A/N: Thank you to sarramaks for helping me with some of the historical research!
Genre: Western
Author: hotchityhotchhotch
December 2006
Quantico, VA
Emily pulled her pencil skirt taut and took a manila folder out of the box on her kitchen table. She'd been too busy unpacking to go through the details of the folder's contents. Come to think of it, she hadn't even looked for the name of her direct supervisor. Section Chief Strauss hadn't mentioned him or her by name when the two of them had met. Nowhere in her orders, however, was the name of anyone on her team—the closest superior was Strauss. Emily shrugged and went to the Academy anyway, intent on meeting her unit chief. She decided the best she could do, without making a fool out of herself to a stranger, was to go to Strauss' office again and ask politely if there had been a mistake.
"Come in," Strauss said before Emily could even knock on her door frame. "Agent Prentiss. Hello."
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I, uh, was looking through my paperwork, and it doesn't say anywhere who my unit chief actually is. Not a great way to start my first day, I suppose," she said with a shy grin.
"Actually, your unit chief hasn't even been informed of your joining the team yet."
Emily's smile faded away. "Oh, he hasn't? Or she? Is that a problem?"
"In terms of your joining the team? No. However, the team left for a case in San Antonio just this morning."
"Oh. I guess I won't be starting today, then?" Emily said, trying to plaster a smile back on.
"I'm afraid not. Cases can last anywhere from a day to a couple of weeks. I'll call you when they return and you can meet with Agent Hotchner." Emily almost dropped her box. Her struggle to maintain a grip on it was clear to Strauss, who lifted an eyebrow.
"Agent Hotchner? As in Aaron Hotchner?"
"Yes. Do you know him?" Strauss asked, her tone suggesting that it would be somewhat unfortunate for Emily, were it true.
"Ah, yes, actually. He did security clearances for my mother when he first started in the Bureau. Casual acquaintances," she managed to say without stuttering.
"Well then, I suppose it will be nice to have a familiar face around when you start," Strauss replied with little enthusiasm. "I'll see you soon."
"I look forward to it. Have a nice day, ma'am." Emily nodded once and turned on her heel, wondering where the ladies room was in case she felt the need to hurl, hoping she could make it home before she had a nervous breakdown.
San Antonio, TX
"All right, everyone," Hotch said as the BAU jet slowed to a halt on the tarmac, "I want Reid to come with me to the Alamo Mission to look at the first crime scene. I know the local PD doesn't think this homicide is related to the other two, since the MO is different, but I think there's a link, even if it isn't the same unsub. Obviously, all the victims are Mexican, but I think there's more of a connection than that. JJ, they're expecting you at the station. Gideon and Morgan, take one of the two remaining crime scenes each. We need to catch this unsub before he strikes again, which will most likely be tonight. I'll let you know when Reid and I are finished and we can pick up where you left off."
Everyone followed Hotch off of the jet, where two officers from the San Antonio Police Department were waiting with cruisers.
"Officers Sterling and Withers?" Hotch said. The middle-aged, beer-bellied officers nodded and held out their hands, which Hotch shook firmly. "I'm SSA Hotchner, and these are SSAs Gideon, Morgan, and Jareau, and Dr. Reid. Did your sheriff pass along my request?"
"Yessir," Officer Sterling said, opening up the back door of one of his cruisers and pulling out a stack of cowboy hats.
"Having us wear jeans and flannel wasn't enough?" Morgan complained, holding out his hand reluctantly for a hat.
"Keep complaining and we'll go shopping for cowboy boots," Hotch warned, sticking his hat on.
"If I would've thought of it, I would've brought mine," Gideon said.
"Me too," Reid agreed, somewhat disappointed.
"You know this is a metro area, and most people don't dress in western attire, right, Agent?" Officer Withers asked with a derisive grin.
"In my experience, it's best not to look too official on some cases," Hotch answered.
"Like when you work a case in the only state that's allowed to fly its state flag at the same height as the U.S. flag?" Reid asked. Hotch shot him a look.
"Hotch just wanted to play dress-up," Morgan muttered to JJ, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. She rolled her eyes and pointed to Officer Sterling's cruiser.
—
Reid and Hotch stood in front of a beautiful eighteenth-century chapel with a relatively flat façade, which was now obstructed by yellow police tape. The entire Mission of the Alamo was closed, as a homicide had taken place three nights before, right in front of the chapel. The unsub, or one of them, had achieved this with a close-range gunshot wound to the stomach using a minié ball in what had to be a muzzleloader, leaving black gunpowder residue behind. The other two murders had taken place in two different locations nowhere near the mission and had involved the use of more modern weaponry, indicated by residue from smokeless gunpowder. This didn't bode well for Hotch's argument that the incidents were related, but he'd learned with his years in the BAU so far to at least humor his gut instinct until he could prove it wrong. "How up-to-date are you on the history of the Battle of the Alamo?" Reid asked.
