Chapter Text
Dawn turned the sky a light shade of pink as the SUV travelled through the streets of DC, the lights flashing overhead clearing a path through early morning traffic.
The team had met up at the DCPD station first thing. The newest victim was freshly ID'd by the time they arrived, so Hotch, Rossi, and Reid left to visit the crime scene while the rest of the team looked into the life of Clark Hilton and spoke to his family.
The car ride over was quiet with the sleepy stillness of the early morning, heavy with the guilt of another victim.
Reid stared out the window, trying to figure out how to break his involvement to the others. He'd barely been able to sleep the previous night, too restless with the anxiety over telling something so personal, so violating, to anyone. Too consumed with the responsibility of catching the man behind it all.
The car pulled to a stop next to the flashing lights and hastily set up tape protecting the most recent crime scene.
Slowly, Reid got out, Hotch and Rossi several paces ahead of him already. His feet dragged, unwilling to bring him closer to the carnage he could've prevented if he'd only been brave enough. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he shivered, though the mornings grew steadily warmer as summer approached.
He told himself that it was only because this was his first time at one of the crime scenes, and his brain was drawing the uncanny similarities to his own experience, now that it was forced to reconcile them so blatantly.
“Victim's name is Clark Hilton,” Detective Tucker said, voice soft but firm. As if speaking too loudly would disturb the morning peace.
As if the gruesome sight of a murdered human being wasn't disturbing enough.
“His wife reported him missing last night when he didn't come back from work. Apparently she'd seen the press conference we held and put two and two together.”
“Who found the body?”
“A couple of working girls getting ready to call it for the night,” Tucker continued, gesturing at two women hovering just beyond the tape, arms wrapped around their torsos and casting distrustful glances at every officer in the vicinity. There couldn't have been any more than a foot of space between them, as if they were drawing comfort and safety by mutual proximity alone.
“How soon can the body be transported to the morgue?” Hotch asked.
“As soon as you give the go ahead.”
Hotch nodded. “You two handle this; I'll go talk to them.” He was off before anyone could object.
Reid let out a long breath through his nose, as quietly as he could so as not to draw attention, and approached the body.
Brown hair on a lanky body. Tall and slim. Bruises and slashes covering every inch of his skin.
Track marks lining his arms, and the word ‘junkie’ etched over them.
Reid's eyes stung, and through the sudden sheen of tears, he didn't see Clark Hilton. He saw himself one month ago. The marks on his body he stared at in the mirror and tried to scrub away in the shower and covered with make-up and tried to pretend weren't there.
“Well, this guy definitely wasn't high on the UnSub's list of favourite people,” Rossi said, cutting through the suffocating blanket of self-condemnation that had draped itself over him.
Reid blinked away his emotions, reminding himself that he had to be objective in order to effectively work this case. “Are any of them?” he deadpanned, if only because he couldn't allow a scrap of his true feelings in his inflection.
“True. But look at this guy. This was much more brutal than the others.”
Reid looked at Clark Hilton and forced himself to see him. Not his own body superimposed on the dead man propped up against a dumpster, blood and brain matter splattered against the wall behind him.
And it was true. Every inch of him was brutalized in some way, as if the UnSub had lost control over his rage.
“He's devolving,” Reid murmured, squatting down beside the body, coming eye level with him.
Reid forced himself to analyze the body that used to be Clark Hilton, a person, with the eyes of a profiler. Looking for anything new, anything that could be a hint.
His gaze caught on the skin behind his left ear, and on the nasty, sloppily stitched together gash running along his hairline.
A horrid itch flared up behind Reid's own ear, and his hand crept up to scratch absently as he stared.
“Rossi,” he said, voice echoing hollowly in his own ears. He reached out and, with a hastily adorned glove, grabbed Clark's chin and tilted his head.
“That's new,” was the response.
Reid swallowed as the itch under his skin got worse. “Is it?” he croaked, voice a thin whisper despite his intent to sound nonchalant.
The cops swarmed, as they had with every crime scene save one, and he watched.
The lights flashed and a few onlookers crowded around the tape and were promptly chased away, and he watched.
A black SUV pulled up, and three men got out, and he watched.
