And Saturn Devoured His Sons
Only in art will the lion lie down with the lamb, and the rose grow without thorn.
(Martin Amis)
Chapter One
It was late morning and the crisp November wind chilled Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Olivia Reid to the bone as she stepped out of the SUV. To the casual onlooker, a stranger passing on the street, Olivia was simply a thin brunette following the dress code of an orthodox business professional. In her charcoal-gray peacoat, black pants, and nondescript flats, Olivia was as close to being nobody as she could get. Out of habit, she shouldered her messenger bag away from the gun she normally carried—the one token, besides her credentials, that marked her, a young woman who weighed maybe one-twenty soaking wet, as somebody. She used the open passenger door as a shield from the wind and swept her long hair into a messy bun that she secured with a jaw-clip. Reaching back into the SUV, Olivia grabbed a small pile of manila folders and her Bureau badge off of the dashboard. Standing at maybe five-five, she stood almost on the tips of her toes, like a child reaching for an object positioned somewhere just a smidge too high to successfully obtain while standing on flat feet, and silently wished she weren't the shortest person in her family.
Olivia was still considering the SUV's interior, unable to banish the nagging fear that she'd forgotten something of dire importance, when something soft was draped around her neck. She jumped and struck out with the precision of a well-trained government agent, but the blow was intercepted by her tall, dark-skinned 'attacker.' When she saw him, she hissed a curse fit to shame sailors and her mother before slamming the door. "Derek," she said in a tone that suggested she was severely tempted to punch the older agent, who was smirking and holding his hands up in a show of mock surrender, in the jaw, "bad move. If I had my gun, I could've shot you, you know."
Derek Morgan reached out and touched his scarf, which was now resting on his younger counterpart's shoulders and draping loosely across her throat. "You look like you're freezing, Liv," he explained lightly, still smirking. Their vehicle beeped softly in the background when he locked it remotely. "It's that thin Nevada blood of yours."
"Spencer and I have lived in D.C. for almost ten years, Derek," Olivia replied. She looked at her watch. "And we're going to be late if we don't move it," she added, gesturing with one hand in the general direction of Sacred Heart Psychiatric Hospital.
As they made their way to the imposingly large red-brick institution, Derek threw one arm around his partner's shoulders. Olivia smiled and looked up at him. "Thank you," she said.
"Anything for my girls," was the reply.
"You're such a good guy," Olivia continued. "And it's funny because you don't seem to realize it."
At that, Derek let out a small laugh. "And here I though Garcia was the only flirt on this team," he teased.
"I'm not flirting," she told him unnecessarily—he already knew, of course. "I'm just commenting. You're like a brother to me." They were quiet for a moment. The sound of their footfalls against the pavement, crunching over a fallen leaf or two, was like a makeshift symphony. Olivia concluded with, "I'm glad Hotch made us partners this time around," before falling silent, looking slightly uneasy.
Derek checked the clock on his phone. They still had some time, so he stopped. His arm had been around Olivia's shoulders and she was forced to be still. He moved to face her. She glanced at the short distance between them and the entrance and was on the verge of protesting, but Derek spoke first, "Liv, you need to breathe."
Olivia's cheeks and ears were flushed red from the chill. "I am breathing," she countered, "but we should probably get inside. The interview is scheduled for ten-thirty."
He looked at her searchingly. "What's making you so nervous, Liv?"
Olivia knew that to avoid her friend's intense gaze would indicate something amiss. "I'm not nervous," she told him. I think this is a disturbing case. I don't want to do this custodial. I have a bad feeling.
"Is everything okay at home?"
What? Where did that come from? "Morgan," she said firmly, "I'm fine. Spencer's fine. I just don't want to be late for this, okay? That accident took more time to detour around than I assumed."
For a moment, he looked as if he would say more. Olivia didn't want to face questions about whether or not Spencer was still dealing with the after-effects of Georgia, almost nine months later to the day. She wasn't sure she could talk about her mother and how her doctors were trying to change her meds, both the antipsychotics and the mood-stabilizers, following last week's incident.
I'd rather be in Nevada comforting my sick mother than chasing after this UnSub.
"Let's go," he said in a tone that suggested this conversation was far from over.
She didn't need to be told twice. She readjusted her bag and entered the building. Of course, to prove chivalry was not even close to being dead, Derek Morgan held the door open for her.
They took an elevator to the eighth floor. The building was large, width-wise, but stood only eleven stories high. According to some simple research Olivia had done, the eighth floor was reserved for criminally psychotic patients who needed to be on maximum security around the clock; they were on constant suicide watch, were subjected to fifteen-minute welfare checks, all visitors were thoroughly screened and required to go through a metal detector, and mail was always to be opened in the presence of staff members. Nevertheless, a paranoid schizophrenic slit his wrists and died last year, even with the precautions.
