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Murdered Emma

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"Son of a bitch," Elliot swears, dropping a fist onto his desk with a thud. Olivia looks over to her partner to see barely contained emotion written across his features. He meet her gaze for a spilt second then shoots out of his seat, making it clatter loudly.

"Captain," he calls, heading for Cragen's office. Olivia exchanges confused glances with Munch and Fin before taking after her partner. Without hesitation, the remaining two detectives follow suit. Inside, Cragen's face is grim as he watched Elliot wave around a couple of photographs and what appears to be a rap sheet or two. Olivia lays a calm hand on his arm, and Elliot stops, a sheepish look upon his face.

"Explain," she says. Elliot spreads the photos out on the captain's desk. One shows a family of four, a man, a petite young woman, and two boys, obviously twins, approximately 18 months old. The second and third photos are in similar manner, a man, a petite woman and a young daughter. Elliot keeps the final photo hidden, instead showing the others the two rap sheets.

"Look," he says, jabbing his finger at the first rap sheet, then at the family of four. "The woman, the mother." Fin looks at the second rap sheet and another photograph.

"Both the mothers are doing time for murder," he points out, confused.

"They're both in jail for abusing and killing their kids," Munch adds, still as confused as his partner.

"All three women are brunette and petite, giving birth not long after they were married..." Olivia reads out then pauses. She stared at the sheets, then the photos, then back at the sheets, her eye growing wide. "The husbands," she breathes. Elliot nods.

"Claire Taylor marries Michael-John St. Patrick, twin sons, murdered aged 2 and a half. Hannah Emmery marries Jonathan Patrick Carmichael, daughter named Sarah, murdered aged 26 months. And Tammy Simmons marries Padraig Mikel Johnson. They have a daughter named Emma," he reads out, brandishing the last photo. "Michael-John St. Patrick, Jonathan Patrick Carmichael and Padraig Mikel Johnson are just word plays. His real name is Patrick Michael St. John. He was abused by his own father and his younger brother, Peter, was beaten to death, aged three. Colin St. John swears it wasn't he who murdered Peter, but Patrick, but the evidence only pointed to Colin." Fin and Munch exchanged glances, then look over to their captain.

"Go get him," Cragen orders. The four detectives shoot out of the office, intent on catching their killer.


My name is Emma,
I am but three,
My eyes are swollen,
I cannot see.

I must be stupid,
I must be bad,
What else could have made,
My daddy so mad?

I wish I were better,
I wish I weren't ugly,
Then maybe my mommy,
Would still want to hug me.

She sits in the dark of her room, huddled against the bed-head, face swollen, body bruised. She checks the door and finds it unlocked. Carefully she tip-toes through the house, looking for any sign. No one seems to be home but she knows better.

I can't speak at all,
I can't do a wrong,
Or else I'm locked up,
All the day long.

When I awake,
I'm all alone,
The house is dark,
My folks aren't home.

When my mommy does come,
I'll try and be nice,
So maybe I'll get just,
One whipping tonight.

She knows her mommy is laying somewhere in a deep sleep, unable to help her or save her. Her small belly rumbles, a feeling she has become familiar with. She looks for something to eat in the kitchen, but freezes at the sound of a car door.

Don't make a sound!
I just heard a car,
My daddy is back,
From Charlie's Bar.

I hear him curse,
My name he calls,
I press myself,
Against the wall.

"Emma!" her father slurs angrily, cursing that in his drunken stupor he cannot fit the key in the lock. She presses herself against the wall, hoping to hide from his sickening gaze, silent tears making shiny tracks down her grimy face.

I try and hide,
From his evil eyes,
I'm so afraid now,
I'm starting to cry.

He finds me weeping,
He shouts ugly words,
He says its my fault,
That he suffers at work.

He stumbles inside, still cursing and mumbling and shouting threats and foul words. Slamming the door, he spots her huddled against the wall. He ditches the empty bottle in his hand at her, feeling no satisfaction when it collides with her shoulder. Annoyed, he totters over and slaps her, and hits her, yelling just because he can.

He slaps me and hits me,
And yells at me more,
I finally get free,
And I run for the door.

He's already locked it,
And I start to bawl,
He takes me and throws me,
Against the hard wall.

I fall to the floor,
With my bones nearly broken,
And my daddy continues,
With more bad words spoken.

She manages to duck one of his swings and scrambles over to the front door, only to find it locked. She cries harder but still does not make a sound, even when he grabs her small body and swings it into the wall with a sickening crunch. She lays there sprawled on the floor, unable to move, unable to get up.

"I'm sorry!", I scream,
But its now much too late,
His face has been twisted,
Into unimaginable hate.

The hurt and the pain,
Again and again,
Oh, please God, have mercy!
Oh, please let it end!

And he finally stops,
And heads for the door,
While I lay there motionless,
Sprawled on the floor.

"I'm sorry," she manages to cry out, the first words she's spoken in ages, before he delivers a good blow to her temple. She lays there unmoving, while he beats her, his anger and frustration pounding into her broken body.

After a while, he stops, feeling no remorse, only breathlessness. Ambling over to the fridge, he pulls out a can, flicking the top with ease. All whilst this was happening, he never heard the cars pull up, never heard the officers surround his house, only seeing them as he stumbles back outside. They pin him down like an animal as he flails his arms about.

The four SVU detectives enter the house, Elliot and Olivia followed by Munch and Fin. Olivia chokes back a sob as she sees the broken little body in a heap against the wall. Elliot check for a pulse on the rapidly cooling body but finds none.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Olivia whispers, stroking back the young girl's hair.

My name is Emma,
And I am but three,
Tonight my daddy murdered me.


 They find the mother's body chained to a wall in the basement, no marks on her body save for that around her ankle. She is malnourished and dehydrated but alive. She does not make sound when Olivia tells her her daughter is dead. Only two small tears betray what she is really feeling.

There is no funeral service, only the simple burying of the small body of Emma Simmons-Johnson. The headstone is bare save for the name and date. There are no messages and the only color is the blood red of a rose place delicately on the casket. A few days later, a second headstone is added next to the first. This reads Tammy Simmons.