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Pretty Boy	By : Wagamama_hime Category: 1 through F > Criminal Minds Views: 4813 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. It is the sole intellectual property of the CBS Corporation. This is a work of fiction and I am making no profit from its publication.

Chapter List
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Chapter Two
Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds. It is the sole property of the CBS Corp. This is a work of fiction and I am not making any profit from its publication.
A/N: Thank you to all of those who have read, reviewed and/or subscribed! I’m so happy you seem to like where I’m going and are looking forward to reading more. Means a lot :). But, now I’m nervous and don’t want to disappoint you all O__O. Haha!
~WH~

~One Week Later~
“Ok, everyone, we have a new case,” Agent Jennifer Jareau said as she briskly walked into the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s conference room, followed by Penelope Garcia, the Unit’s Technical Analyst. While Garcia began passing out the case files, J.J. looked over the other four agents seated in the room as she picked up the remote and clicked the power button.
As Garcia took a seat at the round table, the room’s occupants all focused in on the images that quickly appeared on the large flat screen TV.
“I have been in communication with a Detective Ryan Stone of the Las Vegas Police Department after he contacted me a week ago with news that there had been a suspicious murder within the city limits. Stone believed that the murder may be linked to a serial killer the Bureau’s been chasing for over five years now because of the very particular state of the body,” J.J. said as she clicked the remote again and an image of the victim’s body appeared on the screen.
“The victim has been identified as Victor LaRoux. He was found murdered in a private viewing room at Mon Petit Chien, a Vegas strip club. LaRoux doesn’t seem to have a particularly murky past, but I have Garcia doing some digging on him to see if anything will give us an idea as to why he was targeted. What stands out most about this murder, however, is how the body was found. The markings on his body are consistent with the Unsub the media has previously christened the “Judgment Maker.” J.J paused as she heard the murmurs of displeasure among her colleagues.
“As you can see,” she said as she clicked to an image that showed a close-up of the victim’s head, “a cross-mark was burned into the back of the victim’s neck. As with the other cases that have been attributed to the Judgment Maker, the coroner is uncertain what kind of instrument was used to cause the burn, but she does know that it was done ante-mortem, similar to the Judgment Maker’s prior victims.”
“Furthermore, there were markings around the victim’s neck that are consistent with the theory that this Unsub chokes his victims before killing them, but that the choking is not the cause of death.” J.J. said as she clicked to another image of slight bruising to the victim’s neck.
“Hmm, I remember hearing about this “Judgment Maker,” Agent Emily Prentiss began with a slight eye roll as she said the name. “He’s the guy who we think might use the choking to initially subdue the victim, or might be choking to satisfy some type of need-driven behavior, right? I think one theory was that he chokes the victims until they confess to something he’s looking for. Then, after he gets his answer, he completes his ritual by marking them and then stabbing them in the forehead?”
Confirming Emily’s words, J.J. clicked to another image showing a large knife handle protruding from the victim’s head.
“Most of you were not a part of the Unit when the Judgment Maker’s first kills began to surface,” Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner filled in. “He’s a somewhat prolific killer who crosses state lines and has significant dormant periods between kills. So far we have had eight kills—that we know of—that fit the M.O of this killer spanning multiple states. We have not yet been able to build much of a profile on this individual. It seems that he is most likely not working at the direction of anyone else and seems to be a mission-oriented killer. He kills quickly and stealthily, and no one has ever seen him during the commission of his crimes. However, this current case is interesting to us because the Detective on the case believes someone may have seen the murder.”
“Why’s that?” Agent Derek Morgan asked, looking up at his Unit Chief with furrowed brows. “The report doesn’t seem to say anything about there being a complaining witness.”
“That’s where I come in, stud muffin!” Garcia piped in with a bubbly voice. “So, apparently this Judgment Maker guy usually kills in really secluded places, like in the house of a victim who lives alone, or in an abandoned parking lot; he even once killed someone in a church confessional late at night. So no one’s ever been around to see him. But this case is kind of different because he killed the current victim in a strip club that was relatively full of people.”
