A/N: I have been away from the Morse & Lewis forums for too longs, engaging in a slightly illicit affair with the Sherlock Holmes genre... however, I've been a bit under the weather recently, which was a good excuse to re-watch the whole Lewis series on DVD. That, of course, sparked off a ramble through some half-finished stories on my computer, and I found this.

It was originally meant to be a character study on my OC, Hogan, who seems to have proven popular with a couple of you! However, she refuses to come to the forefront in this one! I began developing a story about how forensics alone couldn't solve a crime, indulging in my interest in criminal psychology. The two merged, Hogan took a step backwards, and Lewis and Hathaway got quite a challenging case to deal with.

By way of warning... this one is a little bit heavy on the "owies" for all involved...

It was mid-afternoon. Sunlight filtered through the window, lending a light, hazy atmosphere to the interior of the study. The room was warm, decorated in muted tones; and the walls that were not covered with books and academic accoutrements were panelled in wood that was polished to a deep, antique lacquer. A large globe gathered dust in one corner, and a sprawling desk dominated the end of the room nearest to the windows. In the middle of the room, a circle of armchairs gathered around a large, low coffee table. The room's owner and occupier shuffled towards her chair, aided by her cane, pausing only to place a packet of chocolate digestives on the table.

"Well, then," Professor Woodman said, as she sat down slowly and carefully, settling into her armchair, eying the assembled students, "that's the important part sorted out, I think. Now, let's get started."

There were eight students, sitting in comfortable armchairs arranged in a circle, which included the professor's chair. Woodman rarely left her office, and as such all tutorials took place there. The format was one based around discussion, and all participants had equal footing. Professor Woodman's seminars were legendary on the campus, and each of the students would testify to the quality of discussion. That, and the tea and biscuits that were perpetually on offer were always appreciated, by staff and students alike. Woodman only dealt with small groups, so the classes were always in high demand and fully booked.

The professor reached around to the back of her chair, and pulled a dark blue fleece blanket from the backrest, draping it over her legs. None of the students were at all surprised by this informality – Woodman wouldn't have batted an eyelid if they had turned up in their pyjamas and a dressing gown.

"It's good to see you all," she began, in an accent only lightly touched by her north-eastern roots, "welcome to the first in a series of six sessions on criminal psychology, which I hope you will find interesting."

Woodman tapped her cane on the floor. She was by no means old – most students would have guessed late forties, and been correct – but a car accident several years previously had left her physically weak, and she used a black cane topped with silver to aid her mobility, as well as to emphasise important points in her lectures.

"I hope you've all done your pre-reading," she commented, and was rewarded by a round of nods, some more confidant than others, "good. Well, then… as you know, Criminological psychology is the application of psychological principles to the actions of criminals. The study of the psychology behind criminal actions not only aids in the capture of criminals, but in the prevention of crime and the rehabilitation of offenders."

Some of the students were avidly scribbling notes as she spoke; others were simply content to listen.

"Some of you may have come into this session under the misapprehension that criminal psychology is some sort of cure-all pill that can solve all of the vagaries of crime, in particular in instances of murder, and the serial killer," Woodman continued, glancing at each of her students in turn, "I would urge all of you to dismiss such ridiculous notions. Empty your minds of any kind of TV nonsense and popular paperback poppycock you may assume to be correct. You may be thinking that criminal profiling can be used to see how the perpetrator thinks or reacts, how they feel, what their motivation is, and what they will do next. Things are not so easy in real life…"

"Then, if I may ask, Professor – what is the purpose of profiling, if not to anticipate a criminal's next move?"

Woodman paused, glancing across at the student who had spoken. She never chastised an interruption, and made it clear that she considered that there was no such thing as a stupid question.

"Well, Melissa, profiling can indeed be a useful tool," she replied, "However, you must consider it in conjunction with the results of investigative procedures and the evidence gathered at the scenes of the crime. It is merely part of the picture – a criminal profiler will often assist the police, but they will not single-handedly solve the crime."

"But profiling is still important," one of the young men prompted her.

"Oh, yes, of course," Woodman nodded, pausing to take a sip of her tea, "For example, in the absence of any firm physical evidence – because with the popularity of true crime drama and the strive for realism in these crime-based TV shows everyone seems so fond of – criminals are becoming ever more aware of forensic procedure and ways of avoiding detection. In cases where the criminal is particularly clever, profiling might help to open up new leads of investigation. It is a tool that can be used in apprehending the offender. Now, back to your pre-reading… Who can tell me, on the subject of causative matters of criminal behaviour, what Julie Harrower had to say on the subject?"

