Chapter 4 – Paperwork
Essential Listening: Us Against the World, Coldplay
0o0
Breakfast was an odd event, the majority of her new colleagues apparently subsisting on caffeine and not much else. Grace had risen early, still aching from her journey but reasonably refreshed by a night's sleep. She had been up late reviewing the case notes, such as they were, and wanted to get her teeth into whatever the day would bring, her enthusiasm tinged by the knowledge that they were unlikely to get anywhere without another victim.
She had beaten everyone down to the hotel's business-like restaurant except Gideon, who had taken one look at her loaded breakfast plate from over the top of his reading glasses and declared her 'very British'.
"Culture shock," she had quipped, cheerfully resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at the man. While this might have been acceptable behaviour back at the Manor, she didn't think the F.B.I. had quite the same childish mentality as her old colleagues.
They had finished their breakfasts quietly, making occasional small-talk about the lecture series in Cambridge, and Grace's Governor, who had apparently provided her with excellent references.
Grace was dying to know what he'd said – and how much of it was true – and she was certain that Gideon could tell. She suspected that he was rather enjoying himself.
Morgan dropped into the seat beside her and eyed her empty plate in amusement.
"Hungry?"
"Airport food is not like real food."
He and Gideon chuckled, sipping their hot coffees.
The arrival of Agent Morgan signalled a steady trickle of people until the table was once again full of weary agents clutching mugs of whatever was hot and full of caffeine. Not wanting to feel left out, Grace helped herself to a mug of reasonable tea at the counter and settled down to watch as the beverages did their magic.
"Sleep well?" Prentiss asked, noticing how much more alert Grace seemed to be.
"Like the dead," Grace smiled. "Plus I'm not entirely caffeine dependent."
Emily snorted and JJ laughed.
"That'll wear off," she grinned, helping herself to more coffee.
"We're not caffeine dependent," said Reid, and Grace turned to him. He was paler than before, which was worrying in itself, and there had been something almost hateful in his voice, as if Grace was suggesting that they had all been out slaying prostitutes all night.
The look of concern that she had noted the night before rippled through the group, most of whom had stopped talking – or so it seemed to Grace – entirely out of embarrassment.
Maybe there was something going on with the young agent – his team-mates reactions suggested that there was – or maybe he just wasn't a morning person, but then, neither was Grace.
Her old Governor had despaired of Grace's inability to keep her mouth shut – he had once asked her, in total exasperation, whether her need for confrontation was so great that she had to invent reasons for people to pick fights with her. That had been a long time ago, and her unruly mouth had earned her something of a reputation back at home, but she had been much better lately.
Still, she had had a fuck of a journey over the past few days, and her flippant mention of culture shock over breakfast hadn't been entirely misplaced.
And she didn't like his tone.
"It was a joke," she said, as lightly as she could.
"Not a very funny one."
"Depends on where you're sitting, I suppose."
"You mean, you find it funny to point out other people's failings?"
She hadn't expected Dr Reid to react so readily, but he was leaning forward now, eyes narrowed, practically glaring at her. Grace stared at him, surprised.
"When it comes down to it I expect you quite enjoy it – do you know what that makes you, Agent Pearce?"
His voice had a growl to it now, and Grace felt her own eyes narrowing in response.
"No, do tell," she said, coldly.
"It makes you a bully."
Grace rolled her eyes, she couldn't help it.
"It was funny because it's true of me too," she said, waving her half empty mug of tea under his nose; he leaned back, possibly in revulsion. "Tea has caffeine in it too. Have you not heard of self-deprecation?"
"My mother was a professor of fifteenth century literature – I was analysing satire when I was five," he scoffed, hotly, clearly insulted.
His voice had risen as he'd spoken, and a few of the hotel's other patrons were staring now.
Agent Hotchner looked very much like he wanted to intercede, but Grace was having none of it.
