CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
FLY ON THE WALL
( original )

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

"THE PERSON RESPONSIBLE for the kidnapping of Jimmy Fitzgerald is a male between the ages of thirty and forty who calls himself The Watcher," Hotch began. "We have a witness that places them together on two occasions outside Camden Elementary and at the bus stop near 32 Belcourt Avenue. They describe him as white with dark hair and a beard of an average height and build."

"He's weak," Morgan stated, plain-and-simple. "Not necessarily in a physical sense, but he is weak emotionally. He's been sending letters to the Fitzgeralds ever since they moved in about a month ago."

"The unsub has a strong opinion of the house, 32 Belcourt Avenue, in these letters," said Reid, holding up one for emphasis. "He uses several old-fashioned tics that point us to an older writer and the words have double spaces between them. There's a certain literary panache that suggests a 'voracious reader' but there's a surprising lack of profanity given the level of anger that drives him to send these letters in the first place."

"He's making himself heard," Morgan continued. "But until he abducted Jimmy, he's made no effort to approach the family in person."

"Really, it's not about the family themselves, but the house," said Dallis. "Everything he writes comes back to the house. He professes anger at the family, yes, but its root is what's being done to 32 Belcourt. He treats it like a living entity, one that the Fitzgeralds are destroying from its former glory. This could mean that he's a neighbour or someone else connected to the property, but it might also be someone else who has seen it in passing."

"Which is why the abduction of Jimmy is so out of the ordinary," Rossi declared from where he stood beside Hotch with his hands in his pockets. "He's doing this specifically for attention and to prove that he isn't all talk."

"'I promised you that I would learn your children's names and draw them to me... Why did you underestimate me?'" Reid quoted from memory.

"Don't be surprised if he surrenders Jimmy almost immediately upon confrontation," Dallis concluded. "Jimmy isn't his target. It's 32 Belcourt."

But why? The question prodded at Dallis' brain. Why did he care so much about the house if he wasn't connected to it somehow?

"Even if he does surrender him straight away, it's important that we act on this with urgency," Hotch affirmed before the officers could disperse. "We know the statistics for child abduction rates. It's important we reunite Jimmy Fitzgerald with his family as soon as possible, before the unsub has the chance to devolve."

Which may come sooner than expected.

JJ poked her head through the door, one hand holding her phone to her ear and the other waving around a piece of paper. She called Hotch's name, gesturing for him to join her in the hallway. A moment later, he returned with a new letter that he passed around the team.

To the foul-mouthed Patrick and his wench of a wife Amelia,

You wonder who The Watcher is? You know my name and it is not Jeremy Logan. Ask me. I am waiting for you to open your eyes, to see what is right in front of you.

32 Belcourt is turning on me. It is coming after me and I do not understand why. You have cast a spell on it. It used to be my friend and now it is my enemy. I am in charge of 32 Belcourt, it is not in charge of me. I will rise again. I will keep your young blood and wait for his sisters to join him. They will play again like I once did, and you will know the bittersweet taste of karma. Everyone will know what rot lays inside of you.

This is far from over.

The Watcher

"This was slid under their front door about an hour ago."

"He's getting bolder," Dallis commented, letting out a surprised breath. "Delivering it to their letter box is one thing but walking up to the front door? What about the security camera?"

"He wore a hood as he does every time," Hotch shook his head, which ruled out that possible lead. "But this isn't everything."

"Another letter?" Emily sighed.

"Yes, but that one went to the media. There's reporters outside as we speak."

"Fantastic," Rossi scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose in increasing frustration. "Just what we needed. More eyes on us."

"And Jimmy Fitzgerald nowhere to be seen," muttered Dallis.

She was confident it wasn't Jeremy Logan, but there was something that Patrick had said that came back to her suddenly. The family's been living there for generations.

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

"GARCIA, WHAT DO WE know about the previous owners of 32 Belcourt Avenue?"

"Uh, excuse me, Cohen, but is that any way to greet your favourite technical analyst?"

Hotch, JJ and Detective Romer were outside doing damage control with the press, leaving the rest of the team inside to go over not just the new letter to the Fitzgeralds but also the one to the media.

"My bad," Dallis said. "Garcia, my love, what do we know about the previous owners of 32 Belcourt Avenue?"

"Now that's more like it. Let me work my magic. How far back are we searching?"

Dallis took a seat at the table along with Rossi, Morgan and Emily. Reid returned to the letters they already had pinned up, comparing the language used and the specifics of the way they were written.

