ACT I | the forensic and the genius
( seasons 1 to 4 )
❝ It's a textbook example of behaviour associated with the father complex, really,
an overachiever that would do anything to suck up to a male authority figure in order to earn
their affirmations that keep your fragile self worth from falling apart.
Or in this case you put your life on risk, nearly compromising the case– ❞
❝ Lay off it, you bespeckled tadpole! ❞
ONE | four murders and a call
❝ The farther backward you can look,
the farther forward you will see. ❞
winston churchill
FBI HQ, QUANTICO [ VA ]
SEPTEMBER 2005
IT WAS NOT UNUSUAL FOR A NEWCOMER to third floor of the FBI headquarters in Quantico to experience mild nausea, a slight bleariness of sight as a result of sharp, sterile white floors and tiles reflecting the light coming from the rows of bulbs overhead. Glass doors separated different labs, lively hives filled with buzzing scientist; long white coats and clear, plastic glasses; light blue protective scrubs stained with mysterious substances; agents in dark suits and even deeper frowns with case files underneath their arms.
If one happened to make a wrong turn while searching for the toilets, they could find themselves facing a biohazard sticker covering the password-protected, heavy doors in the south-west corner, right between the Toxicology lab and the shared office kitchenette.
Exactly twelve months ago when she first stepped into the FBI headquarters, the newly graduated forensic anthropologist felt overwhelmed by those sights. Even swiping her official card at the entrance made her heart skip a beat.
Now, the smell of alcohol based disinfectant and faintest sense of blood floating around the air brought on a weird sense of comfort when she arrived to work in the morning, washing away all the sights and vivid scents of the DC to Quantico metro line.
Charlotte Harrow leaned her head on one of the windows in the hallway, balancing her phone between her ear and shoulder, and a scalding cup of coffee in her hands. She held it carefully, the white mug littered with charming doodles of dinosaur fossils, washed out from everyday use and cheap office soap. It was a graduation gift from her youngest sister Cecelia, and never failed to make her smile every time she brewed her bitter poison.
Pressing in the digits of the county code for England, she waited for the other side to pick up. Less than ten seconds later she was greeted warmly by her sister's personal assistant who, after a few polite sentences about the weather on their respective continents, connected her with one of the phone lines in the house.
A piece of classical music was playing on the other end — Rachmaninoff, she recognised, a family favourite — when her sister finally picked up the call. "Hey you, how are you doing?" Charlotte asked quietly into the device. The position of the window gave her a clear view of the ever crowded courtyard, the agents and visitors milling around like ants.
An exaggerated groan came from the other side, the music now turned down. "Never give birth, Charlie. Everything they say is a lie. My boobs hurt, Maggie doesn't want to eat, I haven't slept in two days, I can't go to–"
The young brunette's face contorted into a grimace as her sister trailed on about the beauty of new motherhood.
Jacqueline, or Jackie, as she preferred to be called, was seven years her senior and every bit the poster child her parents wanted. After graduating with a BA in French and English literature from Yale, she scored a full scholarship for a masters degree at University of Cambridge. In her first week there she bumped into a charming business PhD student, all blond hair and blue eyes, with a house in Richmond and an estate in Devon. They were married in two years time, in a private ceremony that flew their family from Boston to London for a week.
If she had those ambitions, Charlie was certain she would be jealous of her sister's picture-perfect life. But she could hardly see herself as a mothering type – she was perfectly happy with being the quirky American aunt who analysed corpses for living and spoiled her little niece to bits. Writing academic papers and watching people from the window of her favourite DC coffee shop held much more appeal to her than chasing after boys.
"Thanks Jackie, just what I wanted to hear on my lunch break. Has mother dearest been insufferable? I have four missed calls, so I know you didn't answer her Skype call."
"And why didn't you answer Mom's call?"
The young forensic scoffed slightly before taking a sip of her coffee. "Oh, I will, as soon as she stops telling me how ridiculous my career choice is or how I should drop out of the Academy before I embarrass the family," Charlie's words dripped with painfully obvious sarcasm.
