Premeditated Chapter 11
On Wednesday afternoon, Reid awakened from a drug-induced slumber, thinking that it was Wednesday morning. Wednesday morning meant that it was time to get up, take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, and head off to work to catch an UnSub from Philly who had murdered twelve prostitutes in DC over a two-month period. Wednesday held the promise of a short frenetic burst followed by a long relaxing lull. First, solve the case. Then, enjoy the weekend.
From his position on the floor, Reid yawned up at the ceiling. He stretched his arms and legs. He rubbed his eyes. Lying on the floor, flat on his back such that his revolver was no longer pointing at his forehead, Reid thought that he was lying in bed. The main effects of acetaminophen shielded his body from the hardness of the floor, and, although he had managed to wake up from them, the side effects shielded his mind from the harshness of its own failings - first and foremost amongst them, managing to wake up at all. The adverse effects had not yet appeared, and given that Reid was a biological rather than positronic man, it was indeterminate whether they would ever appear. For now, the id had beaten the super-ego. Reid had not kept down enough of the tablets to execute DOS, and he had not thrown up enough of the tablets to execute TOS. The whole process - TOS or DOS, TOS and DOS, DOS, then TOS - had been a perfect storm of nothing.
The familiar ringing of his cell phone sent Reid scrambling up from the floor. He noticed the mess on the floor in the same moment that he noticed the time on the microwave. It was 2 PM. He answered the phone automatically, his mind flash-frozen into a state of shock and panic that prevented it from undertaking voluntary action of any kind.
"Hello?" Reid squeaked into the phone.
"Reid? Where are you?" Hotch asked.
"Home?" Reid answered with another squeak.
He shook his head to clear it, wincing a little as he found his neck sore from shaking his head too many times the night before. He swallowed to clear his throat, wincing again as he found his throat sore from throwing up too much the night before. He looked over the mess on the floor, evaluating the items that littered the linoleum and cringing at the memories that trickled, streamed, and flooded back to him, never to shed a particle of their richness and vibrancy as he retained them in their full glory for life.
"Can I interest you in coming to work today?" Hotch asked.
"I, I'm sorry, Hotch," Reid stammered. "I, I must have overslept...I mean, I did oversleep...I..."
"I know you overslept," Hotch interrupted sharply. "And I think I know why."
"You, you do?" Reid stammered again.
"Yes, and you can come in right now to explain," Hotch said impassively.
"Come in?" Reid licked his lips and breathed faster, now fully, and far less willingly, awake. "Right now?" he heard his heart pounding and his blood rushing through his ears. "On my own?" his mind cleared enough to question the judgment of allowing a serial killer, FBI agent or not, to turn himself in without the oversight of law enforcement personnel.
"Yes, on your own," Hotch said impatiently. "Is there something wrong with you? Are you sick? Is there some other reason why you can't come in today?"
"No, I'm fine, I'm fine," Reid murmured, his voice barely cutting through the cacophonous circus, complete with trumpeting elephants and roaring lions, behind his ears. "Fine, Hotch, fine..." he trailed off, trying and failing to focus upon any individual thought or feeling, reduced, in his current state of shock, panic, and fear, to giving direct answers to direct questions.
"By the way, just to inform you..." Hotch began, then paused.
"What? What is it?" Reid hung onto the stability of the firm authoritative voice.
"We've apprehended the UnSub," Hotch said. "There was another murder last night. Just as you had predicted, the victim was a ginger-haired prostitute, and the UnSub was her former pimp. Based on your profile and story, we were able to identify the UnSub through the victim. Garcia was able to trace him to a hostel in DC. He gave himself up without a fight and confessed as soon as he arrived at the police station. He'll be arraigned after the Thanksgiving weekend. Your profile and story were absolutely accurate. Normally, now that the case has been solved, I wouldn't even ask you to come in, but I really need to talk to you about something."
"Some...Something?" Reid skipped over the information about the UnSub, grasping instead at the knowledge that Hotch, to his immense relief, knew.
