Dear Readers:

I hope to write stories that interest you. However, I need your reviews to know if you are still enjoying these snippets. I don't mean to beg or demand reviews, but I need to know if you are losing interest in this story, or if you want it to keep going. I have plenty more ideas for scenes, but I'd like to know if anybody wants to read them. Thank you for reading so much so far. What do you think of it?

Your support makes writing worthwhile! Thanks so much!

-LTLS

Note: This scene may not be entirely consistent with my original story "Curtain Call," particularly how much Rossi knows about Hotch already. In the context of this scene, Rossi probably did not meet Hotch as a kid and is unaware of his past. And of course some things, especially FBI things, are a bit unrealistic here.

—-

The new recruit assigned to SSA David Rossi's field office in Seattle had all the makings of a promising FBI agent. He was smart, attentive, great with a gun, and adept at analyzing crime scenes. He had impressive grades from the academy and a solid record in field training assignments. Rossi believed the new recruit had strong potential to make it into the Behavioral Analysis Unit as long as he kept his studies up.

There was only one problem: the recruit's future with the FBI was now dangling on the precipice of a single questionable incident. Because of his actions, most of his superiors believed he should be terminated immediately.

However, Rossi insisted on handling the issue directly before determining whether or not Internal Affairs needed to get involved. He was hopeful for the new agent, but at the same time, he worried that he was about to watch the man's career end before it began.

He waited for the knock on his office door. Rossi took a deep breath, sat up straighter, and called, "Come in!"

His recruit, Trainee Aaron Hotchner, walked into the room and shut the door. He was neatly dressed in business casual, no tie this time. Somehow he looked younger, more like an academy entrant, but world-weary at the same time. At Rossi's direction, he sat down. His face was entirely unreadable.

Rossi opened the complaint folder on his desk. "Aaron Hotchner, you are being investigated for your volatile behavior and mishandling of a critical interview. You have been recommended for psychological reevaluation and/or termination from the Bureau. Do you understand why I'm interviewing you?"

A faint nod. "Yes sir."

Rossi relaxed and folded his hands. "Look, I like you, Hotch. But that doesn't matter right now. To the Bureau, you're just a rash young recruit who is this close to losing his career." He brought his fingertips close together to illustrate. "So I suggest you cooperate."

"Yes sir."

Rossi nodded. "Alright. Let's start by going over what happened."

—-

In two weeks, three college girls had been kidnapped, killed, and found meticulously buried beneath an office building utility room. A series of leads brought one suspect to the forefront: Ben Wilhelm, an occasional janitor with a record for theft. However, nobody could locate Ben. The FBI contacted his parents, and Agent Rossi went to interview them with his agent-in-training at his side.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilhelm lived in a trailer in an area known for selling meth. The couple slouched on an overstuffed, bursting leather sofa and shared a bottle of Corona between them. The man with patches of greasy whiskers on his weathered chin was reportedly Mrs. Wilhelm's fourth husband and Ben's second stepfather.

For the first half of the interview, the Wilhelms barely said a word, only speaking to affirm their utter ignorance of their son's whereabouts.

Hotch, normally so well-composed, seemed more uptight than usual. While Rossi focused his questions on finding Ben, Hotch kept coming back to the couple's relationship with their son. He asked very pointed questions about Ben's childhood, upbringing, and experiences as a youth. The answers were minimal but enough to keep Hotch going. Rossi figured he must be onto something, so he let the questions continue.

However, the younger man needed to tone down a bit. He sounded angry, and that was no way to crack an interview open.

"How come you don't know where he is?" Hotch demanded. "Did he run away from you? Did you push him away?"

Mrs. Wilhelm gave him an irritated glance and then took a gulp from the bottle.

"You told me your son never behaved and that he did poorly in school. Can you tell me why?"

Mr. Wilhelm shrugged. "Cuz the boy was an idiot, that's why. I say, good riddance; I hope he never turns up."

Hotch was on the edge of the folding chair that sat opposite the adults slouching on the sofa. He leaned forward with a touch of aggression. "How did you treat him?"

Mrs. Wilhelm casually flicked a speck of dirt from her sleeve. "Treated him like anybody would treat a child." She took another drink from the bottle.

Hotch's eyes flashed with anger. "Did you hurt him?"

Rossi shot him a sideways glance. The woman looked up through glazed eyes but said nothing.

Hotch looked like he might spring to his feet. "I asked, did you hurt him? How often did you hit him?"

The woman shrugged and picked up her bottle again.

Without warning, Hotch rose from his seat, grabbed the bottle, and set it forcefully down on the coffee table.

Rossi tensed. He had never seen Hotch act like this before, and there was no way of knowing what he might do next. He was going to grab her. He was going to hit her. Maybe they should leave now.