Her mother taught French in a private college in Boston, where she lived with the youngest Harrow, Cece, and thought her middle child was wasting her time on an unpredictable job such as working for the Bureau. Every holiday the discussion would wind down to the same argument of her being 'another cog in the government machinery just like your father.'
A short silence came from the other line, followed by a quiet sigh. "Charlie," there was admonishing tone in her sister's words, "you know she doesn't mean that."
Charlie kept her eyes on her chipped, nude coloured nails around her drink. "Kind of sounds like she does."
One of the doors down the hallway opened slightly, revealing an African American woman in her late thirties, with her hair pulled into a tight up-do at the top of her head. When she finally spotted Charlie leaning on the windowsill, she planted both of her hands on her hips, giving the young woman an unimpressed purse of her cherry coloured lips.
"Cut the chitchat and haul your ass in here, Harrow. We've got an urgent one." She ordered, words echoing with a distinct New York accent Charlie grew accustomed over the last year.
Giving her boss a brief thumbs up while she wrestled with a coffee cup, a phone and a lab coat, Charlie strode determinedly towards the lab. "Can't keep the crime fighters waiting. I'll talk to you later, kiss Maggie for me."
Charlie slipped her phone back into her coat pocket, striding through the glass door with the Bureau seal carving on them. She counted herself lucky to be appointed to such a friendly group of people, patient enough for all her knocked down test tubes, and thousand and one question about the case evidence they went through.
The Chief was concentrating on the fax machine currently spewing papers at a record speed, wincing every time her eyes fell on a particularly gruesome photo.
"We just got a call from the Behavioural Unit, they need a full report on these four," she handed Charlie a few manila folders stamped with the Bureau's official seal. "If you finish before I'm back or come up with anything interesting, call the unit chief, Aaron Hotchner. I'd love to help but I'm having a lunch break with the Department Chief, so have fun, newbie, for both of us."
Dr Elaine Morris was the Chief Forensic Anthropologist, and consequently Charlie's supervisor while she completed her part time lab internship incorporated into her Academy training. Initially, the older woman was sceptic of mentoring the starry eyed 21-year-old that requested for her time in the Academy be extended so she could work in both the lab and go through the Special Agent training.
"I've been here for a year, Morris, I'm hardly a newbie anymore. Give me six months and I'll be a proper agent and outrank you," Charlie jested, taking papers off the notice board to pin up the photographs from the files. Elaine rolled her eyes with a chuckle, collecting her things around the lab.
They rarely had any contact with current cases, except for an odd DNA sample that needed processing, or when it happened to be local. Most of their work revolved around processing the autopsy reports of the victims from the many cases the Bureau handled, or if they were lucky, the group would be called to do a field examination of the brutally deceased.
"You're always gonna be a newbie to me, newbie."
As soon as the doors closed and the click of Elaine's heels became fainter, there was a ping of glass being placed on glass. "Okay, now that she's out, I have to spill the beans." Charlie lifted her head to see her colleague, Harrison Dawes, rolling towards her in his spinning office chair. His dirty blond hair was pushed back by his lab goggles today, but the mischievous grin on his lips perpetually stayed the same.
"Did you hear that Jason Gideon is back at the bureau?"
She vaguely remembered the intimidating older agent that burst into their lab, read through their report and then left as abruptly as he arrived. "Didn't he go off the rails after Boston half a year ago?"
A shiver crawled up her spine at the thought of the tense investigation of Adrian Bale, who later became known as 'The Boston Shrapnel Bomber'. They worked on the official autopsy report for the six agents deceased on the field.
"Gina from upstairs told me they're all stepping on eggshells around him. Even some of his team are reluctant he's back. Just imagine being led by an unpredictable, gun-wielding murder expert," Harrison shuddered over-dramatically.
Charlie simply shrugged. "He's a field agent, Haz, and has been for quite some time. I think he's gotten used to tough cases such as that one. And in the end, I don't blame him. I have no idea how I'd react if I was responsible for the lives and deaths of other agents."
