Written for the Three Fic Challenge on passion_perfect. Story # 2, Claire-centric.

Thanks to Lyn for the beta!

Angel of Death

By Demeter

EMAIL: Demeter

When Claire Washburn sat down in her office to do some paperwork, she realized that her hands were shaking. They had been steady minutes ago when she'd finished the autopsy, not betraying her even when she, just for a minute, had allowed the thought that the girl on the table was the same age as her youngest son.

Staring at the black computer screen without turning it on, she remembered the words of her teachers, one in particular, who'd told her to be cautious. "You never know when it happens. You do a hundred autopsies and be fine, and then comes that hundred-and-first victim, and they get to you."

She realized she hadn't thought about that in a long time, and why? She was good at her job, figuring out the stories that the dead told, doing her part in bringing them justice - as the majority of them were murder victims - but she'd never been squeamish, or too horrified to do her job.

Today's victim had almost been the one.

Monday morning, a family of four, mother, father, the girl and her baby brother. Mother goes up the stairs to her daughter's room to wake her -- and finds her dead. The windows are closed; no sign of forced entry anywhere, and yet, he had to have come in somehow, choked her to death.

It wasn't until the police had arrived at their place that the traumatized parents became aware of the wooden figurine standig on their daughter's pink nightstand.

An angel, about 5 inches in size, hands folded in prayer.

Lindsay had told her that the parents hadn't been ruled out as suspects yet. Still, they claimed they didn't know where the angel came from, and if that was true, there were even worse possibilities. It could be a signature, telling them that he was going to kill again. Another child.

Claire leaned forward, resting her head in her hands.

In her line of work, she couldn't allow herself to think too deeply about a murder victim's last moments, about their fear and pain. It would immobilize her if she did. Yet, there was something about this case, this girl, that endangered her professionalism.

There was an intern once who called her Angel of Death behind her back; at the time, Claire had laughed if off; she found it quite horrible to think about it now.

He'd been young and arrogant. What had been his name again?

She finally powered up the computer, pondering as she was waiting.

"So... I guess after I'm through here, I'll be able to commit the perfect murder?"

An awkward silence had followed his words, Claire remembered, something he didn't even notice. Lindsay, who had also been present, had been shooting daggers with her glance. He remained oblivious. "Just kidding, guys."

"Had me fooled there for a minute," she'd retorted, knowing sarcasm wouldn't have much of an effect.

As she began to type her report, the lines soon started to blur before her eyes. She didn't want to think of him anymore, or dead little girls, or killers' signatures.

Claire hadn't felt like taking sick leave in a long time, but today, she did.

She was just as sure that she wouldn't. Maybe just take a little break...

Maybe one of the girls would be up for a coffee. She dialed Lindsay's number first, because she, too, had touched the cold stiff fingers of the girl that the killer had folded in prayer, too.

Just who or what was she meant to be praying for?

***

She brought work home sometimes, but tried to keep it limited, because you've got to draw the line somewhere, make a decision if you wanted to invest in your job and be good at it, or get eaten up by it.

Tonight, it wasn't files or paperwork to pour over - it was her mind that couldn't take a break.

Angel of Death.

There was some significance in that, but she didn't know what, and it made her crazy. Lindsay agreed that this was likely the work of someone who'd killed before, and/or would kill again.

"Bad day?" Ed asked, and she just smiled, letting him know she appreciated him asking. He didn't need any words for confirmation anyway; the kids hadn't noticed that she was absent-minded, only half-listening to their chatter, but he had.

Their sons had already left the table, so it was just the two of them, sitting close enough that she could lean against him a bit. Her thoughts were wandering.

***

At night, she slipped out of bed, making herself tea and carrying it into the office where she turned on the computer. Claire didn't know yet what she was searching for, but today's memory had sparked another... so strange she hadn't thought about this in some time. One day, she had sent him out of the room, because he had made a comment on a dead woman's body that had made her furious.

You couldn't do this job if you thought too much of a victim's story, their lives and dreams harshly interrupted - but if you couldn't give them the dignity they deserved, you *shouldn't* do it.

He had apologized, and nothing ever happened again during his internship, but Claire had been very glad when he was gone.

Why was she thinking about him all the time now?

Maybe, because it was better than thinking of the dead girl, lying in her bed. Her eyes, Lindsay had said, had been wide in terror. She'd known something terrible was about to happen - and it did. ***

Two days later, the Angel of Death came to visit again. Another girl dead in a suburban home, another distraught family - another angel figurine left at the scene.

This time, they got a lucky break; there was a partial print left on the girl's nightstand, which led them to a man who had been working for a catering service that both families had employed in the last two weeks.

He had no alibi.

He had a prior conviction for attempting to kidnap a child.

That night, Claire got an email from someone calling themselves 'Angel of Death'.

***

"Dr. Haslett. I see you prefer to work with the living, after all. You had me wondering for a while."

"Dr. Washburn, nice to see you. You're still making a living out of cutting up dead bodies?"

If she hadn't recognized him right away, Claire would have now. He might be in his mid-thirties now, but he still had that spoiled-brat air about him that spoke of generations of money before him. The neighborhood where he'd opened his practice spoke of that, too.

"At least, they don't talk back to me, and they never ask stupid questions, either."

He laughed. "Still the same, I see. Why did you want to see me?"

Claire felt her heart beating faster. Not a good moment for showing nerves, but she knew she wouldn't. It was her strong suit that she could remain calm, when inside she just... wasn't. "I needed your expertise, as I recalled that your hobby was wood carving. Did you ever do any religious symbols?"

He looked at her intently, and she held his gaze, unflinching.

"I understand you never quite seemed to like me, but I heard they caught that nut who murdered the little girls, so--"

If they were in an interrogation room at the precinct, and if she were Lindsay, she'd probably wear that little, triumphant, 'gotcha' smile now. Claire didn't feel like smiling; in fact, she felt rather terrified.

"It was nowhere in the press that 'that nut' left carved figures at the scene. But you were seen at the internet café from which an email was sent to me. The guy whose print was found? I think you helped him out with money, and he didn't yet know what kind of deal he signed. Why children?"

She'd seen that expression before, years back, when he talked about the dead woman in a way that had made Claire think he should be excluded from the profession. Her instincts had been all right.

"Don't tell me you never think about it," he said. "You find the mistakes they make. Don't you ever wonder if, with all that knowledge, you could commit the perfect murder? And once you do, let me tell you, it's addictive. You want more of that rush. As for your question, Claire, there's no particular meaning. They just don't fight back that hard."

It made her want to scream at him, punch him, but Claire did none of these things. She patiently waited for the words she knew would come, "I'm glad we finally got to talk about it, but I'm sorry, Claire, surely you know I can't leave you alive now."

She'd known he would reach for the gun in the drawer now. Claire had also known that Lindsay would kick that door open and have him cuffed before he could ever go through with it.

"They will love you in court," Jill told him, the tone of her voice conveying that she was just as sick about what she'd just heard.

Claire stayed reasonably calm through it all, removing the small microphone from under her blouse, getting up on surprisingly steady legs to leave the house of a former colleague who'd murdered just to see if he could do it, and then again, because he liked it so much.

She'd try not to think too hard about it.

Fortunately, she had friends who'd, just like always, helped to maintain some sort of sanity in an insane world.

The End