Chapter Text
Jemma reached up and brushed the back of her hand against her forehead in a futile attempt to brush away the sweat that had begun beading on her brow. Despite the warm September day, she was wearing nearly every article of clothing she owned; the rest were in the threadbare knapsack that was cutting uncomfortably into her shoulder. Still, she trudged on, soles of her feet slapping out a rhythm against the pavement right along with Fitz.
She cut her eyes toward her friend, her lips pursed in consideration. The Scot was tense, looking around as they headed away from the busier streets toward the shadier, quieter lanes that lead toward the warehouse. Jemma glanced around herself, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Something was wrong. It was far too quiet, even for a row of abandoned warehouses.
They’d found this spot a few months after they arrived in New York, and she had never known it to be this… still. There should have been at least a few other people headed in the same direction but Jemma shook it off. They were probably just early. The sun was still high. Everyone else was likely still trying to make a little more money and find dinner before turning in. Telling herself that the problem was they were simply feeling exposed, Jemma reached for Fitz’ wrist and tugged him through a gap in the fence.
“C’mon. Almost there. We’ll find a spot and tally what we’ve got.”
Fitz ducked through the split in the chain link, swearing ripely as the jagged metal caught on his clothes. Even after months of living on the street and trying to hide, the Scot still wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t meant for this; years of poverty growing up in Glasgow with a single mother hadn’t been anything like this. He’d never realized how much his Mum had likely given up for him until he had to try making ends meet all on his own. Well, with Jemma’s help, but there was no scholarship money, no living stipend, no student employment now, only hustling for money writing papers for spoiled rich kids who had the luxury of still being in school.
Fitz and Jemma on the other hand… Fitz could only dream of going back to his own life. Of finishing his degree at MIT and working for Stark. Every now and then he caught himself looking for the shining chrome of Stark Tower, looming over the midtown skyline. That had been his future, or so he thought.
Instead he was here on the streets of New York City, sweltering in layers of clothes, his stomach rumbling loudly, and stealing into an abandoned warehouse in search of a safe place to sleep for the night. Once he got himself loose and the jangling of the fence faded, even Fitz noticed the silence and looked around warily as he followed Jemma through a once-boarded doorway. “Where the hell is everyone?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Jemma had been doing what she’d thought was an admirable job holding herself together until Fitz - who was usually oblivious unless food, science, or sleep were involved - called attention to the lack of other runaways. Part of the reason they’d decided to make this one of their regular haunts, aside from its proximity to several youth shelters, was the fact that there were always others around. It hadn’t provided either of the Brits the sense of community they’d had in Boston, but it had been something. Even suspicious glances were better than the people who were looking through them on a daily basis.
The perpetually bubbly biochemist had even struck up a few near-acquaintances. Rather, there were a few people who would smile back or at least not scowl when she smiled at them, but even they were nowhere to be found. She took a deep breath and stepped across the dark threshold of their preferred warehouse, every inch of her alert. Jemma gave herself a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and peered around.
No one.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the space, chilling her to the bone. Still, she forced herself forward. She and Fitz had agreed to spend the night here. After a significant portion of their money had gone missing the last time they spent the night in a shelter, they’d decided to only go there when they needed to wash. And as much as Jemma was craving a hot shower and an actual mattress, they had a budget to keep in mind. Hotels were out, too, unless they wanted to survive on mystery meat for the foreseeable future.
There was one bright side she could see to being alone at the warehouse - dibs. She turned to her partner and gave him a small smile and nudge his elbow with hers. “At least this means we’ll get the best spot?”
Fitz lagged behind, more and more disquieted the further they went. It wasn’t just quiet. No one was around and it was creeping him out. “I dinna think this is a good idea. This is a safe place, usually. Why would everyone jus’ clear out? Some o’ the others are likely still out panhandlin’, but for no one t’ be here?”
