. . . the Lights Went Out in Georgia.
SOMETHING THAT JACQUELYN McKenna would always find joy within would be the calming storyline of a country murder ballad.
Country music in general would always hold a special place in her heart, mingled with her ungodly taste in all music genres, but the murder ballads — especially those from the nineties — resonated differently.
Currently, she hummed under her breath one of those murder ballads, one based upon this closed case she had been called to revisit, and she had a sneaking feeling that the lyrics would prove more true than she originally believed.
Oh, what a night to spend in the humid landscape of the deep south! Georgia was less than ideal for her tastes, but she supposed that there were some sights to see — certain cities and beaches that would occupy her time once she finished up here.
It had been exactly three years, four months, two weeks, two days, and eleven hours since former Los Angeles homicide detective Jacquelyn McKenna had pulled up to the BAU Headquarters of Quantico, Virgina for her first day as a profiler.
Three years, four months, two weeks, two days, and eleven hours since she had left behind the life of a Los Angeles Detective and begun her new life, part of a larger picture which left her at peace, with no one breathing down her neck. A homicide profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Behavioral Analysis Unit.
No small promotion, but still very different from the cases she had worked on when she had lived on the west coast.
But here, she was her own superior, working alongside the occasional partner was decent when one compared the many solo missions. No one to criticize her every move, no one to pull her past back for her to see, rearing the ugly truth that she would never be one of them.
There was none of that.
At least, not in a way she noticed, and Jacquelyn McKenna always paid attention to the most miniscule of details.
She was always aware, always on alert — something she had learned during her time in the German military. Everything was an open book to her, from the way someone chewed their second piece of mint gum even though they had only spit out their first five minutes ago to hide their nicotine withdrawal to the way the other detective on this case had selectively dyed the tips of her brunette hair an almost invisible shade of green as a symbol of her guilty conscience of something that had happened in the last twelve hours — because Jacquelyn was certain the color had not been woven into her locks the last time she saw her.
Or the way many of these officers seemed to hold their breaths when the one-eyed agent descended upon their ranks and wove herself among them.
Now, standing in the center of a damned house that had not been occupied in forty years, the young woman wondered exactly why the presence of the FBI had been warranted on a case which had been closed almost half a century ago.
Chief Brown of the Brunswick Police Department was standing close enough behind her that she was ablebto smell the black bean burrito he had for breakfast, watching her movements borderline obsessively, as if he expected her to turn around and stab the nearest officer.
Who did he think she was, a serial killer?
A roll of her single eye nearly gave her a headache, and she was thankful enough he didn't see it as she currently held her back to him, though perhaps of he had, he would understand how ridiculous his closeness was.
People needed to learn the concept of personal space.
At last, after staring around at the dirty wooden floors and rotting walls for over fifteen minutes, Jacquelyn turned around, scanning each of the individuals who had stood around, idly waiting for her declaration as if they believed this ancient wood would yield anything else they had missed forty years ago.
"I don't know why I've been called out here for a closed case," she finally spoke, her rich German accent prominent with each word. "The shooter was identified and hanged forty years ago. What, exactly, am I looking for?"
Chief Brown's expression shifted slightly, into one demonstrating challenge of sorts. Jacquelyn didn't appreciate that.
"The FBI don't usually get called in to revisit crime scenes where the case was closed so quickly." Her voice sharpened, leaving no more room for this foolishness. If they wanted her help, they would have to suck up whatever resentment they harbored and actually surrender the details. "Tell me what prompted my presence here."
Eventually, after more hesitation which began to rub Jacquelyn the wrong way, the Chief exhaled, the food on his breath making the stale and dusty air all the more unbearable to breathe in. "There is speculation that we might have hung an innocent man."
Her gaze swept around the interior of the house once again. "You mean the man you found standing over the body with a firearm in hand?" She settled upon the Chief again. "What gave you the impression that someone else was responsible?"
"A . . . reporter was given some new evidence."
The way they're dogding the actual problem is infuriating. "I can't help with this case if you are so intent on being secretive, Chief Brown." Her tone sharpened again, and she tapped her nails against her arm before shaking her head. "When you want to be cooperative and give me more information, you may give me a call. Otherwise, if you have nothing more to say, I will be taking my leave and putting my use to other, more prominent cases."
His own eyes seemed to narrow, if that were possible. "Allow one of my agents to take you back to collect your belongings."
"No disrespect — actually, complete disrespect, as you've pissed me off — but I got here just fine on my own. I can find my own way back." Jacquelyn clicked her tongue, giving him a hard stare before raising her voice just a fraction. "Hier!"
