𝘾𝙊𝙇𝘿-𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿𝙀𝘿, criminal minds

──── 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

. . . the Lights Went Out in Georgia.

SOMETHING THAT JACQUELYN McKenna would always find joy within would be the calming storyline of a country murder ballad.

     Country music in general would always hold a special place in her heart, mingled with her ungodly taste in all music genres, but the murder ballads — especially those from the nineties — resonated differently.

     Currently, she hummed under her breath one of those murder ballads, one based upon this closed case she had been called to revisit, and she had a sneaking feeling that the lyrics would prove more true than she originally believed.

     Oh, what a night to spend in the humid landscape of the deep south! Georgia was less than ideal for her tastes, but she supposed that there were some sights to see — certain cities and beaches that would occupy her time once she finished up here.

     It had been exactly three years, four months, two weeks, two days, and eleven hours since former Los Angeles homicide detective Jacquelyn McKenna had pulled up to the BAU Headquarters of Quantico, Virgina for her first day as a profiler.

     Three years, four months, two weeks, two days, and eleven hours since she had left behind the life of a Los Angeles Detective and begun her new life, part of a larger picture which left her at peace, with no one breathing down her neck. A homicide profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation's Behavioral Analysis Unit.

     No small promotion, but still very different from the cases she had worked on when she had lived on the west coast.

     But here, she was her own superior, working alongside the occasional partner was decent when one compared the many solo missions. No one to criticize her every move, no one to pull her past back for her to see, rearing the ugly truth that she would never be one of them.

     There was none of that.

     At least, not in a way she noticed, and Jacquelyn McKenna always paid attention to the most miniscule of details.

     She was always aware, always on alert — something she had learned during her time in the German military. Everything was an open book to her, from the way someone chewed their second piece of mint gum even though they had only spit out their first five minutes ago to hide their nicotine withdrawal to the way the other detective on this case had selectively dyed the tips of her brunette hair an almost invisible shade of green as a symbol of her guilty conscience of something that had happened in the last twelve hours — because Jacquelyn was certain the color had not been woven into her locks the last time she saw her.

     Or the way many of these officers seemed to hold their breaths when the one-eyed agent descended upon their ranks and wove herself among them.

     Now, standing in the center of a damned house that had not been occupied in forty years, the young woman wondered exactly why the presence of the FBI had been warranted on a case which had been closed almost half a century ago.

     Chief Brown of the Brunswick Police Department was standing close enough behind her that she was ablebto smell the black bean burrito he had for breakfast, watching her movements borderline obsessively, as if he expected her to turn around and stab the nearest officer.

     Who did he think she was, a serial killer?

     A roll of her single eye nearly gave her a headache, and she was thankful enough he didn't see it as she currently held her back to him, though perhaps of he had, he would understand how ridiculous his closeness was.

     People needed to learn the concept of personal space.

     At last, after staring around at the dirty wooden floors and rotting walls for over fifteen minutes, Jacquelyn turned around, scanning each of the individuals who had stood around, idly waiting for her declaration as if they believed this ancient wood would yield anything else they had missed forty years ago.