Of course, reading about the young man's death had saddened Olivia greatly. Though he had committed horrific crimes in order to be placed at Sacred Heart, Olivia nearly had a full-blown panic attack when she reviewed the details of the suicide; it was only natural in the wake of Diana Reid's most recent breakdown for the young profiler to conjure up various scenarios, all of which ended with the untimely death of the mother she loved so fiercely. She and Spencer had taken great care in choosing Bennington. They could have sent her to a cheaper state facility, like Rawson-Neal or Southern Nevada, but Bennington was a beautiful sanitarium with nice, private rooms and top-of-the-line staff. Diana's guilt-ridden children had felt slightly better knowing these things in the immediate wake of the involuntary commitment. Olivia caught her mind wandering; she remembered touring the facility, interviewing staff, and she especially remembered the long conversations with the psychiatrists both before and after everything had happened.
Derek and Olivia, though they were expected, were still forced to jump through hoops to get their guest badges and then gain access to the eighth floor. Once there, they were patted down and required to walk through the metal detector. Because of their status as high-ranking government officials, they were allowed to keep their mobile phones; it didn't hurt that Olivia mentioned a family emergency which required her to keep her cell, either. Also, because the purpose of the visit was a custodial interview, Olivia received the blessing of the head psychiatrist, Dr. Roger Hillman, to keep her messenger bag and her copies of the case materials.
Dr. Hillman had arranged a workable setup in the interview room for the visiting federal agents. There were several salmon-pink couches and armchairs, all of which were stiff and clean from lack of frequent use. There were three armchairs arranged around a foldable card-table. The room was viewable from behind a one-way mirror, where Dr. Hillman promised a full security detail would be on standby should anything disagreeable happen. Because of the nature of the crimes their interviewee had committed, it was nonnegotiable that two guards would also be present in the room, less than a foot away at all times, but unarmed. "With the security detail in such close proximity in the interview room," Hillman explained as Olivia prepared the files on the table, "I'm taking every precaution to ensure your safety and that of my staff. There will be five armed officers behind the one-way, and three medical staff, including myself, with the properly prepared equipment."
Like sedatives, Olivia mused.
They declined refreshments and thanked the doctor for setting this up. He shook their hands and took his leave. Roger Hillman's parting words were that the inmate would be ready momentarily.
Derek Morgan took a seat beside Olivia. He stared at the single empty armchair across from him for a moment, and then flicked his gaze to the young woman on his left. Olivia Reid appeared relatively calm, to someone who didn't know her. But Derek had been working with Olivia for a few years at this point, and he was nothing if not a fantastic profiler with the years of experience to prove it, and he knew better.
The brunette was arranging files and digging through the messenger bag she'd carefully set at her feet. It was busy work, but fruitless. The untrained eye would not have noticed Olivia casually rearranging the file order for absolutely no reason other than mindless distraction. Derek's eyes were not untrained.
Not nervous, my ass, Derek thought.
Ever the brilliant young doctor, Olivia, bad feelings notwithstanding, was not to be intimidated. Her wide eyes fixated on Derek. "Want to do a quick review?"
Actually, he did. The custodial interview was something of a last-minute endeavor. The discovery of their institutionalized client had been entirely Penelope Garcia's fault, and it was a happy accident. "You, Dr. Reid, are the renowned psychologist, geneticist, and kickass profiler. I bow to your wisdom in all things."
Olivia snorted. "You're spending too much time with Garcia," she told him. She opened the top folder. It was unlabeled and thicker than the others, having to be secured with a thick rubber-band. Absently, she slipped the band around one slender wrist. "Gregory Sutherland," she said, tapping one finger on the three-by-five photo insert, "was known as 'The Phantom' from 1973 until his arrest in 1994. Like our new Phantom, he killed people who he believed were unrepentant sinners. In fact, when he was arrested, he called them dirty sinners and claimed they were straying from the Lord, and during his arraignment in August, 1994, Sutherland called the judge a filthy, hypocritical Satan and told her she'd, and here I'm paraphrasing the wordy rant of a psychopath, rot in hell where the demons would rape her body and afterwards feast on her flesh every day for eternity."
"And you said that was an allusion to his cannibalism?" Derek asked.
"Mmhmm," Olivia assented with a slow nod, "definitely. The profilers that worked Sutherland's case initially correctly placed him as a paranoid schizophrenic suffering from religious delusions. It's actually not an uncommon diagnosis for killers acting on behalf of either God or Satan, though these sort of deity-mandated delusions don't always indicate paranoid-type or schizophrenic-related mental illnesses."
