Hey. You right there. You guys are awesome. Seriously, your reviews made me squeal with childlike delight.
After I posted chapter one I went back and reread it and I found a TON of tiny little errors, so those should all be fixed now. Please accept this humble chapter two as my apology.
If I titled my chapters, this one would be called "There Are No Words in the English Language to Describe Derek Morgan's Eyebrows."
[…]
"The man we are looking for is Ayden Brandt, thirty-nine years old." JJ's voice was ice - cold and solid, yet extremely fragile, ready to shatter under her own feet at any second. She stood delivering the press conference before cameras, reporters, and the Blythewood law enforcement outside the BPD's front steps, a large poster board with Brandt's picture beside her. "Brandt is six feet three inches tall and weighs two hundred nine pounds. He has dark brown hair and blue eyes. We're asking you to circulate this photo as much as possible. Also, note that Brandt may be sporting defensive wounds, as there was a significant struggle at the latest crime scene. He uses a blitz attack to take his victims by surprise, but his latest is the first to put up a fight. Look for scratch marks or bruises on his face and neck and on his forearms. Ayden Brandt is considered armed and extremely dangerous. We are advising that if you see him, do not approach him. Call 911 immediately. His latest victim was an armed FBI agent, and he was still able to overpower him, so please use extreme caution. Do not travel alone, and make sure someone knows where you are at all times. Brandt is a sexually driven psychopath and he's killed fourteen women already. What this means is that he derives sexual pleasure from the act of stabbing his victims, but they are not sexually assaulted in the traditional sense. He is capable of inflicting extreme torture without showing disgust or remorse for his actions. Brandt's weapon of choice is a serrated hunting knife, but we have reason to believe he's also carrying a Smith & Wesson revolver. However, just because he prefers the knife doesn't mean he won't use a gun if he feels cornered."
"Agent Jareau?" a reporter called out from the crowd. "You said fourteen women have been killed. We have the names of the fourteen victims - does this mean the latest victim, the FBI agent, survived?"
JJ hesitated before responding. She quickly scanned the crowd and her eyes met Hotch's at the edge of the police barricade. He gave her a small nod of approval.
JJ blinked back her emotions several times and cleared her throat. "Yes. The FBI agent - whose identity we are not releasing at the time - is in critical condition at Providence Hospital in nearby Columbia. He pulled through surgery and was moved to a private room in intensive care early this morning. I'll now take any other questions."
As JJ was bombarded with a flood of questions from the eager reporters, Hotch stepped away to check his vibrating phone. He cupped one hand around his ear and answered the call. "Prentiss."
"Hotch, Forensics just finished up inside. There's no sign of Reid's gun anywhere," the female agent reported on the other end.
Hotch suppressed a sigh, instead opting to pinch the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. It wouldn't help to stave off the headache, he knew; the only cure was sleep, but he'd be damned if he'd be getting any until Brandt was caught - or dead. "Then our theory that Brandt took it with him when he fled is correct."
"Looks that way."
"Okay, JJ's just finishing up the press conference. Can you call Garcia, see if she was able to lift anything from the security tapes in front of the station. Her flight came in almost two hours ago, that should've given her plenty of time."
"Sure thing, Hotch. Is she at the hospital?"
"With Rossi. He just relieved Morgan. If I hadn't practically ordered him to go get some food he'd have stayed there all day."
"Why does that not surprise me?" Prentiss asked, the lilt of a smile audible in her voice.
"After you do that, I want you to go over calls from the tip line. Let me know if you flag anything. I'll have JJ join you as soon as she can."
"Okay. And Hotch-?"
"Yes."
"Take your own advice and catch a break, okay? You sound like shit."
Hotch wanted to smile at the jabbing affection from his subordinate, at the playful jeer, but he couldn't. The thought of relaxing at a time like this only made his grimace deepen. "I can once we catch Brandt." With that, he ended the call.
Hotch turned to see JJ striding toward him. The usually composed young woman looked almost dowdy from spending the night awake in the hospital. Her plain white button-up was wrinkled and she wore brown shoes with black slacks - a fashion faux pas she'd more than once warned Reid against.
"I had to step away," Hotch began as he pocketed his cell phone. "How'd it go?"
JJ sighed and ran a shaking hand through her hair. "I feel like I'm going to throw up," she replied, all poise and professionalism she had previously in front of the cameras gone. "Hotch…it just doesn't feel right."
