Chapter 1 – The Bat-Phone
Disclaimer – This is the second in my experimental Moments of Grace Series, in which I'm rewriting the episodes (with a few of my own thrown in) with all the stuff I yell at the dvd player. Standard rules apply: don't like, don't read – do like, let me know!
Come on – we both know that if I wrote for CM I wouldn't be on here (well, I probably would be, but I'd be writing something else entirely); also I have no money, so suing me would be rather pointless.
Enjoy :)
Essential Listening: Boadicea
0o0
The torture of a conscience is the hell of a bad soul – John Calvin
0
SSA Grace Pearce, late of the London Metropolitan Police and newly sworn in member of the FBI, rolled over, groaning.
As grateful as she was to the FBI for putting her up, the bed in the cadet hall was not the most comfortable she had ever slept on. For one thing, it was a lot more like a sack of potatoes than a mattress.
Blearily, she reached across to the bedside table and groped for her phone, which was what had woken her. Out of habit, she checked the name on the screen before answering it: J. Jareau.
"Hey JJ," she said, groggily.
"Sorry to wake you," said JJ's voice. "But we've got a bad one – the team's heading in."
"Sure, no worries," said Grace, already up and stuffing things into a bag.
"Bring a go-bag, we're going to California."
Grace indicated that she would, and hung up.
Well, California, she thought.
As tough as her new job was, she seemed to have found the cheapest way of seeing every part of North America she could imagine – and many that she couldn't. It was a bit of a shame that every city she visited would forever be associated with a series of fresh corpses, but you couldn't have everything. It wasn't as if the gorier side of police work was new to her, after all.
She hopped into the shower, grateful that the FBI training facility was so close to the building that the BAU called home. Generally, she had about half an hour more to play with in the morning as her colleagues commuted across Washington.
0o0o0o0
"Hey, 007!"
Grace grinned and turned around. The throng of mildly confused FBI agents in the corridor parted to let Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia pass. She was wearing her characteristically bright and cheery clothing and an equally characteristic bright and cheery smile.
Many of the agents turned away again with smiles on their faces. Garcia was impossible not to like, no matter how hard you tried.
"Hi," said Grace, as her friend caught up. "Nice dress."
"Thanks! One of the benefits of never leaving the tech-cave, I don't have to look respectable." She made a face at the sea of suits around her. "It's so boring."
"You get used to it," said Grace, as they climbed into the lift.
"You keep telling yourself that," Garcia quipped, with a sassy grin. "You all look like the personality's been ironed out of you."
Grace laughed and stuck her tongue out at Garcia, glad they were at the back of the lift and none of the other agents could see her do it. Garcia beamed, delighted to elicit such a childish response.
"How're you settling in?" she asked, as the lift ground into action.
"Oh, you know, alright," said Grace, who had been fighting homesickness for the better part of three weeks.
Garcia's expression suggested that she didn't believe her, and Grace offered the analyst a wry smile.
"Even the plug sockets are wrong here," she whined, and Garcia laughed.
"Says you," she said. "You found an apartment, yet?"
"No," Grace sighed.
Between learning the layout of Quantico, figuring out how to get her desk drawers to open, reading through every document on profiling that she could find and spending time with one or two of her new team-mates she hadn't had a lot of time for flat-hunting. The few places she'd seen so far had either been small and run-down or ruinously expensive. She supposed that it came of trying to find a place in the nation's capital.
"What you need is some local knowledge," said Garcia, brightly, tapping the side of her nose. "Hey, I know – why don't you and I do brunch on Saturday and have a hunt?"
"That sounds great, thanks," Grace grinned. "As long as brunch doesn't turn out to be some new, hideous form of aerobics."
Garcia laughed as they stepped out of the lift.
"Don't worry, generally it involves muffins," she said, and Grace laughed, too.
The BAU was more or less deserted, although the light was on in Hotch's office.
Garcia followed her gaze.
"JJ will have called him first, to get the go-ahead for the case," she explained. "The other will take a little longer – they live further out."
