whedonist

Rating: PG-13 to R ish…
Fandom: Spinoff of Nikki & Nora
Pairing: You’ll see and hear mention of Nikki/Nora, Bobby/OC and the rest are all OC’s paired with OC’s

Disclaimer: Uh…Nikki and Nora aren’t mine they have a cameo in two parts and are briefly mentioned here and there. The rest of the whack jobs in the piece all my own doing. You can’t have them, but I don’t mind sharing. I passed kindergarten.

A/N: In an attempt at procrastinating on a budget analysis for work, I’m tossin’ this up today. Things are getting back to normal. Thank the gods and hopefully soon enough we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled stories.

Ch. 3 – And Games

The pounding behind my right eye picks up tempo, causing me to use the tips of my fingers to add some pressure to the top of my closed eyelid. I don’t know if it’s the heat, the stress, the frustration or my lack of sleep. The argument for the headache could also be that the ridge of my right brow and cheekbone are still feeling the after effects of the two-by-four to the face I took three days ago.

Generally, my line of work revolves around filling out paperwork, sending out analysis on cases or running an investigation, but those are few and far between on an annual basis. There are exceptions to everyone’s general work load and sometimes, my life resembles a John Patterson novel.

Sometimes, it can be a little fun, but others like three days ago when John and I ran down our suspect on a construction site in Knoxville, Tennessee, I got to come home to my model wife with a busted face. The one thing I will say is that with a bit of therapy, Jill has learned to handle my job and she handled my face well. She only let a few tears slip.

Finally, I open my eyes and go back to what has become something less than an obsession, but more than a hobby. I feel the sweat trickle down the back of my neck to trail down my spine. It really does nothing to cool me off. If maintenance could get their act together and fix the busted A.C. unit, that would be fucking swell. I came in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. I’m thinking that a bikini top and sarong would be better than standing here in my makeshift case room sweating my ass off.

Sighing, I mumble, “Fuck it,” and strip off my t-shirt, to leave me in a white tank top. I use the t-shirt to mop the back of my neck and toss it on the small table to my right. The room I’m in isn’t much more than a closet in my office building, but I’ve converted it to what John likes to call my box. The only furniture is a small table, to my right there is a white board, directly in front of me a tack board and to my left the table that holds a docking station for my laptop.

When we’re having trouble on a case and the pieces aren’t coming together, I bring the case in here and put it up. The case I’ve got up here is one that John doesn’t want to take up too much time with given the scraps of information that we have to go on. If I were him I’d make the same call, but thankfully, I’m not. He’s the one required to put up with my ornery ass.

Three crime scenes stare back at me. Margaret, Maria and Jennifer are all faceless in the crime scene photos, but I always make it a point to tack up a photo of who they were before they became a victim. Margaret smiles with her family, Maria is glowing in an off white wedding dress and Jennifer has her arms wrapped around the waist of her six-year-old son. My jaw clenches and I go back to the white board that’s full of notes.

“Ann,” I turn my head to see Lucy resting inside the doorway. Her eyebrow is raised and her arms rest casually over her chest.

I only offer her a grunt for recognition and go back to staring at my notes. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. There is some piece of this puzzle that isn’t locking into place or I’m missing it entirely.

“You know,” she says stepping up behind me to look over my shoulder, “That if I find you in here anymore, I’m going to start to worry.”

“Yeah well, when I figure out what I’m missing I’ll won’t be in here. I’ll be chasing this fucker down so don’t worry,” I snip.

“Ann,” she says softly, placing her hand on my shoulder.

Finally, I turn to face her and am taken aback by the concern I see in her eyes. I relent and offer a tight smile. “It’s been nearly nine months; our last body was two months ago. Given the time between bodies, I don’t think I have much time to break this.”

She nods. Lucy Walker is probably one of my most favorite persons. A small woman, she stands at five-foot-four, a hundred-ten pounds soaking wet with shoulder length red hair and grey eyes. She’s smart, she’s a smartass and she can usually get me to laugh when it’s the last thing that I want to do. She also doesn’t give me shit any more than I need it. She must know I don’t need it right now. Instead of pressing me, she steps back and rests against the table, looking at the whiteboard with me.