"What's wrong?" Hotch asked, his brow furrowed in an austere mixture of confusion and concern.
"I - all of this. We just gave away the one card in our hand up to Brandt. It's obvious he wasn't expecting Reid to live. Shouldn't we keep his survival a secret? At least until he's well enough to leave the hospital and be moved to a safe house?"
"Brandt is a need-based killer, but he's result driven. Fifteen victims, each stabbed fifteen times? That's a definite ritual, one he'll need to complete."
"Exactly," JJ shot back, her voice going up in pitch with anxiety. "So why are we painting a target on our teammate's back?"
"JJ, right now the safest place for Reid is in that hospital under twenty-four hour surveillance and protection. What we need right now is to do our jobs, and that means drawing Brandt out of hiding. Once he hears that his ritual is incomplete and Reid is still alive, he'll have no choice but to finish it. He'll be compelled to. And that's where we'll catch him. He'll make a mistake and we'll get him."
"You seem awfully sure."
"I am sure," replied Hotch with confident finality.
JJ looked up at her unit chief with hard, glinting eyes. "Sure enough to bet Reid's life, apparently."
[…]
"I looked it up. Ayden - it's, um, Gaelic. And it means 'little fire.' And Brandt is English. It means 'sword,' Rossi. So the guy's name literally means 'little fiery sword.' How messed up is that? I mean, it's like his parents knew."
"Garcia, I love you. But I'm going to be out here for the next four and a half hours. Do not make me gag you."
Garcia groaned loudly, and a nurse at the nearby station hushed her. "Sorry - I'm sorry! I just can't…sit out here and do nothing. My fingers - they itch, they literally itch for work! Anything to help our little genius." She twisted in her chair to look at the closed hospital room door between herself and Rossi.
"What about the security footage job Prentiss called you about?"
"Please, don't insult me. I had that done in like, five minutes, easy-peasy."
"And?" Rossi inquired, his interest piqued for the first time in the mostly one-sided conversation.
"Aaaand," Garcia began dramatically, "nothing. Brandt turned the cameras away before he entered the police station, the sneaky badger. There's no way to tell how he got away so quickly and - UGH, I just wanna see my Junior G-Man!" By the end of it she was practically vibrating in her seat.
"Listen, Garcia, Reid doesn't need someone to hold his hand right now. What he needs is rest. And quiet-" Punctuated by a finger to his lips. "Support. We've got the kid covered, okay? Round the clock armed BAU bodyguards, female doctors and nurses only-"
"What, you think Brandt would disguise himself to try and sneak into the hospital?"
Rossi shrugged one shoulder. "It's a possibility we need to consider. After JJ's press conference, Brandt's gonna be pretty desperate to finish what he started."
"Oh god…" Garcia gasped, brown eyes widening almost comically.
"Which is why I'm here," Rossi placated calmly. Then, patting his holster, he added, "With my little friend." He smirked as Garcia seemed to calm down, refocusing on her knitting. The smile fell from his face as Rossi turned away, his expression turning dark. "We weren't there for Reid before," he grumbled in a hushed tone under his breath. "I'll be damned if I'm leaving him now."
The two sat in silence for a few more minutes before strong, purposed footsteps drew their attention. Walking toward Reid's hospital room was a weary-eyed, stone-faced Derek Morgan. He held a Styrofoam coffee cup in each hand and a third balanced carefully between, and he extended one each to Garcia and Rossi as he came to a stop in front of them.
"My hero," Rossi murmured drolly, accepting the proffered coffee.
"Hey, you gotta keep awake somehow," Morgan retorted with an easy grin. He turned his attention to Garcia. "Well, look who just made South Carolina shine a little brighter. How ya doin', Baby Girl?"
Garcia stood up and wrapped her arms around Morgan's neck, hugging him tightly. "When JJ called me and told me what happened she didn't have a lot of details," she said, her words coming out muffled in the collar of Morgan's coat. She pulled away slightly so she could look him in the eye. "How is he? And don't pull your punches, Derek. Only speak the truth, my beautiful mandolin."