He jerked upright when he saw him. The survivor.
His fingers curled tight until the leather of his steering wheel creaked in protest. He forced himself to slump back down, to not seem overly interested in the scene across the street and down a few buildings.
The piece of scum that had refused to die disappeared into the alley, following the other two men to examine the corpse of his fellow basement-dwelling leech on society.
His jaw began to ache, and it was only then he realized he was grinding his teeth.
He took a breath and released his grip on the wheel.
One of the other men from the SUV, with a severe countenance and a dark suit, re-emerged and began speaking to the whores lingering nearby.
He found himself disappointed that it wasn't the junkie, cursing himself for not parking closer so he could actually see into the alley, even as he knew it was too risky. He wanted to watch that little bitch as he was forced to confront what he'd escaped from, what he deserved.
So when he stepped out, pale-faced and rubbing behind his left ear, he didn't bother smothering the giddiness that bubbled up.
Oh, he looked haunted by what he just saw. Even if he was alive, he'd been forever damaged. And that was sweet justice in its own way.
The three men exchanged a few words before climbing back into their vehicle and vacating the scene.
After a moment's deliberation, he started the engine and followed.
Reid had been abnormally quiet ever since leaving the most recent crime scene.
The team had gathered in the conference room provided, sorting out the profile they'd compiled.
Currently, as the rest of the team stitched pieces of the crimes together to form a cohesive profile, Hotch watched as Reid stared absently at the board. His eyes were far away, not darting over the words scrawled across the white surface. He was completely still, not even twitching.
It raised an alert in Hotch's mind. Reid was always in motion, but especially when he was working out a puzzle. It was likely a physical manifestation of the speed of his thoughts, his body dispersing the energy his brain produced by making connections faster than most people could even dream.
“He definitely has a secluded place to hold his victims,” Morgan was saying.
Prentiss added it to the board, alongside a handful of other phrases – revenge fantasy, victims = surrogates, sexual sadist, vehicle: truck or van, house cleaner.
“I can't imagine all those drugs being cheap,” Rossi pointed out.
Prentiss added ‘access to large amounts of money’ to the board.
“He also seems familiar with dosages, mixing medications, injecting his victims,” JJ added.
The marker squeaked as Prentiss wrote ‘possible medical background/training.’
“What about the haphazard stitch job behind Clark's ear?” Morgan pointed out. “That screams amateur.”
Reid's entire body went stiff and his eyes gained a sharpness to them.
“He carves their arms without hitting the artery,” Prentiss countered. “He, at the very least, knows enough about anatomy to prevent them bleeding out prematurely.”
“We'll mention it as a possibility,” Hotch decided, still watching Reid. “The messy nature of the stiches could be a sign of inexperience, or it could point to his worsening mental state.”
Prentiss kept it on the board. Reid didn't blink.
Several times, his lips twitched and his throat would bob, as if he was fighting to say something and losing each time.
By the time Hotch decided the remaining pieces of the profile would have to wait until a new development in the case, Reid had yet to utter a single word.
The team filed out, JJ first to gather the officers, Reid trailing behind, eyes trained on the floor. Hotch followed him out.
When the team took up their positions in front of the gathered police force, he placed himself in a position to watch his youngest agent discreetly.
Reid barely seemed to follow the delivery profile, and only seemed to shake himself back into the present when it came time to present the geo-profile.
“Given that he's struck twice in a row in DC,” he said, voice raspy. He had to clear his throat before he could continue. “It's possible he, or someone he's close to, either lives or works in the area. And considering the broad comfort zone, he quite likely owns a vehicle large enough to go unnoticed while transporting his victims.” He fell quiet after that.
“Think vans and trucks,” Morgan added. “It'll be unmarked. Inconspicuous. This guy does not want to stand out.”
“He'll have a secondary location where he holds his victims,” Hotch picked up where Morgan left off. “The level of torture he inflicts on his victims for days on end would not be easily hidden from neighbours, so it'll be somewhere isolated. Private.”
His phone buzzed with an incoming text, and he pulled it out as the team offered the last few points on the profile.
“The timeline between his kills has deteriorated rapidly,” he said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “Given the amount of time between his last few victims, we're certain he is already hunting again. He may even have a new victim already. Time is of the essence. Thank you.”