“I know you guys searched for similar cases, but what were the search parameters?” she asks before chewing on the nail of her left thumb.

“We were concentrating on missing flesh,” I answer her and rest my hands on my hips.

“Pull anything good?” she mumbles around her thumb.

“Nothing that struck me or John.”

“So either the cases haven’t been logged or we widen our search,” Lucy reasons.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

“What do you mean no?” I can hear the rebuke and I’m not entirely sure what to do about it or how to answer.

I try the truth, “It’s not like I don’t think it’ll hurt, but Luce, I think the answers are here. I just can’t…”

“You’re too close,” she cuts me off. I turn to glare. “Just wait a sec before you bite my head off.” Her hand is held up in front of her asking for patience. “You’ve been looking at these same photos for months. You just came back from being knocked around by a psycho with a sweet tooth for ramming pieces of wood where no pieces of wood should go. Since you’ve been back, the time you’ve been at work has been spent in here. Also, Jill’s not above calling one of us to find out why you’ve been coming home so late and leaving so early.”

I purse my lips.

“So, since you’ve been spending the last sixty hours out of seventy-two here, I think you need to take a step back.” Her arms go across her chest again and she dares me to deny her evidence.

“How do you know where I’ve been the past three days?” I retort.

“Travis gave me the access logs for reconciliation. You know the Bureau and the D.O.D. hates when we log too much time.” She smirks and follows up with, “Besides, I have eyes. I can see. Which right now, is more than I can say for John, because once he signs off on the logs and sees the amount of time you’ve been here, he’s going to go ape shit.”

I send her a scowl. She’s right, John will go ape shit. He likes to be here the most and it messes with his work ethic if his staff is here more than he is.

Luce rolls her eyes at me and teases, “And it also makes him worry.”

“How did you…” I try to ask.

“Please, that bastard hates it when we work more than he does and he hates to worry. He’s also really bad at worrying. My mother doesn’t nag that much.” She pushes off the desk, tossing me my shirt as she rights herself. “Do us all a favor because you look like shit and I don’t need Jill down here in our shit, smacking John around.”

“Hey, she’s only done that once,” I defend my wife.

Lucy shakes her head. “She’s smacked him once and decked him once. Or are we forgetting you’re stint as bait and being dragged off to the mid-Atlantic?”

“Oh, yeah, well, uhm,” I try, but nothing really comes out. My wife’s a trip and a third.

“So, go home, spend some quality time with her and come back tomorrow when you’re head’s not firmly planted up your ass and we’ll sit down together.”

“That you’re best offer?” I joke with her and slip the shirt on over my head.

She nods firmly and right before my eyes, has my keys dangling in front of them. “I’ll shut this down. Why don’t you go,” she stops and looks at her watch. Cocking her head to the side, she holds up three fingers and I watch as they lower one by one.

As the last finger folds into her palm, I hear, “Ann, let’s go.”

My eyes grow large and I poke my head out of the closet. Jill is standing down the hall smiling at me. Rolling my eyes, I turn to a smirking Lucy, snatch my keys away from her and threaten, “Tomorrow, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Come on, Ann. It’s fucking hot in here,” Jill pouts and I jog down the hall. She stops me and pulls me to her. Her left index finger reaches out and gently traces over my battered cheek and under my eyes. “We owe Lucy one.” She kisses me gently and takes my hand, leading me out into the muggy June weather of Virginia.

I wake up to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. This is odd. This is odd for several reasons. The first being that it's only seven o'clock in the morning. The second being that Jill is still by my side, well actually I'm by hers. When she came and picked me up yesterday, I was the recipient of a very short ass chewing, which was merciful especially for her, and then she pretty much just took care of me the rest of the night. It was one of the sweetest nights in recent memory.

