San Bernardino, California
The Main Set of the Prettymouth concert had drawn to a close, and already he could see that Jeff MacIver was leaving; no doubt to write a poor excuse of a critique of the show. Jeff had already completely trashed their latest and greatest album in print, so he saw no reason why such a vicious poison-pen so called journalist would have any compunctions about doing the same to their kick-off show at the Glen Helen Amphitheatre.
"The Son of a Bitch doesn't even have the decency to stay for the encore." Shelley whispered in his ear. "Do you love me?"
"You know I do." He answered truthfully. He has always loved Shelley Mason ever since the very first time he saw Prettymouth – the band which she leads – play in that pub five years ago; that was their first actual public show. He also knew that she saw him and knew, like he knew right then, that they were meant for each other. That night, she came onto the stage wearing a fedora, and about half way through their opening song she tossed it right at him so it landed squarely on his head. Sure, it was a cheap knock-off of a proper fedora, but what could he expect? It wasn't like she knew they would meet; he didn't know either. Besides, they, the band, were just getting started and probably had a budget to work on. Her gesture was obviously a spontaneous reaction to seeing her truest of true loves walk into her life. How he got so lucky to capture the heart of such a perfect siren he had no idea, but he wasn't going to complain about, either. After that first show, he made every effort to go to every show Prettymouth put on in the State, making a point to always wear the hat she gave him. He would have followed her across the country if he could afford it; he had no doubt that she would foot his bill if he asked her to, but he didn't want to burden her like that. At one of the shows leading up the production of their first album, she made it clear she saw him; she even smiled, pointed, and waved at him as part of the show. She gave public acknowledgement of their love. Most people dismissed it as just a random thing she did, but he knew better. Of course, the album was a huge success; how could it not be with Shelley Mason as the face and voice of Prettymouth? This was followed by a second album, even better than the first one. He was overjoyed when some of the sentences he wrote in a love letter to her were actually put into a song that made the album, and nearly fainted with excitement when that song: "CRUSH" it was called, became a chart topping hit single. Their love was known and celebrated by everybody. Then that fat, old jealous Jeff MacIver had to go and trash the album; just because he had no talent of his own. That wasn't as bad as that sleazebag photographer Dylan Fox taking those filthy pictures of Shelley, so he was willing to let Jeff off the hook for now. It was after the business with Dylan that he made a point to make sure he could stay as close to Shelley as possible; to keep her safe and ensure that nobody hurts her ever again. Hence the jobs on the band's security detail.
"His article hurt me." She whispered. "You know he's going to say those awful things about me again, right?"
"He probably will." He agreed. "Listen to me, not him. He's just a fat, old, no-talent loser that doesn't even count, anyway."
Shelley pouted in that way he could not resist. "Can you go talk to him? Take care of him? Make sure he doesn't; will you do that for me?" She crooned.
He couldn't say no; not to her. He nodded yes, and her pout turned around into that same amazing smile she had when she gave him the hat. Then she kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him.
"Now it's time for the encore!" she said. "I haven't done our song yet."
And then Shelley Mason hurried to return to the stage from backstage with the rest of her band. He turned and found his way to the parking lot, hoping he would be able to catch up to Jeff MacIver before he got too far ahead. As luck would have it, Jeff was just about to get into his car when he found him. He pulled his phone out and got a snapshot of the licence plate before going back to get his own vehicle. He would just have to track Jeff MacIver to wherever his next destination was bound to be.
He got into his car and started the engine. Before pulling out to track and tail Jeff MacIver, he turned on his stereo and pushed play. His song – their song, really – came on through the speakers as he began to drive...
Virginia
No matter how hard he tried, Dr. Spencer Reid could not quite make the pieces fit properly. Ever since the team got back from the Bay Harbor Butcher Copycat case in Miami, there were elements of it that nagged at him; in many ways everything fit a little too neatly for his liking, and in other ways certain factors just didn't seem to add up. Perhaps that was why he chose that particular case to use as his review for the students now filing into the University Lecture Hall. Of course, to do a full review as a case study, he'd have no choice but to go into the original case as well.
Jacob Elway was the Copycat Butcher. There was no doubt about that. Miami Homicide detective Joseph Quinn made the final arrest after Jacob Elway shot and killed Quinn's associate Scott Hamelin, and shot BAU Unit Chief Emily Prentiss. After a brief chase, Elway attempted to resist arrest, prompting Quinn to use what some may call excessive force to subdue the suspect. The UNSUB, Jacob Elway, died a few hours later in hospital of cardiac arrest. The official cause given was that the heart attack was the result of strain related to his injuries. There was a review of the case, and Quinn was ruled as free of guilt given the circumstance. It wasn't the Copycat case that bothered Spencer; it was the original Bay Harbor Butcher case that Frank Lundy profiled that seemed wrong somehow.
