✓ | 𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗥𝗢𝗗𝗜𝗧𝗘 · ͟͟͞͞➳ spencer reid

CHAPTER 3 ━━━

# ! | CHAPTER THREE
- they pry for information

━━━ HOTCH READIES HIMSELF,
rolls his shoulders back, and watches the woman in the interrogation room. She's at ease, glancing at her black nail polish with immense amounts of scrutiny. Her legs are apart, one arm draped across the back of her chair. She's taking up a lot of space for such a small woman. Internally calculating, Aaron realizes he has no idea how to play this.

He turns to the team. "How do I break her down?"

Dave narrows his eyes and quirks one eyebrow, vaguely resembling a Chihuahua for a moment. "Do you believe she knows something?"

The dark haired man nods. "Yes, I do."

Rossi claps hip on the shoulder as he passes. "Then get it out of her, you're more equipped than you know."

Aaron halts at the door, looking over his shoulder. "She's a dominant female personality. I seriously doubt I could get anything out of her."

A smile splits Morgan's features. "My god, are you scared?" Hotch's expression doesn't change, but it doesn't matter. He shifts so his back is no longer toward the door and fidgets with his watch.

Aphrodite wasn't imposing in size, but there was something about her that made your heart beat a little faster. Maybe it was the heavy silver chain necklace or the chunky iron rings on every finger. There was also the set of scars on her face, two blush colored lines that ran down the midline between her nose and either corner of her mouth and tapered off at her chin.

Rossi shakes his head and laughs a bit. "You are all idiots. I'll go in." And so, he does.

The woman's eyes raise as he enters, expression unreadable. Dave takes a seat. "Agent Rossi," they shake hands; her's is cool, smooth, "I'm with the Behavioral Analysis Unit and I'd like to ask you a few questions about the multitude of murders that've been happening in your area."

Aphrodite nods once. "Shoot." Her voice is even, monotone.

"She's had training," comments Prentiss.

"Or maybe she doesn't know anything. I can't imagine this is her first time in this scenario," Reid pipes up. He watches her face, takes note of the relaxed muscles and loose jaw.

Rossi meets her head-on in an exchange of eye contact. "Who killed all those people, Aphrodite? Surely you've heard something."

She's about to reply when a frazzled looking young man in a tailored suit bursts into the room like a bull in a china shop. "Agent Rossi! If she knew, she wouldn't be here."

Rossi opens his mouth but the sharply dressed man flaps a badge at him, identifying him as Marvin Laverne, a special agent in the Undercover Operations unit. Aphrodite stands from her chair and pulls out a badge as well. "UC Dr. Meryl Murphy," she flashes a dazzling smile, "so sorry we had to meet like this."

Rossi follows, slack-jawed, as the two people leave the interrogation room only to be surrounded by the rest of the BAU. Marvin raises both hands, halting the onslaught of questions before they've even left anyone's mouth. "I'm sure we're all just chomping at the bit here. No, Meryl is not actually a drug lord no matter how much she'll try to joke that she is."

Morgan recognizes the man as one of the burly mongrels at the bar when they first met and his posture relaxes slightly. Meryl quirks the corner of her mouth up. "I can also speak for myself. I've been in this operation for two years following the same murders you guys have just been called here for. And believe me, it's a lot more than twenty."

This time, Spencer speaks up. "We didn't catch any that matched the M.O when we combed through unsolved cases or reported murders."

"Well, princess," her accent is thick, distinctly Brooklyn Italian, "I dunno if you've realized but you aren't in Kansas anymore. This is the Bronx, babe, shit doesn't get reported most of the time."

Morgan cracks his knuckles against the desk. "So do you know anything or not?"

"Of course I know stuff, I've been running a mob cartel for two years, bucko. You pick up a thing or two," Meryl jokes, grabbing her bag off Prentiss' lap. "You looking for something in here, sweetheart?"

Emily doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, you know, evidence that you killed twenty people."

"Ah, shame," the shorter replies, reaching down to retie her platform combat boots, the supplier of about five inches of height, "I keep all that in my other bag."

They all sit down at the table and Murphy runs through what she knows: there's a gang, the Mascalzoni, that doesn't much associate with any of the others. The only time she's heard their name is when it's sharing a space with a lot of drugs and of blood. Reid watches her hands as she talks, fascinated by the raised veins there, tracing down to her forearms. Such definition was uncharacteristically masculine. She wore a loose tee shirt and baggy pants so he couldn't really get a good idea of her build, but Spence assumed based on the faded bruising across her knuckles that she was fairly athletic.

As they talked, Meryl soaked up every physical indicator of the people around her like a sponge. She could tell Agent Morgan didn't trust her, and probably wouldn't for a while. Prentiss and Hotch were wary, but much less than when they first met. The curvy blonde in the corner, however, still looked petrified.

About thirty minutes in, a man limps into the precinct sporting a half finished arrow tattoo on his neck, blood on the neckline of his white tee shirt, and one hand wrapped in a towel. He locks eyes with Meryl and nods once. “The murderer you’re looking for is Peter Corvus.” He takes one look around and then falls face first onto the ground, blood seeping out around him.

Meryl gasps and turns to Penelope. “Can you pull up a picture of him? Yearbook photos, anything?”

The analyst taps away and then slides her laptop over for the team to see. “Fuck,” Meryl bites out.

“You know him?” Rossi asks, standing at her left side. She nods. “That’s Raven, my right hand man.”