Chapter 2 – Wheels Up
Essential listening: Saturday Morning, by the Eels
0o0
"Hey guys, you hear the juicy?"
Supervisory Special Agents Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan exchanged a look of amused confusion as a vision in hot pink hurried towards them from the stairs.
Penelope Garcia, the FBI Behavioural Analysis Unit's resident technical sorceress didn't often venture out of her dungeon unless they were on a case, and generally if there was a case she didn't look this cheerful.
"Ok, you got my attention, beautiful," said Morgan, playfully, leaning back in his chair. "Spill."
"We're getting a new girl," she grinned, perching on the edge of a desk. "I just processed the transfer papers and information request."
"Garcia, you're sitting on the file I was reading," complained Dr Spencer Reid, irritably.
Garcia hopped off the table with a wince; their younger colleague had not been his usual happy-go-lucky self of late. It was understandable, given everything he had been through.
"Sorry sweetie," she apologised, hastily. "I was just excited."
He glanced at her, and grunted.
Garcia and Morgan shared a look. Everyone on the team was worried about Reid, and his behaviour was still deteriorating: the shy young genius had become increasingly surly, picking fights with people and often late for meetings…
He had been abducted by a serial killer with multiple personalities on a psychotic break, and had been held and tortured over several days with little hope of rescue.
It had taken an awful toll on him, and despite the team's best efforts – and those of his appointed counsellor – he was steadily getting worse.
"Wait," said Prentiss, coming to a worrying realisation. "Information request?"
"Yup," Garcia grinned, enjoying the power she wielded. "Every new team member gets a deep background check performed by yours truly."
"How deep?" Prentiss asked, clearly concerned.
"Honey," Garcia leaned forward, candidly. "I can even tell you who you went to Prom with."
Prentiss paled and grimaced.
"Geoffrey Stevens? Oh God…"
"Sarah Rawlings," Morgan said, with pleasure. "She was smokin' hot."
"Tommy York," said Garcia, fondly. "We were best friends."
"What about you, Pretty Boy?" Morgan asked, throwing a rolled up ball of paper at Reid.
"I was twelve," he said, not looking up. "I didn't go."
His colleagues shared a look of surprise and sadness. He seemed to have missed out on a lot, growing up a genius.
They were saved further comment, however, by the arrival of Agent Jennifer Jareau, their Media Liaison, who hurried by with a stack of files and a grim expression.
"Situation room, guys," she called out, as she passed by.
They followed her with resignation – they knew that look.
0o0
"Before we start," said SSA Aaron Hotchner as they made themselves comfortable. "As some of you are aware –" he shot an amused glance at Garcia's retreating back in the bullpen. " – we're going to have a new face around here soon. Agent Pearce will be joining us from Scotland Yard."
"A British agent?" asked Morgan, interested.
"Oh, please don't start with the James Bond jokes," Prentiss begged.
"She was supposed to start today," said Hotch, ignoring them. "But her flight was cancelled." He looked up. "Gideon, you've met her, can you tell us any more about her?"
SSA Jason Gideon, sitting apart from the main table, shrugged.
"I met her once, after a lecture I gave three years ago," he said, in mild amusement. "She's friendly, inquisitive, good at her job, British…" He made an expansive gesture with his hands. "…odd sense of humour. You'll all meet her by the end of the day," he finished. "JJ, what have we got?"
"We've got a serial killer in New Orleans who killed at least three men pre-Katrina – until now the New Orleans Police Department believed the serial killer died in the storm."
"And what's happened to tell them otherwise?" asked Morgan, suddenly all business.
JJ turned and clicked on the screen behind her; she brought up the image of a bloody corpse.
"A fourth body was found in the French Quarter last night – same M.O.: another male, throat slashed, eviscerated."
Emily frowned at the bloody image on the screen.
"A year and a half, that's a long cooling off period," she said. "Are we sure this is the same UnSub?"
JJ nodded.
"He claims to be – sent a letter to William LaMontagne, the lead detective on the case.
"LaMontagne have any leads?" Gideon asked, leaning forwards, interested.
"He died in Katrina," said JJ, heavily. "His son is actually heading the case now."
"Mmm," hummed Morgan, sadly. "That can't be easy."
There was a murmur of agreement from around the room.
"Well, we need to pore over the evidence from the first three murders and determine a pattern," said Hotch.
"Katrina washed away everything," said JJ, shaking her head. "The three victims we know of, their autopsy reports, witness statements, DNA test results…"
The assembled agents stared at her.
Reid, who had been silently fiddling with his pen through the meeting, looked up.