“Ok, so someone in the club must’ve seen something right?” Derek asked.
“Actually, that’s not exactly the case. While the club was moderately full of regular customers, the murder took place in a private viewing room.” Hotch said as he nodded to J.J, who clicked the remote again, causing an image of a small room to appear on the screen. The image showed what appeared to be a lighted and staged bedroom behind a glass window pane, a solitary chair placed directly in front of this window, and a door at the back of the room.
“In reality, the owners of the club are claiming that no one was in the room at the time of the murder—not even the performer who was scheduled to meet with LaRoux. In addition, the club doesn’t have any security cameras.” Hotch continued.
“Not surprising,” Senior Agent David Rossi said with a scoff. “I don’t know any “establishment” of this type that would want any kind of permanent record of what goes on inside its walls.”
Prentiss shot Rossi an amused look, causing the older agent to shrug unapologetically.
“Well, that’s where my skills have been put to use,” Garcia interjected. “Contrary to what the club’s management is saying, the detective on this case believes someone did see what happened because a 911 call was received.”
J.J then clicked a button and the sound of a hushed, breathy whisper filled the room: I’m at the Mon Petit Chien on B-Burgundy Drive. I-I think someone’s been murdered here. You have to come! Quick! It was impossible to tell much about the person on the recording, even the person’s gender.
“Of course, before any of you ask,” Garcia continued once the recording had ended, “yes the LVPD did try to trace the number from which the call originated but apparently the person who made the call used a phone that wasn’t on a traditional service plan. It was one of those month-to-month type phones and there was no contract associated with it. Basically, it came up like a burner phone.
“However, your magical tech-kitten-goddess-of-all things-knowable was able to back-trace who the owner is by digging into the numbers the person called the most. I found some things like regular calls to the strip club, some bill-collecting agencies, and a number of takeout joints. Using this information, I was able to narrow the owner of the phone number down to a certain geographical area and to someone who was more than just a customer at the strip club. But, the most important little tidbit of information—and what made me able to deduce with certainty to whom the phone belongs—was that the majority of all the calls made from that phone were made to a Bennington Sanitarium in Las Vegas.
“The only person who is at Mon Petit Chien regularly, lives within a 5 mile radius of the 6 regularly-called takeout places, has some serious debt issues and knows someone at the Bennington Sanitarium—namely his mother—is one Spencer Reid. Please turn your attention to page 10 of your case files,” Garcia said smugly.
“Spencer Reid?” Derek said with confusion as he flipped to the page in question.
What stared back at him was little more than a blurry blown-up picture of a Las Vegas license, featuring the image of a somber youth with light brown hair. He couldn’t make much of the image and returned his attention to the chipper analyst.
“So, who’s this kid and why is he the one who made the 911 call?” Rossi asked.
“Well, from the snooping I was able to do, it appears that Spencer Reid is a 19-year-old “employee” of this club. Apparently he’s been working there for two years and it looks like maybe he was the pretty little filly that our dead victim was going to see that night. Since he made the call—and he’s the only one who made a call—I’m thinking he was probably the first person to see the body.” Garcia offered.
The other agents in the room all muttered to themselves in agreement.
“Wait a second,” Derek said with a frown. “Did you say he’s been working there for two years?”
“That I did, my dear,” Garcia said as she cringed, a frown forming on her red painted lips. “You are both beautiful and brilliant, and ever observant. Apparently Spencer here was working at this club since he was at most 17.”
“How… is that possible?” Prentiss asked.
“Well, from what I could see of their business records…” Garcia quickly glanced at her supervisor who was giving her a stern look, “which, I…uh… shall not divulge to you how I gained access to those… Um, from the records it appears that the ID they have on file for him shows his age as currently actually being 21. But, I made sure to double-check. Since the kid is a Las Vegas local and his birth record is on file he’s definitely currently only 19. So, I dunno what you guys are going to do with that, but I’m guessing this business is involved in some shady dealings.”
