echoes still - part four
Title: echoes still: part four
Author: weaselett
Artist: pe1804
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Type: Gen, mentions of femslash and het: slightly AU from canon
Rating/Warnings: 15 (for descriptions of violence and some language)
Word Count for this part: 7,158
POV Characters: Ashley Seaver, Aaron Hotchner
Spoilers: Spoilers up to Season Six episode 10 (what happens at home).
Summary: There's a serial killer in New York, one who leaves no evidence behind at the crime scene and always seems to be one step ahead of the team investigating the murders. Their best chance seems to lie with the BAU, for whom the case brings back old memories. Written for casestory.
For full warning see masterpost here
New York, 2010
There was one question that people had always asked Ashley, when they learned who her father was and what he’d done.
How hadn’t she known?
There had been times when all she’d wanted to do was throw the question back at them, ask how could she have known? She’d been a baby when he’d first started killing. There had never been a point in her life when she’d suddenly noticed her father acting strangely. He’d just been himself. That had never changed.
She could remember, as a child, spending time in her friend’s homes, interacting with their parents. She’d noticed that their fathers didn’t act the same way hers did, but there had been differences between all of them. Some had been more affectionate, others had been stricter. She’d asked her mom once, out of curiosity, and her mom had just told her everyone was different. They had different beliefs, different approaches to the same things. There was nothing strange about that.
So she’d watched other people. She hadn’t always been subtle, she knows. One of her teachers had scolded her for it once, but in the end she’d decided that her mom had been right.
No one acted exactly like anyone else.
She sighed, and it echoed a little in the room. She still couldn’t quite accept what was happening, what they were telling her. Someone was copying her father. Repeating the crimes that had made her childhood so painful.
She wondered, briefly, if this would be the time for her to start to doubt her father’s guilt.
If there was someone copying her father, if they were mimicking every part of his crimes, as much as they could given they’d chosen to do it in New York, maybe he hadn’t killed those women.
Maybe the BAU had caught the wrong person.
But they hadn’t. She knew her father had been guilty.
She probably knew that better than anyone. She could still remember what he’d told her, the last time she’d seen him. How being caught had been the best day of his life.
Those words had lost their sting over the years, but as a child she’d never been hurt so badly as when her father had spoken those words.
He hadn’t been perfect, but she’d loved him; he’d been her father, her hero. She could remember him telling her that her birth had been one of the best days of his life. She knew he’d only said that because it was what fathers said, but as a child, those words had meant a lot to her.
It hadn’t been unusual for her father to come home late, but sometimes he had seemed lighter somehow. On those occasions, which happened once or twice a year, he would sit down on the couch with her, holding her hand while he told her elaborate stories about what he’d been doing that day. None of them had been true; she’d known that his job was boring, but she’d loved being on the receiving end of all that attention.
She could remember one of those times, when he’d come home and there had been blood on the cuff of his shirt. She knew it had still been wet, could remember how it had brushed her cheek as she’d hurried forward to greet her father. What she hadn’t known at the time was that it was a dead woman’s blood she was washing off her face that night.
Ashley shuddered, resting her elbows on the table in front of her and covering her face with her hands. The interrogation room was cool, cooler than the rest of the building, and she knew that was deliberate. They could heat it up if they wanted, if they wanted a suspect to be comfortable.
It had been a while since Daire had led her into the room; she thought it might have been hours, but she couldn’t tell. There wasn’t a clock in the room, and she didn’t have her watch. She had tried to nap for a while, but despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t.
She knew that was the point. She could still remember those sessions at the academy, being told about interview techniques, and which ones worked best on certain types of offenders. She wondered if Hotchner would bring a box in with him; the case files from all five murders would probably fill one.
She glanced up at the mirror, wondering if they were standing on the other side watching her, gauging her reactions. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what her reactions were telling them.
The door opened then, and Daire stepped inside with a grim looking Hotchner, who was carrying a collection of files in his hands. She knew those files, she’d been reading through them herself, had even written some of the contents. She wondered if that would affect how they choose to interview her.
There was a moment when they stood across the table from her staring each other down, before Daire silently picked up one of the chairs and carried it over to the wall. Hotchner watched her, waiting for her to sit before he pulled out the other chair and sat down himself.
No one said anything.
Ashley was very aware of her own heartbeat then, and she wondered if they could hear it too; if they could read her nervousness or if they were reading it as guilt.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you.” Hotchner said, and Ashley managed to nod instead of just staring dumbly at him. She understood there was a ritual to these things, but she’d already known he was going to ask her questions, without him telling her.
She was also aware that lack of sleep was probably impairing her judgement. She just hoped they would let her sleep once they were done.
“Why did you change your name from Beauchamp to Seaver?”
Ashley frowned. She guessed that one was meant as a control question, “Because I didn’t want to be associated with my father. After he was arrested, people treated us differently, they judged us because of him.” She could remember the things people had painted on their house, on her mom’s car. She wanted to hate them for it, had wanted to hate her father, but she couldn’t.
“How did you feel about that?”
Ashley shrugged, “Sometimes, I wanted to be angry, but mostly I just felt guilty. When they asked how we’d lived with him and never known, it made me feel guilty. I spent years wondering why I didn’t see it, why I hadn’t stopped him.”
“Do you still feel that way?” Ashley knew he was pitching his voice carefully, using it to soothe her, reassure her. It was another part of the interview technique he was using. The only thing, she could remember him now, that tone, it had triggered a memory of that same voice, years ago. She blinked back tears; she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t.
She took a shaky breath, squared her shoulders and met his gaze, “I know it wasn’t my fault. I still feel guilty, I’ll probably always wonder if it could have been different, but it happened and I can’t change it.”
“Do you know the details of your father’s case?” Hotchner’s tone didn’t give anything away.
“All I know is what was on the news. I’ve never looked him up; I never wanted to know the details.”
Hotchner’s eyes narrowed a little and Ashley fought not to flinch. He wasn’t really trying to be intimidating, but there was a weight to his gaze that made her uncomfortable. It was almost like he could see into her soul. “What do you know about what your father did to the women he killed?”
It was phrased not to be leading, she could tell, but she struggled. She hadn’t really known anything beyond ‘he killed women’, but now it was a more difficult question to answer. She knew what their unsub had done to the women they had murdered.
“Agent Seaver.” Hotchner’s voice gained an edge, and she winced. She’d taken too long to answer.
“Until Agent Jareau mentioned Agent Morgan’s theory, all I knew was that my father killed twenty five women. I had an idea that he had done so violently, but I didn’t know any more than that.” She paused, swallowing hard before forcing herself to continue, “Now, I guess I know what he did. He strangled them, then slit their throats,” she hesitated, taking deep breathes through her nose, forcing back the desire to throw up, “and while they were still alive, he mutilated them.”
She clasped her hands together on her lap; it was the only way she could think of to stop them from shaking so much. When the silence started to feel oppressive she looked up, meeting his gaze properly for the first time since he had walked into the room. She almost thought she saw a flash of sympathy in them, just for a moment.
“Why are the names of the victims so important to you?” He asked.
Ashley stared at him for a moment before she shook her head, “No one ever seems to remember them. No one can ever name any of my father’s victims, it doesn’t seem fair.”
“You want to remember the victims’ names?”
Ashley sighed, glaring at him, frustration suddenly seeming to overtake her fear, “Yes. The only way I’ve been able to get through these past six months, looking at dead bodies, is by making it about the victims. It shouldn’t be about the murderers, unsubs, whatever you want to call them.” She shook her head, “It’s about catching them before they can kill again. It’s about me having the chance to do what I couldn’t as a child. I might not have chosen this job, but I’m not going to let my past hold me back.”
Hotchner’s eyebrows rose, just a little, and his jaw clenched. She thought he was impressed, or maybe he had gas, it was hard to tell. She would hate to play him at poker, “I didn’t kill those women, but someone else did. Someone who for some sick, twisted, insane reason thinks what my father did is a good thing to imitate.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the nights of the murders?” His voice had softened again, back to the same tone he’d been using at first. She wondered if anyone had ever punched him for using that tone.
“I was at home, at work, or out with my,” she hesitated, considering saying friend or roommate, before she decided that she didn’t care what he thought, “girlfriend. There’s a camera on the entrance to my building, all of the entrances, and there are cameras here.”
He didn’t react, the same as he hadn’t reacted to any of her answers really, “What about your brother?”
