Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own Profiler or any of the characters. I am merely a shameless fangirl who is distraught by the abrupt end of the show, and must naturally continue it through fic. ;)
Five long years after the unfortunate demise of the VCTF, a murder hits too close to home and the VCTF reconstitutes.
Getting Personal
Alright, Gracie, please tell me you've got something," Bailey Malone asked as she walked into the Command Center where he and George Fraley sat.
"Well, as a matter of fact..." A smile spread across her face. "I've found a fingerprint near the victim's wound that didn't belong to a Mr. Garth Landburg. The killer must not have worn gloves while castrating him."v
"You're an angel, Gracie."
"I know."
"George, call John and Rachel in Dallas and tell them to put off talking to the families, that we've got a fingerprint. George nodded and began to dial a phone number. Grace gave George a copy of what she told him was a "very strange-looking" fingerprint. He scanned it into the computer and began to search through the VCTF files, starting from the very beginning.
x x x
"Any good news?" John asked as he and Rachel entered the Command Center three hours later.
"Um... it's not Jack," George replied.
"I figured as much," John retorted. George smiled:
"Just offering some reassurance, John." John returned the smile. "I've searched through almost all four years worth of files, checking for any matches So far-"
"'So far' what?" Rachel asked.
"There's a match," the other four looked up at the screen as George pulled up the information. "Oh no."
"Damien Canarez," Rachel echoed in the same condemning tone as George.
"George, I asked you for good news," John said. George only looked at him. "What do we do now?" John asked.
"We do what I said we'd do years ago," Bailey said. "We'll dedicate all out time into finding Canarez. Our soul purpose is catching him."
"How do you catch a ghost?" Rachel asked.
"With the best damn team this country can offer... and I'm looking at it." John couldn't help but flash a gloating smile. "Alright, George, this is all on you. I need you to have into every government file, or just any file, that has anything on Damien Canarez. It could be an alias, but you've got to try." George nodded. "In the mean time, sorry to do this to you, but could you two fly back to Dallas?" John and Rachel nodded. "Great. Grace, study everything you can about the crime scene here. Study the wounds, their patters... everything." Grace had already started towards the lab. Bailey walked into his office to make a few calls. He needed Darren Ford's body excavated.
x x x
Knock. Knock. Knock. A young, average height, average dressed woman with brown hair and eyes answered the door. She found one very attractive man standing next to a woman with red hair, both in suits, and she knew what it'd be about.
"Mrs. Ford?" the man asked. "I'm Agent Grant and this is Agent Burke. We're here to talk to you a little about your husband."
"Actually, my name is Tiffany Wingle. I was Darren's sister before he..." She trailed off. "Now's not a real good time. Perhaps another day?"
"Mrs. Wingle, with all due respect," Agent Burke said, "we really need to talk to you. It could help prevent another death." There was a short pause. "It shouldn't take too long. We only need ten or fifteen minutes, really."
Mrs. Wingle, not sure of turning them away but at the same time unsure if she could talk so soon, let her in. In truth, it had been a month, but it seemed like only yesterday she got the phone call from Denise – Darren's wife – that he had been murdered. She had been at the grocery store getting your basic necessities. She had seen movies and watched shows all about murders and cops and the law and saw everything happen through a looking glass, but when it happened to her and she was the one inside it...
"Have you always lived with your brother?"
"For the past little while, yes. My husband died in a car accident about eight years ago. We had only been married two years. And I didn't have a job to pay for anything, so Darren took me in. He was a sweet guy, always trying to do what he could for others, always sacrificing."
"Where was Darren on the night of September the first, two thousand four?" Agent Grant asked.
"Here," she said, on the verge of a break down she didn't want to let herself have. She took a deep breath, the pain in her chest like knife wounds.
"And do you know how he died?" Agent Burke asked. She shook her head. "I got a call from my boss, one that you probably won't like, but we'd like to have your family's consent for it." She nodded as to urge her along. "We need to excavate Darren's body and perform an autopsy."
She sniffed. "You'll really have to ask Denise about that. It's her decision." She looked at them in the face for the first time. "Will it help you catch this guy?" The both nodded sincerely. "Then it's okay with me."
"Do you know when Denise will be home?" Agent Burke asked.
She sniffed again. "She's been out of town with the kids... Well, you know how it is." The female agent nodded. She did know how it is. "She'll be back in three days I think." She seemed to do the math in her head. "Yes, Saturday morning. That's when she'll be back."
"Thank you for your time." Agents Grant and Burke both shook her hand. The female agent seemed to want to say something else, but didn't. Instead, she turned and followed the man out, who had also been looking at her waiting for her to speak. Mrs. Wingle closed the door.
x x x
"You okay?" John asked, slight concern etched in his face for he'd never let on any emotion he was going through-
"Except anger," Rachel said audibly.
"What?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
John sighed. "Look, I know I can be a big pain in the ass sometimes," he began. "A lot of the time," he corrected, "but I don't really mean to be. We're friends, right...?"
"Course we're friends," Rachel replied. "That's the problem." John stopped walking.
He turned to face her, his handsome features distored with the look of pure confusion which brought a different attractiveness to his looks. "What do you mean?"
John couldn't believe the incredible emotion she had in her eyes Rachel looked at him. "Just forget it," she said in a tone that proved otherwise.