She wasn't reading the file, as she knew it by heart, but she did flip to a different page. "He cut out and consumed their tongues and eyes, and stuffed cotton-balls in their ears."
Derek nodded. "Speak no evil, see no evil, and hear no evil."
"To absolve whose sins, we don't know. These were all done pre-mortem, but the way in which he disposed of the bodies indicates possible forgiveness for both his and the victims' sins. He didn't just dump them carelessly. He bathed them and laid them out for burial in clean clothes." Olivia flipped through a series of photographs—crime scenes, bodies laid out in various cemeteries across the United States, Canada, and even Mexico. Several similar murders in Germany, London, Switzerland, and China were thought to be Sutherland's handiwork, as well, but there was no conclusive evidence that it wasn't an overseas copycat and Sutherland had nothing to say about it; however, travel records did indicate he'd been to Europe and Asia, which was enough probable cause for those working the case in 1994.
"So was the consumption of their eyes and tongues Sutherland's absolution? Or was the postmortem baptism and preparation his forgiveness?" Derek wondered.
Olivia gave a small shrug and a weary smile. "I learned long ago to never delve that deeply into a fractured mind." She couldn't bring herself to look at him. "During his evaluations and the trial, he changed his story too often for us to know. In my professional opinion, though, I'd say the postmortem care was his guaranteed forgiveness. The anthropophagy was the fulfillment of God's perceived command to Sutherland. I think many other psychologists would agree with my assessment, but I'm open to further analysis."
Derek could see that his friend was about to continue when she was interrupted by the muffled vibrations of her phone. She mumbled an apology and dug through her jacket, which she'd folded between the arm of the chair and her left thigh. She glanced at the screen and stood up, walking a few steps away to answer. "Dr. Reid," Derek heard her say.
"Sure," he heard, "I agree that's for the best. Did you—? Oh, ah, no, I can't do that. I'm really sorry. Okay…okay, what were you thinking, then?"
There was a distinctive tap on the other side of the one-way mirror. Derek turned and held up one finger. He knew they had Sutherland on the other side of the door and were waiting. But they'd have to wait for Olivia, whether they liked that or not. Your playground, Derek thought, our rules.
"No, I'd rather you didn't," Olivia was saying. "She couldn't focus on her work. She couldn't read and her hands would shake…she couldn't write in her journals, and she was calling Spencer and me in tears every night for a week. Right, I understand…no, no, really, I'm hoping to fly over next week. It's just that I'm—right, um, I think for the next few hours, you should call Spencer first, otherwise I realize it's my turn to be on-call. Three o'clock, at the latest. Yes, definitely, he is actually in possession of the joint POA papers right now. I mean, I know I have copies and—sure, I faxed them yesterday after I paid for the rest of the year, but I can check. I know the renewal is—oh, okay, thank you. Please tell her that I love her when she wakes up, and that I sent her a package with some—oh, yes, okay, thank you. Bye."
Olivia turned back to him and gave an affirmative signal to whoever could see her beyond the one-way. She sat quickly and was instantly composed. When Derek sent her a concerned, questioning look, she ignored it and focused on the murderer who was being led into interview room.
As they stood to introduce themselves, Gregory Sutherland's eyes darted straight to Olivia. He grinned. "Dr. Olivia Reid," he almost cooed, and Derek was almost furious enough to end the custodial right then. "It truly is a pleasure to finally meet the saint among the sinners."
If this unnerved her, it certainly did not show. Olivia's response was a cool, "I'm no saint, Mr. Sutherland."
And the cannibal replied, "I can change that."
Author's note: Please let me know what you think; this is not a story I've written ahead of time, so while I do have a general idea of the plot, I am not closed to suggestions (although there are certain things I simply will not write, of course). This is a teamfic, so don't worry about the focus on my OC—but please do let me know your thoughts on her development as the story progresses; I promise no Mary-Sue or otherwise ridiculous traits in Olivia. It's nothing more than a character introduction intertwined with the required beginnings of a first chapter; everyone is working this case, I promise you. As you can probably tell, it would be wise to heed any warnings I post in each chapter. I've rated the overall story as Fiction T and I will give plenty of warning for any chapters rated M. But, seriously, this is a story involving a cannibal who killed sinners and his sort-of copycat and that speaks volume. To conclude this monstrous AN, I'd also like to note that the title will be explained, like in the next chapter, but it's an allusion to anthropophagy in Greek/Roman mythology that you could easily Google and understand, if you simply cannot wait.
As for disclaimers, I have a general one in my FFN profile. But, really, food for thought: If I owned CM, why would I need to write fanfiction?