FIC: The Distant and Dead Part 1-B
Seaver followed up the rear as Cooper, Griffith, LaSalle, Rawson, and Simms started their undercover operation. She would be accompanying LaSalle, Rawson, and Simms, while Cooper and Griffith would break off alone to dig a little deeper.
"Are you sure you're comfortable with this?" Rossi had asked her, and she'd replied with an affirmative. She couldn't just sit back and wait forever; she was going to be a profiler -- she had to gather information as well as interpret it. She was ready for her first undercover with the "Shadow Team," as they called themselves. She had to be.
She picked up her pace to fall in line with LaSalle, hoping the company would put her nervousness out of her mind.
They were all dressed in fairly unfashionable clothing, old, dirty, ragged, the better to blend in with the crowds in the slums. She herself had looked in the mirror and decided she looked rather like a prostitute, in the tight red bodice and torn skirt. LaSalle was wearing men's clothes, and her long hair was tied up and tucked into her hat. She'd bound her chest flat, and the loose trousers kept her hips a secret.
The men were pretty much the same as they would normally be, but with more grime. Simms had never cared much for fashion, and had done enough time in prison to move well in this den of crime. Rawson was dark, his entire body language talking of power and intimidation. She looked at the wolfish slope of his body and wondered where he'd learned it.
"How are you?" LaSalle whispered, the affected Cockney accent taking her voice and twisting it low -- she was still beautiful, even dressed as a man.
Ashley smiled, trying to hide her nerves. “I’m fine.”
They continued, deeper into the slums. The stench was awful here; urine, feces, alcohol, and a hint of blood and rotten flesh. It was worse than any crime scene, and she hardly wanted to go any farther into the area, but the Ripper had risen again, and all of this was necessary.
Cooper and Griffith broke off from the group, and LaSalle seemed to be keeping close as Ashley picked up the rear. It was a dark place, this slum.
It wasn’t very long before a street boy caught sight of them and recognized them.
“Welcome t’ the slums,” he muttered, brushing by Ashley. “I was one o’ Sherlock Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars. Heard y’ were after the Ripper tonight.”
LaSalle nodded down at the slender, dark haired waif. He was still a wide-eyed teenage boy, pale skin grimy and hands atwitch. He looked fierce and feral underneath, though, a product of the streets that gave no rest to the poor and the needy, who turned to crime as a result.
“We’re askin’ after whomever’s killing prostitutes here,” Mick said, drawing even with the young boy. “You got a name, kid?”
“Nathan.” A pained expression crossed his face. “And nobody’s quite sure. Nobody knew a thing the first time around - an’ we know less this time.” He paused, gesturing softly toward a corner. “The street girls are terrified - rentboys too, but less.”
“All righ’,” LaSalle murmured down to him. “Has anything changed ‘round here lately - anybody with a real vested interest in the fact that they’ve brought in Americans to work the case?”
Nathan bit his lip, thinking hard. His eyes were cloudy for a moment, then cleared. “Nobody I can tell. But there’s a new boss in town here - somebody scarin’ people even worse than the Ripper’s got the street girl’s petticoats in a twist - he’s got his hooks in everyone. Don’t have any word as to a name…anybody who mighta seen him’s dead, far as we know.”
“Has anyone heard from him?” Simms asked, his Georgia accent drawling more than usual.
“Think so. I got a friend - one of the street girls. She’s real pretty - gets the best of the Johns and hears a lot that way.” He turned, gesturing for them to follow.
They followed, their eyes keeping on Nathan’s slender form in the darkness of the night.
He lead them through the narrow alleys of the slums, Ashley trying not to step in anything without losing any speed. It was a few minutes of silent walking before they stopped on a corner and Nathan tapped a woman on the shoulder, leaning up to whisper in her ear.
She turned and looked at them. She was a pretty woman, as Nathan had said, her blonde hair piled up on her head, with some curls falling free on her shoulders, which were mostly bare - her dress had a huge, scooped neckline, and it was blood red, lit by her lantern. She looked at them quietly, judging them, and nodded her assent to speaking to them.
