Strauss refers to the Brooklyn Vampire. In case you've never heard of this charmer, Albert Fish was a child rapist and cannibal operating between 1919 and 1930. Also, in 1941, legal drinking age in New York State was eighteen.
". . . which is why I'm requesting permission to re-open the Wilton and Finks cases, and to work with the 5th on the McLeod case."
Strauss said, "No."
Behind his back, Hotch's hands clenched around each other. "Sir?"
The chief folded his hands and regarded Hotch over the top of them, ignoring the pictures and notes spread across his desk. "I know what's happening here."
"What's that, sir?"
"I know I'm pretty old. I know you boys in the bullpen say, 'That Strauss, he's been doing this so long he thinks he was born in blue.'"
Not really, Hotch thought.
"But I do remember what it was like to be a new detective, hungry to make a name for yourself. You're not as young as some of our detectives, you don't have as long a career ahead of you. You can't rest on your war record forever." Strauss gestured at the folders. "You see all this, and you think this could be the big case, the one that puts your name in the papers and makes all your superiors sit up and take notice. And that's fine. I appreciate ambition. Nobody ever got anywhere without it. But it can be misplaced."
Hotch breathed through his nose and unclenched his teeth with effort. "Sir, with all due respect, this isn't about me. This is about them."
Strauss nodded. "That last one in there, McGill. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"
"McLeod served with me overseas, sir."
"I remember that too. Brothers in arms. You promised the widow, didn't you? Said you'd catch this bastard no matter what. Said you wouldn't rest."
"I told her I would look into it, sir."
Strauss sighed theatrically. "Detective Hotchner, let me tell you something that you'll learn soon enough. People die. They get mugged, they get robbed, stupid accidents happen, and they die. You could go an entire career without running into a homicidal maniac. I have. What you've got here is four people who unfortunately died."
"Sir, the similarities - "
"Anybody can get a pipe. Anyone can buy a gun. There's probably a million Army issue Colts floating around the pawnshops of this fair city right now. Just because two petty criminals stepped on some toes and a colored was in the wrong place at the wrong time doesn't mean we have some new Brooklyn Vampire on our hands."
"And McLeod?"
"It's unfortunate, and I understand your desire to do something about your friend's death. But he's not our problem. His case falls under the jurisdiction of the 5th, and you have more than enough work to do here."
"Sir - "
Strauss sat back, all avuncularity suddenly gone. "Do you hear me, Detective? You're to close the Garner case, let the 5th work on the McLeod case, and focus on the real crimes out there."
Hotch sat at his desk, working through paperwork with the steady determination of a machine. One piece of his mind was focused on the papers under his pen, but the rest of it gnawed away at the events of the morning.
Closed. Over. The captain himself had told him to let it go.
Was Strauss right? Was he just seeing connections because he wanted to see them?
No. Absolutely not.
But there was no connection -
No connection that he could see. It just meant he needed to dig deeper. Finks hadn't been a mugging, not by a long shot. Not with close to five dollars still in his shoe.
He would be defying a direct order.
The part of Hotch that had spent the war as an obedient link in the chain of command recoiled from that. But another part of him, a larger part, had been Doug McLeod's superior officer for nearly five years, and you damn well stood for your men, no matter what.
He glanced around, then thumbed through his notebook until he found a particular page. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. "Mr. Morgan? This is Detective Hotchner, we spoke the other day. Can you meet me this evening? No," he said, and took a breath. "Not at the precinct."
"Hey, J.J," Emily said when the door opened.
"Emily, hello. Detective Hotchner said you'd be coming. Come in."
"Thanks. Is Penelope here yet?"
"Penelope? No." J.J.'s brows drew together. "Isn't she a librarian? I thought this was a police matter."
"It is," Emily said. "A nasty one. But I talked Hotch into including her." She saw the skepticism in J.J.'s face. "I know, she's not exactly who springs to mind, and trust me, I had to lobby long and hard to get Hotch to agree to it. But Penelope knows everybody. She has an information network that military intelligence would be proud of."
"That I can believe," J.J. said, smiling a little.
Emily grinned back. "So who else is here?"
"So far, just you and - " J.J. tilted her head toward the dining room, indicating that Emily should look.