I'm still curled up in her arms, our legs a mass of limbs and I can't tell where she begins and I end. She's snoring a little, which I find cute. Others may find it obnoxious or annoying; I say it’s their loss. With her in my arms there’s still the smell of coffee and frying bacon. Something's rotten in the House of Flemming.

As gently as possible, I extract myself from my wife, taking extra care to not jostle her too much. It's early and she hates getting up early. At some point I was stripped of my clothing. I stand in the middle of my bedroom clad only in a tank top and bikini briefs. There are several options to go with. I mean not many ax murders cook their next victims bacon or brew them coffee, but then again, you never know.

Sociopaths and their cousins, psychopaths, aren't known for their predictability which is somewhat funny because I've been able to predict a sociopath’s behavior on more than one occasion.

Internal debate over, I find a t-shirt and my jeans from yesterday folded on the recliner by our bedroom window. Well actually it's a bank of windows that are generally covered unless it's raining outside and the curtains get opened to give us an unobstructed view of the rolling hills and woods that surround our home. My gun is where it's supposed to be, stashed in a lock box sitting on top of my dresser. I love this box, no codes, no combination, just a quick scan of my left pinky or Jill's.

Not bothering with socks, I pad down the hallway as quietly as possible. I hear a soft humming in the kitchen and try to discern who in the fuck is in my kitchen at seven in the damn morning, humming to...cocking my head to the side I listen and hear Martha and the Vandella's sing about some boy...Linda Ness, Jill's mom.

Christ in platforms and a wedding dress what the fuck?

Sighing, I depress my annoyance and tuck my gun away, slipping it between the small of my back and waist of my jeans. It's not the safest place for it, but the jeans are tight enough and the safety's on. I run a hand through my disheveled, longer than I like it hair, and then enter the kitchen.

She doesn't hear or see me, so I prop myself up in the arch way and watch her move around the kitchen. There are things about Jill's mom that amaze me. She and Jill are the same height, they have the same brunette hair, but Linda has silver running through it. The same beautiful and intriguing brown eyes. Jill however lacks a few things that her mother inherited, one is the ability to actually cook and the second is a love for crafts and gardening.

I'm kinda bummed about the cooking thing, but thank God my wife hates crafts and gardening.

Linda finally spins around from the stove and stops dead in her tracks. The frying pan she's holding goes crashing to the floor, the spatula gets tossed over her head and she lets out the wildest shriek I've ever heard.

I laugh. Full on double over, tears streaming from my eyes laugh as soon as Linda finishes shrieking.

"For gosh shakes, Ann, what were you thinking? You just don't sneak up on people like that," she chides me. She sounds more miffed than anything else. My guess is she's also embarrassed. Her hands go to her hips and she stands much like Jill does when I’m getting an earful. I giggle some more, despite the protests from my busted cheek.

When I finally right myself, her jaw drops and she’s by my side instantly, “Oh, dear, Jill said you got hurt at work. I didn’t think it was anything that bad. Come on. Sit down and let me take a look.” And there’s the Linda I know. The woman can go from annoyed to motherly in point-oh-three seconds.

“Linda, really, it’s fine. Looks way worse than it feels,” I try to brush off her concern. I mean it’s sweet and all, but there are exactly two people on this planet that I will let fuss over me. One I’m married to and the other’s in New Orleans with her life partner. Nora and I are even on the same page about getting fussed over. It usually just pisses us off.

Linda must see it because she backs off pretty quick. “Well, if you need anything Ann…” she lets the rest trail off. It’s an unspoken rule actually. Linda and I were always cool. I was always reminded of that when we would sit in the Ness’ backyard, smoking and talking while Jill slept. I was the second daughter Linda never got and she was like the mother I wished for instead of the one that never bothered with me.

We bonded on Saturday mornings and she was actually the first person I came out to. She also even offered to have me live with them after I was kicked out of my uncle’s house. I think before Lee, she knew Jill and I were more than just friends or supposed to be more than just friends. Linda never batted an eyelash nor gave one derogatory remark. When Jill and I told her about us, she just clucked her tongue, smacked Jill upside the head and asked, “What in the hell took you two so long? I was hoping for grandbabies sooner rather than later.”

