Hello! I'm Katie, I don't actually know what the hell I'm doing. I've never written for Criminal Minds before, but I have a new obsession so hey! I might as well try. The problem is that I'm not American and have never written a casefic, so I'm trying to balance characterization with the actual meat and potatoes of the show, being the procedural drama bit. This is apparently what the writers have to do every week, therefore, new found respect! Anyway, will try my bestest. Please review and tell me what you think, worth continuing?
Disclaimer: I own nothing... for now.
"Forgiveness is the remission of sins. For it is by this that what has been lost, and was found, is saved from being lost again." Saint Augustine.
A common held belief is that the eyes are a window into the soul, the very essence of our human selves. Whether one is inclined to believe in their "soul" or not, that extinguishing of light in one's pupils at the moment of their last breath – well, perhaps that is the most convincing argument for the spirit each of us supposedly possesses.
She loved when the whores' eyes went blank.
She loved it so much, that when she knelt on their chests and squeezed her hands around their necks ever so tightly, she forced them to look into her eyes. She grinned a feral grin that lasted long after that light went out, and she rose again. "Happy" simply didn't cover the elation she felt while looking down at the dead whore on the cement.
She was, by all standards, a beautiful whore. Flaming red hair, only slightly muted by the dim lighting and dust on the ground. Porcelain skin still wet with tears, sky blue eyes staring out into the nothingness, and blood red lipstick that had smudged in the struggle. The gruesome effect was wonderful.
She knelt next to the Prostitute, gently stroking a cold, lifeless hand. A smug smile played on the face of the mousy woman. "He'll never love you now," she whispered, "he doesn't love broken things." A glance down to the body of the figure turned the grin into a full-fledged smile of contempt.
"You can wear all the little black dresses and Gucci heels you want, you can get those implants..." Soft laugher rang out, a tinny, wretched sound. "But he'll never love you again."
An hour past, with two women in the cold room. One laying on the ground, as stiffness seeped into her body, the other rocking back and forth to a rhythm no one else could hear. One woman rose, the one who still could. It was time to get rid of the whore's body, and she knew exactly where to put it. Where he would see it.
Laughter rang out again.
Giggles sounded from the two women in the office, and, well, Reid. Once again, Derek Morgan was regaling the small crowd with stories from his on-going series, Dates From Hell. The most recent one of which occurred last night.
"No way, she didn't!" Erupted Emily Prentiss, practically shaking with laughter. She chanced a small glance over where Spencer Reid was perched on his desk, laughing, Penelope Garcia having stolen his chair.
"Oh yes she did," continued Morgan with a wince. "So then she took the golf club and--" His eyes flickered over to the glass BAU doors, a certain blond liaison having just walked in and interrupted his epic.
"Sorry guys," Jennifer Jareau started with a soft small, "but we have a new case." She looked down and grimaced, eyes glued to a large, white blotch on her shirt. "Henry." She said, by way of explanation. "Will's staying with him today, but he was fussy this morning … or rather, last night. Baby powder is such a bitch to get off." Reid quickly hurried over with some antibacterial wipes, a staple of his desk. ("There's very little evidence to show that less germs actually means less disease in our environment, but still.")
"A case, JJ?" Morgan asked, trying to steer the team back to the subject at hand. His leadership, however temporary and fraught with questions, was still a development he took seriously.
"I have the files right here, I'll brief you all as soon as Rossi and Hotch get here --"
"Present and accounted for." Came the measured words of David Rossi, stepping through the glass doors with Aaron Hotchner, having given the other man a lift to work that morning.
"First stop, coffee. Next, conference room. Fan out people!" Garcia cried, lurching up from the chair and heading the kitchenette. The team, still exhausted, followed with various groans and grunts. The first caffeine kick of the day was definitely welcome.
"Gracie Howard. Mackenzie Moretz. Danielle Fisher." JJ said each name as pictures flickered across the wall, each contained a beautiful woman, dressed to the nines and indubitably dead. "Ages 21, 22 and 25, respectively. All were found strangled and dumped in relatively populated areas, always near establishments frequented primarily by upper-class lawyers and politicians. All in the Capitol Hill area."
