Criminal Minds/Supernatural Fic: When You Are Done 3/6
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dean needed Sam to come and get him now. It had been manageable the first hour or so, but he was more than ready for Princess Dorkface to get his act together and bust him out of this shitty-ass hole.
Ass hole, ha.
He really hoped Sam was going to bring some salt and gasoline. His brother was usually the perfect Boy Scout (whereas Dean had gotten kicked out of his second meeting when he showed those pussies how to build a real bonfire), but Sam could get queer when Dean wasn’t around.
He had a feeling if he could see better, he would be really freaked out by the bone he was absentmindedly fiddling with. Though it had freaked him out initially, it had given him the leverage necessary to get his bound wrists in front of him. Dean was sure the twine was going to break any minute now; his teeth were started to get sore from gnawing at it and the metallic taste wasn’t doing his already queasy stomach any favors.
A wind whispered down his spine. “Seriously, just calm down,” he yelled, though the wind continued to blow. Dean felt every inch of his thirty-one years (seventy-one, his mind corrected traitorously) as his joints protested the sudden change in temperature. “We’ll figure this out,” he promised, hoping it might have some sort of effect. Hell, at this point he’d pinky-swear while wearing a tutu if that’s what it took.
Huh, maybe this was some sort of new scheme of Zachariah’s to get him to agree to be Michael’s angel condom. Dean didn’t think so, being abandoned in a freezing hole lacked that ‘smug asshole’ vibe Zachariah’s plans usually exuded, but maybe the dude was learning.
The cold had well and truly settled into his clothes, hell, into his bones (and the one he was absently playing with, he reflected morbidly).
Sam really needed to hurry the fuck up.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
JJ considered riding in car with Reid good training for Henry’s toddler years, but she maintained hope that her son’s breath capacity would be significantly less than her colleague’s. She loved Spence, but sometimes a girl just wanted to crank some Hank and zone out.
With no further information from their interviews, she wasn’t looking forward to reporting the lack of progress to Hotch. However, she seized the opportunity her ringing phone presented to halt Reid’s current lecture regarding the benefits of socialization on toddlers. She wasn’t yet sure if this was a new ploy of his and Garcia’s for increased time with Henry or a rationale for Henry starting preschool sooner.
The caller ID showed Hotch calling. “Hotch, nothing new to add from our end. The Grothman family didn’t recognize the other victims or have any new information to offer.”
Reid poked her in the arm. “Tell him about the investigating officers,” he hissed.
JJ wanted to swat him, but then she’d be driving with her knees and the Bureau would never let her hear the end of it if she crashed their SUV, not to mention her co-worker. She settled for a quick glare instead. “We talked to the investigating officers. They found no evidence of violence or recent threats. Didn’t find any evidence Jennifer Grothman was planning on running away either, but with no leads they couldn’t really do anything besides put the case on the backburner.”
Hotch sighed. “Rossi and I didn’t have much more luck at the Miller house. We’ll see you soon.”
“About half an hour,” JJ confirmed before ending the call. Reid was looking out the window intently. “You’ve never seen trees before?” she teased.
“It’s not that,” Reid replied frowning. “I was looking at the road signs.”
“And?”
Reid’s face suddenly cleared. “The road signs, JJ. The highway!”
“The highway what?”
“All the victims are from towns on, or near, this highway, US-141,” he said triumphantly. “It’s not much to go on, I know.”
“It’s something,” JJ offered. “Male, Caucasian, uses this highway.”
“Maybe there’s something significant about the highway to the unsub?” Reid theorized.
“So you want to pursue Rossi’s trucker theory now?”
Reid glared at her. “JJ, Rossi’s trucker theory wouldn’t work. A trucker wouldn’t be able to keep to a consistent four-month schedule all these years.”
JJ thought it over. “Well, the same highway year after year implies local.”
“I would have said a seasonal hunter,” Reid said, “but the months don’t really match the local hunting seasons very well.”
“Not too much open in January and September. Hunting’s usually best around October.” At Reid’s questioning look, she elaborated, “My brothers and dad usually liked to make a weekend out of it. It was kind of nice to have my mom to myself for a couple days-we’d always go and get manicures.”
“A weekend,” Reid repeated. “JJ, do you know what January, May, and September have in common?”
“They’re all months?” JJ deadpanned.
“They all have federal holidays-specifically, they all have three-day weekends with Mondays,” Reid replied.
“That’s not much to go on,” JJ argued. “Most businesses take those days off too.”
“Crivitz’s local economy is tourism driven-no way anyone connected to that industry would be able to get away during their busiest times,” Reid replied.
