"So, Agent Hotchner, he—he looks at the man and asks, 'That couldn't be caused by normal wear and tear, could it?'"
Morgan threw his head back laughing, and Genius dissolved into hysterics, both of them stopping just long enough to look at Hotch and then start laughing all over again.
"Wear and tear, Hotch?" Morgan pressed a hand to his aching stomach. "It was a cut with a knife!"
Genius nearly snorted, covering his mouth with his device-free hand. "I haven't been around cars for twelve years, and even I knew that wasn't wear and tear!"
Hotch glared at them disparagingly. "I was covering my bases."
Morgan and Genius both started laughing again, though not quite as raucously, and then Genius put his headphones in. He curled up, nestling into Morgan's side with a mumble. "Bases..." Genius giggled and then fell silent, sighing contentedly.
Morgan draped an arm around the kid and put his own headphones back where they belonged, directing another grin at Hotch. Oddly, he didn't mind the close contact with Genius.
Morgan figured it was just something he had gotten used to. Genius loved to be touched—also odd, because in another life, Morgan could see Genius shying away from physical intimacy of any kind, even handshakes and tight quarters—but with the occasional exception of a panic attack, Genius loved to be touched and held and close to people.
Morgan wasn't exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy, but there was something so innocent and pure about the way Genius tried to, for lack of a better word, cuddle other adults. Besides, after twelve years of isolation... after growing up thinking only mothers handed out hugs... how could Morgan tell him no?
"Morgan."
Morgan pulled his headset down around his neck and looked at Hotch expectantly.
"Do you need a day off to recover?"
Morgan immediately knew where the conversation was going, and he shook his head. "Nope. I'll be ready to roll as soon as we land."
Hotch nodded slightly and looked over the legal pad in front of him. "I need to go home and shower, and then I'm spending a few hours with Jack at Jessica's house. JJ, you're going home for the afternoon, and then you're meeting me at VA FedWaste at six, correct?"
JJ nodded, looking through her phone as she spoke. "I am also expecting a call from Chief West sometime today. She's in a meeting until four, and she wasn't certain when she would be able to get in touch with me after that."
Hotch looked back at his notes, scratching down a few things before continuing. "Emily, you said you were going to look into employment records at MSD?"
Emily nodded from her seat on the plane, a legal pad sitting in front of her as well. "ICAP was established in '88, and Evans was only their driver for the past five years. Hopefully, I'll be able to find other drivers and, if they're still around, talk to them about the shipments they ran."
Rossi rolled his shoulders and tapped Hotch's legal pad. "Put me down for working from home. Someone has to do the reports for this case while you're running all over God's creation chasing leads." He twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a drink. "I'll be getting some features installed in my guest rooms, too. We're gonna need a place for these geniuses to stay, and our boy might not need to be under lock and key, but I doubt we can say that for all the geniuses we'll come across."
"Hey," Emily stopped writing and looked across the plane. "Mind if I come over? We can tag-team the research and report-writing."
"Only if you let me cook for you." Rossi grinned and raised his water bottle as if it were a wine glass.
Hotch chuckled and continued to write. "That leaves you, Morgan. Genius has an appointment with Dr. Meadowlark today—"
"And while Pretty Boy is seeing the doctor, I'll be snooping around the office in search of our mole." Morgan shrugged. "I might take the kid for ice cream or something afterward. Or to get a library card."
There wasn't a single face that didn't have a smile at the thought of that.
"You know what?" Rossi rested his ankle on the opposite knee. "Why don't you all come over for dinner? It's about time that kid had a proper meal again—Hotch, make a note about teaching him to cook something other than Hamburger Helper in the bureau's kitchen—and Emily's already going to be there."
Morgan gave a thumbs up. "I'll be there, and I'll bring the kid."
Hotch thought about it for a moment and then nodded. "Me, too."
I guess there's no point in going home when the house is empty. Morgan tried not to think about it.
Hotch set his pen down and addressed the plan. "Stay in touch with JJ or myself and meet at Rossi's tonight if you can. Take tomorrow off and do something relaxing. The deeper we get into this, the more intense it's going to get, and I don't know when you'll have free time again."
There were affirmative murmurs around the jet, and Morgan turned his attention back to Genius, who was still pressed tightly against Morgan's side, eyes closed and lips moving in silent song lyrics.
We'll get this figured out, kid. Don't you worry. Morgan gave him a one-armed squeeze, and a happy smile pulled at Genius' lips. Everything is gonna be alright.
***
If I were a mole, where would I hide?
Well, seeing as Morgan had never been a traitor and never would be, he had absolutely no idea how to answer his own question, and that made it largely unhelpful. But Morgan had never been a quitter—and he never would be—so he continued to stand by the coffee machine and survey the bullpen.
