has to know, that's why he lets Sandburg ride with you. What are you, Blair? His keeper?"

Ellison snorted and Sandburg made a sound that came awfully close to a giggle.

Rafe blushed "Hell, I didn't mean it that way. His Coach; - do you have to train this abilities?" It was genuine curiosity, not envy or gloating over a freak-show.

"Something like that, yeah" Ellison finally muttered. "It's not all about being a super-cop. There *are* some drawbacks; but we manage." He paused. Then, in a late attempt to change the painful subject, he said : "So, what do we have to do on Saturday. And let me tell you, I won't wear large shoes. A nose, yes; hair, of course"

"Even yellow one?" Blair chimed in but Jim continued unphased with a menacing glare at the student:

"a water-splashing flower, naturally. But no shoes; You hear that?"

Four arms rose in an international I-surrender-gesture...