The remark floored Jill. Her family’s reaction was one of her biggest hang ups with us and why it took her so long to allow us to be together. Her family is Southern Baptist. They are the fire and brimstone loving types that like to whap you on the head with their righteousness. Jill never was one to agree with it, she’s an out and proud Agnostic, but her family’s reaction was of serious concern.

I’m still not sure why she worried. Linda is very cool and Jill’s dad, John, shrugged and smiled, intoning how nice it was.

“I know,” I tell her softly, “thanks. But I have a couple of questions, one, why are you here and two, why are you here and cooking breakfast?”

She pats the uninjured side of my face and smiles fondly at me. It’s actually the way you would a clueless child and says, “Jill called me after you fell asleep. I thought I’d surprise you two and then skedaddle, but you ruined it.”

“Oh,” I manage before melting just a little. I do love Linda, not as much as I love her daughter, but I feel that it’s a very similar love to what a child should feel towards their mom.

“So, since you ruined the surprise, grab a rag and help me clean this up,” she orders.

I chuckle but do as asked. As I stand from the stool, I feel my gun start to slip down the small of my back. Unthinking, I remove it and place it on the kitchen island and start cleaning up.

“There better be a good fucking reason I’m awake,” Jill grumbles. I peek up from my spot kneeling behind the island cleaning up bacon grease. She’s wearing her robe; it’s open to expose her body. Underneath the robe, she’s only wearing her underwear which is a little skimpier than mine and a camisole.

My wife shuffles in the kitchen, rubbing her eyes from under her glasses. She hasn’t seen her mother yet. Jill hates cussing in front of her mom. This is funny, because Jill can keep up with the most seasoned sailor on shore leave in expletives per sentence any day of the week.

“Jillian Leigh Ness,” her mother barks, “Your home or not, I will not stand here and listen to that kind of talk.”

I watch as her hand drops and her head snaps up. I smirk at the fish mouth and her ridged back.

“G’morning, babe,” I sing song from my position.

Her eyes narrow at me briefly, but then quickly go to her mother. “Sorry, mama,” she says contritely. “I didn’t know you were here.” Her face scrunches for a second before she asks, “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to be a nice mother, but that’s shot to hell in a hand basket. I swear you two ruin all my fun,” she chirps and turns back to the eggs in the skillet.

Jill just shakes her head and shuffles over to me. I smile up at her. She grabs my hand and pulls me up, grabbing on to my hips. I kiss her gently. She doesn’t pull back though. Instead, she deepens the kiss before I try to pull away.

A loud cough separates us and Linda says, “I don’t mind you two doing that as long as it eventually leads to some grandchildren. And Jill, tie the robe or go put some clothes on. I’ve seen that naked rear end enough and I don’t need the only other cook in the family getting distracted by your sleepwear.”

I groan. Jill giggles.

It’s going to be one of them days. As Jill complies with her mother’s request and scurries off to the bedroom, I finish my clean up and start to help with breakfast. The thoughts of the case in my closet pushed to the back of my mind. I need a morning like this.

And all together now, for the millionth time that day, I sigh. It’s starting to get on my nerves. I’ve had cases before that were frustrating. They were hard and didn’t make sense, but there was always a lose thread to be found. That thread would unravel the case or at least point to the right knot so that I could start untangling the mess that was presented to me.

At least that’s how it usually works, but with these cases, John’s not so amusingly dubbed to “The No Profile” cases, there’s nothing. I never had access to the scenes first, so preserving any forensic evidence is a joke. John and I spent time in each area going through the neighborhoods, talking to any potential witnesses and no one has seen a thing or if they do they don’t remember. With a fairly open work load, I’ve gone back to going over the individual murders. Nothing pings; nothing even remotely sticks out at me. John’s betting the proverbial farm on my psychological profile of our unsub. So far I’ve come up with a text book profile that any newbie out of Quantico’s Behavioral Training Unit could gather.

