Disclaimer: Oh, gee…the usual. They aren't mine, I'm not making any money off them. Just having a little fun.

Notes, timeline, etc: This is an AU, as will be obvious very quickly. Set before the start of the series, you could consider this an alternate pilot episode. Pointless exercise? Perhaps. But fun.

Rating, warning: Strong PG (borderline R?) for language and violence, otherwise no warnings.

The Sunday Strangler

By Mele

Being summoned out on a case on Sunday wasn't that unusual for Jim Ellison. Being called out on a case to the local landfill at six thirty in the morning on Sunday was. The dump was only open from noon to three on Sundays, rather than the normal seven thirty to three thirty the rest of the week, though the reason for the shortened Sunday hours was something Cascade's most successful detective had not spent any time considering. It had simply always been that way, ever since he could remember.

So it was odd to see a crowd of people standing around the silent bulk of the Cat D8, which was parked by the edge of the dumpsite currently being used. On closer inspection he recognized a couple of uniforms that worked the night shift, a tense looking representative from the city council, Simon Banks, Henri Brown and Homicide detective Jasper McConnel. The forensics wagon was parked just beyond the bulldozer, discreetly hidden from public view just in case anyone wandering by should notice. With a sigh of resignation Jim got out of his truck and joined them.

"Ah, good Jim. We had forensics hold back until you got a chance to look the scene over. It's councilwoman Gayle Meadows. Same as the others; strangled with a fluorescent shoelace-pink this time," Simon informed him.

"Who found her? I didn't think anyone worked here on Sunday mornings."

"Equipment operator found the body, he was pulling some recyclable boxes out, or so he says, and uncovered her. He called us as soon as he finished losing his breakfast," Henri couldn't resist a small smile as he reported that.

"About time you showed up, Ellison. Thought you were supposed to be the lead on this investigation," Jasper taunted him, his nasal twang leaden with barely concealed contempt.

"Brown, would you mind moving everyone back, and make sure the equipment operator stays around, I want to talk to him," Jim requested, ignoring McConnel as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. "Let's see if our guy got sloppy this time."

Ms. Meadows was the third victim of the killer the press had dubbed the Sunday Strangler after the second victim, Councilman George Criss, had been found a week before at Kyle's Gym. The first victim, Councilman William Bryant, had been discovered in the Cascade Museum of Natural Science the week before that. No clues had been found, not a single trace of anything that could be linked back to the murderer. The only similarities were the use of a brightly colored shoelace tied around the victim's throat, and the leaving of the corpse in a business to be found on Sunday.

The actual day of the kidnappings had been different in each case, and after Criss's death all the council members had been placed under unobtrusive surveillance for their own protection, not that it had done Gayle Meadows much good. She'd disappeared on Tuesday, after her guards had lost her in a crowd leaving a busy theater.

Ellison carefully sifted through the debris the corpse was lying on, doing his best to ignore the almost overpowering stench of the scene. Ever since he'd taken his last vacation he'd had problems with spells of seeming hypersensitivity to his surroundings. Sometimes it was lights that were too bright, or noises that were too loud. Today it appeared it was smells that were too powerful, and he figured it had to be just him since no one else was apparently affected by the odors.

Finally rising from his futile examination, he gave the scene one final sweeping look then turned to his captain with a resigned frown. "I can't see anything that could help us, but we should have forensics tag and bag everything directly underneath the body just in case. Why don't you oversee that, McConnel? Brown will assist you. I'm going to talk to our witness."

"He's hardly a witness, Ellison. He just stumbled on the body. We should count ourselves lucky he didn't puke all over her. You won't get anything useful there," the Homicide detective sneered.

Brown snorted softly to himself, and stepped back, ready for the famous Ellison temper to erupt and not anxious to get caught in the fallout. But the former covert ops ranger surprised him and simply stared at the other detective until McConnel wilted under his laser-like glare and turned to signal forensics to approach. Content that he'd put the other man in his place, Jim turned away and walked over to where the young 'dozer operator stood leaning against one massive track watching the activity with a keen interest. Long, curly chestnut hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail at his neck, and the arms and legs of the stained coveralls were rolled up to accommodate his shorter stature.

"Hey, Chief, why don't you come on over here, I want to ask you a few questions," Jim instructed, ushering the smaller man to the far side of the machinery.

"Sure, sure man. Whatever I can do to help. I can't believe it, you know? I mean, I pull off a box, and there she is. Oh, man, I'm gonna be seeing that in my dreams for weeks, you know? I don't even want to think what it's going to do to my karma, my mom is going to freak when she finds out. She thinks even being around violence after the fact can damage your karma, and I so don't think that poor woman's death was nonviolent. I mean, it sure looked plenty violent to me. What did you need to ask me?" he asked at last, bouncing a bit with his hands deep in his jeans' pockets.

"How about we start with your name?" Ellison asked crisply, wondering what sort of breakfast 'pick-me-up' this kid had had, and if a urine test might be in order.

"Oh! Blair. Blair Sandburg. Nice to meet you. Well not nice, exactly, what with the dead body and all, but…" he slowly dropped the hand he'd extended to the detective, seeing the other man had no intention of shaking it.

"And what were you doing here at the dump at this time of the morning?" Jim asked, his cold gaze firmly pinning the young man in place.

"I work here, man. It's my job. Look, Sunday morning is the only stretch of time we have when there's no customers here, you know? It's the time we do most of the weekly clean up. I like to get in as soon as the sun is up, so I have as much time as possible to get stuff done before people start bringing more trash in. Plus, it gives me time to do some more of the recycling stuff, like picking out the cleaner cardboard, any cans or bottles, that sort of stuff. The other guys, they think I'm nuts, but man, we've all got to do our bit to preserve the land. And everyone benefits! Less trash buried here, I feel better for helping, and the boss, he gets more income from the recycling programs. We all win. So, I'm always here early on Sunday." Blair stopped for breath and looked up at the detective with a slight smile.

"I get a little enthused," he explained sheepishly.

"I can see that, Chief. Did you see anything that might indicate who left the body here? Or when? Were you working here last night, yesterday afternoon?"

