![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
grav_ityChapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Rossi’s cell phone was once again balanced in his hand and held forward so the men in the front could hear. They had just pulled off the highway, and Cooke was threading the car through the urban maze that made up a typical Toronto bedroom community. Everyone was patched in but JJ, who was still taking questions at the press conference.
“We can’t take a firm date from the coins,” Hotch said. He pulled out his pocket change. “I’ve got four quarters here, and they’re all from the 1980s.”
“The archaeologist said it’s statistically unlikely for this many silver coins to be in the same collection,” Prentiss said.
“Additionally, coins with King George on them were pulled from circulation after Queen Elizabeth’s coronation,” Reid added. “Taken in conjunction with the tree root, it’s a solid date.”
Rossi and Hotch exchanged a glance. Rossi shrugged.
“Fair enough,” Hotch said. “Garcia, what have you got?”
“I forwarded our three potential IDs to the coroner’s office,” Garcia reported. “The forensic anthropologist assisted at the autopsy and confirmed the identifications.”
“Our people will notify any surviving family members,” Cooke said. “Will you need to speak to them?”
“Not yet,” said Rossi. “There are two possibilities: either DuCette killed them all and the murders stopped because he was in prison, or someone else committed the murders and stopped for a reason we don’t know yet.”
“Or DuCette killed Lynne Bard and someone else killed the others,” Hotch said. “We can’t rule that out entirely.”
“Okay, we’ll call that option three,” Rossi allowed. “Garcia, see who moved away from Raglan after 1959.”
“On it.”
“Do we really think that that an eleven-year-old could have done this?” Prentiss asked. “Murdered those first three girls?”
“It’s unlikely, but possible,” Reid said. “We have a very limited set of data for child serial killers because they’re so rare and because most children and teens profile as sociopaths anyway.”
“Hotch, I’m not sure I could have dug that hole,” Morgan said. He was the only person who could see Prentiss’s eyes widen in surprise. “Between the depth and tree roots…”
“Understandable,” Hotch said. “But when we interview DuCette, we interview him as an unsub.”
“Okay, my intrepid agents,” Garcia cut in, silencing any number of potential arguments. “Only four military families besides the DuCettes were reassigned and moved away in 1959.”
“Can you run them down?” Rossi asked.
“I can,” said Garcia. “But I’ve found something better.”
“Now’s not the time to be a tease, baby girl,” Morgan said.
“You have no appreciation for building to the reveal, my friend,” Garcia replied.
“Garcia,” Hotch said shortly.
“Sorry, sir,” Garcia’s instant contrition fooled no one. “One civilian family, a mother and her eight-year-old daughter, moved away from the area that summer.”
“And?” Rossi said.
“They moved away quickly, she didn’t even sell the house until three months later,” Garcia continued. “Here’s the kicker: they moved before Lynne Bard’s murder.”
“Where are they now?”
“Alma Dykstra died a few years ago,” Garcia said. “But her daughter Margaret Gallant is alive and well and living in Waterford.”
“Your agents can be there in an hour,” Cooke supplied.
“Prentiss, Reid, you take this one,” Hotch declared. “Morgan, bring JJ up to date and then look over any police files Reid didn’t get to.”
“Agent Hotchner, we’re just around the corner,” Cooke said, pulling the SUV onto a residential street.
“We’ll talk to you when we’re done,” Rossi said, and shut off the phone before the team was finished signing off. “You really want to interview this guy like he’s an unsub?”
“It’s our job,” Hotch said simply.
Rossi could think of six different responses to that, but after seeing the look in Hotch’s eyes, decided to say nothing at all.
++++++
Every house in the subdivision was the same. The colour of the brick varied, and some owners had chosen to upgrade certain features - a front atrium or the gable over the garage - but every house was, at its soul, identical to its neighbours. To compensate, the residents hung decorations: old doors at awkward angles and dangling flower pots brimming with geraniums. Some had elaborate gardens with landscaped rocks and carefully maintained shrubbery. Some had fences to hem in the family dog. But even their attempts at individuality were conformative. This was a place where a person could conceal his identity from the world.