Ashley froze, staring at him, “Charlie? He’s in L.A., he’s at college.” She swallowed hard, straightening in the chair, fighting to pull back her anger, “My mom lives there now as well. We moved around, after; mom wanted to put some distance between us and the ghost of our father.”
Hotchner nodded, “We’re going to have to confirm that.”
“I know,” she sounded weary, even to her own ears, but she couldn’t stay angry. He was asking her these questions because he had to. He was just doing his job, it wasn’t fair to hate him for it.
Her mother had told her that, the day they’d taken her father away in handcuffs.
He paused, watching her, like he still couldn’t quite figure her out, before he stood slowly, one hand holding his tie against his chest. He hadn’t opened the files, and she wasn’t going to ask him to.
“We spoke to the Detectives, Markham and Connors, they didn’t think you could be the killer. You flinch at the sight of blood, and you find it difficult to look at the bodies.”
“Do you think I killed them?” She held his gaze, “Do you think I’m killing them because I want to find a way to be close to my absent father, or that I hate women because ultimately it was women who took my father from me?”
Hotchner shook his head, “No, I don’t.” He gathered the files from the table, “I’ll ask Agent Morgan to take you home; he’ll stay with you until we’ve confirmed what you’ve told us.” He glanced at Daire before he turned and walked out of the room.
The door clicked shut, and Ashley kept looking at it, not sure what to say to her boss. She wasn’t sure there was anything to say. She heard Daire stand after a moment, heard the chair being picked up and carried back to where it belonged.
“It’s harder,” Daire broke the silence and Ashley had to look at her, “sitting in one of these rooms being questioned when you’re innocent.” She smiled, a twitch of her lips, and Ashley guessed her surprise must have shown on her face, “My father told me that, once.”
Ashley smiled, faintly, “I think it’s harder to be sitting outside, knowing that the person inside is guilty, but waiting for someone to actually say it.”
Ashley could feel the weight of Morgan’s gaze on her back as she fished her keys out of her pocket, and she wondered if he ever stopped profiling people. The drive to her apartment building had been tense. He hadn’t watched her interview, and he didn’t seem sure what to make of her.
“As a warning, I have a dog,” it was something she should have mentioned before, but she’d been too busy thinking about the fact that she was being escorted home by another FBI agent because she might be involved in a series of murders. She wasn’t, but she could be.
Somehow she managed not to sigh and thump her head against the door, instead she focused on each of the steps needed to get inside her apartment, mentally ticking each off as she completed it. Anything to not be thinking about how screwed she might be.
“I have a dog at home.” Morgan said, “I should be ok.”
Ashley paused, turning to stare at him. He frowned back at her, “What?”
“You have a dog, which means you smell like dog. You are going to get sniffed and licked, and possibly tackled to the floor.” Barnaby had done it before; he always got over excited when he could smell another dog. It had been amusing the first time, but embarrassing the second.
“I’m used to it.” Morgan nodded at the door, and Ashley sighed, turning the key again and pushing the door open, moving so that she was in the centre of the doorway, blocking Barnaby’s direct line to Morgan.
Barnaby wuffed a greeting before he jumped down from the couch, Ashley edged into the room slowly until she heard Morgan close the door. With the door closed, she tossed her keys into the bowl on the side, pulling off her jacket and hanging it up before slipping her shoes off.
“I’m going to bed. There’s food in the kitchen.” She waved in the relevant direction, not turning to see his reaction. She only stopped when he grabbed her arm, somehow managing to fend Barnaby off with his other arm.
“Gun?”
She turned, frowning at him. Her brain had finally given up; she needed sleep before she was going to be capable to sensible conversation. “Barnaby, leave him.” She waved her arms at Barnaby, who dropped back onto four paws, “What gun?”
“Do you have a back-up gun?”
They’d taken her gun and badge, she remembered, before they’d put her in the interview room. She shook her head, “Not here, in my locker at work, but not here.”
“Good.” He released her arm and motioned for her to continue on her way. She muttered about controlling men but went anyway.
The bed was more comfortable than the floor.
Ashley surfaced hours later to find Morgan on the couch with Barnaby sprawled across his legs, watching her TV. She frowned at him, ignoring the look he gave her. It was her apartment; she could wander around wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties if she wanted to.
“You going to dress?”
She glared. Now that she was effectively under house arrest, she didn’t care if he was higher on the food chain than she was. “In a while. Have you heard anything yet?”
His expression sobered, “Not yet.”
“Sorry you got stuck watching me.”
He shrugged, scratching Barnaby between his ears, “I’ve had worse jobs.”
Ashley nodded, “Considering what you do, I can believe that. I’m going to go get dressed.” Suddenly, she wanted to be wearing more clothes, though she doubted clothes would be any protection against a profiler.
As she walked back into the bedroom she hesitated, eying her laptop. She really hadn’t ever looked her father up, hadn’t even googled him. She frowned, picked it up and flipped it open then sat down Indian-style on the bed.
It took a few minutes to boot up, and she chewed on her hair absently. It wasn’t a good idea, but if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. She glanced at the door, wondering if Morgan would come looking if she took too long to dress.
She shook her head, refocusing on the laptop and opening up an internet window. She typed in her father’s name, hit enter, then opened a second tab and typed in ‘Redmond Ripper’. Then she scanned though the pages of results.
She wasn’t surprised to see that most of the links were to serial killer websites or news articles from when her father had been in court. He hadn’t had a nickname until after he’d been caught. The media had been fascinated by the only serial killer to have active in North Dakota. Her mom had hated it.
She didn’t click any of those links; instead she opened up the Wikipedia article. She knew it wouldn’t be correct; all of the reference would be from the other websites, or the newspapers, but it would give her an idea of just what people had been thinking over the years, when she’d told them who her father was.
Reading the entry she felt sick, there were a few abstracts from interviews with the families of her father’s victims. She knew some of the names, they’d lived in nearby, and she’d gone to school with their children. She closed the tabs, and then shut down the laptop. Her hands were shaking.
She didn’t want to read anymore. She wished she could go back to not knowing.
She dressed quickly, before she glanced at the clock, freezing as she realised how late it was. She heard keys in the front door, and cursed, hurrying back through the apartment.
Morgan’s hand was on his gun, Barnaby was hunched against the far wall looking sulky.
“Don’t, it’s ok, no gun pointing.” Ashley said, just as the door started to open and she caught a glimpse of red hair. Mellie came to a stop as she caught sight of the strange man in their apartment, green eyes widening.
“Ummm, Mellie, this is a, friend.” It wasn’t true, but it was a better answer than the truth, until Mellie closed the door and Ashley could get Morgan to explain what was happening. She had no idea what she was allowed to say.
Mellie frowned at Ashley briefly before stepping into the apartment and pushing the door closed behind her. She eyed Morgan for a moment before she smiled and held a hand out to him, “Melody Winters.”
Ashley knew that smile; it was Mellie’s professional smile. The one she used when she wasn’t sure how to react to something.
“Derek Morgan, FBI.” Morgan stepped forward and shook Mellie’s hand slowly, glancing between her and Ashley. Ashley couldn’t help but wonder what it was that was throwing him.
Mellie nodded to his gun, “I kinda guessed the FBI part already.” She paused, looking between the two of them, “does anyone feel like filling me in?”
Morgan frowned glancing at Ashley, who shrugged. It wasn’t like Mellie would care who told her, and if Morgan told her, he couldn’t yell at Ashley for saying too much. And, more importantly, she wouldn’t get Mellie into any trouble.
Mellie frowned again, clasping her hands together in front of herself, “How bad is whatever you don’t seem to want to tell me?”
That drew Morgan’s attention, “I’m here to watch Ashley, for a while.”
Ashley rolled her eyes, but didn’t comment.
Mellie’s frown deepened, and she moved her hands to her hips, a stance Ashley recognised from the few fights they’d had, “That tells me exactly nothing, Agent Morgan.”
“Ms Winters…”
Mellie’s eyes narrowed, “Miss Winters, and all I need to know is if you’re in our apartment because Ashley is in danger, or because she’s in trouble. I don’t need details.”
“I’m in trouble,” Ashley answered for him, ignoring the glare he directed in her direction, “we can leave if you want.”
Mellie sighed, rolling her eyes as she started to take her jacket off, “No, stupid, I can call a lawyer if you need me to though.”
Ashley held up her hands, “No lawyer needed.”
Mellie smiled, and then moved forward to kiss Ashley quickly on the lips, ignoring the bemused expression on Morgan’s face, “Good.” She turned to eye Morgan, “No threesomes I’m afraid, Agent Morgan, would you like a drink?”