"Yeah. I mean…yeah, I was working, but no, I didn't see anything. I was running the loader, bringing fresh fill over for this morning. Saw the usual busy spurt right before closing, but I can tell you, she wasn't here last night. I should have known something was wrong, 'cause I did the box patrol thing last night. No way I would have missed those boxes," the young man's voice slowed, his tone becoming pensive. "I had a meeting to attend yesterday, so I didn't start the processing like I usually do. But, I had enough time to scout out the good stuff and set it aside. Those boxes were obviously good, and they weren't there yesterday afternoon," he concluded.

Ellison stepped back away from the bulldozer, calling over to Brown. "H! Make sure they get those boxes, okay? All of them. Pay special attention to those, they may have come with the body." He stepped back over to where Sandburg was leaning once again against the equipment, his arms protectively over his chest as if he were cold.

"You okay there, Chief?" he queried, realizing the man might becoming down from his adrenalin rush.

Before Blair could reply a loud clanging sound reverberated over the scene, causing Jim to clap his hands over his ears with an expression of pain. Ignoring the shouts to 'be more careful' coming from the crime scene, Sandburg turned his attention to the big detective, laying a solicitous hand on the rigidly muscled arm.

"Hey. Hey, man, you all right? Come on, man, it's okay, I'll get you some help, just hang on," Blair assured him, turning to go fetch one of the other officers, but his progress was stopped by a large hand clamping down on his arm painfully.

"No. I'm fine. It's fine. Just give me a minute," the larger man ground out, still visibly struggling to get the pain under control.

"You sure? What happened? I mean, that was loud, but not THAT loud," Sandburg asked anxiously.

"My ears are a little sensitive, that's all. What the hell happened over there?"

"One of your guys knocked over a barrel on top of one of the mounds. It rolled into another couple. They're empty, and…well…loud when they hit each other. Happens often enough around here. You sure you're okay? You looked like you were in some serious pain there."

"I'm fine, thanks," Ellison replied more warmly than he'd spoken yet to the younger man. There was no mistaking Sandburg's sincere concern, and strangely enough, the pounding, blinding headache which usually followed an episode like that did not appear to be forthcoming.

"Good. That's good. Um…if you don't need me anymore, can I go? It's been kind of a bad day already and it's not even eight yet. I'm thinking some tea, maybe some meditation; I need to process this, you know? Try to salvage the rest of the day, since it doesn't look like I'll be working for a while," Blair looked up at Jim hopefully.

"As long as we have your name and address, you can take off. But don't be planning any extended vacations for the near future, got it?"

"Got it. No vacation. I can do that. And, really, man, whatever I can do to help, I'll do. Just call me." He turned to walk away, then stopped and looked at Jim once more. "What was your name, again? I don't remember."

"I never told you, Chief," the big man replied dryly.

"Oh." Blair waited a beat, then turned away again.

"Ellison. Jim Ellison, Major Crime, Cascade PD. You should have asked before you even talked to me, Mr. Sandburg."

The long-haired man turned back with a rueful half grin. "Tell you what. Next time I uncover a dead body before the day's even decently begun, I'll remember that. I never was good at crime scene etiquette, you know? It was a unique experience meeting you, man." He raised one hand in farewell as he walked past the front of the bulldozer and headed toward a recent arrival.

Ellison recognized Sandburg's target as Blaine Knight, the owner/supervisor of the landfill, which made him Sandburg's boss and the next person on Jim's 'need to interview' list. He followed Blair at a slight distance, arriving in time to hear Knight's reply to the young man's request to take the day off.

"Of course you can go, Blair. Take the whole day, Jesus can run the Cat today, he owes back some hours anyway. I don't want to see you back here until tomorrow, got it?" Knight had the reputation of being a hard-assed boss, fair but not willing to put up with any nonsense, but it was obvious he was fond of this rather unconventional looking young man.

"Thanks, Boss. I'll make up the hours next week."

"Blair, you are not in arrears for hours. WE owe YOU hours, don't worry about it. Now get going before I change my mind," the older man growled, bringing a smile to Sandburg's face.

"Gotcha. Going. See you tomorrow."

Blaine watched his employee walk off, a half smile of bemusement on his face, before turning to address the approaching detective.

"Jimmy Ellison, it's been too long. Hell of a reason to meet you again, but it's good to see you've been taking care of yourself."

"It's good to see you again, too, Mr. Knight," Ellison replied formally.

"Jim, you aren't ten any more. And while I'm still one of your father's friends, I think we've reached the stage in life where you can call me 'Blaine', wouldn't you agree?"

"Okay, Blaine, then." Jim indicated the departing Sandburg with a lift of his chin. "How'd you end up with that kid? What can you tell me about him?"

"Blair? He's a good kid, Jimmy. Damndest thing. Month or so ago, I lost my head equipment operator. Car accident; tragic thing. Then two days later, the flu hits, and I have three guys call in too sick to even get out of bed. I'm desperate, and this kid shows up looking for a job. Some sob story about how he was supposed to go on some excursion…excavation…whatever in Africa. Guess it got cancelled at the last minute, and he's without a summer job. He's a student at Rainer, grad student, so he says. What the hell, I'm in a real pinch, so I put him on the pickup run with Rudy. Oldest guy on the crew, eats rookies for lunch. I figured at least I'd get through that day, and I could call in some new recruits later. Damned if by the time Rudy gets back to the yard with the kid they aren't yucking it up like lifelong buddies. Kid's been here ever since, and if I could clone him I'd do it in a heartbeat. During the week he takes the trash runs, and I never hear a complaint from anyone on his route. Weekends he runs the equipment, and he's good. AND he treats the equipment good. Repair bills are way down. And quite frankly, the little shit can WORK. Hell, at time and a half he's underpaid. I'm going to hate to lose him at summer's end, I got to tell you. He's a good kid, Jimmy." Knight flushed a little at his own verbosity, but his eyes shone with sincerity.

"I hope for his sake, he is. I need a list of everyone who has keys to the dump, Blaine. Names and addresses of all current and former employees; especially any who left under adverse conditions," Jim halted as Knight held up his hand.

