Ah, Spencer Reid. He is a most fascinating boy. His family history alone contains enough drama to keep me very, very interested. And inspired, I guess...
DISCLAIMER: DON'T OWN IT. IF I DID, I'D HAVE LOTS MORE MONEY THAN I ACTUALLY DO.
Michigan in winter. The season arrives with a capital letter.
Ice, snow, rain; it's a cold day in a cruel world, and Agent Spencer Reid had a brand new murder case. Home invasion, grisly; in the photos he was shown, he couldn't honestly tell the dead man's face from the ugly, maroon carpet it had been pulverized into.
(He thinks, what a convenient colour)
And Spencer hates to drive, but in this place it's the only way to get to anywhere else, so here he is, squinting into the elemental onslaught, windscreen wipers going at it full tilt, as his stupid, little car takes him back in to the heart of town. The engine whines like an animal being tortured (or a child), and he doesn't really want to think about it. So instead, for fun, he lists all of the 50 different states in his head, and then all of their capitals too. Then, when the thought of torture persists, he simply does it all over again. Slower.
(He thinks, I've been doing this job for far too long)
He drives past the police station, the town hall, and more than a couple of unfriendly-looking bars, which no doubt contain their fair share of unfriendly-looking people. After all, nobody likes to know that they've got the F.B.I. on their doorstep. It doesn't make them feel safe.
Ironic.
Spencer pulls up into the driveway of a nice, stately-looking two-storey, just a five minute walk from some place called O'Rourke's ("save on shots!"), and then another ten to a place called Northfall Baptist ("save your souls!"). A nice location. He puts on his gloves and his hat before he gets out of the car, and he checks to see if his jacket is zipped right all the way up to the top, even though he already knew that it was.
Outside the premises, the yellow, banner advertisement-style crime scene tape is still everywhere, but Spencer disregards it entirely and goes right on inside. There are no detectives around, no police guard; clearly protecting the evidence is the local P.D.'s highest priority…
(He thinks, I guess I'm a cynic by now, huh?)
At least the body is gone, though. He doesn't think that he could have stood it if it wasn't. Even just standing here, staring at the more-maroon-than-ever carpet is starting to make him feel sick to his stomach.
(He thinks, my God, this was an awful mistake)
Too late now. Blood has caked the walls in a gruesome take on a Jackson Pollock painting; there is a smiling porcelain geisha on the mantel, caked in somebody's day-old brains. That person suffered a hideous, undignified death, and something in Spencer's chest tightens like a fist at the thought of it.
For regardless of their previous crimes, no-one ever deserves to go out like this. And for what? The sheriff had told him earlier that there had been a particularly large jar of nickels and dimes on the mantelpiece next to the innocent, unsuspecting geisha. He told him that small towns like this one have had a growing drugs problem since the mid-eighties, what with the breakdown of the traditional family unit and all, and the way that folks nowadays felt as though they could just do what they pleased, with no regard for anything or anyone else. No respect for human life, he said grimly, and Spencer had nodded politely and then stopped listening altogether. It was amateur psychology, at best.
But still…no-one deserved to be pounded into the floor for what was probably ten or fifteen dollars in loose change. It somehow seemed to devalue the things in their life that had actually meant something; it made it hard to imagine them as anything other than dead.
(He thinks, I don't really remember him at all)
And there is really nothing for him to do here. Hotch is going to have a litter of extremely angry kittens on Monday when he learns about this little violation of agent protocol, but Spencer still feels as though he is, at least a little bit, justified in his actions. He feels as though he had, at least, to just come here and see if there was anything he could do.
Nothing.
He knows now that he should probably get out of here, before anyone who's actually, legitimately involved in the case shows up. He knows that he should be back at the hotel, putting on his one and only very smart suit, and getting ready to exchange empty consolations with a roomful of complete and utter strangers.
But he doesn't go.
No, instead, he just stands there, in the middle of the living room, carefully not touching anything, and stares at the only thing in the entire place (himself included) that doesn't seem to be stained with the marks of death.
A family snapshot; a man, a woman and two little boys. All four of them standing there smiling in the sunshine, all four of them bright and beaming and happy. Just happy to be there, on that beach in Florida or California or wherever, and happy to be there together. They are a tanned, attractive, and thoroughly American family.
(He thinks, it must be nice to be so normal; he thinks, I wish that everything didn't seem to end like this)
For it seems now that maybe there are no happy endings after all. It seems now that even rare second chances can only end in pain and disillusionment, in families being torn brutally asunder. Spencer lists the state capitals over and over again in his head just to keep it from exploding; he thinks perhaps of saying a little prayer out loud for the dead, but then quickly decides against it. It wouldn't mean anything (for religion these days leaves a very bad taste).
So instead, he just stands there a little bit longer, breathing in and breathing out, staring at a very happy memory that he was never meant to be a part of. He can't quite bring himself to say goodbye, he can't quite think of anything appropriate to say at all. For in this place, he is a stranger still.
So he sighs. He whispers, "I'm sorry, Dad" to the unresponsive room. Nothing changes, and he doesn't start to feel any better.
But then, what did he eve really expect?
(He thinks, there is nothing for me here to do)
In a town called Northfall, Michigan, Spencer Reid says goodbye to his father's ghost.
(You've been a ghost for fifteen years)