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She closes her eyes, shakes her head, rocks back and forth in her chair. “But Benson is not a man.” “Baby Killer”: Benson keeps the condoms in her nightstand drawer refreshed, and throws the expired ones away. As they shoot through the tunnels, the man looks blearily at Benson, then unzips his duffel bag and vomits into it, almost politely. “Asunder”: Stabler works out every morning at the precinct.
She begins to sing a song softly under her breath, not in English, the syllables rolling out of her mouth like smoke. “Closure: Part 2”: “It’s not that I hate men,” the woman says. And I’m okay with that fear.” “Legacy”: Over breakfast, Stabler’s daughter asks him about Benson’s family. “You always say that family is a man’s one true wealth,” says Stabler’s daughter. She dutifully takes her pill at the same time every morning. “Noncompliance”: The girl-with-bells-for-eyes tells Benson to go to Brooklyn.
“It was spitting.” He hears the banging again, the tone, sounding from somewhere in the house. “The light pooled around the lamp posts.” “There were so many iron gates. “Countdown”: The serial killer promises that there is a bomb hidden under a bench in Central Park. “A young boy has accused his mother of hitting him with a toilet plunger. The boy is the son of a political heavyweight with deep pockets. “She hated water and grass, so we picnicked on the top of her apartment building. It will make her fridge look like the garden of Eden. She will collect it in garbage bags and throw it in the public trashcan near the station before her next trip. I was so scared.” For the first time, Stabler understands. “My theory,” she says, drinking her coffee slowly, with shaking hands, “my theory is that it was her coach, and my theory is that the missing underwear will be found in his office.” The search warrant is issued so quickly that they find the underwear in his top desk drawer, still damp with blood.