Before Evan Lawford’s woodsmanship brought the case to light again, DuCette had been awarded a large sum of money by the government as reparation. If he’d spent it on the house, he’d concealed it well. Nothing about the home said anything about the inhabitant. That was what made it so identifiable. Hotch picked out the DuCette house before Cooke pulled into the driveway.
Hotch saw the curtains twitch out of the corner of his eye and knew their arrival had been noted. He wondered what the neighbours thought; if any of them had moved away when DuCette revealed his true name and took his identity back; what happened to this house on Devil’s Night. He was not entirely comfortable with the role he was about to play, but he knew it was as necessary as it was potentially damaging. When he and Rossi were through, there would be no doubt left, and it wouldn’t matter what anyone thought of a seemingly cold and heartless FBI agent.
Cooke knew his part as well. He was to introduce the agents, and then keep his nose out of it. He wasn’t sure he liked letting a comrade, even a new one, take the fall for something that was a group effort, but he’d read a lot about this group of agents, and knew they were the best at what they did.
Rossi pulled on his sport jacket, having removed it for the drive. It was a little rumpled, because he’d thrown it on a chair in a ball during the flight too. Compared to Hotch’s perpetually well pressed suit and tie combination it was bordering on casual, but it was comfortable. Rossi had noticed that comfort begat comfort.
So it was that Mrs. DuCette opened the door to three men that looked nothing like the one’s who’d gotten into the SUV. Constable Cooke was the friendly local, anxious to end this as soon as possible and restore the status quo. Rossi was the sympathetic professional, the world-weary writer searching for inspiration. And Hotch was the agent of justice, as implacable as he was blind.
“Please come in,” Mrs. DuCette said. Cooke hadn’t even had time to make the introductions.
She led them to the living room. It was longer than it was broad, and the awkward space was carefully furnished to hide the dimensional shortcomings. Today, it was more crowded than usual, as three chairs had been brought in from the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace. The chairs faced the chesterfield, on which sat a man who looked so regular, Hotch’s façade almost cracked.
The two oldest DuCette children sat on the piano bench, pulled out alongside the sofa so that the family could face down the agents together. The youngest boy sat next to his father. His mother joined them as the agents and Constable Cooke took their seats.
“Thank you very much for agreeing to speak with us today,” Cooke said. “Agent Rossi and Agent Hotchner are going to do most of the talking, and some of their questions might seem a little odd, but I guarantee that these men are the best at what they do.”
“What exactly do they do?” asked the daughter.
“We examine the lives and behaviours of people who have committed serious crimes in the hope of profiling the behaviours of new perpetrators,” Rossi said.
“And behaviours can tell you if someone is a serial killer?” the oldest son ask.
“They help, yes,” Rossi said.
“Ask your questions,” DuCette said, speaking for the first time. It was almost a plea, full of hope and completely lacking in fear.
“Mrs. DuCette,” Rossi began, “did you know who your husband was before you married him?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I protested against his incarceration when I was in high school and college. When I met him, I knew he was innocent.”
“You never had any doubts?” Hotch’s voice was so flat it was hard to tell if he’d voiced a question or a statement.
“None,” came the reply, her conviction absolute.
“Liza,” Rossi said, addressing the daughter directly. “Could you characterize your relationship with your father?”
“He’s my father,” Liza replied after a moment during which DuCette seemed to realize where this was headed and stiffened in his seat.
“He never did anything untoward?” Hotch asked. “Never came into your room without knocking, or spent time watching you when you had slumber parties?”
“I never had slumber parties.” She said the words automatically, without an understanding of the question. Then realization dawned in her eyes and her voice hardened. “No, Agent Hotchner. Nothing untoward.”
“Agent, I was led to believe your questions were for me,’ DuCette said. His voice was completely level, but there was a desperation in his eyes that Hotch could recognize. He was trying to protect his family. Hotch knew where to go from here.
“Then why is your family here, Mr. DuCette?” Hotch asked, refused to let the act drop. “Your children are grown and have moved away.”
