Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole
Chapter 2: Down the Rabbit Hole
Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next.
-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
“Ok, buddy, let’s go over this one more time.”
“I’m not your buddy,” Hotch replied coldly, not deigning to spare the man a glance.
“Whatever. You wanna be a hard ass, fine. Tell it to me again, hard ass,” the cop said, bending over Hotch in what was intended to be a threatening manner.
The seasoned agent rolled his eyes; sighed in a put-upon way. “My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner. A man named Clarence - last name unknown - stole my wallet and my credentials. You can contact Section Chief Erin Strauss at Quantico to confirm my identity. Or, maybe, SSA David Rossi. Or SSA Derek Morgan, the acting Unit Chief of the BAU.”
“And you’re a member of this BAU?” the other cop asked, tenting his fingers in an attempt to look attentive.
“The Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes. I am - or was - Unit Chief.”
“Uh huh. Was. What happened there, hotshot?”
Hotch gritted his teeth. They’d been over this half a dozen times. “I told you. I’d rather not repeat it all again.”
“Humor us,” the first cop said.
“When George Foyet - the Boston Reaper - reemerged, he came after me, and then he went after my family. They were put into protective custody, but due to the emotional strain, I voluntarily stepped down from my position as Unit Chief on a temporary basis,” he ground out.
“Right. Now explain to us how you know the identity of the Boston Reaper. What’s next, you unmask Jack the Ripper?”
Their humor was wearing thin. “I was originally assigned to the Reaper case ten years ago. We didn’t catch him then because he made a deal…look, this has all been in the papers. What happened yesterday was all over the news. The Reaper…he…he killed my wife, and I killed him.”
“You confessin’ to a murder now?” the more aggressive cop - Delaney, his name was - asked with a glance at his partner.
“No. Look, the FBI knows what happened. They’re investigating now. I killed him-” He held up his hands and went cold. In all the drama, he hadn’t noticed the lack of pain. Now he saw that his formerly bruised and battered hands were whole, undamaged. He blinked; flexed his fingers.
“Somethin’ wrong with your hands?” Delaney asked.
Hotch pulled up his shirt, causing the two cops to jump back in surprise. “Look, Del, he’s strippin’ for us!” the second cop said.
“The scars,” he whispered, running a hand over his abdomen. “I had…there were nine scars where Foyet stabbed me.”
The two men exchanged wary glances.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said without looking up at them. “I’m not crazy. Just contact the FBI and check out my story, alright? They’ll confirm it. Section Chief Erin Strauss. She doesn’t like me much, but she sure as hell knows who I am.”
“Alright,” the second cop - Mahoney - said as he hoisted Hotch up from the chair. “We’ll call the FBI. Hell, maybe they are lookin’ for you. In the meantime, it’s holding. Don’t bother the drunk, ok?”
Still dazed and confused by his lack of scars, Hotch allowed the cops to lead him to the holding tank and throw him in. The door clanged shut behind him, and as his gaze roamed the small space, he couldn’t help but notice the figure sprawled out on the cot. The drunk, he guessed. Sighing, Hotch found a spot on the bolted-down bench and settled in for a wait.
“Ah, young Aaron, we meet again,” a familiar voice said.
Hotch closed his eyes; leaned his head back against the wall. “Where did you come from?”
The drunk sat up, smiling merrily, fathomless eyes twinkling infuriatingly. “That’s an interesting question, and it has several very long, complicated answers. Perhaps such a discussion should wait for another time, eh?”
Hotch rotated his head; squinted at the strange man. “Look, Clarence - or whoever the hell you are - I want my wallet back. These guys think I was breaking into some woman’s apartment, and apparently they haven’t opened a newspaper or turned on the TV any time in the last week.”
“I don’t have your wallet,” the man said quietly.
He sighed, brow furrowing. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. They’re calling Strauss now; this’ll all be straightened out in a few minutes.”
Clarence offered a sigh of his own, this one like a gust of wind along a canyon bed. “No, Aaron, I’m afraid it won’t be. Ms. Strauss has never heard of you, and she’ll tell the officers that.”
“You’re crazy, you know that? I don’t have time for ridiculous games. If you’re not going to be any help, then just shut up.”
“I can help you, but only very little.” He held out a card, simple and unadorned, with only a name and a phone number printed on it. “When those men come back and give you the bad news, call her. She won’t know you, either, but she will help you. Tell her I sent you.”
“Garcia?” Hotch demanded as he read the name. “That isn’t Garcia’s number. I told you I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
The man pressed his palms together, and Hotch observed again how strangely ageless - and yet ancient - his hands looked. His skin was porcelain pale, parchment thin, but at the same time he had an odd and unexpected…vigor…that one only associated with the young. “I don’t expect you to believe me, Aaron. I knew you would be a difficult case. Just keep the number. Consider Penelope a sort of…oracle, if you will; a voice to guide you on your journey. The Greeks had the Pythia; you have Penelope. Be thankful your oracle doesn’t spend her time getting high on gas vapors.”
Hotch eyed him; accepted the card reluctantly. “I must be losing my mind.”
“No, my friend, not losing it. Just…rearranging it a bit.” He yawned hugely and stretched wiry arms above his head. “I find myself growing weary. To sleep, young Aaron, perchance to dream. Farewell for now; I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.” He curled up on the cot again, giving every appearance of the passed out drunk he’d seemed when Hotch entered the cell.
“Alright, hotshot, game’s up. Your Section Chief Strauss just told me to go fuck myself,” Delaney’s obnoxious voice barked from outside the bars.
Hotch raised a brow. “That sounds like her. What else did she say?”
“She’s never heard of you. Got any more bright ideas?”
He frowned down at the card in his hand, Clarence’s odd words echoing in his beleaguered mind. “Yeah,” he said at last, “I’d like to make a phone call.”
Delaney shrugged. “Fine, G-Man, let’s go.”
Once at the payphone, Hotch felt like an idiot. Garcia would laugh her ass off at this. He sighed, lifted the receiver, and dialed. It seemed like an eternity before he heard her familiar voice, though it sounded more strained than he’d ever heard it. “Who are you and how the hell did you get this number?”
Hotch blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Um. Garcia, it’s Hotch. You’re going to laugh, but-”
“Hotch who?” she interrupted. “I don’t know a Hotch. Is that a codename?”
He stared at the phone in his hand, thoroughly nonplussed. He pressed the receiver to his ear again and cleared his throat. “I…a…a friend gave me your number.”
“None of my friends would’ve given anyone who sounds as much like a cop as you do my number. I’m two seconds away from hanging up unless I get some hard info.”
A cop? I sound like a bumbling moron. “Clarence gave it to me, Garcia. I need your help.”
The silence was deafening, and he was beginning to think she’d hung up on him when, at last, “I’m sending someone now. She’ll be there in five minutes.”
“What? Garcia, who-” Click. He stood blinking idiotically until the blare of the disconnect signal began sounding in his ear. He hung up and turned back to Delaney and his smug face. He had no idea who Garcia was sending, but she’d better be damn good to get him out of this weird, screwed up mess.
It's hard writing Hotch so...confused. He's always Mr. Pulled Together. Tricky business. :)