"Junior," Morgan said curtly as they approached the small group. "Long time, no see."
"Derek Morgan," Junior said, nodding his shaved head. "I heard you was comin' to town, knew I'd find you here."
"Didn't know you wouldn't be alone, though," a rail-thin man with ebony skin said with a grin, stepping forward and eyeing Reid.
"Back off, Loco," Morgan said, putting another shoulder between him and Reid. Behind him, Reid swallowed hard. "He's none of your business."
"So it's true?" another man asked. "Derek Morgan's a French-fried faggot?"
"Go fuck yourself, Wheels," Morgan spat. "I dare you," he said, with gritted teeth, to the man's motion to approach him. Wheels weighed his options, then relaxed back against the car.
"Why you looking for me, anyway?" Morgan said, turning back to Junior.
"It's about Rodney," he said, his eyes set and hard.
"What about him?"
"He's dead."
"I'm sorry," Morgan said, his expression and tone blank. "Why does that matter to me?"
Junior stared at him for a second or two. "Because he didn't just die."
Morgan raised a brow, unimpressed. "That's not exactly uncommon out here."
"You don't get it," Loco said, "he didn't get offed by no gang."
"How do you know?" Morgan asked.
"'Cuz we found him, and he didn't even look dead—looked like he was sleepin'," Junior said. "When gangs kill, you can tell they're dead from a mile away."
"What was the cause of death?" Reid asked, eliciting a glare from his partner.
Junior shrugged. "They barely even do police reports for guys like us."
"Eyeball didn't even get no chalk line," Wheels said, a dry grin crossing his face.
"How many have been found like that?"
"Rodney makes four."
"So you need my help?" Morgan clarified. Junior gave a stiff nod.
"It—it doesn't exactly work like that," Reid said, stepping out from behind Morgan. "The Behavioral Analysis Unit has to be invited by the local—"
"Nobody asked you, French-fry," Loco said coldly.
Morgan glanced at him. "Watch yourself, boy." Turning back to Junior, he added, "He's right. Local PD has to call us in. Without that, we're stepping on their turf."
"The cops here don't give two shits about Rodney," Junior shook his head. "You have to do something."
"No, I don't," Morgan concluded.
"Wouldn't it suck," Wheels began, pushing himself off the car, "to come home one day to find your little cracker how we found Rodney?"
"Stay the hell away from him," Morgan said, moving between him and Reid.
"I think my guys in D.C. would be able to find a little white boy like you," Loco said, looking Reid up and down. "Whatchu think about that, French-fry?"
Morgan approached Loco. "If you put your hands on him, so help me God…"
"Morgan," Junior said, stopping the ensuing fight. "Somethin's really goin' down." He looked down the street, then back at Morgan. "I really need your help."
"There's nothing I can do," Morgan snapped.
"You didn't even try," Junior protested.
Morgan sighed, letting his eyes close. "He's right," Reid said quietly. "We—we could go to the police department, talk to them, maybe talk to the coroner about the autopsy reports to get a foothold."
"Are you serious?" Morgan asked incredulously. "Jeez, Spence, two of these guys just threatened your life."
Reid glanced at Loco, then shrugged. "Four people could be a serial killer. We should at least make sure."
"I'll do what I can," Morgan turned back to Junior, "because he wants to help," he added, turning to Wheels and Loco.
Junior stuck out his hand. "Thanks, man."
Morgan shook it. "I'll be in touch."