Author's Notes: Thanks for the replies on the last part... I told you they'd make me write
faster. :) Glad everyone's liking it so far. Please let me know what you thought of
this part. I should have another one done within a week, probably sooner if I keep getting
spoiled in the feedback realm. Oh, and special thanks to Cindy and CharmingTia, for the
detailed replies, I really appreciate it. :)
Chapter Four
John had been staring at her for over five minutes, and Sam, beginning to get a bit nervous, broke the silence. "I have to see the crime scenes, John."
"Are you nuts?" he demanded, shaking his head. "I may not be the profiler here, but even *I* know serial killers like to return to the scene of the crime to 'relive the magic'."
Sam made a face. "Could you please not quote Disney commercials when talking about murders?" she asked, irritated.
"I'll stop quoting Disney if you stop being insane!" John exclaimed, exasperated. "You can't seriously think we can just waltz into one of these crime scenes and not be arrested on the spot. I might as well turn myself in and sign a confession!"
Sam sighed heavily. "Look, we know the killer's working out of Atlanta. How do you expect to clear your name from New York? You know he'll strike again, and we're not going to know anything about it if we're not *there*."
"You ever heard of the Internet? You don't need to be in Atlanta to know anything. There's websites dedicated to nothing but serial killers, updated on the hour."
"That's not the point, John," Sam replied, shaking her head firmly. "You can't solve a crime from the other side of the country. Besides, the team's in Atlanta."
"Hey, I'm all for you having a big reunion with the VCTF, but do you think you could find a more convenient time? In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big distracted."
"Could you please stop arguing with me about this?" Sam asked, pressing down a bit harder on the gas to make her point. "I can't profile a killer based on reports and photographs alone. I tried that once before, remember?"
John slumped back in his seat, unable to think of a decent retort to that. "Fine. But you better at least write me when I'm sitting on death row."
Sam flinched, both at the pointed reference to her lack of communication and the thought of John actually going to prison for this. "I won't let that happen," she said firmly, knowing he wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. He didn't reply, returning his attention to the window. With another sigh, Sam turned on the radio and continued down the road.
* * * * *
It was a constant source of amazement to Sam how hotel rooms all managed to look the same, no matter where in the country one was. The same light yellow walls, the same busy purple bedspreads, and the same pictures hanging in the corner. The beds were close together, seperated only by the width of the nightstand between them. John was lying on the one nearest the television, flipping through the channels with little interest, while Sam began to organize the files George had sent.
"Want some room service?" John offered, reaching for the phone.
"A salad would be nice," she replied, not looking up from the pages spread out on the bed. She heard him dial, and then his voice and the drone of the television faded into the background as she became engrossed in the case files. Before she knew it there was a knock on the door, and John was handing her money. "Why can't you get it?" she asked irritably, then, realizing he was still in the pants he'd been wearing when he was shot, stood up and went to the door. After paying the man she took the tray and put it down on the table in the corner of the room, all of five steps away John's bed. Grabbing her salad and the coke John had ordered for her, she went back over to her own side of the room, sitting back down cross-legged in front of the papers.
"How's it going?" John asked her, uncovering his own dinner and choosing to sit at the table by himself.
Sam sighed, annoyed at the interruption. "It's going," she said simply, then, realizing she was being rude, added, "The profile's off somehow, but I can't put my finger on why." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have read it until I had my own done. I'm out of practice."
John shrugged. "It came back to you before," he noted, referring to the three years after her husband's death.
"That was different," she replied, although she didn't really know the answer to that 'why' either.
"Well, if you need a sounding board, I got nothing better to do," John offered with a smirk, beginning to eat his dinner.
Sam wrinkled her nose as she watched him bite into what had to be the most greasiest piece of mystery meat she'd ever seen. "Thanks," she said, looking down at Rachel's profile with a frown. "You know, everything in here is right, technically. I don't understand why it feels so off to me."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... ugh. I don't know what I mean." Frustrated, she reached for her salad and pushed the stack of papers out of her way. "Were the victims found chronologically?"