"Yes, something," Hotch answered. "Just come in, Reid. It'll be all over in a couple of hours, and then, we can all go home for the weekend," he hung up abruptly, leaving Reid alone in the kitchen, without so much as a dial tone to accompany his conflicting emotions - a linear combination of immense relief and crippling anxiety.
Holding the phone against his ear, Reid stood, frozen in mind and body, for several minutes before springing into action. He dashed down the hallway into the bedroom, then the bathroom, to clean himself up. He took a shower, five minutes at most, and dressed in clean clothes. He brushed his teeth. He shaved his face. He combed his hair. He checked his appearance in the mirror to make sure that he looked alright. He looked alright. Even his eyes looked fresh after a good, fourteen-hour-long, night's sleep.
Back in the kitchen, Reid picked up his messenger bag from the floor. He picked up his coat, also from the floor. He evaluated the other items on the floor, cringing again at the memories that, having trickled, streamed, and flooded back to him, now swirled, twirled, and whirled behind his eyes in a mocking taunting danse macabre with a number of acts that, while not infinite, was exponentially large.
Out of instinct, he stooped down to pick up his revolver. He watched his hand reach for it, but stopped himself before he could touch it. He considered and reconsidered, then continued reaching for it to pick it up and, rather than holster it, stuff it into his messenger bag. He grabbed his credentials off the counter and stuffed them in along with his revolver. The holster looked empty and forlorn without its usual companion, so Reid removed it from his belt and set it gently onto the counter.
On the way out of the apartment, on the way out of the building, on the way down the stairs into the Metro and up the stairs out of the Metro, on the way into, through, and out of the lobby and into, through, and out of the elevator and into, through, and out of the bullpen, the thought never crossed his mind, not even once, that he should not, as the UnSub would say, face the music.
"When did you go to bed last night?" Hotch paced the room as Reid sat in a chair.
"Um...Maybe a little bit after midnight," Reid fidgeted, agitating his leg and tapping his heel against the floor.
"Are you sure?" Hotch asked.
"Yeah...Pretty sure," Reid blinked rapidly. "I mean, I don't know the exact minute, but I think..."
"So you slept for fourteen hours straight, from midnight to 2 PM?" Hotch continued pacing.
"I took some Tylenol after I got home last night," Reid explained. "Tylenol always makes me drowsy, so..."
"When did you get home last night?" Hotch asked.
"Um...Around ten," Reid grabbed his leg to stop the fidgeting.
"Are you sure?" Hotch asked.
"Yeah, I remember checking the time as soon as I got home," Reid checked his watch involuntarily.
"You're lying," Hotch stopped pacing, folded his arms across his chest, and glared angrily from the opposite side of the desk.
"What? I'm not lying, Hotch! I'm really not!" Reid looked Hotch in the eye, imploring his boss to believe him on an issue that was not one of the issues that he had recently lied about. "I really did get home around ten. I really did go to bed...uh, sleep...a little bit after midnight."
"You know that Garcia has been analyzing CCTV footage from the areas of the crime scenes," Hotch changed the subject.
"Yes," Reid nodded. "She's been looking for the UnSub that way, checking to see if the same person appeared in CCTV footage from multiple locations in the hours before the crimes were committed."
"I know that this is none of my business, Reid," Hotch changed the subject again. "Well, actually, it is my business, because I'm your boss in the Bureau, but let me ask you one question, as a friend and not as your boss. Do you have a habit of soliciting prostitutes in your spare time?"
"What? No!" Reid stared up in wide-eyed dismay, his face flushing and unflushing as the color rose and fell in cycles of unnaturally high frequency.
"Calm down, Reid," Hotch put up his hands and softened his tone. "I believe you. In fact, I would never believe otherwise. But this brings us back to the issue of the CCTV footage. Do you have any idea what I'm getting at?"
"You saw me in the CCTV footage," Reid whispered, dropping his eyes into his lap as he waited for an allegation to affirm or deny.
