The Cradle Rocks
Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner (Criminal Minds)
Another day, another murder, another dead politician on the mortuary slab.
Who is a greater reprobate than he
Who feels compassion at the doom divine?
-Dante Alighieri
I.
A dull 'thud.' A cry of pain. A body falling onto the ground, hands splayed.
"Don't move."
She hovers above him, heels clicking against the wooden floor, loops her scarf around his wrists. He winces as she rolls him onto his back and for a moment he feels her fingers brush against his head wound, her touch soft and tender.
Confusion fills his mind and he tries to adjust the profile until pain overwhelms him and his eyes close, the world fading to black.
-o-
"Agent Hotchner?"
Hotch starts, blinks, looks the psychologist in the eye. She is a thin woman, bony, her shoulders stiff beneath the shiny material of her suit jacket. If he were to profile the room, her, he'd say she was an over-achiever, product of a single-parent home, forever jostling with older siblings for attention.
He does none of these things, instead he frowns, he waits.
"I asked you why you chose this particular case?" she presses.
Hotch swallows, clears his throat.
-o-
II.
Another day, another murder, another dead politician on the mortuary slab. JJ nods as she enters the room and Hotch dips his head briefly in return, already opening the case file. Morgan and Reid arrive next, looking worse-for-wear, and he feels a stab of guilt for calling them back into the BAU. Guilt that fades when he turns the page and looks down at the photo of Mark O'Brien, Senator, found in his home with two bullet wounds through the back of his skull.
"We have three Senators, one Ambassador, all killed within the last six weeks," JJ begins, wasting no time. "All killed in their homes, in the hallway. No sign of forced entry, security cameras were disabled a day previously, no fingerprints or fibres left at the scene."
Four very high-profile victims; the press had seized upon the story like the vultures Hotch likened them to, spouting nonsense theories, their articles laced with barely veiled hints the victims had brought their deaths upon themselves.
"Well, this guy is definitely methodical," Morgan says. "Knocking out the security cameras a day ahead? That shows premeditation. These aren't spree kills."
Hotch says nothing as he watches JJ sift through the files, looking at one shattered skull after another, expression blank. He frowns, worries for a moment, decides JJ is old enough to take care of herself.
"Male and female victims," Reid says, "that's unusual."
"Only if the unsub is drawn to a physical type," Rossi disagrees, glancing through the photographs. "Look at the cause of death. Always two shots, all confined to the same area. No sexual gratification evident. These are executions."
"But why?" Morgan asks.
"They offended the unsub in the same way, perhaps. Did something they view as unforgivable and punishable by death?" Reid offers.
"But these victims were politicians. At some point or another they all would have done something to someone. The list of enemies will be extensive," Morgan points out, voicing an obvious concern.
Hotch nods and gathers the files, hears JJ tell the team that the jet leaves in thirty minutes. There is something about this case, he thinks, something he can't place his finger on but it isn't anything good.
-o-
O'Brien's house reminds Hotch of how his used to be. White rooms, plush sofa cushions, scenes of domestic bliss displayed on the walls. Pictures that tell one story when reality is another.
"So, the unsub knocks and O'Brien answers the door," Rossi calls from the front of the house. "He draws his gun, steps inside, orders O'Brien to turn and kneel. Then he fires two shots, straight through the back of the head."
Hotch nods, his eyes flicking from the blood-soaked carpet to the blood-spattered walls and back again.
He thinks of his old house, of George Foyet, of killers who walk straight into their victim's homes and leave devastation in their wake.
-o-
The police station is like any other. The air conditioning too low, the tope walls too dull, the coffee too bitter. The police are sceptical and whispers follow them, snide and snard, with obvious distrust. Hotch ignores all of this as he stares at the whiteboard, not acknowledging Dave when he stands behind him.
"Is this the one where if you stare at it long enough it turns into the image of a swan?"
Sarcasm, Hotch thinks, one of Rossi's defence mechanisms. One used when the case has no leads and levity, however brief, is needed.
"What links these victims besides their profession?" Hotch mutters.
"Perhaps that is the only link?"
Hotch exhales slowly, thinks if only it were that easy.
-o-
"Should we warn them?" JJ asks, pushing a cup of coffee towards him.
Made his way; strong, black, no sugar. It's good coffee and he gives JJ the barest hint of a smile over the paper cup. 'Them', Hotch thinks, the elusive 'them.' The team still hadn't been able to find a link between the four victims. All had different postings, the senators from different states, the ambassador in Washington for only a day before being murdered. No, they were targeted specifically. Their killer was too organised, too methodical, to do anything without reason. However warped that reason may be.
Hotch leans forward, places the coffee to his right. Steam wafts upward, like cigarette smoke.
"We're going to have to."
Again, that feeling prickles at the back of his neck. He pushes it back down.
-o-
III.