“That should definitely narrow the list of suspects. Call Hotch and Garcia,” JJ ordered, hope blossoming in her chest. They were going to catch this guy before be grabbed another woman, she knew it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was time for a break, Garcia decided as she pondered Troll Princess Lovelace’s next move in her campaign to conquer the west side of the desk. Dux Holberton’s forces were making a valiant stand, but the right flank was taking serious damage. But Holberton was crafty and had the home turf advantage, so she might prevail.
Garcia sat up straight and resisted the urge to bang her head against the desk. It would only mess up her bangs and they were slamming today. Hotch had asked her to focus on the most recent victims, as they had the most complete case files and the details of the victims’ disappearances were more fresh in their families’ minds. But normally the boss-man had her look at the first victim-she was usually the most important to the unsub in some way.
“Ok, Garcia,” she said out loud. “Profiling 101, the first victim is special. Add that to the disgusting fact that our creep of the week likes to alternate between Crivitz and surrounding areas every four months, and what do we get?”
She wondered what was so special about, she checked her notes, Mary Hardsof that had set the unsub off. The twenty-four year-old was one of the oldest taken and she, like Grace Nichols, was from Crivitz. The unsub had started in Crivitz and then avoided the actual town for three years before taking Grace Nichols. What was going on?
She twirled a sparkly pen thoughtfully. “Someone is trying to hide their tracks.”
She allowed herself a victory twirl in her chair before resettling to stare at the screens. “Ok, I’m a psycho who likes to abduct women. I start in my hometown, then travel around the area for other victims. But I take another victim from Crivitz, why?”
Garcia frowned. “This getting inside the psycho’s head is a lot more fun, and sexier, when Morgan does it,” she disclosed to a nearby picture of the man. “Oh, beautiful boy, if you only knew the extraordinary lengths I go to for you.”
She picked up Dux Holberton and stroked her lime green hair thoughtfully. “You’re right, home turf advantage. I go back home because it’s safe. No one noticed what I’m doing, so it’s ok to cycle through again.”
“OK computer,” she cried, replacing Dux and cracking her knuckles. “Don’t fail me now. We need a white guy, currently in his thirties to forties who’s been living in Crivitz since at least September 2007.”
“Prison and police records? Why yes, Troll Princess Lovelace, that would be useful data to check against tax returns from the area. Thank you for the suggestion.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Dean walked from this room?” Castiel asked, at last apparently satisfied with the room’s décor.
Sam nodded, not trusting himself to restrain the impulse to throttle the angel if he asked another question about nursery rhymes.
The angel continued, “And you searched the surrounding area?”
“Walked for a mile in each direction,” Sam confirmed. “Couldn’t find a trace of him.”
“Dean likes the Impala,” Castiel said. “He would not have left it if he had anticipated a long journey.”
“That’s why I’ve been freaking out all day,” Sam said slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child. At Castiel’s glare, Sam made a mental note to remember that while Castiel looked like a walking model for Tax Accountants-R-Us, at his core he was an ancient force who could smite him as easily as Sam could squash a fly. And Sam was not Castiel’s preferred Winchester brother. Dean might get a pass from the angel for most of his attitude, but since Sam had released Lucifer to walk the earth again, he was pretty sure Castiel tolerated him at best.
Castiel cleared his throat. “How far would Dean consider an acceptable distance to walk in place of driving?”
“Under five minutes,” Sam replied promptly. His brother could find any excuse to drive the Impala. He and Dean used to do so many “errand” runs the summer his father had officially given Dean ownership, Sam wouldn’t be surprised if they had added an extra 200 miles just from driving between the crappy apartment they were staying in at the time and the local Wal-Mart.
Castiel was looking at him. “What?” Sam asked self-consciously.
“What is within five minutes of here that Dean may have wanted to visit?” Castiel prompted.
“There’s the police station a couple blocks south and the restaurant is right next door,” Sam replied, dropping into the beaten-up chair in the corner of the room heavily. “But no one there has seen Dean. Laurine Nichols lives a few blocks southeast of here, but I don’t know why he’d go back. Talking to her was what convinced him this wasn’t our kind of case.”
“Would he have gone back for,” Castiel paused to frown, “other matters?”
Sam frowned. His brothers’ libido was legendary but, “I never saw her, I was at the library down the street the whole time. But he probably would have taken the car for that.”
“Would he have gone to the library?”
“I doubt it,” Sam replied. “But it beats sitting around here. Let’s go.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Come on in,” a voice instructed from somewhere inside a fortress of books. Well, Prentiss amended mentally as she tried to find a clear path into the room, it wasn’t so much a fortress as freestanding piles upon piles of books level with her shoulder. She imagined Reid’s apartment might look somewhat similar; she’d have to test the theory once the case was over.