“When they turned eighteen we told them everything,” Mrs. DuCette said. “Since then, we’ve kept none of the case details a secret from them.”
“How did you react?” Rossi asked, looking straight at the youngest son.
“I cried,” he said. “And then I got very angry with the police. My father told me that I had to be a bigger person and work with what I was given.”
“You mean the shame,” Hotch said. This time it was definitely a statement.
“When my dad changed his name back, we all had the choice,” the oldest son said. “You are sitting in a room full of DuCettes. My sister didn’t even change her name when she got married. Does that sound like shame to you?”
“You haven’t answered me, agent,” DuCette said. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Nobody kills one person, Mr. DuCette,” Rossi said. “Not like Lynne Bard was killed and not like those three girls. No one on that kind of spiral can just stop.”
“Unless they go to prison,” Hotch said. Showtime.
“He’s been out of prison and off parole for decades,” Rossi said, committing fully to his part.
“Yes,” said Hotch, his voice as cold as ice. “With a loving wife to cover up his indiscretions and three children to act as surrogates.”
“What are you talking about?” DuCette demanded.
“Did your husband have sexual predilections that made you uncomfortable, Mrs. DuCette?” Hotch asked, his eyes hard. “Did they stop around the time your daughter turned eight? Were you relieved?”
“Don’t you dare say things like that about my family!” Stephen DuCette flew off the chesterfield at Hotch. Constable Cooke caught him and held him back, but took it no further. After a few seconds of struggle, DuCette collapsed back on the couch in defeat. His eyes found Rossi. “I asked you here to help me.”
“That’s enough, Aaron,” Rossi said. He felt his partner relax. “We all know you’re innocent. We’ve know it since we pulled into your drive way. No one fakes normal that badly.”
“What does that mean?” Liza asked, her voice sharp and defensive.
“You act like a victim, Mr. DuCette,” Hotch said, his voice gentle. “You don’t match the profile. Any child capable of raping and strangling one person, let alone three, would have grown up into a sexual sadist with sociopathic tendencies that would be impossible to hide.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. DuCette. She sounded hollow, like she was in shock.
“You love your wife, Mr. DuCette. And your children,” Rossi said. “And they love you. Since we started talking, all you’ve tried to do is protect them and all they’ve done is protect you. That kind of reciprocity would be impossible if you were the man we’re looking for. They are not afraid of you. You are, as you have always been, an innocent man.”
Tears filled Stephen’s eyes as he searched Rossi’s face for any hint of treachery. He found none. He reached around his son for his wife, and pulled them both close. Rossi suddenly felt like more of an intruder into someone’s privacy than he ever had before. Stephen looked up at Hotch, and his face hardened.
“You asked us to do our jobs,” Hotch said, answering the unvoiced question. “This is what we do.”
No one spoke until the SUV pulled back onto the 401. Constable Cooke, having now seen in action what he had only read on paper, seemed unsure how to talk to them. Rossi knew that Hotch was in no mood to talk to anyone, and he was content to let the silence rest. He didn’t think that Cooke would feel the same way, and knew it was only a matter of time before the constable started asking questions Hotch didn’t want to answer.
++++++
“What do we do next?” Cooke finally asked, pulling into the fast lane and setting the cruise control at a comfortable 120.
“If Prentiss and Reid turn up a suspect, the DuCettes may be able to end this entirely,” Rossi said.
“And if not?”
“Then the legend continues,” Hotch said flatly. These were truths he hated. “Except now you get to tell every doubter you meet that you sat in the room and watched the best profilers in the world determine a man’s innocence.”
“That’s not enough.”
“We know,” said Rossi. “We know.”
++++++
AN: This is what I wanted in place of the Pig Farmer episode. Yes, it's probably Canada's most well known murder lately, but it's one we've taken care of. It's not really finale material. I trust this show enough to deal with something bigger and more...interesting.
Bonus Fun Fact: “Devil’s Night” is most famous in Detroit, but is actually the term given to October 30th throughout the eastern United States and Canada. So Hotch might know what it was.
