Criminal Minds: Trompe L'oeil (part 14)
Part 1 Part 8
Part 2 Part 9
Part 3 Part 10
Part 4 Part 11
Part 5 Part 12
Part 6 Part 13
Part 7 ...
~ (part fourteen) ~
A tree outside the window is tapping the glass behind Reid's left ear. Tapping. Rapping. Tapping again. Wholly inharmonious with the scattered twitching in his eye. Through the branches, he sees the late afternoon sun is giving way to wind, making the shadows outside bend and sway-drawing warped, face-like reflections in the window panes across the street.
Odd mouths.
Odd eyes.
Quivering backdrop and silent screams.
"Reid," Morgan says, redrawing his attention, tick in his jaw and gaze steady. He holds out a water bottle. "Drink."
Reid takes it and swallows, tasting metal.
As he sets it back on the table, the cold plastic crumples inward at the base. The crackle grinds against his eardrums and he leans away, moving the fingers knuckled into his eyelid to spread flat over the map beneath his elbow, squinting from the pulsing glare in the glossy reflection.
A blue dot marks the coffee shop. And the bookstore.
The hotel. The hospital.
The gallery.
Dots surrounded by waterways and hiking trails. Buildings and roads and empty spaces. Everything looks connected. Like anywhere. Like everywhere.
"There are hundreds, if not thousands of potential secluded locations the unsub could be using that would still give him access to the main roads through town," he says. The words clang against his teeth as they emerge, but they come out clear.
Morgan's eyes hold, then, finally, shift away.
"Add to that no reports of suspicious activity, and the massive surrounding wilderness he could be skulking around in, and we have another giant dead end," drolls Garcia.
Prentiss clicks her pen and un-clicks it, shaking her head. "Wherever he has them, it won't raise suspicion," she agrees. "He'd make sure of it. He calculates for ambiguity but even then, it's controlled."
Morgan stands, angling towards the layout of evidence, rubbing a hand behind his neck. "Everything he does is controlled," he says, gaze running over the board as he breathes, staring at the drawings. The remainder of motion in his body dissipates. Settling into character. Communing with the dead. "Everything he does has a point."
Reid moves the map away, setting it by the water bottle, glossy side folded over.
"But what point?" Morgan mumbles absently. "If I'm the unsub, I'm not a common serial killer. No no, I'm an artist. And I have perfected my craft. True art requires focus. Patience. Me, I'm a master at those things. I'm meticulous. I'm specific. I know all the angles."
Reid dips his head down, pressing the heel of his hand against the twinge in his eye socket. Specific, his mind echoes.
The unsub knows his name.
Knows Doctor and Agent and Spencer. The shape of JJ's eyes, and to which ear she holds her cell phone.
Where they've been. Where they're going.
In the silence, Prentiss presses fingers to the bridge of her nose, then drops them away, eyebrows unfolding. "Except for Reid's room," she says, opening her hands. "He tore it completely apart. Total destruction. It's the only action he's taken that's been uncontrolled. He wasted time where he could have been caught. He shredded the sheet. He dismembered the pillow. It was an absolute emotional response."
"What does it mean?" asks Garcia.
Morgan turns. "It means he was truly expecting Reid to still be there. Reid being gone from the hospital wasn't in the plan."
"Didn't he mean him to be gone? Not to hex us by dwelling on our near tragedy, but wouldn't he think he was already dead?"
Reid touches his hands together, running his thumbnail under the index of the opposite. He can feel the scrape on his arm now. A six inch, low throbbing fire that seems both part of him and not.
Morgan folds his arms. "It probably didn't matter to him either way. If the agent he poisoned died-no problem. If he didn't, the unsub knew he could finish the job during the abduction from the hospital. Even better. We all think he's in the clear and bam, double whammy."
Prentiss tilts onto her elbows, pausing all movement, then shifting back, drops her pen on the table with a sigh. "None of which tells us what we need to know."
"Okay okay okay," says Morgan, jiggling thumb against forehead as he paces away from the table and back again. "New angle. Garcia, how's that tenant list coming?"
On screen, Garcia's focus splits to another direction, hands drumming. "Yep, here it is… the digital file from the gallery is up. I am running it now… but…"
"No no no, sweetness, I need you to be your magical self right now. Do not give me a but."
Her fingers stop moving. "I understand, but take that away and you are seriously inhibiting my mojo."