It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and Fitz could feel his shoulders squeeze in tight as tension stiffened his posture. “What do they know tha’ we don’?” he asked, his pitch rising with nerves. “Police raid comin’? A gang claimin’ the territory?” They’d both been so damned innocent when they’d fled Boston and living on the streets had made them wary - but they weren’t connected like some of the other kids. Not quite as versed in self-preservation, and it showed. Hence being an easy target for thieves until they’d wised up.
A loud creak from behind him brought Fitz’ head snapping around painfully and he was suddenly very sure he knew why everyone had taken off. “Fuck. Jem, is tha’ what I think it is?” His gorge rose and he stumbled back a few feet. Even though the small lump of clothes and hair was across the room, the dark and sticky pool around the body was pretty unmistakable. The scent of blood - or rather the iron in it - had been hidden by the rust and steel scent that already pervaded the warehouse.
Jemma crept forward even as her friend stumbled back, a sick fascination with the limp form pulling her forward. It felt surreal, a scene from a movie she’d never, ever hoped to be in, still she couldn’t make it stop. She was vaguely aware of Fitz calling her name and pleading for her to just turn around and leave, but she couldn’t, not without seeing who it was. Jemma stopped just short of the pool of blood, noting absentmindedly that it had already begun congealing.
She recognized the jacket first, or rather the three red stars on the shoulder. The girl was young, younger than Fitz and Jemma even, but had been hard; no one had ever dared to mess with her. Jemma had never known her name, but she seemed tragically small in death, rumpled on the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse.
Reality broke in on her, and with a jolt Jemma took two shaky steps back toward Fitz. He called her name once more and she turned and ran, her fingers catching his upper arm and tugging him along. “We need to go, need to tell someone, we-” Jemma gasped. Air suddenly seemed to be in short supply and she sucked in a few lungfuls before trying again. “We need to call 9-1-1.”
Fitz was more worried about getting out and away than he was about reporting the dead girl in an abandoned warehouse. He felt like he was going to vomit, but the air felt too thick, choking him. “Yeah, yeah. After we get out of here,” he said, the words tumbling over each other in his haste. No wonder everyone else had taken off. No one wanted to take the chance of being connected to a crime, picked up by the police and sent back to whatever they’d run from.
“C’mon,” Fitz insisted, tugging at Jemma’s hand. She was still staring at the other girl and all he wanted was to get away from the body. It felt far too long before Jemma’s hazel eyes found him, and Fitz hurriedly took advantage of it to herd Jemma ahead of him and back out the way they’d came. Escaping the complex and back onto the streets of Alphabet City, Fitz was struck by the dichotomy. People were strolling by, heedless of what lay within the warehouse down the block. Life went on. Another dead street kid - would the police even care?
Still, Jemma was right. Fitz hauled her down the street toward the closest pay phone, outside a tiny corner bodega, and smashed the keys - 9. 1. 1. Unthinkingly, he babbled out the address of the warehouse and what they’d found, ignoring the operator’s follow up questions as he swiped at the phone with his shirt and left the handset hanging.
Thankfully Fitz took charge once they were outside because Jemma’s brain felt utterly useless. She would have lost him if it hadn’t been for his grip on her wrist, pulling her past the people on the street. The clueless, oblivious people who didn’t give them another look. Jemma didn’t understand how that could be - the stench of iron was so thick in her nose she would have sworn everyone else should have been able to smell it too.
No one stopped them, two pale, scared kids running down a city street. Certainly not the bodega owner who peered at them through the paint-smudged window of his shop, glaring at them until they scurried off once more. Jemma wondered if this was what rats felt like, afraid of bright places, desperate for shadows so they couldn’t be seen. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she wondered for the umpteenth time what, exactly, she’d landed them both in. She should have just let him quit and left it at that, but she’d insisted- it was no matter. They were stuck here, and that was that. They needed to survive.
They slowed from a jog to a brisk walk, Jemma acting on instinct while her mind continued to process what she’d seen. She started when Fitz tugged her into an alley and crouched next to a dumpster, out of sight of pedestrian traffic. She watched as he tugged his backpack off his shoulders and began to rifle through it, the quick flashes of green bills finally clueing Jemma in on what he was doing. Snapping out of her stupor she followed suit, counting the money in her bag without actually bringing it into the light. Jemma counted it three times, just to be sure before looking up at Fitz.