Chapter 4
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Rossi’s cell phone was once again balanced in his hand and held forward so the men in the front could hear. They had just pulled off the highway, and Cooke was threading the car through the urban maze that made up a typical Toronto bedroom community. Everyone was patched in but JJ, who was still taking questions at the press conference.
“We can’t take a firm date from the coins,” Hotch said. He pulled out his pocket change. “I’ve got four quarters here, and they’re all from the 1980s.”
“The archaeologist said it’s statistically unlikely for this many silver coins to be in the same collection,” Prentiss said.
“Additionally, coins with King George on them were pulled from circulation after Queen Elizabeth’s coronation,” Reid added. “Taken in conjunction with the tree root, it’s a solid date.”
Rossi and Hotch exchanged a glance. Rossi shrugged.
“Fair enough,” Hotch said. “Garcia, what have you got?”
“I forwarded our three potential IDs to the coroner’s office,” Garcia reported. “The forensic anthropologist assisted at the autopsy and confirmed the identifications.”
“Our people will notify any surviving family members,” Cooke said. “Will you need to speak to them?”
“Not yet,” said Rossi. “There are two possibilities: either DuCette killed them all and the murders stopped because he was in prison, or someone else committed the murders and stopped for a reason we don’t know yet.”
“Or DuCette killed Lynne Bard and someone else killed the others,” Hotch said. “We can’t rule that out entirely.”
“Okay, we’ll call that option three,” Rossi allowed. “Garcia, see who moved away from Raglan after 1959.”
“On it.”
“Do we really think that that an eleven-year-old could have done this?” Prentiss asked. “Murdered those first three girls?”
“It’s unlikely, but possible,” Reid said. “We have a very limited set of data for child serial killers because they’re so rare and because most children and teens profile as sociopaths anyway.”
“Hotch, I’m not sure I could have dug that hole,” Morgan said. He was the only person who could see Prentiss’s eyes widen in surprise. “Between the depth and tree roots…”
“Understandable,” Hotch said. “But when we interview DuCette, we interview him as an unsub.”
“Okay, my intrepid agents,” Garcia cut in, silencing any number of potential arguments. “Only four military families besides the DuCettes were reassigned and moved away in 1959.”
“Can you run them down?” Rossi asked.
“I can,” said Garcia. “But I’ve found something better.”
“Now’s not the time to be a tease, baby girl,” Morgan said.
“You have no appreciation for building to the reveal, my friend,” Garcia replied.
“Garcia,” Hotch said shortly.
“Sorry, sir,” Garcia’s instant contrition fooled no one. “One civilian family, a mother and her eight-year-old daughter, moved away from the area that summer.”
“And?” Rossi said.
“They moved away quickly, she didn’t even sell the house until three months later,” Garcia continued. “Here’s the kicker: they moved before Lynne Bard’s murder.”
“Where are they now?”
“Alma Dykstra died a few years ago,” Garcia said. “But her daughter Margaret Gallant is alive and well and living in Waterford.”
“Your agents can be there in an hour,” Cooke supplied.
“Prentiss, Reid, you take this one,” Hotch declared. “Morgan, bring JJ up to date and then look over any police files Reid didn’t get to.”
“Agent Hotchner, we’re just around the corner,” Cooke said, pulling the SUV onto a residential street.
“We’ll talk to you when we’re done,” Rossi said, and shut off the phone before the team was finished signing off. “You really want to interview this guy like he’s an unsub?”
“It’s our job,” Hotch said simply.
Rossi could think of six different responses to that, but after seeing the look in Hotch’s eyes, decided to say nothing at all.
++++++
Every house in the subdivision was the same. The colour of the brick varied, and some owners had chosen to upgrade certain features - a front atrium or the gable over the garage - but every house was, at its soul, identical to its neighbours. To compensate, the residents hung decorations: old doors at awkward angles and dangling flower pots brimming with geraniums. Some had elaborate gardens with landscaped rocks and carefully maintained shrubbery. Some had fences to hem in the family dog. But even their attempts at individuality were conformative. This was a place where a person could conceal his identity from the world.