“Well… if this individual was working there and he was underage, that is strictly a state law matter. It doesn’t impact how we go about this case for the time being. What’s most important is that this Spencer Reid character may be a vital material witness and we need to speak with him. We have been chasing down this “Judgment Maker” for almost five years and if there’s any chance that Spencer Reid saw anything about the Unsub that could possibly lead us to him, it’s imperative that we know it. We’re heading to Vegas. Wheels up in 30,” Hotch said as he stood to his feet.

After arriving in Vegas, Hotch was quick to divvy up duties. He would stay at the precinct to begin setting up a relationship with the local police. Prentiss and Rossi were set to head over to the Medical Examiner’s Office to get a better look at the victim’s body. And Morgan and J.J. were assigned to pick up Spencer Reid, who was currently working a shift at Mon Petit Chien.
Stepping out of their government-issue black Suburban, Derek and J.J. surveyed the scene around them as they approached the doors. Although situated in the middle of a large parking lot that seemed to be surprisingly full for 4p.m. on a Monday afternoon, Mon Petit Chien appeared to be a small building from the outside.   It was also noticeably nondescript in the services one would could hope to find inside, save for the little dogs and small windmills, ala Moulin Rouge, painted on the doors.   There were no electric neon signs broadcasting “Live Nude Girls,” no “XXX” markers, or anything of the sort. The two agents wondered to themselves how anyone knew about the Mon Petit Chien if they didn’t attempt to advertise.
Smiling stiffly at Derek and shrugging her shoulders J.J. said “Shall we?”
“Ladies first,” Derek said as he grabbed one of the doors and held it open for J.J.
The first thing they noticed when they stepped inside was that there was no “club” initially. What lay before them were red-painted walls and a steep flight of stairs leading into a dark sub-level from which pumped bass-heavy music.
“Hmm, guess that explains why it looks so small from outside, huh?” J.J. asked as she placed her hand on the holstered weapon at her hip and began to descend the steps, unsure of what she’d find at the bottom. Morgan followed behind her, doing the same.
At the bottom of the steps they came upon a set of glass doors, in front of which stood a brawny-looking muscle-bound man in a tight black t-shirt, who was obviously serving the function of a bouncer.
Flashing their badges silently at the stoic man who nodded at them and pushed the door open slightly, the two agents walked into the club. Immediately they were bombarded by the sights and sounds. Their gazes took in the large room which stretched out in front of them, the plush gold and red carpets on the ground, the vintage-looking and well-stocked bar at the far-left of the room and the large black stage and catwalk which sat in the middle of the room. The stage, currently empty, was adorned with light bulbs running its entire length and a tall gold pole at the end of the catwalk.
Scantily-clad women and men peppered the floor as they flirted and conversed with clients seated in plush velvet couches. Waiters with trays full of drinks weaved briskly in between the assortment of furnishings as they hurried to deliver and take orders.
There were probably about 60 people in the spacious room, and no telling how many others in unknown parts of the building. Derek and J.J. knew they would be there forever if they had to question every single patron and/or employee. Derek glanced at J.J. and nodded towards the bar. J.J. nodded in agreement, seeing a tall man with dark, coiffed hair standing behind the bar and dutifully wiping glasses. The bartender was always the best source of information.
Moving away from their spot by the door and making their way through the throngs of people, J.J. and Derek quietly observed their surroundings. This didn’t seem like an ordinary club. Unlike an average strip club where the socioeconomic status would range from people barely able to manage the cover charge to get into the club, all the way to the “big spenders” who stunk of money, all the patrons here seemed to fall closer to the side of “wealthy.” They all seemed well put-together and some wore noticeably pricey or high-end clothing, jewelry and shoes. The employees, as well, while scantily clad were all better than above-average in the looks category, and seemed to have put quite a lot of effort into the maintenance of their hair, skin, nails and teeth. This seemed to be a ‘select’ group.
