Essential listening: Pagan Baby, Creedence Clearwater Revival

0o0

Penelope Garcia walked through the main doors to the BAU bullpen, tripping on air and the flattery of the hottest prospect she'd come across since the staff Christmas party, when Ed from the Computer Fraud unit had drunkenly dragged her underneath the mistletoe.

She was so distracted that she walked straight past Morgan.

"Good mornin', Princess."

"Morning," she said, her mind a million miles away from the FBI.

"Pump your breaks," Morgan declared, stopping mid-step.

Penelope froze, too, and went over to stand with him when he beckoned. She'd thought she'd at least make it through the door, but no…

"Every day I say 'good mornin','" said Morgan, running a quizzical eye over her features. "Every day you say, 'I'll show a good mornin' hot stuff.' Every day. Not today?"

Penelope picked some invisible lint off his shoulder, aware of how irritable she probably looked. It was impossible to fool anyone around here, which was great for catching serial killers, but not so good for her sanity.

"I hate profilers, d'you know that?" she asked, resigned.

He gave her a conspiratorial smile that was already making her feel better.

"Spit it out."

She couldn't help but smile back, shaking her head at herself – and at him.

"Fine," she said. "I met a guy."

"You did what?" Morgan asked, surprised. "Where?"

"Coffee shop. Smokin' hot. I fixed his computer and then he asked for my number," she told him, excited and nervous all at once.

"And you just –"

"Gave it to him," she said, quickly. "Can you believe that? A complete stranger. Did I mention he was smokin' hot?" she added, distracted.

"Uh – yeah, yeah I think you did," Morgan nodded, looking amused. "'kay," he touched her affectionately on the nose. "It happens."

He was about to move away when Penelope realised that she really didn't want him to. She needed to talk about this – and with her best friend. Given there hectic lives, when would they get another chance?

"No – it doesn't," she blurted out, and he turned to look at her. "Not to me, not like this."

"Not like what?" Morgan looked adorably confused and Penelope sighed inwardly.

Of course he wouldn't understand. This sort of thing must happen to him all the time.

"I'm not the girl men see across a smoky bar and write songs about," she clarified, and then continued before he thought she was trying of some kind of pity party. "It's okay, I do just fine. But it – it takes a minute, you know?"

Morgan was grinning now, which made her think he actually did.

"Okay, so what's the problem?" She didn't have an answer for him so he continued, "What, you think it's all happenin' a little too fast, or somethin'?"

"Yes. I don't know… maybe?" she stuttered, her nerves coming to the fore. "What do you think?"

"I think you should always trust your gut," he said flatly. "So, sure, if he seems a little too smooth, or maybe a little too 'smokin' hot', then maybe you should walk the other way."

Penelope thought this was all very well – except how many smokin' hot guys ever showed an interest in her? She was about to say it, too, when JJ hurried past, interrupting her thoughts.

"Hey," she said, moving at speed towards the situation room, distributing files to desks as she went. "We caught a bad one."

"How bad?" Morgan asked, attention already shifting.

"Florida," said JJ, and Morgan raised his eyebrows at Penelope. They both remembered how bad that had been the last time around.

0o0o0o0

Grace groaned audibly when she saw the mutilated remains of the latest young woman in the endless parade of victims. Someone had carved a crude pentacle into her chest. Every so often you got a nutjob with a flair for the dramatic and Grace had seen them all before.

"Window dressing," she murmured, on Reid's glance.

"Bridgewater, Florida," JJ announced. "Local girl, Abbey Kelton, nineteen. Left her parents' home to go to the local junior college. Never came home. Three days later, jogger found her – or, part of her – in a nearby park."

Pretty much the whole room grimaced at the next picture, even JJ, who had been prepared for it. There was nothing left of the poor girl below her hips. A few bits of white, grizzled pelvis bone stuck out.

"What did that to her?" Prentiss asked.

"Bridgewater's off'f I-75," JJ explained. "Which is often referred to as 'Alligator Alley', for reasons that are now apparent. Everything below the waist had been eaten."