The team collectively winced, politics and murder were a crappy combination, even if the team got to stay in the Washington area. Trying to conduct an investigation amongst the rich and powerful was akin to pulling the teeth of a nasty dog.
"You said the victims were all dumped at these sites, the police have no leads as to where the kill spot actually is?" Morgan asked.
"None. The women were all found with significant head wounds, police are thinking they are knocked out, abducted, killed in a separate location, then dumped in specific spots. Each victim was also found with notes on their person." JJ switched the picture again, this time to a scrap of seemingly expensive stationary with gilded edges and a golden design at each corner. The word "whores" was carefully printed in swirling cursive. Eyebrows around the room were raised.
"The killer is creating an interesting contrast with the opulence of the paper, as opposed to vulgar terminology." Reid said, brow furrowed. "Though what's most notable is that the writing seems mostly .. feminine."
"A woman killing beautiful women. Jealousy?" Rossi theorized, mostly to himself.
"No." Said Emily, with surprising conviction. "Something is off here, what did you say their occupations were, JJ?"
"Howard and Moretz were both grad students, Fisher was interning at a law firm."
"Did any of them come from money?"
JJ quirked an eyebrow and checked her files, "No, parents are all middle class workers."
Emily nodded, "These women didn't have access to much disposable income, yet that dress is from Dolce and Gabbana's fall/winter collection, and those heels … definitely Gucci." A silence fell in the room, causing Emily to throw up her hands in defeat.
"Oh, so now it's a crime to shop?"
"No no, honeybunches, it's a crime to flaunt your designer wardrobe in front of us normal people. What I wouldn't give for five minutes inside your conformist closet..." Garcia let out a positively evil laugh.
"You go, baby girl!" Morgan grinned.
David Rossi hid his Rolex.
Hotch, taking pity on Emily, interceded. "Emily makes a good point. These women are well groomed and clothed, they must be getting money from somewhere. Could prostitution be a factor?"
"That changes our unsub's motive," said Morgan, quickly putting on a serious face. "If it's a woman, she could be the wife or girlfriend of someone employing these call girls. If they are actually in the business."
"The word 'whores' could actually be used literally in the note!" Added Reid, excited.
Morgan nodded, "Baby girl, I want you to dig deeper into these women's bank accounts, occupation records, find out if they were working in the sex industry and for whom. We need any common clients they had in the past." Garcia nodded, running off to greet her mechanical children. "As for us, I guess we're all off to DC."
It was a miserable day in Washington DC. The snow had lost it's allure with the passing of Christmas, what had seemed like a beautiful white blanket over the city soon turned dirty and slushy. Rainfall in the morning, followed by below-zero temperatures had turned roads and sidewalks into virtual skating rinks. Yet here they were, two BAU agents ready to profile the latest crime scene, the brutal murder of Danielle Fisher.
"This is not going to be pretty." Emily mumbled bitterly, carefully opening the door of the SUV and stepping onto the pavement.
"Never learned to skate, Prentiss?" Came the humorous, but guarded, voice of Hotch. Her only response was a pointed glare and a private smile. She liked when he joked, especially with the burden of his dead wife and beloved son on his shoulders. Speaking of Jack...
"Jack's with Jessica this week?" She asked, carefully joining him on the sidewalk and taking special care as they walked towards the yellow-taped area.
He nodded, just as her feet slipped out from underneath her and she braced herself for impact with the icy ground. Surprisingly, none came. She opened her eyes to instead find herself being held with Aaron Hotchner's one arm, she could feel him laughing silently.
"Shut up, Hotch." Emily grumbled, righting herself quickly. She actually didn't mind too much, she loved his laugh, and if she was being honest with herself, she loved the feeling of his arms as well. Enough, she thought, lustful thoughts about the widower are not allowed!
The trip to the crime scene was uneventful after that, as was their introduction to the lead detective on the case. Blake Campbell seemed like a pleasant man, grateful for the help and offering the full co-operation of the police force. Soon Aaron and Emily were both alone with the body.
She was covered in the name of decency. A quick look under the white tarp revealed a death that was anything but decent. Danielle Fisher had been a beautiful woman, prostitute or not, now her limbs were fully frozen and tinged blue, her life was like a candle snuffed out in the cold winter air. She had been dumped like trash in the back alley of this restaurant.