"Yeah."
Sam buried her head in her hands. "How do you know the killer's an FBI agent?" she asked.
"It's all in the files," John replied, waving a hand at her bed.
"I want your perspective."
John looked somewhat surprised, but answered readily. "Well, for starters, all the victims are agents. Victim number four was the real red flag, though. He'd been working undercover for eight years. No way some regular nutball could've known about that."
"That doesn't really prove anything."
"No, that was just when we started having suspicions. Seven was what really made us start focusing on the bureau itself. The victim had a partner, he'd told her he got a call from an Agent Williams, and went to go meet with him. 'Course he never came back from that meeting. The name was fake, but the phone records proved the call came from headquarters."
Sam pursed her lips. "A janitor could have somehow gained access to undercover information," she mused aloud.
"Sure," John agreed, "but Rachel didn't think so. She figured it was someone who'd at least made it to agent status. You think she's wrong about that?"
"I don't know," Sam sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Maybe. Maybe not." She took a bite from her salad, reaching for the photographs. "I think she's wrong about it just being sexual, though. He gets off on the victims suffering, that's obvious from the sodomizing, but it's not *just* about that. It's also about the control. If he *is* an agent, my guess is he's been past over for promotion several times, and he probably has an unremarkable service record. This isn't a guy who's ever been singled out for doing something well. He's been mediocre all his life. Killing is his way of finally being better than his peers." She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did you run a check to see what agents took berevement leave before the murders started?"
John nodded. "Yeah, nothing panned out, though."
Sam closed her eyes, trying to picture the crime in her minds eye. Nothing came to her. "I really need to see the scenes," she said softly.
"Well, you'll get your chances in a few days," John answered, taking a sip of his own soda before pushing away his plate. "I'm gonna take a shower."
"When's check out?" Sam asked.
"Twelve. Why?"
"We're close to a department store, and, no offense, John, but I'd rather not smell those clothes another day if I can help it."
John smirked as he stood up, walking towards the bathroom door. "Knock yourself out. Just try not to wake me up when you leave. I need at least eight hours or I tend to get irritable."
"As opposed to your usual sunny disposition?" Sam replied, her voice dry.
"Exactly," John said grimly.
His lip twitched ever so slightly, and Sam gave into the giggles she'd been trying to repress. "I'll be quiet," she promised through her laughter.
John glared at her mockingly, then disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The smile lingered on Sam's lips as she returned her attention to the papers in front of her, trying to make some sense out of the senseless tragedies of others.
* * * * *
The sound of Sam's laughter echoed in John's mind as he turned on the hot water, closing the curtain to let it heat as he began to remove his clothing. It'd been far too long since he'd heard her laugh like that, and it brought back memories that seemed to be eternally soured by the past two years. But for a second, out there in that hotel room, talking about the case and then joking with one another, it had seemed as though those years hadn't happened. It had seemed like just another case, and just another day.
And Sam still looked beautiful when she laughed.
"What the hell are you thinkin', Grant?" he asked his reflection. He'd let Sam into his heart once already, and she'd taken that little piece of him and vanished years ago. Once this mess was settled, assuming it ever *was* settled, she'd go back to her life, such as it was, and he'd go back to chasing the bad guys. This was no time to be getting soft where Sam was concerned. He couldn't open himself up to her a second time. If he did, it wouldn't matter what happened with the investigation, he'd already be a dead man.
It had taken a long time to forget her, and in a little over twenty-four hours, she'd already made him want to forgive her, without her ever offering an explanation, or even an apology.
Shaking his head to clear it, he tested the temperature of the water and stepped in, reminding himself firmly of the two years between then and now. She'd proven beyond a doubt that she didn't care. He could've been dead, and she wouldn't have had the slightest idea.
Unless she'd asked Bailey about him.
John banged his head against the bathroom tile, thinking it was actually a pretty good analogy to his feelings for Sam. It was just as pointless.
And just as painful.