A man in his mid-thirties finally popped his head out from behind one of the piles of books. He was Caucasian, had a wide, round face, and wore glasses. He held out a hand as he approached, “Flynn Carsen, it’s nice to meet you…”
“Special Agent Emily Prentiss,” she replied, matching his firm handshake. “Do you have a minute to talk? I was hoping to ask you a few questions about a missing persons case I’m working on.”
“Sure, take a seat.” He gestured to two wooden chairs, each mercifully free of books. “Who’re you looking for?”
Prentiss took a seat and opened her notebook. “It’s actually an older case, but Mary-Anne at the front desk thought you might be able to help with some lingering details. Did you know Grace Nichols?”
Carsen looked up at the ceiling. “It’s a pretty small town, Agent Prentiss. Everyone knows everyone, at least a little. I moved here eight years ago and it’s like I grew up here-everyone knows everyone’s business. I knew Grace a bit; she used to come to the library pretty frequently. I always pulled new travel books so she could be the first to read them.”
“Did she ever talk to anyone specifically? Complain about anyone bothering her?”
“Not that I recall,” Carsen confessed. “She was a real pretty girl, looked kind of like you actually.”
The hair on Prentiss’ neck stood up at that. Male, Caucasian, wouldn’t meet her eyes, about the right age-time for a tactical retreat to sick Garcia on him. Pulling out a business card, she stood and shook Carsen’s hand again. “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Carsen. If you think of anything, could you give me a call?”
She was at the door when Carsen spoke up. “Oh, Agent Prentiss,” he called out.
She turned and met a crowbar head-on.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The library wasn’t the biggest he’d been in, but neither was it the smallest. On the whole, it would have been unremarkable save for the new microfiche machines and office chairs they had installed. Sam had been treated to a twenty-minute lecture on the new additions when he visited earlier in the week. Jo’s notes had been maddeningly vague; all they’d had to work with was Laurine’s telephone number and a short list of creatures that could have taken Grace without leaving a body.
Still they owed it to Jo, not to mention to Ellen, to see her jobs finished. If they hadn’t asked for help in Missouri… Sam stopped his train of thought there. They had gone out fighting, died so he and Dean could have a shot at killing Lucifer. It may not have worked, but Sam would be damned if he’d let himself, or anyone else, try to cheapen their deaths by living in “if onlys.”
Mary-Anne Krakowski was working the front desk again. Sam crossed his fingers that she wouldn’t try to cop another feel. Lady might be older, but she was feisty. He could tell the moment she sighted him, she sat up straight and arched her back.
Sam really wished Dean was there; he ate this shit up.
He turned to Castiel and whispered, “Just let me do the talking, all right.”
Castiel looked vaguely offended. “I have done this before.”
They reached the front desk before Sam could press him for details.
“Agent Jones,” Mary-Anne cooed. “It’s so good to see you again. Did Agent Page pass along my regards?”
“I’m sorry?”
Mary-Anne looked annoyed. “Agent Page was here this morning, we had a real nice talk. You should have told me you had a partner! And such a cute one too. I asked him to pass along my regards.”
“That’s actually why I came in,” Sam said, hope rising rapidly in his chest. “I haven’t been able to contact Agent Page all morning and I’ve been trying to retrace his steps. Do you know what time he left? Did he say where he was going?”
“You know,” Mary-Anne said frowning, “I don’t know. He wanted to talk to Flynn Carsen, something about that poor girl’s disappearance. I must have missed him leaving somehow,” she trailed off, frowning in consternation. “Not really sure how though.”
She looked at him, “Is something going on with the Grace Nichols case? A FBI agent was here earlier asking about her too, told her the same thing I told your brother-Flynn Carsen’s your guy.”
“Would it be possible to talk to Mr. Carsen?” Sam asked, jumping at the chance of finding his brother.
“Go through the double-doors in the back there. Flynn’s office is pretty easy to find-it’s the one with the books flowing out like there’s been some sort of book-alanche.” She laughed at her own joke.
Normally Sam would have forced laughter alongside her, but the idea of wasting another minute on social niceties when he could be finding Dean was too hard. He settled for nodding and flashing her a quick smile, dragging Castiel to the back of the library quickly.
Mary-Anne’s description of Flynn Carsen’s office was an understatement. The hallway floor was covered in books. The bibliophile in Sam shuddered at their slipshod conditions. He knocked on the door several times but no one answered. He tried the knob, but the office was locked.