There aren't any new hires; at least, not ones that started less than six months ago. Every case that comes in goes through JJ, and she would be keeping an eye out for any new or unusual correspondence, so it's not hidden in case files. I think the janitor is new... and it isn't like this place is under lock and key. People come to use the copy machine or fax if theirs is broken. Even—
"Agent Morgan, are you looking for the mysterious note-sender, too?"
Morgan startled and let out a rather unprofessional term when the movement spilled hot coffee on his hand.
"Oh, geeze, I'm sorry!"
"Uh," he set the cup down and turned on the water, sticking his hand beneath the flow. "Don't worry about it, Anderson." He flicked his hands to rid them of the water. "What was it you wanted to know?"
"I asked if you were looking for the guy sending Mary-Anne notes." Anderson shrugged and gestured vaguely to one of the desks in the bullpen. "Me and some of the guys have a bet going. I think it's Mark, from the archives, but most of them think it's Andrew, the receptionist. Agent McMullen thinks it's the delivery guy nobody knows the name of."
Morgan grabbed a few paper towels and patted his hand dry, moving toward the desk in question. "What makes you think it's Mark and not Andrew?" he asked, glancing around as he walked.
"She's on her lunch break," Anderson supplied, joining Morgan in his nonchalant approach. "I think it's Mark because Andrew was on vacation when the first letter showed up."
Morgan frowned slightly, sitting down at her desk and letting his eyes wander over the papers in plain sight. He wasn't technically going through her things without permission. Yet.
"Why are they betting on Andrew, then? Don't they know about the first letter?"
"Nah." Anderson shook his head and leaned against the desk, casually keeping an eye on the door. "It was set apart from the others. She's been getting these every Monday and Friday for about three weeks, like clockwork, and they're always sitting on her desk. Just her name on the front, nothing else. But that first one was taped to the underside of her desk. I only saw it because I dropped my pen, and it rolled from my desk to hers."
Morgan leaned forward in her chair and looked up, running his hand along the smooth surface until he hit residual adhesive. Something was duct taped here. He continued to feel around, but there was nothing else unusual.
Morgan straightened up with a heavy sigh. "I don't suppose she's nice enough to tuck the letters in a drawer."
Anderson snorted. "I wish. She puts them in her purse and takes them home every time."
Figures. Morgan sifted through the papers on the desk anyway, trying not to look at anything that seemed personal unless there was a chance it was coded. "She's doing a good job of hiding whatever it is she's getting letters about."
"I think, whoever it is, she's really into them. She gets that dopey, love-at-first-sight, butterflies-in-stomach smile when she reads them." Anderson pushed off the desk and slipped his hands into his pockets. "You wanna place a bet?"
Morgan nodded slowly and stepped away from the desk, pulling his wallet out and handing over a twenty. "Put it on Andrew."
Anderson frowned slightly. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Once they find out a profiler put their money on Andrew, they'll up their bets, and when you win, you're gonna give me forty and keep the rest for yourself." Morgan grinned and waved the money to get Anderson's attention. "All in good fun, right?"
Anderson grinned and snatched the bill away. "Well, you're making a mistake, but if you want to put your money on Andrew..." He let his voice trail off and walked away, leaving Morgan by the empty desk.
It could be harmless love letters, but...
It could have been something else. So, Morgan went back to the coffee machine and reclaimed his drink, leaning back against the counter and watching the bullpen. It was a Friday, after all. Maybe he would get lucky.
***
"Miss Jereau, I'm sorry—"
"Agent Jereau."
"Right. Agent Jereau, I'm sorry, but I can't let you back there unless you have the appropriate clearance."
"What could you possibly have at a federal bio-waste facility that I can't see with FBI credentials?"
"I'm sorry, M—Agent Jereau, but that's the policy."
"Whose policy?"
Hotch cleared his throat as he rounded the corner, stepping up to the counter and flashing his own badge. "Sorry, I'm late. What seems to be the trouble?"
Behind the counter, a young woman with her hair in a tight bun was clacking away at a computer. She had a condescending smile on her face, and she didn't do much to hide her irritation at having to repeat herself to a new agent.
"You and Miss Jereau—"
"Agent Jereau," both agents corrected.
"Right. You and Agent Jereau do not have the appropriate clearances to see the ICAP wing of this facility. If you want to see that portion of the facility, you need a warrant."
"We don't need a warrant to investigate federal property." Hotch held up his badge. "This is our warrant. You have exactly two minutes to open the door."