With that, the officers dispersed.
“Prentiss, Morgan, the ME has finished the autopsy on Clark Hilton. I want you to head down there. JJ, we'll need to put out an updated press release.”
The agents also began to return to their individual tasks. Reid hightailed it for the conference room, the most energy he'd shown all day.
Hotch followed him until he stood in the open doorway. “Reid,” he called softly.
Reid turned, but didn't say anything.
Hotch entered the room and gently shut the door behind him. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
Reid blinked. Looked away. “Fine.”
“I don't think you are.”
He looked up, something painful hiding behind his eyes. His lips pursed and his fingers twisted the hem of his sweater, but he remained silent.
Hotch couldn't help but remember the last time they were in this position – the Owen Savage case one month ago. That Reid had been angry, shooting barbed words at the local police and the school staff and Hotch himself. He hadn't bothered to hold his tongue for the sake of professionalism.
This Reid was the exact opposite. Reserved, withdrawn, unable to say whatever it was that weighed so heavily on him.
“What's going on?” Hotch asked again, keeping his voice low and even. The last thing Reid needed was to believe he was being reprimanded in some way.
Reid visibly swallowed. Blinked rapidly. Opened his mouth and shut it again. Frustration bloomed across his face moments before he looked away again. “Nothing,” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges.
Hotch took a deep breath through his nose and considered how to move forward. Obviously, there was something Reid wanted to say, but he was holding himself back.
He could either accept that answer and leave it be, or he could ask more specific questions and try to help Reid coax the truth out.
The only thing he had to wonder is which path would do more damage, both in the immediate future and down the line.
“You're having a hard time separating yourself from this case,” he finally said. “It's personal.”
Reid dropped his head, his hair falling into his face like protective curtains. “Because it could've been me,” he croaked out.
Hotch didn't say anything, allowing him to lead the conversation with as little interference as possible.
Reid, after a long moment of not moving, not speaking, deflated into a chair, his face still hidden from the world. “It could've been me,” he repeated. “I went to that crime scene, and I looked at Clark Hilton and I didn't see him. I look at the photos, and I see myself. I feel the bruises on their bodies. I've been in that position.”
He took a shaky breath, and his fingers clenched around fabric so tightly they turned white. “I know what it's like to be kidnapped and tortured. I know what it's like to die. I know- I know what they felt, right before they died. That fear and the pain and. . . resignation. That you're not making it out of this one.”
As he continued, his voice took on an uncharacteristic shakiness, as if he were close to crying. The last time Hotch had heard Reid sound like that was in a cemetery in Georgia.
I knew you'd understand.
“I'm just like them, Hotch. But I'm here, and they're not. I could be dead in an alley. And I can't–” he choked. “I can't figure out why I'm not.”
Hotch sat down in the seat next to him, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. Finally, he said, “I can't answer that for you. What I can do is tell you that it's okay if you need to step away from this case. It's okay to take some time for yourself. No one would begrudge you that. I won't force you to work this case if you feel you're too close.”
Reid shook his head and looked up, catching Hotch's gaze. His eyes were glassy and emotional, but something determined, steely, had settled behind them. “I need to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else.”
“Then use that. You relate to the victims?” Reid's eyes flitted away. Hotch pressed on. “Use that to fuel your determination. Let it drive you until we catch him. But, Reid,” he paused and waited for him to look back. “I meant when I said you can step away. Don't let this case run you to the ground.”
Reid stared at him. “Okay,” he said after a long minute of nothing.
Hotch watched him a moment longer before nodding and rising from his seat. He had his hand on the doorknob when Reid called out.
“Hotch?”
He turned.
Reid opened his mouth, shut it, swallowed. “Thank you.” A conflicted expression flitted over his face, as if he had more to say, but instead he pressed his lips into a thin, awkward smile.
“Of course.” And he left.
“I'd place the time of death at around 4 AM,” Dr. Nguyen said, looking at her clipboard.
Emily stared at the body of Clark Hilton and tried not to picture Reid in his place. “And cause of death was the same as the last?”
“Yes. Gunshot to the head, execution style. Although his injuries were much more severe this time.”
