Work Text:
There were no more questions.
At the El Dorado Correctional Facility, Agent Ford picked up his badge and his gun, then walked slowly to his car alone, his hip aching. Thirty five years of prison chairs had taken their toll on him.
Dennis Rader, once known only as BTK, had not been caught until 2005. Despite his best efforts, it had not been Holden’s profiling but rather Rader’s own ignorance that caught him. Holden tried not to let that rankle him: justice was justice, he told himself.
He ticked off the classifications in his mind, ordering his thoughts. Organized killer, a need for control, a rapport with the police, his own unique code of ethics. Nothing unusual really.
I remember every detail like most people do their favorite movie, Rader had said. I play it over and over again inside my head. I got so caught up in fantasies that they took me over.
They took me over. That sat with Holden through his flight home, through his takeout dinner and into his morning coffee. He picked up the phone.
Bill Tench picked up on the third ring. “It’s early,” he said gruffly, not bothering with hello.
“You were awake.” Holden shifted the phone in his hand. “You busy today?”
“I’m retired. I’m never busy.” They agreed to lunch. Holden met him at Dumfries Cafe on Route 1. His hip creaked as he sat down, reminding him he should have stretched more during his flight.
Bill looked the same, somehow. He was the kind of man who had probably been born looking forty-five and just stayed that way forever, out of spite. “Diner food huh? Like old times.”
Holden ordered eggs and toast; Bill asked for a patty melt. “It’s been a while,” his old partner said, while they waited. “How are you doing, Holden? How’s Stephanie?”
“Oh. I think she’s alright. We’re separated.” He had been married a second time but it hadn’t worked out, again. Horrors lived inside his mind, all the time. He worried sometimes that they had corrupted the better parts of him. She’d said as much when she left, knowing that it would hurt him.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” A bell jangled and Bill looked at the door, watching a young man hold it open for his girlfriend. They left the diner, and Bill looked back at him. “I’ve been thinking of moving. Virginia is too crowded, now.”
“Oh? Where were you thinking?”
Bill looked back at him. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “But somehow I don’t think you called me at 8 AM this morning to talk about real estate. What’s on your mind?”
Holden cocked his head, then blew out a breath. “BTK. You know they caught him?” After a moment, Bill nodded. Holden continued, “I spoke to him yesterday.”
“Jesus, Holden. How much longer are you going to keep doing this?”
“For a little longer.” Their food arrived, and Holden picked up his fork. Metal clinked against stoneware as he picked at his eggs. “You know he was a church leader? Lutheran.”
“No shit.” Bill kept eating, pretending nonchalance, but Holden knew his curiosity was piqued. “How about his mother? Terrible?”
“He didn’t say. But he did torture animals.” The eggs were good but the toast was stale, Holden thought. “He wouldn’t admit to it, though.”
“Typical.” Bill leaned in a little. “How’d they catch him?”
Holden was surprised he hadn’t heard, but then again, Bill was retired. “Left a watermark on a floppy disk he sent to the police. Just had to brag, right? We really give them too much credit. Oh, and DNA, of course. They convicted him with DNA.”
“DNA!” Tench huffed a laugh. “We barely need detectives anymore. It’s all just stealing coffee cups now isn’t it?”
“Mmm.”
They considered that in silence. Holden wondered if that were true, sometimes. He had given his life to studying these people. And he had certainly furthered an understanding, for what that was worth. But had it really helped anyone? Behavioral Science had dreamed of stopping people before they committed crimes, but the FBI could only really chase after them, carefully piecing together a case from pieces of evidence like a gossamer quilt of blood and projection.
And profiling was not like forensics, not a hard science of formula and sequence. It could not be held up to a jury as proof like DNA. It meant something, he was sure of that. But was it worth the cost?
“He said he played the murders over and over again in his mind, like movies.” Holden said eventually. This was the meat of it.
Bill chewed and swallowed. “Not surprising,” he said, after a pause. “Don’t they all?”
They did. “He said the more he thought about them, the more it changed him. The more he had to do it.” Holden put down his fork. “It made me think. I’ve been playing hundreds of murders over and over in my own head, for thirty years. How much has it changed me ?”
“You aren’t fantasizing about them, Holden.”
“Still.”
Bill sighed. “You want to know if studying monsters your whole life changed you? Of course it did.” He waved a hand. “Everything changes us. You know, Nancy couldn’t visit a house without assessing it. She’d visit a friend’s kitchen and think, hey, those granite countertops are a great selling point.”
“It’s a little different, I think.”
“Are you stalking women in your spare time?” Holden shook his head, but Bill wasn’t really looking for an answer. “Then I wouldn’t sweat it too much. Look, we are all a mixed bag of experiences scarred over. Bad parents, disappointments, loss, they all diminish us. It doesn’t make you a serial killer.”
Holden knew Bill was right, but it was good to hear him say it. He felt a little lighter. “Do you want something to drink?” Holden waved to the waitress. “I’m going to get a milkshake.”
Bill shook his head. “No thanks. I’m pre-diabetic.” He smiled wryly. “But if you do plan on killing someone, make sure you keep the straw.”