"Anything you need, you get. But let me call in Sue, she's my office manager. She'd have all that information, and she's the type who'll be willing to come in right away. Plus, I think she documents all the circumstances of anyone leaving us. It'd be at the main office, over on Cyprus. Want to meet me there?" the older man offered.

"Sounds good. Let me check in with the other investigators, then I'll be there," Ellison agreed, shaking the proffered hand firmly, remembering his snub of Sandburg's attempt to shake hands with a twinge of shame.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

By Tuesday the team investigating the so-called Sunday Strangler had come to the conclusion that the investigation following Gayle Meadow's murder was a wash out. The boxes and other debris around the body came out clean. Investigations into employees, past and present, at the landfill were dead-ends; in some cases literally. Security around the surviving council members had intensified to the point they were quietly complaining, even though they understood the necessity.

Even so, at precisely four minutes past three on Tuesday afternoon, Councilwoman Antoinette Pinero disappeared from her secluded home in Cascade's best neighborhood. The two officers who had been assigned to guard her were found dead in the basement, each from a single gunshot to the back of their head. Consequently emotions were running high at the police department, and the repercussions from this most recent event were felt in at every level of the city's political hierarchy, from the mayor on down.

Thursday, with time running out, the detectives were reduced to revisiting leads already explored in detail previously, in desperate hope of uncovering some slight lead to where the killer might be depositing his victim the next Sunday. Hope of finding Mrs. Pinero alive had waned, since it had been determined by forensics that the previous victims had all been killed within 36 hours of being abducted.

Jim found himself standing in the parking lot of a seemingly deserted warehouse, looking at the slip of paper in his hand with a slightly bemused expression. He checked the numbers over the door again, and though the '4' was leaning tipsily against the '7' and the five was hanging upside down, there was still no question that this was the right address. Shaking his head slightly he mounted the metal steps and pressed the buzzer beside the door, rewarded in a moment by a rich voice bidding him enter.

The cavernous warehouse was filled with ear pounding sound, a combination of drums and oddly sensuous horns, bringing to mind open fields fringed with green trees and thick foliage. 'Jungle music' was Ellison's unvoiced opinion as he strode briskly to the living area, which was separated from the rest of the warehouse by a high stack of pallets doing duty as a makeshift wall.

Blair Sandburg was stirring something in a dented stainless steel pot on a small hotplate, his compact body gyrating lithely to the driving beat of the music. "Hey, man, I wasn't expecting company," he greeted Ellison with a wide grin. "But yesterday was payday, so at least I can offer you a beer?"

"That'd be fine, thanks. You're my last stop for the day. This is just a routine follow-up, wanted to check if you'd remembered anything odd about discovering the body Sunday," the big detective asked with studied casualness.

"Other than the fact that finding a dead body is hardly commonplace? No, man. Sorry," the young man answered, handing over a chilled bottle of generic beer. "The investigation hasn't turned up anything?"

"That's classified information, Chief. Like I said this is just routine," he took a cautious swig of his beer, quickly suppressing his grimace at the bitter aftertaste.

Sharp blue eyes met Ellison's, the smaller man's skepticism clear, though he reserved comment at the moment. "I wish I could help, but honestly, man, I was pretty freaked. I mean, finding a dead body is bad enough, but finding someone you've met, well…" his voice trailed off with a slight shudder.

"You'd met her before? I don't remember you mentioning that," Ellison commented with a frown.

"I don't know if I did. Sorry. Didn't think it was important. I mean, it's not like I knew her well or something. I spoke to her a couple of times about environmental issues. She was easy to talk to, easier than any of the other council members I'd talked with, at any rate. I don't think she would have recognized me if we passed on the street, even," Sandburg explained hastily, grateful when the look of ire was replaced by weariness.

"You're probably right, Chief. But you still should have mentioned it," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in response to his escalating headache. He glanced up when he felt a warm, strong hand on his forearm, his gaze meeting concerned blue eyes.

"You okay?" Sandburg asked with quiet intensity, looking positively unconvinced by Jim's nod but not ready to push it yet. "Hey, if I'm your last duty of the day, let me at least treat you to dinner. As it turned out, I have more than enough for two here," Blair offered with a conciliatory smile and a half pleading look that was hard to resist. "You'd officially be my very first dinner guest at my new digs here."

"You mean to tell me you don't have guests lining up around the block to join you?" Jim asked with a grin that took any sting out of his words. He couldn't explain it, and God knew he didn't want to explore the idea too closely, but he found himself liking this quirky young man. Underneath the layers of thrift shop worthy clothing and the incessant chatter he caught intriguing glimpses of a quick mind and just a hint of steely determination.

"Well, not as yet, but if this soup tastes as good as it smells that might very well change," Blair noted, sniffing at the pot with a blissful look on his expressive face.

Jim had to admit it DID smell good; good enough, in fact, that his stomach sent up a rumbling reminder that he'd skipped lunch again. Finding the thought of going back to his cold, empty apartment singularly unappealing he accepted the invitation with a smile and another drag at the beer.

"Thanks, Sandburg. Guess I can be your 'experimentee' just this once."

"Then you should be reassured to know I've not lost a test subject yet. Come on over and sit down, this is ready to go," the younger man invited, setting out two mismatched bowls, obviously secondhand silverware (also mismatched), and a fragrant loaf of dark bread on a wooden cutting board. He'd heated the bread and it's mellow scent complemented the aroma of the various herbs that were in the soup.

"Now, this is a recipe a fellow TA gave me, so I take no blame if it's no good. But if it tastes half as good as it smelled, well I'll be happy to accept full credit," Blair rambled as he dished out generous portions of the greenish soup in which various vegetable mingled with bite sized pieces of chicken. "There you go, man, dig in!"

Jim picked up his spoon and took a generous bite of the soup, only to spit it back out into the bowl with an exclamation of equal parts anger and disgust.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me, Sandburg? What's the big idea?" The tall detective stood up angrily,

"I…I…what…" stuttering, Blair took a hasty taste of his own serving, then turned disbelieving eyes to his disgruntled guest. "There's nothing wrong with the soup, man. It's fine. Maybe a little salty, but certainly not horribly so. Are you sensitive to any herbs or seasonings? The stock is heavily seasoned, with several different herbs. Maybe that's the problem," he mused, giving Ellison a considering look.

