Chapter 3 – Down to Business

Essential listening: What's Up?, 4 Non Blondes

0o0

The heat hit her like a wall of stickiness as she left the air-conditioned airport, making absent small talk with the taxi driver and fiddling with her brand new P.D.A.. She had been so grateful to Garcia for agreeing to hunt down her missing luggage that she hadn't quite been able to admit that she'd never used one before.

Although her old department had technically been a part of CID and therefore entitled to equipment such as laptops and P.D.A.s the unit as a whole had been defiantly technophobic.

She'd managed to get the address of the French Quarter police department however, and present it to the driver. She shifted in her seat, uncomfortably warm in the rumpled suit she'd changed into on the jet, unsettled by all the traffic dashing past on entirely the wrong side of the car.

They got to the station in one piece, however, and Grace watched the taxi speed away, glad that she'd had the foresight to pack both her American currency and a couple of changes of clothes in her backpack.

Taking a deep breath, she strode into the building, trying not to be thrown by the heady morass of new accents that made up the noisy bustle of a busy city police station.

She flashed her new badge to a harassed looking desk sergeant and was ushered through to a back room, along a labyrinth of clean, identical looking corridors. The room was full of uniforms, each man or woman engrossed in their own particular tasks, walking between desks, clutching files, taking hurried phone calls. The activity in here was less frenetic than on the shop floor, as it were, but no less purposeful. They had a murderer to catch.

She breathed in the atmosphere and immediately felt more at home. This she understood.

In the very back of the room, propped between two filing cabinets, was a projection screen that seemed to be attracting some very specific attention. The majority of the room was ignoring it – they had a lot to get on with, after all, and perhaps they had already seen it – or something like it. Three people looking incredibly out of place in smart casual clothes in the midst of this hive of uniform were stood in front of it, carefully deconstructing a letter, projected onto the battered screen.

These, Grace assumed, must be some of her new colleagues. Hanging back, she took them in.

The first of them wore a crisp suit despite the heat, and had a neat, closely trimmed haircut that suggested authority. She guessed that this was probably SSA Aaron Hotchner, whom she had spoken with over the phone a few weeks previously. He looked like a man you wouldn't want to cross.

Next to him, and closest to the screen was a tall, dark-haired woman; she too was dressed smartly, and had a definite air of confidence about her. She was stood with her hands on her hips, staring at the letter on the projection screen as if it had insulted her in a foreign language and she was trying to guess just what had been implied.

The third and youngest member of her new team was leaning nonchalantly against the projector, a neglected coffee in hand, focussed entirely on the letter. He was tall, with the kind of wavy brown hair that teen idols would die for falling across his face. He didn't look like he paid much attention to it. Curiously, he was dressed more like a postgraduate student than an F.B.I. agent. Grace couldn't tell if it was the glow from the projector, but the young agent looked awfully pale.

Content with – and not remotely ashamed of – her covert assessment of her potential colleagues, she turned her attention to the neatly typed words on the screen. She could see what had caught their attention.

'I'm back with a vengeance, I wanted you to know. The last guy made it easy, being out so late, stumbling home drunk. I enjoyed slicing around his organs, thought about sending you one. He was asking to be ripped. Don't you think, Boss?

Yours Truly'

Grace frowned: the language was unsettlingly familiar.

The man that was probably Hotchner read the letter aloud, trying to find a new angle on evidence they had probably been staring at for hours now.

"To say that the victims were asking for it denies all culpability," said the tall young man. "Most sexual sadists rationalise their own behaviour by blaming the victims like that."

The woman shook her head, unconvinced.

"But there was no evidence of sexual assault in the autopsy," she argued. "He could be a homosexual – stabbing because he needs violence for arousal."

"Every kill he's acting out a fantasy of revenge," said the-man-who-might-be-Hotchner.

Grace nodded slowly; this case was sounding more familiar by the second, and apparently she wasn't the only one who had noticed.

"What if he's trying to act out something else…?" the tall one mused aloud.

"Like what?" probably-Hotchner asked.

"With the exception of the victims being men, it's the same M.O.," tall-and-thin responded, sounding like he was thinking out loud.

"What are you talking about?" asked the woman.

"Jack the Ripper," said Grace, and immediately wished that she hadn't. Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. "Sorry," she said, feeling a blush start around the vicinity of her neck.

"Exactly," said tall-and-thin, looking bemused and curious.

"You must be Agent Pearce," said definitely-Hotchner, holding out a hand. "We spoke on the phone – I'm Aaron Hotchner, welcome to the team."

"Thank you, sir," she said, shaking his hand.