By the time I managed to get away from Jill. Linda left around eight this morning and Jill decided to make the most of our carbed up state and force me to go on a five mile run around the neighborhood. Lucy was in by the time I hit my desk. For the past four hours, she and I have been widening our searches. We started with race and age of the victim that netted more hits in our system than I care to vocalize. Once we got those, we began filtering out types of homicides. Anything with a sexual tilt, shootings or beatings and bludgeonings were removed. That helped a little. Our concentration was on stabbings and/or where the cause of death was indeterminate but a knife or sharp instrument was used. The filters brought our total down to around a less than desirable seven-hundred-sixty-three homicides.

We may get through them before I retire. Maybe. I think Travis started a pool with his friends over in Counterintelligence as to when we’ll get done. John’s supposed to be back in the office today. He was out yesterday and half of today mucking about in Washington. Him in D.C. always makes me nervous.

On the upside to a wonderful morning, I came into a fully functional air-conditioned office and I guess I’m supposed to be counting my blessings instead of bitching about the pile of work that I’ve just given myself. I take a sip of my luke warm coffee and mark off case four of my half of the seven-sixty-three. I pick my pen up and in a habit that developed somewhere along the way, I begin twirling it between my fingers.

My eyes look past Lucy and stay glued, but unfocused, on a patch of wall behind her. I have to think I’m approaching these cases from the wrong angle. The classic definition of insanity is doing the same thing, the same way, repeatedly and expecting different results. So maybe it’s not the case and the little bit we have, but the way I’m looking at it.

The air conditioning kicks on and I drop my pen to lean forward and rest my head on my upturned hand. My right thumb and pointer finger press into my lips as I stare blankly at my computer screen. If I strip away what I know, what do the scenes tell me individually?

The victims, at least in death, the crime scenes were very, very similar. Individually the bodies were placed in a respectful way. All of the victims were found fully clothed with no signs of sexual assault. Add to that, all three were put on display. Each body posed in a comparable fashion. Bamby feels confident enough in her findings to say that they were kept awake during the removal of their face, so I’ll say it’s a damn good bet that’s what happened.

The specifics of the case, I need to stay focused. Sometimes that can be hard when there are too many moving pieces. I shake it off and begin outlining ideas in my note book. The last two known victims were found in their residence. Someplace that was going to get the bodies discovered easily. Yet, the first known, was placed out of the way, in the woods around common hunting territory.

A small shock courses up my spine causing me to sit up straighter. My instinct tells me that that’s an important detail.

But why? What would it tell us?

It could tell us a myriad of things like Margret was the first kill, the unsub also placed her body in a position to be found easily. They want their work discovered. It could also tell us that at least with the first victim, our unsub was not comfortable using the home…

Wait…

It’s at this moment, where I’m on the brink and I feel my blood pumping through me that I love my job more than anything. That’s the fucking key…or at least an arrow. It’s been staring us right in the face for months. So glaringly obvious that a rookie in the smallest town in America would have been able to point it out to us. To me.

I mean given the time lapse and the fact the only crime scene we were able to walk was the last one, all of us have thought way to linearly about these cases. I want to beat my head off the desk. If John were here I’d ask that he hit me out of sheer stupidity. It almost makes me want to give him back the t-shirt he got me for my birthday our first year as partners. It’s a black V-neck that has “I’m a freakin’ genius” in bold white print.

I push back from my desk and startle Lucy. She looks up from her own desk and cocks an eyebrow at me. Ignoring her looks, I begin to pace the length of our small office. My fingers drum on my hips as I walk back and forth.

It’s the murder scene. We’ve been taking it for granted that the murder scene and the crime scene are one in the same, but all of these, except maybe the first, smack of the bodies being positioned, put on display. Those two, Sheridan and Denbow are not true crime scenes; they’re nothing more than displays.

Granted I don’t have any evidence to back my assertions, but then I don’t have any evidence to indicate that I’m wrong either. The only thing I have to go on is my gut. It’s going to have to be good enough. “Lucy, we’re stupid,” are the first words out of my mouth. “I need you to start calling the three different departments and see if they came up with anything to indicate the murder scene was also the kill site. If they did, we need to know. If it wasn’t than I need to know who followed up with that lead.”