"As far back as you can find," she requested. "Patrick Fitzgerald mentioned something that I haven't been able to stop thinking about. He said that the Logans have been living next door for generations?"

"Generations is an understatement," Garcia scoffed. They could hear her frantically typing away. "Theirs is one of the oldest houses on Belcourt Avenue, only beaten by our very own number 32. Camden's full of old money and dirty laundry. Some of the things I could tell you would make a nun kneel over from shock."

"Is there anything noteworthy about the last owners?" Morgan asked, leaning over Dallis' chair for Garcia to better hear him.

"Well, hello handsome. Unfortunately, the answer to that question is no. Unless a ninety-five-year-old man with Alzheimer's and his wife who's just had a hip replacement are actively holding this young boy against his will..."

Morgan let out a sigh. "Nevermind."

"Just send through whatever you can find, Garcia," Dallis concluded, settling back to wait as long as it took.

"Your wish is my command."

With that, she was gone, but only two minutes later Dallis' phone lit up with a link. She left the room in search of a printer and came back with a list longer than her arm. Rossi grimaced when he saw it.

"She wasn't kidding when she said the house had history."

"Let's get stuck into it," she declared.

So many names, so many people. Each with a story for how they ended up at 32 Belcourt. Each with a reason why they left. But one name in particular stopped Dallis short. Wordlessly, she reached for her phone and dialled Garcia again, switching her straight to speaker.

"That was quicker than I thought."

"Give me everything you have on James 'Jimmy' Byers."

"Where was his name on the list?" Emily arched an eyebrow, flipping through the various pages curiously.

"Almost at the beginning. He's recorded in the 1940 census."

More typing followed by a gasp from Garcia. "Okay, so James -- also known as Jimmy -- was born to a world war I soldier and a nurse following the end of the war in 1918. He was the eldest of six children, four boys and two girls. Remember this later, people. Let's see... what else... He was born in Newridge--"

"Next county over," Romers' interjection made them turn to the door where she'd returned with Hotch and JJ in tow.

"That's right, voice I don't recognise," Garcia said, making Romer blink and the others smother smiles. "It was in Newridge that, at the little ol' age of eleven, Jimmy had an accident with a horse and cart. The wheel crushed his leg and the bone never healed properly. He was left with a permanent limp that went on to prevent him from serving in world war II alongside his living brothers. Even his sisters joined as nurses, but Jimmy stayed at home."

"And we think this guy abducted Jimmy Fitzgerald?" Morgan tilted his head. "Because they share the same name? Wouldn't he be, like, ninety?"

"Excuse me, hot stuff, but I wasn't done digging up the skeletons Jimmy Byers kept in his closet."

"Jeez, sorry," he muttered, raising his hands in a surrendering gesture as if Garcia was right there in the room.

"Anyway, as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," she said, though Dallis could hear the cheeky grin in her voice daring Morgan to retort again. "Jimmy left home around the start of world war II, unmarried but unfit for service. He pops up next in 1940, at... can anywhere guess?"

"32 Belcourt?"

They heard the sound of Garcia clapping her hands. "Eureka! Good job, Dallis, it pays to be both the beauty and the brains. Yes, Jimmy was employed from 1940 to 1945 as the caretaker for the Tomfordes."

"Another notable name," Romers remarked thoughtfully.

"The Tomfordes were the family of the 40s," Garcia confirmed. "They built the house -- or should I say mini mansion? -- in the 1890s when they came over from London and had carefully constructed a reputation for themselves that the head of the household, one Stephen Tomforde, refused to sacrifice for his eldest daughter's happiness when she had an affair with a certain caretaker in 1945."

"Let me guess," Emily said as she scanned over the various Tomforde names on their list. "She fell pregnant."

"Yes, and Stephen was not happy. He sent her to live with his sister for the duration of her pregnancy, then fired Jimmy without notice or instalment of his last pay."

"Garcia, we have it here that Jimmy Byers was back in the house by 1950," Hotch said, urging her along in her digging.

"Something tells me that wasn't because Stephen Tomforde had a change of heart," Dallis muttered.

"Oh, no, he had a heart attack and died, but his wife was known for her forgiving nature. She brought their daughter, Marilyn, home as well as baby Doris. She even gave Marilyn permission to marry Jimmy, and he was reinstated as housekeeper up until the house was sold in the late sixties."

"What happened to Doris?" Dallis asked, hoping she wasn't piecing together a story that was untrue just to fit their own narrative, but if what she suspected was right...