Jim held up a placating hand, stopping the flow of words. "I'm sorry, Chief. I've been having some problems with…well…some weird health problem, I guess. The doctors can't figure it out yet, but sometimes my sense of taste gets a little strange. That must be what happened here. Not your fault." Even on short acquaintance Blair knew that it had been hard for the big man to admit he didn't have complete control over some aspect of his own perceptions.

"Is it just taste get gets wonky?" he asked cautiously, the ever present hope he'd lived with for the last decade or so coming to the forefront, as relentless as a terrier puppy with a favorite toy.

"Nah, it's all of them, off and on. Sight and hearing are the worst, taste and smell usually go weird at the same time. I've had all kinds of tests, but the doctors tell me it's just stress." Jim's disgusted look clearly communicated his opinion of that.

"What about touch? You feeling extra touchy/feely these days?" the younger man asked abruptly.

"Huh? Yeah, I guess so. I mean, sometimes my clothes seem to irritate my skin. And my saving cream feels…weird."

"Oh, my God, all five. He has all five," Blair muttered softly to himself, sitting down abruptly on the couch. "All five."

"What the hell are you going on about here, Chief?" Ellison asked, sounding like his patience had come to an end.

"I think I know what's wrong with you, Jim. And I think I know how to help you."

"Now why do I find that so hard to believe?" the older man asked rhetorically, rolling his eyes dismissively.

"Hey, you may think I'm 'just a garbage man,' but you don't always see the whole picture, you know?" Blair said with more than a trace of heat.

"Yeah, yeah, your boss said you were a student at Rainer. An archeology major, wasn't it?"

"Anthropology. I'm a graduate student going for my doctorate in Anthropology." That statement was made with quiet pride and another glimpse of that determination Jim had sensed before. Though he hadn't been the most dedicated of students, Ellison had done the first two years of college, and had seen enough to know those who made it to their Masters degree and beyond had a deceptive amount of courage and resolve. Graduate courses were not for wimps.

"Right, anthropology. But, that still doesn't answer what that has to do with my health problems," Ellison replied wearily.

"If what I suspect is true, YOU are my field of study. My Holy Grail. God, this is incredible! See, in ancient times, every tribe had a guardian to protect them. This guardian was chosen because of a genetic enhancement, the ability to train their senses far beyond the norm. They were known as Sentinels," Blair explained, his speech growing faster as he sensed Ellison's growing anger.

"Look, in this monograph by Sir Richard Burton, the explorer, not the actor, it explains the concept. I've found modern day examples of one or two enhanced senses; tasters and perfumers, and the such. But never three or four senses, let alone all five. This is incredible! If I could just get you to take some tests, if you'd let me observe you. I could help you gain control, and in exchange you could be my thesis subject. This would be perfect," he pleaded, seeing Jim's expression close down completely.

"Christ, where did you come up with this pile of bullshit, Sandburg? You take your break out behind the trash pile smoking the wacky weed? I came here just to see if you had any new information on the case, not to be ridiculed by some neo-hippie witch doctor punk." He stood and picked up his coat from the couch back where he'd laid it earlier. "You remember something from the case, you call me. Otherwise, keep the hell away from me," Jim growled, striding purposefully toward the exit, leaving the stunned Sandburg standing in the middle of his living space, his blue eyes wide with shocked disbelief; torn between anger, dismay, and a mildly insane urge to giggle madly.

"Well, that went well…NOT."

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

The phone jarred Jim Ellison awake, eliciting a groan as he turned over and saw the time displayed on is alarm clock. Five thirty; this had better be good.

"Ellison."

"Hey, Jim, it's Blair. Look, I'm really sorry about yesterday, man. I wasn't making fun of you, or trying to humiliate you or take advantage or whatever. If you ever need help with your senses, I'll help. No strings. I just wanted you to know that up front. But I'm really calling because I have an idea about your case. Something was bugging me about it, and now I think I know what it is, and it might help. See, a student of mine did an article for the local…"

"Whoa! Sandburg, stop right there!" Jim barked out, his right hand covering his eyes as if in pain as the voice on the phone trailed off. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" he queried wearily.

"Oh. Yeah, man, sorry. But I need to be at work in an hour or so, and I forget not everyone keeps these hours. I guess you could come by the dump later today, or send someone else by if you don't want to talk to me yourself, but really I think I may be able to help you guys. There's a pattern to the killer's choice of places to leave the body. At least I think there is," he concluded a little breathlessly.

Ellison sighed and ran a hand wearily over his face, considering the situation a moment before speaking. "Give me a few minutes to wake up and get dressed at least. You familiar with Cuppa Joe's? Meet me there in half an hour," he directed the young man, barely waiting for Sandburg's acknowledgement before hanging up.

He'd felt badly once he'd gotten back to the loft the night before, unsure why he'd reacted so strongly to Sandburg's comments. There'd been no sense of mockery from the younger man, no indication that he'd been anything but sincere. But to suggest Jim was like a throwback to some sort of pre-civilized 'superman' was absurd in the extreme. Still, it hadn't warranted the reaction Ellison had displayed, and if nothing else, he fully intended to apologize to the grad student this morning.

Calling Cuppa Joe's a coffee shop was assigning it a degree of elegance it didn't honestly deserve. The ramshackle building had a distinct easterly tilt to it, and only half the faded awning still remained after last winter's storm. But inside was fragrant and warm, the coffee simple and rich while the muffins and pastries were baked fresh each morning.

Not particularly surprised to find Blair already waiting for him, Jim bought himself a large coffee and a still warm apple turnover before joining the younger man at the only window seat.

"Hey, man, thanks for meeting me," Sandburg greeted him with a cautious smile. "Sorry for the ungodly hour."

"Not a problem, Sandburg. I planned to get going early today anyway. What do you have for me, Chief?"

