Haunted Minds 9/?
Title: Haunted Minds 9/?
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: RFT/R for violent images
Fandom: Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Pairing/Characters: Gen, Sam and Dean Winchester, Andy Gallagher, Bobby Singer, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Jennifer "JJ" Jereau
Summary: A shocking discovery sends the BAU to Cold Oak, South Dakota.
A/N 1: Betaed by the extremely awesome riverbella . Thank you babe! Big buckets of thank you to all the people who've been reading this.
A/N 2: Spoilers up to Seven Seconds (season 3) for Criminal Minds and spoilers for Supernatural up to Fresh Blood (season 3).
gorgeous cover made by riverbella.
Understanding does not cure evil, but it is a definite help, inasmuch as one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.
~Carl Gustav Jung
JJ presses a button and a photo fills the screen. A man and woman slump on a couch in an upper class living room, dead. A second photo zooms in on the dead couple, both bloodied and bruised.
“The Halbert family,” she says. “They were murdered in their home last night in the Denver suburb of Cherry Creek.” She glances back at the screen, then at Hotch. “It’s the third home invasion like this in the last month.”
Reid listens while JJ details the killing, but not as closely as he normally would. He scans the room surreptitiously, looking for some sign of Andy, some sign of movement. There’s nothing. His eyes flick back to the screen and he studies the the photo of Mrs. Halbert. Her eyes are closed, a white strip of cloth serves as a gag. His brain flips through images and presents him with a memory of himself, screaming himself hoarse in a small cabin. There’d been no need to gag him.
Next to him, Morgan says “That’s why home invasions are so hard to profile.” A note of frustration creeps into his voice. “Multiple motives.”
Reid shifts in his seat; Morgan‘s comment sparks a figure from a recent study. He brushes one hand over the paper in front of him, the other clutches a pen that he waves absently. “National statistics show an up tic in home invasions over the last few years--eighteen percent in Colorado.” He tries to imagine what it would have been like to be part of a real family: two parents and a sibling. He can’t. He has vague memories of his father, but these are tenuous, like looking through beveled glass. Reid rubs his chin and studies the next series of photos. All these families gone, memories lost.
Hotch frowns. “You know it’s bad if they’re inviting us back.”
JJ’s forehead creases. “Back?”
“Things went bad after the JonBonet Ramsey case,“ Hotch explains. An eyebrow arches upward, “when a couple of agents publicly criticized local detectives.”
Morgan looks at Hotch over the top of a photo. “They didn‘t need us to make them look bad.”
JJ looks to Hotch for clarification. “And that was in Boulder?”
“Yeah, but the statewide media ran with it and it took on a life of its own.”
Emily studies the information packet JJ provided, face grim, eyebrows furrowed. She barely resembles the smiling woman from the kitchen.
“I spoke to a Lieutenant Nellis,” JJ says. “Trust me, they want our help.”
“They need it.“ Emily looks up from the paperwork. “The first two home invasions were 20 days apart,” she says, poking the air with her pen. “This last one was just nine days later.”
Morgan meets her gaze. “So they’re killing in faster cycles.”
Reid rubs a finger along an eyebrow, rubbing away an itch. The Unsub is already escalating; the window of time between killings has already been reduced by more than fifty percent. Using that same logic, the Unsub’s next kill could be as soon as four days from now. Or sooner.
Hotch‘s expression is ominous. “And getting better at it every time.” He checks his watch. “We leave in an hour.”
Reid spends the next forty-five minutes darting looks around the bull pen. There’s no sign of Andy. Emily’s filling out paperwork, and Morgan is on the phone. Hotch and JJ stand on the far end of the bull pen, speaking in low tones. Hotch turns toward Reid, meets his gaze. Reid lifts his hand in an awkward wave.
Hotch doesn’t wave back.
Reid wonders if he should be worried, if he’s overreacting (paranoid) when Hotch strolls purposefully to Reid’s desk. “Reid? I just wanted to check in with you. Did you schedule that follow-up appointment?”
Reid licks his lips, instantly understanding what Hotch is referring to. He slides his gaze from Hotch to Morgan. Morgan is still on the phone, his back to Reid. Spencer returns his gaze to Hotch, sweat beading down his back. Aaron’s expression is, as usual, inscrutable. Reid recalls Hotch’s instructions in Cold Oak: Okay. You can stay. For now. But when we get back I want you to see Dr. Jennings.
Spencer flicks a glance toward his phone. “I. Um.” For one second he considers lying, rejects the option.
“Schedule the appointment before we leave,” Hotch says. His voice brooks no room for argument.
Reid picks up the phone, eyes on Hotch’s back. He schedules an appointment for the following week, stomach churning. He’s not afraid of seeing Doctor Jennings; he knows how to assuage her concerns. He’s not looking forward to lying though. He disconnects with Dr. Jennings’s appointment desk and holds the receiver in his hand. He has ten minutes before boarding the jet. Reid makes a decision and punches in Agent Henriksen’s number. Now or never.
A recorded voice greets him in a friendly, robotic manner. “Thank you for calling the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If you know your party’s extension, please enter it now. If you require assistance, please press zero.”
Spencer enters the extension and moments later, a voice barks “Reed.”
Spencer blinks, wonders briefly if he entered the wrong extension. He didn’t. “Um. Hi. This is Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid from the BAU in Quantico. I was looking for Agent Henriksen. Is this his number?”
“Oh. Sorry. This is Agent Doug Reed. I’m Vic’s partner. He’s out of the office this week and his calls are being routed to me. Can I help you with something?”
“I was calling about the Winchester case. Do you know if there’s someplace I can reach him?”
Reed’s voice drops, his tone guarded. “Look. I’m sick and tired of you Quantico higher-ups calling to bitch us out. We messed up in Arkansas. We got the memo, man. Message received.”