"I don't want to," he replied with sincerety. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the ring of Rachel's cell phone cut him off.
She cursed mentally. It was Bailey. "Bailey," she answered, her voice breaking. "No, I'm fine," she responed to Bailey. She looked into John's eyes, determined to convince him what she couldn't herself.
John damned the phone - and Bailey - mentally for ruining his oppourunity to explain himself to Rachel. True, it had taken him long enough, - in fact, it was technically Rachel who made the first move - but he had been hurt too many times by those closest to him. He naturally closed off the world and people around him, only letting them see what he'd wanted them to. But it seem Rachel could see the tiniest bit more than he'd wanted which proved to be too much.
Rachel already knew he was attracted to her, and it didn't take a roasted goat to figure it out. Okay, it technically did, but it was John Grant: unpredictable in life but the opposite when it came to women. So then she only had to decipher his feelings, and over the past few days it was especially obvious he took refuge in her.
"John," Rachel said softly after hanging up the phone.
"Hmm?"
"Bailey said we should go ahead and fly back."
"But we only talked to one-"
"He wants us rested for Nathan's funeral tomorrow morning." John nodded hesitantly, slowly.
"Can't we talk first?"
"We'll talk on the plane," she said, walking towards the car.
x x x
'We'll talk on the plane,' John thought. 'Riiiiight.' So far, the flight had been accompanied by a long, uncomfortable silence that made John - when he wasn't sleeping - sqeemish, antsy, and... uncomfortable. Every time he'd open his mouth he'd close it. And every time she'd open hers, she'd cough fraudulently while reading for her cup of coffee, now empty though a pot warmed as they sat.
Presently, they even avoided each other's gaze. Rachel opened her mouth again, coughed, and reached for her cup realizing for the third time it was empty. She cleared her throught and made the only conscious motion of the two yet. She moved her hand across the table, delicately resting it upon the case file in an attempt to pull it back towards her. Attempt.
Maybe it was the pestering silence, maybe it was how cute she looked with her coffee cup - maybe, even, how much he wished he was that cup - but John placed his hand on hers, keeping the file and her hand from moving.
"I'm trying to start a conversation with you," he said lightly. "The least you could do is pretend to pay attention."
She felt herself relax immensely and decided to play along. "Well after the first ten minutes of watching your mouth flap soundlessly, you didn't give me much of a reason to try." She smiled, biting her lower lip at the same time and contagiously causing John to smile back. And for another moment there was silence, but not the uncomfortable kind like just before, or the hateful kind. With this silence came a peace that John hadn't felt since Nathan's death and Rachel hadn't felt since before Prison, Marks, and even the death of her little brother Danny. With this silence came an understanding of each other's feelings. And in this silence John's lips met Rachel's over the table, over the file, over their hands, and over the empty coffee cup.
x x x
The peaceful silence lingered for the rest of the flight and part of the drive home, until Rachel tried starting up non-VCTF conversation.
"So have you always lived in Atlanta?"
"No," John replied. "But I've lived here for almost fifteen years. Most I ever lived anywhere."
"Why is that? Because of your parents' jobs?"
"Something like that," he said, a hint of vulnerability breaking through which he hoped she wouldn't notice. But she did. She always did.
"Is it... too private?" she said, her voice monotone yet empathic.
He was about the say "yes," his mechanical response to that question every time it involved his family, but he hesitaded. "Actually, I'd like you to know," he said finally, his expression of deep thought replaced by one of sincerety.
They were only three blocks away from the VCTF where they'd check in and out, then would leave in separate cars to go back to separate houses and be just that: separate. So John pulled the car over and shut off the engine because if he was going to spill his guts like he never had before, he would give her his full attention.
"I lived almost the first fourteen years of my life in Boston, Massachusetts. My mother was the sweetest woman you'd ever meet, and my father was the biggest asshole you'd ever greet. Actually, you've probably heard of him since you used to be a prosecutor in New England. Patrick O'Doyle?" Rachel nodded her head slowly, unsure of whether to speak or not and if so, unsure of when she'd recover from the shock to find the right words.
He continued, "He wasn't a total deadbeat dad, I must admit. Never once hit me - or my mom, Noreen - or give me some unruly punishment like locking me up without food. He was just a bad guy. He didn't teach me the positive life lessons; it was always 'Use the power you hold over others to your personal advantage,' and 'Try your best to get ahead in life, even if it brings out your worst.' If I ever walked in on him while he was doing his so-called business, he'd show me that he had beaten up some poor guy and would imply I was just as weak."
He amazed Rachel by speaking as if he were an outsider looking in, with little sypathy and only hints of sadness here and there.
"A little before my fourteenth birthday, my mom decided she'd had enough. She packed our things right in front of him and dared him to come looking for us. We jumped around from state to state until-" He stopped abruptly. "I think we lived in twelve states before she died. I was seventeen."
"John, I'm so sorry," she offered, placing her hand in his and giving it a light squeeze."
"She's the reason I love the way I look. Not because - I mean, I am just dead sexy," he said playfully. His expression softened as he gazed intently into her eyes. "But because every day I look in the mirror and I see her. I see her strenth, her face, and her ocean blue eyes that had this effect of... immediate comfort."
"Yeah, I know the feeling," she said.
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