"It's weird, but something about the case was bothering me, you know? Tickling at something in my memory, but I couldn't put it together. Then after you left last night, I did some meditating, and…whoa!…there it was. An article one of my former students wrote for the local paper, a Sunday supplemental article. You know, the Cascade Weekender magazine? She did it right after the last council elections, and had asked me to proof it for her, so I'd had a copy on my computer. Been meaning to clear out the older files, but never got to it, you know how it is when you get busy…" he trailed off a little as Ellison cleared his throat and gave him an impatient look.

"Oh, right. Sorry. So, anyway, I still had it on my laptop, and here's a copy of it," he handed over the printout even as he kept talking. "Suzette…my student…she did this article which in short compared the promises, platform and public image of each council member with random quotes taken in more candid circumstances. All the quotes she used were from public sources such as newspapers, radio show transcripts, that sort of thing. It's really a humorous, insightful article, but the part that will interest you in particular is what I highlighted amongst the more candid quotations." He pointed to the second page then settled back to watch the detective's reaction. He didn't have long to wait.

"My God, you could be on to something here Sandburg," he said with a note of increasing excitement. "This quote from Gayle Meadows about her childhood as 'poor white trash' crops up quite a lot. It could explain why she was left at the dump."

"And George Criss's comment about 'not being caught dead in a gym' or William Bryant's jokes about retiring to be an exhibit at the Smithsonian. So I figured the quotes for Mrs. Pinero,,,"

"…would give us a clue as to where she's going to be found. Damn. You could be right, this could be the break we're looking for. If we can get there before they deposit the body, we could catch them."

"That's what I was hoping, anyway. You can keep that copy of the article, and you know…if you need me for anything…just call," the younger man said hesitantly as he stood to leave. "Good luck."

Ellison stood as well, following the shorter man out into the brisk, early morning street, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets and hunching his shoulders against the cold. "Look, Sandburg, about last night…I apologize. I was out of line, and while I don't buy this theory of ancient tribal watchmen, I didn't need to be that rude. And I do appreciate this information," he said, his discomfort making him sound stiff and formal.

Blair's expressive blue eyes lit up a bit at Jim's words, and his smile was open and sincere. "You're welcome man. And as for the other, well, I understand. I sprang that on you out of the blue; you weren't ready for it. Just remember it's a natural part of who you are, and you could use it to your advantage. So if you ever change your mind, I still think I could help. You have my address; you know how to reach me. And listen, about that…if you don't want me to do my thesis on you, okay. I guess I can understand that. But the offer to help still stands. No strings."

"Yeah, I'll…uh…keep it in mind," he said, stopping by his truck and watching the other man walk up to a dilapidated Corvair. It occurred to him that when he was around Sandburg the chronic headaches had a tendency to disappear; in the younger man's proximity Jim felt pleasantly at ease. He didn't realize how accustomed he'd become to the constant onslaught of pain and sensory input until it abated, and despite his protests he found himself reconsidering Blair's offer of help. An odd squeak-flap sound interrupted his train of thought, and the morning sun reflecting off a bright yellow bird in flight mesmerized him, as he took a couple of steps toward the sight, out into the middle of the street.

"Oh, you might want to contact the paper…" Blair turned back toward the detective as he spoke, stopping in surprise when he saw the big man just staring blankly into space. "Detective Ellison?"

The grad student started back toward the unmoving man standing in the road, hurrying his pace when he heard what sounded like the roar of a hotrod's engine and the wail of a police siren. A black sports car careened around the nearby corner; the driver obviously fighting to maintain control. Breaking into a desperate sprint Sandburg hit the much larger Ellison at an angle, sending them both staggering to the far side of the street and safety. Tumbling to the ground, Jim came back to his senses, turning to Blair with a combination of puzzlement and anger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, surging to his feet to tower over the still prone Sandburg.

"Saving your ass, that's what! You were standing in the middle of the road preparing to do an impersonation of a vertical speed bump. Oh, man…you must have zoned! Damn! I should have warned you!" Blair thumped his forehead with his fist in frustration, not even noticing the policeman who ran up in some concern.

"Holy Mother of God! Are you two okay? I thought for sure you were a goner," the new arrival gasped out at Ellison.

"What happened?" Jim asked again, his gaze shifting between the now standing Blair and the officer.

"We were pursuing this punk Mario Andretti wannabe, he nearly lost it coming around the corner there, and if this fella hadn't pushed you out of the way he would have mowed you down. Ya know, you look awful familiar…you a cop?"

"Detective Ellison, Major Crime. You lost the guy you were pursuing?" he wondered, more to help him get his bearings than out of any true curiosity.

"Got him at the next intersection. You need an ambulance? You okay, young man?" the officer, Terry Williams by his badge, asked turning his attention to the grad student.

"Fine. I'm fine," Blair mumbled, running a still shaking hand down his face. "That really sucked, man."

"We're fine, thanks. You should go assist in the arrest," Jim suggested, smiling woodenly in reassurance. He didn't want to be scrutinized any closer by the younger officer, nor did he want word of his near accident to make the rounds any more than necessary.

"Very well, Sir," the officer replied, recognizing the older man's rank. "If you find you need medical assistance, an ambulance has already been called for the perp." With that Officer Williams strode back the way he'd come.

"What the hell just happened?" Jim muttered more to himself than to Sandburg, but the younger man answered him anyway.

"I think you zoned out. It's when you focus too much on one sense, the rest kind of shut down for the moment. I'm so sorry man, I should have thought to warn you of that," Blair said with a stricken expression. "Do you remember what it was that caught your attention?"

"It was a bird. Yellow. Bright yellow. It was almost like I could see each individual feather, shinning in the sunlight…" he trailed off, waiting for his companion's derisive laughter.

It never came. The young anthropologist looked up at Jim with a sort of clinical awe, his eyes bright with suppressed excitement. "That is so cool, man! Well, except for the almost getting run over thing," he noted, calming immediately.

"Okay, let me ask you this. Let's just say I AM one of those guardian people…what'd you call them?" he snapped the fingers on his right hand repeatedly as he tried to remember the term.