"You sicko!" Hotch yelled at the woman. "Do you have any idea what you did to your son? How you made him feel? Are you surprised he's now a murder suspect?"

Rossi quickly stood and seized his agent's arm. "Hotch..."

"Where is your son?" yelled Hotch. "Is he running from you? You have no idea what it takes to be parents, and I hope you rot in jail!"

"Hotch. Out. NOW!" Rossi tugged on his arm.

The Wilhelms exchanged a glance as the agents hurried out of the trailer and into the dusty daylight. Hotch turned away from his supervisor and ran his hands over his head.

Rossi crossed his arms. "What the heck has gotten into you?"

Hotch faced him. "I'm sorry. I lost control."

"That's for sure! What's going on?"

Hotch shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured. "But I think you should finish the interview."

"I think you're right. And Hotch, I can't let this go. You know that."

"Yes sir."

Rossi then went back inside to repair the damage, leaving Hotch beside the black FBI car. Rossi didn't believe for a moment that nothing was wrong, personally, for Hotch. Unfortunately, the Wilhelms would no longer open up at all.

—

Rossi rested his hands on his desk. "Well?" he asked. "What were you thinking?"

Hotch sighed. "I wasn't thinking. I was looking at two adults who showed total apathy toward their son, and I watched them give that bottle more attention than they probably ever gave their child. Being in that home, seeing the conditions, I couldn't help getting angry."

Rossi leaned forward. "But why? Was it really so bad?"

"In that moment, I had to know. I had to find out."

"Find out what?"

"If they really treated Ben the way I thought they did."

Rossi frowned. "You could have found out by continuing to calmly interview them. Yes, they were frustrating, but every interviewee tends to be. Why did you lose control?"

"Maybe for the same reason I quit being a lawyer." Hotch avoided eye contact entirely. "I was tired of watching people get away with such cruelty, and when I felt like I wasn't doing enough to help, I panicked."

Rossi leaned back in his chair and sighed. He could guess where this all came from, but he wanted the recruit to tell the story. If Hotch was struggling with past trauma, he needed to deal with it right away.

"I see where you're coming from," said Rossi. "You got so angry because the case suddenly became personal for you. Let me ask you this: what made it personal?"

Hotch's fingers kept intertwining tighter. "The... the parents."

Rossi dipped his chin, nodding for him to go on.

But Hotch did not continue. He only stared down at his hands.

"Trainee Hotchner," said Rossi. "I need you to meet my eye."

Hotch looked up.

"If there is something in your life, however long ago, that you haven't dealt with, it's now or never," said Rossi. "I know you want to go on into the FBI. But right now, you're a liability. I can't send you in on investigations if there's a chance you'll blow up at subtle triggers. If you're not ready to confront your past and heal from it, I'm afraid I'll have to fail your psych eval, refer you to Internal Affairs, and hope to catch you at the laundromat sometime. Because I guarantee you, chance encounters will be your only remaining connection to the FBI."

Hotch shifted uncomfortably. His gaze had fallen again. "Alright," he said softly. "It was my stepfather. He had PTSD from the war. Beat me up pretty bad."

Rossi gave a knowing nod. "I'm sorry you went through that. Have you ever gotten help for this?"

"Professional help? No, sir. I haven't."

"Well, there's a place to start. I think you need to seek counselling. We'll have you back on your feet in no time."

Hotch nodded. Silent.

"Is there more?" asked Rossi.

Hotch barely glanced up from beneath his knit brows. "No sir."

"Alright, Hotch. You can overcome the long-term effects, I'm sure, and then we can reconsider your recruitment status. Momentarily, we will have to keep you on probation while we further address your actions."

Another silent nod.

"One more thing. I had talked to the Wilhems before and done some studying on them. You know what I've learned? They did not abuse their son, at least not physically. If anything, they were overly permissive, never laid a hand on him, never corrected him in any way." Rossi shook his head. "And they wonder why he's a petty thief on the lam with bigger charges coming. Anyway, it's important to remember that profiling doesn't mean stereotyping, nor does it mean jumping to conclusions. I thought you knew that."

In fact, he knew that Hotch knew that. There was more to the problem, perhaps, some deeper issue, which was somehow triggered during the interview. There was more that Hotch wasn't sharing.

—-

David Rossi had spent longer than he planned getting information from the receptionist and security guard at the law firm downtown. Finally, he was directed to the records room where he asked to see all the files on Aaron Hotchner's last court case.

There were two entire boxes of folders devoted to this case. Evidence of every kind, from interviews with classmates and neighbors to photos of everything in the house. Overwhelmed, Rossi began studying the case from beginning to end.

