The Aftermath

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This would not let me go. I really tried to fight it because I have lots of stuff I need to write, but it wouldn't allow it. Of course, this has spoilers for Profiler, Profiled.

Big warning: Dark and bitter Derek.

The Aftermath
by jhourdhaun

"The easiest period in a crisis situation is actually the battle itself. The most difficult is the period of indecision -- whether to fight or run away. And the most dangerous period is the aftermath." Richard M. Nixon

Hotch

I was doing my job. I know that. I did what I had to do to get to the bottom of the charges against Morgan. I know that. I put the pieces together like the profiler I am and I helped bring a killer and child molester to justice.

I make no excuses for that.

So, why do I feel like I destroyed one of my co- ... friends. The look he gave us after Buford was taken away held so much – pain, mistrust, fear… hate. It haunts me. Makes me feel like I've failed Derek in some way. I know I didn't. Realistically, I know I did everything I could to help him. He's free, nothing hanging over his head – that should be enough.

But deep down, a part of me can't… won't forget that look. It was a look that screamed, "You know!" A look that demanded restitution for discovering his deepest, darkest secret. A look that promised this was the end. My concerns were what would ultimately be the cost and the end of what? Our friendship, the team…

He sent us home before Damien's funeral. Or should I say, he left messages for all of us asking that we not attend. At first, none of us thought it was a good idea, but then Gideon managed to convince us that we should accede to Derek's wishes – especially after what this case revealed. He felt, by us stepping back, we would be giving Derek back his control. Giving him back his power, so to speak.

I can't believe I just wrote that last part. That's classic rape rhetoric. It's the phraseology we use when dealing and speaking with victims.

Derek isn't a victim… he wasn't rap-…

And yet, all of my training identifies Derek as fitting that victimology. No, he wasn't raped in the basic sense of the word, but his control and yes, his power was taken away from him. If not by threat, then by promise – promises of a better life, promises of having someone you trust beside you, promises of someone having your back, promises of loyalty… promises of a father-figure to take care of you.

As I look back at what I wrote, it's clear that Buford did indeed "rape", mentally as much as sexually. But, the same could be said for us during this investigation. Yes, when all is said and done, we can look back at our actions and say it was part of the job, but I can see where Derek might feel we violated him just as much as Buford.

And, that's why that look terrifies me.

Gideon

He won't accept my calls. I've tried countless times to reach him, but he won't answer or respond. I know he's been back for a few days – he checked in with central when he returned and they let me know. But I've heard nothing from Derek.

Fran called me. She asked me to watch out for her baby boy. At first, I was too stunned to reply, but then I accepted that Derek and his mother were very close – of course he would share our relationship with her. The conversation vastly improved after that. I promised her I would take care of him to the best of my ability and get him any help he needed. Fran couldn't hide her gratefulness – nor her pain.

"I trusted that … man with my son and he… he hurt my boy!" In between the pain, I could hear the hatred she felt towards Buford and the human part of me wanted to encourage it. That part of me was angry… furious at what he'd done to my lover… what he was still doing to him… to us.

Derek still hadn't called.

Fran continued, "I thought he could make a difference in my son's life." She laughed, but there was not a trace of humour in the sound. "He made a difference all right." Fran paused for a moment. "Did you know before he left, Derek was having nightmares? He would awaken screaming and drenched in a cold sweat, begging that animal to stop… telling him that it made Derek feel dirty.

"What kind of monster would do that to a helpless child?"

"The worst kind," I answered without thinking because my mind was still dwelling on the fact that I didn't know my lover – the man that I'd spent every night with since we'd started our relationship – was having nightmares.

Because Derek wouldn't speak to me. He hadn't returned my calls.

"Everyone wants Buford's head on a platter, but not me. That would be too good for him. I want his balls gift-wrapped and sent to the meanest son-of-a-bitch in the whole prison system."

To say I was shocked to hear Derek's sweet, fragile-like mother demanding something so violent was an understatement. I knew that a mother's protective instincts were strong, but this was something I was unaccustomed. Still, I surprised myself by assuring her, "Just tell me when you want it and I'll see that all of the guards on that cell-block have a two-hour lunch."

I knew I'd scored a point when she laughed. It was a victory of sorts – Buford hadn't succeeded in destroying everything. "Derek said that one of the things he loved about you was your sense of humour. He said you tried to hide it, but every so often, it would make an appearance."

I was glad to hear that Derek had spoken positively about me to his mother. I just hoped that he would again.

"He does love you, you know. He may not say it to you, but a mother knows when something is good in her child's life. And no matter what happened, you are good for my boy, Jason."

I wanted to believe her. I really did, but all I kept seeing was that look he gave me when he demanded some small part of his life for himself and then that look after the local cops took Buford away. Quite simply, he looked betrayed… and it wasn't directed towards Carl Buford.

Could betrayal erase the love?

"Give him time, Jason. Just give him time."

Time was all I had right now.

Derek hadn't called.

Derek

He called me to the station before I left Chicago. I couldn't believe he had the nerve to even speak to me after what he'd done. I would have thought he would have slunk away to hide in a corner somewhere. It was what he deserved, but no, he wanted to see me – to talk.