"Sentinels."

"Yeah, yeah. Sentinel. Let's just say I am one of those. Does anything in your studies show how to turn these senses off?"

"Why would you want to turn them off? Man, they will give you an awesome advantage in your work! You'd be like the perfect one man crime lab," Blair began, only to be halted by Jim's upraised hand.

"In a word, these 'zone outs.' This is not something I can have happening to me in the field, Chief. If I can't control them, they are of no use to me," he declared, not even realizing he'd verbally, at least, changed his position on whether or not he believed Sandburg's theories.

"But you CAN learn to control them. It just takes time, and practice. Like any new skill. Plus, most of the writings mentioned that the Sentinel had a companion, someone to watch his back, bring him out of a zone or prevent them from happening. Someone to guide him in the use of his senses," the grad student explained with obvious conviction.

"And in the meantime? Damn, this is serious, Sandburg. You said you'd help me. Can you? Can you get me this control? Keep this from happening again? If it happens at the wrong time, someone could get killed," the big man ground the words out between clenched teeth, his pride rebelling at not being able to control his own perceptions.

"I told you I'd help, I meant it. Look, I gave my notice at the dump Monday, since the new semester starts after next week, and they already brought on an experienced equipment op. I can call in today, ask them to cut my hours way back, or let me go completely, then I can spend some extra time with you. I need to observe you in your work first, so I can best determine how to proceed. This will be great, man. And maybe you'd consider letting me take a few notes? It can be completely confidential, has to be, but you'd make a great subject," he reiterated his request from the night before; pleased to see Ellison seemed to be considering it.

"Whoa, Darwin, slow down there. Next thing I know you'll be trying to move in with me. Let's just take it one step at a time, okay? If you can work with me for a few days, that would be fine. We can determine then if more is needed. For the time being I'd like to keep this completely on the QT, got it?"

"Oh, yeah, got it Big Guy. I can do secret. No problem." Blair held up both hands in a signal of surrender, gracing the bigger man with a wide smile.

"Great," Ellison sighed, wondering wearily which would drive him insane first: his senses or this young man. "Go take care of what you have to at work, and meet me at the coffee shop across from the precinct, at noon. In the meantime, I'm going to get this information to the task force."

"Okay, see you there." With that the younger man literally bounced over to his car, giving Ellison a cheerful wave as the green vehicle coughed and sputtered its way away from him.

With yet another sigh the detective got into his own sensible truck and headed toward the police station, pleased at least with the new information on the case, but already wondering if maybe he hadn't made a mistake in encouraging Sandburg.

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"There are at least three quotes where Mrs. Pinero describes herself as a 'high tone bitch' out to prove her point no matter who, or what, opposes her. The use of 'bitch' repeatedly might indicate she'll turn up in a breeding kennel," Jim mused out loud as the rest of the Sunday Strangler task force reviewed the article Sandburg had supplied.

"Or a grooming place. Even a pet store. That one over on Elmcrest specializes in purebred show dogs," Henri pointed out, tapping the article with the pencil he held in one hand.

"It would help if we could narrow it down some. Though I like the potential of the store Detective Brown referred to. Le Petit Puppe has a high-class clientele, possibly including Ms. Pinero herself. That's something we could look into," Jasper McConnel added, jotting down a note to himself. "We don't have a lot of time, but it should be easy enough to compile a list of the kennels and pet shops in Cascade."

"Don't forget groomers as well," Simon contributed, walking to the door of his office and beckoning the weekend secretary, Gloria. "We need a printout of all the dog groomers, kennels, and pet shops in Cascade. And we need it yesterday. Also a copy of the duty roster for today and tomorrow."

Turning back to the assembled task force, the Major Crime captain assumed his accustomed role of commander. "I want surveillance on every targeted business, starting at their normal closing time tonight. If possible I want at least one officer inside the business, and two outside, in radio contact. This was a damned fine bit of work, Jim. Best lead we've had so far, so we don't want to waste it."

"Where'd you get this again?" McConnel asked, giving the taller man a piercing glance.

"The kid who found the body at the landfill, he remembered this article after I touched base with him yesterday. He called me this morning to tell me about it."

"Interesting. He just HAPPENED to remember it? And, this isn't a copy of a published article, Ellison. This is a printout from a computer. He just HAPPENED to have this on his hard drive?" the Homicide detective sneered. Bad feelings had been brewing between the hotshot Homicide investigator and Major Crime's most successful member, and it seemed they had reached the breaking point.

"Just what are you getting at, McConnel?" Chunks of dry ice gave off more heat than Ellison's eyes at that moment.

"Maybe you should bring this young man in for questioning, hmm? Seems a lot of coincidences here, and personally I don't believe in coincidences. Maybe we don't need to expend the energy on a stakeout after all."

Jim snorted in disbelief. "Forget it, McConnel. The kid's clean. He's just trying to help us out, he's about as dangerous as Henri's cocker spaniel puppy."

"Hey, man, Pookie's a killer!" Henri joked, leaning back and grinning widely. "Provided, of course, you're a rawhide chew toy."

Assorted snorts of laughter greeted that announcement, most of them having met the blond ball of fluff Brown tried to pass off as a 'guard dog in training.' The building tension dissipated, though the thoughtful look on McConnel's face would have alerted Ellison to the fact he was not completely put off his idea, had Jim been looking at the Homicide detective then.

But he wasn't; he was looking at his watch and gathering up his portion of the paperwork scattered over the table. "Look, I have to meet Sandburg at noon, so when do you want us to convene again to finalize our plans, Simon?"

If the Major Crime captain found it odd his best detective was meeting the young garbage-man again he made no comment, only decreed a two o'clock meeting and dismissed the task force to prepare. But, he called Jim's name quietly, holding him back as the others filed out.

"Anything going on here Jim that I should know about?" he asked pointedly once they were alone.

"Not at all, Simon. Look, Sandburg's a grad student, he wanted to talk to me about something to do with his thesis. It's no big deal. But he's probably sitting there waiting for me now, so if I'm dismissed…?" his raised eyebrow turned the last into a question.

