akaccino's A/N: Sorry for the delay! But please enjoy! : )

dieselwriter's A/N: Okay, technically it's Tuesday where the fuzzy oranges preside...but on the west coast it's still Monday! Therefore, our unofficial Monday update rule isn't officially broken, right?

Chapter Six

The inside of the police station was a madhouse.

"Move it!" Morgan's scowls finally seemed to serve a purpose as the scrambling officers made a wide berth around the two FBI agents, meaning Hotch's injured knee was not jostled more than necessary.

"What do you need, sir?" Clarke stepped out of the mayhem by the Unit Chief's side.

"Get everyone and meet in the conference room," Hotch answered, clinging to Morgan's shoulder as they rounded a corner.

"Clarke," the female agent looked over at Morgan as he addressed her, "an ice pack and a first aid kit as well."

Clarke nodded and disappeared back into the crowd.

"Thank you," Hotch said quietly, more than grateful for looking after him when his own mind was consumed by the case.

"Thank Clarke," was Morgan's only response. They turned another corner and Morgan jutted his chin out to the door leading into the conference room. "Mind getting the door?"

"Sure, make the incapacitated man do all the work."

Derek smirked down at his boss as they entered the room that was already occupied with Rossi and Reid.

"Did that guy knock some humor into you?" Morgan muttered, only half-joking.

"With enough evidence to catch him, I hope."

"What's happening?" Rossi asked, rising from his seat.

"Where's Clarke?" Reid looked concerned from his spot, realizing no one followed behind Hotch and Morgan. "A-and Paige?"

"Here," Clarke entered the room, holding a dripping bag of ice and a first aid kit.

"Paige is being forced to go to the hospital," Garcia followed after Clarke, closing the door behind her and carrying her laptop. "I hear he did not go quietly."

"I'd imagine," Rossi said humorlessly, reclaiming his chair as Hotch gingerly sat next to him.

Reid frowned thoughtfully as he reached out to take the medical supplies from Clarke. "I can take that."

"Thanks," Clarke replied, handing her load off to Reid before shaking her wet hand to dry it off.

"Hotch says he saw him," Morgan told the room at large.

"Who?" Rossi's wide eyes darted from Morgan to Hotch.

"Is it all right if I…" Reid hesitated, looming over Hotch, armed only with the ice pack and first aid kit.

"It's just a bruise," Hotch told Reid before looking over at Rossi. "I saw our hit man."

"You saw him…" Garcia looked in trepidation at her boss.

"Here," Reid put the ice in Hotch's hands.

Hotch stifled a groan as the cold ice hit his aching knee. "Garcia, do you still have our list of potential hit men?"

"Hard to misplace it, it's a mile long," she said, rapidly typing on her laptop. "Without criteria, it's impossible to narrow down."

"Good, that's—" his statement was interrupted with a hiss.

"You're bleeding," Reid said, not sounding altogether apologetic.

"Well have at it," Hotch grimaced, readjusting the ice in order to roll his pant leg up to let Reid have access to the injury.

"Thank you," Reid gave a satisfied smile as he opened up the first aid kit.

"What did he look like?" Morgan nearly shouted, looking about ready to flee the room to chase after the perpetrator once he had a physical description.

"He was wearing a ski mask," Hotch said, brow furrowed. "Caucasian, brown eyes, thin frame."

"Excellent!" Garcia's eyes roved over the computer monitor behind her magenta-framed glasses. "Keep it coming."

"He had two cases in the backseat. One was well taken care of and long—"

"Gun case," Morgan supplied immediately.

"—But the other one was small, obviously used…it almost looked like a tool box."

"He could fill that with anything for a job. Binoculars, lock-picking kit…"

"Why would it be more worn down than the gun case though?" Rossi frowned. "He's been working with the weapon longer than anything else."

