The team kept chatting over the radio, but Gillian didn't pay much attention. She wondered if she'd gotten it right about the Tindermann boy, and from there, her mind took only a split second to turn to Brock. She needed to drop by his hotel on her way back home, to leave the stupid present she'd bought for him, so they would give it to him next morning on his way out.

Then she realized she wouldn't see him again, and it was odd, because she didn't like the idea.

She had first found out about him many years ago, back in 1998, when she was a green shot with her brand new detective badge, just back from her maternity leave. Russell had just left the force to join the FBI and she'd been assigned as good old Banks' new partner. Their precinct was struggling with a vicious rapist killer and somebody had the idea of consulting the feds about it. So the BAU sent over three profilers. And Brock was one of them.

Gillian would never forget her awe when she saw them work. How they'd studied the case, visited the scenes, compared forensics. And the next day they'd gathered the police staff to explain sexual sadists' usual background, and told them to look for a man this race, that age, most likely to live in this area, most likely to have that kind of job. And when Gillian and her colleagues had looked for men fitting their profile, they'd soon found their guy.

Brock was very different back then. Not only much younger—he was hardly thirty-five. Gillian remembered seeing him smile a lot over the few days he and his colleagues worked at the precinct. His body language, all about him, pointed to a young man who enjoyed his work, with a promising career ahead and a fulfilling personal life backing him up. Only one thing hadn't changed about him over all those years: the suits. Even back then, Brock would always wear those flawless dark suits around the clock, his white shirt always buttoned all the way up and a sober tie fastened in the Knot of the Year.

And when the profilers were packing up their stuff to leave, Gillian had dared to ask him how or where she could find reading material about criminal psychology and profiling.

Sixteen years later, sitting alone in her car outside some boy's house, while her team chattered over the radio, engaged in a surreal argument comparing Supernatural, Sherlock and Breaking Bad, she recalled Brock's young face lit up by an open smile, his eyes bright, delighted at her request. And he'd consulted his senior colleagues, and they'd given her names of books and authors she could consult.

But just a week later, she'd received a package on her name at the precinct, wrapped in ordinary brown paper. Inside she'd found three manuals about basic profiling, the very same the FBI agents used in their training for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. And that wasn't the only surprise: they had all been written by Brock himself.

It had been one of those things no one ever forgets. Just like she would never forget meeting him again the day before. Well, maybe they'd meet again in fifteen or twenty years, at some nursing home for retired law enforcement officers gone bananas.

"You can't compare Supernatural's Season One finale with that," Aldana said. "Breaking Bad is nothing of a cliffhanger."

"But it's great anyway," argued Hank, who was paradoxically a diehard fan of the chemist teacher gone meth cook.

"Sherlock's Season Two finale," said Ron.

"Nah! You see he's alive!" replied Fred.

"Thanks for the spoiler, guys. I didn't watch it yet," said Aldana.

"What!?" the other three cried together, totally outraged.

Gillian spotted a window sliding up at the upper floor.

"Heads up, lads, I think I got something."

"Me too," said Hank right away.

"And me," added Ron.

"Yep," said Aldana.

"Not fair," grumbled Fred.