"Go on, go on. See you at two. And Jim, tell him thanks, would you? Not a lot of people would have gone to the extra effort."

"I'll tell him, Sir. See you in a couple of hours." With that Ellison strode hurriedly to the elevator, his mind already working on the details of the stakeouts that weekend.

He was unaware of the knowing smirk McConnel sent his way, though it might not have surprised him – they'd been at odds since they were assigned to work together on this case. Jasper McConnel was an administrator-in-training as far as Ellison was concerned, more concerned about how a case would look on his record rather than solving them on their own merits. It was an attitude than hit the Sentinel wrong, and he'd made no secret of it.

Rubbing at his stiff neck, hoping to ease back the pain in his head a little, Ellison entered the elevator car and punched the button for the ground floor, the sliding doors cutting off the chaotic sight and sounds of Major Crime and encasing the big man in a temporary cocoon of peace.

TSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTS

As Ellison listened to Blair Sandburg expound on the expedition that led to his fascination with tribal guardians, the older man noted again how much more comfortable he felt around the grad student. The mingled aromas from the assorted lunches being served around them had nearly overwhelmed him when he entered the café, yet after only a short time in Blair's company the smells had faded once again to the background. Still, the thought of possibly having heightened senses awakened the echoes of his own father's voice speaking the dreaded word 'freak' in disgust.

Something of his feelings must have shown on his face because the anthropologist stopped in mid-gesture and gave him a puzzled look.

"What?" The infamous Ellison growl was remarkably ineffective against the grad student.

"You're still resisting this whole idea, aren't you? The whole idea of having hyper senses. I did a little research earlier today, before coming here. And I suspect your senses originally came online in Peru, after your helicopter crashed…" he trailed off uncertainly when Jim glowered at him.

"There are laws against invasion of privacy, Sandburg," he ground out.

"What privacy? It was on the cover of a nationally distributed magazine, not a government classified document," Blair pointed out. "I knew I'd heard the name 'James Ellison' before, so I was curious. I mean, hyper senses aside, you're surviving that ordeal is pretty miraculous. And it's a nearly textbook example of the circumstances that can activate Sentinel abilities."

"You mentioned that before. What are you talking about?" Jim asked, interested despite himself.

"Most of the studies mentioned that the Sentinel was usually 'offline,' for lack of a better word, during their youth and early adulthood. They would go on a 'quest' for their abilities, a quest taken alone in the wilderness. The theory was that it was the solitude that brought the senses to full power, though some theorized that a traumatic experience would also work. Based on what I read in that article, you're experiences in Peru encompassed both, yet somehow you managed to suppress your abilities after you were rescued. How much do you remember of that time?"

Normally any questions or comments regarding the time he spent lost in Peru were met with stony silence or outright irritation, but looking into Sandburg's curious, compassionate blue eyes Jim found himself answering with unusual openness.

"I don't remember a lot of it. Just impressions and fleeting glimpses of memories, I have scars from injuries I can't remember receiving. I can recall the first few days, watching the last two of my men die, using a chunk of flat metal from the wreckage to carve out graves for each of my team. And the strange feeling that someone or something was watching. Then it kind of blurs, until I was found by the recon team and brought home." The pale blue eyes were distant and sorrowful for a moment, then with a visible effort Jim brought his thoughts back to the present.

"Definitely traumatic, man. And didn't you mention you'd taken a camping trip alone recently?" Sandburg continued.

"Yeah. Took a vacation, nothing traumatic there, Chief. Had a nice time, actually," the detective smiled a bit sadly. "My divorce had just become final, and I can't honestly say it was a celebration or anything like that, but Carolyn – my ex – was never a big fan of camping, so somehow it just seemed like a good idea."

"Yeah, I can see the logic there, man. So you were gone – what? – a week? Long enough to set the Sentinel abilities back into action. It all makes perfectly good sense."

"Perfectly good sense? This is your definition of 'perfectly good sense'?" Ellison asked in amazement. "This is still all speculation and bullshit, Sandburg." He snorted in disgust and turned his attention on his newly arrived salad.

"Really? And you call yourself a detective," the younger man shot back, stabbing a tomato in his salad emphatically. "Let's back up a minute, okay? What does a detective do, huh? He studies a situation, gathers evidence and clues, and draws a conclusion. And he keeps on repeating that cycle until he finds the answer, right?" At Jim's reluctant nod he continued. "That's what an anthropologist does as well, only their 'crimes,' if you will, are possibly thousands of years old."

"So our jobs are similar, so what? When boiled down a lot of jobs can be described by those steps," Ellison pointed out, not unkindly.

"Okay, good…yeah…right. So, let's say you're doing an investigation, and the evidence turns up that the drug dealer you're trying to catch is your best friend from grammar school. You look at everything six ways from Sunday but it still all points to your friend. This is a guy you've known for twenty-five years, you danced at his wedding, you're the godfather to his oldest son, he's like a brother to you. What do you do, huh? You turn away and pretend the evidence doesn't exist? You warn him so he has a chance to run? No, somehow I just don't see you doing that. You arrest him, then do everything you can to be sure he and his wife and kids get the best legal help. In other words you deal with the reality and the consequences of the situation, right?"

"You getting to a point here, Chief?" the big man wondered testily.

"The evidence on your senses is piling up and still you're not acknowledging the situation, man!" Blair declared with quiet intensity. "What more do you need? Look, let's try a simple test right here, right now. If it doesn't convince you, then I'll pick up the tab and call it fair, okay? I won't bother you any more."

"What kind of test do you have in mind?" the detective asked warily.

"Okay, the ladies in the booth behind you are both having salads. I want you to try to determine what the people in the booth beyond them are having, using your sense of smell. Just close your eyes and concentrate, imagine your sense of smell like an extra arm, reaching out behind you to that booth. What can you smell there?"

The older man gave his companion a skeptic look, but obediently closed his eyes, an expression of concentration crossing his face. He unconsciously tilted his head as he imagined reaching out with his sense of smell, following imaginary wisps of fragrance back to the table behind him. Certain he had the right table, he struggled to untangle the mingled scents, amazed at how the mental imagery helped him.

