♟ Foma Vsevolod bears no fondness for house calls. Of course, he rarely bears fondness for anything, but he particularly isn't fond of house calls. It makes him feel like less of an FBI Agent and more like a door-to-door salesman. As he climbs out of his Imperial, he can hear the imaginary sales pitch rattling off in the back of his head. "Hello there, buddy! My name's Garrett Vsevolod." The high and chipper intonations of a young man who is trying very desperately and who is paid very well to play up being absolutely fucking ecstatic. "I'm here with a product I like to call 'wasting my time by bringing up dead people and ruining your day'. Would you like a free sample?"
♟ A breath of a laugh was all he offered in response to his own imagination. He shut the door of his car with a sharp shove of one elbow to express his distaste with it. "Salesman Vsevolod, indeed," came his dull voice, muttered into the slight breeze. Spidery fingers crawled up the front of his sweater to tighten his tie severely against his throat, closing a vicious and unforgiving vice on the narrow column. When he released and allowed himself to breathe properly again, it was perfectly situated where he preferred the knot to rest. This habit had been one of his stranger quirks since he was a teenager--when someone tried to choke him with his tie, he found that it settled in a rather comfortable place once he was released again and had taken a few good breaths. And so the habit became, and he hadn't bothered to change it since. Even if it did tend to make people stare at him.
♟ Speaking of staring, he had to do that soon. Specifically, he had to do that to whoever it was that lived in this ugly building. One hand fished into his coat and retrieved his notepad. For a man with a memory castle, he sure did take a lot of notes--but then again, he had a habit of sacrificing space for short-term memory to favor long-term. So unless something was really, really interesting, he tended to forget it unless he took notes. Interview Anderson Walker, photographer, about wedding and missing couple. Right. A recently married couple had gone missing a month ago, with absolutely no trace of where they may have went. The case, usually none of his department's business, had been recently turned over to the BAU after the missing woman's breasts and left eye were mailed to Jack Crawford. A very direct method of getting things to go the killer's way, he supposed. But Foma wasn't complaining. He got the privilege of taking the box down to the lab. You know, the human breast is a strange and alien looking thing when partially frozen and separate from the rest of the body.
♟ If there was a body. That was what they were trying to find out. Hence why he was here, hand aloft, rapping his knuckles on the door in four short knocks. Each was a different pitch, carefully calculated to keep from repeating the same exact sound. He didn't want to go into this already enraged. Then he might not get any answers, and he'd probably wind up with a black eye.
♟ "Mr. Anderson Walker?" Another knock, this time with the side of his fist. Polite but loud. As he withdrew his hand once more, he pondered a means of not arousing suspicion. After all, he did just say the fellow's name. And what if he was the flighty sort? Or one of those paranoid freaks who fire through the door first, then ask questions later? "Pardon me if I'm intruding," The word 'pardon' felt acerbic in his mouth, "but there's been an accident." An accident, indeed.
♟ It wasn't technically a lie. After all, there was an accident. It just wasn't recent.
