Title: Fairview Diaries
By: Eligent
Pairing: gen
Rating: PG
A/N: You know the drill. I don't own anything and I'm not English speaking.
Summary: Reid's guilty pleasure is revealed.

***

Hotchner stepped carefully over broken glass and met detective Harris on the front porch of the murder victim's house, the third they had visited in as many days.

"You said that it was the neighbor who called it in?"

Detective Harris nodded. "Mrs. Mary Marcurelli. 86 years old and still going strong. She lives over there." He nodded towards the house on his left.

"Could she describe the unsub?" Morgan asked, pulling his latex gloves off as he too stepped out of the house.

The detective looked uncomfortable. "Yes… in a way."

"In a way?" Hotchner raised his eyebrows. "What does that mean?"

Harris sighed. "She doesn't understand how to describe him. She just keeps repeating a lot of names that we can't find on file anywhere. We have no idea what she's babbling about."

Hotchner looked at Morgan. "Come on," he said. "Let's go talk to her, see if we can figure it out."

"Good luck," the detective called after them.

They headed over a well-kept lawn towards the small, white one-story house next door and stepped up on the porch. The door was open, but the screen door was closed. They could hear the sound of a television inside.

Morgan knocked on the frame of the screen door. "Mrs. Marcurelli?"

"Yes?" a voice answered from deep within the house.

"Mrs. Marcurelli, it's the FBI," Morgan called. "May we come in?"

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

"Well, all right, if you must."

Morgan looked at Hotchner and shrugged before pushing open the screen door and stepping into a small hallway.

"Mrs. Marcurelli?" he called again.

"In the living room."

Following the voice they turned to their left and entered a dark living room, where every curtain had been closed against the sunny day to keep the glare out of a 50" plasma screen hanging on the wall, looking quite out of place among the 50's furniture, embroidered pictures hanging on the walls and the many, many porcelain cats generously distributed throughout the room.

"Mrs. Marcurelli?" Hotchner asked politely.

A hard-permed, bluish tinted head turned over the back of the couch and looked sharply at them. On the plasma screen, a nurse in a uniform that looked like it belonged more in a fetish shop than in a hospital was talking to a devilishly handsome doctor with wavy hair who held a chart upside down.

"Mrs. Marcurelli, I'm Special Agent Aaron Hotchner with the Behavioral Analyses Unit of the FBI. This is my colleague Derek Morgan. We would like to ask you a few questions, if that's okay?"

"Now?" Mrs. Marcurelli asked. "But I'm in the middle of my stories. Can't it wait?"

"No ma'am, I'm afraid it can't," Morgan said.

Mrs. Marcurelli sighed and muted the TV. "Oh well, I guess that's why the good Lord invented TiVo. Sit down, sit down."

They did, perching uneasily on creaking old armchairs with crocheted antimacassars over the backs and armrests.

"We would like to ask you about what you saw last night, when Mr. Carlson was murdered," Hotchner said, leaning forward on his elbows.

Mrs. Marcurelli frowned. "But I told all this already, to the other detective."

"Yes ma'am, but we would like to hear it for ourselves, if you don't mind."

"Oh, not at all," Mrs. Marcurelli said, smiling at them. "I like the FBI you see. They worked wonders for Marcy after Tate was murdered and she was accused of the murder. Had to sit in jail for four months, the poor dear. And in the end it turned out that Erica had done it. Hah, I could've told them that right from the start, had they asked me. Erica was always so jealous of Marcy and Tate."

"Yes ma'am," Hotchner said, wondering if he could interrupt her.

"The nicest agent helped them out. Agent Alfred Gerard. Do you know him?"

Hotchner and Morgan both shook their heads.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," Mrs. Marcurelli mumbled. "So, what is it you want to know?"

"You saw a suspect leaving the house last night, is that correct?" Morgan asked.

Mrs. Marcurelli nodded. "As plain as I see you two now. I heard these awful bangs and I knew immediately that it was gunshots. I recognized the sound from when Lance practices at the shooting range, you see. I looked out the window only to see a man holding a gun, looking exactly like Lance's by the way, come running out of Mr. Carlson's house. Such a shame, really, he was such a nice man."

"Can you describe the man for us?" Morgan asked, pen poised over his notebook.

Mrs. Marcurelli seemed a tad pensive, as if trying to decide where to start. "Well, he was as tall as Dr. Quark, at least."

"Dr. Quark?" Morgan asked. "Is that your doctor?"