Sighing, the woman blinked a few times and wet her lips, giving them a sickeningly sweet smile. "I can't do that."
"You can, and you will, or you're going to lose your job." Hotch may or may not have fought with Haley right before joining JJ, and he may or may not have been utterly fed up—pun fully intended—with everything from rush hour traffic to intricate conspiracy theories. "If I had the patience and the time, I would slowly explain to you, in a way you can understand, how the legal system works. I don't have either, and after eight years of prosecuting, it isn't nearly as satisfying to see someone's face the moment they realize they have absolutely no idea what their unchecked ego has gotten them into."
She didn't seem at all deterred, her lips twisting into a sneerish smile as she opened her mouth to reply.
Hotch pulled out his phone and dialed, pressing the device to his ear a second later. It rang twice, and then he heard, "West."
"Chief West, I need clearance to get into the ICAP wing of VA FedWaste." He kept his eyes on the receptionist the whole time and realized he was a liar.
There was still something satisfying about seeing that face.
"Your badges should get you in."
"Yes, they should, but the receptionist here..." Hotch leaned in to look at her nametag. "Alisha Burns is giving us a hard time. I hate to bother you, because I know how busy you are—"
Alisha slammed her hand down on the button to unlock the ICAP wing.
"Oh, never mind. It seems the problem has resolved itself."
"You play dirty, Hotchner. I like you." She laughed. "Best of luck." And then she was gone.
Hotch snapped his phone shut and shoved it into his pocket, striding toward the doors without so much as a thank you, JJ on his heels.
"So..." JJ waited until the doors closed behind them to continue. "You want to talk?"
"No." There was no room for argument in his voice, and he could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline of anger left unexpressed. "We need to focus."
"I know." JJ spoke softly, calm as ever. "That's why I asked."
Hotch was already replying when a hand on his arm pulled him to a stop, forcing him to actually look at his partner. Because he hadn't up until then—he hadn't made eye contact with anyone he didn't identify as an enemy—and he should have known she wouldn't let him get away with that.
"Hotch, I am... all for you throwing your weight around, but this isn't the way to do it, and this isn't like you." JJ bit her lip and searched his eyes, brow creasing with worry. "If you don't want to share, I understand, but... give me something to go on, here. Just tell me you're okay."
Hotch inhaled and exhaled deeply, slowly, feeling some of the tension leave his body with the carbon dioxide. "Haley wants a divorce. I have the papers in my car, and she wants me to sign them uncontested so nobody wastes money on lawyers."
JJ looked as though the statement physically pained her, and after a moment of thought, she nodded. "Okay." She took a deep breath and then turned to look down the hall they were in. "What are we looking for?"
Hotch inwardly heaved a sigh of relief, his own gaze turning to the hall and wandering over the doors. "Boxes that are heavily locked or too big for comfort. If we can find any kind of shipment log, I want pictures of pages going back at least one year."
JJ nodded her head and started to look around. "It isn't that big." She didn't say anything immediately after that, but Hotch could tell the thought was incomplete.
"JJ?" he pressed softly.
"It just... I don't know. Maybe it's the right size, but maybe there's another wing we don't know about." JJ let out a weary sigh. "It's getting difficult for me to figure out where I should see a conspiracy and where I shouldn't. This whole thing is messed up." She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. "We're supposed to be the good guys. We're supposed to be one of the very, very few things in the world that's black and white."
Hotch sighed heavily and nodded his head, glancing over his shoulder at the double doors they had come through. "Tell me about it." He shook his head and started to walk, grabbing the door to his right and gesturing to the one on his left. "Two rooms for me, two rooms for you, and we'll see what we find before deciding whether or not to look for a conspiracy."
JJ nodded her head and opened her designated door. "Sounds like a plan. We can make notes to compare later, and I have notes from my conversation with Chief West, too."
"We can talk about them at Rossi's tonight."
They both turned their handles and pushed the doors inward, giving each other one last affirmative nod before disappearing into their respective chambers.
***
"Gin!"
"Unbelievable."
"I think that's twenty-three times he's beat you now."
"Twenty-four, actually."
"Of course."
Hotch chuckled to himself as he watched the scene unfold, downing the rest of his scotch and allowing some of his earlier stress to dissipate. Well, no, not dissipate. There was nothing about his stress that could be removed, only redirected; he could turn it into energy and try to work on their ever-increasing caseload.
"You didn't even know how to play this twenty minutes ago." JJ began to shuffle the cards, shaking her head in continued disbelief.
"You still want to play?" Genius asked softly, scratching at his arms until a gentle touch from JJ stopped him. "Even though I always win?"
JJ smiled and nodded. "Sure." She started to shuffle but stopped again. "Actually, you know what? No. We aren't going to play this again."
