Thursday, September 9, 2004 – 9:15 a.m.
Evan walked up the steps of the FBI Academy's Training and Development Center at Quantico, Virginia. The air was cool, damp from an early morning mist, the faint smell of pine lingering in the breeze. Cadets moved in clusters across the campus, backpacks slung low, murmuring about drills, firearms, and coursework. Today, Evan was not a cadet, not yet. He was here to observe, trying to understand how the BAU approached investigations from start to finish.
Inside, the lecture hall smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood. Sunlight slanted through high windows, catching the dust motes in the air. Rows of desks were partially occupied by other trainees: some typing quickly on laptops, others scanning printed case files, a few leaning back in chairs, folding arms in contemplation.
Gideon stood at the front, hands clasped, scanning the room with his usual calm authority. His presence seemed to draw the noise out of the hall, replacing it with the quiet weight of expectation.
"Serial offenders often test boundaries," Gideon began, voice measured, precise. "They are rarely as consistent as we wish they would be. They adapt, experiment, observe your reaction. Take an early case we studied— the Green River case. Victims were women in their early twenties, usually alone. At first glance, the killings seemed sporadic, random. But when the events are charted—locations, timing, victim profiles—you begin to see escalation. The offender learns, adjusts, leaves markers, sometimes as a personal code, sometimes to test law enforcement. Nothing is insignificant."
A slide clicked forward, filled with charts and maps. Photographs, timelines, and notes populated the screen. Evan leaned forward slightly, pen moving across the page. He had read similar case files at the DOJ, but hearing Gideon break down motivation, intent, and behavior in real time, emphasizing the reasoning behind every step, made the data feel alive.
"Observation alone will not stop a killer," Gideon continued. "Patterns are only useful if they translate to action. Understanding the behavior, predicting the next move, anticipating escalation—that is what separates good investigators from exceptional ones. And always remember: the people behind the data are real. Every line, every timeline represents a life. Never forget that."
Evan's pen slowed. He paused on a detail—a shift in the timing between incidents—and marked it lightly, noting the rhythm without drawing attention. The lecture felt different from reading reports: the analysis was dynamic, and the stakes were immediate.
By 11:05 a.m., the session was over. The room emptied quickly; most trainees left in clusters, murmuring about the lecture. A few stayed behind. One of them, slightly wiry, with glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, approached cautiously. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him.
"You were noting the same escalation I noticed," the young man said quietly. Voice soft, careful, precise. "Timing, location… subtle shifts in patterns."
Evan looked up. "Intervals. I track them closely. Small deviations often tell you more than the obvious."
The man blinked, a faint flush rising on his cheeks. "Yes… exactly. I—I sometimes get lost in sequences. It's easier when someone else is noticing the same things."
Evan studied him. Sharp eyes, thin frame, posture careful, hands folded in that slight nervous habit he sometimes saw in new agents. The lapel pin on his jacket caught the light—a small eagle, familiar from the Academy's insignia. "You've been through Quantico?"
"Yes. Last year." The young man nodded quickly, adjusting his glasses.
"I'm Spencer Reid," the man said, offering a faint, hesitant smile.
"Evan Mercer," he replied.
They lingered, quietly trading observations. Reid spoke with careful phrasing, cataloging every thought before sharing, the slight awkwardness in his posture belying a mind that never stopped working. Evan didn't push; he listened, responded in kind. They noted slight deviations in timelines, minor changes in offender behavior, the cadence of escalation—small things others might dismiss.
Evan's eyes flicked to Reid's hands—fingers tapping lightly against the notebook, careful, deliberate. He noticed how Reid hesitated just enough before speaking, choosing the exact words. There was intelligence in restraint, in the pause before commitment. A kindred precision, though expressed differently.
Reid glanced toward the front of the room, where Gideon was collecting his notes after the lecture. "I should introduce you," he said. "Gideon—this is Evan. He's from the DOJ."
Gideon looked up from the podium, expression calm but attentive. "Ah," he said, voice measured. "I've reviewed some of your case notes from the DOJ. Good to meet you in person."
"Thank you," Evan replied, nodding.
Gideon gestured to a nearby chair. "Sit for a moment. Walk me through your observations from today's case study. What did you notice that might have been overlooked in the initial review?"
Evan sank into the seat, outlining his points succinctly: subtle variations in timing, connections across jurisdictions, minor deviations in offender behavior. Gideon listened, occasionally nodding, letting him finish before asking precise follow-ups.
"You have a careful eye," Gideon said. "But remember—analysis is only part of the work. Interpretation, intuition, and timing in the field matter as much. Patterns are tools, not the end itself."
Evan absorbed the advice, noting Gideon's deliberate phrasing, calm authority, and the unspoken expectation that profilers act on their observations, not just analyse them.
As Evan stepped into the hall, the late morning sun warming his face, he felt a pull in his chest—a tightening that was no longer hesitation, but urgency. Seeing the BAU in motion, observing methodology in practice, and encountering someone whose mind worked in a rhythm complementary to his own—he felt what it would take to step fully into the work.
This was not about patterns anymore. Not just about observation. It was about action, responsibility, and the lives behind the data. He had decided to be part of it.
He adjusted the strap of his briefcase and stepped out of the lecture hall, walking across the campus with the hum of activity around him—cadets in drills, instructors moving between classrooms. He wasn't part of their ranks yet, but he could see the steps ahead: orientation, training at the Academy, interviews, shadowing experienced agents, and eventually contributing in the field. Each movement was deliberate, measured, cataloged internally. He felt the pull of momentum, the quiet certainty that he had chosen the path, and there was no turning back.