"So basically all we have to go off is the latest victim?" he asked.
JJ nodded, aware of just how much fun the next few days were not going to be.
"Until he kills again," said Hotch; the team exchanged meaningful looks. "Wheels up in thirty," he said, gathering up the sparse files in front of him. "JJ, would you call Agent Pearce and have her meet us in New Orleans?" he asked, as everyone began to make a move.
"Sure," she nodded. "I'll have Garcia book her a connecting flight."
She hurried away, reflecting that Agent Pearce had chosen a hell of a case to start on.
0o0o0o0
Tragedy is a tool for the living to gain wisdom, not a guide by which to live – Robert Kennedy.
The mood was pensive in the jet, everyone busily reviewing what little evidence they had or musing on the difficult and unpleasant task ahead. A few of them were lost in thought, none more so than Dr Reid, who was staring at the seat across from him, in his own world.
Morgan was watching him as surreptitiously as he could across the top of his case file, concerned at his friend's uncustomary stillness.
"Hey Reid," he said, after a few minutes of scrutiny. "What's going on up there?"
"I was just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas, Ethan," he said, not even looking up. "Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."
"Really?" said Morgan, with a slight smile, glad that his friend could still think about things beside his recent trauma again. "Gonna give him a call?"
"We grew up competing against one another in absolutely everything," said Reid, ignoring the question. "Spelling Bees, science fairs… we also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but…" Reid frowned. "First day at Quantico he backed out."
"He probably just couldn't take the heat," said Emily, with a smile.
Reid looked over at her, an unreadable expression on his face and her smile faded.
"It's not really for us to judge, is it?" he said, turning back to his staring contest with the other side of the jet.
"Right," said Emily, uncomfortably. "My bad."
There was a pause as the jet's occupants exchanged worried looks. In many ways, the team was like a family, and it was unsettling to have their resident genius acting out, getting paler and more withdrawn by the day. They had come so close to losing him and it horrified them that it was happening all over again, bit by bit, right in front of them.
He seemed to be trying to convince himself that nothing had changed, but they all knew him better. Between themselves and to their superiors they were maintaining a united front of careful unconcern, but privately they all had their suspicions about his continued tardiness, increasingly bad manners and lack of appetite.
None of them had called him on it, each hoping that he would come to them if he needed them, trying to afford him the privacy he needed to get back on his feet.
Hotch and Gideon exchanged dark looks.
Between them they had seen too many agents lose themselves in this job – get torn apart inside like Elle – and they didn't want that for their young friend. They knew that one of them would have to speak to Reid – and soon. It was a conversation that might very well mean the end of Reid's career, and as the weeks had passed both men had been studiously putting it off.
"These are copies of the newspaper articles on the murders dating back to early August 2005," said JJ, briskly bringing them back to the present. She handed a sheaf of papers to each of the five agents. "That's all we have to go on."
Hotch quickly reviewed the items.
"He killed three times, he stopped for eighteen months, then he started killing again."
"We should have Garcia run a list of any offenders in the area," said Gideon, as JJ sat back down. "Anyone who spent the last year and a half doing time."
"Or anyone that relocated after Katrina and recently moved back," suggested Reid. Gideon nodded.
"What is the victimology in killing a mechanic, a real-estate broker and a cook?" Emily mused aloud. "With ages ranging from twenty-two to forty-five?"
"And this latest is a thirty-three year old taxi driver," JJ added, thoughtfully. "They just don't seem to have very much in common."
"Besides bein' male and walkin' in the French Quarter late at night," agreed Morgan.
"Which is notorious for muggings off the main drag," JJ observed.
"Yeah," said Emily, poring over the file in front of her. "But this guy isn't in a rush to flee the scene. A slaughter like this takes time."
"Andrei Chikatilo fantasised that the men he killed were his captives and that torturing and mutilating them somehow made him a hero," said Reid.
"This city's barely back to life," said Gideon, pensively. "Something like this could cripple its psyche."
"So, where do we start?" asked JJ.
"Well, with no case file there's only one place we can start," said Hotch, looking up. "Square one."
0o0
The murder scene was swarming with police and CSUs, they filled the decrepit back alley like ants following a trail – only here it was blood and not honey.
A handsome young detective was peering down at the bloodstained pavement that confirmed the reappearance of his late father's nemesis, ignoring the rising stench of the garbage that filled the alley in the humid afternoon.
"You must be B.A.U.," he drawled as JJ, Gideon and Morgan ducked under the tape. He held out a hand for JJ to shake. "Bill Lamontagne."