Hotch looks over the psychologist's shoulder, reads the plaques that lined the walls. She had graduated from Harvard with full honours, cum laude. No easy feat. Impressive enough for the FBI to seek her out rather than visa versa. Much like his own recruitment, much like Garcia's, much like Rossi's. People taken beneath the bureau's wing, kept on the 'good side.'
"I'm presuming you were looking for a trigger?" she asks, drawing him away from his observations.
"Of course," he answers, "but with this sort of profession, the usual rules did not apply." A world where liars prosper and truth-tellers are mocked, looked down upon.
"You must have had theories?" she presses.
"True," Hotch concedes, "but without understanding victimology one has to be hesitant when speculating about a trigger."
She nods, her pencil scratching over the notepad.
"That must have been frustrating."
Stupid question; stupid, stupid question. Hotch wants to roll his eyes, wants to show a childish display of annoyance. Instead, he makes a non-committal sound from the back of his throat, mentally prepares for the next question.
"And this is when you began contacting potential victims?"
-o-
"We can split the list between the five of us," Hotch says, handing the team a pile of folders each. "Ask if they can think of anyone with a specific grudge against these four. Also, warn them that we have yet to pinpoint why these four were targeted and that they themselves may be in danger."
Reid nods, already turning on his heel and heading toward the door of the police station, Morgan close behind. JJ and Rossi are slower, taking a moment to flick through the files. Hotch mirrors them and frowns when his eyes fall on a familiar face.
"Hotch?"
He glances up at Rossi's voice and answers the unspoken question. What is it?
"Emily Prentiss," he explains, sliding the file across to Dave. "I met her twenty years ago when I was assigned to her mother's security detail."
Rossi raises his eyebrows as he picks up the photo. "Pretty," he remarks, off-hand, though the corners of his mouth twitch. Hotch knows what he's thinking. For him to remember a face from so long ago the girl must be memorable. He frowns, thinking back to their first meeting. Intriguing, he remembers, dark eyes that gave nothing away. Not that he'd tried, they'd met in passing, their interaction confined to smiles that didn't reach their eyes; to the tail end of an argument between her and her mother, to a cutting riposte that had left the older Ms Prentiss in tears.
"You look surprised, Hotch," JJ says, effectively ending Rossi's interrogation before it had truly begun.
"I didn't think she would follow in her mother's footsteps," he admits. "She never appeared particularly impressed by her profession."
He remembers Emily Prentiss' teenage words, spat out in anger. "You are a puppet, mother! Nothing more, nothing less."
"Things change," JJ points out.
Hotch nods, takes Emily Prentiss' photo from Dave and slips it back into the file. He ignores Rossi's smirk as he walks from the police station towards the waiting SUV.
-o-
Egotistical. Manipulative. Callous.
Adjectives, each more damning than the last, resound in Hotch's mind as he closes the door of the car. Three politicians interviewed and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, he thinks the media may be onto something when they call these murders the 'retribution killings', understandable acts of justice.
His phone rings and he answers without looking at the screen.
"Hotch. There's been another murder."
He closes his eyes, leans his head against the head rest, asks for another piece of the puzzle.
-o-
IV.
After Foyet, Hotch thinks, perhaps he should have tendered his resignation, gone into private practice, used his skills in the courtroom. Then he thinks of Jack, of him playing with toy soldiers and knows he could never leave. He wonders briefly how his latest fight would play in Jack's world, then decides he doesn't want to know. He had beaten Foyet, but she had slipped through his fingers. A fact he continues to loathe, continues to be impressed by.
"And it was the fifth murder that brought you closer to the suspect?" the psychologist says and he feels a surge of irritation. She knows what happened, when it happened, how it happened, it was all in his report. But she has to have a piece of glory, her part that says 'I was here', 'I did that.'
"Inadvertently," he answers, betraying none of his annoyance, his contempt.
"Inadvertently?" she echoes, sounding sceptical.
"It was a matter of geography."
-o-
Hotch takes a step back as the door opens but doesn't offer a smile. Emily Prentiss raises an eyebrow though doesn't ask why he's here. Later, he realises it's because she already knew. Instead, she opens the door further and points him inside. He walks into the living room and waits, declines her offer of coffee. She has changed over time, he observes. Where once her hair had fallen well below her shoulders, it was now shorter, reaching mid-way along her neck; her make-up was lighter, made to appear as if she was wearing none at all. Her clothes more conservative, less radical.
"How may I help you, Agent Hotchner?" she asks as she sits down.
"I presume you've heard about the recent murders?" he says.
"I can't imagine many people haven't," she retorts.
Her voice has also changed, he thinks, become more clipped, more polished. He doesn't speak for a moment, watches her body language. She sits straight and tall, her elbows tucked in, arms crossed at the wrist. It reminds him of Sunday church, where he and his brother were to be seen and not heard. The perfect children.
"Did you know the five victims?" he asks.
"Five?"
"Ambassador Lambert was killed this morning," he continues, gauging her reaction.