"Well then, we shouldn't have a problem then, should we?" she asked, taking a perverse pleasure from the way he flushed and his eyebrows shot up.
"I think the problem here might not be language," he said, a dangerous note in his voice.
Grace leaned forward, ignoring the rest of the team, who seemed so nonplussed by Reid's sudden anger that they were simply watching them speechlessly. Their wide eyes flicked between the two of them like they were watching a tennis match.
"Oh, and what might you think the problem is, Dr Reid?" Grace asked, her tone almost sweet.
"I think it's probably –"
"Reid," said Gideon. "That's enough."
He stopped himself, but only just.
"Sorry," said Grace, aware that the admonition had been meant for both of them. She felt her face colour slightly in embarrassment. This was exactly the kind of thing that got her in trouble back home.
"Whatever," Reid muttered, and Grace suspected that she was the only one to have heard him.
There was an awkward silence as the team finished their 'breakfasts', everyone avoiding each others' eyes.
"I hope you got a strong stomach," quipped LaMontagne, arriving at their table and eyeing the seven empty mugs and lone empty plate. "We got another one."
0o0
Grace sighed as she stared down at the bloodied corpse in front of her. This one was probably younger than she was.
It was never something she had expected to get used to, the calm assessment of corpses, but after only a few months with the oddest department of the CID she had found herself almost numb to the horror. These days an eviscerated party-goer didn't even make a dent.
It was sad, really.
"Just like the others," murmured Reid.
The sight of the refuse of yet another pointless crime had provided grounds for a truce, and they stood side-by-side as their team-mates worked the scene.
"The level of violence is interesting," observed Grace, quietly.
"The UnSub is staying with the corpse – enjoying the kill – but displaying no rage, no overkill."
"It does seem oddly calm," Reid nodded. "As if there's no need for release – nothing sexual, like you said yesterday…"
He glanced sideways at her.
"Sorry about before," he said, self-consciously.
Grace shrugged. As annoyed as she had been in the moment, it really hadn't bothered her that much. There was a quiet part of her that was still musing over precisely why her dependency comment had set him off so badly, and she wasn't sure that she liked the way that line of thought was heading.
"Not everyone's a morning person," she said, and then softened her tone a little. "I shouldn't have kept pushing you."
She squatted beside the body.
"He's young, strong, not bad-looking…" she sniffed, mentally filtering out the ferrous tang of the man's blood. "Drunk, from the smell of it."
"There's certainly a type emerging…"
"Young, male and stupid," said Grace, straightening up.
"It's surprising how calm you are, given that this is your first case…"
Dr Reid was staring at her, openly curious.
"My first case with you, not my first body," Grace said, giving him a look. "And certainly not the worst I've ever seen," she added, almost to herself.
"The impression I got from Hotch was that your department was one of the minor ones…"
"We are," she admitted, smiling at his blithe lack of tact. "But all that means is we got the cases that no one else wanted – like I said last night."
There was a momentary flicker in Reid's expression that suggested to Grace that he couldn't remember all of the previous evening. She let it go, choosing to put the thought away until later, when she would have time to think it properly.
"The ones they couldn't solve – ones with soap mummies, spontaneous combustion, motorists swearing blind that pixies made their car crash – that sort of thing."
She watched one of his eyebrows rise at the mention of spontaneous combustion, and smiled as he laughed at the pixies.
"No really," she said, with a half smile, "I took that particular statement."
He chuckled.
"Really?"
"My Governor once had a corpse explode on him," she continued, scanning the alleyway for hiding places.
"Methane?"
Grace nodded.
"It wasn't pretty."
"I can imagine."
"Hmm," said Grace, frowning.
"What?"
"If you were going to sneak up on someone, would you do it in a back alley with absolutely nowhere to hide?"
They looked around.
"Dumpster?" Reid suggested, and started towards it, but Grace caught his arm; he visibly flinched.
He stared down at her hand, stunned by the unfamiliar contact.