Grace nodded, wondering how it was that even at six in the morning SSA Aaron Hotchner still managed to look like he'd stepped out of some kind of FBI styling machine. She could see him leaning over a case file at his desk, shirt without a crease, tie making a perfect parallel with his jacket, not a hair out of place.
"I'll see you in the briefing," Garcia said, walking off down the corridor. "Ciao!"
Grace chuckled, reflecting that the BAU would be a much darker place without Garcia.
She dropped her go-bag under her desk and checked her emails. There were a ridiculous number, considering that she hadn't been a part of the team for even a month.
She was almost done when the rest of the team trickled in.
"You're in early," said SSA Emily Prentiss, wearily, dropping into her seat.
"Didn't have far to come," said Grace, smiling.
"Still living in the training house?" Prentiss asked with a grimace.
"Sadly."
"That's rough."
"What's rough?" SSA Derek Morgan asked, heading over. He handed Prentiss a coffee. It looked like he and Dr Spencer Reid had stopped off at a coffee shop en-route.
"Oh, thank God," said Prentiss, greedily inhaling the fumes.
"I'm still living with the cadets," Grace explained.
"Oh, man. I do not miss that," said Morgan, with sympathy.
"Not having much luck with the house hunt?" Reid asked, carefully putting another Styrofoam cup on Grace's desk.
She shook her head and smiled.
Ever since they'd got back from New Orleans*, Reid had brought her a tea on the way into work as a quiet gesture of friendship.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he shrugged out of his jacket. He looked healthier than he had when they had first met, less drawn out.
She had had more of a front row seat in her new friend's recovery than the others – and more than either of them had really expected. After an initially rocky start – not helped by Grace's mouth, which often got her into trouble, or Reid's unfortunate Dilaudid addiction – they had quickly become fast friends.
They didn't really talk about it. They didn't really need to.
She was determined to be there when he needed her, whenever she could. She had even camped on his sofa a couple of times, early on, when he had been afraid to be alone.
As happy she was at his continued improvement, it had made her first few weeks at Quantico a little exhausting. It was one of the reasons that she'd had so little time for flat-hunting.
"Alright, everyone," Hotch called, leaving his office and nodding towards the meeting room.
They followed him mutely, the coffee not entirely making up for their lack of sleep. Grace took a tentative sip of her peppermint tea. It had taken Dr Reid less than three days to work out her favourite tea, despite simultaneously dealing with some extreme withdrawal symptoms and still trying to put on a brave face at work at the time. It was astonishing, really, how little time he'd missed from the BAU. She had to hand it to him, he really was a genius.
They took their seats around the table, grimacing at the fresh round of gruesome images in front of them. Garcia, who had returned from her lair with her notes, was suddenly a lot less perky.
Grace slowly pulled one of the photographs towards her, fighting the sudden ringing in her ears. The ex-person in the image was charred and blackened, face contorted in death.
Carefully, she placed the picture back down on the desk and reclaimed her tea, suddenly needing its warmth and the sharp sweetness of the peppermint to steady her mind and breathing. She exhaled the steam just as carefully, fervently hoping that no one had seen her change in demeanour. No one needed to see her go to pieces this early in the morning.
"Two fires, two families in three weeks," said JJ, working the digital display at the front of the room. "The first family, the Jarvises, all died."
A photograph of a happy family unit flickered onto the screen. Grace looked away after a moment, pretending, instead, to glance over at the door as SSA Jason Gideon stalked in.
"Last night, the Cutlers," JJ continued, changing the picture. Three more happy faces beamed out at them. "Only one survivor, Charlotte Cutler. She's in critical condition with burns to over sixty percent of her body."
JJ sat down as the team as a whole grimaced and tutted. The odds of survival for Mrs Cutler were not high.
"Well, it's no accident," said Prentiss, heavily, scanning through the file. "It's the same MO. No fuses, kerosene… multiple points of origin. Families targeted at home while they slept…"
"Coward," Grace muttered, breathing in more peppermint, willing her head to stop reeling.
She could almost taste the smoke.
"The Bay Area has a serial arsonist," said Hotch, soberly.
"Statistically, ninety-four percent of all serial arsonists are male," said Reid. "Seventy-five percent are white and few, if any, are ever caught."