“Uh, Ann, usually I’m pretty good about keeping up with you, but you wanna help a sister out and tell me what the flying fuck you’re rambling about?” Lucy rocks back in her seat and waits.

I shake my head and go over to the three main photos that showcase each body on display perfectly. “We’re fucking stupid. Look at these; tell me what you think? Tell me what our unsub is saying here?”

She cocks her head to the side and begins to study the pictures like she’s never seen them before. Slowly, my words sink in and her eyes grow large. “Well shit,” is all she manages before our office door swings open and John comes bustling through.

He’s red faced and the vein in his neck is pumping his blood a little too quickly for my liking. Not noticing the appearance of my partner, Lucy bounces in her seat a little and says, “Ann may have a lead for us on our No Profile Cases. It’s at least a start.” She then looks up from studying the images to take in John. “Uh, okay, who do we have to kill?” My mouth pinches at the question.

Sometimes, when things get really crazy that question isn’t a joke. It’s a reality that none of us likes, but live with.

“Get your shit,” he clips, “We’ve got a scene in Stafford.”

I look him over and ask, “John, what scene? More words are helpful, you know.”

“Both of you, get it together and I’ll go over more once we get there, but to put it in the most succinct terms, our boy, No Profile, has left us a little present. This time a fuck lot closer to where I rest my head.”

That’s all it takes for us to be out the door and to Apollo, trusting that my baby will get us there in short order.

Stafford like most of the other communities in the area isn't a sleepy little hub of domesticity. They’re a regular town, full of people itching to do things more with the time they have. Being this close to the nation’s capital doesn’t hurt either. For the truly masochistic, they will commute from here to D.C. or even into Richmond for work. It’s a nice little town. Not too far from John’s home actually, but then again, he likes to have space and lives in the middle of nowhere.

On the ride over I ask John, “How do we know?”

Taking a turn on the I-95, pretty tight, he steadies himself with a hand on the dashboard and says, “Got an interesting call from a desk jockey with the state police.”

I swerve around a semi-truck and BMW that’s either deaf and blind or just plain stupid. Part of the retrofitting that John did was install, flashers and sirens in Apollo for times like this or when I get the occasional urge to drive around the country to various crime scenes. It doesn’t happen all that often. The sirens on my baby are going and with the music playing in the car, Gun ‘n’ Roses, my two coworkers are wearing a tiny smirk.

What can I say, sometimes starting your day off with a little Axel Rose screaming about the jungle is fun.

I by-pass another semi and see the signs to Stafford. Usually the drive here will take anywhere from twenty to thirty minutes south of Quantico Station. Today, on a clear late summer afternoon, it takes me around twelve and a half minutes to exit the highway. Following John’s directions, we head west and down a two lane county road to a development not far from one of the main shopping areas in town.

Hanging a left in the division and another left onto a side street, I see two police cruisers and an F.B.I. crime scene van parked at one of the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac. I pull in behind a black and white and kill the engine. John and Lucy are out before me as I turn off the sirens and lights. Popping the trunk, I meet them at the back of Apollo and reach for one of the three duffle bags that stay in the trunk.

I hand John and Luce their own set of latex gloves, booties, and hair cap. I take a set for myself along with a digital camera and follow my two friends under the crime scene tape. We sign the log a junior agent is keeping at the front door. As I enter there is a set of things to notice. First is that there are only two other people in the house that I can see besides myself, John and Lucy.

Their voices are audible from the entry way. The house isn’t too large, single story, two bedroom single family home. Stepping into the home, there is a modest living room to my left, to my right a dining room that opens up to the kitchen. Directly in front of us is a hallway where I see three doors, all of which are open. The voices are coming from the last door on the left.

I lead the way down the hall after slipping the booties on over my shoes. Before I hit the door, I hear, “Travis, I swear to every deity that I can name off the top of my head, if you touch that envelope, I’m going to cut off your nuts and feed them to my dog.”