The profile itself looked solid enough, that wasn't the issue. The problem Reid had was with the UNSUB that was declared as being the Butcher. All the evidence in that case fit to name Sgt. James Doakes, and at a stretch he did fit the profile, but even according to Lundy's notes there were better fits. What was also apparent was that he, Reid, wasn't the only one who thought Doakes may have been framed. Years later, a blood slide was found on a totally unrelated crime scene; blood slides were the original Butcher's signature trophy, most likely used so he could relive each kill over and over again until the need for a fresh trophy arose. At the time, then Captain Maria LaGuerta insisted that proved that Doakes was not the Butcher at all, but the Butcher was still out there and had something to do with the death of Travis Marshall, aka the Doomsday Killer. LaGuerta reopened the Butcher case and right up until her death in a shootout was certain that blood-spatter analyst Dexter Morgan was her prime suspect. More evidence surfaced during her investigation that only pointed more conclusively to Doakes being the Butcher. Now Reid was faced with something of a dilemma; did he trust the profile which practically screamed that Dexter was a better match, or did he trust the evidence that fit Doakes so perfectly it was actually a little frightening?
That was when, just as the class was filed in, that his phone indicated he had a text message. It was from Rossi calling him back to Quantico. Prentiss was still recovering from her injuries, so Rossi was acting as Unit Chief. He had no choice; he apologized to the class, saying he had to postpone this lecture and head out to another case. He added that this was in itself a lesson to consider; in all branches of the FBI, including the BAU, one had to be ready to move at a moment's notice.
Quantico
Penelope Garcia waited until the team was assembled. JJ and Rossi were already there, and the Newbie Alvez showed up within moments after Rossi sent the text calling the team together. Prentiss was back in Virginia, but not on duty, and Walker was mysteriously MIA. While that was distressing, that wasn't what the team was called together for. The Boy Genius arrived last; and it troubled Garcia that the current team roster looked so small.
With so much of the team down the chatter and banter was uncomfortably low, so Garcia was able to get right down to grim work at hand.
"Alright, kiddies, let's get started." Garcia began with the first slide; an image of three victims; the first being by the most brutally beaten before he was strangled to death, the second also beaten badly, and the third sustaining a broken nose before strangulation. As creepy as it made her feel, Penelope wondered to herself what the team would make of what she was sure they would call a de-escalation of violence. It was a rare thing to see; it seemed this creep was becoming more controlled as he added to his count. "Our next stop is San Bernardino, California; home of the first ever McDonald's, even thought that little tidbit of trivia has nothing to do with this case; I just had to add something to put some happy magic in this grim and greasy tale. Let me introduce you to the most recent of a string of strangulations, the late Jeff MacIver."
"Wait; is that as in Jeff MacIver the music critic?" Reid asked. The others all turned to look at Reid with a bit of surprise. "What?" he asked. "It's not like I don't pay any attention to modern music." He mimed quotation marks around the words modern music.
"The one and only" Garcia confirmed. "Freelance music critic Jeff was found in his home with his nose broken...nay, shattered, and strangled to death last night after an anonymous tip called in to report seeing MacIver's door wide open. Police came by to investigate and found our victim as you see him now."
"MacIver has a bit of a reputation for tearing musicians down." JJ commented.
"I've seen him around in writer circles," Rossi added. "He's what some in the industry call a poison pen. Maybe he pissed off the wrong person."
"Do you mean like someone came to his door to confront him, he beaked off, got his nose busted and then our UNSUB lost his cool?" Alvez suggested.
"Could be," Rossi agreed, turning back to Garcia. "There are three photos up there, Garcia. What else have you got for us?"
Garcia went on to the next image; this one was of a severely beaten man, also strangled. "This is Dylan Fox, who was a photographer for a celebrity rag, known also to take candid shots that he would then sell on the sly to shall we say a more 'adult' clientele. He was found as is in this image two weeks ago in his studio, also in San Berdoo." She moved on to the next, and by far the worst image of the three. He was beaten into a bloody pulp before being strangled and killed. This image was taken in what looked like a small apartment; which also looked like it had either been ransacked or torn apart during a brawl. "This fine young gentleman is Sean Dryer. As you can see, he was found in his apartment beaten and strangled to death six weeks ago, again in San Bernardino. Mr. Dryer, FYI, had a criminal record as long as Interstate 5, mostly drug offences, but also a couple of sexual harassment and an attempted assault charge."
"Charming guy" Rossi commented.
"So we have three victims, all male, all assaulted and strangled." Alvez said. "Two of them have shady reputations, and one has likely made some enemies throughout his career."
"The first two were beaten up pretty badly. Whoever did that would have to know how to throw few punches and is probably in good shape." JJ added.
"The thing that seems odd to me is the severity of the beatings seems to be lessening with each kill. Wouldn't the opposite be true in most cases?" Alvez inquired.