Her brows shot up at the sight of the chocolate-skinned man standing with Hotch, both of them frowning at the map spread out over the table. Emily had lived in New York City her whole life, so it was hardly her first time seeing a colored man, but she hadn't expected to meet one here.
"Whoa," she said. "That's unexpected. Who is he?"
"A private investigator," J.J. said, so cool and collected that Emily concluded she'd been pretty flustered before. "His name's Derek Morgan. I think he was already looking into the case. Oh, here's Penelope," she added, skirting around Emily and opening the door again.
She turned. Her friend was just climbing out of a cab, resplendent in orange and yellow and carrying a roll of bright green fabric. "Hiya," she called out, waving with her free hand. "I brought someone else to play."
Sliding out behind her, looking as if he wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten there, was a tall, lanky man with hair that hadn't seen a barber in about six years. He trailed after her as she bounced up the walk. "Meet Dr. Spencer Reid. PhD, not medical. Old friend of mine."
"Yes, almost two weeks now," Dr. Reid muttered.
Penelope ignored that and introduced Emily and J.J. He gave them awkward little waves, as if touching did not come naturally to him.
"Here's that cotton print I was telling you about," Penelope said, holding the fabric out to J.J.
As the two women bent their heads over the bundle, Emily turned to Dr. Reid and studied him for a moment. He looked as if he'd have a hell of a time ordering a beer in a bar, but he had a doctorate, so he had to be older than eighteen. Behind his thick spectacles, he had dark eyes, made darker by the shadows surrounding them. Everything about him was long and narrow, all protruding bones and sharp angles. She trusted Penelope's judgment that he'd be somehow valuable, but she couldn't help wondering how Hotch would react to his unexpected presence.
He looked over at her and grimaced faintly. Whether it was at waiting around for the cloth discussion to be done with or at being looked at, Emily couldn't tell.
She said, "So, how did Penelope rope you into this?"
"Oh, well," he said, "Mrs. Garcia told me about this case and I couldn't say no."
"You must really be interested in deranged criminals."
"No, I mean I really couldn't say no. She wouldn't let me."
Emily grinned. "So why - "
"Come on, let's go in," Penelope broke in. "Before we melt."
Inside, they found Morgan on his own, studying the map. Penelope went right and plopped herself down next to him. "Hi! I don't think we've met."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "No, ma'am. Derek Morgan."
"I'm Penelope Garcia, and don't you ma'am me. Just call me Penelope."
"Ma'am," he said again, got up, and walked away.
Penelope's smile froze on her face, then melted away. She took a breath, then looked down at her lap and smoothed her dress.
Emily sat down next to her friend. "So, this Dr. Reid of yours," she said. "Is he okay? He looks - "
Penelope grasped at the offered distraction. "Like he hasn't had a square meal since Pearl Harbor?"
"To start."
"I thought the same, but he eats like a stevedore." She nodded toward the other side of the room, where Dr. Reid had just discovered a plate of cookies. "I think he's just one of those guys who burns it all off with his brain."
"Huh. Must be nice."
"You're telling me."
Hotch came back in the room then, a file folder in hand. He frowned at Dr. Reid. "Excuse me. Who are you?"
Since his mouth was full, Penelope answered for him. "This is Dr. Spencer Reid. I invited him to our little shindig."
Hotch's eyes swung around to bore into Penelope. "Did you. And what are you a doctor of, exactly, Dr. Reid?"
He swallowed. "Uh, physics. Nuclear physics, specifically."
"I see," he said. "Mrs. Garcia. Can I talk to you for a moment?"
Emily heard his tone and cringed. She got to her feet, saying, "Sir - "
"Alone."
"Okay then," Emily murmured.
They went out in the hall, and Hotch gazed down at the sunny-faced woman. Civilians. They had no idea. It had been against his better judgment, but Prentiss had been so sure that he'd given in. And what did she go and do? Brought another outsider into a police matter. A physicist!
"Mrs. Garcia," he said in the low, measured tones he'd always used in a discipline situation. "You're here because Miss Prentiss assured me that you'd be useful. I realize the setting is informal and that you're here on your own time. But you need to understand the seriousness of what we're doing."
"Detective Hotchner," she said in a shocked voice. "Emily told me what was done to those poor men. I know how important this is."
"This is a murder investigation, Mrs. Garcia. It's not a shindig and it's certainly not an occasion to which it is appropriate to bring a date!"
