Dinner for Six
“It’s tempting to want to live in the past. It’s familiar, It’s comfortable. But it’s where fossils come from.” - Steve Rogers
The job was professional. The precision in the wounds and the lack of any defensive ligature marks. A group of men — probably ex-military or special forces — entered the diner and took out six people including a U.S. Marshal.
As Rossi is pouring himself a coffee, he comments, “Hitmen aren’t your average serial killer. The motivations are different. You don’t get the personal connection.”
Reid looks up ready to provide more details, “A Howard University study showed that most hitmen require depersonalization and business like mindsets to complete jobs. One of the participants, Orville Wright, reported that he was unable to kill his target after having a brief conversation with her.”
“So they didn’t know them?” JJ says, swiping through a couple more crime scene photos.
Prentiss shakes her head, “The attack against the Marshal and his witness seem awfully personal.”
“Maybe it’s like that case from a few years back with the undercover cop.”
Prentiss hums in acknowledgement. That was one of their first cases with Rossi; a hired hitman turned regular old serial killer. It feels like a lifetime ago. You could almost say a past life being that she died and all, but Emily doesn’t like thinking about her own death. Goosebumps rise on her arm; she shivers. No one likes to be reminded of their own mortality.
Hotch clears his throat, “When we land, Rossi and JJ head to the station, the rest of us will head to the scene.”
***
The black SUV pulls into the gravel parking lot of the diner. A sturdy Marshal stands outside waiting for them. He gives each of them a very firm handshake and rolls the toothpick hanging out of his mouth to the other side.
“You must be the BAU,” his voice is a deep bass with a slight lilt. “I’m Bernard Wilkins. Thank y’all for coming, I saw your seminar on packs and thought this might be up your alley.”
Hotch gives him a polite nod and the man leads them inside the diner. The smell of death hits them almost instantly. The bodies had not been disturbed for over a day in Nevada heat. Flies swarm around the white cloths covering them.
“We left the scene for the most part undisturbed for you,” Wilkins states, grabbing a water from a deputy.
Morgan gloves one of his hands, “We can tell.”
He crouches down and pulls back the sheet of the dead Marshal. He was late forties, receding hairline, and still in impeccable shape. He would not have been an easy target to deal with. Morgan runs his finger along the edge of the broken counter where the Marshal had been smashed into. It didn’t take a genius to figure just the magnitude of force throwing someone into a thick wall would take.
“Why didn’t they just shoot him?” A hovering Reid mumbles to himself.
“You mind?” Reid ignores the comment and leans in closer, “They could have easily shot him, but they didn’t.”
It's a fair point. A knife to the carotid artery seems like a big variation from executioner shots. However, if the unsubs are special forces they may be used to using tactical knives in close combat. Morgan stands up and walks to the back of the diner. Two maybe three unsubs enter through the unlocked backdoor, shoot the cook and waitress, and then the receptionist when she hears the commotion. They walk into the dining area, shooting the old man. The Marshal pulls a gun on them. He-
There’s a crunch under Morgan’s boot. Prentiss lifts an eyebrow at him. He bends down picking up a bullet with a flattened tip. Odd. There’s nothing around that indicates use as a shield. He calls out to Hotch who picks up the Marshal’s gun, takes a look at it, and confirms them as his. Morgan places the bullet into an evidence bag. The Marshal fired at the unsub, but somehow they were blocked in such a way that flattened them. Morgan rubs his goatee. There’s something that isn’t adding up. He crosses over to where the body of the man in witness protection is. Bruising around the neck, cause of death most likely asphyxiation. It seems too intimate for simply completing a mission of this nature. Reid comes up to stand beside Morgan, he furrows his brow.
“What do you see, pretty boy?"
Reid presses a gloved hand onto the body’s neck, “I think it’s broken.”
“Broken? I didn’t think you can break a guy’s neck by squeezing?”
“You shouldn’t be able to… It takes about 1,000 pounds of torque to break a human neck. That’s around the same amount of force as hanging a guy from a five foot drop.”
The nagging feeling in Morgan’s stomach grows. No amount of drugs would give you that sort of strength. It seems unlikely that the body was moved off location. Why wouldn’t you just shoot him? He steps back from the body and pulls out his cellphone.
“Genie of all things techie, how can I be of service?” Garcia says with a spin of her chair.
“Babygirl, I need you to work your magic with one of our victims. A Matt Lowe.”
The line is quiet for a second while Garcia searches the web for everything that it's got. Morgan puts Garcia on speaker, walking over to the rest of the team. Matt Lowe was a former accountant based out of DC; his cliental was mostly high level government officials and politicians. Him and the rest of his firm are currently under investigation in a large anti-corruption case. His firm did business with the likes of Senator Ensign, Atwood, and Murkowski.
"So why was he in witness protection?"
"The order came from above; we didn't question it," Bernard Wilkins chimes in, having overheard the conversation.
Morgan takes one last look at the crime scene before heading out with the rest of the team. He wishes the odd feeling would stay inside the diner, but it doesn’t. The scene has a bunch of small details that just don’t add up.