“$124. Maybe… maybe it’s time to think about a hotel.” She looked at him, eyes still glossed from their earlier discovery but her gaze unwavering. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable on the street tonight, and it’s late now. All the beds will be gone.”
Fitz reluctantly agreed with her. The shelters would make them split up, separating the kids into same-sex dorms for the night and he didn’t want to let Jemma out of his sight at the moment. That girl had looked far too much like her for his peace of mind, small and fragile, dark hair spilled out over her shoulders. He’d likely have nightmares about it and make himself a target for someone looking for an easy mark, anyway.
As much as he hated spending money on a hotel, at least they had the money to spend right now. The first few months they hadn’t known what to do to get money, until Jemma had suggested hitting the universities and selling papers. It made sense. Not only did the rich kids at Columbia and NYU have money to burn, but public libraries were public spaces. They’d be allowed to stay most of the day if they were actually working on something. It had made sense then and had proved fruitful.
“I’ve go’ $218.” Jemma’s eyes flew over to him, shocked at the number, and Fitz grimaced. He’d never been one for lying or cheating, but he’d amazed himself at what he was willing to do these days to maintain some sort of standard of living. That couple hundred bucks could last them weeks - except they needed a safe place to stay right now. She was still staring at him and Fitz jerked up a shoulder awkwardly, ignoring her silent question in favor of logistics. “I’ll tell y’ later. Y’ still have tha’ transit pass?”
Jemma fought down her shock to focus on what was directly before her. Seeing the body had been a deeply unpleasant shock, but they’d done everything they could. Mentally reviewing the crime scene, Jemma was confident that they hadn’t contaminated anything or done anything that would make catching the killer difficult for the police. They’d alerted the authorities. That was the extent of their duty and now it was time to worry about themselves.
“Yeah, it’s in here,” Jemma muttered as she began to repack her bag, taking care to roll her money into a tight bundle and tucking it into a mangy looking sock that no one would want to touch, let alone search through, and shoved it to the very bottom. She fished out the transit pass and, flashing it quickly at Fitz, tucked it into her front pocket. “We just need to decide where to now.”
Fitz hid his own money again and made sure all the zippers were done up properly before checking he had his own transit pass. When they had extra, they each put a bit of money on the passes for when they couldn’t get somewhere on foot in a reasonable time. He felt like this justified using a few bucks on a train fare. Of course, they could do what plenty of others did and hop the turnstiles, but they’d made a point of avoiding doing anything that would bring them to the attention of police. Writing papers for college kids wasn’t illegal - they didn’t plagiarize anything - only unethical.
“I’m thinking we could head out t’ JFK. Find a half decent hotel, claim our bags were lost an’ the only thing we’ve got are IDs an’ some cash. Canna be the first time it’s happened t’ someone, righ’?” Being underage would only help their story - who would mistrust them?
And to be honest, the idea of a real bed - or even better, a proper shower - sounded like heaven.
Jemma nearly moaned at the thought of a real bed and somewhere to scrape what felt like an inch of grime off her skin, but held back. She’d quickly learned that there was no point in counting on things before they actually happened; they could celebrate once they were checked in somewhere for the night. She looked at Fitz, and after a quick, silent exchange, they left the alley and made for the nearest subway station, the hope of a safe, private room for the night urging them on.
~*~
In the 12th Precinct, a phone rang shrilly just before shift change, pulling Detective Kevin Ryan’s attention away from the report he was skimming. He absentmindedly lifted the receiver and pressed it to his ear, muttering his name instead of a greeting. What the dispatcher told him though caught his attention, and he quickly reached for a pen and paper, the ballpoint flying across the page as he scrambled to write down the pertinent details.