Morgan coughed a laugh, before smiling at Mellie, “Noted, and coffee, please.”
Mellie nodded, hanging her coat up before she moved off into the kitchen, Barnaby in tow.
“Girlfriend?” Morgan looked at Ashley and she made a show of staring at him in surprise.
“You mean you hadn’t already profiled that about me?”
“Actually no, but sexuality can be a difficult thing to profile just from watching a person.”
“Come on to a lot of lesbians in clubs have you?” Ashley asked.
Morgan shrugged, “On occasion.”
“Not going to yell at me for telling her too much?” Ashley asked, though she doubted he would. It wasn’t like she’d actually told Mellie anything of substance.
“You didn’t tell her anything that I wouldn’t have,” he paused, watching Ashley for a moment, before he spoke again, “does she know?”
It was the question that Ashley had been expecting, another one of the list of questions she was always being asked once people knew her dirty little secret. Sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t worse, being related to a serial killer, than being a serial killer. By the time people knew what you’d done, you were behind bars. “She does.”
Morgan looked surprised, and Ashley felt a bit offended, though she wasn’t sure if she was offended more because he might have thought she wouldn’t have told her girlfriend, who she lived with, that her father killed people, or, because he might have thought that knowing your girlfriend’s father was a serial killer would be a deal breaker.
There were too many mights in that sentence for her liking.
“So you’d never choose to be in a relationship with the child of a serial killer?” Mellie stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of drinks, her tone carefully pitched to sound casual.
Morgan stilled, “Sorry?”
“The walls are thin,” Mellie supplied, holding the tray out towards him, nodding to a mug that had ‘FBI’ written on its side and waiting for him to take it, “I heard most of your conversation, and the end part of it? I’ve heard before.”
Morgan shifted a little, examining the contents of his mug for a moment before he met Mellie’s gaze, “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Mellie stared at him for a moment before she nodded, “That’s an honest answer at least.”
Ashley claimed her own mug, “I’ve never been dumped because someone found out about my father.”
Morgan didn’t look convinced.
“She’d been dumped because she’s a slob,” Mellie provided cheerfully, “which is fair enough.”
Ashley made a face. It was true; she’d even been almost dumped as a roommate because of the mess she tended to leave behind. That fact she’d been in the middle of finals hadn’t seemed to matter.
“I guess it’s probably a good test on whether someone really cares about you,” Morgan allowed.
Mellie eyed him, “It’s not something that’s good to advertise; I can imagine there’s a whole bunch of people who would date someone just because they’re related to a serial killer. Like those groupies,” She shuddered, shaking her head, “who I never fail to find disturbing.”
“Hybristophiles,” Morgan said, “people who are sexually attracted to people who commit violent acts.”
Ashley frowned, “There’s a fancy name for it?”
Morgan nodded, “There are fancy names for most things.”
Ashley wondered what the fancy names were that they’d given her father in their profiles, though Wikipedia had given her some idea. She didn’t trust Wikipedia on something like correct terminology.
“I do know there have been cases where serial killer’s kids have become serial killers themselves, but that’s mainly sons following their fathers.” Mellie commented, taking a sip of her coffee before throwing an apologetic look at Ashley, “I am in no way suggesting Charlie will follow in your father’s footsteps.”
Ashley managed a weak smile, even though she felt a little sick. She’d been trying not to think about Charlie, or her mother.
Morgan caught her gaze deliberately, his expression kind, before he turned to Mellie, “You know a lot about this stuff.”
Mellie rolled her eyes, “I read a lot, which is actually part of my job.”
“Your job?” Morgan sounded suspicious and Ashley rolled her eyes. He wasn’t doing so well with his profiling.
“Mellie works for a publisher.” Ashley provided.
“I read the manuscripts that get sent in; if they’re good I give them to my boss, if not I write a letter to the author, giving them some feedback. I’ve read a good few true crime books.” Mellie said, shrugging, “and I have to read the books other publishers are releasing, so I can keep abreast of what’s doing well.”
“Ever read David Rossi’s books?” Morgan settled back down on the couch. Ashley wasn’t sure if he was really interested or if he was just making safe conversation.
Mellie nodded, “Four of them at least; I’ve read Max Ryan’s as well. I think I prefer Rossi’s style.”
Ashley coughed, ducking her head while Morgan grinned. Mellie frowned, looking between the two of them. She eyed Morgan for a long moment before her eyes widened, “Oh, I’ve seen you on the news.”
“You have?” Morgan seemed surprised.
Mellie nodded, “You work with Rossi.”
Morgan shifted in a little, and Ashley could tell he was cursing himself for not thinking that Mellie might make the connection. Mellie, good as she was at reading people, picked up on his discomfort, glancing briefly at Ashley.
“Is his ego really as bad as they say?”
That surprised a laugh out of him and Ashley relaxed as the other two started to discuss Rossi’s reputation.
Ashley couldn’t help but think how strange it was, standing in her apartment, with her girlfriend and her official FBI keeper, talking about stuff that had little to do with the fact that less than a day ago she’d been stuck in an interview room. If she’d had a better imagination she might have been able to pretend that there wasn’t a killer loose in New York, copying her father’s murders.
Mountrail County, North Dakota, 1996
Rossi stood in front of the gathered staff of the Mountrail County Sheriff’s Department, with Katie at his side, while Aaron and Hamilton sat nearby, watching. Giving a profile wasn’t so much of a group effort. Aaron had been surprised when Rossi hadn’t dismissed them to keep going through the files.
“The unsub is a white male, aged somewhere between thirty and forty years old. He would have been in his twenties when he started killing,” Rossi started the profile, addressing the room at large, “he knows the local area well, so it’s likely that he has lived here for most of his life.
“Considering the spread of the crime scenes, he likely has a job that gives him a reason to travel around the county. He has the time to pick a place to kill and become familiar with that specific place. He knows that he will have the time to complete his rituals.” Rossi paused, gauging the reaction from the room, before he continued, “He is an organised offender. He carries his weapons with him and never leaves them behind at the crime scenes. Everything he does is carefully planned out, he doesn’t leave evidence behind, and he doesn’t take anything from his victims that could be used to connect him to them.
“He is highly intelligent and is most likely married with children. He is the last person you would expect to be a killer. He is charming, something he may to using to gain his victims trust before he kills them. He dresses well, and maintains an appearance appropriate to his social standing.
“It is very likely that he grew up in a dysfunctional home, with a mother who abused him, verbally rather than physically. He is either an only child, or an elder child. His upbringing caused him to crave power and domination, which in turn drove him to start killing, and he isn’t going to stop until he’s caught.
“He might have a connection to some of his victims, but it’s more likely they are strangers to him, or at the very least only passing acquaintances.
“He will have tried to inject himself into the investigation, most likely as a concerned citizen, so focus particularly on any men you have spoken to in regard to this case.” Rossi finished.
“How certain are you of all that?” Hawkes asked.
“Age is the most difficult variable to predict, the rest of it is based on what we’ve learned from the killers that we’ve caught. From what we’ve seen at the crime scenes, this guy is a power/control killer, and there are certain behaviours they all seem to share,” Rossi answered. “He may not match every part of the profile, but it gives you something to use to cut down your suspect list.”
“You didn’t mention if you think he has a criminal record,” Hawkes said, “shouldn’t he have done something else before he started killing?”
Rossi sighed, “This guy is controlled, he probably hasn’t got a criminal record, but it’s likely that there were earlier victims that haven’t been found yet. The victims we have, there’s no sign of progression, it’s like he just started killing with his technique already perfected.”
“So you think we should look for more victims?” One of the deputies spoke up, notepad resting on his knee, expression earnest.
“The first victims might have only been strangled,” Katie answered, taking over from Rossi, “given that the unsub seems to be using that as a way to control his victims initially, but it’s the way that he slashes his victims throats that suggests practice.”
“Couldn’t he be a doctor?” Another of the deputies this time, closer to the back of the room. Hamilton made a face.
“The way he mutilates the body doesn’t suggest medical training,” Katie said, “just a basic knowledge of anatomy.”
“Why do you think he kills them outside like he does, if he needs time to do what he does to the girls, why doesn’t he take them somewhere that he can be certain he wouldn’t get interrupted, then dump the bodies when he’s done?” The first deputy again, his knee bouncing a little. Aaron wondered if he’d been at any of the crime scenes.
