Criminal Minds Fic: Origins, Part 2/2
Characters: Aaron Hotchner, David Rossi, Jason Gideon, brief appearances by others
Rating: Possibly PG13 for language?
Warnings: Maybe for one smack?
Summary: Preseries. Aaron's transfer to the BAU is approved, circa 1993
Note: Can be considered pre-Inheritance verse, if you want.
Part 1
“What have we got?” Gideon asks, his dark eyes intent on Rossi as the latter flips through the fax.
Rossi shakes his head. “Same as the other victims: toxicology is clean and no DNA. But we were able to recover some fiber evidence.”
Gideon leans forward in his seat, hands clasped together. “What kind of fiber?”
Rossi frowns. “Kevlar.”
“He was wearing a bulletproof vest?” Aaron asks skeptically.
“Too conspicuous,” Gideon agrees.
“So where did it come from?” Aaron wants to know.
Rossi looks up from the report, realization washing over his face. “Gloves.”
Gideon nods. “Explains the lack of usable prints.”
“Kevlar lined gloves are used in a number of industries,” Aaron says, now thinking out loud. “Construction, fabrication, bottling…”
“It’s a lot of ground to cover,” Gideon remarks.
“Maybe not,” Aaron contends grimly, eyes narrowing as he jumps up to examine the map again. “Take a look at the geographic profile. We think he lives here,” he says, palm slapping the area. “Most Americans don’t commute more than sixteen miles from their place of residence. We take the largest employers first, run the profile by the managers, and hope we hit something.”
Gideon considers. “It could work.”
Rossi arches a brow in challenge. “Got any other ideas?”
*****************************
Several hours later, Aaron watches Gideon thank yet another assemblage of managers for listening to the profile and Rossi begins giving out their contact information. Gideon walks over to where Aaron’s waiting, claps him briefly on the shoulder.
“Don’t be discouraged; we knew this would take time.”
“Agent Gideon.” A stocky, middle-aged man in a shirt bearing the Schoen Water Heating logo approaches them. “I’m Jerry Albright, Human Resources Manager? Your profile does sound like someone I know.”
Gideon nods and shakes the man’s proffered hand. “What can you tell us, Mr. Albright?”
“His name is Charles Boudreau, worked in manufacturing.”
Aaron frowns. “He doesn’t work here anymore?”
Albright shakes his head. “He’s been known to have a drinking problem, but ever since his wife filed for divorce, he’s missed more and more days; we finally had to let him go.”
“When was that?” Gideon asks.
“About two weeks ago now.”
Gideon and Aaron exchange knowing looks. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Boudreau?” Gideon persists.
Albright shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know where we sent his last check.”
Gideon turns to Aaron. “Call headquarters; let’s get a team together. We’re doing this now.”
********************************
“It’s clear,” the leading officer says to Gideon and Rossi, and Aaron follows the senior agents into the dark and gloomy apartment, Lamont and his team filtering in behind. The shades are drawn; the place reeks of alcohol and sour sweat, a testimony to the empty whisky and beer bottles littering the flat surfaces.
“Start bagging and tagging,” Lamont orders the officers. “We don’t leave until we’ve turned over every inch of this place.”
“Looks like we just missed him,” Aaron observes, sniffing cautiously at one of the boxes of Chinese take-out scattered over the dirty Formica counter.
“Found some gloves,” Mertzer’s voice shouts from the bedroom. “Looks like they’re lined with Kevlar, too.”
“We need to get in front of this jag-off,” Rossi growls, surveying the space with a speculative eye. “Where’s he going, and why leave the gloves behind?”
“He doesn’t need them,” Gideon says slowly, picking up a picture from a 60’s-style end table and studying it with a frown. He turns it toward Rossi and Aaron. It’s a photograph of a woman, a brunette. The face is scratched out in jagged, white lines. “He’s ready to make his final play.”
*************************************
“No one likes getting this kind of news; let Gideon do the touchy-feely stuff,” Rossi instructs Aaron as they cross the lawn fronting the brick, two-story home. It’s a nice, suburban neighborhood; sometimes Aaron wonders where it all goes wrong. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of the husband, anything that looks out of place. You got any questions, you ask me.”
Aaron tamps down on his irritation. “You do realize I was in the Seattle field office for two years, right? I think I know something about attention to detail.”
“You just stepped in dog shit,” Gideon says blandly, never breaking stride, and Rossi snickers as Aaron stops and lifts up his shoe. Shit. Literally. Aaron wipes it off on the green grass, making sure the soles are clear before following the two senior agents up to the porch.
It’s Gideon who rings the bell, who’s the first to speak when the woman opens the door. “Lynette Boudreau?”
“Yes?” She smoothes a hand over her dark hair even as she regards them suspiciously. Aaron finds her more well-groomed than pretty, but she has the confident air of a woman who knows her strengths and how to play to them.
“Hello, ma’am.” Almost as though Gideon’s a friendly neighbor. “We’re with the FBI; we’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband, Charles? May we come in?”
“Soon to be ex-husband,” she’s compelled to point out, still appearing skeptical. “I just got home, but I need to let Bitsy out…”
“We’ll try not to take too much of your time,” Rossi assures her.
The woman throws a less than convinced look at the Italian, and then at Aaron, but finally opens the door, allowing the agents to file into her living room. It’s a Jacobean nightmare, something Aaron’s mother would be fond of, with scrawling florals covering the sofa and wingback chairs, and a decided contrast to the grunge and disorder of Charles Boudreau’s apartment.
“What is it you want to know about Charles?” Lynette Boudreau asks, crossing her arms over her tailored blouse.
“Do you know where he is?” Gideon asks.
The woman’s gaze shifts to an anniversary clock on the wood mantel. “At this time of day? Just leaving work, I’d imagine.”
Gideon frowns. “Mrs. Boudreau, your husband was let go two weeks ago.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Aaron says.
“I’m not.” She shakes her head, unimpressed. “Charles always did like his whiskey; I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“Have you noticed anything strange about your husband?” Rossi asks.
She scoffs. “Every day.”
“Any depressive episode that might suddenly have lifted?” Gideon clarifies.
“He was pretty depressed after his car accident; kept going on about the scar.” She releases an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t exactly fall in love with Charles for his looks, anyway? But he was convinced I was having an affair.”
“Were you?” Rossi wants to know, earning him a glare.
“No.”
“When was this accident?” Aaron asks, before Rossi can piss the woman off even more.
“Back in January,” she replies, blue eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
“We’re here in Montgomery investigating a series of murders,” Gideon explains gently, and the woman’s previous composure seems to crumble. She moves to sink down into a chair, her face a pale mixture of confusion and disbelief.