“What kind of drugs were found in his system?” Morgan asked, arms crossed over his chest.
“I found trace amounts of the sedatives previously used, in addition to an excess amount of hydromorphone.”
Emily tore her eyes away from the body to stare at Dr. Nguyen. “Dilaudid?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“That's new,” Morgan said to Emily. She barely had time to nod absently before he was turning back to the ME. “Anything else that stands out?”
“Actually, yes.” Dr. Nguyen set her clipboard aside and walked a few steps to stand by his head. She tilted his head to the side, brushing the hair behind his left ear back to reveal a bloody gash. “One of your agents noticed this at the crime scene. It was stitched shut.”
“Yeah, we've been wondering about that ourselves,” Emily said. “Why give someone stitches if you're going to kill them later?”
Morgan nodded once. “Especially on one so small. I mean that's what, an inch long?”
Dr. Nguyen made a non-committal humming noise as she walked off, picking up a small, clear bag from the countertop. “Because he was hiding this.”
Emily took the bag from her and examined its contents. Small. Metallic.
She looked up at Morgan and found him staring back at her. “He's microchipping them?” she whispered.
“What did you find out?” Hotch asked as Morgan and Prentiss walked through the door and each claimed a seat around the table.
“Well, do you want surprise ‘A’ or ‘B?’” Prentiss deadpanned.
Reid leaned forward in his chair, dreadful anticipation flooding through him. One of those two surprises had to do with the gash behind the ear, and his stomach churned with nerves as to what it could be.
“Clark Hilton overdosed on Dilaudid,” she continued.
Reid swallowed thickly and forced his breath not to hitch in his throat, even as he felt it constricting.
“But his family said he had a problem with cocaine,” JJ said.
“And he was carved with ‘junkie,’” Rossi added. “Were any of the other victims addicted to Dilaudid?”
Yes, Reid's brain whispered. He couldn't breathe.
“No,” Prentiss responded. “And none of them overdosed on it, either. Not until Clark.”
“So he introduces a new drug,” JJ says, “An expensive one at that, considering it's prescription medication, but it doesn't even match anyone's addictions? Why would he do that? Why not use what he had on hand, like he's been doing?”
No one responded.
“Let's table that question for now,” Hotch said. “What was the other thing?”
“He's microchipping them,” Morgan said, and Reid felt like he'd been punched in the gut.
His vision tunelled, growing dark at the edges, and now he really couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear anything happening around him.
The skin behind his ear burned.
He'd been microchipped. It hadn't been a meaningless cut stitched up by the hospital staff like he'd originally thought.
Microchipped. Like a dog.
All those times he imagined someone watching him, had they been true after all? Had the UnSub known where he was the whole time?
He was going to be sick.
When the fire in his lungs mixed with the dizziness in his head, he finally sucked in a breath.
Someone was still talking. “–checked Matthew for the chip. His insertion was much neater.”
“So it's probably safe to say the sloppiness on Clark was because he's unravelling.”
Reid blinked as someone's phone rang, and the world came crashing back to him. Taking a glance around, it seemed everyone had been too busy discussing with each other to notice him nearly pass out.
“Hey, Baby Girl.”
“You're going to love me because I am a genius.”
Morgan chuckled. “Well, I already love you, but I'm assuming you found something for us?”
“You betcha! So, I searched the whole country for any other victims and came up empty, right? But then I remembered how hung up you were on the UnSub using a gun. So I thought to myself, ‘Hey, what if that's new?’ And then I ran a search with the exact MO but without the shooting messiness, and I found, wait for it, three more victims.”
“Well, you've been a busy little bee, haven't you?”
“You know it, sugar.”
JJ rose from the table and grabbed a marker. She stood in front of their working timeline. “Names and dates, Garcia?”
“Okay, so. Victim number one was Nicholas Hardy. He went missing on March 28th, and his body was found on the 31st in Landover, Maryland. After that we have Edward Powers. Missing on April 4th, found on the 7th in Annandale, Virginia. And then there's Lincoln Petty. Last seen on the 11th, but discovered dead on the 14th in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland. All died of a drug overdose.”
