Title: To Catch A Killer

Author: Andy Beres 

Author's Note: . 

Disclaimer: THESE CHARACTERS BELONG TO DAVID E KELLEY AND 
20THCENTURY FOX. 


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Italics symbolize character narration.... Once again, there may be some letters 
tacked on at the end of some words that shouldn't be there; I still can't figure that 
out.... Of course, standard disclaimers found elsewhere on this page apply. Eddie 
Hale… Bryce Hammond… Carl Jeffries. The name doesn’t much matter. 

Call me what you will, but don’t call me cold-blooded. Its like a disease - but not 
only is it my disease. Its theirs as well - for you see I kill not only for myself, but I 
kill for the very men who loathe me. Bruce was the first - and now he’s respected in the 
literary community because of *me.* 

*My* story…. My *Life!* I’m a killer without a name, and that indeed is the most dangerous 
creed of all murderers. Its just them… against me. My wits, my intelligence, matched against 
theirs. Its like I told them… a door between two realities - good… and evil. I cross over 
to the side of darkness. I become the angel of sorrow. 

Its a game… a game where the stakes are human lives… the object: to catch a killer. 

Bobby Donnell gazed around the courtroom momentarily. He took a small sip from the cylinder 
glass, his throat appreciating his efforts as its dryness subsided. The street-smart Lawyer 
stood, his thin six-foot frame covered underneath a dark-blue Armani suit. He took six strides 
towards the jury stand before coming to a stop. 

"You’re about to send an innocent man to prison for a long… LONG time. That IS what’s going to 
happen if you don’t acquit my client. Lets look at the facts," he began his closing statements, 
gesturing with his hands and using his intense eyes to his advantage, "He’s seen 
entering the victim’s home an hour before the killing. He knew the victim. He 
owned a gun at least similar to the one that killed the victim." He slapped the back 
of his right hand repeatedly upon his left palm. "Where’s… the… case?" he asked 
rhetorically, looking at each jury member individually, implanting a sense of 
attention towards each of them. "This case is so circumstantial and thin that you can 
see through it…" he stopped for a moment, then began pacing the length of the jury 
box again. 

"And I hope that’s what you do, ladies and gentlemen of the jury - see through it. See right 
through the Prosecution’s fake facade of guilt. Look through their virtually non-existent evidence…" 
He turned quickly, balancing himself on his heels. "You’ll ask yourself the same thing in that jury 
room. Where’s the case? Its nowhere to be found, is it? Thank you." 

Bobby pulled himself sharply around, and walked back to his seat, a Lawyer-like normality about him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Carter had treated Anna with a polite detachment the past few days. He’d taken 
time of from his work at County General, citing them as vacation days. She’d come 
by to check in on him, politely being turned away. Anna had sent Doug Ross and 
Spooky Blauvelt to visit. There was no reaching him. He was quite unresponsive 
and distant. He looked at his answering machine. He must have listened to that 
message a couple hundred times in liberality since he’d first heard its mind-numbing 
contents. He lifted his hand from the arm of the chair and reached over, pressing 
the play button. 

"You don’t know what you’re feeling, do you John? You have no idea how it feels to 
be there… to hear the last screams, their last pathetic cries for a mercy never to come. 
I relive those moments. You have no idea how spectacular it is to wet your lips with blood. 
Life, John… life is a compromise… to others, but not for me. You see John, I killed them for 
you, too… not just me. Then, then it begins again… patrolling, stalking - and once I’ve 
memorized their schedules, they’re mine. For, John, you see, its like a door… a door between 
two realities - good… and evil. I cross over to the side of darkness. I become the angel of 
sorrow. And John… don’t try to catch me. You’ll never catch me - until God 
shows his face… until God shows his face…" 

The click of the machine. The message was over, the tape rewinding. Carter abruptly hit the 
play button again, while the tape was in mid-rewind. 

"… with blood. Life, John… life is a compromise… to others, but not for me…" 

Just as abruptly as he’d stopped the course of the tapes’ rewind, he slapped the 
machine off of the table with the back of his hand, the cord ripped away from the 
unfinished surface of the wall. He began to moan inaudibly, head thrown back against 
the uncomfortable chair.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

Bruce Simmons lay silent on a leather couch in his admirably furnished apartment. 
His eyes were focused on the television screen, set roughly 15 feet away from 
where he rested. A reporter’s face was in the foreground on the screen. 

"The accused Boston spree killer, Bryce Hammond, one day after his apprehension by 
local police, has escaped from a Massachusetts maximum security prison…" Bruce 
raised the remote with an intent of changing the channel but was halted by a long 
held nightmare… An image had appeared on the screen. 

"This is a police file photograph of Mr. Hammond. It you have any information pertaining 
to his whereabouts, please contact the police at 592-0965." 

Bruce’s hand went limp, the controller clattering against the floor. He became visibly 
pale, motionless. That wasn’t possible. He’d tried to forget about it, what had happened… 
but it just wasn’t possible, for it was what had made him famous, what had been his gateway 
into the literary community. He’d been famous for his book "The Diary of a Murderer." 

It was the life story of a deranged lunatic named Hale… Eddie Hale. 
But it wasn’t fiction. That was the problem. It had all been a complicated mixture of 
the real… and the surreal. But now, six years later, he’d just seen the man… a 
photo flashed across his television… but the name, the name was different. But, 
why would he have the same name… six years later? A killer had to keep his 
privacy. Whatever his name was, it was a startling revelation that he was so close. 

Bruce shuddered heavily.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Bobby treaded across the long road, soaked by the heavy downpour of rainfall. It 
was auspiciously dark, one of the surrounding lampposts burnt out. He came upon 
a pay phone, inserting the mandatory 35 cent fee. He dialed Lindsay’s number. She 
answered on the second ring. 

"Hello?" 

"Hey, its me." 

"Oh, Bobby, hi…" 

"Yeah, I’m sorry… the jury was out longer than I thought they’d be; doesn’t look like I’ll 
be able to make dinner with you and Eugene." 

He’d lied about the long deliberation of the jury, unsure whether she’d believed it. 
Bobby simply wanted to be alone tonight; even if it wasn’t the best thing for him. 
His emotional state was still tentative, fragile. He had a lot to consider… law, Lindsay, 
Hammond, Jack… nothing made sense. It was unruly test to which there was a thankful end… no… 
he didn’t mean that. Bobby just hadn’t completely found his niche yet. 

"Oh, OK… umm, you wanna go get some lunch tomorrow?" 

Bobby considered it. "Maybe, maybe… I’ll give you a call, all right?" 

"Yeah, yeah, sure…" 

"Bye, Lindsay." 

"Bye." 

Bobby took a look at the receiver a moment before roughly slamming it back onto 
the box. He walked slowly down the street, welcoming the brashness of the cold, 
hard rain. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

Hale stood in a darkened apartment, hands folded behind his back. He missed the 
case, the matching of wits, the open season of murder. He was going to lead Bruce 
and the others to him; pathetic pawns in his fatal leisure activities. Thats what it was 
to him - leisure. He was fundamentally sound with his facade of innocence. His lack 
of vindictiveness was part of what made him so dangerous. He was worldly, 
strategic, cunning. His victims were greeted with an unforeseen surreality. 

End of Part I