“Those women they’ve been finding in the parks? That’s - ” She huffs a nervous laugh. “Charles might be a drunk, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Would you mind if we searched the house?” Gideon persists.
“What for? He’s not here,” she says, fingers fidgeting with the button at her collar.
“Mrs. Boudreau.” Gideon splays his hands calmly. “We have reason to believe your husband sees these women as surrogates for you, and that you’re in danger here. He’s gaining confidence with every kill; it’s only a matter of time before he feels he’s ready for the real thing.”
She offers a weak wave of her hand, hardly more than a flutter of fingers, but it’s enough. Gideon nods at Rossi and Aaron.
“I’ll take upstairs,” Aaron says, glancing toward the stairs.
Rossi nods, drawing his weapon and stepping into the adjacent dining area. Aaron pulls his Glock and makes his way upstairs, past Lynette Boudreau’s family and vacation photos, images of a happy life she must have lived before her husband. Aaron’s childhood home had similar photos, with similar smiles; no one ever guessed they were only fragments of a much larger, darker picture.
He slips down the hallway, checks the bathroom and two smaller bedrooms, ones that were probably intended for children. Aaron’s relieved they were never filled. He heads on to the master, a spacious room at the end of the hall. His hand is reaching for the louvered doors on a closet when a scuffle from under the bed has him swinging in that direction.
Aaron suppresses a sigh as a fluffy gray and white ball of fur crawls out and pants at him, bright eyes gleaming. Bitsy, Aaron guesses, as the dog scampers past him and down the hallway. Probably the gifter of the little present outside. He turns back toward the closet, only to be met by the sudden, jarring pain of the door slamming into his forehead. It’s followed by a swift blow to his jaw, knocking him against the adjacent wall and to the floor.
He groans and blinks, trying to clear his vision as the man - Boudreau - scrambles to the nightstand. Aaron lifts his Glock at the same time the fugitive pulls the revolver from the nightstand drawer.
“FBI. Put down your weapon,” Aaron barks, still dizzy and squinting in his effort to focus. He recognizes Boudreau from his Schoen ID badge photo; tall and broad-shouldered, muscles thick from sculpting sheet metal. A three-inch scar stretches from below his right eye and down towards his jaw, puckered and angry.
“What? What did you say?” the man demands shakily, not pointing the weapon; not yet.
“What did you say to me, Margaret? What did you say?”
“I said ‘you’ve had enough.’”
“Put down the gun!” Aaron repeats, blinking sweat from his eyes and bracing his finger firmly against the trigger of his weapon
“Put the gun down, Charles.” Rossi. Gideon, just behind. Aaron senses them in his peripheral vision, weapons drawn and at the ready.
“Stop looking at me!” Boudreau anguishes, wild eyes darting between them, his head tucked against his chest as if he’s the one expecting a beating.
“It’s all over, Charles,” Rossi reassures the man. “We know what happened.”
Boudreau shakes his head. “You don’t know anything!”
“You don’t have to keep running. We know you didn’t want to hurt those women,” Rossi tells him.
“Lynette…” It’s half-plea, half-curse.
“She never supported you after the accident,” Rossi insists. “She drove you to this.”
Aaron’s grip tightens on his weapon, and logically he realizes Rossi will say anything to talk an armed suspect down, but there’s a small part of him that wonders if the man actually has come to believe his own bullshit.
Boudreau’s actually trembling now. “She laughed when I asked if there was someone else. I’m not crazy,” he tells them desperately.
“Of course you’re not,” Rossi says. “You’re just some guy with shitty luck, trying to get his life back. But that’s never going to happen if you don’t drop that gun.”
The man seems to waver, and the weapon lowers a few inches. “I want to say goodbye to Bitsy,” he demands, glancing from agent to agent, as if anticipating furious argument.
Rossi nods. “You cooperate, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure that happens.”
Boudreau considers, then carefully sets the gun on the floor. Rossi is on him in seconds, pinning him to the floor and cuffing him with practiced efficiency. Aaron slowly reholsters his gun, hears water running in the bathroom. Suddenly Gideon’s crouched beside him, blotting at Aaron’s head with a damp towel. The towel comes away red. Not sweat that Aaron had been blinking away, then. Blood.
“How are you doing?” Gideon asks kindly, a slight smile curving his mouth. “Hey, don’t get up just yet,” he warns, even as Aaron attempts to push to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Aaron says, but acquiesces to the older agent’s hand on his shoulder and sits back down. His head is pounding, although he doubts he has a concussion. He feels a flush warm his cheeks as Rossi heads downstairs with Boudreau; he can’t believe he was distracted by a six-pound lap dog.
“Don’t take orders very well,” Gideon comments, one warm hand clasping the back of Aaron’s neck as he continues to examine whatever bump Aaron’s going to have. Aaron tries not to tense under the easy comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he replies, deferring automatically to the senior agent.
“Why do I doubt that? Relax,” Gideon urges.
“I didn’t think we were going to be able to take him alive,” Aaron finds himself admitting, as the sound of approaching sirens echoes from the neighboring streets.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Gideon smirks. “Talking’s what Dave does best.”
“Must be all the practice,” Aaron mutters, and Gideon sobers.
“You don’t need a gun to kill someone out here; empathy is the most powerful weapon we have.”
Aaron reaches up and takes the towel, holding it himself as he glances up at Gideon. “You think Rossi really empathizes with Boudreau?”
Gideon’s mouth twists wryly. “You ever go through a divorce, you can tell me.”
*******************************
Aaron sits up in bed, case file strewn across the motel’s worn comforter as his pen skates efficiently over his paperwork, reviewing every word before adding his signature at the bottom. He stares thoughtfully at the completed work, the neatly tied-up ends of tragically intersecting lives. Lamont’s team found the victims’ missing wedding rings under Boudreau’s mattress; they’ll be processed and returned to the victims’ families so they can move on; however much that’s possible.
“Mom, he’s drunk again.”
“I know, Aaron. Just turn out the light and go to sleep; don’t come downstairs.”
“I’m not going to stay up here and let him hit you.”
“You’re going to do as I say.” She softens, her hand cool on his cheek. “This is the last time, honey; I promise.”
And it doesn’t take long for the voices to drift upward, permeate the walls.
“What did you say to me, Margaret? What did you say?”
“I said ‘you’ve had enough.’”
The crack of the blow echoes in the rafters of the house, and Aaron bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, warm and coppery on his tongue. That taste is still vivid at the next morning’s breakfast table, while his mother hums as she slides bacon from the pan and onto Aaron’s plate, seemingly oblivious to the bruise mottling her jaw. It’s the last time Aaron sees a mark on her, the last time he ever sees his father drunk. Seven months later, Aaron’s brother Sean is born, and they resume the life of a typical, upper-middle-class family. His father starts to joke again. They even seem happy, sometimes, and Aaron does his best to forgive.