Morgan put his hands on Garcia's hips to pull her away a bit more before shaking his head. "I don't know. Hotch is the only one who's been able to go in and see him yet." He silenced Garcia's petulant whine with a cupped hand to her cheek. "I know, sweetness, I wanna go in there just as badly as you do. But medical proxies, blah-blah, power of attorney, blah-blah. You know."
"But you're the FBI. Can't you just kick the door down?" puffed Garcia haughtily, crossing her arms over her chest. Morgan couldn't help but chuckle lightly; she looked more like an impudent child than a government analyst.
"I thought Hotch told you to take a break," Rossi broke in with a scolding tone, leaning forward in his chair to see Morgan around Garcia's pouting form.
"Yeah, I did," Morgan countered as if he was stating the obvious, gesturing to the cup in his hand. "I went to the cafeteria, got some coffee."
"I don't think that's what he meant."
"Well what do you want me to do, man? Go back to the hotel and have a drink by the pool? No, I'm here, or I'm at the station working the case," Morgan spouted, agitated. The rings under his eyes seemed to stand out suddenly to Rossi. Frown lines appeared where previously there had been none. Morgan didn't look so much like the young man he used to be when Rossi first joined the team.
He'd only left the hospital once since Reid had been rushed in, and that was to run back to the hotel to shower the blood off his skin and change his ruined clothes, and even then he only left after the surgical team had stabilized Reid. When he came back, Morgan demanded to be given the first shift of guard duty, possibly hoping to glean some scrap of information on his teammate's condition from the passing staffer.
"What's got you so worried?" Garcia asked in a shaky voice. The tears were back, threatening once again to spill over her eyes. "When I was shot-" She broke off, swallowed thickly, tried again. "When I was shot two years ago you were concerned - you were worried - but you weren't scared."
"Man. Of course I was-"
"Not like this." Garcia met Morgan's stare head-on, despite how difficult it was for her to see her own personal hero beginning to crumble away at his foundation. "What do you know?"
Morgan's face screwed up, his eyebrows drawing together fretfully. "I don't know anything, I just - look. Reid made it through surgery despite the odds. That's the most amazing thing. So no matter what happens after this, at least he's alive. I mean, Hotch was stabbed nine times and he barely pulled through. I didn't think there was any way Reid would."
"He's stronger than we all give him credit for," Rossi pointed out in a subdued tone.
"Yeah," Morgan agreed, nodding. "Yeah, I know. But here's the thing: he survived - so now what?"
"What do you mean, 'now what?' Now he gets better. We make him better. We help him," Garcia gushed emphatically, her voice coming dangerously close to breaking.
"Oh, you mean like how we helped him so much after Georgia? Penelope, this isn't something we can just fix. At the end of it all he's not gonna be okay just because we want him to be. It doesn't work like that. I'm sorry, I wish it did, but…"
When Morgan didn't continue Garcia nearly exploded in exasperation. "God, Morgan, just say what you're thinking!"
Derek worried his bottom lip for a second before he waved his hand helplessly in front of himself. "What's he gonna be like after this? Mentally - physically? I mean… His knee was messed up before, but Brandt - he pulled the kneecap out. As in - removed it entirely and set it off to the side. Honestly, I don't see any way they were able to save that leg."
That thought pushed Garcia over the edge. She burst out with an ugly sob and the tears ran down her face leaving tracks down her plump cheeks. Just the idea - the mere suggestion - that Reid would survive all this, go through everything he'd had to go through, to be left handicapped - it was terrifying.
"Are you-? Do you think he'll leave? Would he even be able to come back? Would they let him come back?" Garcia sputtered through her tears.
"Would he want to?" Morgan responded, his voice deep and desolate. "First Hankel, now this… I'd understand if he didn't."
"Reid's the most brilliant young man I've ever met. He'd have lots of offers if he decided to step away from the BAU. He'll be okay." Even as the words left his lips, Rossi knew they weren't right; they tasted funny on his tongue, a bitter twang.
"No. He won't."
The three agents turned to face JJ standing behind them. She was standing tall, keeping her own tears at bay - but her fists were at her sides, clenched so tightly that they were visibly shaking.
"This team is Spencer's family," she continued. "It's everything to him. If he was told he couldn't do his job…I think it would break him." She cleared her throat, then turned to Morgan. "I'm here to take you back to the station. Hotch wants you to profile the crime scene with him."
Morgan's face turned ashen and his expression fell. This was clearly a task he was dreading.