Before Evan Lawford’s woodsmanship brought the case to light again, DuCette had been awarded a large sum of money by the government as reparation. If he’d spent it on the house, he’d concealed it well. Nothing about the home said anything about the inhabitant. That was what made it so identifiable. Hotch picked out the DuCette house before Cooke pulled into the driveway.
Hotch saw the curtains twitch out of the corner of his eye and knew their arrival had been noted. He wondered what the neighbours thought; if any of them had moved away when DuCette revealed his true name and took his identity back; what happened to this house on Devil’s Night. He was not entirely comfortable with the role he was about to play, but he knew it was as necessary as it was potentially damaging. When he and Rossi were through, there would be no doubt left, and it wouldn’t matter what anyone thought of a seemingly cold and heartless FBI agent.
Cooke knew his part as well. He was to introduce the agents, and then keep his nose out of it. He wasn’t sure he liked letting a comrade, even a new one, take the fall for something that was a group effort, but he’d read a lot about this group of agents, and knew they were the best at what they did.
Rossi pulled on his sport jacket, having removed it for the drive. It was a little rumpled, because he’d thrown it on a chair in a ball during the flight too. Compared to Hotch’s perpetually well pressed suit and tie combination it was bordering on casual, but it was comfortable. Rossi had noticed that comfort begat comfort.
So it was that Mrs. DuCette opened the door to three men that looked nothing like the one’s who’d gotten into the SUV. Constable Cooke was the friendly local, anxious to end this as soon as possible and restore the status quo. Rossi was the sympathetic professional, the world-weary writer searching for inspiration. And Hotch was the agent of justice, as implacable as he was blind.
“Please come in,” Mrs. DuCette said. Cooke hadn’t even had time to make the introductions.
She led them to the living room. It was longer than it was broad, and the awkward space was carefully furnished to hide the dimensional shortcomings. Today, it was more crowded than usual, as three chairs had been brought in from the dining room and placed in front of the fireplace. The chairs faced the chesterfield, on which sat a man who looked so regular, Hotch’s façade almost cracked.
The two oldest DuCette children sat on the piano bench, pulled out alongside the sofa so that the family could face down the agents together. The youngest boy sat next to his father. His mother joined them as the agents and Constable Cooke took their seats.
“Thank you very much for agreeing to speak with us today,” Cooke said. “Agent Rossi and Agent Hotchner are going to do most of the talking, and some of their questions might seem a little odd, but I guarantee that these men are the best at what they do.”
“What exactly do they do?” asked the daughter.
“We examine the lives and behaviours of people who have committed serious crimes in the hope of profiling the behaviours of new perpetrators,” Rossi said.
“And behaviours can tell you if someone is a serial killer?” the oldest son ask.
“They help, yes,” Rossi said.
“Ask your questions,” DuCette said, speaking for the first time. It was almost a plea, full of hope and completely lacking in fear.
“Mrs. DuCette,” Rossi began, “did you know who your husband was before you married him?”
“Of course,” she replied. “I protested against his incarceration when I was in high school and college. When I met him, I knew he was innocent.”
“You never had any doubts?” Hotch’s voice was so flat it was hard to tell if he’d voiced a question or a statement.
“None,” came the reply, her conviction absolute.
“Liza,” Rossi said, addressing the daughter directly. “Could you characterize your relationship with your father?”
“He’s my father,” Liza replied after a moment during which DuCette seemed to realize where this was headed and stiffened in his seat.
“He never did anything untoward?” Hotch asked. “Never came into your room without knocking, or spent time watching you when you had slumber parties?”
“I never had slumber parties.” She said the words automatically, without an understanding of the question. Then realization dawned in her eyes and her voice hardened. “No, Agent Hotchner. Nothing untoward.”
“Agent, I was led to believe your questions were for me,’ DuCette said. His voice was completely level, but there was a desperation in his eyes that Hotch could recognize. He was trying to protect his family. Hotch knew where to go from here.
“Then why is your family here, Mr. DuCette?” Hotch asked, refused to let the act drop. “Your children are grown and have moved away.”