She took her hand away, surprised at the level of his discomfort.
"Sorry," she said. "We've got company, though."
She nodded to the mouth of the alley, where two distressed and quite sheepish young men were staring, appalled, at the remains of their friend.
"I'll check the bins, they'll be happier talking to you."
"They will?" Reid looked dubious. "Seems unlikely."
"They lost their now mutilated friend in a heavily populated area because they were drunk. They're feeling lost, guilty and incredibly stupid – you have one key advantage, besides the whole 'genius' thing." She smiled at his obviously puzzled expression. "Explaining what happened to a woman who clearly thinks they're idiots will completely emasculate them. Right now they have no concept that women can be equally stupid – you're a guy, they'll expect you to understand."
He watched her go, absently rubbing his arm where she'd touched him, before turning and walking back to the tape.
"Excuse me," he said, approaching the men. The nearest one, a heavy-set young black man tore his eyes away from the corpse. "I'm Dr Spencer Reid, I'm with the F.B.I. –"
He flashed his badge. "I need to ask you a few questions about your friend – 'I'm sorry for your loss."
He led them away from the tape, to where their view of the body was more obscured.
"So, the three of you were out together last night?" he asked them, trying to keep their attention on him and not on their late friend.
He was aware that the rest of the team had gravitated over, content to let the C.S.U.s do their work now that they'd given the scene a once-over. Morgan appeared beside him, an impassive expression on his face.
"Mark had just paid his tab at one bar," said the second young man. "And was on his way to meet us at another."
"You guys get in any trouble?" asked Morgan. "Drunken brawl? Anybody get out of hand?"
"We were just out to have fun, you know," said the first guy, helplessly; Reid wondered whether Grace had been right about their current state of mind. "Mindin' our own business."
"Could Mark have met a girl?" asked Morgan, pressing them. "Maybe upset her boyfriend?"
The men shook their heads.
"No sir," said the first guy.
"He struck out like we all did," his friend finished.
"Thanks, guys," said Morgan as the team turned away.
The two men retreated morosely, clearly relieved to be out of the alley.
"I can hardly keep up with this guy," said LaMontagne, slowly.
"Well," said Prentiss. "If he's mimicking Jack the Ripper that might be precisely the point – he terrorised London for months, without ever getting caught."
"Drove some good men mad looking for him," Grace added, almost to herself.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd gather your men," said Gideon to LaMontagne. "Like to give you a profile of who you're up against.
0o0
The police station was already stuffy, despite the early hour. The local police were gathered about in groups, notebooks at the ready.
"I'd like you sit out of this one, Pearce," said Agent Hotchner as they filed in.
Grace nodded. This wasn't wholly unexpected given her late arrival to the case; they hadn't really worked with her long enough to trust her – her abilities as a profiler were still unknown.
"Alright people, listen up," said Detective LaMontagne. "These agents have worked out a profile of this guy – one we all need to know." He perched on a desk near the front of the room. "All yours."
"Thank you," said Hotchner. "The offender we're looking for is friendly, agile, somewhere between thirty and thirty-five."
"He'll lure with charm and kill with rage," said Gideon.
"We believe he's murdering men to reclaim his power," said Prentiss from the side. "This UnSub suffers from low self-esteem – but he probably covers it well. He dresses impeccably to feed the façade. Jack the Ripper was an 'impetuous lust' murderer, whereas this offender is organised, calculating – he might even stalk his victims for days before the kill."
Grace frowned: that didn't seem right to her. None of the victims had been taken while following their routines – they had been hunted down at random from the target-rich environment that the French Quarter represented.
She kept quiet, hoping that the doubt wasn't showing on her face. It wouldn't do to contradict the profile in front of the wider force.
"We believe this killer identified with Jack the Ripper because he's lost his own identity," said Gideon. "Maybe through years of child abuse, or some catastrophic event."