"On Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday," Hotch leaned forwards over the desk. "Specifically, on Saturday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, Monday evening, and Tuesday evening. On Monday and Tuesday evenings, your behavior was particularly interesting. You walked up and down one street multiple times and spoke to several prostitutes along the way. You did the same thing on several different streets within Ryan Jonas's, or Ginger Ale's, area of operation. I'm curious, Reid. Would you consider your behavior to be fishing or hunting? Did you end up finding your prey?"
"I, I...Uh...I, I..." Reid wheezed through a set of constricting bands around his chest, his eyelids fluttering and his lips quivering as he prepared to confess to multiple acts of premeditated murder.
Now that the moment had come, he desperately wanted to tell the truth. He wanted to tell the whole story, all of it, all about the old man and the muggers and the prostitutes, all about intent and motive, all about the urges of the id, the urges of the super-ego, and the intellectual and emotional needs of the ego. He wanted to tell Hotch everything that had happened, everything that he had done, so Hotch could arrest him, here and now, and take him to a place where he would not be able to act upon his inexplicable uncontrollable urges. He wanted to admit that he was a psychopath, an intraspecies predator incapable of genuine emotions and unable to function in normal societies. He wanted to unleash a torrent of words to express all his terrifying thoughts and feelings, but the bands blocked off the channels of communication. Every time he opened his mouth, the bands tightened until he gasped for breath, unable to suck enough air into his lungs, unable to spew out the meager volume that he did suck in. He wondered, briefly, if this was how the prostitutes, his victims, had felt as he had strangled them, manually, in the process of overkill that had smeared the forest over the trees. As soon as he wondered this, he began to savor the sensation. He deserved to feel this feeling. This was the feeling that he deserved to feel for the rest of his life. He hoped that the rest of his life would not drag on and on and on, like one of his insufferable fact-spewing tirades. Having broken the social contract, he hoped that the rest of his life would be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. Maybe he could assume a cold indifferent demeanor, utterly devoid of remorse, so the judge or the jury would hand down the death penalty. Afterwards, he could dismiss the public defender and drop the appeals to hurry the process along. He tried to recall whether DC had the death penalty. He recalled that DC did not have the death penalty. The recollection was extremely disappointing to him. Why had he not killed someone in Maryland or Virginia? Both of those states had the death penalty. Maybe he could kill someone today, right now, sitting in an office in Quantico, Virginia. Who could he kill? There was no one for him to kill. There was no one except for Hotch, standing in the office with him. He couldn't kill Hotch. He didn't want to kill Hotch. He doubted that he'd be able to kill Hotch. Hotch would shoot him as soon as he tried to shoot Hotch. Maybe he could try to shoot Hotch, or at least pretend to try, and Hotch would have to shoot him in self-defense. Hotch would shoot him through the heart, straight through the heart, as he had been shot in his second dream of the frail old man. That was called suicide-by-cop. Hotch wouldn't miss. What if Hotch missed? What if he survived? Would attempted murder of an FBI agent be enough to get him the death penalty in Virginia? He didn't think that it would. Maybe he could confess to plotting the murders of all his teammates, the whole BAU. It wouldn't be a lie, not a total lie at least. He had thought about killing JJ, not once, not twice, but many times since JJ had left the Bureau. He had thought about killing Hotch, just now, and he was still thinking about it, still considering it, still deliberating the pros and cons. Why was he still thinking about killing people? What was wrong with him?
"I'm guessing that you didn't find the blonde prostitute, the auburn-haired prostitute, or the ginger-haired prostitute before the UnSub got to them," Hotch sat down on the desk and stared expectantly at Reid.
"No...I mean, yes...I mean, no, I did find them," Reid choked out the words as he shook his head, wincing both at the temporary soreness that afflicted his own neck and throat and at the terminal soreness that had afflicted the necks and throats of the prostitutes.
"Oh, you did find them," Hotch said. "But, unfortunately for the victims, you happened to find the wrong ones? Did you wander the streets all night, looking for prostitutes who fit the victomology in order to warn them about the UnSub? Were you hoping to get to them before the UnSub got to them? Is that why you stayed up all night last night and the previous night? I saw you yesterday, Reid. I noticed your appearance. You were wearing the same clothes from the day before, and you hadn't shaved. I'm a profiler. These details are obvious to me."