"Up-to-date?" Hotch asked, turning around to face Reid with a smirk on his face while he snapped on his blue evidence gloves. "Why? Has anything changed in the past two centuries?"
Reid looked perplexed for a moment, then shook his head. "You know what I mean."
"I could use a little refresher," Hotch said. "I'm not the biggest history buff."
"Knowing your U.S. history facts doesn't require being a history buff. It requires being in the third grade."
"What's gotten into you?" Hotch asked, chuckling. Reid's snarky comments were proving to be some much-needed reprieve from Hotch's constant bickering with Haley over this, that, and the other thing.
"History gives me a high," Reid replied, sighing contentedly and comedically.
"Well, then. Battle of the Alamo. Give me a two-minute refresher course. Let's try to think of this murder in isolation. Forget what we talked about on the jet regarding the other murders for now."
"Got it. The Alamo was originally Mission San Anonio de Valero, built by the Spanish Empire in the eighteenth century to convert Native Americans to Christianity, specifically Roman Catholicism, of course. Near the turn of the century, the Alamo was abandoned, only to be taken over by the Mexican Army. They held it until 1835, at which point a general of the Mexican Army surrendered it to the Texian Army. Long story short—"
"I'll believe it when I hear it…"
"Long story short," Reid continued as if he hadn't heard Hotch's muttering, "Twenty-four hundred Mexican soldiers besieged the mission for twelve days. On the thirteenth day, they attacked. They outnumbered the Texians by about twelve to one and killed all but two of them. General Santa Anna, who led the Mexicans in this particular battle, was rumored to be very cruel to his enemies, which was a driving force behind the growth and bolstering of the Texian Army. The Texians wanted revenge, and they got it at the Battle of San Jacinto, six weeks later, which ended the revolution."
"Doesn't sound as exciting as it was in the movies and such I saw as a kid," Hotch said.
"That's because pop culture did quite a number on it, as it's done with most of history. For instance, most old-west towns were actually relatively low on annual murders compared to equally sized towns elsewhere in the country. Most towns in the west averaged only one and a half murders a year, and not all from gunshots. The fight at the OK Corral ended with three dead, and that was Tombstone, Arizona's most violent year on record."
"So spaghetti westerns helped misinform America about the old West. What about the people who live in those towns now?" Hotch asked. "What's their take?"
"I imagine the enthusiasts know the facts, but most locals nowadays came from all parts of the world. Most of them don't have a history in the area. Same with many Americans. The population is so diverse that very few people have direct ties to people who saw their town as it was two or three hundred years ago, if they're lucky enough to live in a place so old and rich with history."
"So most people here don't know any more about the Alamo than a third-grader?"
"That's probably a fair statement," Reid agreed.
"Interesting. But there are surely people here who are more deeply-rooted in the history of the Alamo and might have more of a chip on their shoulder. Caretakers of this museum, for example."
"Actually, since the late nineteenth century, the museum has been strictly under the care of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, or DRT, which, as the name suggests, only allows membership to women, all of whom must have ties to someone who was loyal to Texas before its annexation. But just because the only caretakers are women doesn't mean men wouldn't have access. I'm sure many DRT members are married, some to men who might have similar ties to Texan history. Even if there's some sort of confidentiality oath involved when joining, which I'm sure there is, some are bound to break it."
"I think we should focus there, then. People who would have access to the compound at night, people who would have a personal vendetta against Mexicans, a vendetta so strong and so deeply woven into the history of the Alamo that they would feel the need to kill as a means of revenge, and kill here, where there are presumably multiple security guards on duty. How he—"
"—or she—" Reid added.
"—evaded them, I have no idea," Hotch said.
"Easy. Caretaker comes in one night and says there's been some vandalism—somewhere far away from the chapel—and thinks some teenagers might've been sneaking in at night. She directs the security guards away from where she wants to take her first victim. The files we got said the security guards' stories matched up, and they were all seen on at least one security camera nowhere near the chapel at the time the gunshot was reported. So they're clear."
"Good thinking. But be careful, Reid. First, we know how rare female unsubs are, and their attacks are almost always personal."
"But this is personal."
"Not personal enough for a woman, I don't think. Also, don't phrase this as anyone's first murder. I want to look at this one in isolation first. Even though I think this is the same unsub, this murder is clearly different from the others, and it can give us insight as to why the unsub moved outside of the compound for the rest of the murders."