Finally arriving at the bar where it was, thankfully, not as loud as on the main floor, Derek waved the bartender over.   Setting down the glass he had been cleaning the tall man strode over. Glancing at Derek and J.J. and taking in their attire, the man’s brow furrowed. Nonetheless he smiled at them and asked, “What can I get you two?”
Flipping out his badge, Derek simply responded, “Information.”
The bartender visibly cringed but didn’t seem to be making any plans to bolt, so Derek continued.
“Supervisory Special Agents Morgan and Jareau.” Derek said as he motioned to himself and J.J. “We’re with the FBI. First of all, I want to know what kind of business you guys are running here.”
“Hmm,” the man said as he shrugged and averted his light green eyes. “It’s just your average strip joint, Agents. Vegas is well-known for them.”
“Your average strip joint is never so busy in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday when there’s not even a single dancer on stage,” J.J. said, her voice showing her annoyance. “Plus, all your clients seem pretty high-class here. I wonder what it’ll do to them if we raid the place and all their names end up in the paper. No publicity is bad publicity, right?”
The dark-haired man paled.
“Hey, hey now. We’re not doing anything illegal here. So what if our clientele is a little high class? They pay good money and we provide them with high class merchandise. Doesn’t that just make sense?” he asked.
“What does a lap dance go for around here?” Morgan asked.
The bartender frowned, and looked at him uncertainly. “I don’t know. At least $100 a dance.”
Morgan whistled in surprise, causing J.J. to look at him.
“Is that a lot?” she asked.
“Hell yea!” Morgan said with a laugh. “I’d go broke at a place like this. But…you wouldn’t get it. Why don’t you just let us guys talk?” Morgan said as he gave a meaningful look to J.J. Her eyes showed her understanding. She then made a big show of rolling her eyes for the observant bartender.
“Fine, whatever. Why am I not surprised that you would know something like that? You can be such a pig, Morgan. I’m going to go try to get some actual work done,” she said as she pushed away from the counter and made her way over to some waiters who were talking further down the length of the bar.
Once J.J. was out of sight, Morgan turned back to the bartender. Hoping to turn his charm on the defensive-seeming man, Morgan smiled at him conspiratorially.
“So, my man, I hear they have some Grade-A private shows in this place. You know, a place where it’s just you and a girl in a room and she’ll do whatever you ask her to?” Morgan questioned with a grin.
“Yea,” the bartender said as he leaned back a bit, appearing to be more relaxed now that J.J. was gone. “They’re downstairs on the second-level.”
“How much does one of those sessions cost?” Morgan asked.
“Well, the standard half an hour rate is $300. Then it’s more if you want…I guess we’d call it “ala carte” services. You know, if you want them to get a little freakier?” the bartender said, mirroring Morgan’s grin.
Morgan made a show of glancing around the room and looking at the girls. He then whistled again.
“And could I have my choice of who I wanted here?” he asked.
“Well, not all the workers here do the private rooms. Actually, it’s rare that someone works the main stage and does the private shows. The times overlap, you see? Our main strip shows start around 9 and go til about 2 am. That’s the same time the private rooms have their sessions. We only have about 12 workers who do those shows, and they’re all in a book kept by our managers. Only the real serious customers get to look at it, though. And sorry to say, man, but you don’t sound like you could afford it,” the bartender said good-naturedly.
“Aw, man,” Morgan laughed, pretending to be wounded by the man’s comment. “Look, some of these women are just downright gorgeous. And we men can always make something work if we want it badly enough, am I right?” Morgan asked as he waggled his eyebrows at the man, causing the bartender to laugh.
“So, each room is basically assigned to a specific girl, right?” Morgan followed up.
A look passed across the bartender’s face and he paused before saying, “Well…girls and guys, if you’re into that. We’ve got about four regular guys who perform in addition to the girls.”