Morgan leans forward. "Go on."
"Looks like most of the tenants paid cash. Short-term rental periods. No lease agreements. No social security numbers or background checks required. It's like an art-drifter's haven. Festival participants, traveling writers, musicians, students. The Poe's kept records, but they're incomplete. And there is literally a John Smith on the list. If that is the tenant's real name, I can trace him, but I need a cross reference to find anything real. Even knowing their ages would help."
Prentiss flips her notepad back open, dragging it away from the files. "Try cross referencing former employees of the coffee shop."
"Already done. No matches."
Morgan pushes a fist into his forehead.
Reid sniffs and looks towards the fliers. The images narrow and thin. Each picture reduced to angles and lines. One after another. Losing form and substance. Losing sanity and life and solid footing-belief in happy endings. A collection of empty spaces. The abyss staring back.
History repeats itself, he thinks, even when you remember it.
The door opens, and Hotch comes in. The dim light without the room creeps with him, tying knots around his chest and ankles. Locking down the shadows on his face and the blur of thought behind his eyes.
"Reid." Prentiss touches his arm. "Alright?"
He sheds the air from his lungs abruptly, shifting his gaze to her. Working his throat, he pulls back slowly. "I'm fine," he mumbles, and watches Hotch clock the lie without saying anything.
Morgan opens his mouth, lets it hang for a moment, then clears his throat. "Garcia, what about customers? Regulars? Can you cross reference that?"
"That is a little more difficult. If they paid with a credit card, I might be… Wait, that's… Agent Rossi is calling me on my cell phone."
"Answer it," orders Hotch.
She hesitates, glancing to the others, then nods her head. "On it."
The screen turns dark.
Morgan looks over. "What's going on?"
"I'll let you know if it pans out," answers Hotch. "Where are we on the profile?
~
The lowest shelf of the vending machine has caramel Bugles and ranch flavored Doritos. JJ feeds another five into the slot and makes the selections, standing against the whir and grind of the cranking metal in silence. The world is tilting just a fraction to the left, the way it always does when she hasn't slept enough. But she's used to operating like this. She's used to compensating.
She feels detached from it, in a sense. From her picture on the flier. From Reid's nearly not waking up. From the three current victims.
Maybe she's starting to better compartmentalize.
The flap at the bottom of the machine is heavy. It catches the corner of the chips as she pulls them but not the Bugles. She adds both to the pile.
From behind the sergeant's desk, Rossi folds his phone down, turning his head towards the conference room, then back around to look at her. The dried blood on his chin appears darker than it did before and as he comes closer, the machine's glow against his beard turns it black.
"None of us have eaten since yesterday," she explains. "It's not much, but Officer Walker just downed four packages of peanut butter crackers, so at least it's safe."
"Good idea," he says.
She pushes another selection, then brushes a strand of hair behind her ear to wait.
"Is the chief ready with the statement?" he asks, tapping his middle finger against the base of his cell phone, like he's waiting for something.
"He doesn't understand the whole reason behind it, but he's with us," she answers. "They won't use Reid's name and they're going to tell the press there are no agents in the hospital and no fatalities. They'll show photos of the three missing women, reiterate the profile, and they're going to make the statement from the Douglas, not from here-distance the press from our presence on the case."
"Good," says Rossi. "Good."
JJ watches the conference room for a moment, watching the team's mouths move. The light in the room contrasting more and more with the outside grey.
"JJ. Are you okay?"
She moves her eyes over, giving half a smile. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
Rossi's expression doesn't change. "We have the best profilers in the world in there," he says. "We're going to figure this out."
"Maybe that's the point."
"What do you mean?"
"The unsub keeps waiting for us to figure things out. And when we do, he's waiting for us. What happens when we make another move?"
Rossi closes his mouth, but his fingers are tapping at the phone again.
JJ reaches to pull the Snickers from the vending machine.
Above her head, a loud crack overtakes the station, bringing her upright, yanking her focus to the long window on the east wall. A branch, snapped off the tree outside, smacked into the glass.
Inside the conference room, she catches the tail visual of Hotch easing his hand away from his weapon.
She counts slowly as she breathes out. The world has tipped another fraction to the left, and maybe she's not compartmentalizing as well as she thought. She catches Rossi's expression, seeing him watch the same things.
He makes eye contact, and shakes his head. "We won't just look at one move," he says.