“When they turned eighteen we told them everything,” Mrs. DuCette said. “Since then, we’ve kept none of the case details a secret from them.”
“How did you react?” Rossi asked, looking straight at the youngest son.
“I cried,” he said. “And then I got very angry with the police. My father told me that I had to be a bigger person and work with what I was given.”
“You mean the shame,” Hotch said. This time it was definitely a statement.
“When my dad changed his name back, we all had the choice,” the oldest son said. “You are sitting in a room full of DuCettes. My sister didn’t even change her name when she got married. Does that sound like shame to you?”
“You haven’t answered me, agent,” DuCette said. “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Nobody kills one person, Mr. DuCette,” Rossi said. “Not like Lynne Bard was killed and not like those three girls. No one on that kind of spiral can just stop.”
“Unless they go to prison,” Hotch said. Showtime.
“He’s been out of prison and off parole for decades,” Rossi said, committing fully to his part.
“Yes,” said Hotch, his voice as cold as ice. “With a loving wife to cover up his indiscretions and three children to act as surrogates.”
“What are you talking about?” DuCette demanded.
“Did your husband have sexual predilections that made you uncomfortable, Mrs. DuCette?” Hotch asked, his eyes hard. “Did they stop around the time your daughter turned eight? Were you relieved?”
“Don’t you dare say things like that about my family!” Stephen DuCette flew off the chesterfield at Hotch. Constable Cooke caught him and held him back, but took it no further. After a few seconds of struggle, DuCette collapsed back on the couch in defeat. His eyes found Rossi. “I asked you here to help me.”
“That’s enough, Aaron,” Rossi said. He felt his partner relax. “We all know you’re innocent. We’ve know it since we pulled into your drive way. No one fakes normal that badly.”
“What does that mean?” Liza asked, her voice sharp and defensive.
“You act like a victim, Mr. DuCette,” Hotch said, his voice gentle. “You don’t match the profile. Any child capable of raping and strangling one person, let alone three, would have grown up into a sexual sadist with sociopathic tendencies that would be impossible to hide.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. DuCette. She sounded hollow, like she was in shock.
“You love your wife, Mr. DuCette. And your children,” Rossi said. “And they love you. Since we started talking, all you’ve tried to do is protect them and all they’ve done is protect you. That kind of reciprocity would be impossible if you were the man we’re looking for. They are not afraid of you. You are, as you have always been, an innocent man.”
Tears filled Stephen’s eyes as he searched Rossi’s face for any hint of treachery. He found none. He reached around his son for his wife, and pulled them both close. Rossi suddenly felt like more of an intruder into someone’s privacy than he ever had before. Stephen looked up at Hotch, and his face hardened.
“You asked us to do our jobs,” Hotch said, answering the unvoiced question. “This is what we do.”
No one spoke until the SUV pulled back onto the 401. Constable Cooke, having now seen in action what he had only read on paper, seemed unsure how to talk to them. Rossi knew that Hotch was in no mood to talk to anyone, and he was content to let the silence rest. He didn’t think that Cooke would feel the same way, and knew it was only a matter of time before the constable started asking questions Hotch didn’t want to answer.
++++++
“What do we do next?” Cooke finally asked, pulling into the fast lane and setting the cruise control at a comfortable 120.
“If Prentiss and Reid turn up a suspect, the DuCettes may be able to end this entirely,” Rossi said.
“And if not?”
“Then the legend continues,” Hotch said flatly. These were truths he hated. “Except now you get to tell every doubter you meet that you sat in the room and watched the best profilers in the world determine a man’s innocence.”
“That’s not enough.”
“We know,” said Rossi. “We know.”
++++++
AN: This is what I wanted in place of the Pig Farmer episode. Yes, it's probably Canada's most well known murder lately, but it's one we've taken care of. It's not really finale material. I trust this show enough to deal with something bigger and more...interesting.
Bonus Fun Fact: “Devil’s Night” is most famous in Detroit, but is actually the term given to October 30th throughout the eastern United States and Canada. So Hotch might know what it was.
Chapter 4