“He doesn’t have access to somewhere private enough. He may have an area in his house that no one is allowed to enter but him, but he can’t use that space to kill.” Rossi answered, “There’s also the fact that if he were to use his car to transport the bodies, he could leave evidence behind that we could use to trace back to him. He is very careful not to leave any trace of himself behind, other than the act that he has committed.”
Silence fell, and Hawkes allowed a few minutes, waiting to see if there were any more questions before he straightened and stepped forward to take Rossi’s place, “If anyone of you can think of someone you know, or that you’ve spoken to about this case who you think fits the description the FBI just gave you let us know. If not, back to work, we’ve got a killer to catch.”
The staff dispersed, some heading home, others out on patrol, while the rest headed to their desks. Aaron watched them, focusing on the men. Their unsub could be one of the deputies, or a volunteer, they wouldn’t need to interject themselves into the investigation and they would have a reason to be traveling around the county. No one would question a law enforcement officer’s presence, especially not now, with the knowledge that someone in their community was a serial killer hanging over them.
Aaron sighed, glancing towards Hawkes, comparing what he knew about the man against the profile. He fitted some aspects, but Aaron couldn’t think of anything he’d seen in the man’s behaviour that would suggest involvement in the crimes.
“You think Hawkes could be our unsub?” Aaron managed not to jump as Rossi appeared behind him, breathing on Aaron’s neck as he spoke, voice pitched so that only Aaron would hear.
“No.” Aaron turned to face the other man as Katie and Hamilton moved over to join them.
“Why not?”
“He shows concern for the victims’ families, he isn’t comfortable around blood like you’d expect, and I’m fairly sure he’s the youngest of a number children.” It was a better answer than the automatic ‘because he doesn’t feel like a killer’, which he doubted would have gone down well with Rossi.
“He is,” Katie agreed, leaning against the desk beside Aaron, “I saw some photos of his family on his desk yesterday.”
“He isn’t comfortable around blood?” Hamilton questioned, casting a quick look in Hawkes’ direction.
“When we got to the crime scene yesterday, he walked Rossi to the body, then he headed back. His hands were shaking, and he looked a little green, but it wasn’t like the reaction someone has when they see the body of someone they know well.” Aaron provided. He’d seen that, mostly during his SWAT days, when someone failed to keep stop people getting through the cordon.
“I didn’t notice.” Hamilton frowned, and Rossi snorted.
“You were a bit busy throwing up.” Katie commented dryly.
“Should we do a check on all of the department staff?” Aaron asked, keeping his voice low.
“That’s one of the things I’ve had Ben doing, while he’s been hidden away in that room. He hasn’t found anything yet, or at least nothing he’s mentioned.” Rossi replied, “It’s worth reviewing their official records though, see if any of them routinely patrol in any of the areas around the crime scenes.”
They fell silent as Hawkes approached, one of the young women who worked the front desk in tow, “Mary thinks she might know someone who fits your profile.”
Mary offered them a weak smile, hands clasped nervously in front of herself, “There’s a delivery driver, he’s been in a few times, asking about the murders. He grew up around here, we lived on the same street, and he knows his way around.”
“He’s been on our suspect list for a while,” Hawkes added, “but I didn’t have any evidence, so I couldn’t even bring him in for questioning.”
Katie and Rossi exchanged a brief look, before Rossi turned to Hawkes, “Do you mind bringing him in? Tell him we’ve been told he might have seen something, don’t make it obvious that he’s a suspect.”
Hawkes nodded, “I can do that, and I’ll get you a copy of his file before I go.” He headed off, followed a moment later by Mary.
“As I’m naturally suspicious of anything this easy,” Rossi started, earned a snort from Katie, “I want you two to take another look at everyone you spoke to, find what you can on their background. Nancy should be able to help you with that.”
Aaron nodded his understanding, taking the instruction as a dismissal. He was aware, as he stood and headed to the conference room where the two researchers were holed up, that Hamilton didn’t follow.
Aaron was hutched over a desk in the bullpen with Nancy on the other side, records spread between them. Ben preferred to work in silence, and as they’d been comparing notes on their interviews, Aaron had suggested moving back to the desks they had been using before.
Nancy pushed a file towards him with the end of her pen, “Brother in law counts as too close a relationship?”
Aaron took the file, glancing at the name, “He’s victim number six’s brother in law?”
Nancy nodded, “Grace Jones.”
“The unsub could have started with someone he knew, could have been a trigger, but no, if he’s the sixth victim’s brother in law, he isn’t likely to be the unsub.” Aaron paused, reading through the end notes of the file, “He also doesn’t fit the description ‘highly intelligent’ and seems to have a taste for bar fights.”
Nancy made a face, “I hadn’t gotten that far down the page, I was considering discarding him just for personal proximity.”
“Personal proximity?” Aaron repeated, and she nodded.
“There’s a whole set of terms we researchers use, in our offices, as shorthand. Personal proximity is always a factor, but most of the ones that the BAU get called in on, they’ve already ruled out the people close to the victims. We always do a second check ourselves, but normally those with people who had a close personal proximity to the victims can be ruled out first.”
Aaron smiled, “Sounds sensible, I still have moment where I want to call them murderers or perpetrators instead of unsubs.”
Nancy smiled, “I think that’s understandable.” Her smile faded as she looked up, attracted by movement near the entrance to the bullpen. “I can see why he made it onto their suspect list.”
Aaron looked up, catching sight of the man that Hawkes was leading. He wasn’t attractive, he had a fairly tidy appearance, and held himself with a quiet confidence, but Aaron knew that the man would never be considered traditionally handsome. His nose had been broken at some point, and hadn’t been set straight, and his hair was a little dishevelled. “He does fit some of the profile.”
“On paper.” Nancy finished the thought, looking back down at the files in front of her, pointedly not watching as the man was lead to the interview room. Aaron followed suit, though he watched out of the corner of his eye as Rossi and Katie appeared, briefly, stepping out of the sheriff’s office to follow him deeper into the building.
Rossi had been right, it had been too easy. Profiles rarely instantly connected to a person, unless you’d formed a prior opinion, which Aaron suspected that Hawkes had. Digging through the pile of folders, he found the thin file with the list of possible witnesses.
He’d read it once, when he’d first gone through the case file, and had glanced at it since then, but it hadn’t been very helpful. A van had been seen in the area of five of the crime scenes, on the dates that the ME had given for the deaths of those victims. The witness statements didn’t make it clear whether it was even the same van though, some reporting that it was white, the others saying it was grey.
The other witness statements were mainly focused on the last time the victims had been seen alive. One had been seen getting off the bus, another leaving work and starting the walk home. It was depressing to read them and know that if people had just looked a little harder, they would have found them sooner.
Maybe they just hadn’t wanted to look harder. Missing might have been preferable to dead.
Aaron looked up from the list as Rossi reappeared, taking in the way that the other man was holding himself. Rossi weaved between the desks, coming to a stop next to Nancy’s chair.
“That was a quick interview.” Aaron commented, and Rossi sighed, shaking his head.
“The witness statements might place him close to some of the crime scenes.”
Aaron nodded to the statement in front of him, “He drives a white or grey van?”
“White,” Rossi confirmed, “but he has an alibi for at least four of the murders.”
“His wife?” Aaron was guessing, considering the guy was meant to fit the profile. Wives lied for their husbands a lot. Husbands lied for their wives less, though it depended what they were being accused of.
“For two of them, the other two he was out drinking with friends.” Rossi said, “Superficially, he fits, but he’s not our guy.”
Aaron nodded, while Nancy chewed on her pen.
“Looks like you’re going to have to keep at those files.” Rossi said, nodding at their pile, “Let me know if anything stands out to you. I’ll be in with Ben.”
Aaron nodded, turning his attention back to the statements. He sighed, scanning the names again, something nagging at him. A lot of the names were familiar; he’d followed up on a lot of the statements while talking to friends and family. But there was something else.
He read through the list again, running what he knew about each person on it through his head. One lived in a house close to one of the crime scenes, and had worked with another of the victims, another had no connection to any of them, but had been on the bus at the same time as one of them.
Aaron stiffened, staring at the third name from the bottom, and the notes beside it. That was the one that had been bothering him. One of the witnesses who claimed to have seen a van at one of the crime scenes. The only problem was, there was no reason for the witness to have been anywhere near that crime scene after dark.
Not when he lived in another town, thirty minutes’ drive away, and worked a job that shouldn’t have kept him out past dark.
Aaron looked up at Nancy, who stared back at him across the table, “Hotch?”
“I think I interviewed the unsub this morning.”
