INTERIM THREE
(Ok…this is shaping up to be another long one…please stay tuned!)
Adam Preatt wasn't a sociopath. Wasn't a psychopath. Wasn't mentally ill. Adam Preatt just liked to watch women suffer. Suffer and die.
No, Adam Preatt was a classic sadist. They led him into the interrogation room and the officer began to unchain his hands.
"Leave them on." Hotch ordered, after the Hardwick incident, he was taking no chances—especially with Emily in the room.
Preatt watched her, from the moment he realized there was a woman present. "Hello."
"Mr. Preatt, we're here because you agreed to answer some questions for us." Hotch said. He had eighteen case files spread before him, though he kept them closed.
He'd told Emily to stand, as far away from the table as possible. He'd give her a signal when she should sit down.
"Have nothing better to do with my time—now." His eyes hadn't left Emily but for a few seconds. They were gleaming, heated, empty. "What do you want to know?"
"There's not much we don't already have, Mr. Preatt." Emily said. "We've spoken to all of your relatives, previous co-workers, neighbors."
"So what can I do for you all today?" His hair was thinning and he showed the classic signs of someone who hadn't seen sunlight in several years. He wouldn't see it again, either.
"I have photos of all your victims, plus others that match your MO. I want to know where you first met them, and what made you choose them, and what you did with them." Hotch's voice remained cold, professional, as he spread out thirty-four photographs, some of the known victims, others of missing women who fit the profile. "I want the bodies, Preatt."
"You have all of my bodies." Preatt said, hands spread casually over the table, though the chains limited his movements. "All eighteen of them. Not one more, not one less. These others—albeit they'd be nice bodies—are not mine. Pity. I do like dark-haired women."
He ran a thumb over the first picture, a woman in her twenties with dark eyes and long dark hair. His eyes moved to the woman standing against the far wall. "A lot."
"What about blonde women?" Emily demanded, knowing that some of his victims were as blonde as JJ and Garcia.
"Blondes. They're ok. But they don't scream as loud as brunettes. At least in my experience." He turned toward Hotch. "Yours?"
Hotch wondered briefly if he was asking if Emily was his. "I want you to point out each of the women you killed."
"Her. She was my first." He pointed to a portrait of a laughing, green-eyed brunette. "Met her in a bar."
He turned toward Emily. Ran his eyes over her severe business suit, and straight dark hair. "Bet you're not the kind to take a man home from a bar, are you?"
"Why did you pick her?" Emily asked, getting to the heart of their visit. Every little detail they could collect could help them in determining his victimology. Victimology was unique to certain types of killers, and every bit of information they found could help them catch others.
It was the whole purpose behind the custodial interviews.
They waited while Preatt scanned the stack of photos, studying each face. Emily watched his face carefully, looking for nuances of remembrance, of puzzlement—of excitement. Each picture had a number on the back—big enough for her to see, one through thirty-four, and she made a mental of all the ones that seemed to excite him.
Her list matched that of the victims perfectly. He showed no emotion—or recognition of the other sixteen women.
This was not good.
"These." Preatt said, "Are mine. These others, close, but no cigar. What I wouldn't give for a good cigar right now. Pretty lady—think you can get me a cigar?"
"What about this woman? Or this one?" Hotch pointed to two of the remaining sixteen women.
"I've never seen them before." His voice didn't rise. "How do I even know they're dead? How do I know you're not trying to blame me for something that hasn't even happened yet? I'm not so sure I want to talk to you anymore. Her—I'll talk to her until they put me down, in how many years? Seven? But you. I don't like you at all."
"How did you choose these women then?" Emily asked softly, distracting him from Hotch. "These eighteen. What was it about them that caught your attention? Individually. Starting from the beginning."
"Their eyes. Their hair. The way the carried themselves." He began, angling his body toward Emily. "I'd have chosen you. If I'd seen you. I like women who are confident. Women who can take care of themselves. I like to show them differently."
"What about this woman?" Hotch asked, pointing the picture of the second victim. "How did you choose her specifically?"
"At the gas station in West Chicago." He began. "She had a cooler. And she couldn't lift it. I offered to help, she refused. She shouldn't have refused. A woman is supposed to like a man doing things for her. Do you like it when your man does things for you, pretty lady?"
"What about the next woman?" Emily asked, ignoring his question. "Where did you see her? Why her?"
"Grocery store. The carryout offered to help her. She refused. Laughed. Said she could handle it. Shouldn't have done that. Self-sufficient women are the down fall of this country, don't you agree, Agent Hotchner? Women are supposed to be soft, dependent. How soft is your pretty little partner?"
"What about this woman?" Emily asked, seeing Hotch's hand give the signal for her to move closer. She took the seat next to him, and began spreading the photographs out over the table.