“Oh, I get it man. No problem. It’s not like I couldn’t tell this club was equal-opportunity. I’ve never seen so many dudes in short shorts before. It was pretty obvious that the customers aren’t only interested in the girls here,” Morgan said as he shrugged.
The bartender nodded in agreement.
“So, do me a favor here,” Morgan said as he glanced around the room, eyes only briefly lingering on J.J. who was chatting with a few girls in sparkly outfits, “where would I go to find someone named Spencer Reid?”
The bartender looked at Morgan in surprise and before Morgan could ask why, he heard someone slam something down on the counter next to him.
Turning to his right, Morgan saw a tall boy wearing nothing but a red bow-tie, black suspenders, and black shorts lean over the counter, a serving tray clutched in his arms, and say, “Hey, Jimmy, I need 3 martinis, two cosmos, and a club soda.”
Gesturing with his thumb, “Jimmy” said, “Spencer Reid? He’s right there?”
Upon hearing his name, and realizing Jimmy had paid him no attention, Spencer spun around and locked eyes with a tall, handsome, and clearly fit black man. Spencer stared at him, wondering who this man was and why he was looking for him.
Derek, on the other hand was quite surprised by what he saw. The ID he had seen in his case file didn’t do the kid justice. Messy-looking bangs and short hair, beautiful hazel eyes accented by what he thought was eyeliner, and a surprisingly plump-looking diamond-shaped mouth, were the first things his eyes laid sight on. He couldn’t help the quick sweep his eyes took downward to take in the boy’s bare chest which was lightly dusted with some type of glitter and, while skinny, was defined with muscle-tone. His eyes lingered momentarily on the small brown nipples that peeked out from behind the suspenders and then dipped lower to stare in surprise at the dangerously low pleather-like shorts. His eyes couldn’t help but note that the kid also had long, equally toned, legs that disappeared into knee-high boots. Quickly regaining his train of thought before he could wonder what the kid looked like from behind, he snapped his eyes up to lock on to the boy’s and cleared his throat.
Fishing out his ID, he flipped it open, displaying his credentials. “You’re Spencer Reid? My name’s Agent Derek Morgan and I’m with the FBI. I’m going to need you to come with me and my colleague down to the LVPD to answer some questions.”
The boy’s eyes widened slightly, but Derek could also see tension form in his shoulders.
“What do you want with me? I already talked to the police. I don’t have anything else to say.” He spat while locking a glare onto Derek.
Derek blinked in surprise, not expecting such a hostile response from what had, only moments ago, seemed to be a harmless kid.
Sighing, and signaling behind him without looking over his shoulder, Derek said, “We’re not the police, kid. We’re the FBI and we’ve got some different questions to ask you.”
Spencer watched with mild interest as a pretty, petite blond with large blue eyes appeared next to Agent Morgan.
She looked at him with intrigue but smiled once she caught his eyes.
“Hi, I’m Agent Jennifer Jareau, and you must be Spencer Reid, huh?” she asked kindly. “I’m sure my colleague here explained to you that we need you to come down to the station to answer some questions, right? So, why don’t you and I go get your things and Agent Morgan here will explain to your boss that you need to leave work early, ok?”
Derek was surprised that as soon as J.J. appeared it seemed that the kid’s hackles had calmed back down and he looked at J.J. with what appeared to be contrition.
“Um,” Spencer said, his voice now soft, “I… I’m really going to get in a crap-load of trouble if I leave work tonight. Plus… it’s really going to be an inconvenience for me. If I don’t work I don’t get paid…”
Derek was almost certain he had seen the kid blush.
J.J. smiled at the boy reassuringly and asked, “When is your shift over?”
Spencer bit his lip and said, “Well, I’m usually working until 2, but I really need to be here to prep for when my real shift starts at 9.”
It wasn’t lost on Derek that the boy had mentioned a “real” shift, and that the waiter role he was playing now probably wasn’t his entire job. He’d put money on the bet that the real shift Spencer was referring to was most likely the peep show in which Spencer, he was almost certain, was one of the performers.