I hear a small eep from our coworker and Bamby follow up her threat with, “Now get the hell over hear and help me with the body. I want her brought in the body bag with bed linens. All of them.”

I quit eavesdropping to step into the bedroom. Two sets of eyes look up from their task of photographing and marking the position of the body. I scan the room first, taking in the position of the corpse and everything that is visible. The body, female, brunette, just like Maria Sheridan, just like the others, this victim is prone, with her hands clasped together resting on her hips. The facial skin is missing, leaving the muscles underneath exposed.

The placement of the body is always the first thing I notice. It is quickly followed by its condition and positioning. After the body and area have been noted, I notice a plain white envelope that rests on the dresser directly across from me. It sits against the far wall of the bedroom and on the front, there is script, I can’t read it, but I can tell that it’s clear and neat. I nod at Bamby and Travis and figure this must be the envelope she was threatening him over. I ask, “Do I want to know or are we free to investigate that item on the dresser without threat of missing parts?”

Bamby’s eyes skirt mine and she mumbles, “It’s for you anyhow.”

Huh?

“Uh, Ann,” John says behind me, “Let me go look at it.” I feel him behind me then I see him as he comes around and walks into the room like he walks into every other place, like he owns it. “Did you photograph this?” he asks, stepping in front of the dresser.

“Yeah,” Travis answers. “Placement has been photographed. The responding officer said he didn’t touch it. Just dialed the number.”

John nods and plucks the envelope off the top. Unable to resist, I walk up behind him and step to his right. He looks down at me and shows me the front of the envelope. In clear, distinct script is my name, Special Agent Ann Flemming, along with a general number to a New York, F.B.I. exchange. The number I recognize as one that was set up a few years ago as part of a task force. The general number was supposed to connect you to the Quantico switch board, the calls would have been screened and not pushed through my direct line unless they either answered a set of questions or by passed with a security code.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. I fucking hate this.

“Ann,” John says softly, “Do you…”
I nod and take the offered envelope. I turn it over and find the letter unsealed. Instead the flap is tucked inside to secure it closed. Pulling the flap free, I take a peek inside and only find a folded piece of stationary. I look at John and he shrugs. All right then. Fuck it. I pull the paper free and lay the empty envelope down.

Unfolding the paper, I hold it so that John and I can read it together.

Dear Special Agent Flemming,

Given the obtuse nature of those that pepper your profession, Mrs. Barbara Seevers graciously extended her willingness to help, by allowing me to leave you this gift. I hope you find in her death the answers she sacrificed herself for.
---“All great things must first wear terrifying and monstrous masks in order to inscribe themselves on the hearts of humanity.”

May your travels treat you and your loved ones well.

“Is that a threat?” I ask.

It’s hard to hear John over the ringing in my ears, but I do as he says, “It’s pretty fucking close.” He presses an evidence bag into my hand and I slip the letter and the envelope inside, marking the date and time to start the chain of evidence that procedure dictates.

“Okay.” It’s not really the first time some freak’s threatened me. In fact, it’s standard procedure whenever I seem to threaten them. “Bamby, what have you got for us?” My voice is surprisingly steady and calm as I hand off the evidence to Lucy who is standing behind me.

“Right now, it’s just like Denbow. The body isn’t cold. Preliminary time of death is going to put us inside three to maybe five hours,” she answers.

I nod.

“John, how do you want to do this?” I ask resting my hands my hips.

“We’ll start from the back of the house, probably the basement and work our way up. Grab a kit and we can go.” I look him over quickly, the tense set of his jaw and shoulders belie his tone which is calm and even. “Bamby, Lucy and Travis, I want the bedroom gone over with a fine tooth comb. This is the first fresh crime scene we’ve got on this. I want every nook, cranny and bed-fucking-bug sucked up into a vacuum bag to be analyzed at our labs. Ann, let’s go.”

I watch John’s military training kick in as he pivots on his left foot, doing an about face to stride from the room. I offer a nod to my colleagues and chase after my partner.

I guess it’s time to have some fun.

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