She repeated the process with ten more women. Got similar answers for all. Gas stations, grocery stores, garden centers. Casual places that a woman would go every day. Go and not pay attention to the man who held the door, or offered to help her lift something into her trunk.
Easy. Vulnerable. Terrifying.
"What about this woman?" She asked in the same tone. This portrait was one of the sixteen women he'd claimed not to recognize. She'd mixed the portraits up as she'd spread them out over the table. Trying to catch him, trying to trick him.
He stared at the portrait a moment before looking up at her. "I didn't. She's not one of mine."
She tried circling back several times, but he always denied any connection to the sixteen women.
Finally the interview was over and the guard returned for Preatt. "Pretty lady, it has been one of the nineteen most pleasurable days of my life today. I thank you for that. My only regret is that I didn't meet you before moving to this lovely establishment. Good day. And good luck catching your killers."
Emily watched him being led out of the room and waited until the door shut behind him before releasing a shiver. "Yuck!"
Hotch smiled at her, "Emily, you did good with him."
"Thanks, I think, sir."
"Hotch." He said. "I thought we agreed you'd not sir me so much."
"Old habit." She sighed, reaching to help him gather the files. Their hands brushed softly and he didn't jerk away. Moved to cover her hand with his.
"You ok?" He asked, reading something in her sigh.
His hand was hot, the touch not something she was accustomed to. She shivered. He felt it, looked at her over the files.
"I'm, uh. Fine." Emily said, pulling her hand away. What the hell? He'd never touched her like that before. It was always professional with Aaron Hotchner.
Until the night in the chapel when he'd spoken about them being friends. Maybe this was his attempt.
She forced herself to relax. Forced herself to smile at him in return. She didn't miss the way his dark eyes flared.
Warden Mitchell chose that moment to open the door, thundering in in a manner only a man that large could. He'd make twice of Hotch. "So did you find out what you needed to know? It's almost rec time, we need to get her out of here before then. They'll be out of their cells."
"Adam Preatt killed eighteen women." Hotch began as Emily loaded the last of the files into the bag. "But the person who killed sixteen others is still out there."
"Somewhere." Emily added.
HOTCHEMILYHOTCHEMILYHOTCHEMILY
She called JJ, under Hotch's orders, and told her to get her, Reid, and Morgan to Chicago as quickly as possible. That they had a case. Emily was never more glad for reinforcements in all of her life.
After hanging up the phone, she turned toward the man beside her in the warden's office. "JJ's got the jet fueling up as we speak. That woman moves fast."
"Good. We'll head to Roosevelt street. Check in with the Chicago Field Office. Then we'll get lunch." Hotch decided. He remembered a nice little Italian bistro near the Chicago Field Office. "Have you ever been to Spinelli's?"
"Oh. The best manicotti in four states." She breathed, remembering the restaurant from her Chicago field assignment days. "I've missed them."
"Excellent." He said, smiling. So she liked Italian—score one for him.
Take that, lily-giver Steven!
HOTCHEMILYHOTCHEMILYHOTCHEMILY
They decided to eat first. Emily was actually excited, even if her lunch partner was the reclusive Hotch. Spinelli's was one of her favorite places in the world. During the five years she'd lived in Chicago she'd eaten there at least twice a week. She told Hotch that as he held the door open for her.
Hotch laughed softly, glad he'd suggested it. He couldn't get over how her dark eyes sparkled over something so simple as a little Italian eatery two blocks from the field office.
She looked just like she had over that damned lily and Hotch felt a perverse thrill, knowing he'd put that look in her dark eyes.
He'd make a point to bring her back before they left Chicago.
They gave their orders and waited in awkward silence, until Hotch broke the unwritten rule. "You did really good in there today."
"You said so earlier." Emily reminded him.
"True. But you got further with him than I could." Hotch rested his elbows on the checkered tablecloth while they waited. "Something sounded off."
"I know. But I couldn't put my finger on it." Emily sighed, sipping her soda. "He might not have done it, Hotch, but he most likely knows who did."
"He knows something." Hotch agreed, as the food arrived. "What, I couldn't tell."
"So are we going to speak to him again?"
"First I want to get set up at the field office, get Morgan and the team here. Some of these women are from Indiana and Michigan. We'll have to split up and check with the locals in both those locations as well."
Emily paused a moment as her manicotti was placed in front of her. She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of tomato and basil. "Oh, God. I have missed this. There is no place in Washington that ever could compare."
Hotch felt his stomach tighten at the look on her face. When the woman forgot she was with him she was elemental, enthusiastic, appreciative, tactile. Totally different from the reserved agent she portrayed when on the job.
It made him hungry. And not for the lasagna before him. His thoughts from the night before ran through his mind. Mad him wonder what she'd be like, what it would be like.
Made him wonder what she'd be like in a more sensual arena than a simple eatery. Made him wonder what she'd be like in a darkened bedroom, with him to touch, taste, smell. Feel.
God. He wanted that.