But he never forgets.
Aaron gathers the pictures of Anne Suskind, Tracy Farrell, Cindy Cox, Celia Brooks… Pictures of the women before violence touched them, the ones with smiles Aaron hopes their families will remember now that Charles Boudreau is going away. Aaron arranges them carefully behind the case’s other documentation, closes the file and returns it and the pen to the nightstand.
“Peace is not the absence of war, but the presence of justice...”
And this time when he switches off the lamp, Aaron falls into a sound, dreamless sleep.
*****************************
For the second morning in a row the agents find the station in chaos. Phones are ringing and officers milling in groups as the EMTs navigate the crowd with a stretcher.
“What’s happened now?” Gideon asks Henry, managing to catch the young officer by the arm as he rushes by.
Henry wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and shakes his head. “It’s a complete clusterfuck, sir,” he exclaims, then glances at Gideon’s dawning frown with wide eyes. “Pardon.”
“What’s with the ambulance?” Rossi asks, jerking a thumb at the emergency vehicle idling by the entrance.
“Mertzer’s pled guilty to obstruction of justice and planting evidence on a drug bust, and now the DA doesn’t think we can make a case for Boudreau.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gideon mutters, as Rossi erupts with some words even Aaron hasn’t heard before. “Where’s Lamont?”
Henry winces. “Captain’s collapsed; EMTs think it’s a heart attack. Chief Svensen is in with your Unit Chief right now - I wouldn’t go in there!” he shouts above the din, as Gideon pushes past him and through the crowd, heading toward Lamont’s office.
It’s then that Aaron catches sight of Mertzer, cuffed and in the middle of some animated conversation with what are destined to be his former colleagues. The man’s expression and body language intimate confidence; there’s not even a suggestion of remorse. With an unexpected surge of adrenaline, Aaron stalks over to the corrupt officer, grabbing two fistfuls of his dark blue uniform.
“You morally bankrupt piece of - do you know what you’ve done?” Aaron demands, his normally temperate voice harsh with fury as he gives the man a hard shake. “Do you?” Hands reach in between them, trying to separate Aaron from the object of his wrath, but Aaron hangs tight.
“I did what no one else had the balls to do,” Mertzer snaps. “I got a drug dealer put away!”
“And set a killer free!” Aaron shouts, suddenly releasing his white-knuckle grip on the man’s shirt and shoving him backwards. An arm around Aaron’s chest hauls him back, and Aaron glares at Mertzer before stumbling backward with his captor. Moments and several awkward steps later, Aaron’s swung around and pushed into the familiar conference room. He spins to find Rossi slamming the door shut behind them.
“Don’t do anything half-way, do you, kid?” Rossi asks, turning and regarding Aaron with what might be a glimmer of admiration in his appraising eyes.
“We have an obligation to uphold the law, and that bastard just pissed on any chance we had of a conviction,” Aaron fumes, flinging an arm in the direction of the squad room, where the commotion continues without them. “There’s no way the DA will try this guy now!”
“Okay, enough,” Rossi tells him, holding up a hand, but Aaron’s too frustrated to pay him any heed. He tries to angle around the older agent, wanting nothing more just now than to pound Mertzer’s redneck face into the station’s tile floor. Rossi moves with him, creating a barrier between Aaron and the door. “You said your piece, now stand down.”
“Boudreau beat four women to death, and Mertzer let him walk. He’s an imbecile!” Aaron yells, hoping his voice will carry through the thick glass.
Rossi sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, his hand on Aaron’s shoulder abruptly spinning Aaron around. Before Aaron can process the maneuver, his arm is yanked behind his back, and he’s propelled forward and down, his chest thumping loudly against the conference room table.
“Damn it, Rossi,” Aaron growls, immediately moving to break the agent’s hold. A stinging slap to the right side of Aaron’s ass stills him immediately. He blinks in disbelief.
“Did you just - ”
“Yeah, I did, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna do it again,” Rossi assures him, and heat rushes to Aaron’s face.
“I don’t know how things are in your world, but where I come from, it’s considered inappropriate and unprofessional to spank your colleagues,” Aaron snaps, discomfited by his vulnerable position. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t have you charged with assault.”
Rossi snorts from behind him. “Go ahead. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to want to advertise this.”
“Let me up, Rossi,” Aaron grits, hating the way his heart’s started to hammer against his chest. He refuses to give the man the satisfaction of struggling.
“You’re shaking,” Rossi notes, quieter now.
“I’m pissed,” Aaron contends, because the last thing he needs is for Rossi to start profiling him.
“Sure you are,” Rossi agrees. There’s a measured silence, a blatant contrast to the uproar of the adjoining squad room. “You think you can control yourself?”
“Yes,” comes the strangled response. Aaron straightens the moment Rossi releases the grip on his arm, taking a step back from the older man, his breathing only slightly faster than it should be. Aaron spends a moment carefully smoothing his tie, straightening his suit. Rossi waits him out with an unanticipated patience.
“Why are you taking this so personally?” the other agent asks finally, appearing genuinely curious.
“You know why.”
Rossi studies him closely. “No.”
Is it possible for a living legend to be this dense? “We’re supposed to stop him, not set him free to kill again,” Aaron replies grimly.
“The bad guy doesn’t always go to jail; you know this. You did your part,” Rossi maintains firmly. “You’ve got to make a decision; are you here to catch them, or put them away? You can’t do everything.”
“I could have shot him,” Aaron points out.
“Yeah, you could have,” Rossi returns, annoyance sharpening the New York accent. “Any one of us could have shot the bastard. You don’t think I’d sleep better at night? But we don’t shoot people unless we have to.”
“He’ll do it again.” Aaron doesn’t bother hiding his upset.
“Yeah, he probably will, and it’s a damn shame,” Rossi concedes. “But that doesn’t make it your fault. And unless you find a way to compartmentalize, you’re always going to be looking over your shoulder.”
Aaron sighs heavily; when did Rossi start making sense, anyway? He glares through the window at Mertzer in the squad room. “Just give me one punch,” Aaron implores the man, his fingers aching to curl into fists.
Rossi chuffs. “Look, kid, I get it. But you’re going to have to learn to control that temper.”
Aaron glances at the man with surprise. “This from you?”
“This, from me.” Rossi grins. “Those that can’t do, teach. Besides, you’ll find some things are best left to management,” he drawls, canting his head toward the squad room.