"Let's see..." Garcia was quiet for a moment. "Well, she pops up on the other side of the country in 1973, five years after the house was sold to the first person to own it other than a Tomforde. She died in a car accident due to suspected foul play from her husband... jeez. Poor woman."

"If she had a son, he'd be in his thirties or forties by now," Dallis remarked.

"Did she, Garcia?" Rossi pressed.

"Yes. Michael Byers, aged thirty-seven. Must've changed his name after his father left him with Jimmy and never came back for him. Here's the kicker, though. He's got a beard."

"So Jimmy is left without a job raising his grandson on his own," Dallis surmised. "Did he live nearby?"

"In an apartment block behind Belcourt Avenue..."

"Is Jimmy alive, Garcia?" Emily was already halfway out of her seat before Garcia confirmed it.

"He died end of last year. Michael's been living in his apartment since."

"We need to get to Michael before he makes another move," Hotch declared. "JJ and Reid, you'll come with myself and Detective Romer to the Fitzgeralds and keep them at the house. The last thing we need is a pissed off parent interfering with an arrest. The rest of you, get to that apartment."

But despite their best efforts, Michael was gone by the time they arrived. The apartment was quiet and irrefutably empty. Morgan kicked the door down, allowing them to scour the two bedrooms, singular bathroom, kitchen and living area to no avail. There were children's toys in the corner and two drinking cups on the table. Both of the bedrooms looked like they were slept in. But there was no proof it was Jimmy Fitzgerald with him, just a legend and a hunch.

"Guys, you need to see this," Emily called out from the living room.

Dallis had only quickly looked over it as she made her way to the back of the apartment where a small balcony overlooked 32 Belcourt's patio. She dropped the old lace curtains, seeking out Emily's voice along with the others as they emerged from different rooms. Emily stood in front of the couch. Above it on the wall was a smattering of images. The three Fitzgerald children walking home from school, except for that day, the day that only Jimmy attended because his sisters were sick with the flu. Others were of the moving trucks, the slowly changing structure of the house, a close-up shot of Patrick and Amelia on their back patio installing a camera...

Michael had learned their routine inside and out. Stories of a home his grandfather had once loved but always admired from a distance created by wealth and status. These tales had transformed Michael's love into obsession and delusion. But where was he?

"Look at these," Morgan said, carefully laying out one of several scrunched up pieces of paper scattered across the carpet. "'Give me what I want or I'm going to deprive Jimmy of his young blood.' 'I can't hear the house's force anymore. It's died. Died like he has. I am lost but Jimmy is found.' Guys, he's devolving fast."

Dallis' phone started to ring. "Yeah, Hotch?"

"Romer just got word of a break and enter at Camden Cemetery." She could hear Patrick furiously shouting in the background, as well as what sounded like Jeremy Logan's voice. Amelia was sobbing, as well as her daughters. JJ and Reid were struggling to subdue them. They had their hands full. "The Tomforde crypt's been opened about ten minutes ago. Neighbours heard a boy crying."

"We're on our way."

Dallis just hoped they'd be fast enough. Suddenly, she wasn't sure their profile fit Michael Byers anymore. If he didn't get his way, she had the sinking feeling he'd paint the graves of his ancestors in Jimmy Fitzgerald's blood.

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

THE CEMETERY WAS OLD and thankfully empty. The last thing they needed were the pressure of witnesses as they tried to talk Michael down from a metaphorical ledge. The Tomforde crypt was at the heart of the cemetery, a fantastical monument that boasted the reputation that Garcia had spoken of in such detail. Various names lined the stone walls but Dallis noticed Jimmy Byers wasn't one of them. His gravestone sat beside them, separated even in death from Marilyn and their daughter.

Slowly, she led the way to the open door, scrunching up her nose at the pungent scent that threatened to upend the contents of her stomach. Decay and mould were a rancid mix and she dreaded the thought of Jimmy Fitzgerald stuck inside. Forcing herself to keep both hands on her gun instead of blocking her nose, she rounded the corner and almost immediately froze when she spotted Michael Byers -- middle-aged man, dark hair, long beard -- holding a knife to a whimpering boy's throat.

"Stay right there!" Michael screamed, looking frantically between Dallis and Rossi, who was close to Dallis' back. His shoulders bunched to his ears when Morgan and Emily along with several police officers appeared too. "All of you! Or I'll slit his throat. What a waste of his young blood that would be."

