"You don't like me, do you?"
"Wow. Nothing gets past you, Sherlock. Do you keep one of those magnifying glasses tucked away in that little vest of yours?"
•••
Lydia Beowulf works for the Hostage Response T...
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"Mothers not a suspect anymore?" The police chief demanded, walking over to the table the team sat at. The table was oblong and mahogany, with a fresh water pitcher placed in the center. Paper cups to pair.
"Based on our assessment, we need to reprioritize." Hotch replied with his usual pointed brow.
"The concern for her son was genuine. Her tone of voice, body language. She didn't once ask if she was in trouble, under arrest, where's my lawyer? None of that." JJ explained.
"Home environment points the same direction. The money's tight, but mom did whatever she could to create a nice world for her son," Morgan added, flipping a ball point pen between his fingers. "Whatever cash she had she spent on him."
"Only 4 pairs of shoes in her closet." Reid added. Lydia's glance darted to him. She wasn't the only one, because she noticed JJ's eyebrow raise at the man. After realizing he was in fact not joking, Lydia's face twisted in lighthearted confusion. Of course he would bring that part up.
"Anyway," she shifted the attention to her, "Marlene helped Bobby be self sufficient. The kitchen had everything in reach so he could use everything on his own."
"He even had his own little key ring so he could come and go as he pleased," Reid added. Lydia nodded and gestured her hand at Reid as if to say, yeah that too.
Lydia softly scooted her chair from under her and examined at the board placed by the windows. Her arms crossed over her torso as her mind drifted, letting the voices of the team wither away.
The only way Bobby would leave quietly is if he knew his attacker. Or if he was threatened. The latter is more unlikely given the high risk neighborhood and the time. But how would a nine year old even know and trust someone like that? Her head tilted. Maybe it could be someone in uniform. Someone he viewed as harmless.
She noticed the group quiet down and began to all return to their work. She took this opportunity to grab a cup of water, gulping it down. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was.
"Texas is in a drought apparently," Morgan laughed as his smile burned into the side of her face. She noted the nickname and immediately knew he was never going to let it go, she might as well ignore it.
"Ha-ha," she replied unenthusiastically. She returned to her chair and began drawing in the leather-bound journal she keeps in her bag. Sometimes she'd draw the victims faces to help her think. It reigned in her focus onto victimology, and helped her explore possibilities. An abundance of faces covered the pages. All lives lost physically or mentally.
She looked at the steel clock on the wall, noting how they'd only been there a couple hours. She stretched her arms out in front of her. Loosening every muscle intertwined within.