Her mouth dropped open. "Dr. Reid's not my date. He's a doctoral candidate in abnormal psychology at Columbia. He's writing his dissertation on behavioral patterns of serial murderers, and I thought he could help."
Hotch stared at her. She gazed back, biting her lip, the red flower in her hair quivering ever so slightly.
"He said he was a nuclear physicist."
"He said the doctorate he'd already earned was in nuclear physics," she said. "Which is what you asked, actually. He's very literal, sir."
Hotch digested that. "Behavioral patterns?"
"Yeah. I read some of it. Kinda lost me after the title, honestly. But it sounded really, really smart."
He breathed in and out. Civilians, civilians on his case. But one with extensive community connections and another with knowledge of the field, on a case that had already slipped through all the cracks of regular police procedure.
A case with, if he was correct, a ticking countdown clock.
"He can stay for tonight. If he proves useful, he can help. If he doesn't, he's gone." He leveled his gaze on her, making sure she knew Dr. Reid wasn't the only civilian he was talking about. "Understood?"
"Understood, sir," she said quickly.
"No more springing anything on me."
"No, sir."
Emily gave up trying to hear the conversation out in the hall and went over to where Dr. Reid was scanning through the various folders of notes. "So," she said. "Nuclear physics?"
"Yep," he said, turning a page. His free hand wandered away in search of another cookie.
"What does this have to do with nuclear physics?"
"Everything has to do with nuclear physics." Cookie obtained, he took a bite.
She nodded at the pages in his hand, a diagram of Wilton's injuries that she'd drawn. "No atom did that." She saw his mouth open and added hastily, "No single atom did that."
He gave her an impressed sort of nod and turned another page, running his finger down it.
"So . . ." she prompted. "Why did Penelope nab you?"
"Probably because my current field of research is in the psychology of homicide," he said easily, as if mentioning that he liked pancakes in the morning. "It's my dissertation. I'm in the process of obtaining my doctorate in abnormal psychology."
Emily blinked. "Why?"
"Um. I found myself at loose ends and it seemed like something I'd like."
"You're getting a second doctorate because you were bored?"
"Some people make ships in bottles," Reid said.
Emily's eyes narrowed, and the corners of Reid's mouth curled up, very faintly. She was suddenly sure that this fellow wasn't quite the absent-minded professor he pretended to be.
"Quit hogging those, professor," she said, gesturing at the cookie plate.
"Actually, I don't teach any classes, so it's not really accurate to - "
"You'll do 'til one comes along. Now pass 'em over. A girl needs chocolate in her life." She took a happy bite. "So, how much did Penelope tell you?"
"Nothing, really, just that there were some murders in a similar pattern that might be the result of a serial murderer." He lifted the pages. "But reading through these, I have no doubt it's the same man. Miss Prentiss, you're the one who brought Walter Wilton to Detective Hotchner's attention?"
"Yeah," she said. "He came in on my shift."
"You characterized these as rage-fueled. Like he 'made someone mad as hell.'" He looked up. "Why?"
Taking the diagram, she pointed out the sheer sloppiness of the beating, the body parts that would have been broken by a professional, but left alone by the killer. Dr. Reid asked questions, brows drawn together, still taking bites out of his cookie every so often.
"Interesting," he said finally. "He probably knows the victims personally, or believes he does, and bears substantial grudges against them, possibly born out of envy. He might be stalking them."
Morgan, who'd been listening in, pushed the map forward. "He's definitely stalking them. Look at this."
Dr. Reid's eyes lit, and he leaned over it.
Penelope came back in, and Emily shot her friend a look of quick concern. "How you doing?"
"It's been a tough day for this girl's ego, I can tell you that," Penelope mumbled, flopping down in the chair next to her. "He can't half glare, can he?"
"You know, his boys liked him, but damn if they didn't jump when Hotch scowled. They used to measure the progress of the war by how low his eyebrows got."
That made Penelope giggle, shakily. "You realize he'll be able to balance a frying pan on those things when he's eighty?"
Emily muffled her snort when the man under discussion came back in the room, followed by the retired cop that she'd met in the diner.
"This is retired police captain Dave Rossi, everyone," Hotch said. "We can have more in-depth introductions later. Since we're all here now, this is what we've got."