"I'm suddenly glad that there are no large predators left in the wild in the UK," Grace muttered, taking a closer look at the carnage. It was (happily) rare to see someone who had been so obviously gnawed upon. The absence of her lower body was jarring; uncomfortable to look at.

"Ah, the circle of life," Rossi remarked.

Prentiss nodded, "Suddenly I don't feel so bad about my alligator wallet."

"Alligators didn't cut off her fingers, slit her throat or carve this into her chest," said Hotch, who had been reading the autopsy report. He slid one or two of the more graphic images over to the rest of the team.

"An inverted pentagram," said Morgan.

"Technically," Grace observed, studying the photo, "that's not inverted.* It's point upwards," she continued, as everyone glanced her way. "Which is standard – associated with Wiccans and hedge witchery. Point downwards would be inverted – it's supposed to mimic the goat-like horns of the devil that way up. Also, when it's encircled like that it's called a pentacle."

"Huh," said Morgan, looking back at the late Miss Kelton. "Though it's possible the UnSub made the same mistake."

Grace nodded.

"Locals believe the killings were committed by some kind of cult," said JJ, and Grace rolled her eyes.

"They always do," she huffed, as Rossi remarked, "Some things never change."

They gave one another a wry smile.

"Killer satanic cults don't exist," said Prentiss. "They were debunked – it's a suburban myth."

There was a moment where everyone stared at Prentiss. Grace frowned, feeling that she'd missed something.

"What?" Emily asked, watching Hotch smile down at his own file.

"Rossi's the one that debunked them," Reid explained.

Grace couldn't quite hide her smirk. Rossi gave the younger agent a smile that Prentiss looked quite uncomfortable about.

"Oh, right," she said, awkwardly. "Thanks."

"This is your area," said Hotch, rescuing Prentiss with a glance at Grace. "What do you see?"

"Well," said Grace, as everybody turned to her. "Mutilation is a common facet in so called occult killings. The fingers strike me as off, though."

"How so?" asked Prentiss, glad to be out of the spotlight for a moment.

"Well, criminal satanists – or those who tend to identify as such – are, by nature, exhibitionists," she explained. "They can suppress it around others, but not around their victims – hence the calling card."

She tapped the pentacle with her pencil.

"The 'ooh, look at me, I'm so clever and deviant' thing. They can't help it and that would come out in their choice of trophy, or ritualised body part. Heads and hearts," she said, with a frown. "Not fingers – unless there's a heavy voodoo, creole, or Native American tradition in Bridgewater."

"No," said JJ, after a brief examination of her notes. "Largely catholic."

Grace nodded slowly.

"Then the fingers are most likely for something other than ritual."

"Care to speculate?" Hotch invited her to continue.

"Not really," said Grace, by which she meant, 'Not out loud'. "I've just had my breakfast."

"Lovely," JJ grimaced.

"Cult or not, the killing was ritualised," Rossi argued. "This'll turn serial if it hasn't already."

"So, killer satanic cults don't exist, but satanic serial killers do?" JJ clarified.

"Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrante," said Rossi, as he rose from the table, a sardonic smile playing about his lips.

Grace chuckled.

"Well, thank you for clearing that up," JJ griped, as soon as the senior agent was out of earshot.

"Uh – it's from Dante's Inferno," Reid explained. "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

"So that was a 'yes'," said JJ, looking at Hotch.

"A big yes."

Grace watched him go, thoughtfully. He was right, of course, about the cults and the ritualistic aspect, but there was one possibility that had naturally been left out of the conversation. She hadn't broached the subject with anyone since she'd been in Washington, but there was always the possibility at the back of her mind that what they were hunting might not be entirely human, or might be a human that had magic. It wasn't something she wanted to talk about unless she absolutely had to, but a case like this did make you wonder.

She slid her phone out as the others left the room and did the brief mental equation she used to work out the time difference. The UK was ahead, so to speak, so he'd definitely be awake and at work.

