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ROSSI

It was worse than he'd imagined. Wreckage was spilled out over the clearing, and little flags marked gruesome scenes as workers tiptoed through the debris. Next to him, he heard JJ stifle a gasp. She schooled her features quickly, but it didn't matter. The horrific tableau would forever be imprinted on all of their memories. Off to either side of the crash site two large tents had been erected, and people were streaming in and out of the right ones faster than Rossi could keep track.

"JJ and I will check in with Colonel Heffield," Hotch was saying. "Dave, you go find someone with a seat manifest and find out where Gerald Rinks was sitting."

He nodded once as they approached the tents, splitting from his teammates to enter the smaller of the two. Two folding tables took up one whole side, and on one of them he found three pieces of paper taped down detailing the passengers listed in each seat.

"Can I help you?" A woman's voice interrupted his search, and he turned with his badge in hand.

"Dave Rossi, FBI. Colonel Heffield called us in to help with the investigation."

"FBI?" she furrowed her brow, "isn't this sort of out of your expertise?"

"More than sort of," Rossi returned with a humorless smile. "We're here because of the latest findings. The Colonel reported someone had crashed the plane on purpose. We're here to find out why. And, hopefully, who."

"No one's called to claim responsibility," the woman frowned. "Isn't that the usual progression?"

"It depends on the reason," Rossi turned back to the lists behind him. "We're looking for a specific passenger. Gerald Rinks?"

The woman checked her clipboard, flipping pages up and down before stopping. "Gerald Rinks, Seat 5A."

"First Class," Rossi noted.

"Is that important?" she asked.

"Maybe," he moved to the first page and tapped the man's name. "Have they recovered his remains yet?"

She checked her clipboard again. "No."

"Any belongings?"

"I'm in charge of passengers," she shrugged. "When one is successfully found and identified, I mark it here. You'll have to ask Tom about luggage." She pointed over her shoulder to a young man with a Marine cut and broad shoulders.

"Thank you," Rossi smiled again and started toward Tom, but then stopped mid-stride. Turning back to her, he took a breath. "Actually, I need information about another passenger. Derek Morgan?"

Again the woman checked her clipboard. "Seat 7C," she said. "His remains have not been found yet either." Rossi felt his heart lurch, but he just nodded professionally and thanked her for her time. It would take days - maybe weeks - to catalog and identify every passenger; in the meantime, he would have to focus all of his attention on the job.

He approached Tom slowly, not wanting to interrupt the conversation he was having with an older woman in a sharp business suit.

"Ma'am, as soon as the Colonel has new information, he will report it to the appropriate agencies. I suggest you ask someone in the command tent next door." The woman sniffed once and turned on her heel, leaving Tom staring after her. Rossi cleared his throat and let out a chuckle.

"Lighten her hair and shrink her down a bit, she'd be a dead ringer for my boss." When Tom looked over in confusion, Rossi stuck out his hand. "Dave Rossi, FBI. Colonel Heffield called us in to help with the investigation. I was told you were the man to talk to if I wanted to locate some luggage."

"Tom Tuttle," he gripped Rossi's hand in a vice for a moment before letting go. "We've got several teams searching for belongings, and another in a tent across the clearing that's responsible for sorting it all out. I can certainly check for you. What's the passenger's name?"

"Gerald Rinks, seat 5A." Tom nodded and unclipped the radio from his belt.

"Baggage Recovery," he called into the device, releasing the button to wait for the response. When an older man's voice told him to go ahead, he continued. "Checking on luggage for the passenger in 5A. Gerald Rinks. R-I-N-K-S."

"Hold a moment," the man's voice answered. There was a long stretch of silence that gave Rossi a chance to look around. There were several team leaders with radios coordinating with others who looked to be go-betweens of some kind. The tent seemed to be divided into several different areas depending on responsibilities. Rossi had never been a part of a plane crash clean up, but he was surprised at the sheer number of people running around.

"Yeah," the voice returned, "I've got a small backpack with the initials GR that looks like it was in an overhead near the front of the plane. We've still got a lot of luggage to sort through, but so far none of the suitcases have that name on them."

"Roger that," Tom was ever the Marine, "Agent Rossi will be over in a moment. Thanks." He nodded once at Rossi, then looked over his shoulder. "Evan!" A young man no older than twenty bustled over eagerly. "This is Agent Rossi. Agent Rossi, Evan. He's one of our runners. He'll take you over to Baggage Recovery."

"Thank you," Rossi shook Tom's hand again and followed Evan out into the clean up effort. The circumvented the largest collection of wreckage, what looked to be the cockpit and the front third of the plane. Half of a wing was mangled and twisted off to the side, and Evan led him past it without so much as looking at the terrain.

"So Evan," Rossi lengthened his stride to catch up to the boy, "is this your first clean up?"

"Yes sir," he nodded, careful to keep his eyes up. Rossi realized he was trying to avoid seeing any of the carnage, though recovery teams had done a fairly good job of collecting the dead. The ground was still stained dark from blood, and Rossi understood all too well just how difficult a scene like this was for someone who had never seen it before. His many years as a profiler had exposed him to every type of crime scene imaginable, and he spared a quick philosophical thought regarding desensitivity and humanity.

"It's okay to feel a little ill," he said quietly. "I've been investigating murders for a long time, and each time I see a victim or a crime scene I get this little twinge right here." He tapped his chest. "I learned to ignore it, to do my job to the best of my ability so I can help others. But I never stop feeling it. I don't want to; it reminds me I'm human."

Evan glanced over at him, and Rossi hoped his words had helped. They were nearing a long white tent with two entrances on either end. Evan steered them toward the nearest opening, and as they entered Rossi gave a low whistle. Suitcases, jackets, backpacks, and duffel bags were stacked up on one side. He watched as the workers sifted through one bag at a time looking for any clues as to the former owner. Next to him, Evan flagged down an older man in a button-down flannel shirt and jeans.

"Bob, this is Agent Rossi," Evan introduced. "Excuse me, but I'm needed at the command tent. It was nice to meet you." He shot Rossi a grateful smile before dashing away. Bob chuckled and held out his hand.

"Robert Brenning, just call me Bob." He had a rich voice lilted with the accent of southern Texas, and Rossi could almost picture him on horseback with a wide-brimmed hat and a six-shooter at his hip.

"Dave," he returned the courtesy. "I appreciate your help. I know you're busy."

"I set the bag over here," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder before turning in that direction and striding away. Rossi followed quickly, side-stepping a rather frazzled looking woman wrestling with a large duffel. "None of the other passengers have the initials GR, so this must be your guy's right?" He slid the bag across the table and Rossi nodded as he grabbed the zipper and pulled.

"Here's hoping."