"Hi," said JJ, taking his hand. "Jennifer Jareau – we spoke on the phone."
Lamontagne paused, momentarily distracted from the grim work ahead of him.
"Well, ok then," he said, a smile sliding up one side of his face. "Pictured you different," he continued.
"Uh, these are agents Gideon and Morgan," said JJ, recovering herself as the men nodded at one another. "This is Detective Lamontagne Junior."
"I appreciate you guys bein' here," he said, shaking Gideon's hand. "My Daddy was too stubborn to ask for any help."
"Sorry for your loss," said Gideon, and Lamontagne nodded. "I understand you received a letter," he continued, after a polite pause.
"Yeah," said Detective Lamontagne. " 'fore they were lost in Katrina my Daddy had two others," he explained, handing over the evidence packet. "This one came addressed to him yesterday, and they passed it on to me."
"Are you sure it's from the same killer?" JJ asked, as Gideon scanned the page.
"It's a detailed account of what he did to the body," said Gideon heavily.
0o0
"Four layers of fatty tissue sliced through like butter," said the coroner, lifting the sheet on the latest victim. "I only seen that three other times."
Reid and Prentiss stared down at the corpse in front of them thoughtfully. It was much cooler in the morgue than on the street, and they were both glad to have been assigned here first. There was a big difference between New Orleans and Washington DC in July and it was good to have a little time to acclimatise, despite the unenviable task of viewing the body.
"You worked this case initially?" Reid asked.
"Yeah. You don' forget victims like this," the man drawled. "It's like they were dissected."
"I can still smell the alcohol on him," said Emily, in mild disgust.
"This is New Orleans," said the coroner, lightly. "Dead or alive, it's a smell you get used to."
"Hmm," said Reid, peering closer. "The victim has no defence wounds, meaning this was most likely a blitz attack…" he joined Emily at the far side of the autopsy table. "No hesitation marks, rapid thrusts… the cuts are methodical, almost procedural…"
"My guess: whoever gutted this guy was taught to," said the coroner.
"So you think he might have some medical training?" asked Emily, looking up.
The man nodded.
"How else could he carve around every organ and leave each one in-tact?"
Emily nodded, thoughtfully.
"Have any of his relatives come to claim the body?" she asked. "Anyone we could speak with?"
"No, I'll end up boxin' up the poor bastard's ashes, left to collect dust in storage," said the coroner, heavily. "All the bodies I been through in the last year and a half it's a wonder I still have room."
Emily nodded in sympathy, wondering why this comment, of all things, should make Reid avoid her eyes.
0o0
Activity in the alley was calming down now, as evidence was collected and recorded, and the day wore on.
"It'd be pretty easy to hide out in one of these alcoves, waiting for the victim without ever bein' seen," said Morgan, having a good look around.
"Yeah," said Detective Lamontagne. "All four murders occur within a ten-block radius, right here inside the French Quarter."
"On any given night there must be thousands of people walking through here from the bars," said JJ, joining them.
"Tens of thousands, Lamontagne agreed. "When I first started as a cop I worked the Quarter. It was like being in the riot squad every night. Every Sunday I'd get off work around sunrise, ready to pass out – my Daddy be waitin' for me at my house, make me drive him up-town to Frankie and Johnnie's for breakfast – po' boys." He grinned. "Called it communin' with New Orleans."
"Your father tell you anything else about this case that we should know?" Gideon asked.
"He tried to," said Lamontagne. "But you guys should see that for yourself."
He nodded for them to follow him to a nearby SUV and climbed inside, clicking the air-conditioning on.
0o0
Detective Lamontagne drove them through the ruins of a residential neighbourhood, a grim expression on his face. The three agents stared out at the devastation around them, silenced by the level of destruction. He stepped out of the car and waited for them at the gate of what used to be a house, the fences standing in defiance of the storm, the flood and (apparently) the laws of physics.
"In here," he said, as they joined him.
"That roof safe?" asked Morgan, looking dubious.
"Safe enough." Lamontagne led them into the ruin, his face set. "This wall's still standing, where Daddy carved the message – right before he died."
He pointed at a wall in what had once been his father's study. Near the base of it, scored into the plaster, were five jagged letters. Detective Lamontagne's father's final message on the Earth.
"There's no doubt he's still working from the grave," said Lamontagne, quietly.
" 'Jones'," said Morgan. "That name mean anythin' to you?"
"No… I ran it through the database against every offender in New Orleans – and you can imagine how many hits I got," he sighed. "But nothin' came up in connection with this case."