"No, you don't understand," Reid shook his head again. "I went to warn them, then to k..." he coughed to catch his breath.
He felt himself breathing faster and faster, hyperventilating to compensate for the bands that squeezed tighter and tighter with each laborious breath. The sensation was more like death by pressing than death by strangling. He clutched at the armrests to keep his hands from trembling. His fingers twitched, as did a muscle under his left eye. One second, he felt too hot, the heat burning his face. The next second, he felt too cold, the cold also burning. Each second lasted a minute as the physical sensations developed a primitive mind of their own to rob the higher mind of coherent thought, feeling, and speech.
"I know what you've been doing," Hotch sighed grimly.
"You do?" Reid shoved his hands under the desk to hide their trembling and twitching. "You do," he nodded in relief that he didn't have to say the words that he had most wanted and most feared to say. "I know it's wrong, Hotch. It's so wrong. I've always known that it's wrong. But I did it anyway, and I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I wanted to do it. I can't figure it out. I think there's something wrong with me. There's got to something wrong with me," he stopped at a shooting pain in his chest, then another and another and another, the shooting pains pairing off nicely with the constricting bands to accompany his confessions.
"Calm down, Reid," Hotch comforted him. "There's nothing wrong with you. A few missteps on a single case do not translate into a fatal flaw. In a way, I can understand and appreciate what you've been doing. Although I disagree with your methods, and although, as your boss and the head of this team, I have to put a stop to them, I know that your intentions were good. In your position, I might have done the same thing myself."
"What?" Reid gawked in horror.
"You've been trying to solve the case on your own," Hotch explained the situation as he understood it. "You visited the crime scenes on your own. That's what you did on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. You constructed the victimology and profile on your own. Based on the victimology and profile, you devised a story that turned out to be amazingly accurate. That's what you did in your office all this week, with the door locked and the blinds closed. I don't know if it was luck or genius that let you in on all the details that everyone else missed and all the ideas that no one else thought of. With the victomology, profile, and story in hand, you patrolled the streets, looking for the same types of prostitutes that the UnSub was looking for in order to warn them about the UnSub. That's what you did on Monday and Tuesday evenings. You started looking right after work. You continued looking all night. On Tuesday morning, you didn't go home to change or shave. On Wednesday morning, this morning, you went home, fell asleep, and overslept into the afternoon. All this, everything that I've described, has taken its toll on you. I can tell, Reid. You look terrible. You look like you haven't eaten or slept in days. You've spent so much time and effort trying to solve the case that your dedication is bordering on obsession. You know that it's wrong to do this, both to yourself and to the team. You said it yourself. You know that it's wrong, but you don't know why you did it. I think I know why, and I can explain it to you, if you're willing to listen."
"Um..." Reid blinked away a formation of spots, some black and some colorful, that flew across his field of view.
"You've been trying to solve the case on your own, because you no longer trust the team," Hotch continued. "You no longer trust the team to solve the cases as a team. It all started with that case in Indiana. You missed the plane, and I left you behind. You didn't participate in the case. Without you, we failed to solve the case. Once we got back, you looked over the case file, including the information that we had gathered in the field, and you solved the case in your head. With you, we solved the case. Is there a correlation? Maybe there is. It's very likely that we wouldn't solve as many cases without you as we would with you. That's why the BAU is lucky to have you, but you've got to remember that the BAU operates as a team. We're a team, and we're always going to be a team, so we've got to act like one. In the early days, profilers used to travel around the country on their own, dropping in on local police departments to conduct investigations that were more-or-less individual battles of profiler vs. UnSub. Remember Max Ryan and the Keystone Killer? Remember how Ryan could hardly stand to work with the team? Ryan was used to working on his own, and so were Rossi and Gideon, to lesser extents. But the days of solitary profilers are over. We work as a team now, and on a team, there's no place for individual..."