There is none. No shifting where she sits, no rapid blinking, no fear in her eyes. Just a carefully-fitted mask, one constructed through years of public attention. He wonders briefly if he could tear the mask away, thinks it would be a challenge. Then wonders why he wonders any of this.
"And you're here to warn me?" she asks.
"Yes," he states. "You share the same profession as the victims."
She laughs softly and without humour. "I'll be extra vigilant," she says, her voice laced with sarcasm. She pauses, smirks. "Though, Agent Hotchner, I can't imagine you truly believe that profession is all that links these 'victims.'"
"And why is that?"
Answering a question with a question; a lawyer's trick, a politician's speciality. The two sit opposite each other, their expressions blank, seemingly disinterested. Poker-face. He thinks, sitting there, she is a formidable opponent. Later, he thinks he stood no chance at all.
She shrugs, her suit jacket straining at the shoulders. "Call it a … hunch."
He nods, unwilling to admit he doesn't understand, rises to his feet, notices a photo on the wall. Two teenage girls, both grinning at the camera, their arms around each other. They both have dark hair and dark eyes, their skin pale in contrast.
"My sister," Emily says, startling him. He hadn't heard her crossing the room.
"You look close."
A undefinable emotion flickers across her face before it settles into its former state. "Yes," she whispers softly.
Hotch, sensing she would say nothing more, doesn't press any further.
-o-
V.
"And this was your first contact?"
"In regards to the case? Yes."
The psychologist stops writing and places the notepad on the small table. She leans forward, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes bright, eager. As if this is entertainment, Hotch thinks, and his lip curls in distaste. Perhaps she notices because she sits straight, coughs lightly, nods for him to continue.
-o-
Days pass, leads fail, and Hotch closes his eyes for a brief moment, willing the whiteboard to tell him something, anything. It doesn't, remains stubbornly ordered. No scrawl, no theories, just 'deceased' and 'unsub' above the five victims photographs. No calling card, no clues, just bodies with bullet holes. He looks to the side at the sound of footsteps, finds JJ looking back, brow furrowed.
"There's been another murder," she says, biting her bottom lip. "It's…uh…different."
Her eyes are troubled, almost nervous, and Hotch gathers the rest of the team without discussion, finds himself behind the wheel with JJ in the passenger side.
"Different, how?" he asks, turning his head.
"The victim is very different for one," she answers; her cheeks flush as she puts her thoughts into words. He finds it odd, yet endearing, that she can fend off the media, put Rossi in his place, but is still surprised when he asks her opinion. "Charles Harris, he's a well-known drug dealer. It looks like the unsub emptied the entire clip."
"A personal connection," Hotch says, almost to himself, "that's extreme overkill."
JJ nods, grimaces. "His skull was all but pulverised. They identified him by a tattoo."
Hotch's stomach turns.
-o-
Morgan stalks around the room, examining bookshelves, pulling frames off the wall. Hotch ignores him, focuses on the body on the floor. Face-down, blood pooled beneath, soaking the wooden floor. He is reminded of Elle's apartment, of the word 'rules', wonders how much bleach it will take to remove the blood stain.
"Are we even sure this is our unsub?" Morgan asks.
He sounds almost hopeful.
"No forensic evidence, no sign of forced entry, it appears as if the same weapon was used..."
"But a full clip? That's-"
"Personal," Hotch interjects.
"What do drug dealers, Ambassadors and Senators have in common?" Reid says, rocking back and forth on his heels, enough that Hotch thinks he may fall.
It's a rhetorical question, one that can only be answered when the case is solved.
-o-
Dim lights, soft music, strong liquor. Expensive, but Rossi's buying so he doesn't complain. He swills scotch in the glass, watches as the amber liquid almost tips over the edge. Somewhere, a patron knocks over their drink, muffled curses grating against his ears. A waiter hurries past, clears the mess in a matter of seconds, restores the bar's former ambience.
"Hotch?"
He looks up at Dave's voice, raises his eyebrows.
"Isn't that your girl?"
Hotch turns on the stool, searches for the elusive 'girl.' He rolls his eyes when he sees Emily Prentiss weaving her way through tables, turns back to Dave who smirks. The other man straightens in his chair, catches Emily's attention. She frowns for a moment, looks to debate with herself, before she walks over to them both.
"Agent Hotchner," she greets before she looks at Dave, interrupting him before he has a chance to even speak. "Agent Rossi."
Dave frowns, confusion crossing his face as he holds out his hand for Emily to shake.
"You gave several guest lectures when I was at Georgetown," Emily explains. "I should be offended that you don't remember me."
The words are harsh but her lips tilt upward. Hotch laughs in spite of himself as Rossi dips his head, embarrassed.
"You studied psychology?" Rossi asks, recovering his composure.
Emily laughs, light and sweet. Its infectious; enough that he smiles. Another facet of one complicated 'girl.'