"But in your Dad's final moments it was the most important thing he wanted to say," said JJ, staring at the carved letters.
Lamontagne stared around, despondent.
"I learned how to play the drums in this house," he said, kicking away some of the debris. "Grew up with two dogs in this house. All it's goin' to be now is the word 'Jones' carved into that wall."
"Detective," said Morgan, fairly. "If he had written the UnSub's name I think you would have found him by now. Jones is the one piece of the puzzle that your Daddy did know – he trusted you to figure out the rest."
"Yeah, I know it," said Lamontagne, unhappily. It was clear that he felt his failure to catch the French Quarter killer had let his father down. "But I pored over it a thousand times and I still can't put it together." He stared back at the carving, morose. "I can't get it out of my head."
Morgan nodded in understanding and looked away, uncomfortable.
"Eats at me every day," Lamontagne continued, to himself.
"You ok?" asked JJ, crossing over to him.
"Yeah," said Lamontagne, distractedly. "I just don't wanna disappoint him."
0o0
The sudden change in destination upon arrival in Virginia had come as a bit of a surprise to Grace, who had just discovered that – on top of the journey's many other annoyances – the airline had lost the majority of her luggage.
Glad that she'd packed a couple of spare sets of clothes in her carry on bag she wandered into the arrivals hall clutching a form that she could fill in to register her complaint and harbouring a bit of a bad temper.
There was a well-dressed and expressionless young man waiting for her at the gate with the details of her next flight and a slim file with some unpleasantly graphic photographs in.
She gave him a weary grimace of thanks as he waved her off towards a private flight (apparently the F.B.I. could afford to travel in style) and settled down to read the file. It took a worryingly short amount of time, given that this killer had now claimed four lives. She looked it over again to make sure she hadn't missed anything.
She was still staring at the careful evisceration of the second victim when a cheerful chirruping sound interrupted her thoughts.
Glad of the excuse not to have that particular image burned on the inside of her retina for the rest of her day she looked around, finally spotting a netbook that looked like it had been made a part of the table beside her.
Intrigued, she opened it.
A woman's face popped into life as the screen flickered on, and she grinned at Grace, waving cheerily.
"Hello mortal!" the apparition proclaimed, and Grace's eyebrows disappeared behind her fringe. "I'm glad Anderson found you ok – we were a bit worried, what with all the changes and connections and what-not – but you're here now – that is to say, there, so yay! Welcome to America!"
Grace glanced around the empty jet, suddenly struck by the absurd notion that this was some kind of practical joke, a hazing for the new agent…
"Um, hi," she said, uncertainly. "I'm –"
"SSA Grace Pearce, I know," said the woman. "I'm Penelope – but my friends call me Garcia," she paused for a moment and appeared to consider this. "Or 'awesome'."
Grace smiled, unable to stop herself. This slightly mad woman's enthusiasm was infectious, and if she served as an example of the rest of the team then the rest of the day was going to be a hoot.
Or at least as much of a hoot as chasing serial killers could be.
"Pleased to meet you," she said. "So Garcia, how much do you know about me?"
If possible, Garcia's grin widened.
"Pretty much anything that's ever been written down, sugar," she beamed and hit a few keys. "Two degrees in forensic archaeology and criminology, completed simultaneously – you'll give our resident genius a run for his money, that's for sure."
Grace had been about to ask about that, but Garcia went on, barely pausing for breath.
"A distinguished career with the London Metropolitan Police and CID, where you specialised in the weird and wonderful, including serial UnSubs and crimes involving the occult."
Grace schooled her features into polite admiration at that, wondering how much detail those particular files went into.
"There were a couple of sealed files, but I resisted the temptation since I'd not met you."
"Thanks," said Grace, with a chuckle, greatly relieved. She had wanted a clean slate with this team, and could imagine exactly what information had been sealed away from public record. "Remind me not to piss you off."
"Perish the thought, my lovely."
The two women grinned at one another.
"Now," said Garcia, tapping away at the keyboard once more. "There's not a lot of data on this case yet – the file you have there is pretty much it. You'll be meeting the gang at the station house in New Orleans – I've sent the details to your P.D.A. –"
Grace frowned, but again Garcia continued before she could interrupt.
" – which is in the cupboard at the back of the jet with your cell phone and badge. Everyone's numbers are programmed in."
"You know, back in my old department that would have taken months to arrange," Grace observed with admiration.
"That's because they don't have me," stated Garcia, matter-of-factly.
"I can believe it," said Grace. She smiled as a thought struck her. "I don't suppose I could be massively cheeky and ask for a huge favour…"