Belle Merriweather fidgeted with the ring she wore on her left hand, aware that her body language was giving away her nervousness, but she was unable to bring herself to do anything about it. She sat on the plush couch in her boss's office, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the whole situation. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd talked with Winona in person, and those had always been fleeting encounters, bumping into each other in the hallways or in the same line for coffee. Usually, she only saw the woman from a distance at briefings or in other professional capacities — and as a junior profiler, Belle rarely had any other role at those meetings than sitting quietly, listening, and nodding attentively.
But now, she was about to have a one-on-one conversation with Winona. In her actual office, with its unbelievable view of the city outside. Belle had a cubicle, not an office, and the idea of a view was laughable. Maybe someday, if she kept her head down, worked hard, caught the eye of the higher-ups… which she'd certainly done this week, hadn't she?
It hadn't been intentional. She'd been working on a missing children's case. She'd profiled several perps who lived in the area, but one man kept pinging her instincts. This was a guy who'd been on their radar for a while — the kind of perp who definitely seemed dangerous, but who hadn't been caught yet, but had been given citations for behavior that was… well, strange. Strange enough to warrant keeping an eye on him. There were thousands of guys like that on the FBI's books — guys with suspicious histories, guys with the kinds of criminal records that pointed to something a lot more unpleasant coming. Guys they watched quietly, kept close eye on, and hoped they'd be one step ahead when they finally sprang into action. Belle knew she was using gendered language, knew she always thought of men specifically when she was imagining hypothetical criminals… but Belle had always taken a specific interest in serial killers, and the facts were men were more likely to become serial killers than women. At least ninety-five-percent of the known serial killers were indeed men.
And so was this guy. Jim Michaels. His name was short for James, though he'd actually had it legally changed to Jim sometime after his twenty-first birthday. Parental resentment, she had suspected when she'd scanned his files looking for the right perp. She used a combination of data analysis and her background in psychology to help her build the picture of the perpetrator they were looking for.
Jim Michaels had fit perfectly. He'd had an unhappy childhood, from all reports. His father had been a borderline psychotic religious zealot, banished from his own church when his views became a little too extreme, and had become, thankfully, an unsuccessful cult leader with only a handful of followers. Allegations of abuse, both mental, and physical had been lodged against him, but with the burden of proof on the victims, the case had fallen apart. Still, his cult had fallen apart only a few years after he'd started it. Jim's mother had been firmly from the school of thought that said you supported your husband no matter what. She had stood by him, denying the allegations, which was another reason the case against Pastor Michaels had fallen apart. Jim had been their only son, and it seemed it hadn't been a happy home for him, as he'd fled at age sixteen. This all came from the local PD's files, from their interviews with the cult members and the family. Jim had lived on various friends' couches for about a year, until he'd been able to support himself, but even then there had been some troubling reports about him. There were complaints on file about him mutilating pets, and a few reports from some of those friends' parents of him being inappropriate around their young daughters. Mostly, making comments, but in two cases, he'd gone into their bathrooms as they were bathing, or changing clothes. They'd investigated him to make sure he hadn't molested any of them, but the girls had all denied it, so he hadn't been charged.
There was a period of time after that where Jim kept his head down, working hard at construction jobs before starting his own company, which had been reasonably successful. And if that was it, he never would have caught the attention of the FBI, but he started behaving strangely again about ten years later.
Jim's parents had both passed away and he'd moved into their home, then added on multiple rooms. The neighbors had filed reports of noise complaints because he was doing the work himself and late into the night, but again it was nothing too serious. Then there were multiple citations of lewd behavior in the vicinity of parks and elementary schools. Which definitely caused the local PD to become suspicious of him. Especially when three children went missing. All little girls, around the age of seven. After the fourth went missing, the FBI was called in, and that was how Belle got involved.
Everything she read about this guy had sent up red flags with her. There had been others, several who'd done time for child molestation, but something about Jim Michaels caught her attention. She wasn't sure what, but when she started digging into his life, she discovered he'd had numerous failed relationships, all with women much younger than him. Then there was the numerous applications to be a foster parent, specifically asking to become the foster parent of a little girl, preferably under the age of ten. In some cases, he even named a specific little girl, which had been very worrisome to Belle. The more she read and discovered about him, the more concerned she grew.
She hadn't been able to help but wonder, as she'd pored over everything she'd discovered, how many incidents she didn't have paperwork about, how many children he might have already harmed that weren't reported. How many times had Jim visited parks and played with children, drew them away from their parents for a short period while the parents weren't paying attention, didn't report the strange man to the police, didn't take any action.