"Because he over-compensates to hide his insecurities we believe he may hold a position of authority at work," continued Hotchner.
"And since we think he's had medical training," Emily added, "consider doctors, EMTs, veterinarians."
"Please be careful," Gideon urged. "To this UnSub the French Quarter is a hunting ground." He gave a hollow chuckle. "He's certainly already proved that he knows the terrain."
"Alright folks," said Detective LaMontagne, standing and clapping his hands together. "Let's get out there and start canvassing the bars, workers, patrons."
"Morgan," said Agent Hotchner, as the level of bustle increased in the room. "You and Prentiss join the canvassing teams – the French Quarter is a big area and we need as many people out there as we can."
"You never know," said Morgan, grabbing his jacket. "We might get lucky."
"The rest of us are staying here," Hotchner explained as Morgan and Prentiss headed out the door. "Garcia's come up with a list of medical staff in the area," he continued, with little enthusiasm. "We might as well make a start excluding them."
"I'll check the local files for any violent crimes," JJ volunteered. "Since the homicide files have been washed away there might be some evidence of a build-up there."
"Good," said Hotch. "Pearce, you help JJ."
"Righty-ho," said Grace, fighting the urge to salute, and followed JJ down the hall to an ominously large stack of file boxes.
"These were all that were left after Katrina," said JJ, grimly.
"Even the weather hates paperwork," Grace mumbled, grabbing a box.
0o0
Grace stretched and popped her spine.
"Got anything?" she asked JJ, without much hope.
"Lots of scumbags," said JJ, wearily, "But nothing quite like our scumbag."
Grace sighed. They had been at it for hours, the five of them poring over files around a cramped table in the back room.
"It speaks for the medical profession that we haven't found more evidence of psychopathy," said Reid, flicking through another stack of files at a ridiculous speed.
Grace watched him for a moment, wondering whether the young agent might actually be part android.
They'd put in a full day's paper chasing and hadn't come up with one good lead. Morgan and Prentiss hadn't had much luck on the streets either. They came in exhausted at shift change and wearily plonked down into two empty chairs.
"Alright," said Hotchner, looking around at his exhausted team. "We're getting nowhere. Let's call it a night."
"Fancy a bite to eat?" Morgan asked the team at large.
"I could go for some Chinese," said JJ, perking up. "I'll see if Detective LaMontagne wants some."
"Sounds good to me," said Hotchner, getting to his feet. "Gideon?"
"I'm going to stay here, finish this stack," he said, pulling it towards him. "You go on."
"I'll give you a hand," said Emily, pulling some files towards her. "We can order something in."
"How 'bout you, new girl?" Morgan asked, and Grace smiled, glad to be included.
"I'll pass this time, if that's alright," she said. "My brain's pretty fried, and I want to get a feel for the Quarter – it's nothing like I'm used to."
"Be careful," said Gideon, and she nodded, knowing that they wouldn't be too worried. She wasn't the UnSub's type, anyway.
"I'll keep my eyes peeled," she said. "You never know."
"Pretty boy?"
"Uh – actually I'm meeting up with that old friend I told you about."
"Ethan?"
"Yeah."
"Well don't stay out too late," said Morgan, throwing his arm around Reid's shoulders as he piloted him to the door. "You know you need your beauty sleep!"
0o0
Meanwhile…
A young man walks down a deserted alley, turning now as he catches an unexpected noise behind him.
Is someone following him?
Could it be our UnSub, out on the prowl earlier than usual?
Unsettled, the man turns a corner and comes face-to-face with a fairly smug looking Spencer Reid, who had clearly been lurking behind the wall.
"Geez," said Ethan, startled. "Reid, you scared me."
"I've always been one step ahead of you, man," said Reid, with a warm smile.
"Yeah? Whatever helps you sleep at night," said Ethan, with a chuckle. "I'm glad you called, it's good to see you."
"You too," smiled Reid.
"Let's go get a drink."