Hopeless Son 1/3
Title: Hopeless Son 1/3
Author: buffyaddict13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Gen, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, Penelope Garcia, Dave Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Diana Reid, OMCs
Words: 19,180
Disclaimer: I don't own Spencer Reid or anyone else from Criminal Minds. I make no money off my lame ramblings.
Summary: During a case in Las Vegas, Spencer Reid makes a discovery that changes everything.
A/N 1: Warning: This is dark. Very dark. Very, very dark. You'll probably hate it. So, uh, sorry.
A/N 2: Thank you rain_1975 and luckinfovely for the beta. I appreciate your help and encouragement. <3
If I was damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine.
~Rudyard Kipling
The crime scene techs are still there when the BAU arrives. The house is unassuming, a simple two-story structure. White aluminum siding with blue trim. A single car garage lists slightly as its sixty year-old foundation sinks into the earth. A police car is parked in the narrow driveway.
The sun is currently hiding her face behind a veil of thin, cotton clouds. It's warm here, sixty degrees compared to the thirty back at Quantico. Reid glances up and down the street, at the long column of trees, neat yards, eyes automatically looking for anything unusual, out of the ordinary, suspicious. There is nothing.
This neighborhood, so similar to the one he grew up in, is the real Las Vegas, not the towering, neon monstrosity of hotels and casinos. He's come to accept, even like, the casinos over the years, their familiar waterfalls of coins and faceless crowds, but streets like this one are the real heart of the city. The casinos are all noise, no substance.
Reid walks gingerly up the front steps. His leg still bothers him, but not much. He hasn't used his cane in two weeks. It's a good feeling. He's glad to be home, despite the grim reason for his visit. His mother's been so much better since the new meds. Seeing her is no longer a burden, it's become a gift. Not only has Diana Reid forgiven Spencer for having her committed, she's actually thanked him. It's taken a long time, but Reid's come close to forgiving himself as well. He's hoping to see her tonight, stay for dinner, some literature-themed Scrabble. Last time they played, the theme was Canterbury Tales. Spencer smiles to himself, wonders what his mother will come up with for tonight. Maybe they can play using Middle English. He can get some decent points for yronne or kouthe, especially with a triple word space.
Spencer's smile fades when he sees the interior of the living room. MaryAnne Evans is on the floor, her nightgown pushed up around her hips, her polka-dot robe in bloody shreds. The carpet blooms red below her. Blood speckles the couch, two walls, a tan recliner. A single tooth lies near her outstretched hand. Her hand lies palm up, index finger extended, as if trying to say don't forget to catalog this. Brown hair obscures her face, but not enough to hide her broken mouth and blackened eye.
Reid exhales slowly, lets his emotions go. He squats beside the body, careful of his bad leg. There are at least eight stab wounds to her upper torso, defensive wounds on both arms. The state of her nightgown and underwear indicates she was raped. Spencer's lips pull together in an angry line. He looks up to see Derek is wearing the same expression.
"Who rapes and kills you, then leaves flowers?"
Rossi frowns, studying a photo of a smiling MaryAnne Evans with her grown children on the mantle. "We don't know if she was raped," he says.
Prentiss sighs. "We'll know soon enough. The ME's here."
"Maybe the flowers are a gesture of remorse," Hotch says.
Morgan snorts. "He didn't bring nearly enough."
Reid's only half listening. He turns his attention to the flowers. A bouquet of pink roses, bound with twine rest near the slain woman. Just like at the previous two crime scenes. No sign of forced entry. Reid touches the blooms gently with one gloved finger. Tea roses. The name rose comes from the Latin word rosa. Ancient Greeks and Romans identified the rose with the gods Aphrodite and Venus. In Rome, a wild rose placed at the door of a room indicated secret or confidential matters were discussed. The phrase sub rosa, or "under the rose" means "to keep a secret" and comes from the ancient Roman practice. The rose has been an emblem for secrets or silence for centuries. What secrets is the unsub hiding?
Reid sighs and stands. He stretches his back, his stiff leg. Maybe the unsub just likes roses.
* * *
MaryAnne's daughter arrives within minutes of the medical examiner. Holly Evans-Sanderson is in her thirties. She has an expensive haircut, her wedding ring boasts a large diamond. In other circumstances she might be an imposing business woman. Now, she is a hysterical child wearing mismatched shoes, pajama bottoms emblazoned with smiling frogs, and a sweatshirt much too warm for the weather.
"Is she really dead?" Holly cries, running straight for the gurney bearing her mother's body.
JJ and two policeman intercept the distraught woman.
"Holly," JJ says, putting a restraining hand on the woman's arm. "We spoke on the phone. I thought we were meeting at the station this afternoon."