Part Five: Charles Beauchamp
-
Author: weaselett
Artist: pe1804
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Type: Gen, mentions of femslash and het: slightly AU from canon
Rating/Warnings: 15 (for descriptions of violence and some language)
Word Count for this part: 7,158
POV Characters: Ashley Seaver, Aaron Hotchner
Spoilers: Spoilers up to Season Six episode 10 (what happens at home).
Summary: There's a serial killer in New York, one who leaves no evidence behind at the crime scene and always seems to be one step ahead of the team investigating the murders. Their best chance seems to lie with the BAU, for whom the case brings back old memories. Written for casestory.
For full warning see masterpost here
New York, 2010
There was one question that people had always asked Ashley, when they learned who her father was and what he’d done.
How hadn’t she known?
There had been times when all she’d wanted to do was throw the question back at them, ask how could she have known? She’d been a baby when he’d first started killing. There had never been a point in her life when she’d suddenly noticed her father acting strangely. He’d just been himself. That had never changed.
She could remember, as a child, spending time in her friend’s homes, interacting with their parents. She’d noticed that their fathers didn’t act the same way hers did, but there had been differences between all of them. Some had been more affectionate, others had been stricter. She’d asked her mom once, out of curiosity, and her mom had just told her everyone was different. They had different beliefs, different approaches to the same things. There was nothing strange about that.
So she’d watched other people. She hadn’t always been subtle, she knows. One of her teachers had scolded her for it once, but in the end she’d decided that her mom had been right.
No one acted exactly like anyone else.
She sighed, and it echoed a little in the room. She still couldn’t quite accept what was happening, what they were telling her. Someone was copying her father. Repeating the crimes that had made her childhood so painful.
She wondered, briefly, if this would be the time for her to start to doubt her father’s guilt.
If there was someone copying her father, if they were mimicking every part of his crimes, as much as they could given they’d chosen to do it in New York, maybe he hadn’t killed those women.
Maybe the BAU had caught the wrong person.
But they hadn’t. She knew her father had been guilty.
She probably knew that better than anyone. She could still remember what he’d told her, the last time she’d seen him. How being caught had been the best day of his life.
Those words had lost their sting over the years, but as a child she’d never been hurt so badly as when her father had spoken those words.
He hadn’t been perfect, but she’d loved him; he’d been her father, her hero. She could remember him telling her that her birth had been one of the best days of his life. She knew he’d only said that because it was what fathers said, but as a child, those words had meant a lot to her.
It hadn’t been unusual for her father to come home late, but sometimes he had seemed lighter somehow. On those occasions, which happened once or twice a year, he would sit down on the couch with her, holding her hand while he told her elaborate stories about what he’d been doing that day. None of them had been true; she’d known that his job was boring, but she’d loved being on the receiving end of all that attention.
She could remember one of those times, when he’d come home and there had been blood on the cuff of his shirt. She knew it had still been wet, could remember how it had brushed her cheek as she’d hurried forward to greet her father. What she hadn’t known at the time was that it was a dead woman’s blood she was washing off her face that night.
Ashley shuddered, resting her elbows on the table in front of her and covering her face with her hands. The interrogation room was cool, cooler than the rest of the building, and she knew that was deliberate. They could heat it up if they wanted, if they wanted a suspect to be comfortable.
It had been a while since Daire had led her into the room; she thought it might have been hours, but she couldn’t tell. There wasn’t a clock in the room, and she didn’t have her watch. She had tried to nap for a while, but despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t.
She knew that was the point. She could still remember those sessions at the academy, being told about interview techniques, and which ones worked best on certain types of offenders. She wondered if Hotchner would bring a box in with him; the case files from all five murders would probably fill one.
She glanced up at the mirror, wondering if they were standing on the other side watching her, gauging her reactions. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know what her reactions were telling them.
The door opened then, and Daire stepped inside with a grim looking Hotchner, who was carrying a collection of files in his hands. She knew those files, she’d been reading through them herself, had even written some of the contents. She wondered if that would affect how they choose to interview her.
There was a moment when they stood across the table from her staring each other down, before Daire silently picked up one of the chairs and carried it over to the wall. Hotchner watched her, waiting for her to sit before he pulled out the other chair and sat down himself.
No one said anything.
Ashley was very aware of her own heartbeat then, and she wondered if they could hear it too; if they could read her nervousness or if they were reading it as guilt.
“I have a few questions I need to ask you.” Hotchner said, and Ashley managed to nod instead of just staring dumbly at him. She understood there was a ritual to these things, but she’d already known he was going to ask her questions, without him telling her.
She was also aware that lack of sleep was probably impairing her judgement. She just hoped they would let her sleep once they were done.
“Why did you change your name from Beauchamp to Seaver?”
Ashley frowned. She guessed that one was meant as a control question, “Because I didn’t want to be associated with my father. After he was arrested, people treated us differently, they judged us because of him.” She could remember the things people had painted on their house, on her mom’s car. She wanted to hate them for it, had wanted to hate her father, but she couldn’t.
“How did you feel about that?”
Ashley shrugged, “Sometimes, I wanted to be angry, but mostly I just felt guilty. When they asked how we’d lived with him and never known, it made me feel guilty. I spent years wondering why I didn’t see it, why I hadn’t stopped him.”
“Do you still feel that way?” Ashley knew he was pitching his voice carefully, using it to soothe her, reassure her. It was another part of the interview technique he was using. The only thing, she could remember him now, that tone, it had triggered a memory of that same voice, years ago. She blinked back tears; she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t.
She took a shaky breath, squared her shoulders and met his gaze, “I know it wasn’t my fault. I still feel guilty, I’ll probably always wonder if it could have been different, but it happened and I can’t change it.”
“Do you know the details of your father’s case?” Hotchner’s tone didn’t give anything away.
“All I know is what was on the news. I’ve never looked him up; I never wanted to know the details.”
Hotchner’s eyes narrowed a little and Ashley fought not to flinch. He wasn’t really trying to be intimidating, but there was a weight to his gaze that made her uncomfortable. It was almost like he could see into her soul. “What do you know about what your father did to the women he killed?”
It was phrased not to be leading, she could tell, but she struggled. She hadn’t really known anything beyond ‘he killed women’, but now it was a more difficult question to answer. She knew what their unsub had done to the women they had murdered.
“Agent Seaver.” Hotchner’s voice gained an edge, and she winced. She’d taken too long to answer.
“Until Agent Jareau mentioned Agent Morgan’s theory, all I knew was that my father killed twenty five women. I had an idea that he had done so violently, but I didn’t know any more than that.” She paused, swallowing hard before forcing herself to continue, “Now, I guess I know what he did. He strangled them, then slit their throats,” she hesitated, taking deep breathes through her nose, forcing back the desire to throw up, “and while they were still alive, he mutilated them.”
She clasped her hands together on her lap; it was the only way she could think of to stop them from shaking so much. When the silence started to feel oppressive she looked up, meeting his gaze properly for the first time since he had walked into the room. She almost thought she saw a flash of sympathy in them, just for a moment.
“Why are the names of the victims so important to you?” He asked.
Ashley stared at him for a moment before she shook her head, “No one ever seems to remember them. No one can ever name any of my father’s victims, it doesn’t seem fair.”
“You want to remember the victims’ names?”
Ashley sighed, glaring at him, frustration suddenly seeming to overtake her fear, “Yes. The only way I’ve been able to get through these past six months, looking at dead bodies, is by making it about the victims. It shouldn’t be about the murderers, unsubs, whatever you want to call them.” She shook her head, “It’s about catching them before they can kill again. It’s about me having the chance to do what I couldn’t as a child. I might not have chosen this job, but I’m not going to let my past hold me back.”
Hotchner’s eyebrows rose, just a little, and his jaw clenched. She thought he was impressed, or maybe he had gas, it was hard to tell. She would hate to play him at poker, “I didn’t kill those women, but someone else did. Someone who for some sick, twisted, insane reason thinks what my father did is a good thing to imitate.”
“Can you tell me where you were on the nights of the murders?” His voice had softened again, back to the same tone he’d been using at first. She wondered if anyone had ever punched him for using that tone.
“I was at home, at work, or out with my,” she hesitated, considering saying friend or roommate, before she decided that she didn’t care what he thought, “girlfriend. There’s a camera on the entrance to my building, all of the entrances, and there are cameras here.”
He didn’t react, the same as he hadn’t reacted to any of her answers really, “What about your brother?”