"Well, you missy are going to be a field agent one day, and ergo, you will be responsible for more than yourself at some point or another," he reminded her, taking one of the papers from the table. "Melissa Kirsh, twenty-six, stabbed and strangled with bare hands. Jeez, babe, what kind of psycho are they looking for?"
"That's what I want to know, too. Now shoo and let me do my magic." With a kick to the wheels of his chair, Charlie managed to push him away from his station and roll down to his own desk, making both of them laugh before jumping to their respective work.
There were four autopsy results of the previous victims included in the manila folder, including photographs of other evidence and scattered notes on the possible suspect. She pinned them up chronologically, taking her time in inspecting the wounds left on the victims, the little intricacies they might have missed in the report.
Like the fact the unsub was clearly right handed, as could be seen from the angle of the stab wounds on the first victim.
"Hey, Haz. Can I run some things by you?" She called out to her colleague, eyes still firmly fixed on the board.
"Shoot, Brainiac."
Kicking off the desk she was perched on, Charlie went to pace around the room. "So Melissa, the first victim, was stabbed her and then strangled. After that he started using a belt – less blood, and less time, too. He makes sure to clip their nails, so he's smart because he doesn't want any skin particles to be left under the victim's nails. Meticulous, but feels a sense of remorse– do you see that from the way he dresses up the victims?" She paused to point at the photo of the latest crime scene on the board, and the way the woman was positioned on the ground.
"But he's arrogant, he left the belt around the last victim's throat, which doesn't make sense. Why would he want to be caught after four successful murders, after everything he does to make the least mess possible?"
Harrison leaned forward in his chair, squinting to see better. "Maybe he's devolving?"
Charlie ran an exasperated hand through her wavy tresses, gently pulling at her scalp as if that would cause the facts to miraculously reveal themselves in her head. There were contradictions in the M.O. The killer was organised enough to clean the bodies from any possible evidence, in a way that suggested a very severe case of OCD, but the last crime scene strayed out of the previous routine.
It was as if the killer had two different personalities that seem to be butting heads– "Oh." She turned her head towards Harrison with a snap, nearly giving herself a whiplash, "There are two killers, two unsubs, I'm sure of it."
There was a pregnant pause between the two, "Then what are you waiting for, idiot? Call them!" Harrison practically screamed at her, feeling the buzz of discovery pulsing in his ears.
A flicker of panic rose in her stomach. This theory could actually be of use to team now working on the case. "How am I supposed to find Agent Hotchner? I don't see a manual for this kind of things!"
And she was right, there wasn't necessarily a manual that could tell her what to do when she accidentally discovered a possible clue in solving a string of murders, but Harrison managed to unearth a thin phonebook with contacts of all the departments and their tech support from one of the shelves.
"This is the lair of all things knowledgeable, Mistress of the Network speaking." Came a cheery greeting the other side, momentarily throwing the young woman off track. She blinked once, then once more, concerned that she might have dialled the wrong number.
"Is this Penelope Garcia?"
There was a hum of agreement. "The one, only and irreplaceable, how can I help you, oh caller from the third floor of the building?" Not trying to question how the woman knew where she was calling from, Charlie launched onto her request.
"I need the number of SSA Aaron Hotchner, it's urgent. I think I have a lead on the current murder case the unit is solving in Seattle, I–I've been looking at the autopsy reports and I'm pretty sure they overlooked the possibility of there being two unsubs—Do they have any suspects in custody yet?" Charlie rattled off, fully aware of how irrational and unhinged she must have sounded.
"Sugar plum! Just take a deep breath, I believe you," came the other woman's soothing voice, followed by vigorous typing, "I'm shooting the number to your phone now as we speak. Good luck, buttercup!"
The enthusiasm coming from the tech wormed a smile to Charlie's face. "Thank you, Penelope!" She hung up, immediately searching for the newly added contact, courtesy of Garcia. It rung twice before it was picked up.
