CM Fic: "The Good Boy" (5/7)

[bibliothekara]

Disclaimers: I don’t own Aaron Hotchner, Jason Gideon, David Rossi, or Derek Morgan. They belong to Eddie Bernero and Mark Gordon. But SSA Jenna Plancini, SSA Alex Sheridan, and the various denizens of my fictional version of Waverly, Iowa do belong to me.
Rating: FRT,  due to it being  case-fic
Spoilers: 1.17, “A Real Rain” in particular, up to season 4 in background
Genre: General/Pre-Series/Case-Fic/Ep-Related Characters: Hotch, Gideon, Rossi; one OMC, one OFC, and various townsfolk.
Pairings: None
Notes:  a) This is a completed fic, written back in the fall of 2008 and archived originally at FF.net. My crop of WIPs is kicking my ass. And I suddenly recalled I had never reposted this to LJ! So, thus, a chapter a day, until it's finished.
b) Waverly, Iowa does exist, and I have tried for accuracy in detail, but this version is fictional, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. Especially since I have never been to Iowa. c) I am completely ignoring the various timeline weirdness and decided to have Rossi, Gideon and Hotch on the team at the same time. If that or the dates bother you, just stop thinking about them. :)
 

Summary: “Waverly, Iowa, 1999, a man kills two boys, only to walk away free and kill another one.”- Hotch, A Real Rain. Every agent has their own ghosts.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Chapter Four

West Bremer Avenue, Waverly, Iowa

            Hotch gripped the Crown V’s oft-reluctant steering wheel. Gideon recited out loud, almost wistfully, what they had learned in their visit to the traumatized high school.  “Martin Therkorian, 45.  Has taught geometry, algebra, calculus, and AP calculus at Waverly-Shell Rock High, for almost twenty years. Lived in Waverly all his life, went to high school here. Went to college locallly, over at Wartburg. Goes to church with the Brentanos, at 9^th Street Episcopal. And for the past ten years, he has led the local 4-H club.”

            Hotch finished the darker end of that sentence. “…Giving him access to baling wire, and putting him in contact with every veterinarian, not only in Waverly, but in all of Bremer and the surrounding counties.” As the car neared the house of Martin and Debbie Therkorian, Gideon looked over at Hotch’s grip on the steering wheel. The young man’s knuckles had turned almost white.

            “Hotch. You remember what Dave said when we called, right? We are interviewing him. Interview only, and if he looks good for it, we return with what?”            
             “Backup.”

            “With backup, and bring him down to PD.”

            “I was on the extension during that conversation, yes, thank you.”

            “Just checking.”

            The car was quiet.  And then Hotch smiled. But it was a joyless, contemptuous thing. “4-H. Four-H. Head, Heart, Hands, and Health.” He paused, seeming to let the corrosive irony sink in.  “I was in it once, you know.”  Was that Hotch volunteering personal information? Best to pounce on the opportunity.

             “No, I didn’t. So you were going to be a farmer, huh?”

             “Only for a year or two. My parents thought it would be good to get me out of the house once in a while, get my head out of the books and ‘a little color in my cheeks.’ ”

             “Why’d you stop? From what I saw back at Ms. Leeward’s, you’re pretty good with animals.” Hotch looked over, and slightly quirked an eyebrow.

            “The animals, I was fine with. It was the kids that were too much effort. I was always better with adults than with children my own age.”

             If Gideon had a dime for every time he heard that line out of a BAU recruit… “You seem to have gotten better at it since 4-H.” 

            Hotch broke eye contact at that, switched back to the road: “Not really. I’ve just learned to hide it better.”

            “You and Sheridan and ‘Cina seem to get along pretty well.”

             “That’s different.”

            “I don’t see how, really; we may grow up, we may look different, but a lot of times it comes back to those learned social responses, the ones we perfect, or not, in middle and high school.”  Gideon stole a glance over at his teammate; was he imagining things, or was that something approaching resentment coloring Hotch’s features?

            In any case, the young man shot back. “So, once a ‘good boy’, always a “good boy’?”

            “Yes, I guess that is what I’m saying.”