"God, no," she says, "I studied Linguistics and Political Science, but when I heard the David Rossi was speaking … well, French class didn't seem that important."
Rossi straightens, puffs his chest out, and Hotch muses at just how well Emily Prentiss is able to play people. Even seasoned profilers who should know better. She gives Dave one last smile before she turns and goes to one of the corner tables. Her companion leans across the table, engages her in conversation. Emily glances up for a brief moment, catches Hotch's eye, doesn't react.
Rossi turns to him, eyes narrowed. "You didn't tell me-"
"There's nothing to tell," he interrupts, closing the conversation.
Rossi says nothing further.
-o-
VI.
The fluorescent light bathes the psychologist in shades of unflattering grey and he thinks she looks washed out, tired. Much like everyone else in the bureau, his mind continues cynically. She has resumed writing, her pencil flying back-and-forth across the page as if it's a race. He isn't bothered by what she writes, if she deems him to be unfit for work he will simply have Garcia change the results, throw in psychological jargon to fool his superiors. Still, he's curious.
"And you still didn't have any suspicions?" she asks, incredulous.
Hotch's eyes narrow, once again thinks her a fool. He shouldn't have to justify himself to this bureau puppet who knows nothing of the field, of unsubs like Emily Prentiss.
"Why would we?" he retorts. "She was smart, covered her tracks..."
-o-
They re-interview potential victims, possible suspects. There is less bravado, more fear, and Hotch sees that maybe, just maybe, these people feel. Though, perhaps its annoyance that they've been placed in the same category as drug dealers.
"Garcia, look particularly closely at Charles Harris' background. That kill was personal and there must be something there that will lead us to him. Look at any links between politics and the drug crew that Harris was involved in."
Him, he has thought many times later, he's grown chauvinistic in his time at the BAU.
-o-
Hotch closes the door of the SUV and climbs the steps to Emily Prentiss' house. It's more than she needs, he thinks, too many bedrooms for a single woman, too many rooms to clean. He shakes his head slightly, remembers she is a blue-blood, accustomed to a rich lifestyle. He rings the doorbell, waits patiently, surprised that Emily looks expectant when she opens the door, as if she had predicted he would come around again.
"Agent Hotchner," she greets, stepping aside.
He nods, all business once again, though this time he accepts the coffee she offers.
"So," she says, stirring in cream. "What brings you here, Agent Hotchner?"
She speaks as if they are talking about the weather, as if there isn't a serial killer murdering politicians and drug dealers.
"You've heard about the latest murder?" he says, seeing no need to cushion his questions with small talk.
"Charles Harris," she responds. "Of course."
"Can you think of anything that links him to the five politicians?" he asks, hating the note of desperation in his voice.
Emily raises a thin eyebrow, surveys him over her coffee mug, takes a sip.
"Agent Hotchner," she says finally. "Do you know what is intrinsic in politics?"
He shakes his head, unsure where this particular train of thought is going.
"Keeping secrets under wraps," she continues, "hiding the bad from the public eye, pushing scandals beneath the carpet, maintaining that perfect veneer. If you can do that, then you will succeed. If you can't then you won't last very long."
"And drugs would be a big scandal," he says.
She nods, flashes him a smile.
"Exactly."
She doesn't say anything further and Hotch sips his coffee, staying until he has finished. It borders on unprofessional; he is an investigator, she is a potential victim. But he feels comfortable with Emily Prentiss, sees something of himself in those dark eyes.
Later on, he feels terrified.
-o-
VII.
The psychologist abandons her note-taking, looks at him as if he were a child.
"You didn't find it unusual that she offered information? Isn't that common behaviour in serial killers? To inject themselves into the investigation?" she asks.
Hotch scowls, fixes her with a glare. "That's true," he concedes after a pause, "but she didn't seek out information, didn't call, only 'offered information' as you say when she was asked. None of that seemed suspicious. I asked her opinion, not visa versa."
"She played you," the psychologist summarises.
He nods, hates that he didn't see what now seems so obvious.
"Yes, she did."
-o-
More days pass, feeling too drawn out or too short in varying patterns. Two more politicians lose their lives. One male, one female, both placed under the same umbrella of 'victim.' Reporters continue to linger outside, huddling beneath umbrellas when it rains, waiting for JJ to give another press conference, wanting to hear once again that they have no leads, adding to the notoriety this killer gains with each kill. 'Bigger than Bundy!' the headlines proclaim, 'More dangerous than Foyet!'
Morgan says, "Hotch?" and he glances up with weary anticipation.
"Another murder?"
Morgan nods and JJ pops her head into his office, tells him to grab his go-bag, they're flying to New York.
"And Hotch?" JJ says as they board the jet. "There was a conference of some sort at the hotel so it's jam-packed with politicians, businessman, high-end lawyers, etcetera."
Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose, hates this unsub, hates this case.
-o-
Three hotel rooms, side-by-side, three politicians killed minutes apart.