"Hey Max, how's tricks?" she said, and grinned when she heard her old friend's voice. "Yeah, not too shabby," she continued, when he'd finished telling her about his weekend.

That was the great thing about Max. He always treated you like you'd never been away.

"I was wondering if I could pick your brains…" She broke off, laughing, and Hotch (who had also lingered in the situation room) gave her a funny look. "No, I said 'pick', not 'pickle', you dozy –" she stopped herself just in time, aware of her audience. "Listen, what do you know about ritual magic involving fingers?"

0o0

Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters.

Francis Goya

0o0

"Then you have your general, basic level nasties, who fall into the occult because it gives them a sense of belonging and rationalisation," said Grace. "But the ones who gravitate towards satanic ritual tend to be students of history and religion – either amateur or professional. Methodical, hard to catch out – they put a lot of faith in textual stuff and don't often deviate from it. Or, they're the worse kind, the serious whacko who gets off on hurting people and needs someone to blame for those urges. They're all variations of the mission-based killer, really."

They'd been discussing the occult angle of the murder for some time, which had allowed Grace to expand upon her earlier remarks. This particular commentary had come as a result of Prentiss making a flippant comment about evil witches and paganism, which had devolved into an argument about the different aspects of non-mainstream faith.

If there hadn't been a murderer to catch, Grace could happily have argued back and forth all day. It had become clear that – while their definitions agreed over every other type of UnSub, she and Rossi had wildly different approaches to the occult, probably because Grace knew that sometimes it was real.

"The other common factor," said Grace, sipping her tea, "is that generally they're loners, either from social ineptitude, arrogance, or a fear of rejection. About the least likely thing this type of occult offender is going to do is join a cult."

"We never found any evidence of a killer satanic cult," Rossi agreed. "In reality there are only two types of violent satanic criminal."

"Uh – type one, teen Satanists, assume the satanic identity to rebel," said Reid. It took Grace a moment to realise he was quoting Rossi's books. "Minor crimes, theft and vandalism to churches, schools, symbols of authority. When combined with drugs and alcohol, they may turn violent."

Grace marvelled at her friend's ability to be a human recording device for a moment before turning to Rossi with curious eyes, wondering how he would react. The senior agent was giving Reid a very strange look.

"Yes – and in extreme cases, deadly," said Rossi, puzzled. "That was out of my book, word for word."

Grace had to duck her head in order to hide her smirk.

"Oh, trust us," said Morgan, amused. "We know."

"Killings are accidental, usually resulting from their hobby getting out of control," Reid continued, entirely failing to notice the expressions on his colleagues' faces.

Rossi was wearing a familiar expression, which Grace recognised as a sane person's reaction to appreciating Reid's general level of data-retention for the first time. It must have been particularly disconcerting to hear the words he himself had written being spouted back as if committed to heart.

"Killings won't turn serial –" Reid went on, but Morgan took pity on him and Rossi and interrupted.

"Hey, Reid."

Pointedly, he glanced over at Rossi, who was clearly uncomfortable, and made 'stop it now' motion at his friend. Reid followed his gaze and caught the strange mix of offence and confusion on his face. He fell silent, which was something of a relief all round.

"Sorry," he whispered, and looked down at his file, embarrassed.

"Okay, so that's one type," said Prentiss, eager to moving things along. "What's type two?"

"The adaptive satanist is the one you have to worry about," said Rossi. "A typical serial killer, rationalising his fantasies by blaming them on outside forces."

"Like Satan?" JJ asked, still a little incredulous.

"Yes. He adopts satanic beliefs to fit his specific homicidal drives," Rossi told her. "He doesn't kill because he believes in Satan, he believes in Satan because he kills."

Grace nodded.

"And the more he gets away with it, the more he believes that his 'god' is looking out for him," she said. "His god must want him to do it because nobody can stop him. It's a self-sustaining delusion."