Genius lowered his head and curled in on himself, dejected. "Oh. Okay." But he offered no argument—he wasn't anywhere near confident enough to try and pursue happiness that wasn't handed to him on a silver platter.
Thankfully, JJ stopped his sadness with a wide smile, standing up and leaving the couch behind. She held onto the cards and grabbed her wine from the coffee table. "I need two more players." She looked around the living room. "Come on. Morgan?"
Emily raised her hand and stood up. "I'll play."
Morgan shook his head. "If you had asked me two glasses of wine ago, maybe."
Rossi stood up from his chair and grabbed his scotch. "I'll play... whatever it is we're playing."
"Great." JJ was already walking toward the dining room table. "We'll need to use the table, and Rossi, I'll need two more decks of cards..."
Hotch watched with a smile as JJ directed them, overlapping conversation accenting their movements as they got situated around the table. They commenced shuffling, and they looked like they were already having a good time, which made Hotch smile more.
Despite everything, it made him smile, and he tried to hang on to those positive bits. He noticed Genius was calling Morgan by his name instead of 'Agent Morgan,' and Morgan readily engaged in physical contact whenever Genius needed it. Their friendship was a Godsend in more ways than Hotch knew how to list.
"I'm going to teach you a game my family has played for... I don't know, forever." JJ laughed, still shuffling as she spoke. "I don't know what the real rules are, and I don't know where else people play it. Bolivian Canasta." JJ kept shuffling until she was satisfied that all three decks were well intermingled. "Now, everybody starts with fifteen cards..."
Hotch let that smile return and linger on his lips, taking that positivity and trying to take it a step further. Genius was doing well, yes, but Emily also had some leads from MSD to follow, and Chief West was adamant that Ashland's files would be in Hotch's office by the end of the week. Of course, they were probably redacted, and there was...
Clearly, positivity is a weak point for me. Hotch leaned back in his seat, trying to take another drink but finding his glass was empty. He let out a soft sigh, knowing he had to stop for the night but in no way wanting to.
It won't make you feel better, Hotchner. You know it won't.
Hotch shook his head and set his empty glass on the coffee table. He leaned back again, sighing heavily, eyelids sinking slowly. He knew Rossi wouldn't mind, and because he knew it was alright, he wouldn't be surprised if he fell asleep within the next—
Hotch startled, hand flying to his pocket at the sound of his ringtone. Hotch startled made Morgan startle, too, and they exchanged a half-asleep, apologetic wave.
Hotch flipped his phone open and pressed it to his ear, though it took him another two seconds to process a greeting.
"Hotchner."
"Agent Hotchner? You the one that came by my house?"
Hotch blinked in surprise and stood up, swaying for a moment before walking toward the foyer for a little privacy. "Michael? Michael Evans?"
"Yup. Don't bother trackin' this, it's a burner."
Hotch was surprised Michael even knew what a burner phone was. "Michael, where are you? What happened to you?"
"Can't answer either of those. Sorry." There were cars honking and metal banging in the background. "I wanted to call and let'cha know I'm alright. So's Julia. We're goin' off-grid somewhere in Montana. Can't tell you where, a'course, but we're both alright."
"Well, I appreciate you checking in." Hotch paused, wet his lips, and shook his head slightly. If he had known he was going to get a call from Michael, he would have consumed his scotch just a bit slower. "Did you remember anything helpful about the case?"
"Naw, but Julia told me about something. She said if your genius boy is a 4380 like her, he knows about Maeve Donovan. She wouldn't tell me nothing else—really upsets her when I try to talk about it, you know?—but she said Maeve Donovan started it all. She got the whole lot of'em unhinged, and things tumbled downhill from there. I don't got no ideas on what any of that means, but I figured you might, and she asked me to pass it on, so..."
Hotch nodded slowly, leaning against the front door to Rossi's mansion and pressing his head to the cool glass. "I see. I'll definitely ask Genius about that. Thank you." He paused, contemplated the fact that the conversation was even happening, and then he shook his head. "How did you get this number? If you spoke to someone in the FBI, they might—"
"I saw your card in your wallet."
Hotch blinked. "What?"
There was a bit of crackling, and then Michael's voice came back. "...wallet. You opened it up to get your genius boy's picture, and I saw your business card."
Hotch squinted slightly. "So, you... read my number and remembered it all this time?"
There was a pause, and Hotch figured Michael couldn't make it all the way through a phone call without spitting. "'Course. Once you see somethin', it's not like it goes away, you know? All I have to do is close my eyes, and there's your card, Agent Hotchner."