"If it's the same unsub," Reid said.
"Right."
—
"What do we have?" Hotch asked once the entire team reconvened in the evidence room that JJ had set up at the police station.
"Gideon and I already regrouped. No physical evidence left behind at any of the crime scenes. This guy's organized," Morgan said.
"Is there anything else that links the crime scenes you two visited?" Hotch asked Gideon and Morgan.
"Not the crime scenes," Gideon said, staring at the table as he spoke, "but since we got back before you, we called up Garcia and had a little chat with her."
"We had her run names to find connections," Morgan added.
"We tried that on the jet. Did you think of more search parameters?" Hotch asked.
"Yes, sir," Garcia chirped from the laptop Hotch hadn't even seen was on. She smiled when his body jerked. "Our friends Morgan and Gideon had an idea. Why not assume the first murder is related to the rest, and see if the second and third victims had anything to do with the Alamo?"
"If this is the same unsub, then it's possible his home base is the museum," Hotch said.
"But there's a strong possibility that the unsub is a she," Reid cut in, then filling the team in about the caretaking arrangement with Daughters of the Republic of Texas.
"A female unsub on a killing spree against Mexicans because of a battle that happened, what, a hundred seventy years ago?" Morgan said. "I don't buy it."
Gideon shrugged, slouching back in his chair. "It's usually best to go by the statistics, which would definitely rule against a female unsub—on the surface it doesn't seem personal enough for most female unsubs—but we've all learned that it's best not to rule anything out completely. Garcia, did you run that search?"
"I did indeed. My super secret, super sexy, fast-typin' fingers got me into a list of all the soldiers who fought at the Battle of the Alamo. I did a bit of genealogical research on the three victims and they were all descendants of soldiers on the Mexican side of the battle."
"So the caretaker—" Reid said, pausing when Hotch gave him a corrective glance "—or a man close to one of the caretakers—say, her husband—gets access to this list of soldiers and finds any descendants he or she can, which you can do by yourself online. No offense, Garcia."
"Starting with the ones in the area," Hotch said, continuing Reid's train of thought. "That's the easiest. And that signifies that the unsub isn't experienced, or doesn't care if he or she is caught eventually, otherwise why kill so close to home? Garcia, we need a list of DRT members, starting with the ones in this area. At the top of that list we need members with twenty-four-hour access to the museum grounds."
"I can have that to you in five minutes."
"Make it three. How long will it take you to find the rest of the living descendants?"
"Well, there were twenty-four hundred fighting on the Mexican side. It'll take me a while."
"Then get us that list of DRT members. After that, do nothing else until you get a list of descendants," Hotch said. "And thank you, Garcia." Just as Hotch disconnected the web conference with Garcia, his phone rang. The screen told him it was his wife. "Excuse me."
"I need you to take Jack to his checkup this afternoon," Haley said before Hotch could even say hello. "Something came up."
"I can't, Haley. I told you, I'm on a case."
"You didn't tell me a thing, Aaron," she spat back.
"I did. Check your answering machine. I left you a message before we took off." He strode down the back hallway of the police station and found an empty room, shutting himself inside of it.
"I did," she said, not sounding convincing. There's nothing from you."
"Regardless, that doesn't change the fact that I can't take Jack to the doctor. I'm in San Antonio. It's just a checkup. Move it to another day if you can't take him. Last time I checked, your schedule was pretty open, since I'm still providing for you." He shut his eyes at this heat-of-the-moment one-liner.
"You know what, Aaron?"
"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I didn't mean it—"
Haley hung up. Hotch shut his phone and squeezed it in his hand, his knuckles turning white.
"Everything all right?" Gideon asked, passing by just as Hotch exited the room.
"Everything's fine."
Garcia had a list of several DRT members in the area, four of whom had twenty-four hour access to the museum grounds. Hotch, Reid, Morgan, and Gideon split up, each to find one of the members. Hotch didn't let anyone call them suspects just yet. He left instructions for the police to start questioning the DRT members lower on the list and for JJ to make sure the information didn't make the evening news. He wasn't sure yet whether the killings were a cry for attention.
Gideon and Hotch both had forty minute drives in opposite directions, even with their lights on. Hotch supposed he could pick Gideon's brain along the way—not only was there still plenty of things about the case that needed figuring out, but he could use the distraction from the memory of his and Haley's brief phone call.
"Why the two different MOs?" Hotch asked Gideon once he picked up.