"Stop!" Reid interrupted, slapping his hand upon the desk in a gesture that he had never used before. "It's not like that. It's not like that at all. This has nothing to do with the team. You misunderstood me. I thought you knew, but you don't. What I was trying to say..." he paused, sucking in one last breath before forcing himself to say the words. "I killed them," he confessed. "The blonde prostitute, the auburn-haired prostitute, the ginger-haired prostitute...I killed them. I killed them all," he looked Hotch in the eye, imploring his boss to believe him on an issue that was one of the issues that he had recently lied about.
The confession felt good. It felt right. It alleviated his physical sensations and returned to him a sense of physical well-being that he had not felt since he had killed the blonde prostitute on Saturday afternoon. He gazed steadily at Hotch, waiting for Hotch to explode or implode, he didn't know which.
"This has got to stop, Reid," Hotch covered and uncovered his eyes. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. You killed them? You killed them all? I can't believe I'm hearing these words come out of your mouth. You're much too rational to think like this. Where's your logic? Your reason? What are you thinking? That just because you didn't find the victims in time, that you contributed to their deaths? That you killed them? Let me tell you this, Reid, and I'm telling you, not asking you, to believe me. You couldn't have stopped the UnSub. If you had found the victims in time and warned them about the UnSub, then the UnSub would've found other victims to kill. The victims he ended up killing were not the only prostitutes who fit the victimology. Felicia Hayes, the twelfth victim, was the only one who was special. She was the prostitute with the ginger hair as you had predicted, who was the love interest of the UnSub as you had suggested, whose murder would've driven the UnSub into a disorganized crime spree as you had guessed. You haven't seen the latest information, so you don't know that the UnSub didn't even bother to pose the body this time. He killed the object of his affection, and he didn't even pose her body. This was the end of his organized crime spree. Who knows what he would've gone on to do if we hadn't identified him using your profile and your story? It was your profile and your story that solved the case. Think about it, Reid. First, think about what you're saying. Then, think about whether it matches up with the facts."
"The UnSub's name..." Reid struggled to speak, feeling his body spiral out of control as the constricting bands and shooting pains returned, attacking him with such intensity that he could not spit out the one piece of information specific enough to implicate him in the murders.
"Nathan Christopher Davis," Hotch filled in the blank. "Like the victim, Davis is from Philadelphia. He was a musician who played in a band and did some pimping on the side. He arrived in DC the first week of October, moved from hostel to hostel as he overstayed the maximum duration at each location, fished and hunted for prostitutes to kill until he finally found his way back to the one who had unknowingly set off the entire chain of events. When we confronted him, he was distraught, a total mess. During the interrogation, he admitted to beating, slashing, and strangling the victims, but he claimed that he couldn't remember the exact details of the crimes. He couldn't articulate his motive or intent, instead depending on us, the interrogators, to speak for him. He could only provide yes-or-no answers to leading questions. He kept repeating Felicia's name over and over and over again. He was shocked that he had killed her. He was crying. He was hysterical. We left him alone in the interrogation room for a few minutes, and he tried to slit his wrists with the handcuffs. Luckily, the psychiatrist was there to sedate him. He's been put on suicide watch. He's going to require a full psychiatric evaluation before any legal proceedings can go forwards."
"But he...The last three victims...I k..." Reid coughed to drive away the heart palpitations that had started as soon as Hotch had snatched away the only evidence against him.
He felt the urge to cough and cough and cough, to cough up a congested pressure that bubbled up from deep within his lungs and pumped his heart into overdrive. At the same time, he felt the urge to speak. He tried and failed to do both. His mind screamed at him to stop coughing, to start speaking. Why was he unable to speak? Normally, he was so good at speaking when everyone wanted him to shut up. Now that he needed to speak, he couldn't do it. Why couldn't he do it? Was it because he didn't really want to do it? It was! But he had to speak! He couldn't bear to continue this charade. So far, Hotch had misinterpreted all his words and actions to construct a profile and story that were both totally coherent and totally wrong. He needed Hotch to know the truth, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth before the urge to cough overwhelmed the urge to speak. In desperation, he gazed intently at Hotch, willing Hotch to see through his eyes into the truth behind them. He could tell that he was getting nowhere. Hotch couldn't see him for what he was, and suddenly, in the literal blink of an eye, he couldn't see Hotch either. Had Hotch gotten up? Walked away? Left the room? Why couldn't he see Hotch? He turned his head in all directions, looking for Hotch in the curtain of blackness that had draped itself over his field of view. Where was Hotch? There he was! Hotch was still there, sitting in the same position on the desk, staring down with the same expression upon his face. In a small circle of light, through a tunnel in the blackness, Reid saw and heard Hotch speaking to him, but he couldn't understand a word that was said.