Hotch was silent for a moment, and then he cautiously started speaking again. "Michael, have you ever been evaluated for photographic memory?"
Michael only laughed. "Agent Hotchner, I think we both know I ain't that smart. I don't remember pictures any better than everybody else."
Hotch opened his mouth to object, but then he decided to let it drop. "I see. Well, thank you for calling me with the update. You said this is a burner, right?"
"Yep. I got a ton of'em."
"How many is a ton?"
"Well, I been tryin' to break up my purchases 'cross state lines, you know? But I think I got 'bout... twenty-five now. F'you think I need to get more, I will."
Hotch slowly shook his head and spent a few seconds imitating a codfish. "No, that's fine. You're... being really smart about this." He shook his head again, more to clear his mind than to express disbelief. "So, I won't be able to call you back at this number." He sighed. "I don't suppose I can ask you to call me once a month to check in? I may have more questions, and I don't have a lot of people I can contact for this. Everything is very..."
"X-Files?"
Hotch snorted. "If you had told me last year that I would be dabbling in the idea of a conspiracy theory, I would have laughed in your face."
Michael laughed, his voice crackling out for a bit before coming back. "—ear that I would be on the run with a genius, think I'd'a done the same. But here we are, Agent Hotchner."
"Indeed. Here we are." Hotch shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around how drastically his life had shifted in less than two months.
"I'll do my best to call you once a month, but if I don't call or call late, don't assume somethin' bad happened to me. I might just be laying low, or Julia might be too skittish for me to contact outsiders. She's real spooked—lotsa that PTSD stuff, you know?"
"Yes, I know." Hotch muttered the word 'understandable' under his breath. "Thank you for calling with this information. I won't tell anybody outside my team that you made contact. As far as the FBI is concerned, this conversation never happened, and Michael Evans is in the wind."
"I appreciate that, Agent Hotchner, and like I said, I'll do what I can to help." There was a pause, distant voices, and then Michael was back. "We've been on too long. She thinks you're trackin' me. I gotta go."
"Good luck, Michael."
"You too, Agent."
Hotch was opening his mouth to request Michael call him by his first name when the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a long moment, shaking his head slowly.
I wonder what Michael's IQ is. Michael may not have gotten access to a quality education—or if he had, he might not have taken to the learning style—but he was clearly intelligent. His coworkers all spoke highly of him, of his ability to learn quickly and retain information. Michael himself had shown a variety of knowledge—from the locksmithing he learned from his father to the detailed notes he had made about Julia's condition—and he clearly had a photographic memory of some kind.
In another life, it he had different parents or a different hometown... would he have been carted off by ICAP? Or is his intelligence largely practical and unable to influence his IQ?
And if that was the case, how was that fair? How did it make sense that geniuses of practical knowledge were somehow more trustworthy than geniuses of science and math? IQ really only measured one's ability to test well, and yet an IQ above 165 was all ICAP needed to take you away.
Hotch rubbed his face. One crisis at a time. He opened Rossi's front door and let himself out onto the porch, breathing in the cool, evening air. West says we'll have files on Ashland by the end of the week, but we already agreed we don't know how helpful that will be. She also said she will find a technology case by Monday—'If I have to start murdering people myself,' had been her exact words, according to JJ—and talking to the new genius will be helpful. Penelope... something.
But there were setbacks. Mary-Anne had been out of the office during the call with Rossi that had been overheard, and while that didn't rule out her admirers, Hotch didn't think they were likely candidates. They didn't have any other leads with the mole, and ICAP still held all the aces as far as information went. Redacted, password-protected, restricted access, confidential... there was no end to the red tape protecting whatever ICAP was trying so hard to conceal.
Maybe I'll ask Rossi if I can sleep here tonight. He rubbed his forehead, exhausted in ways sleep couldn't fix. Maybe I'll just go upstairs and sleep without asking. He turned and opened the door, letting himself back into the house and making his way toward the stairs. Maybe I'll just sleep for eternity, and then I won't have to deal with any of this.
He liked that last idea the best. He wasn't going to get it, of course, but it was still his favorite idea.
I definitely should not have had that second scotch.
***
"I don't know if this was a good idea, Hotch."
Hotch glanced up from his phone and met the uncertain eyes of one Emily Prentiss, silently retorting with, 'Well, it's a little late for that.'
Emily couldn't read his thoughts, of course, so she continued. "I agree we need the information, but her record is a mess."
Hotch slipped his phone into his pocket with a grim nod. "I know. She's been quarantined multiple times for violent outbursts, and she seems to have a penchant for breaking as many rules as she can." But she was a lead.
Emily didn't look up from the file in her hands. "I think she might have set a record, actually." But she was a lead.