~End Chapter Four~
faster. :) Glad everyone's liking it so far. Please let me know what you thought of
this part. I should have another one done within a week, probably sooner if I keep getting
spoiled in the feedback realm. Oh, and special thanks to Cindy and CharmingTia, for the
detailed replies, I really appreciate it. :)
Chapter Four
John had been staring at her for over five minutes, and Sam, beginning to get a bit nervous, broke the silence. "I have to see the crime scenes, John."
"Are you nuts?" he demanded, shaking his head. "I may not be the profiler here, but even *I* know serial killers like to return to the scene of the crime to 'relive the magic'."
Sam made a face. "Could you please not quote Disney commercials when talking about murders?" she asked, irritated.
"I'll stop quoting Disney if you stop being insane!" John exclaimed, exasperated. "You can't seriously think we can just waltz into one of these crime scenes and not be arrested on the spot. I might as well turn myself in and sign a confession!"
Sam sighed heavily. "Look, we know the killer's working out of Atlanta. How do you expect to clear your name from New York? You know he'll strike again, and we're not going to know anything about it if we're not *there*."
"You ever heard of the Internet? You don't need to be in Atlanta to know anything. There's websites dedicated to nothing but serial killers, updated on the hour."
"That's not the point, John," Sam replied, shaking her head firmly. "You can't solve a crime from the other side of the country. Besides, the team's in Atlanta."
"Hey, I'm all for you having a big reunion with the VCTF, but do you think you could find a more convenient time? In case you haven't noticed, I'm a big distracted."
"Could you please stop arguing with me about this?" Sam asked, pressing down a bit harder on the gas to make her point. "I can't profile a killer based on reports and photographs alone. I tried that once before, remember?"
John slumped back in his seat, unable to think of a decent retort to that. "Fine. But you better at least write me when I'm sitting on death row."
Sam flinched, both at the pointed reference to her lack of communication and the thought of John actually going to prison for this. "I won't let that happen," she said firmly, knowing he wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. He didn't reply, returning his attention to the window. With another sigh, Sam turned on the radio and continued down the road.
* * * * *
It was a constant source of amazement to Sam how hotel rooms all managed to look the same, no matter where in the country one was. The same light yellow walls, the same busy purple bedspreads, and the same pictures hanging in the corner. The beds were close together, seperated only by the width of the nightstand between them. John was lying on the one nearest the television, flipping through the channels with little interest, while Sam began to organize the files George had sent.
"Want some room service?" John offered, reaching for the phone.
"A salad would be nice," she replied, not looking up from the pages spread out on the bed. She heard him dial, and then his voice and the drone of the television faded into the background as she became engrossed in the case files. Before she knew it there was a knock on the door, and John was handing her money. "Why can't you get it?" she asked irritably, then, realizing he was still in the pants he'd been wearing when he was shot, stood up and went to the door. After paying the man she took the tray and put it down on the table in the corner of the room, all of five steps away John's bed. Grabbing her salad and the coke John had ordered for her, she went back over to her own side of the room, sitting back down cross-legged in front of the papers.
"How's it going?" John asked her, uncovering his own dinner and choosing to sit at the table by himself.
Sam sighed, annoyed at the interruption. "It's going," she said simply, then, realizing she was being rude, added, "The profile's off somehow, but I can't put my finger on why." She shook her head. "I shouldn't have read it until I had my own done. I'm out of practice."
John shrugged. "It came back to you before," he noted, referring to the three years after her husband's death.
"That was different," she replied, although she didn't really know the answer to that 'why' either.
"Well, if you need a sounding board, I got nothing better to do," John offered with a smirk, beginning to eat his dinner.
Sam wrinkled her nose as she watched him bite into what had to be the most greasiest piece of mystery meat she'd ever seen. "Thanks," she said, looking down at Rachel's profile with a frown. "You know, everything in here is right, technically. I don't understand why it feels so off to me."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean... ugh. I don't know what I mean." Frustrated, she reached for her salad and pushed the stack of papers out of her way. "Were the victims found chronologically?"
