Rope Enough

by Brandgwen

Disclaimer: Profiler is the property of NBC and Sander/Moses. The Magnificent Seven is the property of Watson/Densham and CBS. The ATF universe belongs to Mog. I'm not making any money, I'm not worth suing.

Author's Note: This is an ATF/Profiler cross-over, inspired by the challenge put forward by Michelle Naylor. Background is gleaned from a number of ATF fics, in particular "How DID He Get That Car?", by Mog and "Your True Family", by Ruby. Thanks to to everyone who helped me with the background information.

A Material Witness

Grant began his search with the history faculty office. According to the secretary, only one person fitting the description had remained in the building after she had left. He was a postgraduate student, completing his PhD in American history. She had not known him long, as he had transferred into the school only a few months before. He had asked her how long the building would remain open, she had said until nine. The secretary had to think a moment to remember his name... Stevens. Elliot Stevens.

Stevens' supervisor, Dr. Cusack, had granted his eager student access to his office that night. There was a collection of journals, not available in the library, but which the supervisor purchased, to which Stevens needed access for his project. Cusack had rung his office a little after seven, to see how Elliot progressed. The 'phone went unanswered - Stevens had left, an hour and a half before he was seen exiting the building.

Stevens seemed at ease, sitting in the police interview room. He readily admitted to being in the building that night, but, when questioned on the timing, had refused to comment. Instead, he gave John a card with a telephone number on it and requested a call be placed.

"I really don't see what the problem is. You were in the building. We know that, you were seen. So what were you doing between seven and eight thirty?"

"Regrettably, Agent Grant, I am not in a position to answer your query. If you would contact the number I supplied, perhaps some progress might be made."

John ignored this. "Alright, so you're not going to answer that one. How about this? When you left the building, you looked up into the nearby tree. What did you see?"

The student gave a half-smile. He could play Grant's games. "A dead man, hanging by his neck."

The agent frowned. "You admit you saw that? So, why didn't you report it?"

"The telephone number, Agent Grant."

"You're not under arrest, Mr. Stevens. We don't have to allow you a 'phone call, we don't have to get you a lawyer," John was losing his temper and the unshakeable serenity of the suspect was doing little for his blood pressure.

"I recommend you place the call, in any case. I am unable to answer any questions, otherwise," Stevens seemed quite prepared to sit out his holding time in complete silence.

"You know you're acting like someone with something to hide. If I were a betting man, I'd say you spent that hour and a half climbing out the window of the history building with a rope. I'd say you were stringing a man up," John kept tight control of his voice, but his anger was evident, none the less.

"I am a betting man, Agent Grant, and I'd say you're unlikely to generate solutions by throwing around ludicrous accusations."

Grant left the room, before he did something he would regret. It was fortunate he did, because, as he leant against the wall outside the interview room, Malone appeared at the end of the corridor.

"How's it goin', John?" Bailey had already read the answer in his subordinate's face.

"We got a PhD student in there. Cocky little bastard. Seen leaving the social sciences building 'round eight thirty and he has a hole in his alibi a mile wide."

"Great, so what's the problem?"

"It's not enough to hold him and he's lawyering up."

"Let me have a go at him," Bailey gave John a grin and opened the door to the interview room. He took one look at the inhabitant and swore. "Shit. Standish. Why am I not surprised?"

The number Ezra had supplied was a direct line to Chris Larabee's mobile. The agent had set up a base of operations in a hotel a few miles from the uni. Within half an hour the head of the ATF's infamous Team 7 sat across from Bailey Malone, mad as hell.

"You're detaining my agent why?"

"We're conducting a serial murder investigation, Agent Larabee. We were unaware of any on-going case being undertaken by your team."

"A Denver arms racket is importing hardware from the north. They've been storing them outside of city limits, until they can sell. We have information suggesting they are storing them at the university, so we need to identify their contacts."

"Do you have any other agents in the field?"

"One. He's working as a lab assistant in the biochem. building."

"Can you make do with him?"

Larabee was surprised, but kept his expression neutral. "Why should we have to? If Standish is a material witness, he'll testify. It's his job. Until then, we return him to his undercover position."

"Standish is our prime suspect."

The body, lying supine on the slab, appeared all but unharmed. The neck, of course, had been broken, but Grace had aligned the head, such that that was not obvious. The blow to the head had come from behind. It had been quite vicious, fracturing the parietal bone, high and to the right. A haematoma had begun to form, putting pressure on the brain - had the man not otherwise died, the blow might have killed on its own. Faint marks marred the wrists, where they had been bound with thin cord.

"There are no signs of struggle. The killer either snuck up behind the victim, or the victim knew the killer well enough to turn his back on him. Once the blow to the head had been struck, there was no chance of the victim waking up," Grace gazed down at the body. It was rare for her to work with such a healthy looking specimen. Usually, the people she autopsied had been mutilated, or made to suffer in some way. The only violence this man had ever faced had occurred in the last half hour of his life.

"What was he struck with?"

"Blunt instrument, same as the others."

"Baseball bat, maybe?"

Grace thought a moment, then shook her head, "Smooth like a baseball bat, but thinner."

Sam nodded, then paused, picking another angle. "So, really, there was no reason for the hands to be bound or the face covered?" Sam found these acts unsettling. They were the only aspects of the crime that were not absolutely necessary. These actions meant something to the killer.

"No and that is consistent throughout the killings. Other than the cause of death, very little else is consistent. The victims are all Caucasian males, aged eighteen to forty-five. Their heights range from 6'1" to 5'5", their builds from moderate to overweight."

"That description encompasses a majority of the university. Excluding, of course, the female population."

"Yep. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."