Aaron’s brows draw together. “What are you talking about?” He takes a look out the window, just in time to see Unit Chief Ryan launch a right hook at Mertzer. “Did Ryan just punch that guy?” he asks incredulously.
Rossi smirks. “Oh, yeah.” Then, “By the way, kid, the answer is no.”
Aaron takes one last, satisfying look at Mertzer holding his face before turning back to his fellow agent. “No, what?” he asks, confused by the turn of conversation.
“No, I don’t think victims of domestic violence are weak,” Rossi replies, with a rueful twist of his mouth. “My mother’s youngest sister, my Aunt Lucia, she’s only a few months older than me. Beautiful girl. Married the wrong guy,” Rossi laments with a shake of his head. “He starts drinking, smacking her around, so one day she finally decides that’s it, she’s done, and she packs up the kids and sends them over to our cousin’s. Unfortunately, the asshole comes home early. Blackens her eye, breaks her arm in three places and cracks two of her ribs. And never,” Rossi stresses, “never did that woman tell him where those kids were.”
“What happened?” Aaron asks, subdued by the other man’s unexpected candor.
“Lucy’s married to a plumber in Hoboken; her and the kids are happy as can be.”
“And her husband?”
Rossi shrugs innocently. “Heard he decided to leave the country.”
“Had a sudden desire to travel?” Aaron asks dryly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Let’s just say he was inspired.” Rossi regards him with something akin to fondness. “Look, no one gets through life without accumulating a few scars. Guys like Boudreau let their scars define them; guys like us, use them.”
Aaron glances toward the squad room again. “You think Ryan’s going to be mad?”
“Won’t be a bit left of this ass when he’s done chewing it,” Rossi announces cheerfully, opening the door to find Gideon with his fist poised to knock.
“We’re going,” Gideon says, frowning as he glances in Aaron’s direction. “I wouldn’t make Max wait.”
“You’re sitting next to him on the plane,” Rossi warns, walking ahead and leaving Aaron and Gideon to follow behind. The local officers stand back to let them pass, with no small amount of grumbling given the recent melee.
“That kid has a real attitude problem,” Mertzer’s partner asserts, stepping forward with a scowl for Aaron. The officer’s eyes widen when Rossi turns and advances, deliberately crowding his space.
“Hey! This is our colleague; you don’t call him ‘kid’,” Rossi instructs tersely. “You refer to him as Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, one of the people who came down here to help save your ass, you got that?”
The officer doesn’t back away, but his stare is wary. “Yeah, I got it.”
Satisfied, Rossi continues on toward the front of the building, Gideon addressing the onlookers without a glance.
“What he said,” the senior agent concurs, a hint of smugness to his tone.
“C’mon, kid,” Rossi says to Aaron, as he opens the doors into the bright sunlight. “Let’s go home.”
******************************
“Having fun?”
Aaron turns to Gideon, secretly amused to find the man still evading a tie, even at his superior’s retirement banquet. The senior agent’s wearing the only corduroy sportscoat in a hall of suits, entirely unfazed by the evening’s ceremony.
“Are you?” Aaron has to ask.
Gideon shrugs. “No,” he replies blandly. “I just can’t resist a nice canapé.”
Aaron hides his smile in his chardonnay, swirling it slowly as they stand and watch the mingling guests. Rossi is working the other side of the room, gesturing dramatically to an avid audience as he recounts one event or another.
“You did good work, you know,” Gideon says after a minute. “In Alabama.”
“Thank you.” Aaron wishes he could take more pleasure in the praise.
Gideon offers him a sideways glance. “Local LEOs have Boudreau under surveillance; he’ll serve time eventually.”
“But will he serve enough?” Aaron muses, the victims’ faces still etched in his memory.
Gideon spreads his open hands in vague sympathy. “What’s enough?” he asks, causing Aaron to frown. Gideon merely raises his brows before reaching quickly and snatching an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. The older man briefly closes his eyes. “Mmm, foie gras,” he reports, apparently impressed. He smiles enigmatically, clapping Aaron on the shoulder as he moves to return to the crowd of federal employees.
Aaron stares after him. “A legend in his own time,” he murmurs. And he’s not the only one. Aaron recognizes the guest of honor, Max Ryan, excusing himself from a nearby cluster of Feds with his jacket folded over one arm. It feels like an opportune moment to pay his respects. Aaron sets his glass down on a nearby table and steps forward, extending his hand.
“Congratulations, sir,” Aaron says sincerely, as he and Ryan shake hands. “I know we didn’t work together long, but I’ve considered it a privilege.”
Ryan snorts, blue eyes bright with both humor and alcohol. “A sure sign we didn’t work together long,” he drawls.
Aaron ignores the possible truth of that statement. “I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to prove myself here at the BAU.”
The retiree scoffs, unfolding the suit jacket from his arm. “I didn’t give you anything.”
“Of course.” Aaron pauses, flustered. “I didn’t mean to imply - ”
“I wasn’t the one who recruited you.”
What? Aaron’s brow furrows. “You weren’t?”
“I’m not going to have to work with you. Any of you,” Ryan asserts gleefully, shrugging into his jacket again.
“Then - ”
“Dave’s the one that had to have you,” Ryan says, straightening his cuffs. “Tried to talk him out of it, get him to take one of the guys from counterterrorism or ATF, but he insisted you had natural aptitude. And if Jason was willing to go along with it…”
“But - they don’t even know my name,” Aaron says, glancing over to Rossi and catching the other agent’s eye. Rossi winks and holds up a finger, indicating he’s finishing his conversation with the redhead from HR.
Ryan shakes his head. “You got a lot to learn, Hutch.”
“Hotch,” Aaron corrects automatically, still distracted by the new information.
The older man chuckles. “Never gets old,” he says, loosening his tie as he heads for the hall’s double doors.
*************************
“Hey, hell of a night, huh?” Rossi asks, finally joining Aaron at the edge of the celebration. “Did you get a load of that Susan? Why don’t we have anything like that down in the basement?”
“Maybe because the Bureau doesn’t want a sexual harassment lawsuit on their hands?” Aaron suggests wryly.
Rossi mockingly covers his heart with his hand. “You wound me, kid.”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “My name’s not kid,” he reminds the other man, and Rossi grins, unrepentant.
They stand there in companionable silence, watching their colleagues laugh and converse, and for the first time Aaron feels himself start to relax. And maybe he could ask Rossi if he was really the one to recruit him, or ask how long Gideon’s known Aaron’s name isn’t ‘Hutch.’ But just now the questions don’t seem very important.
They’re profilers, after all.
Sooner or later, the answers will come.
Rating: Possibly PG13 for language?
Warnings: Maybe for one smack?
