Beware the Jabberwock
Twas Brillig
They were all seated at the war room table, tablets in hand. As usual, Garcia had her back to the screen on the wall. To her right was Hotch. Reid was already there, and Prentiss and Morgan-everyone except Rossi.
Rossi was never actually late, per se. He was just a few minutes behind Hotch every day coming in.
And in he strode, coffee in hand, wearing his usual jeans-formal shirt-leather shoes ensemble. Garcia had no room to say anything about his attire-she was dressed in spring colors with flowers all over her dress and in her flaming red hair. He nodded good morning and plonked himself down in the empty seat next to Hotch.
She saw Hotch's eyebrow cock. It was her signal.
"Okay, PD in January, Florida, sent the nasty pictures on your tablets," she pushed her glasses up with the hand holding her pen. "These are all men between the ages of thirty-five and fifty from the local area. James Hendershot, Samuel Rush, and Eric Kohl all were reported missing on a Friday night, and even though missing persons can't be filed for seventy-two hours family and friends sure tried. Their bodies were all found Monday morning along a stretch of Highway 913."
Hotch took over seamlessly. They were getting good at this, Garcia reflected. It wasn't JJ's usually way of handling things but between her and Hotch things got done and the work wasn't all on one person.
"None of these men have ties to each other?"
"Nothing obvious," Garcia said. "Still running more in-depth checks. There is another thing."
"The bodies were posed," Hotch agreed.
"Yeah, and Annie Leibowitz the unsub was not."
"Who?" Reid asked.
Garcia rolled her eyes. "The lady who does photos for Harper's Bazaar. The magazine?"
Reid still looked blank. Garcia could see Rossi smirking. She nudged Hotch under the table and used her foot to indicate Rossi. Hotch did the sensible thing and kicked Rossi under the table. Rossi stopped smirking.
"According to the timeline we have two days before the unsub snatches another victim," Hotch closed out the window in his tablet. "Let's go. Garcia?"
"Sir?"
"I'd like you to fly out with us."
"Sorry?"
Hotch shuffled his papers, not looking at her. "I want you to have more field experience."
"I am not a field agent, Hotch!"
Rossi remained while the others filed out, grabbing go bags and files and coats.
"I know that, Garcia." Hotch bit his lip, just a little, very small-boy and endearing.
Rossi put a hand on Hotch's shoulder, briefly, and squeezed. "We're a man down, kitten," Rossi explained.
"But I'm not a field agent! I'm not even an agent! I'm a technical analyst! And I don't talk to crazy people. No. No way."
Rossi grinned wolfishly. "Not even when those kids were playing that choking game online?"
"But he wasn't a bad guy, he was a victim," Garcia pointed out. "And I am not talking to you, David Rossi."
She turned the full force of her Garcia-ness onto Hotch. "What do you expect me to do out in the field?"
"The same thing you do here, but closer to us."
"No suspects? No talking to crazy homicidal maniacs with God complexes?"
"I won't make you talk to crazy people," he agreed solemnly.
"See?" she shook her violet-colored finger at Hotch and turned to Rossi. "See that? It's a loophole. He won't make me but he'll ask and I'll feel guilty if I don't say yes!"
She was puffed up like a frantic fish. "Kitten-"
"Garcia-"
She turned back to Hotch. "I want a pinkie-swear that you won't make me talk to crazies."
She imperiously held out her pinkie. Hotch looped his own around hers. "Pinkie swear," he agreed.
"Good," she dropped his hand and picked up her laptop. "That's a legally binding contract, mister. I need to get my bag."
And she swished out of the room, dress rustling. Behind her, she could hear Hotch and Rossi gathering the last of their things, always the last to leave.