"No," Holly says, wide anxious eyes tracking the gurney's progress. "I need to be here now. I need to see. Is it--" her voice flutters, falls. "Is it really my mommy?"
"I'm sorry," JJ says gently, her expression full of empathy, "I'm so sorry for your loss."
Holly pulls her arm away from JJ and stumbles toward the house. She runs through the front door, screaming: "Mom? Mom? Where are you?"
Hotch looks ill, torn between compassion for the woman and distress at crime scene contamination.
"Morgan." The single word conveys a litany of instructions.
Derek puts an arm around Holly's shoulders and promptly steers her back out of the house. "Is there anyone I can call?" he asks. "Your husband? A friend? Another relative?"
Holly stands on the front porch, forlorn. Her eyes stream tears. "I just want my mom," she wails, and covers her face with her hands.
Reid looks away, embarrassed to see this woman's pain, ashamed he can't assuage it. He limps toward the SUV. The clouds have scattered, the sun sends a bright spike off the vehicle's hood. The reflection gives Spencer an instant headache and he blinks, kneads his forehead with thin fingers.
With his other hand, he presses the speed dial button on his phone.
Diana answers on the third ring. Her greeting is distant, as if she's in the middle of something. Knowing his mother, she's reading.
"Hello."
"Hi, Mom."
Diana's voice brightens instantly. Reid can hear the smile, the pleasure, in her words. "Spencer, sweetie! It's so good to hear from you."
"I'm in Vegas, and I was wondering if I could stop by tonight. Maybe for dinner and Scrabble?"
"Nothing would make me happier," his mother replies warmly. "And you're welcome to stay over if you want." There's a slight pause. "Are you on a case?"
Reid pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "Yeah. But I can squeeze in some Mom time."
Diana chuckles and Reid smiles in spite of the pain in his head. Hearing his mother laugh again, after so many years of silence, after thinking she had nothing left but tears, thrills him.
"Great. I like a good squeeze. What time should I expect you?"
Reid glances back at the house. Morgan's trying to wave him over. JJ's sitting beside a weeping Holly Sanderson.
"How about six?"
"I'll be waiting with bells on." She lowers her voice conspiratorially. "Well, metaphorical bells. The nurses get awfully bitchy if we make too much noise."
* * *
Detective Charlie Lewis is waiting for them at the Las Vegas PD. He's a tall red-head in his mid- to late-thirties with pale blue eyes. Lewis hast a strong, kind face, faint laugh lines crease the corners of his mouth. From the look of it, Detective Lewis hasn't been doing any laughing lately. He looks haggard, his auburn hair stands up in untidy tufts. Still, he offers each agent a genuine smile and firm handshake.
Reid politely declines the handshake, but returns the smile. Spencer offers his usual awkward wave instead. "Hey."
Reid's eyes skitter around the office, looking for Detective Hyde. At least this case isn't about missing or murdered children. An image of a smiling boy in a Little League uniform flashes through his mind, an image of a small body left in a basement.
"Excuse me, Detective Lewis?" Reid asks. "Is Detective Hyde here?"
Lewis shakes his head. "Nope. Hyde transferred out last year."
Reid breathes a silent sigh of relief.
By late afternoon the BAU has taken over a large conference room toward the back of the station. Various photos of the three dead women are tacked to the wall. JJ is working on a statement to the press. Hotch is rereading an autopsy report, Derek is at the coroner's office. Prentiss is interviewing a markedly calmer Holly Sanderson in the next room.
Lewis keeps pacing the hallway, periodically glancing in at the profilers, but pretending not to.
These are the facts: Sara Jennings, age 57, Heidi Domingo, age 55, and MaryAnne Evans, age 56 were murdered. All three of the women were raped, beaten, and stabbed repeatedly. Sara was found in an alley between the neighborhood grocery and video store, Heidi was found in her backyard, MaryAnne in her living room. Bouquets of pink roses left at each scene, no vase, no note. No fingerprints. No semen. There was skin under two of the three victim's fingernails, but so far, there's no DNA match in any of the databases.
Reid works on the geographic profile. All three women were killed within a ten mile radius. So far, there's no link between the women, Garcia's been doing her usual computer wizardry back at Quantico.
Lewis enters the conference room, drops heavily into a chair. "I know it's early and I don't mean to pressure you," he says, "but do you have anything yet?"
Hotch closes Heidi Domingo's autopsy file. Aaron gestures to the map Reid's bent over. "We're doing the best we can with the information we have, Detective Lewis. I know it's frustrating. As soon as we have the profile ready, I'll let you know."