Everything about the man had led her to believe that he was the perp they were looking for, and she'd been correct.
"Belle, thanks for coming."
Belle almost leapt out of the soft embrace of the couch. Winona Marshall was shutting her office door, her characteristically brisk, sharp movements pulling Belle from her reflections. Winona was an older woman, though nobody could guess how old — anything between forty and ninety would make sense. She had a timeless, ageless quality — her dark hair lightly peppered with silver, but only lightly, and her dark skin gave away no sign of ageing whatsoever. Belle, who at twenty-eight was already noticing the beginnings of smile lines around her mouth and eyes, was fiercely jealous… though if she aspired to manifest any of Winona's qualities in herself, it was her intelligence and razor-sharp professional instincts that topped the list, not her appearance. Even now, those sharp eyes were resting on Belle, making her shift a little in her seat as she felt her boss analyzing every little detail of her posture, her body language, her face, her eyes… they didn't call Winona Marshall the FBI's human lie detector for nothing. She'd made a career on what she often called her 'hunches' — her unerring instinct for sniffing out the truth of a situation — but those instincts were trained and honed by decades of experience reading body language, facial micro expressions, all the tiny unconscious ways human beings communicated their true intentions…
And right now, the full force of that laser focus was on Belle. No wonder she felt so nervous.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good," Belle said automatically, feeling her spine straighten as Winona took a seat opposite her, an amused smile quirking her lip up by about a micrometer.
Winona was so good at the subtleties of human expression that it had been mirrored in her own expression — anyone who didn't know any better would swear she was an emotionless automaton. But Belle knew that wasn't the case. She was just subtle about what she demonstrated.
"Well, all things considered."
"You've done good work, correctly identifying the perp in this case before he escalated," Winona said briskly, crossing her legs and tapping one long finger on the file that was sitting on the low table between the couch and her chair.
Belle knew without looking that it was Jim Michaels' file. Closed, now… she felt a shiver run down her spine at the thought. Definitely some things left to unpack there.
"And how is it affecting you?"
"I've received the all-clear from the psych," Belle said automatically. She'd spent much of the previous day in a flurry of meetings with various FBI staff she'd never had much reason to mix with before and told the story of what had happened with Jim Michaels so many times she thought she might go cross-eyed — all of this on top of her official report, which she'd made the day after the altercation, while all the details were still fresh on her mind. But the most thorough examination by far had come from the FBI's on-staff psychiatrist, a quiet, cryptic man with a half-smile and a habit of waiting politely for you to finish your sentence — a habit that had drawn more from Belle than she was accustomed to sharing even with close friends and family.
Not that she had much family around here in Washington. Maybe that had been why she'd been so eager to spill her guts. Part of her had been terrified, when the session had ended, that she'd incriminated herself, revealed that she was damaged goods after the confrontation with Jim at the abandoned playground — but that morning, she'd received confirmation that the psych had felt she was in good mental shape, all things considered. Cleared to return to active duty — though with the caveat that she might benefit from a slightly reduced workload for a week or two. Belle felt fiercely grateful. She'd all but begged to be sent back to work. She was still at such a crucial early stage of her career, and she knew what happened to junior profilers who were asked to take time off for their mental health — they rarely did well once they returned, if they ever came back at all.
Winona sat looking at her, that piercing stare that made her feel like she was the subject of an X-ray. She resisted the urge to fidget with her hands. "Yes, he did give me the report that you're processing everything that happened quite well."
Belle couldn't help but chuckle a little. "That's good to hear," she said faintly. "I felt like a rambling mess in his office."
Winona gave her another of her famous micro-smiles. Belle was beginning to feel a little flattered. "That's good," she said firmly. "If you can talk it all out, it means you're not holding onto it."
"That's a good way of thinking about it," Belle said, grateful that Winona didn't seem to be second-guessing the doctor's assertion that she was handling it all well.
"And I've read your report," Winona continued briskly. "Clear, concise, detailed. And it goes without saying that you did everything correct out there. I'd have made the same choices in your shoes."
That was just about the biggest compliment Belle had ever received, and she fought the urge to grin like a lunatic as a warm glow of pride rushed through her. Not only had Winona freaking Marshall personally read her report — she'd said it was good. Belle knew she'd done the right thing that awful night — but hearing Winona confirm it with such an unusually personal affirmation… well, it felt like relaxing a muscle she hadn't known she'd been tensing.
"That means a lot, ma'am. Thank you."
"But you didn't answer my question," Winona said firmly, sending a jolt of anxiety down Belle's spine. "Not properly. How are you feeling?"
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