“Adolescent female, stabbed, Alphabet City. Thanks. We’ll be right there.” He slammed the receiver down harder than was strictly necessary and looked up, searching for his partner. “Espo! Call just came in. We need to move. You have the keys?”
The other man nodded and jangled the keys to their cruiser in his general direction. “Beckett know yet?”
“No, we’ll call her on the way. She’s gonna want to hear about this.”
~*~
“Honestly, Richard, I don’t know why you even bother to act scandalized.”
Castle’s gaze shifted between his mother and his daughter, jaw clenched as he tried to find the right words. For someone whose livelihood depended heavily on his vocabulary, that happened far too often where the women in his life were concerned. Pushing that thought to the back of his mind, he furrowed his brow and tried to prove his point.
“Because she’s my daughter! I don’t care if she’s a legal adult, she still lives in my house and-”
Just as he was about to prove his point, his wife’s voice rang out from their bedroom, distracting him once more. “Castle, yell at Alexis later. Ryan and Espo just called. There’s another body.”
He turned to face Kate as she came into the room, slipping her phone into her back pocket as she began to gather her things. “Another body?” he queried, mentally riffling through the case files he knew where on her desk. “You mean the street kids?”
“Yeah, exactly. This is the third that fits the same M.O. Knife wounds to the torso. You know what that means-”
“- serial killer.”
Castle grinned as they finished the sentence together. He loved that married life hadn’t kept them from staying in sync, and even his daughter - more accurately the young man he’d caught leaving her room - and his mother couldn’t dampen his enthusiastic reaction. He grabbed his own phone, wallet, and keys and was halfway out the door before turning back to the two other women in his life.
“We’re not done with this. We’ll talk when I get home.”
Ignoring the twin eyerolls he knew were being directed at him, he shut his door firmly and followed Kate toward the elevator.
~*~
“Still nothing. Whoever did this was a pro.”
Kate could see the frustration written on Espo’s face, his mouth set in a grim line and the bags under his eyes a half shade darker than they’d been yesterday. It never mattered what case they worked; a kid’s body, even an older kid, was hard to stomach, even for a veteran. She walked a circle around the corpse, eyes dark as she imagined the corpse in place of the chalk outline. Whoever had done this had been quick and ruthless. Two stab wounds to the side, angled upward between the ribs to be sure to hit their mark. Death would have been quick.
Given the age of the girl she’d seen Lanie zipping a body bag around, he was a cold bastard, too. She couldn’t have been much older than 20, if even that. She had felt Castle go tense when he’d seen the body, and knew he was thinking of Alexis. That was her natural inclination, too, but she pushed it away in favor of focusing on the work; it was the only way to get through this.
“Have unis found anything?”
“Nothing useful,” Ryan jumped in, coming to stand in the impromptu circle they’d formed in the middle of the crime scene. “It’s a pretty common spot for street kids, so lots of prints and no way to tell what belong to who.”
“And no one bothers to notice them around here, anyway. They all blend in.”
“Weapon?”
“No, nothing. Lanie thinks it’s the same knife, based on the entry wound, but wants to get the body back to the morgue. She’s hoping she’ll have more for us soon.”
“Who called it in?”
Three pairs of eyes glanced over to Castle. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time, looking around the scene without saying much.
“What?”
“Well, it’s a secluded area. The other bodies were found in the relative open,” he gestured around to the four walls enclosing the space, “this one is hidden from the street. Someone had to come in here to find her.”
Espo looked at Ryan as he flipped through his notebook. “Called in, uh, an hour ago. Dispatch says the caller had some kind of accent, but the call was too quick for them to ID it. Unis found the phone he used. He left it off the hook, apparently after wiping it down. There were no usable prints.”
“But, there’s good news,” Espo chimed in, picking up where Ryan left off. “The bodega they called from has a camera. It’s not trained on the phone, but there’s a chance we caught at least a frame of him. They’re going over it back at the station right now.”
It was thin, but at least it was a lead. “All right. Let’s find him. He either did this or knows something. Let’s find out which.”