He knelt down and took a look at the lock. “Cas, keep a lookout, would you?”
“Where am I looking out to?” Castiel asked as he stared at Sam reshaping a paperclip he had fished out from his pocket.
“I want you to watch the hallway,” Sam explained. “I’m breaking into the office to take a look around. We don’t want anyone to catch us.”
After a few false turns, they were finally in. Thank god the library hadn’t sprung to update the locks along with the microfiche. He opened the door cautiously, “Hello?”
If Sam thought the hallway was bad, the office was another level entirely. While there were careful piles that formed paths towards the back, the area closest to the door was a disaster. The meticulously stacked piles had been decimated; books flung haphazardly, spines bent at awkward angles. There was something by the corner, Sam noticed uneasily, a puddle of dark liquid.
Blood.
Fresh blood, judging by its color, which ruled out Dean. But hadn’t Mary-Anne mentioned a federal agent had just visited?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Morgan hated cases like these, where every possible witness was another dead-end, they had nothing tangible to work with, and time was slipping through their fingers. He hated himself for thinking it, but at least with bodies they had a starting place. Was their guy a sadist or maybe a sexual sadist? Did he prefer strangulation, firearms, knives?
Morgan wanted something solid, he wanted someone he could chase down a street and pound until he knew the sick bastard would never get a chance to hurt another woman again. He resisted the urge to snarl as he dropped into a chair in the conference room. The board hadn’t changed much in the hours he’d been gone; Hotch’s precise letters had added a theory about state or federal employees and the unsub’s connection with Highway 141 to their earlier theorized physical characteristics spelled out in JJ’s loopy script.
Hotch spared him a sympathetic look before returning to his hushed conversation with Officer Gabert.
“No luck with the boyfriend?” Rossi asked, cradling a cup of steaming coffee protectively.
“Kid had a lot to say,” Morgan replied. “Nothing useful though. Did Prentiss tell you if her theory panned out?”
Rossi looked blank. “What theory?”
“I don’t know. She had some idea she wanted to test out after we left Laurine Nichols’ house,” Morgan replied. “Where is she anyway?”
“Hotch,” Rossi called. “You’re going to want to hear this.”
Morgan’s stomach sank. “Prentiss isn’t back yet?”
Both men shook their heads. “What time did you two split up?” Hotch asked.
Morgan checked his watch. “We finished the Nichols interview around two. Prentiss said she had an idea and would just walk back to the police station. It should have been a five minute walk, max.”
“Call her phone,” Hotch instructed Morgan. “Dave, call Garcia. See if she can pinpoint Prentiss’ location from her phone’s GPS.”
“Call won’t go through,” Morgan reported after his third attempt still refused to connect.
“I’ve got Garcia,” Rossi said as he pushed several buttons on his Blackberry in an attempt to get the technical analyst on speakerphone. Morgan reached over and put the older agent out of his misery, but the man only shot him a sour glance in response.
“I was just about to call you,” Garcia said cheerily. “I think I can help narrow down your suspect pool.”
“Garcia, that’s wonderful. But could you do us a favor first?” Hotch asked. “Track Prentiss’ phone down, she’s not picking up and was due back about two hours ago.”
The analyst cursed loudly and creatively. Morgan was pretty sure he and Rossi had matching raised eyebrows; he didn’t know his baby girl knew so many colorful expressions. “That’s it, I am getting you kids tracking chips,” he heard mumbled over the clacking of Garcia’s keyboard.
“What was that?” Morgan asked.
“Nothing,” Garcia replied, too intent on her work to bother feigning innocence. Morgan wondered if he should be worried about any of his medical or dental appointments in the coming months.
“Prentiss’ phone is off,” Garcia said, suddenly all business. “But a little thing like that can’t stop me. Let me just access the GPS…. oh crap.”
“Garcia?” Hotch asked.
“Sorry boss, no can do on the GPS. Looks like the chip’s been damaged or something, it’s not transmitting,” she replied despondently.
“Keep trying,” he instructed. “Call me immediately if you find anything.” Morgan interrupted before she could disconnect. “You said earlier you could help us narrow the suspect pool. How?”
“I looked at the residents of Crivitz and its immediate surroundings and pulled everyone who has been living in the area consistently since September 2007, when the first victim was taken. That pulled up pretty much all the male members of town, not a lot of population change. Anyway, after JJ and Reid told me to exclude men who work in a tourism related industry, I got the list down to about twenty.”
“Can you…,” Hotch started to ask when Garcia interrupted.
“Send the names to you? Already done. I’m still looking to see if any of them have criminal records.”
Morgan grinned. “Thanks Garcia.”
On to Part Four