“No no,” Spencer says quickly. “That’s not what I’m calling about. I--I understand from the file that Agent Henriksen spoke with Dean Winchester on more than one occasion. I just had a…a personal interest in the case and was hoping to speak with him about it.”
Doug sighs. “Not this week you’re not. He’s been suspended. The case is a fucking mess. It’s like a conspiracy. I can call Vic and see if he wants to call you back, but he’s been MIA for a few days now. Can this wait until he gets back?”
Reid nods, catches himself, stops. “Yes. Of course. No problem.” Spencer recites his direct number and bids the Agent goodbye, disappointed. So much for that idea. He replaces the receiver and his phone immediately rings. Reid jumps.
Morgan chuckles from his desk. “I think you better switch to decaf, man.”
Spencer shoots a half-hearted scowl toward Morgan and answers the call. Did Doug Reed forget something? “Guess what, Buttercup,” Garcia says excitedly. “I hit the mother load. The jackpot. The--”
Reid glances at his watch. Across the room Emily slides a folder into her carry-on. “What did you find?”
“I think the more appropriate question would be, what didn’t I find?”
Reid pulls a pad of paper toward him and grabs a pen. He gives her a verbal nudge. “Garcia, I have to leave in a few minutes.”
“Oh yeah. Colorado, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll give you the speed version then. In 1983 Sam and Dean Winchester’s mother was killed in some kind of electrical fire that started in Sam’s nursery. The father--John--raised them. When the boys were still little he went off the grid and lived as some kind of survivalist type. I looked at Henriksen’s notes again and he called John a crazy cultist…but I’m not so sure.”
“What was the mother’s name? Do you really think it was an electrical fire? Can you hack into the records?”
“Mary. And if there were files to hack into, I’d be happy to. By which I mean, Agent Reid I would never do such a thing, I’m shocked you would even suggest such a thing. Now that my ass is fully covered, let me remind you Mary Winchester died in the early 80s which roughly equals the computer stone age. I don’t know if I can find anything, but I’ll poke around. Got time for part two?”
Reid takes another look at his watch. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. Well I don’t know exactly what John Winchester was, but he doesn’t seem like a whacko. He was in the Marines, honorable discharge. There’s an outstanding warrant against him for impersonating a police officer, as well as two counts of credit card fraud, but that’s all I could find under his name. I did find several mentions of a John Winchester on several online forums I hacked into that proclaimed him some kind of modern day avenger against--get this--ghosts and demons. Is that crazy or what?”
Spencer tries to answer but the syllables stick in his throat like bones. He chokes out a noise that sounds like hmmm and hopes Garcia accepts it as keep going.
She does. “Another thing about Henriksen’s report that’s weird is, he considers Dean some kind of criminal mastermind. I’m not sure what kind of mastermind he’s supposed to be since the only proof that he’s committed a crime is he was found with a dead woman in Baltimore, Maryland. He insisted he was innocent and one of the detectives in charge backed him up, said the real killer was her partner. Also, Sam Winchester isn’t exactly a genius like some people I know, but he’s no dummy. He got a full scholarship to Stanford and was about to interview for law school when he dropped out.”
“Do you know why he dropped out?”
“I’ve got a pretty good guess. His girlfriend died in an apartment fire. Sam disappeared right after. I found a couple of campus articles saying Sam was devastated.”
“A fire?” Reid leans forward, eyebrows drawn. “Like his mother.”
“Yup.”
“And Andrew Gallagher’s adoptive mother.”
“And birth mother.”
They’re both silent for a moment and then Garcia asks “Is it just me or does it seem like something….weird is going on here?”
“It’s not just you.”
“One more thing. There’s a cop in Hibbing, Minnesota that insists Sam and Dean helped catch a group of serial killers. A whole family named Bender who kidnapped their victims and hunted them for sport. Sound familiar?”
Reid swallows. He can still see Johnny Mulford dying in Gideon’s arms.
“Only this family ate their victims,” she says, voice hushed. “They were cannibals. The police report says there were wind chimes made of bone and lamp shades made from--” Garcia cuts off. “You get the idea.”
“So on the one hand we’ve got Henriksen blaming the Winchesters for everything up to and including the assassination of JFK, and on the other, there are police officers vouching for these guys. And not just police officers. I found literally dozens of online blogs talking about how Sam and Dean saved this or that person from a ghost or hellhound or whatever.”
“What’s a hellhound?”
“My first inclination is to say Scrappy Doo, but I’m guessing that’s not what they meant.”
“What?”
“Never mind. The biggest charge against the Winchester brothers--with any kind of actual evidence at least--is a bank robbery in Milwaukee last spring. Henriksen says they masterminded the whole thing but no money was missing from the vault and the only fatality was a so-called accomplice killed by a SWAT team sharpshooter. Also, one of the hostages says Sam and Dean saved her from, get this, some kind of evil doppelganger.”
Spencer stares at the phone. Doppelganger? That’s ridiculous. But he recalls Garcia’s earlier words. Dean faked his death? With what? A clone? A robot? A giant cardboard cut-out?
“Yo, Reid. Wrap it up, man.”
Reid swivels in his chair to see Morgan sling his carry-on over his shoulder. “Thanks Garcia, but I’ve got to go. We’re leaving.”
“No problem. I have to tell you, I’m kind of intrigued. Mind if I do some more digging?”
“Please.”
“Okie-doke. I’ll talk to you later. Watch out for hellhounds and doppelgangers, oh illustrious doctor.”
“Uh, okay.” He reaches for his messenger bag. “Bye, Garcia.” He hangs up. Morgan is leaning against his desk, waiting. Together, they head for the elevator.
ooooo
Sam sits in the diner, alone. A waitress keeps hovering, offering to top off his coffee, but he shakes his head at her approach each time. He doesn’t want more coffee and the plate of French fries he ordered sits beside his laptop, untouched. His eyes might be hungry, but his stomach isn’t. He scrolls through myriad search engine results, hoping to find something that will help Dean. This is what he does now, this is his life. His home is a dark square of car or motel, but he lives in a state of constant fear. Hunting things is secondary. Helping people is secondary. Everything takes a back seat to saving Dean.