Lewis sighs, scrubs hard at his face with one palm. "I've seen a lot of death over the years, Agent Hotchner. More homicides than I want to remember. But there's something about this case that just...really gets to me." Lewis leans back in his chair, stares at Hotch with bloodshot eyes. "I mean, my mom lives in Las Vegas. If this sick bastard did something like this to her--" Lewis shakes his head. "I don't know what I'd do."
"Let's hope we catch him before he kills anyone else," Aaron says.
* * *
Beethoven's String Quartet in C-sharp Minor, Opus 131 is playing when Reid arrives. Diana hugs him warmly, points to the chair opposite. The Scrabble board is already set up, small square tiles arranged face down in the lid of the box.
"Are you eating?" she asks.
Reid grins. He's not the one who needs reminding, who needs medication to remember to eat. But his mother still worries. He feels a rush of affection, of love for the tall, wiry woman across from him. She smiles at him, winks. The smile turns her years younger, makes her face soft.
The music drifts behind them as they play. Reid loves Beethoven, especially this particular composition. As a boy, the first time he heard it, he felt sad, adrift somehow. His mother was curled on the couch, pink bathrobe around her, pillow clutched to her chest.
"Mommy, why are you listening to sad music?"
"This isn't sad, baby. This is beautiful. The music cries so I don't have to."
Spencer understands a lot at age nine, but he doesn't quite understand what his mother means. He will later.
Beethoven becomes the soundtrack of his life. Listening to the music in his mother's room, Reid thinks of macaroni and cheese dinners for two, he thinks of listening to his mother read Proust. He thinks of running home from school to make sure she's okay, or sneaking home so she doesn't see the bruises on his face, the split lip. He thinks of writing papers long into the night while his mother alternately mutters to the shadows and critiques his sentence structure.
The music has led him here, to this room, to this moment. He and his mother are at a place of peace, a place of understanding. The love between them is strong, immutable.
Diana spells aventure and points a proud finger at Reid. "Beat that, hotshot."
Reid grins. He does.
His mother rolls her eyes. "How'd you get so damn smart?"
Spencer smiles serenely. "I think my mom had something to do with it."
Diana nods thoughtfully, reaches for a tile. "Tell me more."
* * *
The next day his mother is missing.
In the space of thirteen hours, she has vanished.
Diana's improvements have given her less restrictions, she often goes outside to read on the wooden benches. She spends time in the entrance hall, offering a kind smile to the panicked patients who arrive, the hopeful ones who leave.
Diana's doctor calls Reid, her voice stretched thin with worry and regret.
Spencer bolts from the conference room, angry, furious, terrified. Rossi goes with him to Bennington, they search the hospital together. Spencer asks to see the security footage. The inside cameras picked up nothing out of the ordinary. There's his mother eating a piece of toast while taking notes on Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. There she is writing in her journal. There she is reading Under the Dome. Again, she's talking to a nurse. The nurse laughs. There's no footage from the grounds or the lobby. There's something wrong with the camera wiring.
Reid stands in the lobby, at a loss. There are fresh flowers at the reception desk. The intake nurse looks at Reid sadly. "I'm sorry, Doctor Reid. We'll call you as soon as we hear something." She amends the statement at Reid's expression. "As soon as your mother comes back, I mean."
Reid doesn't reply. He has nothing to say. His stomach hurts. Worry twists inside him. His cell bleats and he pulls it out hopefully.
JJ's name is on the display. Diana hasn't been missing 24 hours, but JJ and Hotch have been making discrete calls all morning.
"Have you heard anything?" Reid asks.
"Spencer."
There's something wrong with her voice. And she used his first name. She tries again. "Spence."
"Tell me," he says simply.
* * *
She told him to stay away. She used her public relations voice first, broke into tears, and ended up pleading. Reid hung up, halfway through. All he needs to do is drive.
He does.
His hands grip the wheel so tight they ache. He's hot and cold at once. The sun is too bright. His ears ring. It takes him twenty minutes to get across town. Twenty minutes. It feels like forever. It is forever. No matter how long he lives, nothing will ever take this long again.
There's a black and white parked across the alley. Two black SUVs flank the street. He can see the back of Derek's head, Emily's black hair. He doesn't look down the alley. Not yet. Not yet. Reid comes from the other direction. A uniformed cop stands in front of a fluttering line of yellow police tape. He realizes abruptly he left Rossi back at Bennington. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but getting past the tape.
Spencer pulls out his credentials before the cop has time to ask for them. "Doctor Spencer Reid with the Behavioral Analysis Unit." He points toward Prentiss. "I'm with them."
The cop frowns, starts to say something. "I think--"
Reid ignores him, slips under the tape. Emily sees him now, eyes wide, mouth drawn open in a stunned O.
"Reid," she says. "No. No don't."
Derek's already running toward him, hands up, shouting.