"If it's the same unsub, the unsub's making two different statements. With the first victim, he or she is establishing the plan for vengeance, making the most powerful statement—committing the first murder at the mission with a muzzleloader, which aren't really a weapon of choice anymore. The unsub knew the museum grounds were only good for one kill. Security would be tight after that until the case was cracked. Now the unsub's roaming around the city, using a modern handgun. The victimology fits, and even though the MOs don't seem to fit on the surface, they fit in a poetic sort of way underneath, don't you think?"
Hotch thought for a moment. "You wronged us then—hence the murder on the battle site with period-specific weaponry—and you'll continue to pay—hence spreading the killing spree into the modernized parts of the city and using modern weaponry."
"You've got to admit, it makes sense," Gideon said.
"It does. Only question is, is our unsub a man or a woman?"
"I think you're underestimating the possibility that this is a woman, Hotch. The circumstances don't scream male unsub like they usually do. All the DRT members are direct descendants of Texians, so they have the biggest grievance, and there are a lot of them."
"Reid's been saying Texians, too. Don't you mean Texans?
"No, Hotch. It's Texians. Go back to the third grade. And don't underestimate the power of a crazy Texan woman."
"Wait, I thought it was Texian."
"One's a modern-day term, one's defunct. Seriously, Hotch," Gideon said with a soft chuckle.
"Learn something new every day. Hang on, I have another call coming in. It's Garcia. I'll call you back."
"Sir, I have a list of descendants for you," Garcia said proudly.
"Already? I thought you said it'd take a while?" Hotch asked in bemusement.
"A while in Penelope Garcia time, Hotch. That's not very long at all. I faxed the list to the PD. I have a couple of questions, though."
"Sure."
"How on earth did the unsub convince the first victim to come into the museum grounds in the middle of the night?"
"Need I remind you about the many uses of rope, duct tape, and car trunks?" Hotch asked.
"Touché. But how would one woman overpower a man? He wasn't small."
"She could have had help tying him up. We'll find out sooner or later."
"What about the car thing, though? This is a national monument or something, isn't it? No surveillance cameras?"
"The security cameras didn't see any cars, just the victim being threatened into place. But not every part of the grounds are covered by the cameras. Surely a caretaker would have access to that kind of information."
"Right. And this is why I sit behind the computer and do what you tell me to instead of think like a bad guy."
"And that's why we need you, Garcia," Hotch said with a grin.
"One more question."
"Shoot."
"I wanted to ask before, but Morgan didn't look happy about it. Why in the name of all things holy are you all wearing cowboy hats?"
Quantico, VA
Hotch rarely went straight home after a case, even when the team got home in the middle of the night. His team members had looked completely worn when the jet landed, and today it had done so in the middle of the day, so he had sent them home. Even JJ, the busiest on the team second only to him, had been ordered to leave.
But Hotch could never resist the call of the work that awaited him on his own desk; avoiding getting home to an answering machine bound to be full of passive aggressive messages from Haley was admittedly a bonus.
When he entered his office, it was to the sight of a slim brunette seated on his small couch. Her face was turned toward the window to the outside. "Excuse me. Can I help you?" he asked, brow furrowed at seeing a stranger waiting in his office.
But she wasn't a stranger. "Hi," Emily said sheepishly, neglecting to address Hotch formally as she turned to face him.
Hotch's legs almost went limp. He had to bring his briefcase to the front of him so he could clutch it with his other hand. "Emily."
She smiled, but the happiness was far from genuine. Of course she had missed him. Every time he crossed her mind, she regretted how she'd left him. But the idea of running into him again had never taken the form of them working together, of her reporting to him. "Hi," she said again, mentally smacking herself directly afterward for repeating herself and certainly sounding foolish.
"It's…nice to see you again," he lied right through his teeth. "It's been a long time. What brings you by? How did you even know where I was?"
"Because I'm joining your team."
Emily's words echoed in Hotch's ears, rendering him deaf to the rest of what she said. "I didn't even know you were unit chief until I came in yesterday to meet you. Chief Strauss mentioned you by name, which my papers hadn't done, and said she'd call me about coming in to meet you when you got back from San Antonio."
"Ah," he managed.
"Is the rest of the team here?"
"No," Hotch said, taking his time circling around his desk so that he could spend more time with an excuse not to make eye contact with Emily. "I sent them home. We were up all night."
"At a line dancing bar?" she couldn't help but ask, eying Hotch's attire. She mentally reminded herself that they hadn't known each other for over a decade; she couldn't hop right back into their old ways of interacting with one another, especially if he was her superior now.
Hotch was glad he'd ditched the cowboy hat at the close of the investigation. Morgan had been throwing jabs at him all day for the idea. "Don't ask," he said.