"Hotch, please," he smiled, putting her at ease. "These are Agent Emily Prentiss and Dr Spencer Reid – guys, this is Agent Grace Pearce."

There was a pause as Prentiss warmly shook her hand and Dr Reid gave her an awkward little wave.

"I'm sorry we can't be more welcoming, but –"

"The case comes first," she finished, smiling her understanding.

Agent Hotchner nodded his approval and turned back to Dr Reid, who was still eyeing the newcomer almost warily.

"You were saying?"

"All four victims were found with their throats slashed, eviscerated," said Reid, turning back to face the screen. "Their murders perpetrated in semi-public places after dark, investigators with letters addressed as 'Boss'. The only difference is that that case was a hundred years ago and took place in London."

"Your old stomping grounds," said Prentiss to Grace, making an effort to include her.

Reid glanced at Grace and gave her a small smile.

"Like she said, Jack the Ripper."

"And the UnSub wants us to think that he's the modern-day version, loose in New Orleans?" Hotchner asked.

"Or she," suggested Grace.

"I'm sorry?" asked Emily, surprised.

"We don't have any evidence to support that," said Reid.

"I know," said Grace, hoping she didn't sound as defensive as she felt. "But we also don't have any evidence to refute it. It would, however, match the gender reversal of the victims – and explain why there's no obvious sexual component. Even if arousal was the goal with a female suspect there might not be any forensic evidence left at the scene."

Hotchner gave her an appraising look.

"There's nothing to suggest it right now," he said. "But we should certainly keep it in mind." He sighed, tiredly, running a hand through his short dark hair. "Let's call it a night – come back fresh in the morning."

0o0

The ride back to the hotel was oddly tense. Prentiss and Hotchner spent the journey discussing the case and the new angles that the Jack the Ripper connection provided.

Grace sat in the back, making awkward small-talk with Dr Reid until he clammed up completely and stared out of the window, his pale hands clasped tightly in his lap.

Knowing when she wasn't wanted, Grace turned her attention to the passing buildings, glad to have a few moments of peace to simply enjoy the place she was in.

She had loved travelling as a child, rambling across the countryside after her father as he migrated from lecture to lecture. She seldom made time for it these days, preferring to explore books rather than admit to herself that her lack of appetite for exploration was really more to do with fear than the constraints of time and money. For all her outward confidence, time and experience had made her terrified of meeting new people socially. It was lucky, she reflected, that she didn't have the same problem in a professional context.

She smiled slightly, aware of the irony of depending on the depravity of human-kind to make emigration to another continent more bearable.

They pulled up outside a faceless hotel and wandered inside as a group; Grace was immediately relieved to discover that someone had thought to book a room for her, close to where the others were staying.

She suspected that Penelope Garcia had had a hand in it – that and the small basket of toiletries that had appeared on the bed in her room. There was a note attached declaring that it contained 'essential provisions'.

Grace laughed to herself, deciding that she definitely owed her new friend lunch. Silently thanking whichever deity that had thought to provide the world with a gift like Garcia, she jumped in the shower, grateful for the opportunity to wash away nearly two full days of travelling.

A short time later she pulled on some old jeans and a t-shirt – her back-up travel clothes – and shook some life into her hair. There was little point in brushing it, in the humidity of New Orleans, it would simply do whatever it wanted.

Hurrying out into the hall, she collided with a surprised Dr Reid, whose room was apparently just across the corridor from hers.

"Oof," she said, pushing her short, damp curls out of her face. "Sorry Doctor."

"That's ok," he said, helping her to her feet. "I guess we're both equally hungry."

She smiled, but that part of her mind that kept on profiling in defiance of circumstance noted that Reid's new pleasant manner was ever-so-slightly forced. He seemed less tense than before, calmer.

"I'll say," she said, falling into step beside him. For once she was glad of her ridiculously long legs – without them she would have quickly been left behind by her tall new colleague. "After a day and a half of airport food, dinner is something I'm definitely looking forward to."

He grimaced in sympathy as they reached the lift.

"They do seem to specialise in mysterious food," he said, and Grace nodded.

"What I don't get is why there is always something pink and wobbly involved – even when there's no jelly on the menu."

Reid snorted. It seemed to have come as rather a surprise to him.

"I bet the Food Standards Agency couldn't even identify it," he chuckled, and both of them relaxed slightly, content to have found a common enemy, even if it was such a universal one.

"Ah, here they are," said Emily, as the two of them approached a busy table. "Did you get lost?" she added, to Reid.

He visibly stiffened.

"I lost track of time," he said, abruptly, and dropped into an empty seat, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"Sorry," said Grace, a little nonplussed by his moody behaviour. "I had to wash forty-eight hours of airport off."