"Hey," Rossi cut in both conversationally and physically, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. "We knew going into this that we would have to juggle our current case and our ICAP case."
Emily turned another page, her expression reserved. "It's not the two cases. I know we can handle that. I'm not sure whether or not we can handle her."
We'll manage. She's a lead.
Morgan cleared his throat then, leaning back in his chair to peer around the cubicle wall. "Prentiss, don't look now, but I think we're about to find out."
Hotch straightened up and stepped forward to meet the approaching group, stopping after three steps and waiting for them to close the rest of the distance.
Penelope Garcia. She's older than Genius, but not by too much. There are one, two, three, four, five different colors in her hair. She's somewhat heavyset, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew how to throw her weight around literally and figuratively. She has five people with her instead of two, and their body language tells a very different story than that of Genius' escorts.
In short, Genius was a flyswatter. Garcia was a pistol.
"You're Agent Hotchner?"
Hotch extended his hand in greeting, only entertaining pleasantries with the head of the group. "Yes, that's me."
"SSA Davis. This is Genius #0366651-4381." Davis handed over a keycard as well as an actual key, apparently for the handcuffs keeping Garcia's hands behind her back. "You should know how this works already. You take the handcuffs off at your own risk, and you call the number on the keycard when you're ready to send her back."
Hotch slipped the items into his pocket. "Thank you. We can take it from here."
Davis threw a hand in the air and gestured with his finger, almost twirling it in a circle, and the four other men dispersed. "Keep an eye on this one, Agent. Don't leave her alone for a second."
"We won't." Hotch held Davis' stare for a moment or two, and then Davis slowly turned and followed his men out of the bullpen.
Hotch watched them leave, but as soon as they were through the glass doors, his attention was on the latest addition to his team. They stared at each other for a moment, neither blinking, neither smiling, and then Hotch opened his mouth.
"We—"
"Let's get something straight here." Garcia narrowed her eyes, and there was nothing but hatred in those chocolate irises. "I'm not here for you, and I'm not here for your government. I'm not here to help anybody. I'm here to see Spencer, and let me tell you something, suit: I am like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, alright? Spencer is that cute, British boy I can never remember the name of, and I am the sweet and lovable yet vicious mongoose that keeps him safe. So, when I see him and he tells me everything—because he always tells me everything—about what you've done to him, you had better be ready, because I will go rabid mongoose all up in your cobra nest. Comprende?"
Hotch did not allow a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, and he kept his tone as solemn and level as ever. He raised a brow ever-so-slightly and feigned extreme disinterest. "Am I Nag or Nagaina?"
Garcia looked surprised for all of two seconds, and then she snorted. She opened her mouth to speak some more, but it was evidently her turn to be interrupted—which was a shame, because there was a little piece of Hotch that wanted to continue the battle of wits involving his favorite childhood movie.
"Penelope?"
As soon as Genius' voice was heard, Garcia changed. Her body language and facial expressions shifted, probably much more than she realized, and her countenance immediately brightened.
"Spencer!" Hands still bound behind her back, she shot past Hotch and bounded up the stairs into Genius' arms. "I missed you so much!"
Genius wrapped his lanky arms around her, and neither of them seemed to mind that the hug was less than conventional. "I missed you, too. I tried to send you letters, but when you didn't write back, I knew they must have gotten rid of them. I should have guessed, I mean... I guess I just thought..."
"Hey!" Garcia smiled widely at him. "No talking about sad things. We're here now, right? Who needs letters when we can talk with our faces?" She tucked her chin over his shoulder and somehow, despite her lack of arms, squeezed him tight. "How have you been?"
"I've been really, really good." Genius smiled back at her, just as wide and just as sincere.
Garcia didn't buy it for a moment, but she smiled nonetheless. "That's great, Spencer!"
Hotch was content to sit back and wait for them to get their greetings out, but it seemed Morgan was a little unhappy about his friend being commandeered, and he approached the duo almost immediately.
"So, Penelope—"
"You don't get to use my name." She glared at him. "Only my friends get to use my name, and you are not a friend."
Genius bit his lip and looked between the two of them.
"Okay, well..." Morgan let the words drag out, gesturing to Genius as he spoke. "He's already Genius. We can't call you Genius 2, so if you don't want me to call you by name, what would you like?"
"You figure it out, suit."
Morgan blinked, slightly affronted, and Hotch tried hard not to smile. He knew what came next, and it was all he could do to keep his poker face when Morgan adopted his classic, sassy-but-manly-man pose.
