"There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart's desire. The other is to get it."
-George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950)

Spencer's Point of View

"The fifth victim of a serial killer right here in Quantico washed ashore early this morning," Rossi explained, pinning up pictures of four dead women to the board. "She's alive, but in critical condition."

"They waited until the fifth to call us in?" Emily asked, sounding angry more than anything. "And it's in our own district, too! Cops are stupid." I rolled my eyes. "Why is this one alive?"

Rossi looked pointedly at me. I was uncomfortable about it, now. Of course, I had been the one to tell him about it, just minutes before the call from the local police came in, but still. "We have Dr. Reid to thank for that." Emily's eyebrows shot up and she glanced at me.

"Reid?"

"I was jogging this morning and I found her by the beach," I explained, feeling my cheeks flush a little. "She was stabbed five times in the abdomen." Hotch nodded and stood up from his place at the table.

"That keeps up with the pattern of our UNSUB. The first victim was stabbed once, the second twice and so on." He motioned to the pictures. "Either he's just getting angrier, or there's a methodical pattern to this. Perhaps he's working up to a certain number. Or maybe he just likes to count."

"It seems to me that this guy is trying to recreate something," Morgan put in, rubbing his chin absently.

"He doesn't seem angry, either; it's too planned. He makes sure everything is perfect. He follows the same pattern with each victim. According to the autopsy reports and missing persons', he keeps them for about three days until he kills them. He feeds them, but keeps their hands tied so they won't escape. Then he rapes them, dresses them in black underwear and stabs them when he's finished. They are dumped into the ocean, probably far away from shore, and left to die. The first victim, Tanya White, twenty-four, died of hypothermia rather than blood loss. Her stab wound was jagged, and there were hesitation marks on the skin around it."

"He was nervous the first time," said Emily, her rapt attention on Hotch and Rossi. "He wasn't sure exactly how he wanted to do it."

"The second victim, Alexandra Peterson, twenty-six, was stabbed twice; one hit the Abdominal Aorta, she bled out in minutes. The third, Sandra Lukas, twenty-two, wasn't so lucky. He nicked the Renal Vein with the third laceration, but it would have taken her hours to die."

I noticed Emily shiver. She was putting herself in the third victim's shoes; alone in the water, drifting, slowly bleeding to death. It was a pretty awful way to go. "The fourth, Ava Bell, twenty-three, had four stab wounds. He hit the Superior Mesenteric Artery; it would have taken a half-hour, tops."

"What happened to the fifth victim?" I asked my voice about an octave higher than it normally would be. This wasn't any other case. This one was special. I had seen life in that girl's eyes. But I had also seen the pain and despair. I had to find her would-be killer.

Hotch picked up a file from the table. Morgan was watching me, his eyes scrutinizing. He was profiling my reaction to the information, probably. I hadn't told anyone what had really happened on the beach that morning; I briefly went over it with Rossi, but avoided specifics. My eidetic memory kept replaying it over and over in my mind like a broken DVD, the fear I felt for her as she was torn from my arms by the EMT. I realised I was thinking instead of listening, and focussed again on Hotch.

"...didn't hit any main arteries or organs. She could have been lying there for hours before she regained consciousness. She's still in critical condition at the moment, but the doctors are hopeful for a full recovery." I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"So we can't interview her yet?" asked Emily, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"He'll send one of us down to talk to her later... when she's conscious," grumbled Rossi, sitting back down as Hotch paced in front of the board.

"All of the women are similar in appearance; Caucasian, female, early to mid-twenties, long dark hair, slim and average height. We have to assume he's picking his victims because they remind him of someone."

"There's no pattern in when he takes his victims, either," I put in, looking down at the file Rossi had slid to me. "The first and second were a month apart, the second and third three weeks, the third and fourth eighteen days, the fourth and fifth twenty-six days. We have to assume that he's picking them when he's stressful, or bothered by something. Something in his life must be reminding him to kill interminably."

"So we don't know when he'll strike next, but we know who he's targeting," said Morgan, wetting his lips with his tongue. "He might have lost someone who looked like these women, maybe in the same way he's killing them. Or he might have seen a murder like these, and he's trying to recreate it."

"Either way, it's personal to him," I said, closing my eyes. I saw Leah's looking up at me, scared and in pain. They snapped back open. "He makes sure the details are just perfect. He's not doing this to get attention, or else he'd put the bodies somewhere easy to find. He couldn't have known where the bodies would wash ashore, or even if they would. They could have been taken by a current farther out to sea and eaten by fish, ruining his work." I ran a hand through my hair. "No, he's doing this for himself. It's either for his pleasure or a need to copy the archetype."

Rossi nodded. "We have to find out where he's getting his victims from. We should interview the families and friends, co-workers if we have to. If there's a connection between these women, we need to find it." I nodded.

"Reid, why don't you go stay with the fifth victim until she wakes up?" asked Hotch, looking me in the eyes. He obviously saw how worried I was for her. I nodded and got numbly from my seat as he began to hand out the other's assignments.

I walked swiftly from the building, calling a cab from my cellular phone as I went. I could hear Morgan laughing behind me, and Emily's voice drifting over. How could he laugh? Women were dying; innocent women like Leah, right at home in Quantico. It was wrong. And he was laughing. I ground my teeth together with frustration.