"Well, let's hope it's the teenagers," Hotch remarked. "Whether you're religious or not, the presence of satanic elements can affect even the most experience investigators – and we're not immune. So, keep an eye on the locals and keep an eye on each other."

And I'll keep an eye out for anything that's a bit too real, Grace added, in the privacy of her own mind.

"Hey, I hear you," said JJ, "I saw The Exorcist."

"My mother took us to church every Sunday until I moved out," Morgan mused, making a dismissive gesture. "This whole devil thing doesn't spook me at all."

It only matters that they believe it, not that we do, Grace thought, and was about to say it, but Reid beat her to it.

"Maybe that's because you never truly bought the God part, either," he said, oblivious to tact.

There was one of those moments where you could see that he knew that he'd said something wrong because everyone was looking at him funny, but didn't know what or why.

Morgan's expression could have curdled milk, but he was used to Reid, so his tone was fairly soft when he said, "No offence, kid, but you don't know what I believe."

"Well, I mean," Reid continued, in a hurry to clarify his reasoning in case that would help, "Logic dictates that if you believe in the one, you have to reconcile the existence of the other."

Grace closed her eyes, briefly. He was right, of course, but that didn't mean Morgan wouldn't take offence. It was obvious that religion was a bit of a touchy subject, there.

"I don't know," she said aloud, hoping to diffuse the tension a little. "I think hell is something you carry around with you, not somewhere you go," she said, quoting Gaiman.

Reid shot her a brief look of gratitude, though she was relatively sure he still had no idea what he'd done.

"People's reactions to Satan is what gives it appeal to these offenders," said Hotch, diplomatically steering them back on course. "It has power – and it would be a mistake to underestimate it."

0o0o0o0

Florida was stickier even than New Orleans, which Grace had thought was impossible. It was making her brain feel addled and slow, like someone had boiled it. Thankfully, the station had air conditioning, but it wasn't entirely helping.

Everyone she spoke to – with the exception of two of the senior cops on the case – seemed to think there was a nest of satanists hiding behind every corner. She was beginning to wonder of some of the paranoia could be attributed to the heat.

"There's no evidence that any of the local kids were into devil worship or the occult," said Morgan.

Grace glanced up at him. There was a tension to him that she didn't recognise; he had spent the last ten minutes pacing and every time the church or religion came up (which was every other sentence right now) he seemed to get more annoyed. It wasn't like Morgan at all.

"This is not a group of teenagers," said Prentiss.

"It's a serial killer," Morgan agreed.

"And considering what he did with their fingers, a sadistic one," Emily continued.

"I wouldn't say that just yet," Rossi put in.

"The ritual element," Grace nodded. "It might not be about torture for him."

Something had been bugging her about the fingers. She'd shard her concern with Hotch in the car on the way over, but she wasn't sure enough to broach it with the rest of the team. She didn't want to muddy the profile or send them off in the wrong direction if she was wrong

Emily gave her and Rossi a look that spoke volumes.

"He cut off her fingers and he made her eat them," she stated, blankly. "If that isn't sadistic –"

"If it was, that's the only sign of sadism present in the crime," Rossi argued.

Emily nodded, slowly.

"If he was purely a sadist there would be more signs of torture," she realised.

"The fingers are a message," Rossi stated.

"What the hell's the message?" Morgan asked as Hotch came in.

"She's not my first," she said, and nodded at Grace. "You were right, none of the fingers found in Abbey Kelton's stomach were hers."

Grace grimaced. She'd really been hoping to be wrong about that one.

"And six of them were index fingers."

0o0o0o0

Morgan slumped in a chair in an empty office that the Bridgewater Police Department had kindly allowed him to use. He had case notes to go through and something about this case was really getting to him. A snatched twenty minutes away from his colleagues where he could collect his thoughts and get himself centred again was just what he needed.

The kid didn't know it, but Reid's comment on the jet had caught him off guard and after Rossi throwing him under the bus with Father Marks… He knew he was a little off his game and he was well aware that the rest of the team knew it, too. He needed a chance to regroup.

