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“He was mysterious.” The middle aged woman sitting in front of me said. She had witnessed a robbery and was trying, and failing, to give an accurate description of the man she saw.
“Ma'am. I need a physical description. What did he look like?” My tone may have been a little too harsh but it was 8 AM and I was only halfway through my coffee when this woman showed up at my desk.
“Oh, I'm not sure. He was white, or maybe Hispanic, or maybe a light skinned black man. Wait, maybe Indian? I'm not sure but he was definitely somewhere between 15 and 45. Does that help?” She was so bad at this. Maybe I'm biased, since I've been doing this for going on 8 years, but God, she was bad at this.
“Sure. Was he skinny? Or heavier?” I was staring at my sketch. An empty page.
“I wouldn't say he was fat but he wasn't skinny.”
Oh for the love of- breathe in, breathe out.
“Ma'am, if you had to say, was he heavier or skinnier than the average person?” I looked at her and I just knew she hadn't gotten a good look at him. I'm no cop but working this job for nearly a decade makes you good at reading people.
“Somewhere in-between.”
“Jesus, ok. Ma'am, excuse me, please.” I stood up and began walking towards the Captain’s office. I finished the rest of my coffee and knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
I opened the door and walked in. I tossed my empty cup in the trash can near his door.
“Yes, Y/L/N? What is it?”
“Sir, I can't get an accurate profile out of this woman. It is my belief that she did not actually get a good look at him. I'd like permission to dismiss her.”
“You know you're not under my control, Y/N. You were hired by the Feds, not by me. You don't have to ask permission.” Captain Brown didn't look up from his paper work.
“I know that, sir, I just-”
“Clear it with Sergeant Anderson. He is the lead on this case, not me.” God, what a prick.
“Yes, sir.” I walked out of his office and across the bullpen to Anderson’s desk.
“Sarge, I can't get a profile out of her. Sorry, but I can't be of any help to you. “
The Sarge sat back in his chair and sighed. His hand rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah, I'm pretty sure she was high when we picked her up. Didn't think you'd get much out of her. What'd she tell you?” His voice was tired. He had a wife and three kids at home. That'd make anyone exhausted.
“That the suspect was white, Indian, Hispanic, or black. From the age of 15 to 45. Neither heavy set or skinny.” I sat on the edge of his desk. Dress code required fancy shoes for any personnel not working in the field and my feet were killing me.
“So anyone in Los Angeles. Wow. Clears things up doesn't it?” He moved his head to look up at me and winced.
“Yeah. So permission to dismiss her?”
“Go ahead.” He started to turn back to his work but when I didn't get up he stopped.
“Something else?”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“How did you-” After a glare from me he sighed.
“Since yesterday morning. But I'm fine-”
“No, you're not. You keep wincing every time you move your head. You've been at your desk too long, Sarge. Go home. Get some sleep.” Anderson rubbed at his dark eyes.
“You're probably right.”
“I am right. Go home.” I stood up and stretched my arms a little. “Give my love to Sharon and the kids.”
He started to pack up his things. “Will do. See you tomorrow Y/N.”
I gave him a smile and started back to my desk. Shit. Forgot about the lady. I tapped her on the shoulder.
“Ma'am, thank you for your help. You can go. Have a nice day.” She smiled up at me and left. Nice lady, even if she was shit at descriptions.
I was filing some paperwork for my last case when my desk phone rang.
“Hello?” I hadn't spoken in a while and my voice cracked. Embarrassing.
“Hello? Is this Y/N Y/L/N, sketch artist?” A masculine voice sounded through the receiver.
“This is she. How can I help you?”
“This is supervisory special agent Aaron Hotchner with the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI. We’re in Los Angeles at the moment and the local police have said you're their resident sketch artist. Are you free?” Holy shit- I can't believe they want ME. There's a thousand sketch artists in California and they chose me.
“Uh- right now?”
Silence on the other end for a beat.
“Yes, Miss Y/L/N, time is of the essence.” Mr. Hotchner replied.
“Right. Of course, yes! I'm available right now.”
“Great. Meet me at 3127 South Patel street in 20 minutes.” Click- he hung up.
I looked at my wrist-watch. 20 minutes to get to Patel street. I could make it. If I ran. I looked down at my feet.
“Fuck you, LAPD dress code.” I muttered under my breath. I pulled some running shoes out of my bag and slipped them on. This counted as field work.
I didn't bother to tell the Captain where I was going as I slipped out the side door and started jogging.
15 minutes later I arrived at 3127 Patel street. At least, I assumed that's where I was. I saw Patel street and jogged until I saw flashing lights. There were several black SUVs outside as well.
I began walking up the driveway when a beat cop stopped me just in front of the crime scene tape.
“Miss, this is a crime scene. No journalists.” He started to walk me away and I yanked out of his grip.
“I'm not a journalist, my names Y/N Y/L/N. I'm a sketch artist.” I huffed. “And don't touch me.” I had seen this particular cop, Mark, around before. He always stared at the receptionist’s tits.
“Can I see some ID?” Mark said.
“Y/N Y/L/N?” Another voice sounded from behind the sleazebag in front of me. A tall and muscular man walked up to me.
“That's me.” I stated, showing him my ID.
“She's with us.” The man said as he held up the yellow crime scene tape. I gave Mark a dirty look and ducked under.
Once I was standing straight the man offered his hand to me.
“Derek Morgan. FBI. Nice to meet you.” He gave me a charming smile.
“Y/N. But we kind of went over that already.” I smiled back and he chuckled.
“Well, Y/N, rest of the team is inside. I have to warn you, it's a bit messy in there.” His face went somber and I felt my smile drop too.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“Murder victim. Throat cut. She's in another room but there's bloody footprints everywhere. You gonna be okay with that?” Derek stood next to me looking at the house. He seemed to be looking through the walls to the still body inside.
“I’ll manage.”
“Good.” Derek started walking to the front door. He turned to look at me before opening it.
“If you need to get some air at any point you do so, okay?” He directed kindly.
I nodded and he opened the door. He was right. Bloody footprints everywhere. I could hear chatter from the room ahead and kept following Derek.
“Y/N Y/L/N, this is the team. You spoke on the phone with Hotch.” Derek pointed to a middle aged man studying a notebook with a stoic expression.
“Nice to meet you in person. Glad you could make it so quickly.” Hotch shook my hand and quickly returned to his notes.
“Hi, Miss Y/L/N, I'm Emily Prentiss.” A woman, older than me but younger than Hotch, shook my hand. She had piercing eyes and a soft smile.
“Call me Y/N, please. Pleasure to meet you.” I replied. She smiled softly.
“Hey, kid! Where are you? The sketch artist is here!” Derek called, looking around.
“She is? Great! We need to get this image released and quick-” I turned to see where the voice was coming from and saw a young man come around a corner.
He was my age. 25 or so. He was tall and skinny. Brown hair fell messily on his head.
I stopped staring and realized that he had stopped talking. He was just looking at me. Like I was at him.
“Uh- Spencer. My name. Spencer Reid. Technically, it's Dr. Spencer Reid.”
“I'm Y/N. Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.”