Understanding
When anger rises, think of the consequences.
Confucius
***
IV
Sorrow has given way to anger. Revenge fantasies are playing out it my head. Wouldn't it be nice, for one fleeting moment, to let go of everything, and just kill.
She wouldn't want you to do that, a little voice tells me. That little voice is far too soft. It's being drowned out by all the others, urging me to exact vengeance. I let out a tiny sigh.
Morgan glances at me from the driver's seat. He gives me a half-smile. He's trying his hardest to be supportive, but he doesn't understand. If not for the circumstances, I'm sure he'd be asking me all kinds of questions. Awkward questions. I'd tolerate the awkwardness, if it brought her back.
Nothing will bring her back, says the tiny voice. It really needs to speak up, because I'm not sure I'm listening to it anymore.
***
We go to Enrique's bar next. JJ and Morgan talk to the other employees. I talk to Enrique.
The second he sees me, he's filling up a glass. Long Island Iced Tea. It's what I drink after a hard case.
'I'm on the clock,' I tell him. He raises and eyebrow at me, as if to say "Seriously?" I shrug, and take the proffered drink. It's only eleven in the morning.
'I need to know if you've seen anyone unusual around the place,' I tell him. 'Anyone that might have been watching the rest of the customers. This person wouldn't have been interested in hook-ups.' That kind of thing, I probably should have noticed myself. If they were there watching Lee, then they were there watching me as well.
Blindsided.
'Yeah,' he says. 'Guy called Bill. Comes in on Thursday nights.' One of the nights I – we – used to come in. 'He always sits by himself at a table in the back. Doesn't bother anyone, and doesn't wanting anyone bothering him.' You get the best view from the back. A wide angle view of the rest of the bar.
'Do you know Bill's last name?'
'No,' he tells me. 'But he always pays with credit. I'll try and find you his receipts.'
He goes into an office at the back, and I take a long sip of my drink. It goes straight to my head, and that's exactly what I need right now. To forget everything.
He hands me a thick sheaf of receipts. Bill obviously drinks here a lot. I pocket them, eager to get the credit card details back to Garcia. At the same time, I'm almost considering tracking down this "Bill" myself.
'Oh,' Enrique says, before I can quell my inner turmoil. 'We're doing a memorial service on Wednesday, after the funeral. Private party.'
I nod. I'll be there.
For her.
***
My wildly rocking conscience gets the better of me as I return to the BAU. I give the credit card receipts to Garcia.
'Twenty minutes,' she promises me.
In that time, I go back to my desk. There's a package, sitting there, waiting for me. I open it, cautiously. There's a note atop the contents. Lee's personal effects. Legally speaking, Christine was her next of kin, but according to the note, Christine had asked that they be sent to me. A tear threatened to escape. I held it back.
Underneath the note, the first thing I see is her jacket, and my barriers almost break. She loved that jacket. Even in summer she would refuse to take it off. I hold it to my face, taking in the scent of expensive cigarettes and bourbon. I try to forget that she died in this jacket. Miraculously, there are no stains. It's one thing that I can hold on to.
I take off my own jacket – professional, ironed, button-up – and shrug on this leather safety net. It's warm and familiar. The kind of place I want to be right now.
***
'William Burke. 27. Here's your address.' She hands me a slip of paper, pity filling her eyes. Right now, I don't need pity.
Hotch, being Hotch, refuses to let me question him. I can accompany him, certainly, but I'm not allowed to talk.
Talking isn't what I'm interested in.
It's a big place for a guy so young. He lives alone, or so Garcia tells me.
We knock. There isn't enough evidence for a warrant – we'll just be questioning him for now. He opens the door, double-takes when he sees me. He recovers quickly.
'Mr. Burke. We're with the FBI. SSA Hotchner, this is SSA Prentiss. May we come in please?'
'By all means.' He steps back, letting us in. I look at his face. I wonder if he got off on her screams.
'I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Alyson Stewart.' I say nothing. I just sit there, watching. He doesn't seem nervous. He seems relaxed, comfortable. He wants to co-operate.
'The name is unfamiliar to me,' he says, with a tilt of his head, as if to apologise.
Hotch brings out the photo. I don't look away. It's not a morgue photo. It's one I gave him. The one hidden in my wallet underneath my credit cards.
He ignores Hotch completely now, turns to me. 'I'm so sorry,' he says. There are tears in his eyes. He doesn't even like it when other people suffer.
I brush it off.
'The bartender tells us that you come in on Thursday nights. You watch, all night. May I ask why?' His questioning method is calm, methodical. He knows this guy didn't do it just as well as I do.
'I live alone, Agent Hotchner. I have no-one in my life. Sometimes it's nice to go where there are people and just sit. They don't judge me.' He seemed saddened when he said this. I understand easily that he's just a lonely guy, wanting a bit of company.
In spite of Hotch's warnings, I slip in a question of my own. 'Why do you refuse all advances?' I tried a soft tone, as much as it hurt me to. One that made it perfectly clear that I was being curious rather than accusing.
'I'm...afraid, I guess.' He fiddles nervously with his watch. I try giving him a reassuring smile, though it's obvious it's taking a great deal of effort.
'Just...be yourself.' It's lame advice, and I know it. Especially considering my own circumstances.
Because without her, I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore.