The cop puts a hand on Reid's arm. "Sir. You can't--"
Reid twists away from the officer's grip. He's never been a good fighter or athlete. But he's good at avoiding. He can avoid getting caught, avoid a punch, spar with words, deflect, dodge his way free from bullies and well-meaning friends alike.
Morgan reaches Reid, but it's too late. Reid can't unsee. He can't unknow.
Diana Reid is lying on her back, eyes open (watching), her blond hair matted with blood. She is covered in blood. Her denim skirt is ripped up one side. Her hands lie palm up, symmetrical, one on each side of her body. Reid thinks of butterflies.
He sees.
Defensive wounds on her arms. Her mouth--the mouth that told him stories, that kissed him goodnight, that smiled just for him--is gone. There is only blood.
Reid is standing at the far end of the alley. He is shaking. His body betrays him. Morgan and Hotch hold him up. Abruptly, Reid takes two steps, turns away, and vomits. He knows enough not to contaminate the crime scene.
The crime scene.
His mother is dead.
Murdered.
His mother.
His mother.
"Reid, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Emily says, and puts her arms around him. She's crying and Reid lets her.
Reid is silent. He cannot speak. He looks over Emily's shoulder, stares at the pink bouquet of roses at his mother's feet.
* * *
Spencer accompanies his mother's body to the morgue. Everyone tells him to go back to the hotel, to rest. As if a nap will raise his mother from the dead. He wants to laugh (scream). But he just shakes his head and walks stiffly toward the rental car.
"At least let me drive," Aaron says softly, following Reid. "Please."
The two men stare at each other. One pleads silently to be let in. The other pleads to be left alone.
Hotch wins. Reid nods reluctantly and slides into the passenger seat. Derek and Emily ride with Rossi.
At the morgue, Reid formally identifies his mother's body. The autopsy results won't be ready for days, but Reid knows enough (too much). He can count at least twelve stab wounds. His mother's eyes were blackened. She's missing her front teeth. He thinks stupidly, All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. He shakes his head, but the song sticks to his thoughts like gum.
He licks his lips. His mouth is very dry. He's having trouble swallowing. He's having trouble breathing. The room is both too bright and too dark.
His mother was beaten.
She was stabbed.
The bruising on her legs, the tear in her skirt. She was--
She was--
Reid sways. A cluster of black spots dances before his eyes. He leans against the wall, tries hard to stay upright. Aaron is hovering, but Spencer holds up a hand. He doesn't want Hotch to touch him. He can't be touched. Not anymore.
No one can touch Reid now. Spencer supposes Hotch could put his hand Reid's arm but it wouldn't mean anything. Hotch wouldn't be able to reach him.
Spencer leans against the tiled wall. The spots shimmer in his peripheral vision like ghosts. Reid blinks. His eyes feel heavy and hot, but he doesn't cry. He can't cry. If he cries, he is mourning his mother. And if he mourns his mother, it means she is really dead. It means the pale body on the metal table is all that's left of Diana Reid.
Reid clenches and unclenches his hands, thinking, thinking. Reid has gone quiet, away. Hotch probably thinks Reid's in shock. Which he is. But he's also thinking, trying to find a connection between his mother and the other women.
When Spencer was a little boy, his mother took him to the park. He had a yellow kite. He and his mother ran through the autumn wind, laughing, as the kite zigged through the air, higher, higher, higher. And then Reid tripped, and the kite kept going, riding the wind, until it was a yellow speck. Until it was nothing.
This is how Reid feels now. He can feel his future, his dreams, his goals, his life pulling away. Everything recedes to the size of a quarter, then a dime. Reid wonders if this is how Holly Sanderson feels. Twenty-four hours ago Spencer Reid had everything. A job he liked, friends, a mother.
He still has the job, the friends. But without his mother, Reid finds he's no longer interested in the other two. He no longer cares. Hope floats above him like a yellow kite, and Reid lets go.
* * *
Hotch drives him back to the hotel. Hotch tells him Reid's off the case, he's on leave. Reid nods and shuts the door to his room--very gently--in Hotch's face.
Aaron can say he's off the case, but Reid's not. There's nothing else for Reid to do but find the man who murdered (beat, stabbed, raped) his mother.
Reid sits on the edge of the bed, hands at his sides. He should make funeral arrangements. He should call his father. He should do something besides sit here. But he can't. He can't. It doesn't matter what he does now. His mother will still be dead.
"Reid?"
Emily's voice on the other side of the door. She sounds tentative. Gentle. This is the voice Emily saves for victims and children. Reid doesn't want to hear it.
He stares at the door, willing Emily to leave him alone. Reid tells himself if she leaves me alone, I'll be okay. This is a lie, but Reid's had his limit of truth today.