~
tbc
Part 2 Part 9
Part 3 Part 10
Part 4 Part 11
Part 5 Part 12
Part 6 Part 13
Part 7 ...
~ (part fourteen) ~
A tree outside the window is tapping the glass behind Reid's left ear. Tapping. Rapping. Tapping again. Wholly inharmonious with the scattered twitching in his eye. Through the branches, he sees the late afternoon sun is giving way to wind, making the shadows outside bend and sway-drawing warped, face-like reflections in the window panes across the street.
Odd mouths.
Odd eyes.
Quivering backdrop and silent screams.
"Reid," Morgan says, redrawing his attention, tick in his jaw and gaze steady. He holds out a water bottle. "Drink."
Reid takes it and swallows, tasting metal.
As he sets it back on the table, the cold plastic crumples inward at the base. The crackle grinds against his eardrums and he leans away, moving the fingers knuckled into his eyelid to spread flat over the map beneath his elbow, squinting from the pulsing glare in the glossy reflection.
A blue dot marks the coffee shop. And the bookstore.
The hotel. The hospital.
The gallery.
Dots surrounded by waterways and hiking trails. Buildings and roads and empty spaces. Everything looks connected. Like anywhere. Like everywhere.
"There are hundreds, if not thousands of potential secluded locations the unsub could be using that would still give him access to the main roads through town," he says. The words clang against his teeth as they emerge, but they come out clear.
Morgan's eyes hold, then, finally, shift away.
"Add to that no reports of suspicious activity, and the massive surrounding wilderness he could be skulking around in, and we have another giant dead end," drolls Garcia.
Prentiss clicks her pen and un-clicks it, shaking her head. "Wherever he has them, it won't raise suspicion," she agrees. "He'd make sure of it. He calculates for ambiguity but even then, it's controlled."
Morgan stands, angling towards the layout of evidence, rubbing a hand behind his neck. "Everything he does is controlled," he says, gaze running over the board as he breathes, staring at the drawings. The remainder of motion in his body dissipates. Settling into character. Communing with the dead. "Everything he does has a point."
Reid moves the map away, setting it by the water bottle, glossy side folded over.
"But what point?" Morgan mumbles absently. "If I'm the unsub, I'm not a common serial killer. No no, I'm an artist. And I have perfected my craft. True art requires focus. Patience. Me, I'm a master at those things. I'm meticulous. I'm specific. I know all the angles."
Reid dips his head down, pressing the heel of his hand against the twinge in his eye socket. Specific, his mind echoes.
The unsub knows his name.
Knows Doctor and Agent and Spencer. The shape of JJ's eyes, and to which ear she holds her cell phone.
Where they've been. Where they're going.
In the silence, Prentiss presses fingers to the bridge of her nose, then drops them away, eyebrows unfolding. "Except for Reid's room," she says, opening her hands. "He tore it completely apart. Total destruction. It's the only action he's taken that's been uncontrolled. He wasted time where he could have been caught. He shredded the sheet. He dismembered the pillow. It was an absolute emotional response."
"What does it mean?" asks Garcia.
Morgan turns. "It means he was truly expecting Reid to still be there. Reid being gone from the hospital wasn't in the plan."
"Didn't he mean him to be gone? Not to hex us by dwelling on our near tragedy, but wouldn't he think he was already dead?"
Reid touches his hands together, running his thumbnail under the index of the opposite. He can feel the scrape on his arm now. A six inch, low throbbing fire that seems both part of him and not.
Morgan folds his arms. "It probably didn't matter to him either way. If the agent he poisoned died-no problem. If he didn't, the unsub knew he could finish the job during the abduction from the hospital. Even better. We all think he's in the clear and bam, double whammy."
Prentiss tilts onto her elbows, pausing all movement, then shifting back, drops her pen on the table with a sigh. "None of which tells us what we need to know."
"Okay okay okay," says Morgan, jiggling thumb against forehead as he paces away from the table and back again. "New angle. Garcia, how's that tenant list coming?"
On screen, Garcia's focus splits to another direction, hands drumming. "Yep, here it is… the digital file from the gallery is up. I am running it now… but…"
"No no no, sweetness, I need you to be your magical self right now. Do not give me a but."
Her fingers stop moving. "I understand, but take that away and you are seriously inhibiting my mojo."
Morgan leans forward. "Go on."