Sam rubs his eyes, wonders if his brother’s having a good time “reconnecting” with Lisa. Dean’s always bitching about Sam’s puppy-eyed look, but Dean’s just as adept at getting what he wants. All he has to do is paste on that sincere expression and mutter about dying wishes; Sam doesn’t even pretend to resist. It’s only been a couple of days since the deal and Dean’s already gone through at least a dozen so-called “last wishes.” At least seeing Lisa is better than sending Sam off on another quest for cinnamon sticks from Pizza Hut.
Sam grimaces at the laptop, as if it’s personally responsible for foiling Sam’s attempts to locate something useful--a book, a weapon, anything. Dammit. If only he knew who’s holding Dean’s contract. That knife the girl at the farmhouse had was something. If he could just figure out where she got it, if he could--
Footsteps pull his thoughts away from the mysterious weapon. For a brief instant he thinks it’s the waitress come to eyeball him again, but a blond woman (not Jess) moves into the booth across from him. She smiles and Sam stares, dumbstruck. It’s her. The woman from the farmhouse. The woman who saved him (who has the knife).
She lifts an eyebrow and casts an eager look toward his French fries. She says “Hello, Sam,” like they’ve been buddies for years.
Sam observes her warily, works at keeping his voice calm, body language relaxed. Years of training at John’s knee taught him to be careful. Meg Masters taught him nothing--and no one--is what they seem. He tells her the obvious. “You've been following me since Lincoln.“
She shrugs. “Not much gets by you, huh?” She slides Sam’s plate close and reaches for the ketchup bottle. She pours on the ketchup, picks up a fry. “These are amazing. It's like deep-fried crack. Try some.”
Sam watches her eat. The ketchup looks like blood. Blood makes him think of the knife. The knife Jake put in his back, as well as this stranger’s weapon. He pushes thoughts of the former away, concentrates on the latter. “That knife you had. You can kill demons with that thing?”
“Sure comes in handy when I have to swoop in and save the damsel in distress.“
She’s trying to bait him. She sounds like Dean. Sam ignores her, gets to the point. “Where did you get it?”
She stuffs another French fry into her mouth, grins. “Skymall.”
Okay, fine. Sam tries another question. “Why were you following me?”
“I'm interested in you.“
He stares at her again, tries to figure out who (what) she is. She’s stuffing her face with his food, so she’s not a vampire. A demon maybe. But she’s not trying to kill him…so maybe not. Another hunter?
The woman smiles. “Because you're tall. And I love a tall man. And then there's the whole antichrist thing.”
Sam keeps his expression neutral but his hands clench below the table. The demon Pride’s voice whispers in his ear: We've all heard of you. The prodigy. The boy king. And now he‘s the antichrist? What the hell? He sits up straighter, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?“
She flashes a look that asks what are you, retarded? and rolls her eyes. “Generation of psychic kids, yellow-eyed demon rounds you up, celebrity death match ensues. You're the sole survivor.”
Sam’s fingernails dig into his palms. He concentrates on the pain and not the fear that sole survivor brings. He’s supposed to be dead. “How do you know that?“ he asks numbly. Maybe she is a demon, after all. Because demons, lie, lie, lie.
She shrugs. “I'm a good hunter.” She pops another fry into her mouth. “So,Yellow Eyes had some pretty big plans for you, Sam.”
Huh. Now she’s referring to herself as a hunter? “’Had’ being the key word,” Sam points out. The only plan Sam wants to be involved with now is saving Dean.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” She snaps her fingers. “That's right. Ding-dong, the demon's dead. Good job with that. It doesn't change the fact that you're special... in that Anthony Michael Hall E.S.P. visions kind of way.”
“No,” Sam says, his voice flint. “That stuff's not happening anymore. Not since Yellow-Eyes died.” Not since Sam died.
“Well, I'm thinking you're still a pretty big deal. I mean, after all that business with your mom.“
Sam stares at the blond. “What about my mom?“ Who is this chick? Fear reaches from his stomach to his chest, touches cold fingers to his heart.
“You know, what happened to her friends.”
He works hard to keep his face blank. He fails.
She shakes her head, lips curling. “You...don't know. You've got a little bit of catching up to do, my friend. So, why don't you look into your mom's pals, and then give me a call and we'll talk again?”
The woman stands and stalks out of the diner. Sam watches her go, heart pounding. He feels like he’s just been gut-punched. What does this stranger possibly know about his mother that he doesn‘t?
Everything.
His only honest memory of Mary comes from what Yellow Eyes showed him in Cold Oak. His mother standing over Sam’s crib, her harsh you? at the sight of the demon. She had recognized him.
Sam hunches forward, shoulders slumping. He blinks wearily at the laptop screen. The words blur until all he can see is a faint reflection of himself. It’s fitting, since that’s all he is.
ooooo
Reid stands outside the window, arms crossed, listening. He feels sick. Not just at what’s been done to Carrie Ortiz and her family, but at what was done to her family’s killer. Where would Ervin be now if his foster family hadn’t terrorized and abused him? What kind of life would he have? Reid has read extensively on nature vs. nurture. He’s studied Judith Harris’s The Nurture Assumption; he knows "nurture"-that is, family upbringing--does not effectively explain the disparity of most common personality traits. On the contrary, Harris suggests that peer groups and/or random environmental factors are more important than family environmental effects. So who’s to blame for how Ervin and Gary turned out? Does it even matter?
Ervin never really escaped the dark water of that tub.
Reid shakes his head, returns to the conference room Lieutenant Nellis set up for them. He thought being away from Andy would help, that he’d feel better, more normal. He snorts in derision, as if ‘normal’ is even a possibility. He’s never had a normal day in his life, what makes him think he can start now?