"Are you okay?" Emily pauses. "I know you're not okay, Reid. That's a stupid question and I'm sorry. I just--I think maybe you shouldn't be alone right now. Do you want some company? Can I help with--with anything?"
Prentiss is stumbling all over her words like she's been taking lessons from Reid. Spencer thinks he might be touched at her offer if he could still feel.
Reid stands and walks toward the door. He moves very slowly. He feels if he walks any faster, he'll fall down. And he's not certain he'll be able to get back up. Spencer puts one hand on the doorknob. He leans his forehead against the door. He can hear Emily breathing on the other side. He can imagine her listening, waiting, her own head mere inches from Reid's.
"Thank you, Emily," he says. He is very polite. His mother taught him well. His words are a sequence of letters, they mean nothing. He recites them like an algebra equation. "I would like to be alone right now."
"Reid--Spencer--please."
"No." This last word is a whisper. It feels smooth and hard in his mouth. It tastes like plastic.
Prentiss sighs on the other side of the door. "Okay. But if you change your mind, I'll be right here," she says.
Does she mean she's going to camp out in the hallway outside his door, or is she speaking metaphorically? Reid decides he doesn't care. His stomach twists then, and he lurches toward the bathroom. He falls to his knees and vomits up every good thing in his life until he is empty, pale and trembling. He vomits for hours or minutes, throat burning, head pounding, eyes watering. His eyes are watering, but he's not crying. There's a difference.
Finally, Spencer is empty. He slides onto the clean blue tile and rests his head against the side of the tub. His mouth tastes like rust and dirt and coffee. He wipes his hand over his mouth, closes his eyes. He is sweating profusely, hair sticks to his forehead, his face.
Reid has taken care of his mother his whole adult life. He's told people this. His friends, his mother's doctors. But now, Reid sees he was all wrong. Even from Bennington, his mother has been taking care of him. She gave him a purpose. She gave him love and support, even when he didn't deserve it. She showed him the true meaning of courage and strength. She read to him. She answered his letters. She smiled when she heard his voice. She made him laugh. She told him he was too skinny. She protected him from his father, yet never called Reid weak. She was proud of him.
And now, all this is gone.
Reid pushes himself to his feet. He kicks off his shoes, strips off his sweater vest, his shirt, his pants. He leaves everything in a pile on the bathroom floor. He turns the bathtub faucet, watches the water splash into the tub. When Reid was a boy, there was a ritual. He took a bath, put on his pajamas, and his mother would read to him. Whatever he wanted. Doctor Suess. Mark Twain. Dickens. Doyle.
When she got sick, refused to get out of bed, Reid promised to read to her if she took a shower, ate a bowl of cereal, took her meds. He read whatever she wanted: Marlowe, Stephen King. Baudelaire.
Reid steps into the bathtub. The water is hot; the small room is already foggy with steam. But Reid doesn't feel the heat. He's numb to everything; he shivers in the scalding water.
When he was a boy, every night was the same. Bath, pajamas, books. Reid wants to be that boy again. He wants to go back in time, let the water transport him into the past, into the safety of his mother's arms and the printed page. Reid sinks down, slides beneath the water. The tub is half full now. His knees stick out of the water so he can lie on his back. His head rests on the fiberglass bottom, hair floating, and he looks up through the water. The ceiling bends back and forth above him.
Spencer lifts his head out of the water, inhales carefully, submerges his face again. His feet, ankles, arms, torso, head: all are below water. It occurs to him he can go back in time if he stays just like this. The water can bring him to his mother after all.
Reid's never really thought about suicide. There are times he wanted to die (rope cuts into his ankles and wrists but the adolescent laughter hurts worse, the indifference, the hate) and times he did (dusty floor beneath his head, the smell of burning fish, pain in his head, Tobias' pale face). Reid has never actively pursued death, but it's certainly been following him. The torture, his drug habit, the anthrax, getting shot, he got through all of it. And even if he didn't tell his mother everything she never would have judged him. She believed in him, always and without question. Now that belief is gone.
All he has to do is stay here until the water seeps in, fills him up, weighs him down. It's the perfect way to die. Reid closes his eyes, tries to think it through. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, his lungs strain for air. He opens his eyes again, tries to convince himself the blue-tinted ceiling is the sky. His heart pounds, he's still shivering, the water isn't nearly hot enough. He tells himself he'll see his mother when he's done with his bath, just like when he was six.
All he has to do is relax. It's time.
She's waiting.
A dark shadow looms over the water and for one wild, hopeful second Spencer thinks Raphael, but then arms reach into the water, grab Reid's shoulders and yank him out of the tub.