Mrs. Marcurelli laughed. "Oh, heavens no, I should be so lucky. No, but Dr. Vincent Quark is the finest physician there is and he takes care of so many of my friends."

"Okay," Morgan said. "And how tall is Dr. Quark?"

Mrs. Marcurelli looked surprised. "You don't know him?"

"No, no we don't," Hotchner said. "So it would help us a lot if you could tell us how tall Dr. Quark is."

Mrs. Marcurelli looked uncertain for a moment and flapped her hand in the air a few inches above her head to indicate a height. "Oh, you know. I'm not too good with numbers."

Morgan looked at the hand, measured the distance from the floor, looked up at the hand again, which had moved, and sighed. Not knowing what else to do he wrote down 'as tall as Dr. Quark'.

"What else can you tell us?" Hotchner asked.

"Oh, his hair had the same color as Reese's, but with those lighter things in it… What are they called again?"

"Highlights?" Morgan suggested.

"Yes, that's right. He had hair like Reese, but the highlights had the color of Ashley's hair."

"Okay…" Morgan said. "And which hair colors do Reese and Ashley have?"

"Oh, you know," Mrs. Marcurelli said dismissively.

"No ma'am, I don't."

She looked bewildered. "It's almost like Hope's, only lighter. You know," she said again.

Morgan just sighed and jotted it down. "Is there anything else?"

"Oh my, yes. He had beautiful eyes. You wouldn't think I could see his eyes from here, would you, but I could, and I remember because they were so beautiful. Can you call a murderer's eyes beautiful? Anyway, they were. Just like Elliott's. And his lashes… my, my, just like Audrey's. I dreamed of lashes like that when I was younger, but alas. But his eyebrows looked more like Ambrose's. I've never quite liked those, they make a person look so dishonest. But then, Ambrose is an embezzler you know. You can always tell a man's character by his eyebrows, my mama used to say, and the murderer had dishonest eyebrows."

And so it went on. Mrs. Marcurelli managed to give a perfect but incomprehensible description of the suspect. He was as big as Niles, as old as René and had a beard like Joshua. He had been wearing a shirt like the ones Sylvester favored, in the same color as Angelica's ball gown last New Year and his trousers were those modern things that both Mariah and Klaus liked to wear when they went out dancing. He had a tattoo on his forearm that looked exactly like the wooden decoration Winnie had hanging on her living room wall (it was a gift from Conrad, you know). The car was the same as Benjamin drove, (his new one, that is, not the one that went over the cliff with Rosalynn in it, you know) only it was the color of Diana's car and in the back he had one of those things that Phillipa kept in the back for Bruce.

"A car seat?" Hotchner asked, thinking Bruce might be a child, but Mrs. Marcurelli just laughed at him.

"Oh, heavens no, what a preposterous idea. No, it's in the trunk."

"I see," Hotchner said carefully, but he really didn't. He didn't have a clue.

Morgan and Hotchner looked at each other, exasperated. They couldn't make heads or tails of this description as Mrs. Marcurelli hadn't been able to describe Lance or Hope or Ambrose or any of the others. She'd just said 'you know' as if she expected everyone to be familiar with her friends.

"Well, I think we've got what we need, right Hotch?" Morgan said.

"I believe so," Hotchner nodded. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Marcurelli."

"Nothing to it, dear. You can show yourself out, right? I have to get back to my stories."

Morgan shot another look at the TV screen where a patient in pink silk pajamas, dramatic make up and perfect hair was apparently making a very tear-filled confession to a stoic man wearing an ascot while a nurse, whose uniform seemed to consist more of cleavage than actual uniform, was patting her hand comfortingly.

"Thank you Mrs. Marcurelli," he said and followed Hotchner out onto the porch, where he looked at his notebook where he'd diligently written down everything Mrs. Marcurelli had told them. "Well, she seems to have an active and uh… interesting social life," he commented.

"Yes, and a very selective memory," Hotchner said. "We're going to have to send a sketch artist down here. There's no way we'll get anything out of this description."

They met up with Rossi, Prentiss, JJ, Reid and Detective Harris outside Mr. Carlson's house.

"How did it go?" Harris asked, not without a little malicious pleasure in his voice.

"You were right, it's complete gibberish," Morgan said. "It's just René this and Sylvester that. There's no telling what the unsub actually looks like. I mean, look at this." He passed the notebook to JJ who read it along with Prentiss and they both looked as oblivious as Morgan felt.

But Reid cocked his head pensively and pointed to the pad. "Can I see that?"