LaSalle took the lead again, stepping lightly on the cobblestones as she moved - her facsimile of a male gait was absolutely perfect. Ashley followed, and the men brought up the rear.
“Ma’am,” LaSalle began. “Jim LaSalle.” She held out a hand, and the woman shook it.
“Carolyn.”
LaSalle nodded, her expression as smooth as the prostitute’s. “What can you tell us about the Ripper, or about this new power in the slums?”
Carolyn paled. “The Ripper’s rippin’ again,” she hissed. “That’s all anybody knows. We got girls too scared to work; we got Johns stoppin’ their appointment’s cause they don’t want to be suspects. Bastard’s got everybody on tenterhooks on this.”
“And this new bastard?” Mick growled, drawing her attention.
She didn’t say anything for a few long moments, and Mick drew closer and closer before LaSalle stopped him. “Let the lady think,” she muttered to him.
“Everybody’s terrified of the new man. He ain’t killin’ girls, but if anybody so much’s questions his authority, y’wind up dead. Saw two good men go down that way, slaughtered like lambs in a warehouse. Throats slit, bleedin’ out in front o’ me.” She shuddered. “I didn’t see ver’ much, but he - or his lackey - was tall, thick set but not mount’nous.”
“What else?” Simms finally spoke up, his voice gentler than the others.
Another shudder. “Somethin’ he said keeps naggin’ at me, like it’s important that I keep it in me head.” She closed her eyes. “He kept mutterin’ to ‘imself: honor thy father, honor thy father - over an’ over, like he was prayin’ or somethin’. Real reverent-like. An’ he was an American.”
“An American, you say?” Simms pressed, his Georgian accent slipping out a little more than usual.
Carolyn nodded. “Stronger accent th’n yours, though.”
Something seemed familiar, but Ashley wasn’t sure what it was. A faint whisper of something against her memory - a moment in Garcia’s inner sanctum, catching a glimpse of a file that disappeared almost as soon as she saw it; Georgia, seven sins… And that was all she could remember, and had simply thought it odd Garcia would hide it.
No one else seemed to recognize or think it odd - just another insane killer with a religious bent, it must have looked like to them, and Seaver put the memory from her mind.
Rawson turned dominant again, sliding up even with Simms. “And do you think it’s likely that this is the new Moriarty, rather than some lackey of the fellow?” He looked interested, fiercely fascinated, leaning forward.
Ashley caught a glimpse of Simms’s hand on Rawson’s hip - an oddly intimate gesture that seemed to act as a calming move, as Rawson’s posture slackened by a fraction.
“This new overlord of crime wilna get his hands so dirty,” Carolyn replied, “This man was too crazy t’ be anythin’ but a lackey - none o’ the folks’ll listen to Carolyn, though.” She shook her head, and Ashley was reminded of Cassandra from the Iliad.
“All right,” LaSalle said, accepting the response. “What’s your take on the new power? Is there anyone you expect to be holding the madman’s leash?”
“If he’s anyone, ‘e’s probably part o’ the high society, like Moriarty was - sending a lackey to do his dirty work’s a rich man’s prerogative. It ain’t somethin’ I can see one of us slumdwellers doin’.” She shivered again. “Dunno why he’s importin’ American crazies, though.”
“We’ll figure that out,” Simms said. “We’re working with Scotland Yard. Head to the Tower if you have any more information about the Ripper or the new guy on the block.”
Carolyn nodded and they turned and headed even further into the slums, looking for more information.
The team met again in their makeshift conference room the next morning. Aaron looked around, hardly conscious of the fact that he was making a mental head count - but everyone was there, including the Shadow Team.
Sam Cooper stood next to the chalkboard, scrutinizing what little had been written on it the previous day with a look of disappointed resignation. He was as skilled a profiler as any of them - better, maybe. His style was reminiscent of Gideon’s; get abysmally deep into the psyche of the monster, and then learn who he could be. It was that, perhaps, that made him so good.