[…]
Morgan walked into the conference room to find his unit chief already standing near the corner where they'd found Reid the night before. He was staring down intently at the large pool of dried blood, his fingers pressed to his mouth, his brows drawn together.
"Hotch," Morgan called softly, not wanting to encroach on such a personal moment.
Hotch twitched almost imperceptively before turning around. "Any news?"
"No, nothing. It's like the doctors at that place are all under a gag order," Morgan mumbled, running a hand over his head. "So what are we looking for exactly?"
"Prentiss gave me the report from Forensics," Hotch began as he moved over toward his subordinate. "He left his prints all over the place. He wasn't careful at all like with - like at the other crime scenes."
"Well, we had his identity by then. And he made the phone call," Morgan supplied. "There was no need to conceal himself." Hotch nodded, his eyes hard and looking off to the side. Morgan could practically see the gears whirring in his head. "Hotch, we only found this guy because he let us. He wanted us to."
"This was his endgame," Hotch continued, picking up on Morgan's train of thought. He looked up and met Derek's eyes.
"You think he started out stabbing and killing women so he could get the BAU called to Podunk, South Carolina so that he could attempt to murder Reid?" Morgan practically scoffed.
"No, not specifically, but think about it - he kills eleven women and still doesn't get the recognition he thinks he deserves."
Morgan nodded along slowly. "Right. The mayor kept the details about the murders out of the news until we were called in."
"And then he kills three more right under the noses of the FBI, and he picks up the pace between kills. But he wasn't spiraling and he wasn't on a spree - he still cleaned up after himself and took time with each of his victims to torture them before he killed them. He still took the time to make the dolls. What does that tell us?" prompted Hotch.
"That he's highly organized, but Hotch - we know that. It was part of the profile from the beginning. The clean kill sites alone told us that."
Hotch crossed his arms and began moving away from Morgan, pacing across the room. "And then the fifteenth victim - the end of his ritual - breaks his established pattern completely." Suddenly he realized something. "Why didn't he go after JJ? She's a better fit to his victimology. She's a female, blonde and petite like the other victims. Why choose Reid?"
"Well," Morgan began, considering. "He was an easier target. If Brandt really had been watching the team since we arrived in Blythewood like he said, he definitely would've known that Reid was on crutches. He'd have seen he was carrying a gun, but as familiar as he is with a blitz attack he'd probably know that he could easily have overpowered him. Plus, even though JJ was separated from the rest of the team during the raid, she wasn't alone like Reid was. Considering how small the department is, he'd have known the sheriff would've sent every available officer with us, leaving Reid on his own at the station."
"No," Hotch said simply, leaving absolutely no room for argument. "It's more than that. He picked Reid specifically - out of all of us." Tired brown eyes drifted over to the blood that still stained the floor. "We just need to find out why."
"Why didn't he use his gun?" Morgan asked abruptly. He looked up, catching his unit chief's stern gaze. "I get attacked from behind, I go down. My first instinct is to draw my gun." To demonstrate his point, he knelt down on his right knee and pantomimed reaching for his weapon, but instead of going for his own holster at his hip, Morgan slid his hand down to the front of his thigh where Reid kept his. "Appendix carry actually benefits the situation. Easier access in this position."
"Forensics didn't find any shell casings or bullet holes," Hotch stated, bewilderment written across his face.
"Yeah, but look at this place." Morgan, still down on one knee, gestured around at the destroyed conference room. "Reid didn't go down easy. He fought Brandt with everything he could. He sure as hell would've tried to use his gun before trying to physically fight off a six foot tall, two hundred pound man."
"You're right," Hotch concurred. "He's used his gun in self-defense before. This would have been no different."
Morgan thought for a moment, then positioned himself down on the ground on his back. He extended his left arm, crooked at the elbow, as if fending off some unseen assailant, and his right hand came to rest once again at his imaginary appendix holster. He grimaced and shook his head. "No. No way. Even if Brandt had gotten Reid down that quickly, he'd still have access to his gun." He sat up, knees bent and elbows resting on top, and looked questioningly at his boss, demanding an answer Hotch couldn't give.
Why didn't he use it?
[…]
Yeah, don't expect anything too elaborate with the profiling. They don't teach that to theatre majors. Anyway, I really hope you guys liked it! The next chapter will be out soon, and things will begin to pick up again.