Reid has an eidetic memory. Occasionally, he's been called upon to prove that claim, and Reid has always performed best during periods of intense terror.
For instance, in recalling the events of this evening . . . Reid distinctly remembered the build of his assailant (medium height, heavy set—not the unsub), the make of the car that had sped away (1996 Ford Escort, blue), and all the license plate digits (P4CMN2).
He also especially remembered the man's shoes (cheap, business loafers in a sickly greenish-brown color).
"Reid!"
They were not the shoes that just sent a spray of cold water over Reid's face as another figure landed in the ditch beside him.
"New. Italian suede," Reid mumbled, under his breath. "Not cheap."
The hands that had been hastily running over his body in a preliminary sweep stilled. "Are you . . . are you profiling my shoes?" David Rossi demanded incredulously.
Reid generously refrained from pointing out their prohibition on profiling each other, and shrugged. For a moment, he thought that Rossi would let it go, but he was wrong.
"Why?"
"You're in a ditch," Reid explained, feeling that Rossi looked too confused to be the one not suffering from a baseball bat induced concussion. "No sense in ruining your shoes."
"I can buy another pair of damn shoes," Rossi growled, seeming to have determined that Reid was more or less in one piece. He rolled Reid onto his back with care, regardless. "Or better yet, you can buy them for me."
"It is impossible to buy another genius," Reid noted, cracking a tiny smile and hoping Rossi took it in the spirit meant.
Rossi smirked back. "Damn straight."