"Okay, then." Morgan took a deep breath and spoke as if restarting the conversation. "So, Baby Girl, we're gon—"
"You are not calling me that," she snapped. If her hands were free, one would undoubtedly be on her hip while the other wagged in Morgan's face.
"Uh, actually I am." Morgan already had his hands on his hips, but he leaned forward to get on her level. "You told me to figure it out, so I did. It's nice to meet you, Baby Girl."
"Fine. Call me Garcia. It's my last name, and that's all you get."
"Oh, no. No, no, no." Morgan put his hands up in a display of surrender and started walking toward the conference room. "It's too late now. Out of my hands. Shoulda been nice the first time, but no, now you get to be Baby Girl from this point forward. Sorry, I don't make the rules, I just follow them."
Garcia opened her mouth to reply, but Genius stopped her with a single, pleading look. Headstrong as she was, it looked like she wanted Genius to be happy above all else, and Hotch knew that would quickly become a very useful tool.
Hotch walked up the stairs and joined his two geniuses. "Garcia, I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner. I'm the leader of this team. SSA Derek Morgan is the one who gave you attitude—fair warning, he will do that—and these are SSAs David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, and Jennifer Jereau."
Garcia glared at each and every one of them in turn before turning sharp eyes back to Hotch. "This isn't a meet n' greet. Just tell me what you want me to do."
Hotch gestured to the conference room. "We'll brief you in here, but first..." He looked at Genius, his eyes expressing the importance of an honest answer. "Spencer, I was told to remove the handcuffs at my own risk. If you trust Garcia, you can vouch for her, and I'll take them off."
Genius smiled and nodded immediately. "I'll vouch for her, Agent Hotchner. Penelope won't hurt anybody." His smile expanded a bit, and Hotch felt a bit guilty.
Genius was probably excited to hear Hotch using his name, having no idea Hotch had intentionally done it to put their trusting relationship on display for Garcia.
Garcia glared at Hotch. She, unlike Genius, knew exactly what he had done. She knew he used her care for Genius against her, and she was furious, but there wasn't anything she could do about it—not while Genius was still standing there.
Hotch offered a small smile that may or may not have classified as a smirk, and then he pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. "Turn around, Miss Garcia."
She glared for another second, but then she turned around and let him remove the cuffs. She withdrew her hands as soon as they were off, rubbing her wrists and turning back around.
Hotch extended a hand toward the conference room in a 'ladies first' gesture, and then he followed Garcia and Genius, the rest of the team trailing behind him.
So far, so good. We'll see how long it lasts.
Garcia entered the room warily, sticking right next to Genius at all times. Her posture was defensive, her entire being dedicated to shielding Genius from the outside world, but there was still trepidation in her eyes.
She doesn't understand fair treatment; doesn't understand trust.
Garcia gripped Genius' arm almost possessively, standing a few paces away from the conference table, keeping herself close to the open door. Normally, Genius would have sat down, but he didn't make even make an attempt, which told Hotch that even though Genius had poor social skills in the outside world, he had the social skills of a genius down pat. They followed their own code, sticking together—quite literally—and keeping each other in a perpetually safe zone.
"Who are they?" Garcia asked, jerking her head in the direction of the screen.
"These are victims from a string of disappearances in Boise, Idaho," JJ explained, grabbing the remote and pressing the necessary buttons to enlarge the three photos. "Our kidnapper is using social media to make it look like the victims are on vacation, so they aren't being reported missing until two to three days after they're abducted. We believe he used those same social media accounts to learn the ins and outs of their lives."
Derek idly toyed with a pen, tapping it against the tabletop. "It's a suburban area, so he wants privacy and space. He gets off on the control he has. These women aren't safe anywhere, not even in their own homes, and he loves showing them."
Garcia's face twisted up. "Geeze. What are you guys? Psychopaths Anonymous?"
Emily answered that one. "We're the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We use profiling to get ahead of serial killers—or, in this case, serial abductors—and get inside their heads so we know what they're going to do next." She paused, a curious look entering her eyes. "Didn't they tell you what department you were coming to?"
"Psh. You're new at this genius thing, aren't you?"
Hotch grabbed the opening as soon as he saw it. "Actually, yes, we are. Why don't you tell us about it?"
Garcia looked at him, and he could almost tangibly see the walls going up. "Well, for starters, it's all need to know. So, what I need to know is who my middle man is and what it is you want me to do, suit."
Rossi arched a brow. "You need a middle man?"
Garcia tilted her head back and let out a groan in true teenager fashion, wanting to make it very clear how irritating and stupid she thought they were.
Only she doesn't. But the alternative is trusting us; defaulting to our knowledge and experience to shape her environment, to differentiate between safe and unsafe.