"Don't you ever say that again!" Hotch snapped angrily. "I don't ever want to hear it again, Reid. You didn't kill anyone. The only thing that you did wrong was isolating yourself from the team. I confess that it's partly my fault," he sighed, standing up to pace the room again. "I shouldn't have left you behind on that case in Indiana. I should've let you work with Rossi and Morgan on the negotiation with the pimp. I should've let you participate more actively on the raids, at least since your knee healed. I should've let you do your job. At some point, my priority went from letting you do your job to keeping you safe from harm. You've had a lot of close calls, but that's not a good excuse for my behavior. To tell you the truth, my reasons were selfish. After Gideon left, I didn't think that the BAU could afford to lose another brilliant one-of-a-kind mind. You and Gideon...The two of you are the most creative thinkers that the BAU has ever had. This case is a prime example of why we need minds like yours in the BAU. Who else could've come up with the profile of the UnSub? You did. Gideon could have. Who else could've done it? Maybe Dave? I wouldn't guarantee it. Dave's got all the experience in the world, and I respect for him for it, but his mind works better in reality than in fantasy. He's more practical than imaginative. You and Gideon...You two live on a different plane from the rest of us. Now that Gideon is gone, we need you..." he stopped at the sound of uncontrollable coughing that expanded to fill the room.
Reid pushed his chair away from his desk, doubling over and giving in to his coughing fit. As he coughed, he clutched at his throat, trying to suppress the heart palpitations that bounced around his chest in time with the images of the prostitutes that bounced around his head. Remembering that the heart was located in the chest rather than the throat, he clutched at his chest, tapping it to drive his heart out of its frightening arrhythmia. He wondered if he was having a heart attack. It didn't seem right that he, young and healthy, would be having a heart attack, but he remembered that the night before, he had tried to kill himself by taking 100 tablets of Tylenol and drinking a whole bottle of gin and a whole pot of coffee, but that he had thrown up all the gin and all the coffee along with most of the tablets in his failure to kill himself. The vomiting, combined with the lack of eating, must have caused an electrolyte imbalance that was now causing a heart attack. He wondered if he would die of a heart attack, here and now, before he got the chance to kill, try to kill, or pretend to try to kill, anyone in Maryland or Virginia to receive the death penalty that he deserved. Believing that he was dying of a heart attack, he realized that he didn't want to die of a heart attack. The tablets, gin, and coffee would have been one way to go, and the revolver that he no longer considered his own would have been another, but the heart attack did not feel right to him. It was the wrong exit strategy. Suddenly, he remembered that people suffering from panic attacks, especially their first panic attacks, often mistook the symptoms of a panic attack for those of a heart attack, the mistake often causing them to show up, unnecessarily, at the emergency room. Maybe he was not having a heart attack. Maybe he was having a panic attack. As soon as he thought this, he hoped that he was having a panic attack, because panic attacks, unlike heart attacks, did not kill people, and he, although he had thought and felt otherwise last night, earlier today, and just this minute, did not really wish to die. He was probably having a panic attack. He was definitely having a panic attack. The symptoms fit the condition. The data fit the theory. The behavior fit the profile. Unlike Hotch, Reid, with his brilliant one-of-a-kind mind, had constructed a profile and story that were both totally coherent and totally right.
From a vast distance, Reid heard a voice, then two, then three. One was Hotch. Two were deep. The third was more than a voice.