There was a brief moment of silence, as several of the students surreptitiously glanced back at their notes. Eventually, one of them spoke up, making no pretence at reciting the passage from memory, as she read from her text book.

"She stated that we all have a genetic inheritance or genetic potential…to criminal behaviour, that is… but in order for that potential to be released there have to be some environmental triggers. She said that it also seems clear that the roots of antisocial behaviour lie in early childhood and that certain events in childhood can increase an individual's psychological vulnerability. These would include: insecure attachment; a weak sense of self; a dysfunctional family; coercive or indifferent parenting; physical, sexual or emotional abuse or neglect; the death of a parent; low family income; an acrimonious separation or divorce and low academic achievement…"

"But these are not the be all and end all," Woodman interrupted, "many rich, intelligent or otherwise apparently well-balanced people may suddenly commit a crime. But remember; there is always a motivation, even though this may not be apparently obvious. Some killers, for example, may choose their victims entirely randomly, and will kill simply for the love of killing."

Woodman took another sip of her tea, as she allowed the students to catch up with their note-taking. She smiled slightly to herself; "Yes. There are those that kill simply for the love of it. Those are the ones that you have to be really afraid of. Now… I'd like to hear your opinions of the four types of serial killer identified by Holmes and DeBurger…"

It was mid-afternoon, but with the conclusion of a court case, three shifts had ended early at the mutual agreement of the two senior offices involved. As such, Sergeant James Hathaway found that, instead of going home to practice guitar for a gig at the weekend, he was being dragged to the pub. As the dragging was being done by two very senior Inspectors, one of whom owed him a pint, he did not feel the need to protest two much.

"I can't believe they let the bastard out on a suspended sentence," Hogan growled, as they walked from the Court towards the nearest pub; "I'm sorry, Robbie – plea-bargain or no, Monkford should have been left to rot in a cell somewhere."

"He's not worth the bother," Lewis replied, tiredly, "let's forget about it, eh? I'll get a round in – what are you having?"

They placed their orders, and Lewis went to the bar while Hogan and Hathaway found a table in a secluded corner. Simon Monkford, the petty criminal and hit-and-run driver responsible for the death of Valerie Lewis, had pleaded guilty to manslaughter. The evidence that he had given in relation to a number of other offences had led to several arrests of other, more violent offenders, and in taking into account Monkford's apparent remorse, the Court had seen fit to release him on a suspended sentence. Were he to commit any further offence within the next twelve months, he faced eight years in jail.

"He's still a bastard," Hogan muttered, to Hathaway, "you never met Val, did you? Marvellous lady… she made one hell of a fruit cake."

"Pardon?" Hathaway blinked, wondering if this was some sort of euphemism.

"Fruit cake, Hathaway – she baked lovely fruit cakes. I like fruit cake."

"You are a fruit cake, sir," Hathaway muttered, under his breath.

Hogan merely raised an eyebrow at him, as Lewis returned with three pints which he set down on the table, before taking a seat. He lifted his glass in a toast.

"Cheers," he said, making an effort to sound light-hearted.

"Cheers," Hathaway agreed.

Hathaway took a mouthful of beer, and groaned aloud when Lewis and Hogan drained half of their glasses in one. It was clearly going to be a heavy night.

"Keep up, lad," Lewis smiled at him, and Hathaway just pulled a face.

Their conversation remained fairly light, each of them studiously avoiding the elephant in the room, until Hogan decided to face it down.

"Sorry, Robbie, but I've got to say it – Val deserved better than that rat-bastard. He should've been taken out and shot."

Hathaway froze, remembering how Lewis hated to talk about his wife. However, they had both been forced to confront that particular aspect of the Inspector's past over the last few days, and Lewis simply sighed in response.

"Aye, she did," he agreed, "but Monkford… he's not even worth the effort of hating, really."

"Agreed," Hathaway nodded in agreement, "fruit cake aside, that is."

"She told you about the fruit cake?" Lewis raised his eyebrows and nodded his head towards Hogan.

"It was good fruit cake!" she replied, in mock-defensiveness.

"It was bloody good fruit cake…" Lewis smiled, a little sadly, "Hathaway, I never said… thanks. For everything… and I'm sorry about my, ah… bad temper."