Ashley froze, staring at him, “Charlie? He’s in L.A., he’s at college.” She swallowed hard, straightening in the chair, fighting to pull back her anger, “My mom lives there now as well. We moved around, after; mom wanted to put some distance between us and the ghost of our father.”
Hotchner nodded, “We’re going to have to confirm that.”
“I know,” she sounded weary, even to her own ears, but she couldn’t stay angry. He was asking her these questions because he had to. He was just doing his job, it wasn’t fair to hate him for it.
Her mother had told her that, the day they’d taken her father away in handcuffs.
He paused, watching her, like he still couldn’t quite figure her out, before he stood slowly, one hand holding his tie against his chest. He hadn’t opened the files, and she wasn’t going to ask him to.
“We spoke to the Detectives, Markham and Connors, they didn’t think you could be the killer. You flinch at the sight of blood, and you find it difficult to look at the bodies.”
“Do you think I killed them?” She held his gaze, “Do you think I’m killing them because I want to find a way to be close to my absent father, or that I hate women because ultimately it was women who took my father from me?”
Hotchner shook his head, “No, I don’t.” He gathered the files from the table, “I’ll ask Agent Morgan to take you home; he’ll stay with you until we’ve confirmed what you’ve told us.” He glanced at Daire before he turned and walked out of the room.
The door clicked shut, and Ashley kept looking at it, not sure what to say to her boss. She wasn’t sure there was anything to say. She heard Daire stand after a moment, heard the chair being picked up and carried back to where it belonged.
“It’s harder,” Daire broke the silence and Ashley had to look at her, “sitting in one of these rooms being questioned when you’re innocent.” She smiled, a twitch of her lips, and Ashley guessed her surprise must have shown on her face, “My father told me that, once.”
Ashley smiled, faintly, “I think it’s harder to be sitting outside, knowing that the person inside is guilty, but waiting for someone to actually say it.”
Ashley could feel the weight of Morgan’s gaze on her back as she fished her keys out of her pocket, and she wondered if he ever stopped profiling people. The drive to her apartment building had been tense. He hadn’t watched her interview, and he didn’t seem sure what to make of her.
“As a warning, I have a dog,” it was something she should have mentioned before, but she’d been too busy thinking about the fact that she was being escorted home by another FBI agent because she might be involved in a series of murders. She wasn’t, but she could be.
Somehow she managed not to sigh and thump her head against the door, instead she focused on each of the steps needed to get inside her apartment, mentally ticking each off as she completed it. Anything to not be thinking about how screwed she might be.
“I have a dog at home.” Morgan said, “I should be ok.”
Ashley paused, turning to stare at him. He frowned back at her, “What?”
“You have a dog, which means you smell like dog. You are going to get sniffed and licked, and possibly tackled to the floor.” Barnaby had done it before; he always got over excited when he could smell another dog. It had been amusing the first time, but embarrassing the second.
“I’m used to it.” Morgan nodded at the door, and Ashley sighed, turning the key again and pushing the door open, moving so that she was in the centre of the doorway, blocking Barnaby’s direct line to Morgan.
Barnaby wuffed a greeting before he jumped down from the couch, Ashley edged into the room slowly until she heard Morgan close the door. With the door closed, she tossed her keys into the bowl on the side, pulling off her jacket and hanging it up before slipping her shoes off.
“I’m going to bed. There’s food in the kitchen.” She waved in the relevant direction, not turning to see his reaction. She only stopped when he grabbed her arm, somehow managing to fend Barnaby off with his other arm.
“Gun?”
She turned, frowning at him. Her brain had finally given up; she needed sleep before she was going to be capable to sensible conversation. “Barnaby, leave him.” She waved her arms at Barnaby, who dropped back onto four paws, “What gun?”
“Do you have a back-up gun?”
They’d taken her gun and badge, she remembered, before they’d put her in the interview room. She shook her head, “Not here, in my locker at work, but not here.”
“Good.” He released her arm and motioned for her to continue on her way. She muttered about controlling men but went anyway.
The bed was more comfortable than the floor.
Ashley surfaced hours later to find Morgan on the couch with Barnaby sprawled across his legs, watching her TV. She frowned at him, ignoring the look he gave her. It was her apartment; she could wander around wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and panties if she wanted to.
“You going to dress?”
She glared. Now that she was effectively under house arrest, she didn’t care if he was higher on the food chain than she was. “In a while. Have you heard anything yet?”
His expression sobered, “Not yet.”
“Sorry you got stuck watching me.”
He shrugged, scratching Barnaby between his ears, “I’ve had worse jobs.”
Ashley nodded, “Considering what you do, I can believe that. I’m going to go get dressed.” Suddenly, she wanted to be wearing more clothes, though she doubted clothes would be any protection against a profiler.
As she walked back into the bedroom she hesitated, eying her laptop. She really hadn’t ever looked her father up, hadn’t even googled him. She frowned, picked it up and flipped it open then sat down Indian-style on the bed.
It took a few minutes to boot up, and she chewed on her hair absently. It wasn’t a good idea, but if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. She glanced at the door, wondering if Morgan would come looking if she took too long to dress.
She shook her head, refocusing on the laptop and opening up an internet window. She typed in her father’s name, hit enter, then opened a second tab and typed in ‘Redmond Ripper’. Then she scanned though the pages of results.
She wasn’t surprised to see that most of the links were to serial killer websites or news articles from when her father had been in court. He hadn’t had a nickname until after he’d been caught. The media had been fascinated by the only serial killer to have active in North Dakota. Her mom had hated it.
She didn’t click any of those links; instead she opened up the Wikipedia article. She knew it wouldn’t be correct; all of the reference would be from the other websites, or the newspapers, but it would give her an idea of just what people had been thinking over the years, when she’d told them who her father was.
Reading the entry she felt sick, there were a few abstracts from interviews with the families of her father’s victims. She knew some of the names, they’d lived in nearby, and she’d gone to school with their children. She closed the tabs, and then shut down the laptop. Her hands were shaking.
She didn’t want to read anymore. She wished she could go back to not knowing.
She dressed quickly, before she glanced at the clock, freezing as she realised how late it was. She heard keys in the front door, and cursed, hurrying back through the apartment.
Morgan’s hand was on his gun, Barnaby was hunched against the far wall looking sulky.
“Don’t, it’s ok, no gun pointing.” Ashley said, just as the door started to open and she caught a glimpse of red hair. Mellie came to a stop as she caught sight of the strange man in their apartment, green eyes widening.
“Ummm, Mellie, this is a, friend.” It wasn’t true, but it was a better answer than the truth, until Mellie closed the door and Ashley could get Morgan to explain what was happening. She had no idea what she was allowed to say.
Mellie frowned at Ashley briefly before stepping into the apartment and pushing the door closed behind her. She eyed Morgan for a moment before she smiled and held a hand out to him, “Melody Winters.”
Ashley knew that smile; it was Mellie’s professional smile. The one she used when she wasn’t sure how to react to something.
“Derek Morgan, FBI.” Morgan stepped forward and shook Mellie’s hand slowly, glancing between her and Ashley. Ashley couldn’t help but wonder what it was that was throwing him.
Mellie nodded to his gun, “I kinda guessed the FBI part already.” She paused, looking between the two of them, “does anyone feel like filling me in?”
Morgan frowned glancing at Ashley, who shrugged. It wasn’t like Mellie would care who told her, and if Morgan told her, he couldn’t yell at Ashley for saying too much. And, more importantly, she wouldn’t get Mellie into any trouble.
Mellie frowned again, clasping her hands together in front of herself, “How bad is whatever you don’t seem to want to tell me?”
That drew Morgan’s attention, “I’m here to watch Ashley, for a while.”
Ashley rolled her eyes, but didn’t comment.
Mellie’s frown deepened, and she moved her hands to her hips, a stance Ashley recognised from the few fights they’d had, “That tells me exactly nothing, Agent Morgan.”
“Ms Winters…”
Mellie’s eyes narrowed, “Miss Winters, and all I need to know is if you’re in our apartment because Ashley is in danger, or because she’s in trouble. I don’t need details.”
“I’m in trouble,” Ashley answered for him, ignoring the glare he directed in her direction, “we can leave if you want.”
Mellie sighed, rolling her eyes as she started to take her jacket off, “No, stupid, I can call a lawyer if you need me to though.”
Ashley held up her hands, “No lawyer needed.”
Mellie smiled, and then moved forward to kiss Ashley quickly on the lips, ignoring the bemused expression on Morgan’s face, “Good.” She turned to eye Morgan, “No threesomes I’m afraid, Agent Morgan, would you like a drink?”