"Yeah."
Sam buried her head in her hands. "How do you know the killer's an FBI agent?" she asked.
"It's all in the files," John replied, waving a hand at her bed.
"I want your perspective."
John looked somewhat surprised, but answered readily. "Well, for starters, all the victims are agents. Victim number four was the real red flag, though. He'd been working undercover for eight years. No way some regular nutball could've known about that."
"That doesn't really prove anything."
"No, that was just when we started having suspicions. Seven was what really made us start focusing on the bureau itself. The victim had a partner, he'd told her he got a call from an Agent Williams, and went to go meet with him. 'Course he never came back from that meeting. The name was fake, but the phone records proved the call came from headquarters."
Sam pursed her lips. "A janitor could have somehow gained access to undercover information," she mused aloud.
"Sure," John agreed, "but Rachel didn't think so. She figured it was someone who'd at least made it to agent status. You think she's wrong about that?"
"I don't know," Sam sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Maybe. Maybe not." She took a bite from her salad, reaching for the photographs. "I think she's wrong about it just being sexual, though. He gets off on the victims suffering, that's obvious from the sodomizing, but it's not *just* about that. It's also about the control. If he *is* an agent, my guess is he's been past over for promotion several times, and he probably has an unremarkable service record. This isn't a guy who's ever been singled out for doing something well. He's been mediocre all his life. Killing is his way of finally being better than his peers." She bit down on her lower lip thoughtfully. "Did you run a check to see what agents took berevement leave before the murders started?"
John nodded. "Yeah, nothing panned out, though."
Sam closed her eyes, trying to picture the crime in her minds eye. Nothing came to her. "I really need to see the scenes," she said softly.
"Well, you'll get your chances in a few days," John answered, taking a sip of his own soda before pushing away his plate. "I'm gonna take a shower."
"When's check out?" Sam asked.
"Twelve. Why?"
"We're close to a department store, and, no offense, John, but I'd rather not smell those clothes another day if I can help it."
John smirked as he stood up, walking towards the bathroom door. "Knock yourself out. Just try not to wake me up when you leave. I need at least eight hours or I tend to get irritable."
"As opposed to your usual sunny disposition?" Sam replied, her voice dry.
"Exactly," John said grimly.
His lip twitched ever so slightly, and Sam gave into the giggles she'd been trying to repress. "I'll be quiet," she promised through her laughter.
John glared at her mockingly, then disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. The smile lingered on Sam's lips as she returned her attention to the papers in front of her, trying to make some sense out of the senseless tragedies of others.
* * * * *
The sound of Sam's laughter echoed in John's mind as he turned on the hot water, closing the curtain to let it heat as he began to remove his clothing. It'd been far too long since he'd heard her laugh like that, and it brought back memories that seemed to be eternally soured by the past two years. But for a second, out there in that hotel room, talking about the case and then joking with one another, it had seemed as though those years hadn't happened. It had seemed like just another case, and just another day.
And Sam still looked beautiful when she laughed.
"What the hell are you thinkin', Grant?" he asked his reflection. He'd let Sam into his heart once already, and she'd taken that little piece of him and vanished years ago. Once this mess was settled, assuming it ever *was* settled, she'd go back to her life, such as it was, and he'd go back to chasing the bad guys. This was no time to be getting soft where Sam was concerned. He couldn't open himself up to her a second time. If he did, it wouldn't matter what happened with the investigation, he'd already be a dead man.
It had taken a long time to forget her, and in a little over twenty-four hours, she'd already made him want to forgive her, without her ever offering an explanation, or even an apology.
Shaking his head to clear it, he tested the temperature of the water and stepped in, reminding himself firmly of the two years between then and now. She'd proven beyond a doubt that she didn't care. He could've been dead, and she wouldn't have had the slightest idea.
Unless she'd asked Bailey about him.
John banged his head against the bathroom tile, thinking it was actually a pretty good analogy to his feelings for Sam. It was just as pointless.
And just as painful.
~End Chapter Four~