The defendant was a thirty-year-old single mother who let her twelve-year-old son starve to death after beating him with a cord "for failing his math exam." The conviction was successful, and the mother was sentenced to serve life in prison without parole.

In the back of the first case file were photographs of the murdered boy. Rossi cringed and closed the folder.

He found a yellow sticky note on the back of a file. The cursive note read: "They can't possibly acquit. Now give the case a rest and come home. -Haley."

This case was an open-and-shut conviction loaded with clear-cut evidence and tell-all testimonies. A prosecutor's dream. But Hotch had obsessed over it, fought excessively to ensure its conviction, lost sleep and lost time with his wife. The case had drained him, probably haunted him. And in the end, when the verdict buried the defendant behind bars, Hotch had irrationally quit his job.

Rossi looked again at the pages of the autopsy report and the photos of the boy right after he was found. The report mentioned a multitude of half-healed injuries that indicated a history of abuse. The boy looked emaciated and sickly, sunken eyes staring lifeless beneath a snatch of sandy hair. He was found in filthy shorts and a never-washed orange T-shirt with Garfield peeling off the front. Nothing on his feet and nothing to guard from the cold. He was about the size of an eight-year-old, but with every bone showing beneath thin, pale skin.

It was a horrendous case, to be sure. Rossi had to sit down and take a deep breath to process what he was seeing. As he skimmed over the police report, he saw a phrase circled in red ink: "could have been saved." If just one person had spoken up, if just one investigation had followed through, if anybody had acted sooner. But nobody did.

Now the conviction really did seem like a hollow stamp of so-called justice. But enough to make a successful lawyer change careers?

—-

Rossi gestured for Hotch to have a seat on the other side of his desk. "Have you finished your memo?"

"Nearly finished, sir."

Rossi cleared his throat. "I'm going to get straight to the point, so you'll have to forgive me for being so blunt."

Hotch arched his eyebrows.

"The point is, you cannot continue as an agent if you still refuse to face your past. You told me it was your stepfather who abused you, but I believe there was someone else. I did some investigating, and everything points to another conclusion." Rossi paused, giving Hotch the chance to speak up. When he was met with silence, he finished the thought: "Your mother, Hotch."

Hotch planted his elbow on the desk and pressed his fist to his lips. He shook his head.

"It wasn't your stepfather..."

"Yes, it was." Hotch hesitated, and his downcast eyes seemed to become glassy. "It was him and Mom."

Rossi took a second to let this sink in. "That must have been terrible. But Hotch, why didn't you tell me the whole truth before? Are you ashamed?"

At very least he was extremely uncomfortable. Hotch seemed to realize he could not avoid the questions, so he sighed and gave in. "She was 5 foot 1, very slim, and generally slow. And she beat me out of my mind more times than I could count. I could have stopped her. I didn't."

"Did you really believe I would think any less of you if I knew this?"

"Do you, sir?"

Rossi stifled a bigger outburst. "Don't be ridiculous! She was a woman, you were a boy, who cares? I don't care if she was four feet tall; she hurt you, and you didn't stop her because she was your mother. I don't look down on your for being a victim. And I certainly hope you don't look down on yourself."

Dead silence.

"Do you, Hotch?"

"It's very difficult, sir." Hotch's voice had never sounded smaller.

"Hotch, look at me."

The younger man had tears in his eyes.

"Something terrible happened to you, and it shouldn't define you," said Rossi. "But if you continue to blame yourself, it will define your whole life."

Hotch stared into space, and Rossi couldn't be sure how well he was listening. Then the younger man began speaking in a very distant voice. "Some days my mother didn't drink so much. She would make meals on time and let me help out in the kitchen. She liked to play cards with me on those nights, but I always made sure to let her win. It was fragile. Another day she'd turn around, knock me down, and whip out my father's old belt..."

Rossi nodded understandingly, wincing on the inside.

"And I..." Hotch wiped his eyes. "I just let her. I thought that maybe if I didn't give her any reason to hate me more, she would eventually stop hurting me and then welcome me back into the family. But around my stepfather, she only became more insane. Together, they taught me how easily a family can destroy itself. And that is what I see behind every murder and every case we look at— families destroyed from within, though not always in the same way."

"Thinking like that might make this job even harder to handle," said Rossi gently.

"Maybe so, but now I recognize that. I promise you, Agent Rossi, I will work through these problems. I will not let my past be a burden, but a tool. I want to bring my parents to justice. If not my parents themselves, the destruction they stood for, in whatever form I find it. If that means I have to take control of my thoughts and deal with the memories, I will do that."

Rossi nodded, eying the young man, thinking it over. Hotch finally met his eye and held his stare. Any sign of weakness had fled his gaze, and his stare actually carried an intimidating strength.