Summary: Preseries. Aaron's transfer to the BAU is approved, circa 1993
Note: Can be considered pre-Inheritance verse, if you want.
Part 1
“What have we got?” Gideon asks, his dark eyes intent on Rossi as the latter flips through the fax.
Rossi shakes his head. “Same as the other victims: toxicology is clean and no DNA. But we were able to recover some fiber evidence.”
Gideon leans forward in his seat, hands clasped together. “What kind of fiber?”
Rossi frowns. “Kevlar.”
“He was wearing a bulletproof vest?” Aaron asks skeptically.
“Too conspicuous,” Gideon agrees.
“So where did it come from?” Aaron wants to know.
Rossi looks up from the report, realization washing over his face. “Gloves.”
Gideon nods. “Explains the lack of usable prints.”
“Kevlar lined gloves are used in a number of industries,” Aaron says, now thinking out loud. “Construction, fabrication, bottling…”
“It’s a lot of ground to cover,” Gideon remarks.
“Maybe not,” Aaron contends grimly, eyes narrowing as he jumps up to examine the map again. “Take a look at the geographic profile. We think he lives here,” he says, palm slapping the area. “Most Americans don’t commute more than sixteen miles from their place of residence. We take the largest employers first, run the profile by the managers, and hope we hit something.”
Gideon considers. “It could work.”
Rossi arches a brow in challenge. “Got any other ideas?”
*****************************
Several hours later, Aaron watches Gideon thank yet another assemblage of managers for listening to the profile and Rossi begins giving out their contact information. Gideon walks over to where Aaron’s waiting, claps him briefly on the shoulder.
“Don’t be discouraged; we knew this would take time.”
“Agent Gideon.” A stocky, middle-aged man in a shirt bearing the Schoen Water Heating logo approaches them. “I’m Jerry Albright, Human Resources Manager? Your profile does sound like someone I know.”
Gideon nods and shakes the man’s proffered hand. “What can you tell us, Mr. Albright?”
“His name is Charles Boudreau, worked in manufacturing.”
Aaron frowns. “He doesn’t work here anymore?”
Albright shakes his head. “He’s been known to have a drinking problem, but ever since his wife filed for divorce, he’s missed more and more days; we finally had to let him go.”
“When was that?” Gideon asks.
“About two weeks ago now.”
Gideon and Aaron exchange knowing looks. “Do you know where we can find Mr. Boudreau?” Gideon persists.
Albright shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know where we sent his last check.”
Gideon turns to Aaron. “Call headquarters; let’s get a team together. We’re doing this now.”
********************************
“It’s clear,” the leading officer says to Gideon and Rossi, and Aaron follows the senior agents into the dark and gloomy apartment, Lamont and his team filtering in behind. The shades are drawn; the place reeks of alcohol and sour sweat, a testimony to the empty whisky and beer bottles littering the flat surfaces.
“Start bagging and tagging,” Lamont orders the officers. “We don’t leave until we’ve turned over every inch of this place.”
“Looks like we just missed him,” Aaron observes, sniffing cautiously at one of the boxes of Chinese take-out scattered over the dirty Formica counter.
“Found some gloves,” Mertzer’s voice shouts from the bedroom. “Looks like they’re lined with Kevlar, too.”
“We need to get in front of this jag-off,” Rossi growls, surveying the space with a speculative eye. “Where’s he going, and why leave the gloves behind?”
“He doesn’t need them,” Gideon says slowly, picking up a picture from a 60’s-style end table and studying it with a frown. He turns it toward Rossi and Aaron. It’s a photograph of a woman, a brunette. The face is scratched out in jagged, white lines. “He’s ready to make his final play.”
*************************************
“No one likes getting this kind of news; let Gideon do the touchy-feely stuff,” Rossi instructs Aaron as they cross the lawn fronting the brick, two-story home. It’s a nice, suburban neighborhood; sometimes Aaron wonders where it all goes wrong. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of the husband, anything that looks out of place. You got any questions, you ask me.”
Aaron tamps down on his irritation. “You do realize I was in the Seattle field office for two years, right? I think I know something about attention to detail.”
“You just stepped in dog shit,” Gideon says blandly, never breaking stride, and Rossi snickers as Aaron stops and lifts up his shoe. Shit. Literally. Aaron wipes it off on the green grass, making sure the soles are clear before following the two senior agents up to the porch.
It’s Gideon who rings the bell, who’s the first to speak when the woman opens the door. “Lynette Boudreau?”
“Yes?” She smoothes a hand over her dark hair even as she regards them suspiciously. Aaron finds her more well-groomed than pretty, but she has the confident air of a woman who knows her strengths and how to play to them.
“Hello, ma’am.” Almost as though Gideon’s a friendly neighbor. “We’re with the FBI; we’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband, Charles? May we come in?”
“Soon to be ex-husband,” she’s compelled to point out, still appearing skeptical. “I just got home, but I need to let Bitsy out…”
“We’ll try not to take too much of your time,” Rossi assures her.
The woman throws a less than convinced look at the Italian, and then at Aaron, but finally opens the door, allowing the agents to file into her living room. It’s a Jacobean nightmare, something Aaron’s mother would be fond of, with scrawling florals covering the sofa and wingback chairs, and a decided contrast to the grunge and disorder of Charles Boudreau’s apartment.
“What is it you want to know about Charles?” Lynette Boudreau asks, crossing her arms over her tailored blouse.
“Do you know where he is?” Gideon asks.
The woman’s gaze shifts to an anniversary clock on the wood mantel. “At this time of day? Just leaving work, I’d imagine.”
Gideon frowns. “Mrs. Boudreau, your husband was let go two weeks ago.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Aaron says.
“I’m not.” She shakes her head, unimpressed. “Charles always did like his whiskey; I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“Have you noticed anything strange about your husband?” Rossi asks.
She scoffs. “Every day.”
“Any depressive episode that might suddenly have lifted?” Gideon clarifies.
“He was pretty depressed after his car accident; kept going on about the scar.” She releases an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t exactly fall in love with Charles for his looks, anyway? But he was convinced I was having an affair.”
“Were you?” Rossi wants to know, earning him a glare.
“No.”
“When was this accident?” Aaron asks, before Rossi can piss the woman off even more.
“Back in January,” she replies, blue eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
“We’re here in Montgomery investigating a series of murders,” Gideon explains gently, and the woman’s previous composure seems to crumble. She moves to sink down into a chair, her face a pale mixture of confusion and disbelief.
“Those women they’ve been finding in the parks? That’s - ” She huffs a nervous laugh. “Charles might be a drunk, but he’s not a murderer.”
“Would you mind if we searched the house?” Gideon persists.