Reid felt a hand upon his shoulder. He was cold, so the hand burned him with its heat. He wondered whose hand it was, so burning hot upon his shoulder that he wanted to fling it off, dip it in water, and hear the water fizz with steam. The burning was like an electric current that traveled through his flesh to jolt his heart into a steady healthy rhythm. The palpitations subsided. The coughing fit tapered off to a few stray wheezes. Reid passed his sleeve over his face to wipe away the sweat that had darted out of his brow and the tears that had darted out of his eyes. Feeling better, he opened his eyes and looked up into the honey blonde hair, soft feminine features, and big beautiful blue eyes of Jennifer Jareau.
"Spence, you OK?" JJ leaned over him as he leaned forwards in his chair.
"Yeah..." Reid stifled the last vestige of a wheeze. "I'm fine...I choked...I choked on my own saliva...I think it was."
"I know how that happens," JJ nodded. "That happens to me more than I'd care to admit. Good thing it hasn't happened during a press conference...yet," she crossed her fingers.
"What are you doing here?" Reid blinked up at her.
"I had the afternoon off, so I thought that I'd visit before everyone went home for the weekend," JJ said. "Last time I was here, I didn't even get a chance to come up. I had to rush home after work, so Will could go off with his buddies for his monthly boys' night out. I don't know what he does on his playdates. I don't really want to know," she rolled her eyes.
"Oh..." Reid nodded weakly. "So that's why you didn't...I mean, I didn't get to see you last time."
"I hope you got to see and taste the cookies though," JJ glanced sideways at Morgan standing in the open doorway of Reid's office. "But just in case you didn't, I brought you something better this time," she gestured for Hotch to hand her a platter of fancy cupcakes. "I know you want some," she passed the platter under his face, enticing him with the sugary chocolatey aroma of cake and cream. "Here, take some," she held the platter under his nose.
With a small smile, Reid took a cupcake, then two, then three, as JJ laughed, Morgan snickered, and Hotch smirked. After not eating for two days, he was extremely hungry. He felt both light-headed and physically light, as if he had lost several pounds, which he probably had. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant.
"Derek?" JJ offered the platter to Morgan.
"Don't mind if I do," Morgan took a cupcake.
"Hotch?" JJ turned to Hotch.
"Saved the best for last?" Hotch took a cupcake. "Can you give us a minute?" he looked at JJ, then Morgan.
"Sure, no problem," JJ got up to follow Morgan out of the office. "By the way, Reid, I really like what you've done with the place," she gestured to include the whole room. "No decorations, just the way I like it!" she gave him an A-OK as she backed into the corridor.
"We'll be in the bullpen, Reid," Morgan poked his head back in. "Remember to come down to finish the cupcakes. We'll save a dozen or two for you," he waved and disappeared from view.
"OK," Reid waved at the air.
"Are you alright, Reid?" Hotch frowned. "Are you really alright? You don't look well."
"I'm fine," Reid reassured his boss. "I'm fine, really I'm fine. Like I said, I choked. It happens all the time."
"You don't have any other symptoms?" Hotch asked. "For a minute there, you looked like you were having a heart attack. I was on the verge of calling the paramedics when JJ and Morgan came in."
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Reid repeated. "A coughing fit always looks worse than it is. Did you know that a cough produces a g-force of 3.5, while a sneeze produces a g-force of 3? That's three times the gravitational acceleration on Earth and comparable to the g-forces experienced on rollercoasters."
"You really are fine," Hotch remarked. "About our talk today...What we were talking about before you started coughing...You understand why we had to have that talk? I know it must have felt like I was interrogating you, like I was interrogating an UnSub, and I apologize for that. After I saw the CCTV footage and put two and two together, I admit that I was very angry with you."
"It's alright, Hotch," Reid said. "You were right to be angry with me. I shouldn't have been doing what I was doing. I guess I didn't think that you'd catch me in the act. I swear that I do still trust the team. I don't really want to solve the cases on my own. That would be much too stressful. I don't think I could do it. It's just that this was the first case I chose, and I really wanted to see it through. But I know that I went about it the wrong way. I'm really sorry about that, about everything," he bit his lip and looked into the distance, at the blank undecorated wall beyond Hotch. "I promise not to do it again," he shifted his eyes to focus upon Hotch.