Hotch caught Emily looking speculatively at the building. "You've been here?"
"Yeah, best margaritas in town. It's a fancy place, mostly frequented by lawyers and politicians, like JJ said. But why here of all places? The other victims were in similar locations, Gracie Howard and Mackenzie Moretz were both found near hotspots for the rich and powerful."
Hotch was silent for a second, "I think our unsub is trying to send someone a message."
"I agree, someone who fits the profile of the people who dine or drink here."
"Or someone specific, a lover or husband caught cheating with these girls? Or just another call-girl whom the unsub associates these women with."
The two agents caught each other's eyes and held the gaze, silent agreement passing through the look. Garcia needed to find a client name, and fast.
"Baby girl, tell me you have something."
"Oh, my hunk of dark chocolate lovin', when have I ever disappointed you? Don't answer that." Garcia added quickly, Morgan rolled his eyes. "You bucket full of genius' were right, all three girls get regular payments into their bank accounts by the One Nite Only escort service. Horrible name, I know. The CEO, president, whatever is Michael Nurse, I'd need his computer to get at client lists, or you could just ask."
Morgan had already been writing the name down and gesturing at Rossi from across the room. JJ and Reid were both out interviewing the families of the victims. "I intend to do just that, Princess. You got an address for me?"
"578 Bourgie Road."
"I owe you an arm and a leg, Garcia." Morgan said, hanging up the phone.
From the dark insides of her bat cave, Garcia smiled to herself and bit the top of her pink pen impishly. "Oh Morgan, you owe me so much more..."
The house was new, rather large, and above all, terribly terribly gaudy.
"Jesus Christ," Said Rossi, exiting the vehicle and looking at Morgan. "Just looking at this place offends my sensibilities."
"You're Italian, aren't you supposed to like this sort of stuff?"
A rude gesture later and Morgan was cackling while sternly knocking on the front door of the house.
"Michael Nurse, this is the FBI. Open the door!"
A few seconds passed with no response, then the door cracked open to reveal a weary and silent man. Michael Nurse, while trying to hide behind an Armani suit, gelled hair and designer shoes with lifts, still looked out of place in the opulent neighborhood. A slum pimp thrown to a pack of prestigious dogs. Rossi and Morgan quickly flipped open their badges to reveal the telling gold crest.
"Hey there Mr. Nurse," said Rossi with a toothy grin. "Mind if we come in?"
The man gulped audibly.
A few minutes later found all three men sitting around the dining room, inside the house was just as showy as the exterior. Hardwood floors, vintage furniture, a huge table with silver utensils and gilded plates. Morgan placed each dead girl's picture on the table with a crisp click. Nurse was sweating profusely.
"You know these girls?"
"N-no, I have no --"
"Cut the shit, Nurse!" Rossi demanded, quickly falling into a good cop/bad cop routine. "We've been through their bank records, your little whorehouse prostitution ring frequently supplements their income."
"It's not prostitution!" The man was panicking, "These men pay for...pseudo-sexual fantasies, there's not actually intercourse..."
"Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?"
"Mr. Nurse," Morgan interrupted, "we're with the FBI investigating a serial killer, not your little business. We know you employ the girls, what we need is the names of their clients, in particular any similar clients they might've shared."
"T-those are strictly confidential records. Some of my clients are very powerful men and --"
"These girls are dead, Mr. Nurse, and one of those men could be responsible!" Morgan continued.
"I can't..."
"Listen you deadbeat pimp," Rossi growled, his voice dangerously low. "You're going to give us the names we need, or we'll just get a warrant and our technical analyst can go through all your records, and if some of those more "important" clients get leaked to the press, oh well. I'll be sure to tell the reporters who supplied the information."
Michael Nurse looked ready to pass out. Silence reigned for a few, uncomfortable moments.
"There's only one client that all three of those girls shared..." Michael gulped, looked up at Morgan with imploring eyes. "But he's a big one."
Rossi shifted, passive aggressive.
"His name is Richard Prentiss."
dum dum dummmmmm. Continue? Yes? No? Maybe so?