Hotch walks past, glances into the room. "Reid? Is Emily-"
"Still with Carrie," Reid responds. Hotch stalks off.
Spencer glances through the conference room window; he can see JJ and Nellis working on a list of information for the upcoming press conference. He wishes they’d gotten here sooner, wishes the Ortiz family hadn’t been irrevocably broken. He knows what it’s like to grow up feeling alone. And as lonely as his childhood was, Carrie has so much more to face.
Reid rubs his forehead, brushes the hair out of his eyes. He opens his laptop and logs into his office e-mail. There’s an e-mail about proper over-time procedures, and an alert that the latest Prince County traffic report is available for download. Lastly, there’s an e-mail from Garcia with a file attachment. Spencer opens the file to find it’s a newspaper article on someone named Gordon Walker. He was arrested in Indiana on charges of trespassing and illegal weapons possession. According to the Daily Pioneer Walker had over a dozen unlicensed firearms hidden in his vehicle, including semi-automatics, rifles, and shotguns. The article went on to say the car also contained grenades, a machete, a whole arsenal of knives, and a flame thrower. All the weapons bore Gordon’s fingerprints.
Reid rubs his hands together, frowning. A flame thrower? What the hell is Garcia sending him? Does Gordon Walker have something to do with the murders in Cherry Creek? Is he connected to Ervin and Gary somehow--another adult foster child? Reid considers the number of weapons removed from Gordon Walker’s car. An arsenal of knives? What if one of them found their way Cold Oak, South Dakota? Andy insists Ava and Azazel are the killers...but what if this Gordon person is possessed?
Reid drops his head into his hands and rubs his right temple with his thumb and index finger. Possessed? Dear God, he is cracking up. Still, there have been hundreds of accounts of demonic possession as well as exorcisms well into so-called modern times. Anneiliese Michel and Joanna Lee are two such examples. But demon possession...it’s…it’s crazy. A few hundred years ago, people suffering from schizophrenia were considered possessed by the devil. Reid thinks of his mother’s illness and his mouth twists grimly. Diana Reid is plagued by demons, but hers can’t be exorcized.
Spencer’s phone chirrups and he flips it open, glares at the screen. "Why are you sending me articles about Gordon Walker?" he asks Garcia by way of greeting.
"Good, you got it," Penelope says, her voice brimming with excitement. "I’ve been doing a little...let’s use the term ‘investigating’ because that has such a nice legal ring to it."
"Garcia," Reid groans.
"Now, now," Garcia says smugly. "Would I ever lead you astray? Get you into trouble?"
Reid is silent.
"You were supposed to say ‘no’ just then." Reid can almost hear Garcia roll her eyes.
Spencer sighs. "No," he echoes.
"Needs work, but it’ll do. I sent you that article for two reasons, Junior G-Man. The first, is that Gordon? Is an unequivocal nutjob. Certifiable." Garcia pauses as realization sinks in. "Oh crap. Damn it. I’m such an asshat, Reid. No, like a whole ass-wardrobe. I didn’t mean anything by ‘certifiable‘, I just-"
"Don’t worry about it," Reid soothes. "It’s fine." And it is. Penelope Garcia doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She does, however, occasionally show symptoms of Reid’s foot-in-mouth disease. It’s one of the things he likes about her.
"Remind me to spank you later."
"Hey," Garcia bleats in surprise, "that’s a low blow, mister."
Spencer chuckles. "I’m just a little curious how you go about not behaving when you’re on speaker phone, since you apparently consider cracks about physical discipline good behavior."
"You’re gonna see a good example of physical discipline when you get back to the office if you don’t shut up. It involves my foot and your-"
"Ass-wardrobe?"
Garcia bursts out laughing. "Every once in a while you surprise me, Reid. I forgot; I sort of started this whole thing, didn’t I?"
"You did. Hey, remember that time you called tell me something useful?"
"Yeah,“ Garcia sighs fondly. “Good times, good times.“
Reid makes an impatient face and does his best imitation of SSA Hotchner. "Focus, Garcia."
"Sorry sweetie, but your Hotch impersonation needs work."
"Garcia."
"Look, all I’m saying is, every now and then you tend to ramble on a bit, Doctor. Now you see what it feels like. I’ve got three words for you: Sta. Tis. Tics."
Spencer blows out a puff of air in defeat. "Noted."
"Okay then. Ready? First: Gordon is a whack job. He’s been in prison for the past eight months. Second, which I think you’ll find even more interesting, is this: In the official arrest report, Gordon foamed at the mouth over our mutual friend Samuel Winchester. That‘s right, he told the arresting officers how Sammy was a literal harbinger of doom who must be stopped before we’re all plunged into a dark abyss of cold hot death."
Reid taps his lower lip, mulling over Garcia’s news. "And Walker is still in prison?"
"Indeed he is. I thought he might be connected to the Cold Oak thing, but alas, it’s not to be. Although, as long as we’re talking about harbingers of doom and doppelgangers lately, I guess we could throw astral projection into the mix. I bet you a whole wooden nickel that’s how your UnSub gets around. How about adding that to the profile?"
"I’ll pass."
"Suit yourself. Ignoring my stellar advice is always risky."
Reid jots Why is Gordon Walker really after Sam? in the top margin of his legal pad. "Thanks for the information. One more thing: does Agent Henriksen know about Walker?"
"There’s a note in the file but that’s all. And I have to tell you, Walker has a record longer than both my arms that includes assault, assault and battery and grave desecration. Oh, and did I mention assault? Sounds like he likes to get up to as much trouble as the Winchesters. Only, Walker’s actually been caught with, you know, actual evidence of wrong-doing."
"I appreciate your help on this," Reid tells her. He glances out the window again. He’s not looking for Andy.
"No problem. I can’t sit around and play Tetris all day, you know," Garcia says and disconnects.
Reid slips the phone back into his pocket, more confused than ever.