"Don't mention it, sir," Hathaway replied, hiding a slightly embarrassed flush by taking a mouthful of beer, "unless it's going in my annual review, in which case you may sing my praises to your heart's content."

"I'll put in a good word for you, James," Hogan offered, waving an empty pint glass at him, "you never miss the obvious, for one thing…"

"Like the fact that your glass is empty, sir?" Hathaway noted, dryly.

"He's a bright lad, this one, Robbie," Hogan grinned, as Hathaway collected the empty glasses, and went to get another round in. He was glad he'd remembered to pick up some cash before going to the pub – he had a feeling that he was going to be getting a taxi home tonight.

"But do you really think it's as simple as that?" Professor Woodman shifted slightly in her chair, as the afternoon wore on, cupping her chin in her hand as she leaned forward on one of the armrests, "that serial killers fall into the category of visionary, mission-orientated, hedonistic or controlling?"

"Surely to label killers in such a way is to give them a greater status in the minds of normal people?" one of the young women, Annabelle, spoke up, a slight note of contempt in her voice, "I mean, surely by calling a serial killer a visionary or a missionary serves only to inflate his ego, make him think even greater of himself, and fuel his twisted self-perceptions?"

Woodman bit back a sharp comment; Annabelle was one of the few students who tried her patience – she was a bright enough girl, or else she wouldn't have come to Oxford. However, she tended to think of herself as being smarter than everyone else, including the tutors, and she was not afraid to show it. Woodman leaned back in the chair.

"How does the serial killer know that you have categorised them as such?" Woodman asked, in a level tone, "such killers rarely read criminal psychology books. If they even consider themselves to be criminals, then they already know how they think. They know that they have been given a vision, or that a voice is telling them what to do, or that they are on a mission to rid the world of certain people. Your premise is flawed – you refer to normal people, well, what is 'normal'? Everyone has their own neurosis, phobia, flaw or habit which to them is perfectly normal. You choice of gender – "his", "him", "himself" – I trust you use that in the legal sense of meaning both genders? I would dislike operating under the impression that you do not know that there are female serial killers… let's see… who can name for me five famous female serial killers?"

"Isn't the term "female serial killer" controversial because women don't kill for the same reasons as men?" one of the men, Andrew, asked, quickly; "Male serial killers are usually defined by sexual motivation and their desire for power over victims. These are characteristics that murderesses don't usually display. Female serial killers kill for other reasons, such as for money."

"Good comment, but a discussion for another day," Woodman smiled, "come on – you can name our first 'serial murderess' for me… a famous historical example, please."

"Um… the Countess Erzebet Bathory? She killed an estimated 80 to 600 plus people."

"Which is a wide margin for error," Woodman quipped, "Good. Four more, anyone?"

"Mary Cotton, Belle Gunness, Rosemary West and Myra Hindley," Annabelle supplied, quickly, giving a slightly smug look to the other students.

"Thank you," Woodman nodded, "now, to my earlier question – how else can you categorise a serial killer beyond those four types previously mentioned?"

"Ressler, Burgess and Douglas identified two further models of behaviour," Liam, one of the quieter students, finally spoke up, "the organised and disorganised."

"Excellent," Woodman said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, her legs aching, "Zoë – tell use about organised serial killers."

"Uh…" Zoë glanced around quickly, nervously swallowed, and then spoke; "the, uh, the organised killer is considered to be, uh, socially competent, intelligent , a planner, generally targets strangers, someone who probably uses restraints, is more likely to, uh, to have sex with their victims and might use a vehicle. Typical characteristics would include following the reports about their crime in the media, planning the, uh, the killing, hiding the, uh, the… body, they are, um, careful not to leave evidence, and, uh, they may return to the crime scene."

"Yes. Andrew – while you're making us all another cup of tea, tell us about disorganised serial killers."

Andrew flashed a quick smile, filling the kettle from a nearby large jug of water, and collecting the cups. He spoke as he worked, with much more confidence than Zoë.

"The disorganised killer is often socially immature. He – or she – is a person who may know his victims and he kills them spontaneously. The disorganised killer is often sexually inhibited, may have had a horrible childhood, lives alone, and he leaves a messy crime scene with plenty of evidence. However, he shows no interest in the media. Victims, if hidden at all, might be found easily, in shallow graves for example. Some disorganised serial killers will even keep the bodies in their house, under floorboards or in cupboards, basements or lofts."