"Geniuses who work with computers have to have a middle man; someone who types everything I tell them to. They look everything up as they type it to make sure it isn't dangerous. It takes a million years, and they usually can't even touch-type. They suck, and we call them middle men."
Hotch opened his file to take a look at the remaining information, shaking his head. "You're not going to have a middle man. We don't have that kind of time."
Garcia squinted, looking at him as if she couldn't tell whether he was joking or stupid. "Okay, so why am I here?"
Genius spoke up at that, reaching up with his free hand and gently tugging her sleeve. "Penelope, they're gonna give you a computer."
Garcia looked from Genius to Hotch, to Genius, to the screen, to Rossi, to Prentiss, to JJ, to Genius, and then back to Hotch. She avoided Morgan, and Hotch believed it was completely intentional.
"You realize I could topple your network right under your noses and you would have no idea." Garcia narrowed her eyes slightly, but Hotch didn't see any anger, only distrust. "I haven't touched a computer in seven years, and the last time I touched one, it was because I busted out and stole it from the lab."
Hotch stood up and took the closed laptop from the center of the table, pushing it until it was right at the edge, less than five feet away from her. "I truly believe you can do what you say you can. I am giving you a chance to do something better." He tapped the closed device. "So, tell me, Miss Garcia: if I give you this, and I tell you how to use it to help us catch a psychopathic killer, will you help or will you topple our network right under our noses?"
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm a psychopath. Why would I help you catch one?"
Hotch couldn't contain the burst of quiet laughter. "No, you're not." He gestured to the laptop and looked at her again, leaning on the table, gaze unwavering. "So, what will it be?"
Garcia looked at the laptop for a long moment, and then she looked back at the women on the screen. She tilted her head slightly, and she must have imagined something terrible, because her eyes started to tear up a bit.
Garcia blinked rapidly and sniffed to clear her sinuses. "Yeah, okay. I'll help."
Hotch smiled at her. "Thank you."
Garcia shrugged, outwardly indifferent. "It's not like I have a choice. I either help, or I go back to ICAP."
Hotch chose not to comment, instead sitting back down. "Genius. Garcia. Sit at the table with the rest of us." Then, with a simple gesture, he handed the floor over to JJ.
JJ rolled her chair back slightly and turned toward the screen. "This is Doris Archer, the third woman to go missing in Boise, Idaho in the last year. She had an in-home security system, but the key code was put in, and her German Sheppard has gone missing."
Hotch flipped through the first couple sheets of his folder. "What do we know about his MO?"
"Well, that's why we're being called in." JJ shook her head with an exasperated sigh. "The abductions sites are pristine. No DNA except the victims, no signs of a struggle..."
Morgan nodded a few times, rubbing his chin. "No forced entry, either, and you said they aren't reported missing for a couple days."
"Is that where I come in?" Garcia was sitting on one of the chairs, cross-legged like Genius, and turning the seat from side to side. "You want me to figure out how he hacked their accounts?"
"That's part of it, yes." Hotch looked up from his files and made eye contact. "We would also like you to look into the accounts themselves and figure out if there are any venues they all visited on a regular basis—somewhere he could have come into contact with each of them repeatedly." Hotch watched her face as he gave the instructions, and he could see a little spark in her eyes, hidden away in the darkest shade of brown.
She wasn't used to being given clear orders; it looked like she had been expecting a 'work some magic' with no further details and unfair expectations.
She wasn't used to respect; she didn't think she would hear 'we would like you to' come from the mouth of anyone.
"I can do that." She glanced at Genius, saw his smile and nod, and continued. "I could also tell you where the updates are being posted from. Every time you put a picture on facebook, the exact coordinates get posted, too, and text posts give at least a generalized area. It's a great tool for stalkers..." She trailed for a moment and then came back. "If I have the bandwidth, I can try and run a facial recognition software to see if someone shows up in pictures on all the accounts, but that's not a great first move."
Hotch smiled warmly—he knew the rest of his team did the same—and nodded his permission. "If you think that will work, you can try it. Just keep me posted on what you do or don't find."
Garcia gave him a long, hard stare, and then she offered a tiny, almost invisible nod.
Hotch nodded in return and closed his file. "We don't know how long he's keeping them, and that means we don't know how much time Doris Archer has left. Wheels up in thirty." He tapped his file on the table and went to leave but stopped in the doorway to flash a final smile. "And Garcia?"
She looked at him, cautious, eyes scanning him relentlessly.
"It's good to have you with us."
With that, Hotch left the conference room behind and returned to his shared office, hoping he could make quick work of some overdue reports that needed submitting.
Well, I have two geniuses in my care, and the world didn't burst into flames.
Yet.