CHAPTER FOUR
The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness."
Victor Hugo
Wyatt watched the group of agents milling about the waiting room, cataloging all the players quickly. They were an intimidating group, but none more so than the man they called Hotchner. His eyes were dark and cold and he held himself erect. He stood by the door, speaking only to the black man and the older one Wyatt recognized as that author of serial killer novels. They kept their voices low and their bodies tense.
They were her teammates, apparently. And they were worried, angered, that their colleague was injured. Wyatt could understand their anger, if it had been one of his teammates, he'd have probably acted the same way.
One of Wyatt's favorite pastimes was watching people and while he waited to talk to the woman, he indulged himself. He ignored the little voice telling him he could leave and come back later, that he should be back at the precinct taking care of the loose ends and the bookings. Instead, he'd called his second-in-command Detective Jessica Banks, pulling her in on her day off to handle it all. She wouldn't be pleased, but he was the boss, so what could she do. And it wasn't as if he hadn't covered for her on numerous occasions. So he'd take a few minutes to study the group of agents surrounding him.
Wyatt had never been drawn to the agent-life, personally. He'd felt he could do more good as part of the blue line, instead. But that didn't mean he didn't consider himself beneath or inferior because he was a local and they were federals. The room reeked of arrogance and confidence. These people were dangerous.
He wondered where the pretty brunette fit in with this crowd. The blue-suited one, Hotchner, paced slightly. He reminded Wyatt of a damned wildcat, like he'd seen as a kid growing up in Kentucky. Rangy, wild, controlled until the moment of pouncing.
He wondered if this was the woman's lover. If that was what was behind the cold man's fury. He snarled unconsciously, as he watched the man move. He didn't like that idea. Not at all. He wasn't sure why. No, Wyatt didn't like this Hotchner guy at all. But the brunette had called it right, saying the man would be angry at this.
The smaller woman, the one called Ziva, she'd caught his attention as well. She was a beautiful woman, if a bit young for Wyatt's tastes. He estimated he had nearly a dozen years on the girl. But she sat there, in the corner chair, her hands fiddling skillfully with a small dagger, running it quickly over her fingers, flipping it end over end repeatedly. She seemed oblivious to the looks she was getting as she stared down the corridor. She had been one of the ones to fight, to defend her friends, and he found that slightly incongruous with her appearance. He just couldn't see it.
He glanced at the clock again, as the baby in the room cried. His mother, the classic blond, shushed him. Fed him. Changed him. Rocked him to sleep. Her own eyes were groggy, and he could see she was fighting the pain pill.
The other woman, Elena he thought her name was, sat staring dazedly at the rest of the crowd. Her pain was written on her exotically beautiful face for everyone to see. But she never complained, and had rarely said anything, except to the dark haired man who'd arrived nearly two hours after the rest of the room's occupants. The man, whom she'd called Danny, had moved to sit beside her, his arm going to rest behind her shoulders. She'd leaned on him for only a moment before straightening. She too was a fighter, and that was evidenced by the fresh cast on her left arm, by the bruises forming on her face.
They were all fighters, and Wyatt had to admire that. He seriously doubted he'd forget the sight of them surrounded, knowing the odds were against them, but still unwavering. And she'd been in the forefront of his mind in the three hours they'd been waiting. He wondered briefly if she was a beautiful as he'd remembered, if in the light of day and the absence of adrenaline she'd still look so…captivating? That thought filled him with a latent sense of excitement that he just couldn't shake. What did it say for him—sitting there pondering an injured woman?
An injured woman whose blood still stained his shirt. He excused himself for a moment, found a restroom and removed the soiled garment, revealing a relatively clean white undershirt. His leather jacket—one of his favorites, dammit—had absorbed most of the blood, followed by his shirt. Only a bit had soaked into the white cotton undershirt. He washed the blood from his skin, watching idly as it mixed with the soap and water to run in a rivulet to the drain. Blood had always fascinated and repulsed him, he'd never been able to figure out why.
He washed his face, then dried his hands. He gave a vague hope for his jacket's future before returning to the group. He was stopped at the door by the one called Hotchner. He kept his look professional. "Yes?"
"Why aren't you out there rounding up the other individuals involved?" The agent demanded, eyes boring into Wyatt. Wyatt paid him no mind. This man didn't intimidate him.
"We've got the majority of them, already." Wyatt said, in his lazy drawl that was such a contrast to the man's tone. Wyatt didn't miss the way everyone in the room tuned into the conversation. "The rest will be rounded up by morning. They are not hardened criminals, just idiots. They won't get too far."
"Still, why are you wasting time here? I want them all rounded up so we can charge them." Hotchner said, tone still lethal.
"That's up to the lawyers." Wyatt said, not backing down. This man wasn't going to challenge him. It was his jurisdiction, his case. "And I'm off the clock now. We'll pick things up in the morning—after I have your girl's statement."
"Why do you need Emily's statement?" Elena demanded. "We've told you all what happened. You should leave Emily alone. Go get the rest of those bastards off the streets. I know some got away."
"And my team will get them. If they've not got them all by now." Wyatt softened toward the woman. He knew she'd—they'd—been through a hell of a time tonight. "We may not be federal, but I can assure you—my team is damned good at our job."
"So good five federal agents couldn't walk across a well-lit parking lot at eleven at night without being attacked?" Elena asked, her words drawing everyone's attention. "Let me ask you this, Lt. Wyatt—what if Emily and Ziva had left early like they had planned? If Abby and Pen hadn't delayed them? Then what? They would have been in that parking lot alone? Then what? I doubt we'd all be sitting here right now."
Wyatt couldn't argue that. "Look, this was an anomaly. I know that doesn't make up for what happened tonight. But Corruthers and his cronies normally didn't stray that far, and I've never known him to accost someone that openly. And rest assured, I'm going to get to the bottom of it. I promise you that. First thing in the morning, after I talk to your friend. Maybe she noticed something off about Corruthers. She was looking directly at him, and got the closest to him from the very beginning, right?"
He waited for the nods, knowing he had everyone's undivided attention, before continuing. "Now I don't know how observant your friend is about things, but I need whatever she noticed before I can move forward."
He paused as half the room erupted in surprised laughter. "Something I missed?"
"Emily—she is a criminal profiler." The Goth woman said. "She's very observant."
"Good. Maybe she can help me find out why Corruthers was acting out of character." Wyatt said, after the laughter had quieted. "Make sure there's nothing more going on here."
"Perhaps, if you had not been arguing with Emily for so long, Corruthers would not have so stupidly pulled his weapon." The little one, Ziva said, quietly, voice like ice. "And Emily would be answering your questions right now."
Wyatt didn't miss the nods of half the women in the room. The other two women just watched apprehensively. The men were tense, too, and Wyatt felt like he suddenly had a target tattooed to his chest. "I don't think that's fair, Officer David."
"Maybe not fair, but there is truth to my words, no?" She stood then, limped closer to him. She really was small, standing over a head shorter than he. "I guess we will never know, will we?"
She moved past him, limping gingerly to the door of the waiting room. The elderly doctor followed after her, inquiring about her ankle, and chiding her for not telling him sooner. He heard her arguing with the man about seeking treatment, at the least an X-ray.
"What exactly was that girl talking about?" The African American agent demanded, moving aggressively into Wyatt's space. "You responsible for Emily getting shot?"
(I had to put the part about Hotch possibly being Emily's lover—how could I not? So, opinions? Reviews? Yeas? Nays? Anything?)
