It is the youth who must inherit the tribulation, the sorrow... that are the aftermath of war. -- Herbert Hoover

November 3, 2009

Love, money, sex or drugs. These four words sum up the motives for 99% of homicides anywhere. Sometimes there was some overlap, but rarely did one find a murder that couldn't be linked, fairly clearly, to one of these motives. But occasionally, that 1% of not easily categorized murder would occur. Local police, despite their skills and dedication, would be stumped.

That was when, at least within the United States, the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was called in. The U.S. Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia housed, among other federal and military facilities, the FBI training and development division. It was within that complex, situated within 400 acres of woodlands and called the Facility by those in the know, where the men and women of the BAU were based.

They'd come a long way since the units inception, when no one thought it was possible to analyze deviant minds and uses what was learned to build profiles that could help catch other offenders. Back then, the unit, which consisted of less than a handful of men had been relegated to a dreary room in the basement, their superiors watching, waiting for them to fail.

But, to everyone's surprise but their own, they had succeeded. The present BAU was housed in one of the facilities bland, concrete buildings, the offices sleek, modern studies in grey and tones, with plenty of glass doors and metal accents. The unit was staffed by several small teams of closely knit men and women, whose job it was to provide behavioral based investigative and/or operational support by applying case experience, research, and training to complex and time-sensitive crimes, typically involving acts or threats of violence. The program areas addressed include Crimes Against Children, Crimes Against Adults, Communicated Threats, Corruption, and Bombing and Arson Investigations. The BAU receives requests for services from Federal, state, local, and international law enforcement agencies. Response to these requests for BAU assistance are facilitated through the network of field NCAVC coordinators. BAU services are provided during on-site case consultations, telephone conference calls, and/or consultations held at the BAU with case investigators.

Sorting through the requests for her teams assistance, fell upon the capable shoulders of Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau, JJ to her friends, who served as communications director/media relations/local law enforcement liaison for the team. A young, fresh faced blond, she didn't look the part of the steely professional her colleagues knew her to be. Often, earlier in her career, she had been able to use her disarmingly sweet looks to deter an angry police officer or a persistent reporter, but as she grew into her position and became a bit better know, people were getting savvy to her tricks.

Arriving at what used to be her typically early hour (she'd begun coming in a bit later with the rest of the team after the birth of her son, Henry, who was spending the week in Louisiana with his father, visiting Will's family.), she entered her office, small purse and large coffee in hand. Already she could see a few faxes sitting in the in tray of her machine, waiting for her attention. Placing her drink and bag down, she scooped up the ream of paper and place it on her desk, settling into her chair to begin going over what she knew would be unpleasantness. But sadly, most of the typical horrors and atrocities a man could inflict on another man didn't shock her too badly anymore.

Occasionally though, a case would come across her desk that made her reconsider her seen it all and got the t-shirt point of view. Words would jump off the page as if on display at a 3D IMAX theatre. This was one of those times.

HOMICIDE…SAME MO AS UNSOLVED SERIAL CASE 15 YEARS AGO…VICTIM ALIVE AT TIME FLESH AND MUSCLE IS WORN OFF BODY WITH ELECTRIC BELT SANDER…DUMPED IN SNOW FIELD….

Going over the police file on the recent death, JJ then flipped to the copies of the homicides from 1994. There were sixteen in total. Four from each of four Alaskan bush towns. In '94, the killings had started in Fort Yukon, where this fresh body had been discovered the previous evening. If the pattern repeated itself, they were in for a hellish month.

Normally, getting local police departments to request help from the FBI was like pulling teeth from an un-sedated great white shark. But Richard Lake, Fort Yukon's chief of police was, quite politely, asking for their assistance.

A grim sense of foreboding settling over her, she gathered up the files and quickly made her way through the still dimmed bull pen, up the stairs to Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner's office. The Unit Chief's door and blinds were closed, but light crept out around the edges, indicating the man had either arrived earlier than she herself had, or he had never gone home the night before.

She rapped on the heavy door, cracked it open slightly and said, "Hotch?"

Seated at his desk, reviewing paperwork of his own, Hotchner looked up at the sound of her voice and waved her in. "Good morning, JJ," he greeted her politely, but she knew he was all too aware of what would bring her knocking at his door at this hour.

In his tidy, understated office, dressed in a typically immaculate navy suit, crisp white shirt and navy/pewter tie, he seemed more a business executive than the exceptional profiler he was. His grave demeanor was a reflection of how seriously he took the responsibility of their jobs and the dedication he gave to the bureau. It was that dedication that had cost him his family, as, unable to tolerate the stress of his job any longer, his wife Haley had filed for divorce. They were trying to be amicable, for their young son Jack's sake.

More than anything, JJ hoped the job didn't drive away her own little family. She had some hope though. Her son's father, her partner (for wont of a better word), was a police officer himself. He had some real understanding of what she did, the pressures she faced. Hell, he'd even upended his life, transferring from the New Orleans PD to a smaller force in Virginia to be near her and Henry.

But it was not a time for melancholic musings.

"We've got a case," she informed him, stepping into the room and placing the files down on his desktop. "Fort Yukon, Alaska. They've had a homicide that matches a very distinct MO of an UNSUB who disappeared after 16 kills 15 years ago."

One of Hotchner's sharp brows rose as he scanned the file with a speed and thoroughness that one only acquired after years of practice. Looking up at JJ, his face was even more morose than usual. "Call the team. Tell them to pack warm clothes," he told her, rising decisively from his desk.

Jareau nodded, agreeing that it would be a better use of time to brief the team on the jet rather than wasting precious hours in the conference room. As she reached the door, Hotch called out, "JJ, tell Garcia she's coming with us."

Pausing with a question on her face, JJ looked back at Hotch, who continued, "We need to be able to get in touch with her. I'd imagine cell coverage up there is not optimal."

"Got it," JJ said with a nod and continued on her way. She'd call the team, then Will and let him know she'd be out of town for a few days at least. Then she'd have to go pack. And check the weather report for Fort Yukon, Alaska. Early November in the Artic Circle was probably quite chilly.

TBC

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