Morgan coughed a laugh, before smiling at Mellie, “Noted, and coffee, please.”
Mellie nodded, hanging her coat up before she moved off into the kitchen, Barnaby in tow.
“Girlfriend?” Morgan looked at Ashley and she made a show of staring at him in surprise.
“You mean you hadn’t already profiled that about me?”
“Actually no, but sexuality can be a difficult thing to profile just from watching a person.”
“Come on to a lot of lesbians in clubs have you?” Ashley asked.
Morgan shrugged, “On occasion.”
“Not going to yell at me for telling her too much?” Ashley asked, though she doubted he would. It wasn’t like she’d actually told Mellie anything of substance.
“You didn’t tell her anything that I wouldn’t have,” he paused, watching Ashley for a moment, before he spoke again, “does she know?”
It was the question that Ashley had been expecting, another one of the list of questions she was always being asked once people knew her dirty little secret. Sometimes she wondered if it wasn’t worse, being related to a serial killer, than being a serial killer. By the time people knew what you’d done, you were behind bars. “She does.”
Morgan looked surprised, and Ashley felt a bit offended, though she wasn’t sure if she was offended more because he might have thought she wouldn’t have told her girlfriend, who she lived with, that her father killed people, or, because he might have thought that knowing your girlfriend’s father was a serial killer would be a deal breaker.
There were too many mights in that sentence for her liking.
“So you’d never choose to be in a relationship with the child of a serial killer?” Mellie stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of drinks, her tone carefully pitched to sound casual.
Morgan stilled, “Sorry?”
“The walls are thin,” Mellie supplied, holding the tray out towards him, nodding to a mug that had ‘FBI’ written on its side and waiting for him to take it, “I heard most of your conversation, and the end part of it? I’ve heard before.”
Morgan shifted a little, examining the contents of his mug for a moment before he met Mellie’s gaze, “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Mellie stared at him for a moment before she nodded, “That’s an honest answer at least.”
Ashley claimed her own mug, “I’ve never been dumped because someone found out about my father.”
Morgan didn’t look convinced.
“She’d been dumped because she’s a slob,” Mellie provided cheerfully, “which is fair enough.”
Ashley made a face. It was true; she’d even been almost dumped as a roommate because of the mess she tended to leave behind. That fact she’d been in the middle of finals hadn’t seemed to matter.
“I guess it’s probably a good test on whether someone really cares about you,” Morgan allowed.
Mellie eyed him, “It’s not something that’s good to advertise; I can imagine there’s a whole bunch of people who would date someone just because they’re related to a serial killer. Like those groupies,” She shuddered, shaking her head, “who I never fail to find disturbing.”
“Hybristophiles,” Morgan said, “people who are sexually attracted to people who commit violent acts.”
Ashley frowned, “There’s a fancy name for it?”
Morgan nodded, “There are fancy names for most things.”
Ashley wondered what the fancy names were that they’d given her father in their profiles, though Wikipedia had given her some idea. She didn’t trust Wikipedia on something like correct terminology.
“I do know there have been cases where serial killer’s kids have become serial killers themselves, but that’s mainly sons following their fathers.” Mellie commented, taking a sip of her coffee before throwing an apologetic look at Ashley, “I am in no way suggesting Charlie will follow in your father’s footsteps.”
Ashley managed a weak smile, even though she felt a little sick. She’d been trying not to think about Charlie, or her mother.
Morgan caught her gaze deliberately, his expression kind, before he turned to Mellie, “You know a lot about this stuff.”
Mellie rolled her eyes, “I read a lot, which is actually part of my job.”
“Your job?” Morgan sounded suspicious and Ashley rolled her eyes. He wasn’t doing so well with his profiling.
“Mellie works for a publisher.” Ashley provided.
“I read the manuscripts that get sent in; if they’re good I give them to my boss, if not I write a letter to the author, giving them some feedback. I’ve read a good few true crime books.” Mellie said, shrugging, “and I have to read the books other publishers are releasing, so I can keep abreast of what’s doing well.”
“Ever read David Rossi’s books?” Morgan settled back down on the couch. Ashley wasn’t sure if he was really interested or if he was just making safe conversation.
Mellie nodded, “Four of them at least; I’ve read Max Ryan’s as well. I think I prefer Rossi’s style.”
Ashley coughed, ducking her head while Morgan grinned. Mellie frowned, looking between the two of them. She eyed Morgan for a long moment before her eyes widened, “Oh, I’ve seen you on the news.”
“You have?” Morgan seemed surprised.
Mellie nodded, “You work with Rossi.”
Morgan shifted in a little, and Ashley could tell he was cursing himself for not thinking that Mellie might make the connection. Mellie, good as she was at reading people, picked up on his discomfort, glancing briefly at Ashley.
“Is his ego really as bad as they say?”
That surprised a laugh out of him and Ashley relaxed as the other two started to discuss Rossi’s reputation.
Ashley couldn’t help but think how strange it was, standing in her apartment, with her girlfriend and her official FBI keeper, talking about stuff that had little to do with the fact that less than a day ago she’d been stuck in an interview room. If she’d had a better imagination she might have been able to pretend that there wasn’t a killer loose in New York, copying her father’s murders.
Mountrail County, North Dakota, 1996
Rossi stood in front of the gathered staff of the Mountrail County Sheriff’s Department, with Katie at his side, while Aaron and Hamilton sat nearby, watching. Giving a profile wasn’t so much of a group effort. Aaron had been surprised when Rossi hadn’t dismissed them to keep going through the files.
“The unsub is a white male, aged somewhere between thirty and forty years old. He would have been in his twenties when he started killing,” Rossi started the profile, addressing the room at large, “he knows the local area well, so it’s likely that he has lived here for most of his life.
“Considering the spread of the crime scenes, he likely has a job that gives him a reason to travel around the county. He has the time to pick a place to kill and become familiar with that specific place. He knows that he will have the time to complete his rituals.” Rossi paused, gauging the reaction from the room, before he continued, “He is an organised offender. He carries his weapons with him and never leaves them behind at the crime scenes. Everything he does is carefully planned out, he doesn’t leave evidence behind, and he doesn’t take anything from his victims that could be used to connect him to them.
“He is highly intelligent and is most likely married with children. He is the last person you would expect to be a killer. He is charming, something he may to using to gain his victims trust before he kills them. He dresses well, and maintains an appearance appropriate to his social standing.
“It is very likely that he grew up in a dysfunctional home, with a mother who abused him, verbally rather than physically. He is either an only child, or an elder child. His upbringing caused him to crave power and domination, which in turn drove him to start killing, and he isn’t going to stop until he’s caught.
“He might have a connection to some of his victims, but it’s more likely they are strangers to him, or at the very least only passing acquaintances.
“He will have tried to inject himself into the investigation, most likely as a concerned citizen, so focus particularly on any men you have spoken to in regard to this case.” Rossi finished.
“How certain are you of all that?” Hawkes asked.
“Age is the most difficult variable to predict, the rest of it is based on what we’ve learned from the killers that we’ve caught. From what we’ve seen at the crime scenes, this guy is a power/control killer, and there are certain behaviours they all seem to share,” Rossi answered. “He may not match every part of the profile, but it gives you something to use to cut down your suspect list.”
“You didn’t mention if you think he has a criminal record,” Hawkes said, “shouldn’t he have done something else before he started killing?”
Rossi sighed, “This guy is controlled, he probably hasn’t got a criminal record, but it’s likely that there were earlier victims that haven’t been found yet. The victims we have, there’s no sign of progression, it’s like he just started killing with his technique already perfected.”
“So you think we should look for more victims?” One of the deputies spoke up, notepad resting on his knee, expression earnest.
“The first victims might have only been strangled,” Katie answered, taking over from Rossi, “given that the unsub seems to be using that as a way to control his victims initially, but it’s the way that he slashes his victims throats that suggests practice.”
“Couldn’t he be a doctor?” Another of the deputies this time, closer to the back of the room. Hamilton made a face.
“The way he mutilates the body doesn’t suggest medical training,” Katie said, “just a basic knowledge of anatomy.”
“Why do you think he kills them outside like he does, if he needs time to do what he does to the girls, why doesn’t he take them somewhere that he can be certain he wouldn’t get interrupted, then dump the bodies when he’s done?” The first deputy again, his knee bouncing a little. Aaron wondered if he’d been at any of the crime scenes.