"This is a huge escalation," Reid comments, stepping around the body, letting the technicians do their jobs.
JJ says nothing but Hotch notices her frown, wants to know her opinion.
"We've profiled that this unsub has a list," she says in a rush, "what if it was simple luck that three of them were so close together? The unsub knocks on the door, gets let inside and 'bang'. It's over and done with and they just have to move next door. It's almost like a bank-robber that sees another open safe and judges that he can take a bit more without any undue risk."
Hotch nods in agreement, calls Garcia.
"I'm searching the hotel security cameras," she answers before he so much as opens his mouth, "and you're going to hate this. There's no footage of that hallway or the two above and below-"
"Coincidence?" Hotch asks.
"Highly doubtful, sir. And before you say anything, I thought that maybe the tapes had just been wiped and I could rebuild the footage but the cameras weren't even turned on so-"
"It's a dead-end," Hotch finishes.
"Precisely."
He ends the call, turns when Rossi stands beside him.
"We need to go downstairs," he tells Hotch. "We've got a hundred-or-so people to interview, each with a bigger ego than the last. It's a wonder they all fit in there."
Hotch spares a smile. "You'll blend right in."
-o-
Men in tuxedos, women in gowns excessive amounts of cheap champagne. Hotch is reminded of the gala events he attended as a prosecutor, remembers each excruciating moment. He looks around the room, spies another group of businessmen he hasn't interviewed, but stops when a soft hand touches his elbow.
"Agent Hotchner."
He recognises her voice and turns to look at the woman to his side. She looks different; gone is the tailored business suit, replaced with a simple but flattering dress. She points toward the group of men he'd been looking at a second ago and whispers in his ear, her breath warm against his skin.
"Watch them, they're the ones most likely to file a complaint for anything and everything."
"So, choose my words carefully?"
"Exactly."
"I don't suppose you knew any of the victims?" Hotch asks. He's grasping at straws, knows this, but right here, right now, he can't bring himself to care.
"Perhaps, who were they?" she asks.
"Leonard Hill, Margaret Coben and Anthony Pritchard."
She nods as she signals to one of the waiters around the room, takes a glass of water from the tray.
"Hill was a mid-level politician, had a high opinion of himself. Coben was much the same, though was due for a promotion, not that anyone is supposed to know that, and it was rumoured that Pritchard was going to be sent to Syria. He'd had some success there in the past."
Hotch raises his eyebrows, impressed. "You seem to know a lot about them."
She gives a half-shrug, nonchalant. "Knowledge is power in politics; it pays to keep your ear to the ground."
"Sounds like the bureau."
Emily laughs, light and sweet. "Perhaps I should apply."
"I think you'd do very well."
It's a slip of the tongue, but the sentiment is very much real, very much terrifying.
"Can I interrupt this tete-a-tete?"
Emily straightens at Rossi's voice, smiles and shifts to the side. Morgan and JJ are beside Dave and they look from Hotch to Emily, then back again. He knows what they're thinking; he should be focused on the case, not speaking to this woman.
"Emily Prentiss," she says, nodding at each in turn. Neither greet her back, their distrust obvious. It was only later that she won them over.
Awkward introductions made, she gives Hotch one last smile before spinning on her heel, soon disappearing into the crowd. Morgan's eyes follow her, simultaneously appreciative and distrustful.
Hotch wants to knock his teeth out.
-o-
VIII.
"When did you go back to Washington?"
Hotch closes his eyes, wills his phone to ring, any excuse to get out of this room, this office, away from this woman who has no idea what his job entails.
"A week after the triple murder in New York, there was another murder in Washington. I felt that the team would be more effective working the case from our offices."
"And you stand by that decision?"
Hotch nods. "Yes, I do."
-o-
They hypothesise, guess, theorise, speculate but end up drawing blanks. Frustrated, Hotch orders the team home early, ready to come back with fresh eyes. He doesn't follow his own advice and goes into his office, draws the blinds.
"That's mature, Hotch."
He scowls as Dave enters the room, bearing a bottle of scotch and two crystal tumblers. Rossi is the only one who would dare disobey a direct order. Hotch finds it damn annoying.
"What are we missing?" he implores, staring into his glass.
Rossi says nothing and Hotch exhales slowly through his nose, his mind warming to an idea it shouldn't.
"What do we do when we don't know a lot?" he asks suddenly.
Dave raises his eyebrows, amused. "Did you start drinking before I got here?"
"We go to someone who does," Hotch continues, disregarding Rossi's response.
He leans back in his chair, pleased, chooses to ignore Dave as he chuckles into his scotch.
-o-
Hotch waits patiently outside Emily Prentiss' front door. It's late, past working hours, and a voice at the back of his mind screams 'unprofessional!' He dismisses it instantly, telling himself that she gave insight once, surely she can do so again. She opens the door, raises an eyebrow, but says nothing as she steps back.