"Jesus Christ," Derek says, "what the hell are you doing, Reid?"
Rossi's there too, standing in the bathroom doorway, eyes huge, mouth open.
Derek shakes Reid a little, lets go with one hand. Morgan runs his other hand over his smooth head. He leaves behind beads of water.
"I've been knocking for five minutes," he says. His voice trembles with emotion.
Reid can't tell if it's anger or worry. Maybe it's both. "I've been in the bathtub," Reid says, as if Morgan hasn't noticed. At another time Reid would feel ashamed at being discovered naked in a bathtub while attempting to drown himself. He would twist that shame into anger and file his words to bitter, stabbing points. Now Reid feels nothing but a distant annoyance. As if he's annoyed on someone else's behalf.
Morgan folds his arms, frowning.
"I was taking a bath," Reid explains, in case Morgan and Rossi are confused as to what a bathtub's function might be.
Morgan stares at Reid for a long time, as if trying to gauge Spencer's expression.
"Are you sure that's all you were doing?" Rossi asks. Then he flushes. "I mean, it's been a hard day and I--we--think it might be better if you weren't alone."
Reid points to the towel on the edge of the sink. "Can I have that, please?"
Derek hands it over. He and Rossi turn their backs, step into the main room.
"Look, kid," Derek calls. "I'm sorry to bust in here. When you didn't answer the door I guess...I guess I just freaked out a little."
"It's fine," Reid says. It isn't, but he's too tired, too empty to be angry. He exits the bathroom wrapped in the towel and a hotel robe. "But now I want to sleep, so if you don't mind." Reid points helpfully to the door. The doorjamb is cracked, but he's pretty sure the door will still close. Good enough.
Morgan huffs, shakes his head. "Nuh uh. I ain't leaving. You wanna sleep, go ahead. I'm gonna keep you company. I'll be real quiet, I promise. I can bring you a drink of water and everything." He smiles faintly.
Reid doesn't smile back. He calculates. If he gives in to Morgan's babysitting now, Derek is likely to give him space later. And Reid's going to need a lot of space.
"Is there anything I can do?" Rossi asks. He looks sincere, worried, all traces of his casual, constant smugness gone.
Leave. You can leave. Reid thinks. Aloud, he says, "I just need to lay down a while." Reid pauses, remembering. "Oh. I'm sorry I left you behind earlier. I wasn't thinking." But now he is.
Dave waves Reid's apology away. "Its not the first time I've taken a taxi and it won't be the last. Don't worry about it. And Spencer...if you need help contacting your--" Dave falters, "uh, anyone, just let me know."
Reid attempts to smile but his face muscles are as numb as the rest of him. He bobs his head a few times and hopes that does the trick.
It does. Dave leaves, shutting the door gingerly behind him.
"Okay," Morgan says, lowering himself into a chair. "Dave's gone. Now you can tell me the truth."
Reid pulls a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt from his bag. The pajamas are covered in images of books (not frogs). They're a gift from his mother. She called them his "library pj's."
Spencer makes a noncommittal noise. Morgan will probably take it to mean what are you talking about? What Reid really means is get the fuck out.
"I know you're not okay," Morgan says. "I'm not gonna insult you by pretending you are. But you gotta know if you need to talk or yell, or whatever, I'm here. Just promise me you won't hurt yourself."
Reid tips his head, considers Morgan with vague curiosity. "Did you think I was trying to drown myself?"
Morgan swallows. He looks uncomfortable, but maintains eye contact. "I don't know Reid. You tell me."
Spencer goes into the bathroom without answering. He leaves the door cracked while he slips into his pajamas. He knows the drill.
When he comes out, the room is dark. Morgan's got his chair tipped back against the wall, hands behind his head. He's listening to music, Reid can see the faint glow of his mp3 player.
Reid sits on the edge of the bed, curls onto his side. He rests his cheek on one hand. He's had the bath, he has his pajamas, but there is no Diana.
"You need anything?" Derek asks softly.
Spencer opens his mouth. He considers telling Morgan the truth: I need my mom. I need the name of the man who killed her. I need a dozen lungfuls of water. I need a few vials of dilaudid. I need to stop thinking.
Reid stares at the wall. "No," he says. "I'm fine."
* * *
She is sick with worry. Like, literally sick. She feels like she's got a bad case of food poisoning, as if her stomach is full of battery acid and rotten fruit. Old banana peels or something. The kind that are all black and withered and--
"Garcia."
Penelope sets her bag down on the closest desk, pulls her carry-on to a stop. She stares at Hotch and blinks back tears, sniffs.
He smiles wearily, nods gratefully. "Thank you for getting here so fast."