             “We’re here.”

            They had indeed reached their destination. 227 West Bremer Avenue. And as the houses always did, it looked completely normal on the outside. One-story, mid-sized, beige siding, green shutters, and a bright red door. The receptionist at the high school said that Martin had called in sick that morning, blaming a respiratory virus that had been traveling around the school system for about a month. Hotch walked up the gravel and stone walkway, and knocked on the red door. No answer. He knocked louder; “Mr. Therkorian? It’s Agent Hotchner and Agent Gideon, from the FBI? We’d like to talk to you about Mark Brentano and Ricky Leeward.” Still no answer. Gideon noticed a wrought iron gate to the right side of the house. He got Hotch’s attention, and pointed quietly, making a “back door?” motion. Hotch followed immediately. Slowly, they made their way around to the back of the house.

            A neat back yard; not well-manicured, but mowed recently, what with the onset of spring. They turned, and looked through the sliding glass door into the Therkorian household. From their vantage point, they could see into the den; a brown recliner was faced towards the television, and a man was sitting stark upright in it.

            “Mr. Therkorian?”

            “Agents. The door’s unlocked. Come in.”

            Hotch  opened the door, and stepped gingerly over the threshold. Gideon followed. 

            The young agent decided to take the bull by the horns. “We’re interviewing all of the teachers at Waverly-Shell Rock, especially those who might have insight into Mark and Ricky’s lives. The receptionist told us about your cold, I hope we’re not disturbing you…”

            Hotch’s sentence trailed off as the dingy brown recliner swung around to face them. Martin Therkorian was dressed spotlessly, in a nice but not extravagant brown suit, matched with a dark green tie. His hair was close cropped, Marine-style. And he was cradling a double-barreled shotgun in his lap. Looking at it. Stroking it.

            Jason’s heart immediately started pumping twice as fast. Before he even realized it, his Bureau training had kicked in, and he was pointing his sidearm. Hotch had done the same.

            Jason tried using the calm tone of voice that meant to show suspects he was indifferent, when really he was terrified. “Now. Mr. Therkorian, we’re just here to talk. Nothing big, nothing strenuous, just talk.”

            It didn’t work: “No. You’re not here to talk. You’ve come for me. You’ve come for me, and I’m ready to face it. Ready to face the whirlwind, face the fire, face the trials.” Therkorian picked up the shotgun, and raised its barrels toward his mouth.

            “Why did you place them so gently?”

            Hotch’s conciliatory tone stopped Therkorian mid-motion.

            “What did you say?”

            “I asked why did you place them so gently? You could have thrown them in the lake, in a dumpster, anywhere. I mean, you obviously didn’t care for them when they were alive, so why take such care with two lifeless husks?”

            Jason wasn’t sure whether Hotch was trying to antagonize Martin, distract him, or both.  Whatever he had intended, it seemed now to have backfired. Therkorian lowered the gun a foot, and pointed it straight  at Hotch’s head. Dubious as Jason was about his own talent with firearms, he would nevertheless have taken the shot. That is, if Hotch had not also been square in his sights.

            “You do not speak of them like that, young man.”

            (Why hasn’t Therkorian fired?)

            Hotch’s voice was dead calm. “Why? They’re just names, now. You made sure of that, Martin.”

            (What are you doing, Hotch?)

            “I freed them. My angels.”

            ‘We know what you did.  You couldn’t hide it from God, and you couldn’t hide it from the Bremer County coroner.”           

            Therkorian’s tone grew more desparate. “I loved them.”

            “You can’t even speak their names. Do you know why?”

            “Because they are not to be spoken.”

            “You know their full names, Martin.”

            “No.”

            “Name them, out loud.”

            “I won’t, I won’t, I will not.”

            “ Mark Edward Brentano and Richard Benjamin Leeward, Junior.”

            “ My angels.”

            “They weren’t angels, Martin. They were boys. They were good boys, and they trusted you, and you betrayed them. And you can shoot me now, but you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life.”

            “No. No no no no no….”

            At that, Therkorian lowered the gun. He placed it on the side table, curled in upon himself, and began to weep.

 

************