"Charbroiled meat…hamburger…onion…grease…mustard…root beer. The one is having a burger and fries, with onion, and a root beer. His companion, who is wearing Chanel Number 5, is having…hmm…sauerkraut? Must be a Reuben sandwich, fries, and ice tea," he reported, his eyes still closed as he concentrated.

"Why don't you think it's hot tea?" Blair queried quietly, his eyes glowing with satisfaction at the success of his experiment. Not only was Ellison showing he had the abilities, but it seemed he'd already managed to make a dent in the detective's protective walls around his abilities. Maybe the big man wasn't as much of a hard case as he'd seemed at first.

"Hot tea would probably smell stronger, besides, I heard the ice clinking," Ellison replied without thought, making Sandburg realize the man had actually begun to unconsciously use his senses even as they made his life miserable.

"Fantastic! See? Jim, you can master this, man! A little practice, some work, tests…you will be unstoppable. The ultimate detective," the anthropologist enthused, stopping only when the waitress appeared with their sandwiches.

"We don't even know if I'm right," Jim cautioned his companion, even as he smiled little, savoring the seeming success.

"Right, right. Let me just go check this out," he agreed, sliding out from his seat and walking up to the unsuspecting couple seated two seats behind the Sentinel.

"If you're finished with it could I take the mustard? Our waitress didn't bring us any," Sandburg asked the elderly couple seated there. "Oh, is that a Reuben? Man, I almost ordered that, now I wish I had."

"You should have, Dear," the lady said with a warm smile. "Their Reuben is the best in Cascade, I always order it."

"I'll remember that next time," he promised with a pleased smile before returning to Ellison's table.

"A hamburger and fries, a Reuben and fries, iced tea, and some sort of dark cola, couldn't say for sure if coke or root beer. But I'd say you were absolutely correct, Jim. How're you feeling now? Any headache or pain from using your senses like that?"

"Actually, Chief, I feel pretty good. You're not just saying that I got it right to get me to agree to your idea, are you?" His right eyebrow was cocked up a little, a teasing glint showing in his light blue eyes.

"No way, Jim. I swear, I'll never lie to you about your abilities. I know I give the impression of being a flake at times, but when it comes to Anthropology I'm 100% dead serious," Blair explained, his expression as solemn as his words.

"Fair enough."

"So, you convinced, Jim? Or do you still think I'm making it all up?"

The detective sighed wearily. "I never thought you were making it up, Chief. But I really hoped it was something that could be cured, I don't want to be seen as some sort of unnatural freak." His voice was low and soft, speaking more to himself than to his companion, but Blair had no problem hearing the muted pain.

"Hey man, it's not unnatural, and you are NOT a freak. It's a gift. Look, this may sound strange, but I kind of understand your situation here. Do you know what age I was when I started at Rainer? I was sixteen, man. Sixteen. I was barely even old enough to drive, and I was living on a University campus as a full time student. I was this skinny, scrawny little kid, virtually invisible to the other students, while the professors all treated me like some sort of curiosity. Talk about feeling like a freak. And it was all because I was gifted with a high IQ and a parent who didn't believe in limitations. Take it from me, Jim. You do not have a curse, you are not a freak. This is a gift, and if…when…you learn to control it, you'll understand that." The young man's eyes were glowing with conviction, his sincerity plain to see.

"Okay, okay…I'll believe that when it happens. But I get your point," Jim replied while restlessly turning his coffee cup in his hands. "You're serious though, about this offer to help? You aren't going to get me started then bail on me, are you? I need someone I can depend on, Chief. My job is too dangerous to be playing games."

"Jim, you are the living embodiment of my life's work. I'm not going to bail on you, this is way too important to me."

Jim sighed again, an oddly harsh sound. "Okay, then, if you want to use the information for your thesis, I can go along with that." He held up one hand to forestall the younger man's excited response. "PROVIDED, I am allowed to read, and approve, the final draft before it is submitted. AND, that my name will not be used."

"No problem, man. Protecting the subject's privacy is SOP, and as long as you read my paper with an open mind we will be fine. Oh, God, this is so exciting. I've got to start taking notes, I should have from the first time I realized you might have the senses," the grad student rambled, digging though his well worn backpack for a notepad and pen.

"Slow down, Sandburg. Finish your lunch, we still need to come up with a plan to get you a ride along pass. I don't want it to become common knowledge about my senses, either. For now we need to keep it between the two of us," Jim decided, looking pensively out the window.

"Oh, absolutely. Actually, I don't think you could ever go public, not really. I mean, the senses give you an edge, but they could also be used against you. The fewer people who know, the better chance you'll get the chance to use your abilities, and the safer you'll be."

"Damn, you're right. Okay, yeah…well, we'll keep it quiet. Though I think Simon will have to be told eventually. But not until I know if I can control this. Now finish up your lunch, Darwin, I have to get back to work."

"Yes, Dad," the young man smirked, laughing when the burly detective threatened to smack him.

Jim grinned at his companion's antics as he pulled out a twenty, waving off the grad student's attempts to pay. A strange sense of ease settled over Ellison as they walked toward the exit, a feeling of rightness, of coming home. Something in this effervescent young man seemed to fill a void that Jim hadn't even realized existed in himself before.

"Tell you what, Chief. I'm going to propose your ride-along to Simon after our meeting at two, so can you come by the station at about three, three thirty? I'm thinking I'll just tell him it's for your dissertation, not what the subject is. Say you have to keep the subject under wraps to protect its viability or whatever. I think he'll buy that, he's already grateful for the help you gave with the article. Then you can accompany me Saturday on the stakeout. Sound okay to you?"

"Sounds perfect! I'll grab some supplies, my laptop, I'll see you there. Major Crimes, right? Which floor?" Blair all but bounced in his enthusiasm.

"Seven. If I'm not around just sit at my desk, it's on the right as you come in, look for my nameplate. I'll meet you there," Jim instructed him as they parted company. The anthropologist hurried off toward where he'd parked his car down the street, and Jim watched him with an unconscious warm smile, feeling at ease with himself for the first time in days.

To be continued