"He didn't keep his car maintained very well either," Hotch said, wincing slightly when Reid applied antiseptic to the cuts on his knee. "There was a pretty thick layer of dust on the floor. Leaves under the windshield wiper."

"The outside of the car needs to be relatively unremarkable to do the job," Clarke said contemplatively. "The inside is a lot more personal, though."

"A piece of him," Rossi said. "Which means the dust and the old tool box mean something to him, and aren't a part of his job."

"Or maybe they are," Reid said suddenly, poking his head up to look at his colleagues sitting at the table. "A part of his real job."

"A construction worker," Clarke answered the unasked question, looking excited.

"Garcia—"

"On it!" Garcia rang out, turning her fingers to the keyboard once again. "Narrowing the field to those working in construction and all related fields."

Everyone waited in a heavy silence that was only punctuated by the rapid-fire typing of their technical analyst.

"Our final count, ladies and gents," Penelope finally stated, clicking her mouse with finality, "is 152."

"One hundred…" Morgan began, looking crestfallen, but he stopped at the intense glare Garcia threw his way.

"That 152 came from a potential candidate pool of well over 5,000, I'll have you know, my dear Derek."

"These 152 individuals all have firearms experience?" Rossi asked doubtfully.

"The problem with DC, sir, is that there are many more creative ways to get experience. 87 of those names are ex-convicts, most having been arrested for gun-related gang violence. The rest are ex-military."

"It's good work, Garcia," Hotch said, looking her square in the eye. "We finally have something manageable.

"Our UnSub knows we're on to him now; we need to work through the night. Garcia, see if you can pull files on these 152 men. Let's go through them and eliminate any that we can. We'll start bringing them in first thing tomorrow morning."

"Looks like we have some paperwork to go through, then," Rossi said, standing up to stretch.

"And some files to scrape up," Garcia mumbled, still a bit upset over Morgan's initial criticisms.

"Looks like it's gonna be a long night," was Morgan's only comment as he followed Rossi, Garcia, and Clarke out of the conference room.

"We should find you some place more comfortable to rest," Reid said, straightening up now that his administrations were finished. "You need to elevate that leg."

"Thank you, Reid, but I assure you I'm fine and willing to help," Hotch attempted to stand and realized immediately that it was not a good idea; his knee had swollen considerably, the area visible around the bandage turning a hideously purple color, and protested fiercely at the motion.

"Doctor's orders," Reid grinned before handing him a bottle of aspirin.

Washington DC Police Department
April 24th

Clarke walked up to Hotchner with a solemn face and gave a short shake of the head.

"Xavier Ingram isn't our guy," she said and Hotch sighed and shook another file out of the stack, handing it to her.

"Evan Tyler is your man then," he said and Clarke gave a half-smile before heading to the next interview.

The stack was dwindling slowly, Hotch noticed. There were eighty-plus files still and he had every member of his team, including the DC police unit, taking suspects individually. Normally, Hotch would like two or three agents in an interview at once. However, nothing about this case was normal and the caseload was too overwhelming to take on in groups.

The sheer volume of prospective UnSubs was only half the problem, however; they also had to contend with the fact that a fair number of their admittedly not-altogether-intelligent suspects confess to the crimes committed. The case had made national news and if they were going to go down for a crime, they wanted to go down in an infamous blaze of glory.

Just as Hotch was beginning to lose hope, Morgan rushed up to him, staring at him purposefully.

"I've got him," he said and Hotch put down his files and followed Morgan down the hall.

Andrew Lee sat, unfazed, in the interrogation room. He yawned and gave his head a shake to wake himself up. He tapped his fingers on the table and proved unsuccessful at stifling a second yawn.

"Does he look familiar to you?" Morgan demanded Hotch as they watched the suspect through a two-way mirror.

"He was wearing a ski mask, Morgan."

"But watch him…does he look like a guilty man to you?"

They observed Lee bouncing his head to an invisible beat, looking utterly bored with his situation and surroundings.