"I know you're smart, Reid," Morgan said, "But if you can get anything out of that I'll be your personal slave for a month."

Reid quickly scanned the text, a small smile playing on his lips. "Okay, our unsub is 5'8", about 185 lb and not very muscular. He's about 35 years old. He's got dark blond hair with lighter highlights, a blond goatee and green eyes and bushy, black eyebrows. He was wearing a powder blue button-down dress shirt and jeans. The tattoo is a yin yang symbol. He drives a silver-gray four door Ford Escape, probably no more than three years old. Also, there's a dog carrier in the trunk. Oh, and the gun is a Smith & Wesson Model 19-5; polished nickel with a 4 inch barrel."

He looked up to see the others stare open-mouthed at him. Morgan grabbed the notepad out of his hands and looked at it as if to see if the text had changed since he read it last. "You made that up," he accused Reid.

"No, I didn't," Reid defended himself. "All those people are characters in a soap opera called Fairview Diaries. I'm guessing our witness is a fan."

Hotchner tilted his head. "It wouldn't happen to take place in a hospital, would it?" he asked, remembering the show playing on Mrs. Marcurelli's TV.

Reid nodded. "Yep, the Nestor Quark Memorial Hospital, in Fairview. Nestor was the grandfather of Dr. Vincent Quark, who is the chief of medicine now and… and you're not interested in this at all, are you?" he said, taking in the patronizing looks he was receiving.

"And you watch this show?" JJ asked, clearly surprised.

Reid suddenly looked a little panicked. "Well… that's to say…"

"Why would you want to do that?" Prentiss asked. "Soap operas are so incredibly fake!"

"Maybe everything doesn't have to be so real all the time," Reid said uncomfortably.

"Hey," detective Harris said. "I think I recognize that description. It sounds like Benjamin Allen; we've already had him in for questioning. I guess this make him our prime suspect."

"Really?" Rossi said. "That's good news. Great job, Reid."

"Yes, once again your odd and unusual talents have saved the day," Morgan said teasingly.

Reid ignored the jibe and looked back at Mrs. Marcurelli's house. "I haven't had time to catch up with the show lately. Did she happen to mention if Audrey has told Lance that the baby isn't his yet?"

"No," Morgan said.

"She really should soon," Reid said matter-of-factly. "It's going to be pretty obvious that it's Maurice's baby once it's born. And I wonder what's happening with Marcy. She's in jail, you know."

"Not any more," Hotchner enlightened him, his teeth grinding together from the 'you know' that seemed to be second nature to Fairview Diaries viewers. "Apparently it was Erica who did it."

"Hah, I knew it," Reid said. "She was always so jealous of Marcy and Tate."

"You're really invested in this, aren't you?" JJ asked smiling.

Reid shrugged. "It's a distraction."

"I still say it's crazy," Morgan said. "She's got a 50" plasma to watch soap operas. It's such a waste of a good TV."

Reid shot another look at the house, this time a very longing one. "She's watching Diaries on a 50" TV? Uh… Maybe I should go and ask some follow up questions," he suggested and unconsciously took a step towards the house.

"No," Hotchner said.

"Just a few quick ones. I mean, since I understand her and everything." He looked hopeful.

"We're in the middle of a murder investigation," Rossi said. "You're not excused to go and watch soaps."

"Ah, well," Reid relented. "I guess that's why they invented TiVo."

"Okay, let's go back to the station and investigate this Benjamin Allen," Hotchner said and the team started walking towards the cars.

Reid fell into step with Morgan. "You're gonna give me hell about this, aren't you?"

"You know it, bro." Morgan was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"Well, you can't start until next month," Reid said.

Morgan frowned. "What? Why not?"

"You're gonna be my personal slave, remember?" Reid smiled and waggled his eyebrows. "And my first order to you is a cease and desist order on all teasing."

"Nice try, Reid, but that's just a saying, you know."

"Uh-huh."

Morgan pulled on Reid's arm to keep him back a little. "Reid, come on, talk to me. What's the real reason? Why do you really watch that crap?"

"Are you kidding me?" Reid looked around to see that no one was listening and lowered his voice. "Did you see those nurses' uniforms?"

The End

A/N: The small "Which one?" that Reid let slip when Elle talked about her boredom induced soap opera watching in the beginning of 'P911' made me think that our triple-PhD might just enjoy a soap opera or two in his time off. And what would be the fun of that if Morgan didn't know so he could tease him about it? I don't watch any soaps myself, so this is written with a very prejudiced mind towards that genre. Apologies to those who enjoy them.