“He doesn’t have access to somewhere private enough. He may have an area in his house that no one is allowed to enter but him, but he can’t use that space to kill.” Rossi answered, “There’s also the fact that if he were to use his car to transport the bodies, he could leave evidence behind that we could use to trace back to him. He is very careful not to leave any trace of himself behind, other than the act that he has committed.”
Silence fell, and Hawkes allowed a few minutes, waiting to see if there were any more questions before he straightened and stepped forward to take Rossi’s place, “If anyone of you can think of someone you know, or that you’ve spoken to about this case who you think fits the description the FBI just gave you let us know. If not, back to work, we’ve got a killer to catch.”
The staff dispersed, some heading home, others out on patrol, while the rest headed to their desks. Aaron watched them, focusing on the men. Their unsub could be one of the deputies, or a volunteer, they wouldn’t need to interject themselves into the investigation and they would have a reason to be traveling around the county. No one would question a law enforcement officer’s presence, especially not now, with the knowledge that someone in their community was a serial killer hanging over them.
Aaron sighed, glancing towards Hawkes, comparing what he knew about the man against the profile. He fitted some aspects, but Aaron couldn’t think of anything he’d seen in the man’s behaviour that would suggest involvement in the crimes.
“You think Hawkes could be our unsub?” Aaron managed not to jump as Rossi appeared behind him, breathing on Aaron’s neck as he spoke, voice pitched so that only Aaron would hear.
“No.” Aaron turned to face the other man as Katie and Hamilton moved over to join them.
“Why not?”
“He shows concern for the victims’ families, he isn’t comfortable around blood like you’d expect, and I’m fairly sure he’s the youngest of a number children.” It was a better answer than the automatic ‘because he doesn’t feel like a killer’, which he doubted would have gone down well with Rossi.
“He is,” Katie agreed, leaning against the desk beside Aaron, “I saw some photos of his family on his desk yesterday.”
“He isn’t comfortable around blood?” Hamilton questioned, casting a quick look in Hawkes’ direction.
“When we got to the crime scene yesterday, he walked Rossi to the body, then he headed back. His hands were shaking, and he looked a little green, but it wasn’t like the reaction someone has when they see the body of someone they know well.” Aaron provided. He’d seen that, mostly during his SWAT days, when someone failed to keep stop people getting through the cordon.
“I didn’t notice.” Hamilton frowned, and Rossi snorted.
“You were a bit busy throwing up.” Katie commented dryly.
“Should we do a check on all of the department staff?” Aaron asked, keeping his voice low.
“That’s one of the things I’ve had Ben doing, while he’s been hidden away in that room. He hasn’t found anything yet, or at least nothing he’s mentioned.” Rossi replied, “It’s worth reviewing their official records though, see if any of them routinely patrol in any of the areas around the crime scenes.”
They fell silent as Hawkes approached, one of the young women who worked the front desk in tow, “Mary thinks she might know someone who fits your profile.”
Mary offered them a weak smile, hands clasped nervously in front of herself, “There’s a delivery driver, he’s been in a few times, asking about the murders. He grew up around here, we lived on the same street, and he knows his way around.”
“He’s been on our suspect list for a while,” Hawkes added, “but I didn’t have any evidence, so I couldn’t even bring him in for questioning.”
Katie and Rossi exchanged a brief look, before Rossi turned to Hawkes, “Do you mind bringing him in? Tell him we’ve been told he might have seen something, don’t make it obvious that he’s a suspect.”
Hawkes nodded, “I can do that, and I’ll get you a copy of his file before I go.” He headed off, followed a moment later by Mary.
“As I’m naturally suspicious of anything this easy,” Rossi started, earned a snort from Katie, “I want you two to take another look at everyone you spoke to, find what you can on their background. Nancy should be able to help you with that.”
Aaron nodded his understanding, taking the instruction as a dismissal. He was aware, as he stood and headed to the conference room where the two researchers were holed up, that Hamilton didn’t follow.
Aaron was hutched over a desk in the bullpen with Nancy on the other side, records spread between them. Ben preferred to work in silence, and as they’d been comparing notes on their interviews, Aaron had suggested moving back to the desks they had been using before.
Nancy pushed a file towards him with the end of her pen, “Brother in law counts as too close a relationship?”
Aaron took the file, glancing at the name, “He’s victim number six’s brother in law?”
Nancy nodded, “Grace Jones.”
“The unsub could have started with someone he knew, could have been a trigger, but no, if he’s the sixth victim’s brother in law, he isn’t likely to be the unsub.” Aaron paused, reading through the end notes of the file, “He also doesn’t fit the description ‘highly intelligent’ and seems to have a taste for bar fights.”
Nancy made a face, “I hadn’t gotten that far down the page, I was considering discarding him just for personal proximity.”
“Personal proximity?” Aaron repeated, and she nodded.
“There’s a whole set of terms we researchers use, in our offices, as shorthand. Personal proximity is always a factor, but most of the ones that the BAU get called in on, they’ve already ruled out the people close to the victims. We always do a second check ourselves, but normally those with people who had a close personal proximity to the victims can be ruled out first.”
Aaron smiled, “Sounds sensible, I still have moment where I want to call them murderers or perpetrators instead of unsubs.”
Nancy smiled, “I think that’s understandable.” Her smile faded as she looked up, attracted by movement near the entrance to the bullpen. “I can see why he made it onto their suspect list.”
Aaron looked up, catching sight of the man that Hawkes was leading. He wasn’t attractive, he had a fairly tidy appearance, and held himself with a quiet confidence, but Aaron knew that the man would never be considered traditionally handsome. His nose had been broken at some point, and hadn’t been set straight, and his hair was a little dishevelled. “He does fit some of the profile.”
“On paper.” Nancy finished the thought, looking back down at the files in front of her, pointedly not watching as the man was lead to the interview room. Aaron followed suit, though he watched out of the corner of his eye as Rossi and Katie appeared, briefly, stepping out of the sheriff’s office to follow him deeper into the building.
Rossi had been right, it had been too easy. Profiles rarely instantly connected to a person, unless you’d formed a prior opinion, which Aaron suspected that Hawkes had. Digging through the pile of folders, he found the thin file with the list of possible witnesses.
He’d read it once, when he’d first gone through the case file, and had glanced at it since then, but it hadn’t been very helpful. A van had been seen in the area of five of the crime scenes, on the dates that the ME had given for the deaths of those victims. The witness statements didn’t make it clear whether it was even the same van though, some reporting that it was white, the others saying it was grey.
The other witness statements were mainly focused on the last time the victims had been seen alive. One had been seen getting off the bus, another leaving work and starting the walk home. It was depressing to read them and know that if people had just looked a little harder, they would have found them sooner.
Maybe they just hadn’t wanted to look harder. Missing might have been preferable to dead.
Aaron looked up from the list as Rossi reappeared, taking in the way that the other man was holding himself. Rossi weaved between the desks, coming to a stop next to Nancy’s chair.
“That was a quick interview.” Aaron commented, and Rossi sighed, shaking his head.
“The witness statements might place him close to some of the crime scenes.”
Aaron nodded to the statement in front of him, “He drives a white or grey van?”
“White,” Rossi confirmed, “but he has an alibi for at least four of the murders.”
“His wife?” Aaron was guessing, considering the guy was meant to fit the profile. Wives lied for their husbands a lot. Husbands lied for their wives less, though it depended what they were being accused of.
“For two of them, the other two he was out drinking with friends.” Rossi said, “Superficially, he fits, but he’s not our guy.”
Aaron nodded, while Nancy chewed on her pen.
“Looks like you’re going to have to keep at those files.” Rossi said, nodding at their pile, “Let me know if anything stands out to you. I’ll be in with Ben.”
Aaron nodded, turning his attention back to the statements. He sighed, scanning the names again, something nagging at him. A lot of the names were familiar; he’d followed up on a lot of the statements while talking to friends and family. But there was something else.
He read through the list again, running what he knew about each person on it through his head. One lived in a house close to one of the crime scenes, and had worked with another of the victims, another had no connection to any of them, but had been on the bus at the same time as one of them.
Aaron stiffened, staring at the third name from the bottom, and the notes beside it. That was the one that had been bothering him. One of the witnesses who claimed to have seen a van at one of the crime scenes. The only problem was, there was no reason for the witness to have been anywhere near that crime scene after dark.
Not when he lived in another town, thirty minutes’ drive away, and worked a job that shouldn’t have kept him out past dark.
Aaron looked up at Nancy, who stared back at him across the table, “Hotch?”
“I think I interviewed the unsub this morning.”
Part Five: Charles Beauchamp
-