"Understandable," said a vivacious blonde woman from across the table. "I'm Jennifer Jareau, by the way – or just JJ." She smiled. "I'm the media liaison for the team."

"And this is Derek Morgan," Agent Hotchner added, indicating a confident, attractive black man, looking completely at his ease.

"How're you doin'?" he nodded, with an easy smile. "Garcia can't stop talkin' bout you – you seem to have made quite an impression."

"Hi," she said, smiling back.

"- and I believe you know Jason Gideon," Hotchner finished, as her eyes came to rest on the final agent in the group.

"Only a little," said Grace, genuinely pleased to see him. "I attended a lecture series of yours a few years ago in Cambridge."

"You asked some memorable questions," said Gideon, twinkling at her as she shook his hand.

"It was a thought-provoking seminar."

"You folks ready to order?" asked a waitress, sauntering over in unreasonably high-heels.

Grace settled down quietly in her chair as they waited for their dinner, and watched her new team as they wound down.

This seemed to be an amiable lull in the grim business of their day, though she suspected that most of them would be reviewing their notes until late in the evening.

The easy banter shooting back and forth between Morgan, JJ and Prentiss suggested that this team had a good, solid basis of friendship. It reminded her forcibly of the way her old team had been, before.

Feeling distinctly homesick for a home that wasn't even there any more, she turned her attention to Gideon and Hotch, who were engaged in a quiet conversation – probably, given the few words she could catch – catching each other up about the case.

The only person holding back – apart from Grace, who was far too shy to join in just yet – was Dr Reid.

He was sat slumped in his chair, staring at the plate in front of him, his arms tightly folded. He seemed to be in the grip of another of his strange moods.

Looking around her, it was easy for Grace to see the team as a sort of family unit – Gideon and Hotchner as a pair of rather odd surrogate father figures, their colleagues the unruly siblings. She thought of Garcia, sitting in her lair back in Quantico, every inch the slightly nutty cousin from out of town. Glancing at Reid she quickly placed him as the moody teenager of the group and frowned, hoping that he wasn't always so surly. She wasn't particularly patient when it came to bruised feelings, and could imagine her goodwill dissipating quickly in the face of his churlish behaviour.

Perhaps he would prove her wrong.

She rather hoped so.

He appeared to be about her age and had seemed almost endearingly young in the police department earlier, letting his enthusiasm get the better of him while his mind was on the case. Some of the time he was pleasant – almost sweet – but now, as when he was in the SUV, he had closed himself off from the rest of them.

Profiler that she was, she hadn't missed the furtive looks of concern that the other members of the team were shooting him from around the table.

Deciding that he was probably even shyer than her, Grace decided to let it go for now, ignoring the growl in her stomach.

"So what's England like?" JJ asked, leaning across Dr Reid. He didn't appear to mind, and even looked up to gauge her response.

"Damp," said Grace, firmly. "That's the overarching quality. And a bit mad."

"Why is it that the British always talk about the weather?" Emily asked, with a chuckle.

"It's just that there's rather a lot of it," Grace explained, and several people laughed. "I remember a day last June where we had about eight types of weather in one day. It's something you have to keep an eye on if you want an easy life."

"Not something you'll get 'round here," said Morgan, with a grin. "An easy life."

Grace laughed.

"No, I'd guess not."

"What area were you working in before?" Prentiss asked, interested.

Grace paused before answering, wondering – not for the first time – how much she could say.

"We dealt with the weirder cases," she said, after a moment's thought.

"Serials?" asked Morgan.

"Some of them," Grace nodded. "Basically any case that nobody else wanted. And most things in the Borough."

"The Borough?" JJ asked. "Rough neighbourhood?"

"Southwark," Grace said. "You have to be stout of heart to venture south of the river – particularly if you're a copper. It was my Governor's old manor."

"Manor?"

"Patch."

"Ah."

"Things have a history of going a bit… wobbly… down there," Grace explained. "It was just outside the city proper for several centuries, so it wasn't subject to the same laws until quite recently. They make life hard for coppers there, even if they're generally law-abiding. It's tradition."

Gideon chuckled and Prentiss snorted into her beer.

"Sounds like my old neighbourhood in Chicago," said Morgan, with a rueful smile.

"I suspect everyone's got somewhere they don't like to go."

"For us it's Montana," quipped Prentiss.

"Why?" Grace asked, interested.

The conversation descended into a tongue-in-cheek potted history of the F.B.I. at that point, and everyone had something to say, even occasionally Reid. His interjections were interesting and light, surprising her again.

Grace kept half an eye on him during dinner, wondering what it was that was making him so sullen, and his colleagues watch him so closely.