"Michael--"

"It's Mick," he roared, spit flying from the corner of his mouth where Dallis caught a glimpse of several missing teeth.

"Mick," Dallis amended herself. "You don't want to hurt Jimmy."

"I am lost but Jimmy is found," he quoted the letter that Morgan had read out, pressing the knife hard enough to draw blood. Jimmy leaned back as far as he could, tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers. "Jimmy is found and his family will pay!"

"Mick, we understand," Rossi said, careful to keep his voice soft. Even then, Mick flinched at the new and unfamiliar sound. "You've spent your whole life on the outer because of 32 Belcourt, haven't you?"

"It should've been mine!"

"Your grandfather loved you, Mick," Dallis insisted as she slowly took a step forward. When Mick didn't react, she took another, listening to the sound of her boots crunching stone. She tried not to look at the various coffins lining the walls. She didn't have time to wonder whose souls they were distressing. "More than he loved that house. He wouldn't want you to hurt an innocent boy, would he?"

It looked like Mick was hugging Jimmy to him now instead of using him as a shield. "No."

"Then let Jimmy go."

When the knife dropped, Jimmy fled. Dallis caught him, still pointing her gun over his shoulder at Mick, but all the fight had left him in the blink of an eye. He collapsed to the ground, arms around his knees. Dallis urged Jimmy into Emily's embrace, grateful that Emily was quick to take him away. She and Rossi rushed over to pin Mick's hands behind his back.

"Michael Byers, you're under arrest for the abduction of James Fitzgerald," she said, snapping the handcuffs tight around each wrist.

For a man so quick with words on paper, he had little to say now.

"Morgan," she heard Rossi call out.

Morgan entered the crypt a moment later, one hand covering his mouth, the other yanking Mick onto his feet. Dallis watched them go, feeling the sudden rush of adrenaline fading as it always did. Her feet were slow to carry her outside into the sunshine, but even with the fresh breeze on her skin she could still smell the rot following her.

"Dallis," Rossi slid his fingers through her shaking ones. "It's over. You did good."

Together, they stood and watched as Hotch and the others arrived with the Fitzgerald family. Amelia was quick to run towards her son, barrelling past paramedics to crush him in her arms. That right there was everything she'd wanted, the bare bones of what mattered in life. Not a house or a job, but her family, the one she'd come so close to losing.

It was a good day when a child got to return home safe.

Dallis hadn't even noticed it, but the stench of death was gone and it was replaced by something sweeter. Masculine. It reminded her of scotch and leather couches, suit jackets and cigars, black coffee and warm touches.

"I like your cologne, Dave," she said, hoping he would wear it more often.

(He would.)

She let her hand slip from his and went to say goodbye to the Fitzgeralds. When the team was finally alone once again, she felt the familiar weight of Rossi's hand settle against her lower back, guiding her towards the SUVs.

"Let me buy you a drink tonight," he said, careful to keep his voice down. He knew the subject of free alcohol was a popular one among their team and the last thing he wanted was them inviting themselves along. "You know any good places?"

"Austin, Mei and I are always going to Maldini's," she said, pulling up their website. For once, there was no live music scheduled for the night. It was a Tuesday, the middle of the week, and therefore would be quiet. "I think you'd like it."

"Then Maldini's it is."

When they got back to the office, Dallis made every excuse under the sun to hang around until everyone but Hotch and Rossi had left. She was sure the others were more than suspicious, but Dallis couldn't give a shit. Leaving her desk, she found Rossi locking his door.

"Is it okay if I drop my car at mine on the way through and hitch a ride with you?" she asked him.

"I'd feel better knowing you're with me after a few drinks," he nodded.

"So now it's a few drinks, huh?"

"What can I say? I'm feeling generous."

It didn't take them long to reach Dallis' house. She swung the car into her allocated spot and ducked inside to dump her bag and quickly freshen up. Rossi's headlights lit up the apartment complex parking lot. He was watching the doorway for when she appeared, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he noticed she'd changed from her work pants into a comfortable pair of jeans. He liked that she was confident in everything she wore, that she wanted to be herself around him. Dallis Cohen made society bend to her.

"You're going to need to direct me," he warned, putting the car in reverse.

Dallis dragged her eyes away from his hands as they settled back on the wheel. Silver cufflinks, rings on each finger (but notably not the wedding one), she was blatantly aware of the rush of desire that suddenly left her stomach in knots. What the fuck?

"This way," she mumbled, pointing right.

