Another man died last night. Some lady is responsible, they think. They dressed up for Mardi Gras and were roaming around some party last night looking for her, and that's the plan tonight. They want me in on surveillance with them this evening so I'm supposed to take it easy. They go out for interviews while I play the victim of flirtation with three different officers. Yesterday was my day to relax. I'm itching to do something. I try to help by being the liaison point with Garcia, but it still doesn't quite feel like I'm part of the team. My stomach is back to normal by lunch, but everyone is treating me like I'm fragile. I guess, in their eyes, I must be. Puking at the sight of a body, at the site of the body, definitely suggests that I'm not cut out for this. They'd be right. I'm a statistician for a reason.
Regardless, they let me watch in on an interview. Some guy who they think raped the unsub before Katrina sits in an interview room. Prentiss and JJ get sent in since they think he'll have a better reaction to being interviewed by the women. The men outside profile the unsub and compare her to Jack the Ripper. Once Prentiss and JJ show the guy pictures of her victims they get a name. Sarah.
It's such an ordinary name.
We get a home address for her from Garcia over the phone.
"Come on, Bouchard, one last ride," Hotch says.
I hurry up, dashing out of the building after them in my bulletproof vest before anyone can point out I'm supposed to be on flowerpot duty. You know, something that is ultimately decorative but will easily die if nudged slightly. They tell me to wait outside, but it's something at least.
So, there I wait, leaning against the car. Reid, Morgan, and Hotch head into her apartment. Sitting and waiting isn't a skill that I'm very good at doing. My feet are idle. I always need to be going somewhere.
A bang erupts, metallic. I draw my gun. Someone's been shot. I look down the road. There are a couple of people on the road, one lying down. A car zooms away from them. Putting my gun back in its holster, I hurry down. Someone's been hit. It's barely a block, and I'm sprinting as fast as I can.
There are four girls together decked out for Mardi Gras. The one who was hit is off the ground swaying.
"What happened?" I ask.
The girl gets up, swaying a bit.
"That guy was an asshole," her friend says, slurring her words. "He like, totally cut us off."
"You're not going to like, arrest her for smacking the hood of his car, right?" a third girl says, only for a fourth girl to elbow her and shush her. "What? He was being a jerk!"
"No one was hit by a car?" I ask.
They all shrug. So much for any action
The radio clicks.
"She's at the Royal Ruby Inn with a victim. Heading there now."
The radio clicks off. I turn back to the cars, pulling out my radio. If they don't make fun of me for puking once we are back in DC, I'll never hear the end of running off to solve the great caper of drunk girls jaywalking.
"You guys are doing a bust at our hotel?" the one girl spins on her feet.
She points just down the street and at the sign. At this point, it'd be faster to run there than hurry back to the cars for the rest of the team.
Before any of the girls can say something incriminating, I'm off. I click on the radio and speak into it.
"Moving in on foot," I say. "I'll explain later."
YOU ARE READING
CLANDESTINE : Spencer Reid
Fanfiction"I don't need your help and I never will" Cole Bouchard tries to reassure herself that everything is fine. Her haunted past cannot find her here in Washington DC. Besides that, she's got a new job at the BAU as a statistician. They aren't ever going...
