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This story is No. 4 in the series "The New York Contingent". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Jenny Brandt's back. Sort of. And she's brought a lot of friends.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Television > Law and Order: SVUMediancatFR181632,338512820,03816 Jul 0910 Aug 09No

A Demon Holds My Place on Earth Till I Die

Just like with the previous fic, the Buffy characters will be gradually woven into the storyline. This is a sequel, of course, to Slayerz, Interim, and a Little Yellow Bird, and is a crossover with, primarily, Law & Order: SVU, and will be archived as such, even though the characters brought in in Interim will be making appearances.

>This represents voices in the head.<

SVU will not have Chester Lake, and Casey Novak will be the ADA.

SVU was created by Dick Wolf, and the Buffy characters by Joss Whedon. Other characters will be disclaimed as they appear.


I'm wrapped in the depths of these deeds that have made me
I can't bring a sound from my head though I try
I can't seem to find my way up from the basement
A demon holds my place on earth 'till I die

-- Neko Case, Furnace Room Lullaby


It didn’t begin with Jenny Brandt. Not even close.

It started a long time before that.

What’s the saying?

“Heaven doesn’t want him and hell’s afraid he’ll take over?”

Truer than you know, in some cases.

Jenny Brandt, admittedly not a “him,” was only the latest example.

But if something like this happened with every murder, the human race would have vanished a long time ago.

No, it only happens occasionally, when a murder becomes a legend.

The last time it reached critical mass was in Chicago, Illinois, when police discovered the infamous “Castle” of Herman Mudgett. Since Eric Larson wrote a bestselling book about it over a hundred years later, it seems fair to say that the legend stuck.

The legends took over not long after. It took six Watchers, a Slayer, a coven of witches, three Chicago cops, a consulting detective from London, and his friend to finish things off, ending just before Christmas.

The cycle began again almost immediately afterwards, in St. Louis, Missouri. It wouldn’t seem like you could get a legend from a fight between a cab driver and a levee hand.

It also wouldn’t seem that something that had taken thousands of years to reach critical mass the first time could reach it again in 112.

And, had you thought that, you would be wrong both times.

As Manhattan is about to find out.


Detectives John Munch and Odafin “Fin” Tutuola approached the crime scene, which had already been taped out; the curious onlookers were already curiously onlooking, with their cell phone and personal cameras out to record whatever they could get; whether for personal amusement or profit, Munch neither knew nor cared. A couple of officers were already canvassing them on the off chance they knew anything. “What happened?” Munch asked as they stepped under the tape.

The uniform guiding them, Officer O’Malley, said, “Man got the crap beaten out of him.” Back in an alley, while cops were searching all around them and CSU waited impatiently, two paramedics were working to lift a man onto a gurney. That was good news; meant he was still alive, at least at the moment.

“Holy shit,” Fin said. “Looks like someone was working him over with a baseball bat.” The man, what parts they could see, was covered in bruises

“Funny you should mention that,” O’Malley said. “Look over there.” She pointed down the alley maybe twenty feet; carefully surrounded by evidence markers lay a baseball bat that, from this distance, looked like it was covered in bloodstains.

“Man, I gotta buy me a lottery ticket,” Fin said. “So. Vic got worked over. What’s that got to do with Special Victims?”

“You don’t want to know,” O’Malley said, and didn’t sound in the least like he was making a joke.

“Yeah, but if we let that stop us, we’d be security guards,” Munch said.

“The bruises on his arms aren’t anything close to the bruises – um – down there,” he said, pointing to his groin.

“Ouch,” Fin said.

“My thought exactly."

"Anyone see anything?" Munch asked.

"No one so far. We're keepin' hope alive, though."

"You do that," Fin said. "Our vic got a name?"

"I'm sure he does," O'Malley said. "But his wallet's in his back pocket and the EMTs beat us to the scene. Wouldn't let us roll him over." He sounded miffed.

"Hey, they're trying to save his life," Fin said irritably.

"Okay, okay," O'Malley said. "Sheesh."

The paramedics had gotten the victim onto the stretcher and were carrying him to the ambulance. Right as they got there, the man leaned up and said something to one of the medics. Then he collapsed.

They got him inside, then, as one of them headed up to the driver's seat, the other came back to where O'Malley, Munch, and Fin were standing. "Here's the wallet," she said, handing it to O'Malley.

Munch intercepted it. "I'll take that." He flipped it open, found the driver's license. "His name is Tom Ashley. And there's a couple hundred in there."

"Didn't think it was a robbery anyway," Fin said. "What'd Ashley say to you?"

"'She asked for directions to Handelman Street,'" she said, obviously quoting Ashley. "I gotta get going." She told them the hospital they were taking him to, and took off.

"Shit," Fin said. "We got ourselves a copycat."

"Copycat?" O'Malley said.

"Yeah. That's what Jenny Brandt asked her victims," Munch said.

"Yeah," O'Malley said. "Shit sounds right."


Frankie got back to her apartment. Her son wasn't home. Thank God.

What the hell had she just done? Nearly --

>Yeah. Nearly. Nearly's not good enough. Next time, you'll have to do better.<

Next time? No, there wasn't going to be a next time.

>Yes. There will be.<
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