"SSA Aaron Hotchner, who is this?" Said a firm, man's voice. Half terrified and half buzzing with excitement, Charlie jumped straight into conversation.
"Sir, this is the Forensic Anthropology lab, you sent the autopsy reports on the Seattle victims an hour ago for us to take a look at, and uh, sir–I have a theory on the unsubs profile– "
With her free hand she snatched one of papers from the board, "First I though the unsub might suffer from Dissociative Personality Disorder, which is already estimated to be 1.3% of the population. Now we'd have to add the obvious OCD to the mix and the statistics state that on average 1.2% of adults are diagnosed with it in the U.S. per year. It also currently affects approximately 1 in 40 adults and 1 in 100 children in the U.S. — Sorry, I'm rambling— What I want to say is, the M.O. contradicts too drastically for there to be just one unsub–"
Charlie managed to list the rest of her arguments in a record time, careful not to trip over her words while talking to the unit chief on the other line. Once she was finally done, there was no reply from Agent Hotchner. Her heart plunged into her stomach.
Did I just make a fool out of myself on the phone to a senior special agent? My career is over, and I'll be charged for obstructing justice-
"You said you're from the Forensic lab?" asked Agent Hotchner. "What's your name, agent?"
"I'm Charlie Harrow, sir, not an agent yet," said she, practically breathing out the words in relief. At least he didn't think she was a raving lunatic.
"Thank you for your time, Harrow. You've been most helpful," Hotch thanked her quickly, already dialling the rest of his team in Slessman's house.
"Morgan, we have two unsubs," he announced once he was put on speakerphone, his own mind already three steps ahead and pacing, trying to think of where to go next.
Agent Gideon who had just walked into the room, looked at him curiously. "Yes, I was just saying, there are conflicts in the profile. Two different behaviours, two different people. How did you realise it?"
"The third floor called," Hotch said, placing his phone on the table of everyone could hear. "One of the analysts came to the same conclusion just by looking at the autopsy reports of the previous victims."
Gideon's eyebrows shot to his hairline. He was impressed, to say the least. Although forensic anthropology shared many traits and skills with profiling, it would take a sharp mind to connect all the paper evidence into the exact same web they managed to unravel in the field.
The senior agent didn't fail to notice the intrigued look on Hotchner's face either. Who exactly was the third floor hiding?
AS HE SETTLED INTO the comfortable seats of the jet, Aaron Hotchner dialled the team's technical analyst with a request.
"Garcia, can you pull me a file on Charlie Harrow when we land?" He asked as inconspiciously as possible. He didn't want to tempt any opinions of the team before he could asses the curious situation himself.
"Right away, sir," chirped the perky blonde, "I gave myself a teeny tiny peek into her. She sounds like a proper treat, doesn't she?"
Allowing himself a silver of smile, Hotch shook his head at her unyielding enthusiasm. "Thanks, Garcia."
FBI HQ, QUANTICO [ VA ]
OCTOBER 2005
"THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS OF a public company is considering an acquisition of a highly sought-after company in a very niche market. In order for the decision to be approved, it must request approval from its shareholders.."
Practising for her final exam at the Academy was something Charlie most definitely wasn't allowed to do during work hours, and yet, she found herself going over practice questions while keeping an eye on the Erlenmeyer flask gently simmering in front of her.
The buzz of her phone broke the calming silence of the lab.
"Harrow, it's Agent Hotchner. Take a look at the autopsy reports of our two latest victims and call if something catches your eye."
It wasn't the first time in the last month that the unit chief of the BAU called her up, requesting her own opinion on the current case they were working on. First it was the to test the substance they found while working on the arsonist case in Arizona. The next came only a few days later, when an Adrian Bale copycat planted bombs into people's cars in Palm Beach.
Today, he sent her photos of recent crime scenes in San Diego; women raped, murdered and their eyes glued open to seeming look at their attacker.