Garcia rolls her eyes. "I'm glad to be here. Well, not glad, because of, you know, but I want to help." Garcia scans the semi-deserted police station, simultaneously afraid she'll find Reid here, afraid she won't. She doesn't see him. Penelope turns back to Hotch, looks up at him. "Tell me how to help."
Garcia was already checking for connections between the women at Quantico, now she steps up the process. It's still early and she's tired. Except for a quick nap on the plane, she hasn't slept since hearing about Diana. She came straight to the station from the airport. Her feet are killing her, but at least they look fantastic in her red patent leather retro pumps.
Penelope turns one end of the conference room table into a makeshift work station. She arranges a few colorful knick-knacks, an Ugly doll, a handful of novelty pens around her laptop. There. Good to go.
Rossi and Emily show up just after 8:00 a.m. Next, JJ appears with a cardboard carrier of coffee. She hands the cups out, pauses to give Garcia's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
"Where's my main man?" Garcia asks, looking past JJ.
"When I left the hotel he was still with Reid," JJ says. Her face clouds. "We...thought someone should keep Reid company."
Garcia starts crying again. She doesn't mean to. She cried when Haley died, but this is different. Reid trusted her with the truth about his mother before anyone else. Garcia has always felt a kind of kinship with Diana and Reid because of that. Penelope lost her parents too, but at least they weren't murdered. At least her mother wasn't stabbed, wasn't raped. God, even Haley died better than that. Garcia feels guilty comparing Haley's death to Diana's and cries harder. She covers her face with one hand, bows her head.
"Oh God it's gonna be a long day," she mutters through her tears.
Emily hands Garcia a tissue. "I know."
Rossi pokes his head into the conference room. "Reid's here."
"What?" JJ and Emily exchange worried glances.
Garcia hurriedly dries her eyes.
Spencer walks in. He looks even more disheveled than usual. His hair is uncombed, his face too pale, eyes too dark. One shoe is untied. His gaze flicks around the room; it lands on Garcia's laptop, the dry erase board, the photos. He blinks, moves a step toward the newest pictures, shoelace trailing.
Emily moves in front of him, blocks his view.
"Reid, you shouldn't be here. You're off the case."
"I need to work," Reid says. His voice is dull, but his hands twist together unconsciously, desperately.
Emily lifts a smooth brow, guides Reid toward the table, into a chair. "Does Hotch know you're here?"
"I need to work," Reid repeats. He rests one hand on the table. His fingernails are ragged, bit to the quick. There's dried blood beneath his thumb nail.
Garcia kisses her fingertips, presses them gently to Reid's forehead.
"No you don't," Garcia says gently. She places her hand over Reid's. "You need to make arrangements. You want me to help? Go to the funeral home with you?"
Charlie Lewis appears in the doorway. He looks haggard. "Agent Jareau? Could I see you a moment?"
JJ casts a concerned look at Reid but nods. "Sure."
"And Agent Prentiss? I believe Agent Hotchner is looking for you."
"Thanks," Emily says, then to Reid: "I'll be back." She doesn't say it aloud, but the with Hotch is clearly implied.
As soon as the small group exits the room, Reid pulls out his cell phone. He takes several pictures of the notes on the white erase board, of the photos. Of his mother.
Garcia stares at him. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Reid says. He keeps his back to her.
"You're taking photos so you can still work on the case," Garcia tells him. She's not exactly surprised, but she doesn't like it. Not at all.
"Don't do that, Reid. Please. Just--just stop."
Reid's squinting at something in one of the photos.
Garcia tries again. "Reid. Come away from there. Talk to me."
"I am talking to you." He looks over his shoulder, points at MaryAnne Evans' hand. "She's missing a ring. Her daughter didn't mention it in the report, but there's the faintest indent just visible there. See it?"
Penelope looks. She doesn't see it, but she takes Reid's word for it. She trusts him implicitly.
"I didn't think about it yesterday, but I'm pretty sure my mom was missing her ring. I have a call in to the coroner to confirm."
"What ring?"
Derek walks into the room, hands in his pockets. He flashes Garcia a bright smile. "Hi babydoll." The smile fades by the time it reaches Reid. "Hey man, you ditched me." Derek's careful to keep the hurt out of his voice, but Garcia can see it in his eyes.
Reid shrugs. "I had to come in. I remembered something."
"Like what?"
"I think all the victims are missing rings. They're probably trophies, but it wouldn't hurt to check area pawn shops."
"What ring is your mom missing?" Garcia asks softly. She doesn't think Reid will answer, but he does.
He sinks back into the chair, rubs his forehead, then his chin. His hand finally finds its way to his mouth, where he worries at the nail for a long moment. Finally, he speaks around his thumb.