Once he was seated, Hotch had no choice but to look at Emily again. She looked like she hadn't aged a day since he'd told her he loved her, asked her to move to Seattle with him. Since she'd rejected him. Since she'd left his heart shattered on the floor. At the thought of his loss, he unconsciously began to toy with the wedding ring he still hadn't convinced himself to go without. Emily's eyes flashed to his hand and he saw her lips part in surprise.
"You got married?" Emily marveled, trying not to sound disappointed or disbelieving, just happy for him. To say it was a challenge would be understating things.
"About six years ago. Yes. But we're, uh, going through a divorce right now."
Am I a terrible person because that made me feel better? Emily wondered. Not that she thought she and Hotch had a shot in hell anymore, anyway. But her immediate interpretation of his divorce was that he still hadn't found someone like her. Someone that made him weak. Vulnerable. The thought that she even crossed Hotch's mind on any sort of regular basis, she knew, was preposterous. But the idea that maybe she had even somewhat ruined him for other women was appealing. She made a note to look at herself in the mirror when she got home and ask herself how much of a vindictive bitch she was. And vindictive without reason—what had he done to her?
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said quietly. "Do you have any children?"
"A son. Thirteen months old." Hotch and Emily hadn't spoken for thirteen years and they were already sharing details of their personal lives instead of avoiding the topic completely. He supposed they had no choice but to get reacquainted right away, since she would be working for him. Still, it felt disconcerting. He decided he could make it a little less uncomfortable for him by turning the tables. "What about you? Married? Kids?"
Emily half-grinned and held up her left hand. "Nope, it's just me."
"Great. I didn't mean—I'm sorry. This is—"
"Weird?" Emily offered.
"You could say that," Hotch said flatly. Now that he had an excuse to let go of what steady demeanor he'd managed to muster up, he let the visions of Emily, as he'd remembered her, flash in front of his mind's eye. Reliving the sexual encounters would have to wait for another time and place. But thinking of the months they'd spent attached at the hip—people-watching, sneaking a handhold or a kiss here and there, getting into trouble—seemed harmless. Once he skipped over the steamier memories, he replayed their final conversation. His profession of his love for her (which, though it had been in the heat of the moment, had been sincere). Her revealing that she'd lied and had plans in D.C. after all. Her insisting on reminding him that she wasn't joining the Bureau because of him, and that she would never give up her career for a man. She had figuratively castrated him at that moment in time. She'd taken every ounce of power and control away from him when she'd walked out that door. And now here she was, a new recruit to his well-groomed but one-member-short team, joining without his permission. He had to remind himself that that was no fault of her own—just another attempt by Strauss to throw him for a loop, drive him even more crazy. Enough thinking. "I'll have to talk to Chief Strauss today about the transfer. I imagine I don't have a choice either way, but just to clarify things."
Emily wanted to ask if Hotch meant he didn't want her there, but that wouldn't be fair. If he had showed up unexpectedly, unannounced, like she had—interrupting and probably ruining his workday—she didn't think she'd be too pleased, either. "Of course," she said.
"That is, assuming, you still want to work in the unit."
"Oh-ho-ho," Emily laughed, her attitude changing in the blink of an eye. She was fine with his unease. She understood it. But if Hotch thought he could get rid of her just like that, he had another thing coming. "Are you kidding me?"
"What? There's obviously some tension, to say the least."
"So I should give up my job because of you?"
"This is starting to sound familiar," Hotch said with light remorse.
"It should. Know this, Hotch. I've had my eye on this unit for years, and if I somehow lose my assignment, there had better be no reason for me to believe that you had anything to do with that decision."
"Not that I really want to get into this now, but shouldn't I have the vendetta? If I remember correctly, I watched you walk away."
"It doesn't look like I ruined you completely, Hotch. You managed to move on. But I have no problem with you as long as you don't mess with my job. Are we clear on that?"
"I won't put up with this kind of subordination once you start. Are we clear on that?"
Emily ignored his attempt to adjust the slant of the conversation. "Can I get a tour?"
"You know," Hotch said, getting up and leaving the office, Emily close behind him, "the case we just wrapped was about a Daughter of the Republic of Texas who felt so scorned by what happened to her ancestors almost two hundred years ago that she felt the need to kill Mexicans who were descendants of the soldiers at the Battle of the Alamo. What do you make of that?"
"That depends. What was the trigger? Why now?"
"A friend of her last target shot her in the head before we could figure that out. Maybe it'll come to us eventually."
"Either way, I guess I don't know why you're trying to teach me a lesson about the dangers of being vengeful. Like I said, I'm not the one with the grudge."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please leave a review!