The rest of Cooper’s Shadow Team was good, too. LaSalle was fantastic at undercover work, Simms’ knowledge of American prison culture had saved them more than once, Griffith had experience with domestic terrorist groups like the Klan, and Rawson’s marksmanship was unparalleled on either side of the pond. Cooper had assembled some of the best in their fields and taught them the art of criminal profiling.
Of course, the members of Aaron’s own team were the best in their fields, as well. Reid could have taught at any university by the time he was sixteen, and his eidetic memory could be as useful as Garcia’s library. Garcia herself was the only mechanical engineer who’d managed to create such a library, and, had she chosen, she could have retired to some tropical island at the age of thirty on the money selling the patent would have provided. Morgan was the best in the world at stalking and obsessional crimes. Prentiss was multilingual and the daughter of an ambassador - her diplomatic immunity had saved several lives even before she’d joined the team. Dave Rossi, and old friend of his, had been one of the founding members of this team, having taken espionage skills he’d learned during the war and, with Jason Gideon, applied them to investigating crime. Seaver was learning from the best, and she had great potential.
Clustered together in this room, they were the people with the best chance of catching Jack the Ripper. Aaron had utmost faith in them, and in their skills.
“The information about the ‘new Moriarty’ is interesting.” Cooper turned to him. “He has an American doing his dirty work.”
“I don’t think there’s a connection,” Griffith said. “The Ripper’s too insane.”
Prentiss shook her head. “But the new power probably knows who the Ripper is - and if not, he’s probably as invested in catching him as we are, if only to control him.”
“Agreed,” Reid pointed out. “If we can get at him, we can probably convince him to help us catch the Ripper. We need someone on the inside to do this - the Shadow Cell’s trip to the slums made that absolutely clear.”
Aaron agreed. “And Carolyn believes that this figure is from the richer set.” He pauses and turns to Lestrade. “Are there any high society functions we can attend anytime soon?”
Lestrade nodded. “There’s one tonight, actually. It was supposed to be invitation only, though.”
Dave looked at Lestrade skeptically. “Ask the host if they’d mind if David Rossi, his daughter, and a couple of friends attend as well.”
Dave had a name in high society; beyond his work in criminal investigation, he’d written several bestselling books on the subject. He’d managed to become a fixture in Virginia’s upper-class functions, and had a name with clout in several English-speaking countries.
Lestrade nodded and headed for the door.
“So who are we sending?” Reid asked. “If Rossi’s idea pans out, that is.” He didn’t seem to doubt that it would.
“I’ll go,” LaSalle volunteered from the corner where she sat with Simms and Rawson. Aaron turned to look at her. She was young, pretty, and the best they had at undercover. It made sense. The only other woman in the room who could pull off a similar stunt was Prentiss - and Prentiss, for reasons unknown, hated undercover.
Meeting Cooper’s eyes and finding agreement there, Aaron nodded. “All right.”
Reid chose that moment to fidget, twirling a pen between his hands. Then he spoke. “I’d like to go as well. Might as well balance things out in terms of gender.”
This gave Aaron some pause. Reid was not the best among them in social situations. But he was of an age with LaSalle and Seaver, and he, while appearing completely guileless and unthreatening, had the best chance of remembering something seemingly inconsequential. And it was the seemingly inconsequential, of course, that often meant the most.
“All right,” Aaron repeated.
Reid nodded, and there was a strange gratitude in his expression. Aaron tucked it away in the back of his mind, reminding himself that he had placed a moratorium on members of the team analyzing each other.
The conversation turned to Garcia insisting on helping the women find gowns for the party, and Prentiss’s insistence that Reid wear proper dress clothes, which led to Reid walking out in something of a huff, insisting that his own clothes were perfectly fine and besides, what did it matter? He would be there to observe, nothing more.
Dave’s chuckle of amusement drew a sardonic twist of expression from Aaron, and the older man shrugged.
“You know Garcia’ll get her way eventually.”
Aaron supposed he was right.
LaSalle was a beautiful woman. Ashley knew that, in her head. She looked good in men’s clothing; Ashley had caught herself glancing when she walked by, after all.