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: RFT/R for violent images
Fandom: Supernatural, Criminal Minds
Pairing/Characters: Gen, Sam and Dean Winchester, Andy Gallagher, Bobby Singer, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Derek Morgan, Jennifer "JJ" Jereau
Summary: A shocking discovery sends the BAU to Cold Oak, South Dakota.
A/N 1: Betaed by the extremely awesome riverbella . Thank you babe! Big buckets of thank you to all the people who've been reading this.
A/N 2: Spoilers up to Seven Seconds (season 3) for Criminal Minds and spoilers for Supernatural up to Fresh Blood (season 3).
gorgeous cover made by riverbella.
Understanding does not cure evil, but it is a definite help, inasmuch as one can cope with a comprehensible darkness.
~Carl Gustav Jung
JJ presses a button and a photo fills the screen. A man and woman slump on a couch in an upper class living room, dead. A second photo zooms in on the dead couple, both bloodied and bruised.
“The Halbert family,” she says. “They were murdered in their home last night in the Denver suburb of Cherry Creek.” She glances back at the screen, then at Hotch. “It’s the third home invasion like this in the last month.”
Reid listens while JJ details the killing, but not as closely as he normally would. He scans the room surreptitiously, looking for some sign of Andy, some sign of movement. There’s nothing. His eyes flick back to the screen and he studies the the photo of Mrs. Halbert. Her eyes are closed, a white strip of cloth serves as a gag. His brain flips through images and presents him with a memory of himself, screaming himself hoarse in a small cabin. There’d been no need to gag him.
Next to him, Morgan says “That’s why home invasions are so hard to profile.” A note of frustration creeps into his voice. “Multiple motives.”
Reid shifts in his seat; Morgan‘s comment sparks a figure from a recent study. He brushes one hand over the paper in front of him, the other clutches a pen that he waves absently. “National statistics show an up tic in home invasions over the last few years--eighteen percent in Colorado.” He tries to imagine what it would have been like to be part of a real family: two parents and a sibling. He can’t. He has vague memories of his father, but these are tenuous, like looking through beveled glass. Reid rubs his chin and studies the next series of photos. All these families gone, memories lost.
Hotch frowns. “You know it’s bad if they’re inviting us back.”
JJ’s forehead creases. “Back?”
“Things went bad after the JonBonet Ramsey case,“ Hotch explains. An eyebrow arches upward, “when a couple of agents publicly criticized local detectives.”
Morgan looks at Hotch over the top of a photo. “They didn‘t need us to make them look bad.”
JJ looks to Hotch for clarification. “And that was in Boulder?”
“Yeah, but the statewide media ran with it and it took on a life of its own.”
Emily studies the information packet JJ provided, face grim, eyebrows furrowed. She barely resembles the smiling woman from the kitchen.
“I spoke to a Lieutenant Nellis,” JJ says. “Trust me, they want our help.”
“They need it.“ Emily looks up from the paperwork. “The first two home invasions were 20 days apart,” she says, poking the air with her pen. “This last one was just nine days later.”
Morgan meets her gaze. “So they’re killing in faster cycles.”
Reid rubs a finger along an eyebrow, rubbing away an itch. The Unsub is already escalating; the window of time between killings has already been reduced by more than fifty percent. Using that same logic, the Unsub’s next kill could be as soon as four days from now. Or sooner.
Hotch‘s expression is ominous. “And getting better at it every time.” He checks his watch. “We leave in an hour.”
Reid spends the next forty-five minutes darting looks around the bull pen. There’s no sign of Andy. Emily’s filling out paperwork, and Morgan is on the phone. Hotch and JJ stand on the far end of the bull pen, speaking in low tones. Hotch turns toward Reid, meets his gaze. Reid lifts his hand in an awkward wave.
Hotch doesn’t wave back.
Reid wonders if he should be worried, if he’s overreacting (paranoid) when Hotch strolls purposefully to Reid’s desk. “Reid? I just wanted to check in with you. Did you schedule that follow-up appointment?”
Reid licks his lips, instantly understanding what Hotch is referring to. He slides his gaze from Hotch to Morgan. Morgan is still on the phone, his back to Reid. Spencer returns his gaze to Hotch, sweat beading down his back. Aaron’s expression is, as usual, inscrutable. Reid recalls Hotch’s instructions in Cold Oak: Okay. You can stay. For now. But when we get back I want you to see Dr. Jennings.
Spencer flicks a glance toward his phone. “I. Um.” For one second he considers lying, rejects the option.
“Schedule the appointment before we leave,” Hotch says. His voice brooks no room for argument.
Reid picks up the phone, eyes on Hotch’s back. He schedules an appointment for the following week, stomach churning. He’s not afraid of seeing Doctor Jennings; he knows how to assuage her concerns. He’s not looking forward to lying though. He disconnects with Dr. Jennings’s appointment desk and holds the receiver in his hand. He has ten minutes before boarding the jet. Reid makes a decision and punches in Agent Henriksen’s number. Now or never.
A recorded voice greets him in a friendly, robotic manner. “Thank you for calling the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If you know your party’s extension, please enter it now. If you require assistance, please press zero.”
Spencer enters the extension and moments later, a voice barks “Reed.”
Spencer blinks, wonders briefly if he entered the wrong extension. He didn’t. “Um. Hi. This is Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid from the BAU in Quantico. I was looking for Agent Henriksen. Is this his number?”
“Oh. Sorry. This is Agent Doug Reed. I’m Vic’s partner. He’s out of the office this week and his calls are being routed to me. Can I help you with something?”
“I was calling about the Winchester case. Do you know if there’s someplace I can reach him?”
Reed’s voice drops, his tone guarded. “Look. I’m sick and tired of you Quantico higher-ups calling to bitch us out. We messed up in Arkansas. We got the memo, man. Message received.”