JJ filled in the names and dates. Reid mentally added himself to the board, and felt hollow when he realized that he slotted neatly between the third and fifth victims.
Oh god, the others would definitely pick up on the hole in the timeline. He was running out of time, but he was paralyzed over the decision to blurt out what happened to him, or continue walking on eggshells and hope that he somehow makes it out without anyone figuring it out on their own.
The latter was looking far more likely, unless he could just get his stupid tongue to work with him and spit it out.
“Looks like he kept to the strict schedule of only striking on the weekends,” Prentiss said.
“He could have a steady job that keeps him busy during the work week,” Hotch offered. “It would certainly explain how he could afford the drugs.”
“Or else he has a family,” JJ countered. “Maybe he's got kids in school.”
Morgan scoffed. “You think this guy has kids?”
“It's a possibility,” Hotch said gently. “So far, there's nothing in the profile that suggests either way. We'll keep both options in mind.”
Rossi hummed.
“You have something, Dave?”
“Maybe. Garcia, you didn't find anything the next weekend?”
“Um, no. Why?”
“Because according to the timeline we have, we're missing a victim.”
Reid's blood lit on fire and froze over simultaneously. And suddenly he felt like the other shoe was finally dropping on top of him.
“I didn't. . . those were the only cases I found in the area he hunts.”
“He's right,” Hotch said. “There's a blank weekend between victims number three and four.”
Three and five, Reid's brain corrected when his mouth failed to.
Hotch continued – as if Reid's world wasn't about to crumble beneath his feet – “Widen the search, Garcia.”
Keys clacked on the other side of the line for several moments. “Nothing, sir.”
“How far did you go?”
“Nationwide. I got zilch.”
“So he didn't kill that weekend?” JJ asked.
“This guy doesn't seem like the kind to just stop killing for a week,” Prentiss said. “Something must have prevented him from hunting.”
“Like what?”
Prentiss shrugged. “Could be that he was out of town. Maybe on a business trip or a vacation.”
“It would put him out of his comfort zone,” Morgan agreed. “Hey, sweetness, see if you can find anyone who was out of town that weekend who fits the profile.”
“Do you know how long that's gonna take?”
“Are you saying it's too hard for you?” he teased.
“Bite your tongue. I said it would take a while, not that it was difficult. And anyway, you'll have to help me narrow it down when I do because I'm sure that'll come back with a huge list of names.”
“That's not what happened,” Reid blurted out, the first thing he'd said during the entire meeting.
The room went quiet as everyone turned to him.
His cheeks burned as his pulse skyrocketed in his ears. Oh fuck, he really was in it now. “H-he wouldn't have gone out of town,” he stammered.
Hotch tilted his head in a way that made him want to squirm. “What makes you say that?”
“I–” He licked his lips as he tried to make himself come clean.
Because he took me. Because I'm the missing weekend.
His throat worked, but no words came out. He could see the rest of the team staring at him, and his brain scrambled for an excuse in lieu of confessing. “I just. . . don't think he's the type to leave. He needs to play out this fantasy.”
Hotch considered him for a moment. No one else spoke a word. Finally, Hotch said, “Is there something specific in the profile that points to that?”
Reid said nothing. Of course he wasn't basing his argument off the profile; he was going off first-hand experience.
“I know how convincing hunches can feel, but unfortunately we don't have enough evidence either way to be shutting off potential leads.”
His tone hadn't been harsh in any way, but Reid still felt like a child being chastised.
Hotch moved on. “Garcia, I want you to work that angle. Call us if you find anything.”
“Will do, Sir.” The line clicked and went dead.
After a long moment, Rossi leaned back in his chair. “I don't know about anyone else, but I'm famished.”
As scattered agreements erupted around the table, Reid stood, trying to ensure it wasn't too abrupt.
His gaze snagged on Prentiss, and he froze in his attempt to escape. She was still watching him, head tilted and brows furrowed. Her eyes were squinted in the way that meant she was working on some sort of puzzle, and Reid felt his stomach drop to the floor.
No longer worried about raising suspicion, he spun on his heel and darted for the door.
He didn't slow down until he found the bathroom, locked himself in a stall, and promptly emptied his stomach into the toilet.