Only this time, when she called him an hour later with her theory on what exactly were these women looking at in the last moments of their life, he said, "Good. Bring the case file and your report upstairs when we get back to the office." And with that, he hung up.
Charlie was left to stare at the tiny screen before she slowly raised her head to look at Dr Morris. "Chief, do I have the clearance to consult the BAU with cases or am I going to get majorly fired?"
Elaine Morris nearly dropped the Petri dish she was holding.
"You've been doing what?"
IT WAS WELL AFTER 10pm when Garcia sent her a message that the team returned to Quantico, and despite her initial exhaustion, Charlie felt a violent onslaught of nerves pestering her as she pressed the number six in the elevator. She kept fixing the hem of her cream blouse, silently debating the amount of professionalism she would exude if she left it tucked or untucked into her pencil skirt.
So deeply engaged into a debate with herself, she did not foresee a collision with another being as soon as she stepped out of the elevator.
"Sorry, sorry! It's my fault," she bent down immediately to retrieve the scattered papers, cursing herself for being so unobservant.
When she got back to her feet, she found herself facing the person she so unceremoniously slammed into. He was tall and lanky, unlike any of the agents she'd seen before, with undeniably boyish features that must have made him look younger than his age. She could understand that from personal experience – most bartenders thought her ID was a very good fake.
The young man in front of her resembled a deer caught in headlights of a car, gripping the strap of his leather satchel. And despite the three PhDs he obtained over the years, he opened his mouth like a fish, only to close it again.
"Dr Spencer Reid," he blurted out, half wishing the ground would swallow him whole in that very moment.
Charlie blinked, processing the words he said while trying not to be distracted by the way his brown hair was pushed back and out of his face. Sure, he was kind of cute in an innocent way, but— A look of realisation crossed Charlie's face as she remembered why she was on the sixth floor in the first place.
"Good for you. Now move, I've got to take these to Agent Hotchner." The brunette slipped past the young doctor and through the glass door opened for her by a tall, muscular man just exiting.
Derek Morgan, having witnessed the little situation between his younger team mate and the unknown lady couldn't keep a grin off his face. "Who's the pretty girl, pretty boy?" Derek asked, swaggering over to where Spencer was still rooted to the spot.
"I don't know," Spencer trailed off slightly, making Derek let out an amused 'Now that's a first.' He had a feeling Derek won't let him live down this awkward moment for many weeks to come.
"What are you two naughty boys looking at?" Said a joking voice from their left. Garcia was bustling towards them, sporting a fluffy purple headband with stars today. The boys watched as her face morphed from curiosity to glee once she came to stand next to them.
"Oh, that's my fancy new friend, Charlie Harrow. She's from the downstairs lab, but she's the cutest thing ever," the blonde haired computer whiz was nearly bouncing in her colourful kitten heels, "You know, she helped you with the last couple of cases."
A look of recognition passed Morgan's face. "That's the Harrow person Hotch's been talking to?" The man gave a low whistle, genuinely impressed by the discovery. "She looks younger than you, Reid." He nodded to their resident genius who was still looking lost in the hallway.
Penelope gave Morgan a coy look from underneath her thick, red glasses. "Didn't expect a lady can be a genius, sugar?"
"You know that's not true, baby girl." A warm grin split over Derek's face and he wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders. "Ooh I can bet it's gonna be a genius competition between the two of them if she decides to stick around," he whispered loud enough for both Reid and Garcia to hear, making her giggle.
Finally snapping from his brooding, Reid threw a dirty look to the duo observing him from the side like an animal life exhibit. "No, it's not," he clipped tensely, adjusting his bag and taking long strides to the elevator. "Shut up."
Turning serious, Derek glanced down on Penelope still nestled underneath his arm. "You think Hotch wants her on the team?"
Garcia answered with a vigorous nod, her glasses bouncing on the edge of her nose. "He'd be a fool not to. She definitely has both the skill and the enthusiasm," she continued as turned them towards Garcia's technology lair to collect her things. "It's such a shame she's stuck in that gloomy lab downstairs, that girl has potential."
...