“What for? He’s not here,” she says, fingers fidgeting with the button at her collar.
“Mrs. Boudreau.” Gideon splays his hands calmly. “We have reason to believe your husband sees these women as surrogates for you, and that you’re in danger here. He’s gaining confidence with every kill; it’s only a matter of time before he feels he’s ready for the real thing.”
She offers a weak wave of her hand, hardly more than a flutter of fingers, but it’s enough. Gideon nods at Rossi and Aaron.
“I’ll take upstairs,” Aaron says, glancing toward the stairs.
Rossi nods, drawing his weapon and stepping into the adjacent dining area. Aaron pulls his Glock and makes his way upstairs, past Lynette Boudreau’s family and vacation photos, images of a happy life she must have lived before her husband. Aaron’s childhood home had similar photos, with similar smiles; no one ever guessed they were only fragments of a much larger, darker picture.
He slips down the hallway, checks the bathroom and two smaller bedrooms, ones that were probably intended for children. Aaron’s relieved they were never filled. He heads on to the master, a spacious room at the end of the hall. His hand is reaching for the louvered doors on a closet when a scuffle from under the bed has him swinging in that direction.
Aaron suppresses a sigh as a fluffy gray and white ball of fur crawls out and pants at him, bright eyes gleaming. Bitsy, Aaron guesses, as the dog scampers past him and down the hallway. Probably the gifter of the little present outside. He turns back toward the closet, only to be met by the sudden, jarring pain of the door slamming into his forehead. It’s followed by a swift blow to his jaw, knocking him against the adjacent wall and to the floor.
He groans and blinks, trying to clear his vision as the man - Boudreau - scrambles to the nightstand. Aaron lifts his Glock at the same time the fugitive pulls the revolver from the nightstand drawer.
“FBI. Put down your weapon,” Aaron barks, still dizzy and squinting in his effort to focus. He recognizes Boudreau from his Schoen ID badge photo; tall and broad-shouldered, muscles thick from sculpting sheet metal. A three-inch scar stretches from below his right eye and down towards his jaw, puckered and angry.
“What? What did you say?” the man demands shakily, not pointing the weapon; not yet.
“What did you say to me, Margaret? What did you say?”
“I said ‘you’ve had enough.’”
“Put down the gun!” Aaron repeats, blinking sweat from his eyes and bracing his finger firmly against the trigger of his weapon
“Put the gun down, Charles.” Rossi. Gideon, just behind. Aaron senses them in his peripheral vision, weapons drawn and at the ready.
“Stop looking at me!” Boudreau anguishes, wild eyes darting between them, his head tucked against his chest as if he’s the one expecting a beating.
“It’s all over, Charles,” Rossi reassures the man. “We know what happened.”
Boudreau shakes his head. “You don’t know anything!”
“You don’t have to keep running. We know you didn’t want to hurt those women,” Rossi tells him.
“Lynette…” It’s half-plea, half-curse.
“She never supported you after the accident,” Rossi insists. “She drove you to this.”
Aaron’s grip tightens on his weapon, and logically he realizes Rossi will say anything to talk an armed suspect down, but there’s a small part of him that wonders if the man actually has come to believe his own bullshit.
Boudreau’s actually trembling now. “She laughed when I asked if there was someone else. I’m not crazy,” he tells them desperately.
“Of course you’re not,” Rossi says. “You’re just some guy with shitty luck, trying to get his life back. But that’s never going to happen if you don’t drop that gun.”
The man seems to waver, and the weapon lowers a few inches. “I want to say goodbye to Bitsy,” he demands, glancing from agent to agent, as if anticipating furious argument.
Rossi nods. “You cooperate, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure that happens.”
Boudreau considers, then carefully sets the gun on the floor. Rossi is on him in seconds, pinning him to the floor and cuffing him with practiced efficiency. Aaron slowly reholsters his gun, hears water running in the bathroom. Suddenly Gideon’s crouched beside him, blotting at Aaron’s head with a damp towel. The towel comes away red. Not sweat that Aaron had been blinking away, then. Blood.
“How are you doing?” Gideon asks kindly, a slight smile curving his mouth. “Hey, don’t get up just yet,” he warns, even as Aaron attempts to push to his feet.
“I’m fine,” Aaron says, but acquiesces to the older agent’s hand on his shoulder and sits back down. His head is pounding, although he doubts he has a concussion. He feels a flush warm his cheeks as Rossi heads downstairs with Boudreau; he can’t believe he was distracted by a six-pound lap dog.
“Don’t take orders very well,” Gideon comments, one warm hand clasping the back of Aaron’s neck as he continues to examine whatever bump Aaron’s going to have. Aaron tries not to tense under the easy comfort.
“I’m sorry,” he replies, deferring automatically to the senior agent.
“Why do I doubt that? Relax,” Gideon urges.
“I didn’t think we were going to be able to take him alive,” Aaron finds himself admitting, as the sound of approaching sirens echoes from the neighboring streets.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Gideon smirks. “Talking’s what Dave does best.”
“Must be all the practice,” Aaron mutters, and Gideon sobers.
“You don’t need a gun to kill someone out here; empathy is the most powerful weapon we have.”
Aaron reaches up and takes the towel, holding it himself as he glances up at Gideon. “You think Rossi really empathizes with Boudreau?”
Gideon’s mouth twists wryly. “You ever go through a divorce, you can tell me.”
*******************************
Aaron sits up in bed, case file strewn across the motel’s worn comforter as his pen skates efficiently over his paperwork, reviewing every word before adding his signature at the bottom. He stares thoughtfully at the completed work, the neatly tied-up ends of tragically intersecting lives. Lamont’s team found the victims’ missing wedding rings under Boudreau’s mattress; they’ll be processed and returned to the victims’ families so they can move on; however much that’s possible.
“Mom, he’s drunk again.”
“I know, Aaron. Just turn out the light and go to sleep; don’t come downstairs.”
“I’m not going to stay up here and let him hit you.”
“You’re going to do as I say.” She softens, her hand cool on his cheek. “This is the last time, honey; I promise.”
And it doesn’t take long for the voices to drift upward, permeate the walls.
“What did you say to me, Margaret? What did you say?”
“I said ‘you’ve had enough.’”
The crack of the blow echoes in the rafters of the house, and Aaron bites his lip hard enough to taste blood, warm and coppery on his tongue. That taste is still vivid at the next morning’s breakfast table, while his mother hums as she slides bacon from the pan and onto Aaron’s plate, seemingly oblivious to the bruise mottling her jaw. It’s the last time Aaron sees a mark on her, the last time he ever sees his father drunk. Seven months later, Aaron’s brother Sean is born, and they resume the life of a typical, upper-middle-class family. His father starts to joke again. They even seem happy, sometimes, and Aaron does his best to forgive.