"He's a hit man," Morgan declared, turning to Hotch with tight eyes. "He's incapable of feeling remorse. Makes me sick."

"Easy," he warned and Morgan glared at him. Hotch looked ahead at Lee. "How do you know it's him?"

"He knows every detail of the murders," Morgan answered, his anger simmering under the surface. "The weapon used, the angle he shot from, even the clothes the victims were wearing—things that weren't released to the public."

"Let me talk to him," Hotch said and opened the door to the interrogation room.

Lee looked up from picking at his nails and then back down in disinterest.

"My name is Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," he introduced himself and sat down.

"We've met," Lee gave a knowing grin, stretching the faint scar on his lip, and he gestured to Hotch's knee. "Don't you recognize me? Andrew Lee. I'd shake, but…." He trailed off, moving his wrists around and his handcuffs clanked against the wooden table. "You understand."

Hotch did not reply to his nonchalant demeanor and instead stared intently at him.

Lee leaned forward in his seat, mocking the Unit Chief's concentrated gaze.

"It's a little rude to stare, isn't it?" he asked with a smile and Hotchner held his glare as he placed the file on the table and opened it.

He flipped the photos around and pushed them toward the handcuffed Lee. He was still smiling and broke the eye contact to look down.

He looked at the photos of the dead victims blankly. It didn't excite him, pleasure him, repulse him, or change his expression in any way. He shrugged.

"These don't affect you?" Hotch asked and Lee rose an eyebrow.

"I'm used to it," he admitted honestly. "It's part of the job."

"So you recognize these faces?" he asked and Lee examined them again.

"The cop…" he said nodding down to one. "And the Commissioner. Yeah, I remember them. For being in law enforcement it didn't require much effort to take them out."

Hotch shook his head in disgust and glanced toward the window.

"I guess the obvious question," he said, wanting to end this, "is who hired you?"

Lee smiled smugly at him.

"Sorry, agent," he said with a one-shoulder shrug. "Can't do that. That, too, is part of the job."

"This is not a choice," Hotch said seriously. "I'm not asking—you will tell me who hired you."

Again, he shook his head.

"You do understand this is a federal investigation," Hotch said.

"And you understand that I'm screwed either way?" Lee sneered at him, squaring his shoulders. "Second you saw me through that windshield; I knew it was only a matter of time before we'd meet face-to-face. There is absolutely nothing in it for me to tell you who pays my bills."

"I can help you," Hotch said seriously. "Right now there's no one in DC who would hesitate to hand you over to Arlington's jurisdiction to be tried and sentenced."

"You think I care where they try me? I'm getting put away either way. And they do the same shit to squealers in Virginia as they do in DC."

"Not everything," Hotch raised his eyebrows to give an 'I know something you don't' look. "I can save your life, Lee."

"Let me make myself very clear, Agent Hotchner," Lee leaned forward in his seat to look straight into his eyes. "I. Do not. Care. And there's nothing you can say or do to change that. Lock me away forever in DC. Death penalty in Virginia. You're not getting anything out of me."

The knock at the door was not unexpected and Hotch leaned back in his seat, not breaking Lee's eye contact. The door opened a second later and Morgan entered a step.

"A word," was all he said before he disappeared.

Hotch kept a steely gaze on Lee and did not make to leave.

"Didn't you hear your dog barking at you?" Lee smirked, sitting back. "He wants out. Up you get."

"You knew we would be on to you soon enough," Hotch ignored him, still wanting answers. "Why didn't you run when you had the chance?

Lee smiled crookedly, folding his hands together on the tabletop.

"You don't take a job like this without taking the credit along with it," he answered with a laugh before leaning his head back to gaze at the dusty ceiling. "Nobody lives forever. And nobody remembers nobody."

Hotch watched him another moment before he rose and left the room, closing the door behind him before greeting Morgan and the newly arrived Clarke.