"What else can be an issue for serial killers?" Woodman asked, "Annabelle – would you mind fetching my pills from my desk? Thank you."

"Um…" Ayesha held her hand up, not for permission to speak, but as an unconscious indicator that she was thinking, "mobility?"

"Yes," Woodman smiled, and patted her crippled leg, "and not in the way that I am immobile, but…?"

"Travelling serial killers move around to find their victims, while local killers kill in their own region," Ayesha explained, "Hickey, in 'Serial Killers and Their Victims', commented that travelling serial killers are often harder to track in the United States due to the separation of police jurisdictions and the lack of pattern recognition."

"Something that could just as easily happen in this country," Woodman commented, accepting a fresh cup of tea from Andrew, "thank you. Remember, not every murder makes the national news headlines…"

As Hathaway had expected, they were the last ones out of the bar at closing time. Hogan bid them goodnight and staggered off in the direction of the station, proclaiming that she was going to spend the night in her car because she couldn't remember where she lived. Hathaway had tried to point out that her address was printed on her driving licence, but Hogan had merely given him a hug, told him he was wonderful, and wandered off, happily smoking a cigarette she had taken from his pocket.

Hathaway lit up himself, and inhaled deeply. Normally, he tried not to smoke around Lewis, who had made his disapproval of the habit quite obvious, but alcohol had a disturbing tendency to knock down any usual mild inhibitions.

"You alright for a taxi home, sir?" he said, trying not to slur.

"Fine, thanks," Lewis gave him a tired, amused smile, and the Sergeant was mildly irritated to note that his boss did not appear to be anywhere near as drunk as Hathaway felt.

Hathaway had always considered himself to be a fairly hardened drinker – after all, he had been a student – but Hogan and Lewis had quickly demolished this notion, pointing out that they used to drink with some of the best, and he was damn well going to learn to keep up. He gave an exaggerated groan; "I'm going to have to detox for a week after this…"

"Bollocks," Lewis said, happily, and flung an arm across Hathaway's shoulders, "Come on, James... The taxi rank is over here…"

After making sure Hathaway got into the first taxi, Lewis took the next one that came along, and gave his home address. The driver drove altogether too fast, swerving around corners, until Lewis wordlessly took his badge from his pocket and held it up in line with the rear-view mirror with a loud sigh.

The driver's eyes widened slightly, and hit the brakes so hard Lewis would have been thrown from his seat had he not had the foresight to fasten his seat belt. Muttering apologies, the driver made some excuse about needing to get as many fares into the night as possible, wife and kids, know what I'm saying, mate? Lewis gave a polite, disinterested nod, and the rest of the journey passed by smoothly, before the taxi driver dropped him off at the end of his road.

Lewis paid him quickly, getting out of the car. It sped off into the night, and Lewis sighed with relief. Grateful to be out of the cab, he walked down to his house, and took his keys from his pocket. Unlocking the front door, he stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and, without bothering to turn the light on, he headed for the kitchen. However, he froze when something crunched under his shoe; something made of glass. Reaching out blindly, he found the living room light-switch and flicked it on. The room flooded with light and Lewis groaned aloud.

"Oh, no…"

The entire room seemed to have been turned upside down; several of his drinking glasses had been knocked off the worktop, and it was one of these that he had stood on. Paperwork was strewn everywhere, and the side window was clearly broken, letting a cold breeze into the room.

"I don't bloody believe it," he muttered to himself, glancing around.

Taking a step forward, Lewis raised his hands to his head, surveying the devastation of the break-in, wondering what to do first. He did not own anything particularly valuable, but he could not tell if anything had been taken. He was trying to decide if it was worth reporting the matter to his uniformed colleagues, when a movement behind him from the kitchen made him half-turn in surprise.

However, he was not prepared for the heavy blow that came from behind. Agony exploded across the back of his head, and he pitched to his knees with a bark of pain. A second blow completely floored him, and a couple of kicks to his face, ribs and stomach had him completely helpless, curled up and gasping on the floor. He reached out, looking for something, anything to use as a weapon, but a booted foot stamped down heavily on his fingers, and Lewis cried out as he felt a bone snap.

Above him, a gruff voice cursed colourfully, and the last thing Lewis was aware of was invasive hands searching through his pockets, before he completely lost consciousness.

A/N: A long first chapter and a cliff-hanger to whet your appetites... I hope you are hungry for more!