"That depends." Rossi replied. "Maybe the beating is just a means to an end. The strangulation could be what this UNSUB is really after. Once he has the victim beaten into submission, then he can get down to what he really wants."
"We'd have to see the autopsies to be certain, but the first two look young and relatively fit; where the third is considerably older and out of shape. Maybe he was easier to subdue." Reid added.
"Or maybe the beating is proportionate to the severity of whatever perceived offense – real or imagined – the UNSUB is retaliating against." A voice from the entrance to the room chimed in. Reid, Alvez, JJ, and Garcia all looked up towards the entrance to see former SSA Derek Morgan standing there. "Attacks like these have got to be about something personal; this UNSUB was pissed off at these victims."
"Hot Chocolate" Garcia stammered out in near ecstasy. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. When Derek was a full tie team member at the BAU, he and Garcia had developed quite the 'fakes romance' relationship in their banter; but she had always considered Derek her best male friend. Things always seemed better when he was around.
"Hi, Baby-Girl," Derek replied, grinning.
"We're a little short staffed," Rossi said. "So I pulled a few strings and called up our former teammate to help us out."
Derek stepped into the room and took a seat at the table. The team all greeted each other briefly.
"Morgan does have a point," Reid said. "Even if strangulation is what the UNSUB is after, then he could consider the beating an extra bonus and then he deals it out in proportion to the degree he's angered by each individual victim."
"It's kind of like icing on a cupcake." JJ commented.
"Please!" Garcia interjected, even before Reid could begin to puzzle over the analogy, which had clearly confounded his overly practical way of analyzing the world. "No besmirching the tasty goodness of pastry deserts with creepy smashy-choky creepiness!"
"Alright, baby-girl," Morgan said consolingly. "So other than gender, what do these victims have in common? If the attacks are personal, where do these people paths cross? Something had to set this guy off."
"Garcia, you can cross reference the known acquaintances and business dealings of all three; go back as far as three years. The rest of us have a long flight ahead of us; we're going to San Bernardino." Rossi said.
San Bernardino
He felt good; Prettymouth had a great jam session, the gear was all packed and ready to go, and Shelley was looking as fabulous as ever. He was home now; tour launch was the day after tomorrow. Home was a cozy one bedroom apartment in a halfway decent neighborhood. The walls were covered in pinups and posters of Prettymouth; most of the images featuring Shelley. His prized pieces of his collection, though, were placed carefully on a foamy bust; one was a replica of the mask she used in the video of their song "Crush". Placed just as carefully on the bust was his other favorite: the hat she tossed him at the concert where their connection was really made in the first place. He gently ran his finger along the brim of the hat and then his palm along the face of the mask which was shaped to Shelley's face – molded exactly to her perfect features, in fact. He sometimes wished he had a wig to match her blazing, storm swept hair, but one couldn't have everything. Besides, he already had her. This mask and hat on a bust was just a stand in.
He smiled. He went to his desktop computer and hit the play button on his video downloads which he kept on his desktop. The video to their song came up and turned up the volume as the song began to play.
Then someone was banging on the door. He looked at the clock beside the bust. It was late, but not too late for anyone to complain about noise. He turned down the volume and went to the front door and opened it to see a slim and petite Latina woman standing there. It was Bernadette, his ex-girlfriend from what seemed like ages ago.
"What do you want?" He asked sharply.
"Have you found my stuff yet?" Bernadette asked back just as sharply. Their courtship did not end well; she didn't like the fact he dumped her for Shelley.
The fact was he did find all her stuff and had it in a plastic bag right beside the door. He picked it up and thrust it towards her. "You could've called first." He said to her as she took it.
"You should check your messages more often, Bobby." She was saying as he shut the door on her.
"Who was that?" She asked, standing at the threshold of the bedroom. The tone in her voice suggested she was suspicious; she didn't need to be.
"How did you get in? I thought you were still at the studio."
"Don't change the subject." She replied. "But to answer your question, you gave me a key, remember? Now answer mine. Who was that?"
"That was nobody." He said, and then added, "That was Bernadette Mendez. I told you about her; we went out a long time ago, before we met. She left some of her crap here and wanted it back, that's all."
She pouted in that way he couldn't resist. "Are you going back to her?" She asked with a faint whimper in her voice.
"No way, no day," he said emphatically. "Come on Shelley; you know you're the only one I care about."
"Prove it." She insisted. "I want there to be nothing and nobody between us."
Bobby brushed past her into the room and went straight for the chest at the foot of his bed. He opened it and gazed for a moment at the collection of 'Crush' masks he had inside. After putting on double layers of vinyl food grade disposable gloves, he took one out. Then he went into the kitchen and grabbed a roll of paper towels. After that, he headed out the front door. Bernadette was long gone; probably headed home. That was where he was going, too.
"Come on then" he said. "I'll show you that I will never let that happen."