He couldn't do this anymore. The weight of the secret bore down too heavily. The panic stole his breath too often. His heart raced too often to be at all healthy. But his mouth and his brain refused to cooperate, fear cutting off the line of communication somewhere along the way and rendering any attempts he made worthless.
He shouldn't have been so petrified at the thought of someone finding out his secret, especially since he made the decision that he needed to tell someone, but he was. He'd never been so terrified in his life, outside of actual, life-threatening situations.
But he needed to not be alone in this anymore. He needed support. He needed help. He needed to tell someone. He needed to give every little detail, if it meant catching his rapist and tormentor and ensuring he couldn't hurt anyone ever again.
He needed to stop running scared and getting sick in the bathroom at the mere inkling of someone figuring out his involvement in this case.
By the time he was done turning himself inside out, he noticed that he was trembling. He stood on shaky legs and flushed.
When he exited the stall and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he realized he'd been crying.
He shuffled to the sink and washed his hands. They shook as he cleaned them under the water, and they shook as he cupped them together to splash water on his face, and they shook when he dried them. They were still shaking when he emerged from the bathroom and nearly barrelled into JJ.
“Woah, Spence, where's the fire?”
He blinked at her, and the smile she'd accompanied her little joke dwindled.
“Hey, are you okay?” she asked.
He nodded.
She paused. “Are you sure?”
Another nod. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
“Okay, well, I was about to run after some takeout for everyone. I just need your order,” she said. “We're getting from that little burger place a few blocks down.”
“Um,” he said. His phone buzzed again. “Give me a second.”
He pulled it out. Two unread messages.
From: E. Prentiss
Where did you go?
We need to talk
. . . Fuck.
“Um. . . actually, JJ, why don't I go with you?” he said, shoving his phone back in his pocket.
“Uh,” she said, an awkward smile tugging at her lips. “Really?”
“Yeah. I can help you carry, or something.”
“Oh. Well, okay.”
They managed to make it out of the station without running into Prentiss, and he berated himself for his cowardice with every step.
Neither spoke again until they were in the car.
“You really didn't have to come with me,” JJ said.
“I wanted to.”
Lunch hour traffic clogged the streets, forcing them to sit through a couple cycles at the same stoplight before making any progress.
“Are you sure you're okay? You've been,” JJ took one hand off the wheel to gesture vaguely in the air, “I don't know, kinda weird ever since we got this case.”
Reid sighed, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. If he could just tell her. Just spit it out. “It's. . . bringing up some bad memories.”
Well, that was true, at least. Even if it wasn't quite the truth.
“Yeah,” JJ said quietly.
Something about her voice had him sitting up and looking at her. There was a worrisome furrow to her brows, her lips turned down in a frown.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”
JJ glanced at him before returning her eyes to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. It's just. . . I keep thinking about you.”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
JJ blew out a long breath. “It's always hard when the victimology matches one of us. On cases like this, I keep thinking, ‘What if we're next? What if one of my friends gets targeted, and the next time I ever see them, it's in crime scene photos?’” Her voice closed off, and she blinked rapidly. One hand left the wheel to wipe at her eyes.
“You can't do that to yourself, JJ,” he said, feeling like a hypocrite the entire time.
“I didn't used to. I mean, yeah, I would notice similarities between the victims and people I knew. It's impossible not to, sometimes. But I didn't. . . obsess over it. I never was afraid that we were in danger like that until. . .” She trailed off, sending another glance his way, pained and haunted.
“Until I got kidnapped,” he whispered. His heart squeezed horribly in his chest. If he hadn't separated from her, back in Georgia, she wouldn't have had her entire world view changed like this. She wouldn't have to have real fear about a member of the team being taken.
“Yeah.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize. It's not your fault you got taken or that I'm being like this.”
“But if I hadn't run off. . .”
JJ shrugged. “We can't know what could've happened. I know you're a genius, Spence, but even you can't know all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘might've beens.’”
His phone buzzed again. He ignored it.
They pulled up to the restaurant, and JJ parked the car.
“JJ,” he said before she could get out.
She turned.
“It's not your fault either. That I got kidnapped.”