"Few?" Prentiss asked, surprised. "You don't have a percentage?"
Grace glanced at Reid, glad of the distraction.
"Sixteen percent," he admitted. "And those sixteen percent set thirty-plus fires before they're ever apprehended. I'm trying to be more conversational," he added, to Prentiss.
"Oh," said Prentiss, shaking her head slightly. "It's not working."
Morgan and Garcia smirked at the light-hearted dig; even Grace smiled slightly, though mostly because Reid glanced in her direction.
"Most serial arsonists don't intend to inflict harm," said Prentiss, getting back on track. "Injuries or death, those are accidental. It's not about violence."
"For this one it is," said Hotch.
"Fire as a weapon," Grace mused, quietly. "Difficult to control, almost as dangerous to the UnSub as the victims."
"It's also about power," Gideon agreed. "Seeing the destructive force of their fires. Watching the chaos. For them, fire's just a substitute for sexual release."
"Oh, great," said Garcia, in disbelief. "So, if these guys don't get laid, they start fires?"
"Or in this case, burn entire families to death," Gideon confirmed. Gideon looked away, embarrassed.
"No statistic?" Prentiss asked Reid.
"No, they don't have statistics on this guy," said Gideon, as Reid shook his head. "One of a kind."
"Thank God," said Garcia, and Grace nodded, her head filled with heat and smoke.
"Three weeks ago this serial arsonist escalated into a serial killer whose weapon is fire," Reid summarised. "Why?"
"A major event," said Hotch, simply. "Possibly the break-up of his primary sexual outlet. A separation, a loss…"
"Might also have coincided with some trauma at work," Grace speculated. "If fire is about power then watching these people die is going to make him feel almost God-like. I'm betting he feels pretty powerless in his everyday life."
"Classic overcompensation," Morgan observed.
"Alright," said Gideon, moving them forward. "What about the victims?"
"SFPD can't connect the Jarvises and the Cutlers," said JJ, going over the file in front of her. "But – uh – witnesses put an unidentified late model gold sedan near both fires."
"Run the car," said Hotch. "Garcia, run the victims through your system. If there's a connection we need to find it."
"Yes, sir," said Garcia, fitting her glittery pen between her teeth and gathering her notes.
"Reid – victimology," Hotch continued as the team began to make a move towards the door. "I'll go see Charlotte Cutler."
"You took the burn ward last time," Gideon interjected.
"It's alright, I got it," said Hotch, glancing across at his friend. Grace caught a glimpse of him frowning down at the picture of Charlotte Cutler as she followed Morgan out of the room.
She guessed she wasn't the only one facing a tough day.
Gideon took her to one side as they passed his office.
"You have your firearms certification?" he asked, as she followed him inside.
Grace nodded; the shiny new gun on her belt suggested as much, so she knew that Gideon hadn't brought her here to talk about that.
She glanced around as he collected files together. The room was covered in books – mostly in cases, some in piles. Case notes and photographs lined the walls and lay haphazardly on the desk and coffee table. It was as if there hadn't been enough room in Gideon's head to keep it all in, and some of it had spilled out into the physical world. There were rows of photographs in brightly coloured frames opposite his desk.
Survivors, Grace guessed.
"You gonna be okay out there?"
"Sir?"
He pinned her with a searching look, and – not for the first time – Grace wondered whether he really could read minds.
"I read your file," he said, after a moment. "I'd imagine fire wouldn't be one of your strong points right now."
Grace glanced involuntarily down at Gideon's desk, frowning slightly. She really needed to get her hands on a copy of that file.
"I'll manage," she said, once again meeting his steady gaze.
After a moment's scrutiny, he nodded.
"I need to know my agents can handle themselves in the field," he said, plainly. "If you get into trouble, need to take a step back… you'll let me know?"
"Yes sir," said Grace, though she was aware that it hadn't really been a question.
"Okay," said Gideon, turning back to his files. "Wheels up in twenty."
0o0o0o0
*See Moments of Grace: Jones, or just watch the episode and imagine our Grace in the midst, as it were.