So, I went… just to hear what he had to say.

I figured that Stanley Gordinski should have a lot to say, starting with an apology.

Dennison ushered me into one of the rooms as if I were royalty and he was a lowly servant – eyes on the floor and not a word spoken. He left the room as quietly as he arrived and I almost snickered at his actions. Almost.

Several minutes passed and I found myself looking around the room. It was so different from the interrogation one I'd wrongly found myself in a few days ago. This room had a more cheerful, upbeat feel to it. There was a nice, new and shiny coffeemaker and one of those bottled water dispensers in the corner near a sofa and loveseat set-up. The chairs in this room were cushioned – nothing like the hard, plastic ones in the other room.

Oh yes, I'd moved up in the food chain. From murderer to honoured guest in one lousy week.

I had my back turned towards the door when he entered and I refused to acknowledge him even after he cleared his throat a few times. Finally, he started. "Uh, Derek, I…"

"That's Senior Special Agent Morgan to you, Gordinski." I finally turned to face him and I could feel my face harden into a stone mask as I watched him.

Gordinski accepted my correction with a small dip of his head. I knew he wouldn't address me that way, but at least I'd established the ground rules. I was no longer a 14 year old kid or a would-be murderer – I deserved respect and by damn he was going to give it to me.

"Look," he started again, "I think I owe you an apology, but, in the end, we wanted the same thing – a killer behind bars."

I felt the fury take over my whole body and I didn't try to stop it. The only concession I made was to clutch the table in front of me so that I wouldn't leap over it and take him down. "You *think* you owe me an apology? Think? If it hadn't been for my team, I would be looking at everything I worked for being destroyed and a possible death sentence hanging over my head and you only *think*."

Gordinski took a step back as he finally took in how angry I was. "You're right. Things could have gone badly for you, but it was all in the name of justice – justice for those three boys and any others we haven't found. It was nothing personal."

"Like hell it wasn't personal! You recorded every movement I made when I was here. You molded a profile so that it would fit me. You made sure to arrest me at my mother's home so that I would feel the worst humiliation." I glared at the man who'd made my life hell since I was a kid. "How can you deny it was personal?"

Like a fish out of water, Gordinski just stared at me with his mouth gaping. And like the predator he'd accused me of being, I took advantage and attacked. "I was a mixed-up kid who'd started to look for something else to help him ignore the pain of losing his dad – the only man who loved me whether I was black or white. I acted out and found myself in a situation that I couldn't control or really understand and I had to fight my way out of it.

"But instead of you understanding that and trying to help me, you used your badge to harass and berate me. You pinned everything that happened in the neighborhood on me and it didn't matter if I was nowhere around. You targeted me for every wrong that happened… and yet, you were too blind to see the wrong that was being committed against me."

I stood to my full height and looked down at Gordinski. "How many boys did you let Carl Buford devastate? How many boys did you happily deliver into his hands so that he could 'put them on the straight and narrow?' How many times did you willingly shake his hand right after he used that same hand to defile us? How many endorsements and recommendations did you give him for destroying our youth and r-raping our innocence?

"How many, Gordinski? You with all of the experience and the knowledge, Mr. Big Man… Mr. Supercop. How many of us did you swear to protect and serve and instead harass and cajole." I could see him diminishing in my eyes, but I didn't care. "How many of us did you leave in unmarked graves while you extolled our killer's virtues?"

He tried to rally, but we both knew he had nothing. "I didn't know. I was trying to do my job…"

"And you failed. I know it. You know it. And now, everyone else knows it." I could feel the angry tears building and I just didn't have the strength to hold them back. "My shame is now yours. The only difference is everyone will forgive my mistake – I was a kid. Just a mixed-up kid.

"What was your excuse?"

For probably the first time in the cop's life, Gordinski had nothing to say. Thankfully, I was almost finished. I wanted out of this place before the taint of it stuck to me permanently.

I walked over to the other man, stood shoulder to shoulder with me facing the door and spoke barely above a whisper. "I've spoken to your superiors and demanded an investigation. I've been assured that IA is looking through your whole career with a fine-tooth comb. There's serious talk that you might be brought up on charges of collusion and they are checking to see if you might have known the other two boys and pimped them to your good friend Carl." I turned my head so that I could look at him, so that I could see what my words were doing to him. "You're through, *Stan*. If you're lucky, you'll maybe come out of this with your pension. But, you'll still be remembered for this whole debacle. You'll be known as the cop who befriended The Monster – as the man behind Carl Buford."

I moved in for the kill. "How's that for a legacy, Gordinski?"

Without another word, I opened the door, uncaring who saw the tear tracks on my face. I walked out of that precinct with my head held high, knowing that the next time I heard Stan Gordinski's name, it would be in a report detailing how he'd eaten his gun.

I didn't care. All I cared about was how dirty I felt.

I still feel dirty. It's one of the reasons why I haven't responded to Jason. I don't want him to know.

All I want now is to keep hunting the monsters – to stop there being more kids like Damien and James…

And me…

The End