"Coffee?"
He nods, watches as she walks about the kitchen. She moves with almost dance-like agility, like someone adept on an athletic track, in a sparring ring. She pushes a cup of coffee toward him and he scalds his tongue, swears lightly beneath his breath. She laughs, leans her forearms against the bench.
"Why are you here, Agent Hotchner?"
He bites the inside of his cheek as he chooses his words carefully. He knows full well she is able to read behaviour as well as any of his team, a skill learned through years of politics where everyone lies and the only trick is to lie better.
"You posited that the drug dealer and the politicians were connected in some way, however tangential. I wanted to know exactly what you meant because we've drawn a blank."
She blows on her coffee and he knows she doesn't believe a word of what he's just said. Thankfully, she lets it pass.
"No," she says plainly.
"No?" he repeats, incredulous.
"I said politics and drugs were linked. I didn't say that these politicians were linked to this drug dealer."
Hotch stares, feels like an idiot, hates that she makes perfect sense. Straight executions for the politicians, cold and impersonal; blatant overkill with the drug dealer, a personal connection.
"But you do think that Harris directly offended the unsub in some manner?" he presses.
Emily shoots him a half-grin. "It doesn't matter what I think."
-o-
"What kind of unsub kills three victims and then returns to one without blinking an eye?" Rossi says for the umpteenth time, glaring at the files before him.
"One that gets no sexual gratification from the murders," Reid says promptly. "He enters, he executes, he leaves again."
"Making him that much harder to profile," Hotch finishes.
"Let's look at what we have so far," Morgan says. "We've profiled this unsub is a white male, between the ages of 35 and 45, highly intelligent, able to blend in with the political world."
"But the drug dealer throws us off-kilter," Rossi inserts.
"As if there's two unsubs," Hotch says softly.
All eyes turn to him, waiting to hear where this is going.
"We agree that this is the same unsub," he continues. "But the victimology between the two sets of murders is so different that-"
"We build two profiles," Rossi interjects.
Hotch nods. "We treat them as two different unsubs and see what overlaps."
Reid turns quickly, showing the first sign of enthusiasm he has in days, and immediately begins rearranging the whiteboard. Politicians on one side, Harris on the other.
Rossi leans back in his chair, watching Reid. "It's a good idea," he says softly. "How'd you think of it?"
Hotch shrugs, averts his eyes.
-o-
IX.
"So, in effect, she gave you the tools in which to catch her?" the psychologist says, glossing over his accidental confession.
"Yes," Hotch admits. "But not in such an avert way that it was immediately obvious."
She nods, the sound of her pencil against her notepad loud in the still, too-quiet room.
"What then?"
He doesn't answer, tongue-tied.
-o-
It rains, cold and wet, and Hotch hunches his shoulders as he walks up the stairs of Quantico, shaking water from his coat, and wordlessly makes his way to the BAU. The elevator doors open and Morgan immediately catches his attention, beckoning for Hotch to join him at his desk.
"She's only been here a few minutes," he says softly, pointing towards the conference room. "The latest victim was a friend and she's pretty shaken up."
Hotch knows without looking who 'she' is but still feels surprised when his eyes fall on Emily Prentiss sitting at the briefing table, JJ to her right. Her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged, and he finds himself hurrying up the stairs.
"Agent Hotchner."
Her voice breaks mid-way through his name and she looks down at the table, cheeks pink, embarrassed. JJ leaves the room at Hotch's silent request and he sits down, waits for her to speak first.
"Thomas was a friend," she begins. "And I just... I don't know, I shouldn't be here, I'm sorry."
She rises to her feet but he catches her wrist, pulls her back down.
"Don't apologise," he says, firm but gentle.
"It's just … his wife rang this morning and told me and since then … I just want some answers."
Hotch nods, runs his thumb against the back of her hand. He thinks this is the first instance in a long time Emily Prentiss has let down her guard. Head bowed, he watches as her body shakes and awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder. She leans in and, startled, he pulls her close.
Much later, he commends her for such a virtuoso performance.
-o-
Hotch looks down from the conference room as Emily Prentiss leaves the BAU, not acknowledging Morgan when he stands alongside.
"She's pretty shook up," the other man says, his voice full of sympathy.
"Yes," Hotch agrees.
"You think she'll be okay?"
"I'll check on her later."
The words fall from his lips before he even thinks to reign them in. Morgan's eyes show a combination of surprise, shock but there is also amusement and he knows Garcia will soon hear of his slip-of-the tongue.
He could kick himself.
-o-
X.
Hotch winces as he turns his head a bit too quickly, thinks it psychosomatic. He's had worse injuries during his time in the Bureau, he'd suffered more at the hands of Foyet. The psychologist notices, asks if he would like to take a break.
"No," he answers, giving her his full attention once more. "No."
She looks relieved and he thinks she is enjoying his tale of how one of the 'best minds' was bested. He thinks it almost sadistic.