"I don't know if I'll get very far with him," Hotch admitted and frowned at the expressions on his agents' faces. "What?"

"You sure it's him?" Morgan's eyes looked completely black and empty in the dim lighting.

"He admitted to recognizing me," Hotch's frown deepened, confused by his question. "You said it yourself that it's him. What brought this on?"

"Well according to her," Morgan hissed the pronoun like the foulest of curse words as he jabbed his thumb in Clarke's direction, "our years of profiling experience is all for naught. We've got the wrong guy."

"What is he talking about?" Hotch, realizing questioning the hot-tempered Morgan was probably not the best course of action, instead turned his attention to the female agent.

Clarke's ears burned a bright red but she otherwise kept her composure.

"Lee," she referenced, looking through the two-way mirror at their suspect, who was back to tapping his fingertips on the wooden table. "I'm not saying he isn't our hit man."

"But?" Hotch prompted, his gaze stony.

"He's not the guy Reid and I ran into."

"How can you be certain?"

"Lee's 6'2"," Clarke crossed her arms as Morgan huffed. "Our guy couldn't clear six foot. Our guy was also a lot burlier. Darker hair, too."

"He could've been hunching. He was wearing a heavy coat, which would've added girth to his frame," Morgan counted on his fingers as he listed the changes Lee could have made to his appearance to fit Clarke's description. "And a hat and dye job would cover the hair. Added to the fact that you were looking at him a mile away the whole time."

Clarke looked ready to spit flames at him.

"That," she pointed to Lee through the two-way mirror, "is not the guy Reid and I chased six blocks," she directed her comment to Hotch, who had yet to deliver a verdict. "And that is all I'm saying. You can believe me or not."

Hotch glanced from the skeptical Morgan to the stubborn Clarke before turning his back on the pair of them.

"There are easier ways to determine who's right," he said before re-entering the interrogation room.

Lee straightened up when he saw Hotch coming back to speak with him.

"Agent Hotchner. Aaron. Can I call you Aaron?"

"No."

"Agent Aaron, then. What brings you by again? Any other matters that need clearing up?"

"I need to know how your deal works with your employer," Hotch shot straight to the point.

"You two were a lot alike, actually, Agent Aaron," Lee looked him up and down as if evaluating him strictly on his physical appearance. "All business. Just a name, date, and time, placed all nice and neat in a package on my doorstep. Had detailed pictures and schedules…anything and everything I needed."

"You didn't scope the scene out for yourself?"

"I did for the first two, but there really wasn't any need; the guy's a true professional, did all my homework for me."

Hotch threw a significant look over at the two-way mirror and had to imagine the respective looks of annoyance and grim victory in Morgan and Clarke's faces.

"Although I must say I prefer your techniques, Agent Aaron," Lee placed both elbows on the table and grinned at the profiler. "Face-to-face; it's much more civilized."

Hotch didn't respond; he merely rose once again to leave.

"Not even a goodbye? I might have to retract my last statement," Lee muttered as he was left alone in the room once again.

The Unit Chief frowned upon finding one agent missing and the other picking up strewn files on the ground that had not been there a minute ago.

"Where's Morgan?" he asked.

"Follow the paper trail," Clarke mumbled from the floor, face red as she pointed out the scattered documents leading out into the hallway.

"What did he say to you?"

Clarke didn't reply right away, instead aiming her stung expression on the files in her hands.

"It doesn't really matter," she said eventually, keeping her eyes downcast. "The upside is that we figured out that Spencer and I saw the Master. That's what matters."

"I apologize," he stooped to help her clean up the aftermath of Morgan's tirade. "I'll speak with him. This has gone on long enough."

akaccino's A/N: Spring break y'all! Hopefully we will get some work done on a oneshot that will be posted after Infamy is complete!

dieselwriter's A/N: Guah! Hotch and Morgan showdown next week! (Oh, and PS, next chapter's also the last before the epilogue! Le gaspies!)