But he never forgets.
Aaron gathers the pictures of Anne Suskind, Tracy Farrell, Cindy Cox, Celia Brooks… Pictures of the women before violence touched them, the ones with smiles Aaron hopes their families will remember now that Charles Boudreau is going away. Aaron arranges them carefully behind the case’s other documentation, closes the file and returns it and the pen to the nightstand.
“Peace is not the absence of war, but the presence of justice...”
And this time when he switches off the lamp, Aaron falls into a sound, dreamless sleep.
*****************************
For the second morning in a row the agents find the station in chaos. Phones are ringing and officers milling in groups as the EMTs navigate the crowd with a stretcher.
“What’s happened now?” Gideon asks Henry, managing to catch the young officer by the arm as he rushes by.
Henry wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and shakes his head. “It’s a complete clusterfuck, sir,” he exclaims, then glances at Gideon’s dawning frown with wide eyes. “Pardon.”
“What’s with the ambulance?” Rossi asks, jerking a thumb at the emergency vehicle idling by the entrance.
“Mertzer’s pled guilty to obstruction of justice and planting evidence on a drug bust, and now the DA doesn’t think we can make a case for Boudreau.”
“Son of a bitch,” Gideon mutters, as Rossi erupts with some words even Aaron hasn’t heard before. “Where’s Lamont?”
Henry winces. “Captain’s collapsed; EMTs think it’s a heart attack. Chief Svensen is in with your Unit Chief right now - I wouldn’t go in there!” he shouts above the din, as Gideon pushes past him and through the crowd, heading toward Lamont’s office.
It’s then that Aaron catches sight of Mertzer, cuffed and in the middle of some animated conversation with what are destined to be his former colleagues. The man’s expression and body language intimate confidence; there’s not even a suggestion of remorse. With an unexpected surge of adrenaline, Aaron stalks over to the corrupt officer, grabbing two fistfuls of his dark blue uniform.
“You morally bankrupt piece of - do you know what you’ve done?” Aaron demands, his normally temperate voice harsh with fury as he gives the man a hard shake. “Do you?” Hands reach in between them, trying to separate Aaron from the object of his wrath, but Aaron hangs tight.
“I did what no one else had the balls to do,” Mertzer snaps. “I got a drug dealer put away!”
“And set a killer free!” Aaron shouts, suddenly releasing his white-knuckle grip on the man’s shirt and shoving him backwards. An arm around Aaron’s chest hauls him back, and Aaron glares at Mertzer before stumbling backward with his captor. Moments and several awkward steps later, Aaron’s swung around and pushed into the familiar conference room. He spins to find Rossi slamming the door shut behind them.
“Don’t do anything half-way, do you, kid?” Rossi asks, turning and regarding Aaron with what might be a glimmer of admiration in his appraising eyes.
“We have an obligation to uphold the law, and that bastard just pissed on any chance we had of a conviction,” Aaron fumes, flinging an arm in the direction of the squad room, where the commotion continues without them. “There’s no way the DA will try this guy now!”
“Okay, enough,” Rossi tells him, holding up a hand, but Aaron’s too frustrated to pay him any heed. He tries to angle around the older agent, wanting nothing more just now than to pound Mertzer’s redneck face into the station’s tile floor. Rossi moves with him, creating a barrier between Aaron and the door. “You said your piece, now stand down.”
“Boudreau beat four women to death, and Mertzer let him walk. He’s an imbecile!” Aaron yells, hoping his voice will carry through the thick glass.
Rossi sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, his hand on Aaron’s shoulder abruptly spinning Aaron around. Before Aaron can process the maneuver, his arm is yanked behind his back, and he’s propelled forward and down, his chest thumping loudly against the conference room table.
“Damn it, Rossi,” Aaron growls, immediately moving to break the agent’s hold. A stinging slap to the right side of Aaron’s ass stills him immediately. He blinks in disbelief.
“Did you just - ”
“Yeah, I did, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna do it again,” Rossi assures him, and heat rushes to Aaron’s face.
“I don’t know how things are in your world, but where I come from, it’s considered inappropriate and unprofessional to spank your colleagues,” Aaron snaps, discomfited by his vulnerable position. “You’ll be lucky if I don’t have you charged with assault.”
Rossi snorts from behind him. “Go ahead. Somehow I don’t think you’re going to want to advertise this.”
“Let me up, Rossi,” Aaron grits, hating the way his heart’s started to hammer against his chest. He refuses to give the man the satisfaction of struggling.
“You’re shaking,” Rossi notes, quieter now.
“I’m pissed,” Aaron contends, because the last thing he needs is for Rossi to start profiling him.
“Sure you are,” Rossi agrees. There’s a measured silence, a blatant contrast to the uproar of the adjoining squad room. “You think you can control yourself?”
“Yes,” comes the strangled response. Aaron straightens the moment Rossi releases the grip on his arm, taking a step back from the older man, his breathing only slightly faster than it should be. Aaron spends a moment carefully smoothing his tie, straightening his suit. Rossi waits him out with an unanticipated patience.
“Why are you taking this so personally?” the other agent asks finally, appearing genuinely curious.
“You know why.”
Rossi studies him closely. “No.”
Is it possible for a living legend to be this dense? “We’re supposed to stop him, not set him free to kill again,” Aaron replies grimly.
“The bad guy doesn’t always go to jail; you know this. You did your part,” Rossi maintains firmly. “You’ve got to make a decision; are you here to catch them, or put them away? You can’t do everything.”
“I could have shot him,” Aaron points out.
“Yeah, you could have,” Rossi returns, annoyance sharpening the New York accent. “Any one of us could have shot the bastard. You don’t think I’d sleep better at night? But we don’t shoot people unless we have to.”
“He’ll do it again.” Aaron doesn’t bother hiding his upset.
“Yeah, he probably will, and it’s a damn shame,” Rossi concedes. “But that doesn’t make it your fault. And unless you find a way to compartmentalize, you’re always going to be looking over your shoulder.”
Aaron sighs heavily; when did Rossi start making sense, anyway? He glares through the window at Mertzer in the squad room. “Just give me one punch,” Aaron implores the man, his fingers aching to curl into fists.
Rossi chuffs. “Look, kid, I get it. But you’re going to have to learn to control that temper.”
Aaron glances at the man with surprise. “This from you?”
“This, from me.” Rossi grins. “Those that can’t do, teach. Besides, you’ll find some things are best left to management,” he drawls, canting his head toward the squad room.