The cab seem impossibly slow on my ride to the hospital. The driver was careful; much like I was on the road, but it was annoying when you wanted to get somewhere fast. I realised that this must be what the team feels like when I'm driving. Hands at ten and two, eyes on the road but check your mirrors, always go the speed limit or below... it must be awful to drive with me.

"Thanks," I said, a grouchy tone to my voice, as I handed the cap driver a handful of bills. I got out of the cab and stumbled up the steps and into the lobby. All I had to do to get into her room was flash my badge and say "FBI." She was out of the ICU, but sedated for the moment, I was told by a doctor as I approached her door. I entered her room and closed the door behind me, but stayed standing in the doorway. I wasn't her family; I didn't know her. It could be proper for me to go much closer.

I sat down in the chair beside the door, crossing my legs. I looked at her curiously. I hadn't realised how beautiful she was on the beach, there hadn't been enough time to admire her slender nose, long lashes and oval face with high cheekbones. Now that I watched her sleep, I realised how angelic she looked. She had small rosebud lips and a square jawbone, eyes the perfect distance apart, according to the Golden Ratio. Her hair no longer looked wild. Someone had brushed it straight since she'd arrived, and it hung loosely around her head, splayed out on the white pillow.

I realised, of course, that it was weird to stare at one thing too long. I liked to observe everything I could for as long as I could; an odd tendency I'd picked up as a child. Morgan commented on it, once, and ever since I've been trying not to do it. I even closed my eyes for a minute, trying to think of something, anything that would eradicate my mind of the image that seemed etched permanently into my corneas as of late. That image, of course, was Leah's petrified green eyes looking up at me, begging me to save her.

My eyes snapped open. Damn my eidetic memory! The pain, the anguish— one thought came to mind as I contemplated the emotions reeling across her delicate face in my too-clear memory; "Call no man foe, but never love a stranger." The quote by Stella Benson seemed out of place in my usually very tidily organised train of thought.

The first part meant nothing to me at that time, because I'd already called many a man my 'foe,' so to speak. I mean, I caught serial killers for a living! I hated every single one of them, deep down in my core. They'd taken lives, precious things that should never have been wasted. I myself had killed a man; but I had been aiming for his leg, and he had done far more damage than I in killing him. He would have continued, also, so really... I still couldn't justify it. For a month afterward I saw his face in my mind, moments before the bullet caught him between the eyes.

The second part of the quote that had to reason to penetrate my mental barrier that I set up to stop myself from thinking and blurting out irrelevant things at inappropriate times, of course, had a meaning. I wasn't sure what made it come to me, so to speak. I'd never spoken more than two words to the girl, and yet I found myself thinking... no, knowing, would be a more appropriate term... that I would to absolutely anything for her. Anything to keep her safe, to keep her happy; and I hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to her!

Still, her limp form, looking tiny and unprotected on the hospital bed before me, caused me more heartache than I thought possible to gain from a stranger. I'd heard of a 'broken heart' of course. I'd never actually experienced one; I wasn't exactly the type to date, or anything even closer for that matter. The closest I'd come was when I had to put my mother away. She begged me not to do it, told me that was she lucid enough most of the time. I knew she was lying through her teeth. She was deteriorating, and I couldn't leave her alone. God knows what would happen!

I put my elbows on my knees and leaned forward, placing my chin on my fists. I began to observe her again, wondering how on Earth anything could be so beautiful when unconscious. I sat straight up again and blinked a few times in rapid succession. I had just called her beautiful. She had been kidnapped, restrained, stabbed and, if the killer was true to form (which he would be, as these people can't change their pattern without something huge forcing them to), raped. I was looking at victim, admiring her beauty, while she was in pain. I felt awful. I felt dirty. I felt like I shouldn't be allowed to be here.

I put my hands on the armrests of the chair and prepared myself to stand up; but the file on my lap caught my eye and made me pause. I had to interview her when she woke. Hotch was counting on me to be objective and do my job. I removed my hands and put them back in my lap. Taking deep breathes and closing my eyes, I slowly began to recite Charles Dickens's "Oliver Twist" in my head. It was the only thing I could think of to do while waiting.

By Chapter Seven, I was so completely bored that I opened my eyes. I noticed as I looked at her for a third time that her eyes fluttered beneath their lids. Either she was close to waking, or in a very high state of REM sleep.

I picked up the folder off my lap and stood, arching my back a small amount to stretch the cramped muscles. Her eyes flickered again, and I dragged the chair to her bedside so I could be more face-to-face with her when she woke. I figured it would be easier for her to make the transition from unconsciousness to consciousness if she had someone close-by to tell her she was in a hospital and not to panic. Also, I did have to question her; it was probably best to get it over with as soon as possible so she would be less likely to develop some kind of post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Again, I began to recite "Oliver Twist," this time under my breath, and all the while watching her face. This close to her, I could see tiny flaws I hadn't noticed before; a tiny scar above her left eyebrow, little creases in the corners of her eyes, a freckle under her jawbone and a hole in the side of her nose (a piercing, was my best guess); if you could call those flaws. I found them interesting. I wondered how she had gotten the scar.

Slowly, as I muttered the familiar story to myself, my eyes began to try and close themselves. My sleeplessness from the night before was catching up with me, and not at a very opportune time. I did eventually close my eyes, somewhere around the middle of Chapter Eleven. I think I remember stopping my narrative. That was when, I suppose, I fell asleep.