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The Curious Profiler (Criminal Minds)

Before Reid, before Elle, Gideon chose Hannah.

In an effort to try and improve international relations, Gideon was sent to different universities all across Europe in order to meet - and recruit - the best and brightest minds to fill the ranks of the FBI. However, during a lecture at a British university, Gideon was almost ready to abandon the entire endeavour. He asked the students several questions, but not one could answer him, not one could offer any explanation or idea... until her.

The first thing to note was that she arrived late. Not through the side door - which would have been quiet and easy to sneak in through - no. Hannah burst through the double doors at the back of the room, swinging them open so wide that they clanged off the walls, scuffing the matte paint. The next was that she wore a bright pink shirt; pristine, bright, steamed - not ironed - with the first two buttons popped. If the doors didn't grab everyone's attention, then her shirt would. Hannah wanted - no, needed all eyes on her. She needed control. Even the shoes she wore, heels that exaggerated her walk, and made the deafening snaps on the floor as she made her way down the rows of chairs until she seated herself in the empty front row, were a part of that need for control.

A novice might have guessed a crush, possibly a taste for older men, a desire to be close to Gideon. But it was an inadequacy, self-doubt, and anxiety that needed to be smothered, and masked so she could establish dominance in the room.

Gideon wondered whether she might actually have anything to say or whether she was just another student looking to get brownie points for attending a guest lecture.

But he continued on, not acknowledging her, moving from slide to slide of gruesome crime scene images until she finally raised her manicured hand in the air and said, "The wife couldn't have done it... I mean, it's right there in the photos. The killer had to have been over 200 pounds, right? The average middle aged woman is around 170, even with a running start, there's no way she could have done that kind of damage. Plus, if you look at the photos, it's clear that the wife was in the kitchen when the unsub came in. She would have had no time to change clothes and wash up before the police arrived. It's just not possible."

Even though his first reaction was anger, he couldn't help but be impressed. He despised the fact that this young woman had arrived late to his lecture, threw it off course, and then had the nerve to correct him about the case... but she was right. It couldn't have been the wife. She fit the profile, yes - but she wasn't the unsub.

For the first time in his career, Gideon had been wrong - the first of many mistakes.

~

When Spencer Reid sat down at his desk for the first time, he was terrified, more than terrified. It was the kind of terror that made his palms clammy, his throat close and his chest tighten. A terror that he hadn't felt since his Sady Hawkins dance when he was locked in the bathroom by his date and her friends all night. He tried counting primes and reciting Keats, but nothing could lower his heart rate. It was pounding in his ears. Up until this point, his intelligence had gotten him pretty far, but now he wouldn't even be able to remember the 30th decimal of PI if he tried.

In the introductory meeting, he spilt coffee down his shirt and ruined several full case folders. The look of pure anger and frustration on the face of the poor clerk made it seem like she could have strangled him on the spot as she gathered the soggy papers into her arms and stomped out of the room. The event was worsened when a book of poems slipped out of his bag and another agent picked them up. Unfortunately, by the time he got to high school, the ribbing and bullying from his colleagues had already started to spread to the rest of the building. Three badged officers had already walked past his desk, snickering and laughing in his direction.

Sit up straight, don't slouch. His back immediately straightened, his shoulders pulled back, and his spine went rigid against his chair. You belong here, they wouldn't have picked you if you didn't. You belong here. Unpack your stuff, and make this space yours. He gingerly obeyed the voice in his head, taking out the few personal items he had, and of course his small stack of books; Hemmingway, Plath and Shelley among other, smaller novels. The first drawer was too thin for them, not tall enough or wide enough to stack them in. The second had a rickety hinge - too unstable for the weight of his precious books.

But when he pushed down on the last drawer, it made a strange, hollow sound. Confused, he put the books from the top of his desk onto the floor and tried again, tapping the edges of the drawer, then the centre. There was a small bump in the middle, unnoticeable unless you were looking for it. He followed the edges of the bump, feeling a seam in the panel. He knew he should have left it, called for Hughes, or Hitch, whatever the stern man's name was. But he didn't. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he reached for his keys, using them to pop the seam.

It took a few tries, and a little swearing, but eventually, he managed to wedge the false panel open, teasing out a small wrapped parcel from beneath it. It had been sealed and protected with tape and plastic - it could have survived the Titanic with the amount of layers it was suffocated in...

"Hey new guy, do you need anything..." Reid panicked when he heard the voice, slamming the book back into the drawer, shutting his fingers inside and smacking his head against the underside of the desk. He shook his head, trying to clear it, before standing and turning to face the speaker.

Clutching the top of his head in pain, he managed to reply between breaths, "Nope... I'm all good."

"O-kay then," the woman said slowly, taking a step back from the desk.

Reid waited until she was a comfortable distance away, before reaching for the book again. He took his time peeling away the tape, being careful not to damage the layers or the plastic beneath. Eventually, he had to resort to using his keys to slice the sides open to reveal the book. Every sane bone in his body told him to report it, it could have a bomb, powder - anything beneath that plastic. What he was doing was dangerous, which made his heart race.

Holding his breath, he revealed a thick, leather-bound book with post-it notes, innocuous Polaroids and clippings hanging out the side. The front was a dark blue with an almost illegible drawing of a girl, a rabbit and a grubby top hat. Reid tentatively opened it to the first few pages, flicking through short entries written in looped cursive handwriting, each i and j patterned with a half-moon shape instead of a dot.

Dear Hatter,

If you're reading this, I'm probably dead...

I know, cheesy, but I couldn't resist. I'm working in one of the highest fatality departments in the FBI. If I didn't have a sense of humour before then, I'm definitely going to get one now. I just pray I don't end up like Hotchner. I don't think I've got the cheekbones for that kind of permanent scowling.

I know I've always been a little too eager with decision-making, but maybe I went a little too far this time. Maybe moving to the other side of the world, dropping my course, all because of a job offer without telling Mum was a bad call. I still need to ask her about sending more clothes over... I am not looking forward to that phone call. I wonder if the FBI's "it's all comp" policy will cover that too.

Gideon doesn't seem like the type to make rash judgements about his hires, but do I actually belong here?

Yours faithfully,
A