“No no,” Spencer says quickly. “That’s not what I’m calling about. I--I understand from the file that Agent Henriksen spoke with Dean Winchester on more than one occasion. I just had a…a personal interest in the case and was hoping to speak with him about it.”
Doug sighs. “Not this week you’re not. He’s been suspended. The case is a fucking mess. It’s like a conspiracy. I can call Vic and see if he wants to call you back, but he’s been MIA for a few days now. Can this wait until he gets back?”
Reid nods, catches himself, stops. “Yes. Of course. No problem.” Spencer recites his direct number and bids the Agent goodbye, disappointed. So much for that idea. He replaces the receiver and his phone immediately rings. Reid jumps.
Morgan chuckles from his desk. “I think you better switch to decaf, man.”
Spencer shoots a half-hearted scowl toward Morgan and answers the call. Did Doug Reed forget something? “Guess what, Buttercup,” Garcia says excitedly. “I hit the mother load. The jackpot. The--”
Reid glances at his watch. Across the room Emily slides a folder into her carry-on. “What did you find?”
“I think the more appropriate question would be, what didn’t I find?”
Reid pulls a pad of paper toward him and grabs a pen. He gives her a verbal nudge. “Garcia, I have to leave in a few minutes.”
“Oh yeah. Colorado, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll give you the speed version then. In 1983 Sam and Dean Winchester’s mother was killed in some kind of electrical fire that started in Sam’s nursery. The father--John--raised them. When the boys were still little he went off the grid and lived as some kind of survivalist type. I looked at Henriksen’s notes again and he called John a crazy cultist…but I’m not so sure.”
“What was the mother’s name? Do you really think it was an electrical fire? Can you hack into the records?”
“Mary. And if there were files to hack into, I’d be happy to. By which I mean, Agent Reid I would never do such a thing, I’m shocked you would even suggest such a thing. Now that my ass is fully covered, let me remind you Mary Winchester died in the early 80s which roughly equals the computer stone age. I don’t know if I can find anything, but I’ll poke around. Got time for part two?”
Reid takes another look at his watch. “Go ahead.”
“Okay. Well I don’t know exactly what John Winchester was, but he doesn’t seem like a whacko. He was in the Marines, honorable discharge. There’s an outstanding warrant against him for impersonating a police officer, as well as two counts of credit card fraud, but that’s all I could find under his name. I did find several mentions of a John Winchester on several online forums I hacked into that proclaimed him some kind of modern day avenger against--get this--ghosts and demons. Is that crazy or what?”
Spencer tries to answer but the syllables stick in his throat like bones. He chokes out a noise that sounds like hmmm and hopes Garcia accepts it as keep going.
She does. “Another thing about Henriksen’s report that’s weird is, he considers Dean some kind of criminal mastermind. I’m not sure what kind of mastermind he’s supposed to be since the only proof that he’s committed a crime is he was found with a dead woman in Baltimore, Maryland. He insisted he was innocent and one of the detectives in charge backed him up, said the real killer was her partner. Also, Sam Winchester isn’t exactly a genius like some people I know, but he’s no dummy. He got a full scholarship to Stanford and was about to interview for law school when he dropped out.”
“Do you know why he dropped out?”
“I’ve got a pretty good guess. His girlfriend died in an apartment fire. Sam disappeared right after. I found a couple of campus articles saying Sam was devastated.”
“A fire?” Reid leans forward, eyebrows drawn. “Like his mother.”
“Yup.”
“And Andrew Gallagher’s adoptive mother.”
“And birth mother.”
They’re both silent for a moment and then Garcia asks “Is it just me or does it seem like something….weird is going on here?”
“It’s not just you.”
“One more thing. There’s a cop in Hibbing, Minnesota that insists Sam and Dean helped catch a group of serial killers. A whole family named Bender who kidnapped their victims and hunted them for sport. Sound familiar?”
Reid swallows. He can still see Johnny Mulford dying in Gideon’s arms.
“Only this family ate their victims,” she says, voice hushed. “They were cannibals. The police report says there were wind chimes made of bone and lamp shades made from--” Garcia cuts off. “You get the idea.”
“So on the one hand we’ve got Henriksen blaming the Winchesters for everything up to and including the assassination of JFK, and on the other, there are police officers vouching for these guys. And not just police officers. I found literally dozens of online blogs talking about how Sam and Dean saved this or that person from a ghost or hellhound or whatever.”
“What’s a hellhound?”
“My first inclination is to say Scrappy Doo, but I’m guessing that’s not what they meant.”
“What?”
“Never mind. The biggest charge against the Winchester brothers--with any kind of actual evidence at least--is a bank robbery in Milwaukee last spring. Henriksen says they masterminded the whole thing but no money was missing from the vault and the only fatality was a so-called accomplice killed by a SWAT team sharpshooter. Also, one of the hostages says Sam and Dean saved her from, get this, some kind of evil doppelganger.”
Spencer stares at the phone. Doppelganger? That’s ridiculous. But he recalls Garcia’s earlier words. Dean faked his death? With what? A clone? A robot? A giant cardboard cut-out?
“Yo, Reid. Wrap it up, man.”
Reid swivels in his chair to see Morgan sling his carry-on over his shoulder. “Thanks Garcia, but I’ve got to go. We’re leaving.”
“No problem. I have to tell you, I’m kind of intrigued. Mind if I do some more digging?”
“Please.”
“Okie-doke. I’ll talk to you later. Watch out for hellhounds and doppelgangers, oh illustrious doctor.”
“Uh, okay.” He reaches for his messenger bag. “Bye, Garcia.” He hangs up. Morgan is leaning against his desk, waiting. Together, they head for the elevator.
ooooo
Sam sits in the diner, alone. A waitress keeps hovering, offering to top off his coffee, but he shakes his head at her approach each time. He doesn’t want more coffee and the plate of French fries he ordered sits beside his laptop, untouched. His eyes might be hungry, but his stomach isn’t. He scrolls through myriad search engine results, hoping to find something that will help Dean. This is what he does now, this is his life. His home is a dark square of car or motel, but he lives in a state of constant fear. Hunting things is secondary. Helping people is secondary. Everything takes a back seat to saving Dean.