"Last Thanksgiving I went to see her. I gave her an original-spelling Middle English edition of The Canterbury Tales and a poesy ring." His eyes flick to Garcia. "Do you know what a poesy ring is?"
Garcia wants nothing more than to pull Reid's ruined finger from his mouth and hold his hand. Instead, she shakes her head, waits for Reid's lecture.
"In the Middle Ages poesy rings were a sign of love or friendship. I gave Mom one that said Amor Vincit Omnia. That's Latin for love conquers all. Which is a lie. Love doesn't conquer anything. It's weak and greedy and helpless." Reid speaks mechanically, rotely, as if he's reciting something particularly long and tedious. "Death conquers all."
"Reid--" Garcia whispers.
Spencer pulls his hand from his mouth, holds it up to stop Garcia's protest. His thumb is bleeding again. "Amor Vincit Omnia was engraved on the brooch worn by the Prioress in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and that's why I gave the ring to my mom. Only I don't think she was wearing it when--" Reid clears his throat, "uh, yesterday."
Garcia notices Reid's eyes are fixed on the plastic pink ring on her index finger. Abruptly, Reid closes his eyes, bows his head, inhales sharply.
"Are you all right?" Garcia asks.
Reid exhales slowly, nods. "I thought I was going to vomit. It passed."
"Emily and I can check out area pawn shops. Can you describe the ring?"
"I can do better," Reid says and reaches for a stack of post-it notes. "I can draw it."
Reid's still sketching when Hotch enters the room, trailed by Emily.
"Reid. What are you doing here? You're no longer on this case," Aaron says firmly. He darts an annoyed look at Derek.
Derek spreads his hands in a hey, I tried gesture.
"You helped catch Foyet," Reid says. Garcia flinches at the lack of affect in Spencer's tone, at the memory of how the Reaper brutally attacked Hotch.
"No," Aaron says carefully, "I tried to stop him from killing Haley. And I failed."
"I failed to save my mother."
"Reid, we knew who attacked me, who wanted Haley dead all along. We have no idea who our unsub is right now. Garcia, have you found any connections yet?"
"No sir," Garcia admits. She turns back to her computer screen, typing half-heartedly. It's hard to concentrate with Reid's pain so present.
"I want to catch the unsub who murdered my mom." As an afterthought Reid adds, "And those other three women. I want to."
"I know you do. And we'll catch him. But you need to take a step back and let us do the work, Reid. Let us do the hard part, all right?" Aaron speaks calmly, "You know the longer we stand here talking to you, the less we're getting done following up leads."
"I need to do something. I can't just sit in the hotel," Reid says, sliding the small sketch toward Morgan.
"I understand that," Hotch says, stepping closer. "But you're still not working the case."
Reid purses his lips, lifts his head to the ceiling, rocks back on his heels.
"Fine," he says, resigned. "I'll go."
Garcia grabs Reid's sleeve. "I love you, sweetie. We all do. You know that right?" Love might not conquer all, it might not conquer anything, but it still matters. Life without love isn't really living. "You know we're here if you need us."
Reid nods. He sighs tremulously. His lips compress into a tight line of misery. "I know. Thank you."
"I'll keep you updated," Hotch promises, patting Reid's shoulder as he passes.
"I'll check on you a little later," Emily adds.
"I'll bring you some lunch," Morgan says. He lowers his voice, nudges Reid's arm. "You sure you don't want some company?"
"I'm sure," Reid says. "Bye." He leaves without a backward glance.
"Oh, Christ," Emily says, as soon as Reid's gone. "This is horrible." She looks at Aaron. "Do you think...do you think it would be out of line to suggest he attend a local NA meeting?"
Hotch's face goes hard. "I think it's out of line to mention Reid attend any kind of meeting in front of anyone other than myself."
Derek shrugs. "Yeah, but we're all thinking the same thing," he says.
"We don't exactly keep secrets, sir," Garcia admits hesitantly.
"Well maybe you should. Reid's fine."
"With respect, sir, I don't think he is. Reid doesn't have anyone but us and his father. And he's not close with his father at the best of times. I just think he could use a little support." Garcia's heart pounds and the sick feeling returns to her stomach, but she doesn't back down. "The same kind of support you had, sir."
Only Reid will never have that kind of support. Reid doesn't have a brother, parents, in-laws, a child who loves him. Reid has an estranged father and his friends. Co-workers. Garcia reaches for her crumpled tissue and wipes her eyes.
"It isn't fair. Not after everything he's been through," Garcia says, voice cracking.
Hotch's shoulders slump. "I know, Garcia. But the best way we can help Reid right now is to catch this unsub. That means everybody gets back to work right now. Understand?"
Garcia does. "Yes sir," she says, and concentrates hard on the information scrolling across her screen.