A sad smile. “I know.” And then she was gone, leaving him to follow.
His phone buzzed again, and he pulled it out.
From: E. Prentiss
Seriously Reid. Where are you?
Reid??
He sighed and began typing out a response.
“Who're you texting?” JJ asked, gently pushing him out of the way of crashing into the door.
“Prentiss.”
To E. Prentiss
I went with JJ to get food
“Is it about the case?” JJ was looking at the menu while they waited in line, and he had a feeling she was just asking to make small talk after such an emotional conversation on the way over.
Yeah. I'm pretty sure she's figured out my connection to this case, he thought.
“Not sure,” he said instead.
From: E. Prentiss
Find me when you get back
I really think we should talk. I'm worried about you
His stomach twisting itself into knots, he shut his phone without replying and shoved it into his pocket.
Derek stared at the board, taking slow sips of his coffee. “You know what I don't get?” he asked.
“Shoot,” Prentiss said.
“He kills three men via overdose, takes a weekend off, and then comes back with a gun. Why?”
“Why take the weekend off or why introduce the gun?” Rossi asked from his own seat.
“Both.” Derek stood from his seat and approached the board, as if a closer proximity would reveal something he was missing. “Something's missing here.”
“Let's start with the missing weekend. We've already theorized that he could've been out of town and unable to kill. Why would that change his MO?” Hotch asked.
“Build up of rage, maybe?” Prentiss responded. “He can't get his weekly release so he comes back more intense then before and figures out he likes shooting them at the end.”
“Maybe,” Derek murmured. “Guys, what if Reid's hunch is right? What if he didn't leave?”
“What are you thinking?” Hotch asked.
“I think we're missing the obvious. What's the simplest explanation for why we have no body that weekend?”
“The victim survived,” Rossi answered. “People survive drug overdoses every day, and if he didn't stick around to watch him die, someone else could've saved him.”
“It explains the introduction of a gun,” Hotch said. “He wants to ensure their death.”
Derek fished his phone out and dialled.
“Well, if it isn't my Chocolate Thunder,” Garcia greeted. “If you're calling about the list of vacationing potential serial killers, I'm afraid I'm still compiling.”
“Not this time, Dollface. Got another potential lead for you.”
“Ooh, my fingers are standing by.”
“We think one of his victims might've survived. See if you can find any hospital records on or around April 21st, matching the UnSub’s signature.”
“I'm on it like a frog on a lilypad.” Keys clack furiously over the line. “I've got a match!”
Derek felt an anticipatory smile creeping up. Looking around at his team, they also seemed relieved at the news. They were one step closer to nailing this guy and putting him away for good.
“You are the best, you know that? What's the name?”
But the other side of the call was deathly quiet.
“Garcia?” he asked.
“Yeah?” she said, sounding thin and far away.
Immediately, alarm bells rang in his head. “You alright?”
She cleared her throat. “Yeah. I just. . . I gotta go. Call you back later.”
And then the line went dead.
Bewildered, Derek looked at his team. Prentiss seemed quietly resigned, and she pulled out her phone for the third time since JJ (and Reid, apparently) had left to grab lunch. But Hotch and Rossi seemed to echo his own feelings of confusion.
“What just happened?” he finally asked.
He got no response.
Penelope stared at her screens, at the hospital record she'd pulled up. She couldn't understand it, no matter how many times she read each word carefully.
A patient who'd suffered an overdose, covered in contusions and lacerations. He'd suffered a concussion, had broken ribs, and showed signs of sexual assault, though he'd refused a rape kit.
She stared at the name, but her brain refused to understand it. She recognized that name. She knew that name, recognized every squiggle that formed its letters and what they sounded like when strung together in this specific order.
Worse, she knew the person connected to that name.
Her eyes slid away from her screens, to a photo taken on her last birthday, when the entire team had gone to the park together. One of her arms was hooked over his shoulders, pulling him close until their faces squished together. He was smiling so brightly, despite normally avoiding such close contact. He'd made an exception for her, and it became one of her favourite pictures.
Her eyes burned and her throat ached, and she looked back at her screens. She read the report one more time through a blurry sheen of tears, and finally cried.
Patient Name: Spencer Reid