Sam rubs his eyes, wonders if his brother’s having a good time “reconnecting” with Lisa. Dean’s always bitching about Sam’s puppy-eyed look, but Dean’s just as adept at getting what he wants. All he has to do is paste on that sincere expression and mutter about dying wishes; Sam doesn’t even pretend to resist. It’s only been a couple of days since the deal and Dean’s already gone through at least a dozen so-called “last wishes.” At least seeing Lisa is better than sending Sam off on another quest for cinnamon sticks from Pizza Hut.
Sam grimaces at the laptop, as if it’s personally responsible for foiling Sam’s attempts to locate something useful--a book, a weapon, anything. Dammit. If only he knew who’s holding Dean’s contract. That knife the girl at the farmhouse had was something. If he could just figure out where she got it, if he could--
Footsteps pull his thoughts away from the mysterious weapon. For a brief instant he thinks it’s the waitress come to eyeball him again, but a blond woman (not Jess) moves into the booth across from him. She smiles and Sam stares, dumbstruck. It’s her. The woman from the farmhouse. The woman who saved him (who has the knife).
She lifts an eyebrow and casts an eager look toward his French fries. She says “Hello, Sam,” like they’ve been buddies for years.
Sam observes her warily, works at keeping his voice calm, body language relaxed. Years of training at John’s knee taught him to be careful. Meg Masters taught him nothing--and no one--is what they seem. He tells her the obvious. “You've been following me since Lincoln.“
She shrugs. “Not much gets by you, huh?” She slides Sam’s plate close and reaches for the ketchup bottle. She pours on the ketchup, picks up a fry. “These are amazing. It's like deep-fried crack. Try some.”
Sam watches her eat. The ketchup looks like blood. Blood makes him think of the knife. The knife Jake put in his back, as well as this stranger’s weapon. He pushes thoughts of the former away, concentrates on the latter. “That knife you had. You can kill demons with that thing?”
“Sure comes in handy when I have to swoop in and save the damsel in distress.“
She’s trying to bait him. She sounds like Dean. Sam ignores her, gets to the point. “Where did you get it?”
She stuffs another French fry into her mouth, grins. “Skymall.”
Okay, fine. Sam tries another question. “Why were you following me?”
“I'm interested in you.“
He stares at her again, tries to figure out who (what) she is. She’s stuffing her face with his food, so she’s not a vampire. A demon maybe. But she’s not trying to kill him…so maybe not. Another hunter?
The woman smiles. “Because you're tall. And I love a tall man. And then there's the whole antichrist thing.”
Sam keeps his expression neutral but his hands clench below the table. The demon Pride’s voice whispers in his ear: We've all heard of you. The prodigy. The boy king. And now he‘s the antichrist? What the hell? He sits up straighter, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?“
She flashes a look that asks what are you, retarded? and rolls her eyes. “Generation of psychic kids, yellow-eyed demon rounds you up, celebrity death match ensues. You're the sole survivor.”
Sam’s fingernails dig into his palms. He concentrates on the pain and not the fear that sole survivor brings. He’s supposed to be dead. “How do you know that?“ he asks numbly. Maybe she is a demon, after all. Because demons, lie, lie, lie.
She shrugs. “I'm a good hunter.” She pops another fry into her mouth. “So,Yellow Eyes had some pretty big plans for you, Sam.”
Huh. Now she’s referring to herself as a hunter? “’Had’ being the key word,” Sam points out. The only plan Sam wants to be involved with now is saving Dean.
“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” She snaps her fingers. “That's right. Ding-dong, the demon's dead. Good job with that. It doesn't change the fact that you're special... in that Anthony Michael Hall E.S.P. visions kind of way.”
“No,” Sam says, his voice flint. “That stuff's not happening anymore. Not since Yellow-Eyes died.” Not since Sam died.
“Well, I'm thinking you're still a pretty big deal. I mean, after all that business with your mom.“
Sam stares at the blond. “What about my mom?“ Who is this chick? Fear reaches from his stomach to his chest, touches cold fingers to his heart.
“You know, what happened to her friends.”
He works hard to keep his face blank. He fails.
She shakes her head, lips curling. “You...don't know. You've got a little bit of catching up to do, my friend. So, why don't you look into your mom's pals, and then give me a call and we'll talk again?”
The woman stands and stalks out of the diner. Sam watches her go, heart pounding. He feels like he’s just been gut-punched. What does this stranger possibly know about his mother that he doesn‘t?
Everything.
His only honest memory of Mary comes from what Yellow Eyes showed him in Cold Oak. His mother standing over Sam’s crib, her harsh you? at the sight of the demon. She had recognized him.
Sam hunches forward, shoulders slumping. He blinks wearily at the laptop screen. The words blur until all he can see is a faint reflection of himself. It’s fitting, since that’s all he is.
ooooo
Reid stands outside the window, arms crossed, listening. He feels sick. Not just at what’s been done to Carrie Ortiz and her family, but at what was done to her family’s killer. Where would Ervin be now if his foster family hadn’t terrorized and abused him? What kind of life would he have? Reid has read extensively on nature vs. nurture. He’s studied Judith Harris’s The Nurture Assumption; he knows "nurture"-that is, family upbringing--does not effectively explain the disparity of most common personality traits. On the contrary, Harris suggests that peer groups and/or random environmental factors are more important than family environmental effects. So who’s to blame for how Ervin and Gary turned out? Does it even matter?
Ervin never really escaped the dark water of that tub.
Reid shakes his head, returns to the conference room Lieutenant Nellis set up for them. He thought being away from Andy would help, that he’d feel better, more normal. He snorts in derision, as if ‘normal’ is even a possibility. He’s never had a normal day in his life, what makes him think he can start now?