Rossi took a deep breath. "I'm glad to hear it, Hotch. For your sake, I hope you can pull yourself together. I know you have a lot to give if you really work at it."

"I hope so, sir."

"My superiors will want to talk with you as well," said Rossi, "and they'll decide if the complaint against you will go beyond them. For now, I suggest you finish your memo and prepare yourself in case they decide to terminate you."

"Yes sir."

"By the way, you're not allowed back on the case, at least until your probation is over, but I wanted to let you know we found Wilhelm." Rossi opened another file. "He was staying at a biker's lodge just out of town."

"Ben Wilhelm is not our unsub," Hotch stated flatly.

Rossi looked up. Hotch made the statement like it was inarguable truth. "Go on," Rossi urged him.

Hotch cleared his throat. "We profiled an organized killer. A man with a relatively stable childhood and the ability to maintain a social life despite his sociopathy. He's cunning; nobody would suspect anything wrong with him. But Ben Wilhelm is unstable, asocial, and isolated. Low social status. Highly disorganized background. I know that he was allegedly seen with each victim before they disappeared, but he doesn't fit the profile."

Rossi could see where this was going, but he wanted to make his recruit think everything through. "What if he is in a partnership?"

Hotch shook his head. "The college students were victimized by a power assertive offender, a type that exhibits a great deal of selfishness. It's almost impossible that the killer could have worked together with someone else."

Rossi stroked his chin. "What if the unsub used Wilhelm to bring the girls to him? He would still be in control that way."

"I doubt it, Sir. If what you say is true, that Wilhelm's parents let him get away with everything, he may have a self-entitled attitude that would prevent him from working for an authority who doesn't even let him take part in the ultimate crime itself. And though Wilhelm may have a self-centered mindset that fits the MO, he doesn't have a background that suggests he is intelligent or organized enough to pull off this kind of crime on his own."

Rossi didn't know what to say. He started to smile.

Hotch looked down. "Plus he's asocial," he went on. "Whereas our unsub has the social skills to blend into society. How else would he have access to such low-risk victims in a low-risk environment?"

"You know what, Hotch?" Rossi closed the complaint folder and leaned back. "I think you're absolutely right."

—

The next day, Agent Rossi walked out of a meeting with his superiors. Immediately, he went to find Hotch in the waiting area outside the main offices.

Hotch was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is Hotchner?" Rossi asked the receptionist who sat in front of a painted FBI seal on the far wall.

"He said he was going for a walk down the block ten minutes ago."

Rossi headed outside and walked briskly up the street. The wind ruffled his hair and his gray sports jacket as he hurried along. He looked up and down every street and every alley for any sign of his recruit.

He spotted a dark-haired man standing in a churchyard across the street. Rossi looked both ways and then headed over the crosswalk. As he let himself through the cemetery gate, the man looked up at him for no more than a second.

Rossi slowly crossed the grassy field and passed a sprinkler that tsk-tsk-tsk-ed a wide arc past his knees. Large bunches of flowers bloomed at every side. Every petal trembled in the wind and reached skyward as if longing to let go and fly after the departed souls.

Hotch stood in a patch of grass at the far end of the churchyard. Rossi came up beside him and looked down at the short headstone which was engraved with a deathdate but no birthdate. A block-letter inscription read: Here lies a boy whose name is only known in Heaven.

Hotch nodded toward the stone. "We couldn't even figure out his name. His mother wouldn't tell us, and we found no record of his birth or even his existence. It's like he never lived."

Rossi gazed somberly at the stone, remembering the terrible photos he found in the former prosecutor's folders. "We can't save everyone, Hotch. You have to realize that."

Hotch closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"We do not have an easy job," said Rossi. "The one thing that will lead to more mistakes is your emotions. That's why you can't let them get involved in any case. Nothing is personal. You're here to help, and at the end of the day, commiserate, but on the job, you cannot be ruled by your emotions."

"Yes, sir. I know that now."

Rossi folded his hands and looked down again. "I am sorry about this boy, and I'm sorry about all that has happened to you. I wish I could have done more."

Hotch nodded, then he softly spoke. "My mother once made me starve for about a week after I was already sick and wounded. I know what it feels like to no longer exist in the real world, and to think your only purpose is to slowly succumb to the pain. I knew I would die... so why didn't I?"

"Maybe so that you would have a chance to fight for others trapped with a similar fate."

With that, Rossi placed a gentle hand on his recruit's shoulder.

"Welcome to the FBI, Agent Hotchner."

—

Sorry if Rossi came across a little flat as a character in this chapter. I'm afraid I'm not too good at writing him. Anyway, I hope you liked this scene. Please review! Thanks! :)

If I find out that people are still interested in this story, I'll have the next chapter posted soon! I've been working on it for a long time.