“Ok,” J.J. was saying, “Well, the sooner we get you in to the station and you answer our questions, the sooner you can come back, ok?”
Spencer made a face that seemed to say he felt like he really had no choice but to agree with J.J., so he nodded silently.
“Great. So you have some clothes you want to change into before we go?” she asked him, as she gave his outfit a cursory glance.
“Y-yea, I’ve gotta go to the prep room.” He told her, as he subconsciously crossed his arms over his bare chest.
“No problem. I’ll have to come with you, though, ok?” She told him. She then glanced at Morgan and said, “Make sure you square it away with his manager ok, and I’ll meet you back at the car.”
Morgan was about to protest but J.J.’s look seemed to tell him that she thought she’d do better with Spencer if she was on her own. Morgan frowned but shrugged his shoulders and said, “Ok, I’ll meet you out there. But be quick about it.”

Fifteen minutes later, after Morgan had had a particularly difficult conversation with the general manager on duty—a “Lindy Roth” who seemed more concerned about the lost revenue she’d suffer if Spencer wasn’t back on time than she was about the gravity of the fact that someone had been murdered within her business less than a week ago—he was standing outside by the Suburban waiting on J.J.
His ears perked up as he heard soft laughing and what he knew to be J.J’s distinct giggle. He watched as the two walked out of the club and was surprised by how relaxed Spencer seemed to be with J.J. He also couldn’t help but think to himself how surprised he was about how different Spencer looked in his ‘street clothes.’ A vast divergence from the scantily-clad individual he had seen mere moments before, the Spencer that strolled up to the vehicle was wearing faded baggy blue jeans, beat-up looking black Converses and a white t-shirt underneath a worn-looking gray cardigan. He also had what looked to be a well-used leather satchel slung over his chest. It wasn’t what he expected from an experienced exotic dancer.
Looking up from J.J., Spencer met Derek’s eyes and gave him a dark look. Derek flinched and again wondered why the kid seemed so defensive around him. He rolled his eyes however, and made his way around to the driver’s side of the car.  I don’t have time for this kid’s shit, he thought to himself. Opening the door and climbing in, he waited until Spencer and J.J. were situated before he turned the key in the ignition. Backing out of the spot, and starting down the road, he listened in contemplative silence as J.J. and Spencer continued to chat.
For a brief second he met Spencer’s eyes in the rear view mirror and noticed how quickly Spencer looked away.  This kid’s an enigma, Derek thought to himself and continued on his way to the Las Vegas Police Department.

A/N: Sorry to cut it short there. I had wanted to get into the interrogation in this chapter, but then I figured it was going to get pretty long. So I shall save that for chapter 3! If it isn’t apparent, I know very little about Vegas (I’ve only been there once and I did not spend my time skulking about strip joints lol) and I have no idea if they have “private showrooms” like the type that I’m describing anywhere in Vegas. So, if I seem to be talking nonsense, allow me some artistic license here, haha.
Lastly, about the “BAU” and the timeline here: the only thing I’m keeping to is probably the differences in ages (I’m still not sure if I’m going to make Derek 8 years older than Reid (like in the show) or 10 years (like in real life, haha)). You guys can think of this group of profilers (people like J.J., Morgan, Prentiss) as relatively “new” to the BAU (maybe only working in the BAU for the last 2 or 3 years, since I want that to be somewhat consistent with a plausible FBI career (however the show does some pretty implausible things in this area, anyway). But Hotch and Rossi are still the seasoned professionals. And, yes, J.J is in her “profiler” role here, but I still see her acting as a liaison (I doubt she’ll be communicating with the press at all in this story, but I saw her liaising role as also being the one who gained the trust of victims/witnesses and made it easier to talk to the less-empathetic “profilers”). So, that’s the BAU-verse in which this story takes place.
See you next time!
~WH~
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