-o-
Leaves crunch underfoot as he walks along the footpath and he soon finds himself on Emily Prentiss' doorstep. She opens the door but doesn't let him inside. Her hair is wet, sticks to the back of her neck, and her face is clear of make-up, her eyes still red from tears.
"Agent Hotchner," she says softly, voice hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see how you were," he responds awkwardly.
She nods, turns, walks down the hallway leaving him with the decision of whether or not to follow. He chooses the first option and leans against the kitchen bench as she makes coffee. Neither speak, Hotch waiting for her to break the silence.
"You're going above and beyond the call of duty," she says finally, pushing a cup towards him.
He isn't sure how to respond so says nothing, instead he sips his coffee slowly, taking care not to burn his tongue.
She laughs, soft and sweet, reaches out and touches his hand.
"Thank you," she says, and her voice is sincere.
He nods as she pulls his hand up, presses her palm flat against his, as if they're trapped on opposite sides of a window. His are large, calloused; hers small and slender, yet he finds that they fit. He moves his fingers ever-so-slightly, until they are entwined with hers, and doesn't let go. Her eyes don't leave his as she moves forward until they are a scarce two feet apart. He freezes and his gaze flickers down to her parted lips, to the line of her neck, along her collarbone, back again.
She reaches forward, tangles her free hand into the material of his shirt, pulls him from his chair. His balance falters and he places his hand on her shoulder to steady himself. Slowly, he lets his hand fall to her waist, drawing her close. He can feel her breath now, hot and quick against his skin as she raises herself onto the tips of his toes, brushes her lips against his. She's gentle but insistent, and he lets himself fall deeper.
-o-
He wakes suddenly, sits bolt upright, reaches out blindly and finds the other side of the bed empty. Hotch opens his eyes and spies Emily sitting on the window seat, hugging her knees. She turns her head, gives him a soft smile and he sees the tear-tracks on her cheeks.
"Thinking of Thomas?" he asks, concerned.
She shakes her head, gives a bitter laugh. "No."
"Can I do anything?"
She laughs again; it cuts through the air like a knife.
"No."
She looks away, a silent dismissal, and he sinks into the mattress and pretends to sleep, watches her through his eyelashes.
-o-
XI.
Hotch lies more than he cares to admit and he lies now, slips the psychologist a line about finishing coffee, about leaving Emily Prentiss' house, returning to his empty apartment. He knows she has swallowed the lie hook, line and sinker when she asks 'you admit you found her attractive?'
"She was," he answers, "I'm sure most people would agree."
She raises an eyebrow, writes some more.
"And how long was it after this impromptu visit that you realised she was your unsub?"
-o-
Hotch's phone rings and he answers without looking at the screen.
"Sir, I think we have something," Garcia says in a rush. "Morgan and Reid have been looking Charles Harris' murder and went with the personal angle. So, I looked at his biggest customers, then at their families and friends, you know, people with a real reason to hate him and then I cross-referenced with political affiliations and I think we've got something."
Hotch rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm, a gesture he'd never make in front of his team, asks Garcia to continue.
"Well, Matthew Benton was one of Harris' biggest clients and he died nine months ago of a heroin overdose. It turns out the heroin had been laced with rat poison. Anyway, when from the ages of 13 to 17 he went to school in Italy, pretty high-end, and guess who made up a portion of the student population?"
She pauses, waits for a response.
"Who, Garcia?" Hotch asks wearily.
"Political children," she answers enthusiastically. "The school was near the American Embassy. So I did some more cross-referencing. And it turns out he was close friends with one Emily Prentiss though, coincidentally, it was only six months after meeting her that he started using drugs. But that might have nothing to do with anything."
"Anything else?"
"It's not related to Matthew Benton, but her sister died three years ago, she killed herself. Her and Emily were close by all accounts. I'm not sure if that helps-"
Hotch hangs up mid-sentence, looks around Emily's house as everything falls into place.
Hears the sound of rushing wind, cries out as he is struck on the back of the head.
-o-
His vision is blurry as he comes to and he tries to feel the lump he knows is rising at the back of his skull only to find his wrists and ankles bound together. He looks up and sees Emily standing above him. Her face is pinched, skin stretched tight over her cheekbones. She bites her bottom lip and sits down, her eyes never once leaving his.
"Are you going to kill me?" he asks.
Her lips tighten into a frown and for a moment he thinks she won't answer him.
"No," she says slowly. "No, I don't believe I will."
"Why?" he asks, wincing as he tries to sit upright.
"Because if I reached into your right-hand jacket pocket I would find a photo of your son. The edges of the photograph would be frayed because of the sheer number of times you've taken it out and looked at it to remind yourself why you do this job," she answers, as if it were the simplest question in the world.
-o-
XII.
The psychologist stops writing, her pencil held loosely in her fingers, and stares for a moment. Surprise, Hotch thinks; she, like everyone else, had expected it to be more complicated.
