"We say that the hour of death cannot be forecast, but when we say this we imagine that hour as placed in an obscure and distant future. It never occurs to us that it has any connection with the day already begun or that death could arrive this same afternoon, this afternoon which is so certain and which has every hour filled in advance." – Marcel Proust
Yukie Wakahisa was a walker. Despite the fact that she lived in the middle of downtown San Francisco, one of the hilliest cities in the country, she insisted on walking everywhere. She loved the energy that coursed through her as she navigated the steep slopes of the earth. She loved being outside, with the sun shining on her face; she loved seeing people go about their business on their way to wherever they were going. She loved being one of them.
On that particular day she was walking to her church, which was located, somewhat ironically, on the edge of the Castro district. Her desire to go was in part to volunteer with the church's homeless program, but mostly because one of her friends had promised to exhibit the traditional mask she had brought back from Venice, Italy. The idea of the exotic mask, and the stories surrounding it, excited the teenager.
Yukie was a naturally happy person, lighting up rooms wherever, and whenever, she entered them. Her sunny smile and buoyant laughter almost always spread to anyone in the vicinity when she unleashed them. She was not exceptionally bright or academically minded, but her interest in books and the arts made her a constant joy to her parents.
Arriving at her church, she admired the building, smiling brightly at it before going in. It was a large, square building with a squat, cross-attired dome on the top. It's fresh whiteness was almost a relief contrasted against the vividly coloured buildings surrounding it, but not quite. Yukie loved the chiaroscuro in the neighborhood.
The inside of the church was, like the outside, white, but it had red carpeting instead of concrete covering the floor. A balcony stretched around three sides of the interior, with the entrance directly beneath the center. Pews were scattered everywhere and windows punctuated the back of upper floor, looking out on to the blue building behind the church. A rich, ornamental pipe organ decorated the platform in front of the podium.
Yukie entered the building, signed the volunteer form offered to her by Mrs. Bates, and began looking for her friend amongst the 20 or so people who were already there. A giant grin spread over her face when she spotted the other girl.
Yukie never made it to her friend, however. For Yukie, everything stopped. She did not hear the soft whizz of the shot and she did not see the looks of horror. She did not feel pain. She just stopped.
Ondine woke from an uncomfortable sleep as the jet approached San Francisco International Airport. She jolted up suddenly from a half-remembered dream, the dying face of her father still shimmering in front of her eyes. It had been a recurring discomfort since he'd passed when she was nine years old; the only part she remembered was her father telling her that he loved her in Romani before convulsing and falling over. She always woke up before he hit the ground.
Over the past few years, the dream had altered slightly from what she remembered as a child; in the new dream, her father had bright, clear blue eyes that stared at her with a sad desperation as he toppled. In reality, her father had possessed warm, brown eyes that were never filled with anything but kindness and love for his family, even as he lay dying. The change was the result of something she had seen, somewhere she had been… Ondine quickly forced the thought into oblivion. She didn't think about that.
She shuddered uncomfortably and looked out the window, a move that turned out to be a mistake. The decent into San Francisco was terrifying. The runway stretched out over the bay and, though she was by no means afraid of water, the fact that it looked as though they were descending into the sea gave her the chills.
The sun was gleaming brightly into the jet, lighting the interior with a cheery glow. Ondine looked away from the window, trying to think of something other than the blue expanse below. Her eyes wandered to the scene of her humiliation the night before. Dr. Reid was still there, fast asleep, the sun shining on his young face. Even from her position on the other side of the aircraft, Ondine could see each of his eyelashes outlined by the light. She noted that sleep shaved several more years off his already youthful demeanor; she had thought that he was her age, 26, or slightly older, but seeing him sleeping made her question that perception.
When she had moved last night, she had ended up sitting next to SSA Morgan, which she had concluded ideal, because, instead of talking or sleeping, he seemed to only be interested in listening to his mp3 player. Ondine was fine with that. Making pointless small talk was not her forté. She had pulled out a book and read until Morgan fell asleep. This morning, his head was bent at an awkward angle and his mouth hung open. He breathed quite loudly, too, never quite snoring, but getting as close as someone could without actually committing the act. Ondine decided she liked him. Sleeping, anyway. His not-quite snore and expressive eyebrows were charming.
The gentle bump of the wheels hitting the runway woke everyone else up, and Ondine was soon swept up in tidying the plane and finding her belongings with them. Sleepy "good mornings" were passed around, along with stale muffins and old coffee, the latter of which Ondine refused. She was an obstinate tea-drinker.
Once they got through security at the airport, there was a local detective with several officers waiting for them. "You must be the FBI," he said, shaking Hotchner's hand, "I'm detective Riley. I was in charge of this case before you guys were called in. If you need anything, I'm your man." Ondine sensed the resentment in his words, and felt a pang of sympathy for him. He probably thought it meant he was failing to have the FBI called in.
Hotch nodded politely. "Thank you. We will. Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get started-"
"You don't want to go to the hotel?" Riley interrupted.
"No," said Hotchner, speaking for the team, "We had sufficient rest on the plane. I'd like for us to start right away."
