CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid

01

The newer something is, the more it feels familiar. Routine is foreign to me. It is rare that I stay in a place long enough to establish patterns. Though I have been living in Washington D.C. for the last two years, I've just moved into a new flat. This way, while the cold snow of November is familiar, the route I take to the J. Edgar Hoover building is new. As such, I wasn't quite prepared for how frigid I would get while waiting for the bus, nor walking between the bus and the subway.

At least, I'm glad it isn't the summer. The weather here gets humid, and I'm not keen on risking frizzy hair. Even though it's cold, I don't wear a toque. My head may be cold, but a hair full of static won't leave a good impression on my new coworkers. I feel put together, even if my trench coat is too thin to keep me warm. The profilers are going to be able to pick me apart better than any other people I could possibly meet.

After the forty-minute commute to work, I stare up at the outside of the building. It's a textbook example of the brutalist style of architecture, and I hate the way it looks. I miss the old lecture buildings of my most recent university. Later, I want to research the lead architect on the J. Edgar Hoover building to find out who exactly hurt him so much that he thought this building was anything short of ugly and intimidating.

I make sure to walk into the proper entrance, rather than going through the one meant for visitors. There, I flash my badge. Security pulls me aside and riffles through the large purse I brought with me to work. It adds an extra three minutes to my morning, in part because they make me walk through the metal detectors twice, but then I am inside. All I can hope for is that I don't end up late.

I enter the lobby, peering around. Most people are not standing static, but there is a woman off to one side. We met, in the third interview. She introduced herself, her name a flash in my memory amidst the panel of six people. She was the notetaker, not asking a question, but I remember her name. Janet Hillier. She catches my eye and heads over. I hug my purse against me, debating if I should preemptively apologize for my slightly late arrival. The work culture of the FBI is strange.

"It's nice to see you again," she offers, sticking out her hand. "In case you've forgotten, I'm Janet Hillier, the senior administrative assistant for the BAU."

I shake her hand, making sure to practice the firm grip that my father taught me. Academics don't really care about shaking hands the way I imagine the FBI does, "Bouchard. That is, Cole Bouchard."

"Not Colette?" she blinks.

"Cole is fine," I tell her because Colette is certainly not appropriate.

No one has called me Colette in years. In fact, I'm almost surprised to hear my full name. I should have suspected that she would know my name though because she knew to look for me. I wonder how much of my file she has seen.

"Cole, then," she flashes part of a smile. "Most of the others in our unit will probably call you Bouchard anyway. Here, I'll show you the way to our unit."

I wonder if she screens Agent Hotchner's calls and answers his emails, or if she helps Erin Strauss. If she is the senior administrative assistant, I imagine she supervises the other assistants who help others. I don't imagine that I will have an administrative assistant to support me. How many administrative assistants are employed in the BAU? The special agents do not seem like the type to have the time necessary to schedule their days. After all, they do not have time to run SPSS and other analytics on their collected data.

Hence, my job.

We get into an elevator with a few other agents. The administrative assistant is fairly quiet, which at least gives me time to think. I'm sure the elevator is faster than it feels; every second inside the metal box is another where I can feel my heart approaching my throat. We also stop on every floor to let out the agents, and after several minutes, only Janet and I are left in the elevator. Then, it stops. The doors take an agonizingly long time to open.