Hotch walks past, glances into the room. "Reid? Is Emily-"
"Still with Carrie," Reid responds. Hotch stalks off.
Spencer glances through the conference room window; he can see JJ and Nellis working on a list of information for the upcoming press conference. He wishes they’d gotten here sooner, wishes the Ortiz family hadn’t been irrevocably broken. He knows what it’s like to grow up feeling alone. And as lonely as his childhood was, Carrie has so much more to face.
Reid rubs his forehead, brushes the hair out of his eyes. He opens his laptop and logs into his office e-mail. There’s an e-mail about proper over-time procedures, and an alert that the latest Prince County traffic report is available for download. Lastly, there’s an e-mail from Garcia with a file attachment. Spencer opens the file to find it’s a newspaper article on someone named Gordon Walker. He was arrested in Indiana on charges of trespassing and illegal weapons possession. According to the Daily Pioneer Walker had over a dozen unlicensed firearms hidden in his vehicle, including semi-automatics, rifles, and shotguns. The article went on to say the car also contained grenades, a machete, a whole arsenal of knives, and a flame thrower. All the weapons bore Gordon’s fingerprints.
Reid rubs his hands together, frowning. A flame thrower? What the hell is Garcia sending him? Does Gordon Walker have something to do with the murders in Cherry Creek? Is he connected to Ervin and Gary somehow--another adult foster child? Reid considers the number of weapons removed from Gordon Walker’s car. An arsenal of knives? What if one of them found their way Cold Oak, South Dakota? Andy insists Ava and Azazel are the killers...but what if this Gordon person is possessed?
Reid drops his head into his hands and rubs his right temple with his thumb and index finger. Possessed? Dear God, he is cracking up. Still, there have been hundreds of accounts of demonic possession as well as exorcisms well into so-called modern times. Anneiliese Michel and Joanna Lee are two such examples. But demon possession...it’s…it’s crazy. A few hundred years ago, people suffering from schizophrenia were considered possessed by the devil. Reid thinks of his mother’s illness and his mouth twists grimly. Diana Reid is plagued by demons, but hers can’t be exorcized.
Spencer’s phone chirrups and he flips it open, glares at the screen. "Why are you sending me articles about Gordon Walker?" he asks Garcia by way of greeting.
"Good, you got it," Penelope says, her voice brimming with excitement. "I’ve been doing a little...let’s use the term ‘investigating’ because that has such a nice legal ring to it."
"Garcia," Reid groans.
"Now, now," Garcia says smugly. "Would I ever lead you astray? Get you into trouble?"
Reid is silent.
"You were supposed to say ‘no’ just then." Reid can almost hear Garcia roll her eyes.
Spencer sighs. "No," he echoes.
"Needs work, but it’ll do. I sent you that article for two reasons, Junior G-Man. The first, is that Gordon? Is an unequivocal nutjob. Certifiable." Garcia pauses as realization sinks in. "Oh crap. Damn it. I’m such an asshat, Reid. No, like a whole ass-wardrobe. I didn’t mean anything by ‘certifiable‘, I just-"
"Don’t worry about it," Reid soothes. "It’s fine." And it is. Penelope Garcia doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She does, however, occasionally show symptoms of Reid’s foot-in-mouth disease. It’s one of the things he likes about her.
"Remind me to spank you later."
"Hey," Garcia bleats in surprise, "that’s a low blow, mister."
Spencer chuckles. "I’m just a little curious how you go about not behaving when you’re on speaker phone, since you apparently consider cracks about physical discipline good behavior."
"You’re gonna see a good example of physical discipline when you get back to the office if you don’t shut up. It involves my foot and your-"
"Ass-wardrobe?"
Garcia bursts out laughing. "Every once in a while you surprise me, Reid. I forgot; I sort of started this whole thing, didn’t I?"
"You did. Hey, remember that time you called tell me something useful?"
"Yeah,“ Garcia sighs fondly. “Good times, good times.“
Reid makes an impatient face and does his best imitation of SSA Hotchner. "Focus, Garcia."
"Sorry sweetie, but your Hotch impersonation needs work."
"Garcia."
"Look, all I’m saying is, every now and then you tend to ramble on a bit, Doctor. Now you see what it feels like. I’ve got three words for you: Sta. Tis. Tics."
Spencer blows out a puff of air in defeat. "Noted."
"Okay then. Ready? First: Gordon is a whack job. He’s been in prison for the past eight months. Second, which I think you’ll find even more interesting, is this: In the official arrest report, Gordon foamed at the mouth over our mutual friend Samuel Winchester. That‘s right, he told the arresting officers how Sammy was a literal harbinger of doom who must be stopped before we’re all plunged into a dark abyss of cold hot death."
Reid taps his lower lip, mulling over Garcia’s news. "And Walker is still in prison?"
"Indeed he is. I thought he might be connected to the Cold Oak thing, but alas, it’s not to be. Although, as long as we’re talking about harbingers of doom and doppelgangers lately, I guess we could throw astral projection into the mix. I bet you a whole wooden nickel that’s how your UnSub gets around. How about adding that to the profile?"
"I’ll pass."
"Suit yourself. Ignoring my stellar advice is always risky."
Reid jots Why is Gordon Walker really after Sam? in the top margin of his legal pad. "Thanks for the information. One more thing: does Agent Henriksen know about Walker?"
"There’s a note in the file but that’s all. And I have to tell you, Walker has a record longer than both my arms that includes assault, assault and battery and grave desecration. Oh, and did I mention assault? Sounds like he likes to get up to as much trouble as the Winchesters. Only, Walker’s actually been caught with, you know, actual evidence of wrong-doing."
"I appreciate your help on this," Reid tells her. He glances out the window again. He’s not looking for Andy.
"No problem. I can’t sit around and play Tetris all day, you know," Garcia says and disconnects.
Reid slips the phone back into his pocket, more confused than ever.