The detective looked a little deflated. It was obvious he had been hoping to get even more of a head start on the team. "All right," he said, turning, "This way."
Arrival at the scene was a relief to Spencer. He'd been crammed into the back of a tiny police cruiser with Morgan and Gabor for an uncomfortable twenty minutes, Gabor in the middle. Her rifle had been stretched across their laps; she'd refused to put it in the back, something Morgan had bafflingly found amusing. It made the whole experience just that much more unpleasant. It had had the negative side effect of masking the fact that her hips had been flush against his the entire time, and that her knees had gently bumped his while going around corners more than once. He couldn't help but think that, based on the softness of her hips, her not insignificant height and her approximate weight, she probably had a body mass index of roughly 20 percent; on the low side of the normal range. He guessed she was, or had been very recently, a fitness enthusiast.
Upon entering the church, she immediately went to the body. She pulled the sheet it had been covered with back, inspected the wound and spoke quietly to the kneeling coroner. Spencer absent-mindedly watched her work, the smooth flow of her movements intriguing him. How could anyone maneuver a crime scene so gracefully in such impractical clothes? An amused look from Morgan made Spencer realize he was staring. He immediately felt embarrassed, and looked away.
"Well, well, time to start playin' the field, Pretty Boy?" the older, sexier agent whispered as Spencer brushed by him, heading farther into the building. Spencer liked Morgan, a lot, but sometimes the teasing made him want to melt into the floorboards. And this was certainly not the time to be thinking about… that.
Spencer frowned, trying to focus on the task at hand; Riley was saying something to them. The dark corner of his mind that he was trying to ignore noted that Gabor had disappeared.
"Yukie Wakahisa," the detective said, standing over the body, "16-year-old Japanese church member who was here to volunteer with the homeless program. According to witnesses, she had just signed in with Mrs. Bates over there," he indicated a large, severe looking woman standing with the other 17 witnesses, "when she got shot."
The dead girl was facing the right balcony; her body twisted awkwardly, a smile frozen eerily on her face. There wasn't a lot that could rattle Spencer anymore, but looking at that girl did. He almost wanted to ask the coroner to cover her up. Instead, he and Morgan walked over to talk to Mrs. Bates. They didn't learn much, only that the girl was sweet natured and had turned to face the pews in front of the door when she died, not towards the right.
"So, she spun as she fell," said Morgan.
"Yeah, about 60 degrees," agreed Spencer, calculating the angles in seconds, "Which means the shot must have come from above the door in the balcony somewhere."
Morgan squinted at the aforementioned area. "We need to get up there."
The two men walked back to the entrance and climbed the stairs that lead to the second floor. They found Gabor standing on one of the seats shaking a window.
They stared at her, surprised to see her. "What are you doing?" demanded Morgan, irritated with her for meddling with the already damaged church property.
The tall woman paused and looked at him, her dark green eyes completely impassive. "The job I was brought in to do," she said.
"And damaging church property is part of that?" asked Morgan, still annoyed.
"Did you see the body?" snapped Gabor, giving up and stepping down from her perch.
"Yeah," Spencer said, trying to interject himself into the conversation before things got more tense, "She spun-"
"60 degrees," said Gabor, ignoring him, "Which means the shooter had to have been shooting from this direction."
"So he was in the balcony," retorted Morgan, crossing his muscular arms, threateningly.
Uh oh, thought Spencer.
Gabor snorted and rolled her eyes. "Did anyone see him?" she asked.
When Morgan didn't say anything, she turned her pine eyes on Spencer. He couldn't meet her gaze.
"Did you even ask?"
Once again, she was met with silence.
"That's what I thought," she said, before continuing, "Now, it is possible that he was in the balcony, but highly unlikely, unless he's a complete armature, which we know he's not because of his marksmanship," she pointed at the window she had been rattling, "These windows open. He was probably on that building and shot through the open window," she shut her eyes, and her face became very drawn, "That's what I would have done."
Spencer admitted it was the most probable situation, but Morgan refused to accept defeat. "I'm still going to interview the witnesses," he said, obstinately.
Gabor shrugged. She didn't look like she cared too much, but Spencer still felt bad for her; she was having a lot of trouble making friends on the team. First she put up with his social gracelessness and now Morgan was being rude and stubborn. He decided to try to salvage their besmirched reputations.
As Morgan turned to head back downstairs, he loudly asked, "Hey, guys, after we're done here, do you want to get something to eat?"
Spencer's nerves nearly got the better of him as both their eyes critically examined him. Morgan was first to respond. "Reid, we've got to get to the station and help with the profile, man."
He cringed inwardly. "Yeah, I know, I'm just really hungry…"
Gabor's steady gaze was unreadable as she spoke. "It's fine with me," she said, "I know a pretty good place close to here."
He wondered how she knew the restaurants in the area, but didn't have time to ask.
Morgan raised his eyebrows in defeat. "It'll have to be quick," he said before he stomped off downstairs.
Relief flooded Spencer. He really wanted this woman to like them.