But seeing her now, clutching her corset around the front of her body, smiling awkwardly over her shoulder at Ashley, Ashley felt the beauty like a brick to the face. From where she stood, LaSalle’s bare back seemed to beckon her with pale skin and thin shoulder blades. Ashley did her best to hide it, even from herself, tucking the feeling away.
“Could you help me with the lacing?” LaSalle asked. “I never really wore corsets; they make it difficult to run - and my dad always thought a woman ought to be able to run.” She smiled sardonically. “Now I bet he wishes I’d been more like my sisters, not running around in mens’ clothes chasing criminals.”
Ashley nodded, surprised at LaSalle’s openness. She stepped up to LaSalle’s back, briefly thinking of her own father. She began lacing up the corset, pushing away the memories and keeping her eyes on the laces and her own hands. She nearly dropped the lacing when LaSalle spoke again.
“You’re very quiet,” LaSalle murmured. “You think there’s nothing you can say that’s useful.”
Ashley blinked. “I thought we aren’t supposed to profile each other.”
LaSalle laughed a little. “You just seem so nervous around them.”
Ashley knew the meant the other members of the team. Essentially, it was true. The only one she felt really comfortable around was Rossi, and that was because she’d known him for more than a decade. “They have a lot of experience. I should defer to them.”
“Seaver.” There was something fierce in her voice. “You’re one of them. One of us. You ought to say what you’re thinking.
Ashley stayed quiet, finishing the lacing at long last, and LaSalle’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “At the very least, come talk to me. I was younger than you when I joined up with Coop and Mick. Then Prophet came around, and then Beth. But - well, it wasn’t easy, learning to speak up around people like them. I know how you feel.”
Ashley stepped back, and LaSalle turned around. The corset didn’t change much about her shape, but it enhanced her breasts. LaSalle looked down at them, and then back at Ashley with a mischievous grin. “Do you think Mick will stare?”
That made Ashley laugh. “And then Beth will jab him in the ribs, if Simms doesn’t.”
LaSalle’s grin turned absolutely wicked. “See, you’re talking. And making predictions, predictions about people - now just apply that to the case. Nice insight on Mick and Prophet, by the way.” She turned to her dress. “Damn, too many buttons.”
Ashley kept smiling. “Let me help you with that.”
Seaver seemed nervous. Reid thought it was strange - legally, she was Rossi’s daughter, and so would have been to many formal parties like this. Nevertheless, her face was, just barely, tensed, the smile on her lips was fragile, and her grip on his arm was iron.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, leaning down close to her ear and hoping that the whisper would be misinterpreted by those present as a romantic overture rather than what it was.
She seemed to catch his train of thought, as she let out a high-pitched, mindless giggle before leaning up on tiptoe to reply, “I’m just a bit unsettled. I…it won’t affect the case.” When he nodded, she continued, “And I’ve heard you don’t dance.”
He laughed, sincerely. “I don’t. I can’t.”
She smiled. “I’ll back lead. Rossi can’t dance, either.” With that, she gently took his hand and led him out on the dance floor. He followed her body’s subtle instruction, feeling a little stiff, but capable nonetheless. They moved through the crowd of dancers, her right hand on his left shoulder and her left hand held in his much larger right, and he hoped they seemed normal enough - just a young American couple enjoying a waltz in an upperclass ballroom.
After a few numbers, it was time for the hors d’ouvres hour, and they walked to their table. Rossi and LaSalle were already seated, LaSalle looking at the place-setting as though it might suddenly come to life and eat her. Seaver shook her head and smiled at the other woman, sitting down next to her and surreptitiously nudging the appropriate fork. Reid sat down next to Rossi and looked over at him. Rossi already had a glass of wine and an appetizer that he was eating with well-controlled relish. Reid looked around for a waiter but didn’t see one, so he asked.
“He’s getting LaSalle’s wine,” Rossi replied. “Did Ashley lead?”
“Yes.”
Rossi grinned for a moment before raising his glass to cover his sympathetic amusement. “She’s pretty damn good at it,” he murmured conspiratorially around the rim, eyes glittering.