His face brightened when his phone buzzed. Talking to Penelope Garcia was a guarantee of feeling better. Even the sound of his best friend's voice made the world made the world seem lighter somehow, like she personally preserved a part of it that the awful things she saw day after day couldn't reach.

"Hey, what you got for me, girl?"

"I just sent you ten separate IDs belonging to the ten fingers found in Abbey Kelton's stomach," she said, her voice sounding tired and heavy. "No two fingers belonged to the same woman."

"Ten," he repeated, feeling his stomach drop. "You identified them already?"

"Mmm," said Garcia. "Forty-plus prostitution arrests made it easy. They worked truck stops and rest areas in the counties surrounding Bridgewater."

"Well, the UnSub knows the area well," commented Morgan.

"Clearly," said Garcia, and now he know something was wrong. "Gotta go – bye."

"Woah, woah, woah," he said. "What, no snappy retort? What's goin' on?"

"Not in the mood."

"Penelope?"

There was a pause, which didn't do anything to make him less worried.

"Uh – that guy from the coffee shop asked me out and I took your advice and I blew him off," she explained, haltingly.

Morgan winced. He hadn't actually meant to advise her against it – it was just that she'd seemed so anxious about it.

"Oh, um… Well, good," he said, trying to reassure her. "Smart move. Somethin' was definitely wrong there."

"Wow," she said, and he could actually feel the atmosphere turn frosty over the phone. "You are some profiler. You could tell how wrong he was from what little he told you."

She sounded hurt.

"Garcia, I didn't mean –"

"I wonder, was it that he was too handsome, or too interested in me that tipped you off on how 'wrong' he was?"

"Garcia – I –"

"Just 'cause you wouldn't cross a crowded room to hit on me does not mean that a more perceptive, less superficial guy wouldn't." He could hear the anger in her voice, and something else: tears. "Hey Derek, you want snappy? You suck!"

She slammed down the receiver without a force that jarred him. He stared at the phone, bewildered. He hadn't meant any of that – surely Garcia could see that he was only trying to look out for her. He certainly hadn't wanted to hurt her. In four years of flirting and working with her, Penelope had never so much as grumbled at him.

He was at a bit of a loss.

Luckily, he was prevented from dwelling too heavily on it by the arrival of Prentiss.

"Hey."

"Hey," he said, frowning. With a struggle, he got his head back into work mode. "Uh – Garcia just ID'ed ten victims."

"Yeah, she's just sent the files through," said Prentiss. She pointed at the top sheet of paper. "Last known locations of the ten victims."

As a map it made for interesting reading.

"Has Hotch seen this?" Morgan asked.

"Yes, Oh yeah. Hotch set up the profile briefing. Uh – we're calling the families, you're briefing the locals."

Garcia would have to wait.

0o0o0o0

Abbey Kelton and ten other women were murdered by a serial killer here in Bridgewater," said Hotch, explaining the map to the local PD.

He, Morgan and Rossi were talking to the small, local task force and they would pass it on to where it was needed. Somewhere, in quiet corners of the station, the rest of the team were informing the victims' families. A grim, but necessary task. They had to stop this now, before eleven women became twelve.

Detective Jordan stared at him in horror.

"Here? How can you be sure?" he asked.

"These marks represent where the first ten disappeared," Hotch nodded at the map. "The void in the centre is his safety zone. He avoids killing near his home to escape detection – and the void's centre is Bridgewater."

"Why would he violate his safety zone?" the detective asked. "No one knew he existed.

"Because no one knew he existed," said Dave. "That's why he left us the fingers."

The detective looked from one profiler to another, somewhat appalled.

"If he wants us to know, does he want us to catch him?"

"No," said Rossi. "Killing gives him power. Our knowing gives him more."

Mogan nodded as Rossi continued, "He won't stop. He's just getting started."

0o0

*I think the art department must have got it the wrong way up – the pentacle on Abbey Kelton is definitely not inverted. The later victims, however, do have inverted pentacles.