The fresh air outside Maldini's provided her with a second to think. She and Rossi were friends. Good friends. It was completely normal to spend time outside of work just the two of them, right? It was her loneliness talking when she thought about how they looked like a couple to other people. His hand finding its place on her back yet again, a routine she dreaded ever changing, the subtle brush of his thumb moving back and forth. Her skin was on fire beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. They'd had a long day, one that could've gone very wrong, he was just trying to comfort her. To be a good friend.

"They play live music here?" His wide eyes swept the room in wonder as they went straight for two stools at the bar. The neon lights bathed his expression in a warm glow.

"Most nights," she nodded. "I'll bring you next time they're playing classical music or whatever it is you like."

"Classical music?" he echoed with a scoff. "I might be older than you, but I'll have you know I was a big fan of the Rat Pack in their day."

"The Rat Pack? Oh, Dave honey, no..."

He turned back to the menu. "What do you want?"

"You seriously don't have to buy my drink for me," she said as he went to take out his card.

"Dallis, pick a damn drink."

"A peach bellini, please," she mumbled. "And they make really good fries here, just in case you're wondering..."

He repeated their order to the bartender, making sure to include the fries. Once the guy was gone, he said, "I wasn't wondering but I'm sure they could hear your stomach rumbling all the way back in Camden, so..."

"Shut up," she gasped, earning a laugh.

"So, Dallis."

"So, Dave," she matched his tone, her thigh brushing his as she moved to get comfortable. Thank God for Maldini's padded stools. He kept his knee flush against hers.

"How long have you been with the BAU?"

"We're playing twenty questions, are we? Do we not know enough about each other already?"

"Thought it might be a good way to unwind," he said.

David Rossi was quiet in the way he cared for people. He knew, like she did, that she'd have gone home tonight and stewed over everything she said to Mick in their confrontation, picturing what would've happened to Jimmy if she used one wrong word. Instead, they were there together, talking of things that made them feel lighter.

"Nearly five years," she said, answering his question as the bartender returned with their drinks and food. She bit into one of the fries, groaning at the taste. "Okay, how many times have you been married?"

Rossi blinked at her. "In what world are those questions even remotely the same?"

"I never said they had to be the same," she chuckled, feeling emboldened. "Three marriages, right?"

"Oh, so you haven't read my books but you have stalked my facebook?"

"Answer the question, Dave."

"Yes, three," he sighed. "But none of them lasted long and there wasn't much love lost. Maybe me and marriage just aren't made for each other, which is fine. More room for me in my mansion."

Dallis shook her head, choosing to look past the mention of his mansion (cause what the hell?) "I don't think that's true."

"No?"

"No," she said. "I think any woman would be lucky to call you their husband, Dave. You just haven't found the right one yet."

"At the age of fifty-one?" His laugh was one of doubt. He took a sip of his scotch to wash it down.

"Well, look at me, thirty-five and stuck sleeping with the Troys of the world."

"My turn," he said then, as if she'd just reminded him of something. "You're not in a relationship with Troy?"

"God no," she wanted to vomit at just the thought. "I had to throw away my favourite yellow bedsheets. I couldn't fully get rid of his snot stain."

They spent the rest of the night in that bar, eventually moving to the comfort of a booth but with an endless pool of questions for each other. There were the serious ones. What do you hope to achieve working for the BAU? What's the one case you'll never forget? The light-hearted ones. First band Dave saw live? Dallis' favourite book? The one place each of them would want to go on vacation? And the ones that were subtle but telling. What are you looking for in a relationship? Do you want children, Dallis?

When they finally left the bar and returned to Dallis' apartment, Rossi walked her to her door like he had at her hotel room. She hesitated on the doorstep, thinking of how it would come across if she invited him inside, before she eventually decided to close the space between them and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Thank you for tonight," she mumbled as he hugged her back. Also realising how that sounded, she quickly amended, "You're a good friend."

Oh. Oh, she shouldn't have said that.

But why?

Look at her, talking to herself. Maybe she was going a little crazy.

But then he laughed. "You're a good friend too, Dallis. You're also a little bit drunk. Have some water before you go to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," she said, and she knew he was waiting for her to close the door so she finally drew herself away. "Message me that you get home safe. Please?"

"I can do that."

Fifteen minutes later, as Dallis sipped on her glass of water, her phone lit up as promised.

DAVE: Home.

■ ■ ■ ■ ■

A/N: Don't you hate it when you notice a plot-hole? Gonna pretend it's not there.

Hotch watching Dallis and Rossi leave the office together: