Boston Blues - BLACKBIRD book 2

8. once upon a time

**picture: Boston Police Station, District E-13, Jamaica Plain  

Brock got up early as usual. The nor'easter had receded, leaving the city under two feet of snow. He was tempted to open the windows to breathe in the still, freezing air in the surreal silence of that white Sunday morning. Had Georgia been there with him, she'd already be tugging and pushing him to get dressed and go out, stating what a waste it would be such a beautiful sight if they didn't enjoy it firsthand outside. And a mild smile pursed his lips as he lingered before the window, looking out.

While making breakfast, he realized it was the first time he was able to relate the snow to Georgia with a smile. Ever since she died, it'd been something like, 'Georgia loved the snow, but now she's gone, so I hate it, 'cause she is no longer here to enjoy it.' But not that morning. Just like the week before with her pictures.

His notebooks waited on the table, and he had breakfast going through his notes from 2001. A few minutes later he closed the notebook, frowning. Still no mention of Gillian. 1998? Had they met that back?

Brock opened the last notebook as he tried to build a mental map of his life back then. It'd been the year Andrea was born. So he was going through one of those rare golden moments with Andrea's mother. Good old SSA Jackson, who'd been Brock's mentor, was still BAU's Unit Chief, and he was determined to make Brock his worthy successor.

So he read about the case he'd worked with Jackson himself and Grubber in 1998, along with the Homicide detectives under one Lieutenant Roberts.

Profile: sexual sadist, six victims, strangulation during rape.

Primary on the case: Detective O'Hara, assisted by Detectives Banks and Gillian*.

There she was! Brock frowned. 1998... She was already Banks' partner? Now why was that asterisk by her name? What about her had made him mark it for later comment? He kept reading.

His notes on the police staff were the usual—detectives didn't quite trusted their profile would be of any use until it did, but then acknowledged it and thanked them. And here was the mark. Brock pushed his readers up his nose, as to make sure he wouldn't miss a single word.

Det. Gillian is the only female Det. in the precinct, and also the newest. LT. Roberts apologized for having her in the case and asked us to be patient with her. Father in the PD brass. The only one taking notes when we delivered the profile. She and Det. Banks arrested the actual subject. Interested in profiling. Send manuals.

Brock leaned back on his chair, scowling and thinking really hard. And then his eyes widened, and his thin lips shaped a silent, "oh...". Now he remembered. Of course! It was so clear now, the picture of that pretty young woman in her mid-twenties, always careful to get out of her colleagues' way, bearing the other detectives' dismissive contempt. Quiet but not submissive, she seemed to absorb everything to learn from it, like somebody breathing deep before diving into deep waters.

Her big bright blue eyes had followed their every move from any corner where she thought nobody would notice her, to the extent that always-smart Grubber had even joked about it—"Is she gonna ask us for an autograph?"

Brock didn't notice that his hand went up to his mouth, as he tried to match that memory with Gillian. And failed.

She was on the last row among the detectives around them for the profile, writing down at a furious speed, trying to catch every of their words in her notes. And that night she'd stayed late, going through files even after Brock, Jackson and Grubber—the last ones to leave—called it a day. There she was, the last desk at the furthest, darkest corner, with piles of files like a wall around her. And she and Banks had caught the right man.

Next morning, as they packed up to leave, while everybody congratulated Banks—notoriously slimmer back then—she'd knocked on the meeting room door. Brock had opened and felt automatically compelled to smile, because she looked afraid of being too bold, and had mumbled an apology, almost stuttering, her body language giving away that she was fighting not to spin around and run away. And she'd asked him about reading material on criminology.

Good Lord! Was it really the same woman? That shy, patronized rookie, so used to be scolded and mocked at, that his being nice to her had almost made her gawk? She had become Lieutenant Gillian, SCU Unit Chief, the rogue star the Mayor and the Governor—and even Cooper, if he wasn't wrong—would fight over to have her in their ranks? Reg Daredevil Gillian, the brilliant, driven, bold woman who didn't take orders from anybody and solved all sorts of cases within days, even hours, no matter how hard or twisted?

While he still tried to digest that, he remembered their brief talk the night the SCU had received the first bomb threat, three weeks earlier. Now it all made sense. Just like so many other things about her.

But then he remembered the Blue Label, the gala, Henderson's words when he'd asked Brock to sign that manual for her, and the way she always looked up to him, and sought his approval, and cared about him.

Oh, captain, my captain...

Brock felt a chill down his spine. And then another.

That sharp mind of hers, her instinct and her skill to connect dots. The way she easily followed his train of thought, and always understood what he implied. The eager attention of those blue eyes whenever he talked about profiling.

Long ago, so back as 1998, Brock had noticed the poor rookie always pushed aside and hidden away like the simpleton of the family. Yet the only one capable of applying their profile and using it as it was meant to. And he had given in to what his colleagues used to call mockingly his 'Robin Hood spirit', and had decided to give her a tool to improve her chances of escaping her colleagues' abuse. Or at least something to tell her she didn't need to be the simpleton hidden in the attic. That was why he'd sent her the manuals.

Oh, captain, my captain...

Not surprising anymore. At all. Never mind the outcome of his silly impulse was still hard to believe. He closed the notebook slowly with a surprised mix of frown and smile, and rested a hand on the black cover as his eyes got lost out the window.

Then he scoffed, alone in the quiet apartment. What had he called her a few weeks earlier? His best student ever? Go figure!