The sound of scratching, followed by rapid steps which became louder, could be heard in the eerily silent building, and a moment later, a vested canine came into view from around a corner, chuffing through its nose as it trotted over to her side and stood alertly, eyes darting around to observe everyone within its line of sight.
The one-eyed agent dipped her chin to the police chief, before she walked past him, making sure to knock her shoulder against his as she moved toward the door. The officers around her parted the way, making sure to give her room before she closed her hand around the knob, pushing the door open.
However, before she made her exit, she glanced over her shoulder, making direct eye contact with the chief for the first time since she had stepped into that vacant room. "Oh, and Chief Brown?"
His eyes focused when he realized she had stopped to stare at him.
A smirk tugged mischievously at her lips. "Black bean burritos are not a good breakfast. You'll clog up your arteries and surely have a heart attack before you turn sixty."
With that, she turned and exited the house, letting the door slam behind her.
The sunlight was barely noticeable due to the overcast weather, but Jacquelyn still managed a roll of her eye as she humidity immediately attacked her, wettening the skin of her face more than sweat ever would. She wiped at her brow, her expression shifting to one of slight displeasure as she walked down the faded cobblestone walkway leading to the front porch from the silent street, where three police cars and a motorcycle were parked on the curb.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit one, holding it to her lips as she fumbled for the keys to her ride. The dog trotted loyally by her side, never once missing a stride as they approached the street. As the smell of smoke filled her nostrils and bathed her lungs, she couldn't help but gaze around at the state of the lawn and house. Grass and weeds grew up, well past her ankles, and shrubs seemed to manifest from the mulch lining the aides of the house, where she suspected a garden had once grown.
It was strange to think at how peaceful this small neighborhood was. The house might have been uninhabited since the murders forty years ago, but there were neighbors who carefully kept fresh coats of paint on their fences — she could smell it from where she stood. And the presence of children's toys in the front yard as well as the minivan parked in the driveway was a clear indicator of a young child in the home to her right, but to her left, a small two-door Camaro and the daffodils growing beautifully in the Georgia heat suggested an elderly couple had bought the home.
All that remained between them was a house with blood on the walls, damned to rot, but too historical to tear down.
Exhaling, Jacquelyn put out her cigarette in the grass, smothering it with her boot to prevent lighting the disgraced lawn on fire, then grabbed the helmet from the motorcycle's seat.
A vibration in her pocket caused her to pause in placing it over her head, and she grabbed her cell phone from her pocket, eye narrowing slightly when she glimpsed the number. Part of her wanted to decline the call, because she just knew her plans to spend the next week in the famous Port city of Savannah would be interrupted if she picked up.
Unfortunately, she valued her job too much to give it up for some street food and a boat ride, so she accepted the call and held it up to her ear.
"McKenna." She spoke into the phone, her tone clipped and professional.
"Agent McKenna," the voice of her superior grated at her ears. "You're being called back to Quantico for an emergency briefing on a case."
She gritted her teeth. "I don't work on the team, you know that."
There was a long pause. "You're being called in."
"On whose request?"
"Erin Strauss believes it is time for you to take higher-risk and more prominent cases. She is assigning you to the BAU team under Agent Hotchner's command."
Jacquelyn sighed softly, almost feeling in her blood that arguing would do no good. Unit Chief Strauss was not someone who changed her mind once she had put in an order. "I'm in Brunswick now. I'll be there by midnight."
"We'll put you down on the next flight out."
A smirk curled at her lips. "Does that mean you're paying for my flight? My broke ass isn't paying for another plane ticket when I already have my return in a week."
"Aaron Hotchner has been made aware of your involvement, we will see you in Quantico."
The line went dead.
Scoffing at the phone as if those on the other end could possibly hear that sound, Jacquelyn pocketed the device and glanced down at her dog, who wagged its tail once she focused her attention upon it.
Shooting the canine an apoplectic smirk, Jacquelyn placed the helmet on her head. "Sorry, girl. No park today. Our vacation has been interrupted." She pulled the black gloves onto her hands and climbed onto the motorcycle, clicking her tongue. The dog jumped into the specially-made extension of the seat behind her and laid down so that the agent could safely restrain her partner, before adjusting the goggles that would protect the eyes from debris, since dogs didn't wear helmets.
She ruffled her canine between the ears affectionately before revving the bike to life. Kicking off the road, the motorcycle made a noise which was like a fine rhythm to the agent's ears. Her lips still twitched into a smirk, she turned up her music, laughing to the hard metal which was currently playing, and drove away, leaving the house of the damned in a cloud of dust.