"And I promise to let you do your job," Hotch said. "Next time we go on a raid, you're coming along, whether you like it or not."
"Thanks, Hotch," Reid nodded shyly.
"Just one more thing before I let you out for the weekend," Hotch said. "Do you remember what you said earlier? About you and the UnSub and the victims?"
"Yeah," Reid looked down and fiddled with his shirt sleeve.
"I don't ever want to hear you say that again," Hotch said. "I'm serious about this. Don't ever say it again. Never again. Got it?"
"Got it," Reid nodded, finding his neck no less sore when he nodded than when he shook his head.
"Good," Hotch tapped his fingers against the desk. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"
"Nothing much," Reid said. "Looking forward to spending a quiet weekend at home, actually. After all the excitement of the case...Maybe it was all a little too exciting for me..."
"I'd take it easy if I were you," Hotch advised. "Try not to think about the cases. Don't take any case files home with you. Just enjoy the weekend, so you can be refreshed and ready to jump back into it on Monday."
"Yeah, I will," Reid looked up with a small smile. "Thanks, Hotch. You have a good weekend too."
"I'm going to have my hands full with Jack," Hotch smiled at the thought of his son. "I made the mistake of promising him that I'd take him somewhere snowy so we could go sledding this weekend. With this recent warm spell, it looks like I'll be doing quite a bit of driving."
"It's been snowing up in New York all week," Reid said. "Up in Buffalo, near Niagara Falls. Maybe you could take Jack there to see the snow and the falls. The falls freeze up during the winter, but I don't think it's cold enough yet."
"A lot of driving, a lot of driving," Hotch mumbled on his way to the door. "Join us in the bullpen for cupcakes and Cristal?"
"Yeah, in a little bit," Reid said. "I've got to clean up this mess first," he pointed at the stack of case files that he had knocked over during his coughing fit.
Hotch nodded, waved, and stepped out. Reid listened for his footsteps to fade down the corridor. He resisted the urge to close and lock the door. The blinds were already closed, so he resisted the urge to open them to look into the bullpen. He imagined the team standing around, eating cupcakes, laughing, relaxing, turning off their cell phones to avoid the dark criminal netherworld that constantly threatened to snatch away their weekends.
In his imagination, JJ sat on his desk, the one that had formerly been his, while he sat at her desk, the one that had formerly been hers and was now his. He visualized her face and was happy to find that he did not wish to hurt her. He imagined her touch and was happier to find that he still loved her. It was alright. He had acted out all his negative emotions and aggressive impulses upon the old man, the muggers, the prostitutes, and himself, so he knew that he would never wish to hurt her again. Now, it was alright to love her. His love, unlike the love of Nathan for Felicia, was a metronome, beating out the even predictable rhythm of a calm peaceful happiness. He was content to let it beat on and on and on, with no arrhythmia of recompense to mar its perfect programmable tempo.
Reid programmed the tempo to that of rushing falling water. He bent over to pick up the case files on the floor. As he gathered up the crime scene photos, forensics results, and witness reports, he had three thoughts, one each concerning the UnSub, the UnSub's JJ, and the next UnSub.
Concerning the UnSub, Reid thought about himself. Under interrogation, it was not uncommon for criminals to confess to crimes that they had not committed. If the UnSub could make a false confession, then so could he.
Concerning the UnSub's JJ, Reid thought about JJ. She was safe, and he was content. In a way, it had all been worth it.
Concerning the next UnSub, Reid thought about himself. He needed to live, not through the urges of the subconscious id or the urges of the subconscious super-ego, but through the needs of the conscious ego. He needed to live, because the team needed him. He had a job to do. He had a life to live. First, solve the case. Then, enjoy the weekend. Afterwards, choose the next case. For the next case, Reid had a profile in mind. The profile was novel, so it did not yet have a name. Reid named it "The Fallen Angel".
Master Post