“I noticed,” Reid replied, as a glass of wine and an appetizer were set down in front of him. Reid had never seen it before and wasn’t sure exactly what it was. He looked at it hesitantly, and then turned to Rossi in confusion.
“It’s swan - you like duck, and they pretty much taste the same.” Rossi shrugged, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Reid nodded. “Thank you,” he replied, trying to ignore the swoop his stomach made.
The swan was delicious, and Reid found himself drawn into a whispered conversation on the history of murderers and assassins, explaining the trial of two Roman women accused of killing over a thousand men during their careers.
After appetizers and a formal, almost ritualized dinner, Seaver led Reid back out onto the dance floor, LaSalle and Rossi close behind. They danced for close to two hours, and it became quite apparent that, since they were Americans, no upperclass Briton worth their accent would associate with them.
“We should have brought Rawson,” Reid mused to Seaver.
She laughed. It was a real comfortable laugh, one that Reid had never heard from her, much less elicited, and Reid smiled. She said, “From what I’ve seen, I don’t think a Welshman would be much better.” Her eyes sparked, and Reid was reminded suddenly of Rossi. “And I doubt he’d take well to this crowd.”
She spun for a dip, and Reid caught her, his heart skipping and arm clumsy - for all of Seaver’s brilliant back-leading, he still couldn’t dance.
Then, there was an explosion by the door. Reid’s hand left Seaver’s waist and reached automatically for his gun as Seaver spun away again and growled when she appeared to realized she didn’t have her own. Reid moved toward her as he searched for Rossi and LaSalle amongst the panicking mob of partygoers. There was another explosion, much closer this time, and accompanied by a shattering of glass. He grabbed Seaver’s wrist in one hand and pushed through the crowd, brandishing his revolver and heading quickly toward the doors as two more explosions went off.
The fourth explosion was close enough to knock him off his feet. Something sharp hit him in the shoulder, and he hissed. He struggled to his feet and looked around for Seaver. He found that a table had pinned her, unconscious, to the floor. Reid felt terror bubbling up in his throat from the twisting coil of his innards.
Where was Rossi? That was the most sickening thought as Reid levered the table off of Seaver, whose face contracted in pain. Good. At least she could still feel.
There was a gunshot nearby, fired into the stuccoed ceiling, and Reid spun. It had to be Rossi, which meant he was alive. Reid stomped on the relief because there was no time to feel it. He leaned down, hitting his knees. He couldn’t leave Seaver, but it would be a dangerous idea to move her now. He had no medical training, and couldn’t say for certain how badly she’d been injured.
He almost shot LaSalle when she grabbed his shoulder. “I’ll stay with her,” she yelled over the chaos. “Go find Rossi!”
“You lost him?” Reid yelped, insides twisting - but LaSalle had a long cut on her scalp and was limping; it was clear she’d been thrown by one of the explosions. Turning away, he searched the ceiling for the bullet hole before racing in the general direction the shot had come from.
He found Rossi crouched behind a pile of rubble, gun in one hand and clutching his right side with the other. Blood saturated the cloth under his hand, and Reid swallowed the fear and tried to go cold as he slid in beside him, reaching to lower Rossi’s weapon.
“Thank God,” Rossi said, voice hoarse, when he noticed Reid. The relief dropped from his face, though, when he realized Seaver wasn’t with him.
“She’s with LaSalle. She’s hurt.” When Rossi tried to head back, Reid grabbed at him, pulling him down. “And so are you. What happened? Did you see anything?”
“No,” Rossi growled. “Bombs must’ve been planted beforehand, the bastards.” He coughed - Reid looked for blood, ice in his veins, but none seemed forthcoming, and he breathed a strangled sigh of relief - and leaned back against Reid breath shallow. Almost automatically, Reid wrapped an arm around his chest, above the wound, and pressed Rossi to him.
“Shh,” he hushed. “Wait for things to die down. Bitch all you want we’re out of here and you’re not bleeding, but please, please be quiet and let me handle this, Rossi.”
Rossi obeyed and his breathing started to deepen. Reid held on, heart still pounding, waiting for the dust to settle.