"Did she give a reason for the murders?" she asks finally.
Hotch can hear the want for something more, knows the story seems too easy. Fool, fool, fool. Family and grief are anything but simple.
"Yes."
-o-
Hotch stares but she doesn't seem perturbed in the least. Instead, she tilts her head a fraction to the side.
"I don't understand," he admits, wanting to keep her here, keep her talking.
"My mother is a career politician," Emily says, "and I've watched her change over the years until that's all she is. She is no longer my mother. I am no longer her daughter. I'm simply another person she tries to manipulate to achieve her own ends."
"So why follow in her footsteps?" Hotch asks.
"I'm not blind to the good politics can do, Agent Hotchner," she snaps, "this was never about politics."
"Then what?"
"It was about the children," she answers. "This way they don't have to watch their parent become someone, something else entirely."
Hotch shifts again, squeezes his eyes shut as pain shoots through his skull.
"And your sister's death?" he asks.
"She killed herself," Emily says and finally, finally, he hears some emotion in her voice. "And my mother didn't even attend the funeral. She thought Anna was a coward and she doesn't tolerate cowardice," Emily spits.
"So you began killing surrogates for your mother?" Hotch says.
Psych. 101. Killing the object of your hatred over and over again.
"Yes and no. I prevent children from seeing their parents change into someone else and put the fear of living god into my mother," Emily responds. "She's a smart woman, even if she doesn't know it, she has an inkling as to why these people were killed. And it terrifies her."
"A win-win situation," Hotch says drily.
Emily gives him the barest hint of a smile. "Something like that."
"And the drug dealer?"
She shrugs, though her body is tense and he sees the underlying anger beneath the calm facade.
"You blame him for the death of Matthew Benton, don't you?"
Her eyes flash, glitter, and for a moment he thinks he's pushed too far.
"Did you love your wife, Agent Hotchner?" she asks, throwing him off-guard.
"I did."
"And do you blame yourself for her death?"
A lump forms in his throat, he pushes it down, keeps his expression neutral. He knows Emily Prentiss is capable of cutting through his considerable defences, she has already done so.
"I do," he answers carefully.
"And you're glad you killed George Foyet?" she continues.
"I am."
"Then you understand why I killed Charles Harris," she says simply. "He provided the drugs which killed Matthew."
"He didn't make Matthew take them," Hotch points out.
Emily's jaw clenches and she looks down at the floor, closes her eyes. "No," she whispers, "no, he didn't."
-o-
She walks away, leaving him lying on the floor, and he listens to her footsteps as she climbs up the stairs. His head throbs and he closes his eyes as he struggles with the scarf she has wound around his wrists. The knots are tough, the material strong, and he soon resigns himself to the fact he won't be able to break free.
She returns, a bag slung over her shoulder and he watches as the sunlight puts crimson shades in her hair.
"Your team will work out you're here?" she says, a touch of concern in her voice.
"Eventually," he quips.
She nods, then kneels down and touches her fingers to the lump at the back of his skull.
"Go to hospital," she says, her hand falling down to cup his cheek, her thumb resting at his jawline. "You most likely have a concussion."
He nods but she has already stood and crossed the room, the front door closing behind her with a muffled 'slam.'
-o-
XIII.
"I presume you have teams looking for her?"
Hotch stares at the woman, thinks of a conversation he'd had with Dave long ago.
"There are two worlds: one where good is good and bad is bad."
"And the other?"
"That's the one we live in."
Hotch studies this woman closely, thinks that she belongs in the first world and has no business intruding on the second.
"We don't believe she's in the United States," he answers. "She has money, contacts and can assimilate into a number of countries."
"And how does that make you feel?"
Hotch pauses, lies, wonders if she will notice.
-o-
He went through a phase when he was younger, playing with toy soldiers, recreating wars. He remembers reading texts no ten-year-old had any business reading, being frightened at what men like his father, like he would grow up to be, did in battle. It was as he grew older that he realised some people didn't need a war to kill; sometimes it was the desire to control and dominate, other times to exact revenge.
He was sent to college, told to study law, and learned more of human depravity from the psychology lectures he secretly attended, morbid curiosity pushing him to step into darkened auditoriums. Emily Prentiss had been similar, skipping linguistic classes on occasion to feed her fascination with behavioural science.
"Because if I reached into your right-hand jacket pocket..."
"Hotch?"
He hides his surprise at Morgan's voice and looks to the side, raises his eyebrows.
"You saw the shrink?"
It's a question Morgan knows the answer to, one designed to test him. Hotch doesn't react, just gives a curt nod. Then he moves, toward his office, toward other pending cases.
"We will catch her."
Morgan's words stop him and he turns.
"Are you certain of that?"
The other man doesn't, can't, answer.
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds, it is the property of CBS. No copyright infringement is intended. Title taken from the quote 'the cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness' by Vladimir Nabokov.