Aaron’s brows draw together. “What are you talking about?” He takes a look out the window, just in time to see Unit Chief Ryan launch a right hook at Mertzer. “Did Ryan just punch that guy?” he asks incredulously.
Rossi smirks. “Oh, yeah.” Then, “By the way, kid, the answer is no.”
Aaron takes one last, satisfying look at Mertzer holding his face before turning back to his fellow agent. “No, what?” he asks, confused by the turn of conversation.
“No, I don’t think victims of domestic violence are weak,” Rossi replies, with a rueful twist of his mouth. “My mother’s youngest sister, my Aunt Lucia, she’s only a few months older than me. Beautiful girl. Married the wrong guy,” Rossi laments with a shake of his head. “He starts drinking, smacking her around, so one day she finally decides that’s it, she’s done, and she packs up the kids and sends them over to our cousin’s. Unfortunately, the asshole comes home early. Blackens her eye, breaks her arm in three places and cracks two of her ribs. And never,” Rossi stresses, “never did that woman tell him where those kids were.”
“What happened?” Aaron asks, subdued by the other man’s unexpected candor.
“Lucy’s married to a plumber in Hoboken; her and the kids are happy as can be.”
“And her husband?”
Rossi shrugs innocently. “Heard he decided to leave the country.”
“Had a sudden desire to travel?” Aaron asks dryly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“Let’s just say he was inspired.” Rossi regards him with something akin to fondness. “Look, no one gets through life without accumulating a few scars. Guys like Boudreau let their scars define them; guys like us, use them.”
Aaron glances toward the squad room again. “You think Ryan’s going to be mad?”
“Won’t be a bit left of this ass when he’s done chewing it,” Rossi announces cheerfully, opening the door to find Gideon with his fist poised to knock.
“We’re going,” Gideon says, frowning as he glances in Aaron’s direction. “I wouldn’t make Max wait.”
“You’re sitting next to him on the plane,” Rossi warns, walking ahead and leaving Aaron and Gideon to follow behind. The local officers stand back to let them pass, with no small amount of grumbling given the recent melee.
“That kid has a real attitude problem,” Mertzer’s partner asserts, stepping forward with a scowl for Aaron. The officer’s eyes widen when Rossi turns and advances, deliberately crowding his space.
“Hey! This is our colleague; you don’t call him ‘kid’,” Rossi instructs tersely. “You refer to him as Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, one of the people who came down here to help save your ass, you got that?”
The officer doesn’t back away, but his stare is wary. “Yeah, I got it.”
Satisfied, Rossi continues on toward the front of the building, Gideon addressing the onlookers without a glance.
“What he said,” the senior agent concurs, a hint of smugness to his tone.
“C’mon, kid,” Rossi says to Aaron, as he opens the doors into the bright sunlight. “Let’s go home.”
******************************
“Having fun?”
Aaron turns to Gideon, secretly amused to find the man still evading a tie, even at his superior’s retirement banquet. The senior agent’s wearing the only corduroy sportscoat in a hall of suits, entirely unfazed by the evening’s ceremony.
“Are you?” Aaron has to ask.
Gideon shrugs. “No,” he replies blandly. “I just can’t resist a nice canapé.”
Aaron hides his smile in his chardonnay, swirling it slowly as they stand and watch the mingling guests. Rossi is working the other side of the room, gesturing dramatically to an avid audience as he recounts one event or another.
“You did good work, you know,” Gideon says after a minute. “In Alabama.”
“Thank you.” Aaron wishes he could take more pleasure in the praise.
Gideon offers him a sideways glance. “Local LEOs have Boudreau under surveillance; he’ll serve time eventually.”
“But will he serve enough?” Aaron muses, the victims’ faces still etched in his memory.
Gideon spreads his open hands in vague sympathy. “What’s enough?” he asks, causing Aaron to frown. Gideon merely raises his brows before reaching quickly and snatching an hors d’oeuvre from a passing tray. The older man briefly closes his eyes. “Mmm, foie gras,” he reports, apparently impressed. He smiles enigmatically, clapping Aaron on the shoulder as he moves to return to the crowd of federal employees.
Aaron stares after him. “A legend in his own time,” he murmurs. And he’s not the only one. Aaron recognizes the guest of honor, Max Ryan, excusing himself from a nearby cluster of Feds with his jacket folded over one arm. It feels like an opportune moment to pay his respects. Aaron sets his glass down on a nearby table and steps forward, extending his hand.
“Congratulations, sir,” Aaron says sincerely, as he and Ryan shake hands. “I know we didn’t work together long, but I’ve considered it a privilege.”
Ryan snorts, blue eyes bright with both humor and alcohol. “A sure sign we didn’t work together long,” he drawls.
Aaron ignores the possible truth of that statement. “I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to prove myself here at the BAU.”
The retiree scoffs, unfolding the suit jacket from his arm. “I didn’t give you anything.”
“Of course.” Aaron pauses, flustered. “I didn’t mean to imply - ”
“I wasn’t the one who recruited you.”
What? Aaron’s brow furrows. “You weren’t?”
“I’m not going to have to work with you. Any of you,” Ryan asserts gleefully, shrugging into his jacket again.
“Then - ”
“Dave’s the one that had to have you,” Ryan says, straightening his cuffs. “Tried to talk him out of it, get him to take one of the guys from counterterrorism or ATF, but he insisted you had natural aptitude. And if Jason was willing to go along with it…”
“But - they don’t even know my name,” Aaron says, glancing over to Rossi and catching the other agent’s eye. Rossi winks and holds up a finger, indicating he’s finishing his conversation with the redhead from HR.
Ryan shakes his head. “You got a lot to learn, Hutch.”
“Hotch,” Aaron corrects automatically, still distracted by the new information.
The older man chuckles. “Never gets old,” he says, loosening his tie as he heads for the hall’s double doors.
*************************
“Hey, hell of a night, huh?” Rossi asks, finally joining Aaron at the edge of the celebration. “Did you get a load of that Susan? Why don’t we have anything like that down in the basement?”
“Maybe because the Bureau doesn’t want a sexual harassment lawsuit on their hands?” Aaron suggests wryly.
Rossi mockingly covers his heart with his hand. “You wound me, kid.”
Aaron rolls his eyes. “My name’s not kid,” he reminds the other man, and Rossi grins, unrepentant.
They stand there in companionable silence, watching their colleagues laugh and converse, and for the first time Aaron feels himself start to relax. And maybe he could ask Rossi if he was really the one to recruit him, or ask how long Gideon’s known Aaron’s name isn’t ‘Hutch.’ But just now the questions don’t seem very important.
They’re profilers, after all.
Sooner or later, the answers will come.