"Looks like most of the tenants paid cash. Short-term rental periods. No lease agreements. No social security numbers or background checks required. It's like an art-drifter's haven. Festival participants, traveling writers, musicians, students. The Poe's kept records, but they're incomplete. And there is literally a John Smith on the list. If that is the tenant's real name, I can trace him, but I need a cross reference to find anything real. Even knowing their ages would help."
Prentiss flips her notepad back open, dragging it away from the files. "Try cross referencing former employees of the coffee shop."
"Already done. No matches."
Morgan pushes a fist into his forehead.
Reid sniffs and looks towards the fliers. The images narrow and thin. Each picture reduced to angles and lines. One after another. Losing form and substance. Losing sanity and life and solid footing-belief in happy endings. A collection of empty spaces. The abyss staring back.
History repeats itself, he thinks, even when you remember it.
The door opens, and Hotch comes in. The dim light without the room creeps with him, tying knots around his chest and ankles. Locking down the shadows on his face and the blur of thought behind his eyes.
"Reid." Prentiss touches his arm. "Alright?"
He sheds the air from his lungs abruptly, shifting his gaze to her. Working his throat, he pulls back slowly. "I'm fine," he mumbles, and watches Hotch clock the lie without saying anything.
Morgan opens his mouth, lets it hang for a moment, then clears his throat. "Garcia, what about customers? Regulars? Can you cross reference that?"
"That is a little more difficult. If they paid with a credit card, I might be… Wait, that's… Agent Rossi is calling me on my cell phone."
"Answer it," orders Hotch.
She hesitates, glancing to the others, then nods her head. "On it."
The screen turns dark.
Morgan looks over. "What's going on?"
"I'll let you know if it pans out," answers Hotch. "Where are we on the profile?
~
The lowest shelf of the vending machine has caramel Bugles and ranch flavored Doritos. JJ feeds another five into the slot and makes the selections, standing against the whir and grind of the cranking metal in silence. The world is tilting just a fraction to the left, the way it always does when she hasn't slept enough. But she's used to operating like this. She's used to compensating.
She feels detached from it, in a sense. From her picture on the flier. From Reid's nearly not waking up. From the three current victims.
Maybe she's starting to better compartmentalize.
The flap at the bottom of the machine is heavy. It catches the corner of the chips as she pulls them but not the Bugles. She adds both to the pile.
From behind the sergeant's desk, Rossi folds his phone down, turning his head towards the conference room, then back around to look at her. The dried blood on his chin appears darker than it did before and as he comes closer, the machine's glow against his beard turns it black.
"None of us have eaten since yesterday," she explains. "It's not much, but Officer Walker just downed four packages of peanut butter crackers, so at least it's safe."
"Good idea," he says.
She pushes another selection, then brushes a strand of hair behind her ear to wait.
"Is the chief ready with the statement?" he asks, tapping his middle finger against the base of his cell phone, like he's waiting for something.
"He doesn't understand the whole reason behind it, but he's with us," she answers. "They won't use Reid's name and they're going to tell the press there are no agents in the hospital and no fatalities. They'll show photos of the three missing women, reiterate the profile, and they're going to make the statement from the Douglas, not from here-distance the press from our presence on the case."
"Good," says Rossi. "Good."
JJ watches the conference room for a moment, watching the team's mouths move. The light in the room contrasting more and more with the outside grey.
"JJ. Are you okay?"
She moves her eyes over, giving half a smile. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"
Rossi's expression doesn't change. "We have the best profilers in the world in there," he says. "We're going to figure this out."
"Maybe that's the point."
"What do you mean?"
"The unsub keeps waiting for us to figure things out. And when we do, he's waiting for us. What happens when we make another move?"
Rossi closes his mouth, but his fingers are tapping at the phone again.
JJ reaches to pull the Snickers from the vending machine.
Above her head, a loud crack overtakes the station, bringing her upright, yanking her focus to the long window on the east wall. A branch, snapped off the tree outside, smacked into the glass.
Inside the conference room, she catches the tail visual of Hotch easing his hand away from his weapon.
She counts slowly as she breathes out. The world has tipped another fraction to the left, and maybe she's not compartmentalizing as well as she thought. She catches Rossi's expression, seeing him watch the same things.
He makes eye contact, and shakes his head. "We won't just look at one move," he says.
~
tbc