Infinite Possibilities
The flapping of a single butterfly's wing today produces a tiny change in the state of the atmosphere. Over a period of time, what the atmosphere actually does diverges from what it would have done. So, in a month's time, a tornado that would have devastated the Indonesian coast doesn't happen. Or maybe one that wasn't going to happen, does.
Ian Stewart
***
III
Spencer Reid was excited – no, excited was too inadequate a word. Spencer Reid was overjoyed. He had thought maybe that the FBI was overworked, that perhaps they'd do a consult and then leave the rest of the work to the Detectives, but no. They had come in all their glory. And it wasn't just any FBI agents; this was the BAU.
He had considered joining the BAU for a while. It wouldn't have been any trouble at all for an intellectual of his caliber. It would have been interesting to see if they were all like he was. If they were all products of their upbringing.
But biology aside, Spencer Reid knew that he could never be anything other than what he was.
***
They returned to the police station, where Morgan had gotten started on victimology. He had spent less and less time in the field lately, citing his need for "intellectual pursuits" as the reason for this. He wasn't fooling any of them. They all knew the real reason. That Derek Morgan had lost his casual confidence the night he had been kidnapped by Tobias Henkel.
'Nineteen victims have been ID'd so far.' He put the list up on the projector screen. 'All white females between the ages of seventeen and thirty-eight. As JJ mentioned before,' he gave a nod to the media liaison, 'our unsub started off with younger victims and worked his way upwards in age.'
'Probably coincided with the unsub's own maturation. He started in his teens.' Rossi spoke with clear self-assurance. Morgan nodded in agreement.
'All of these women were reported missing by a friend or family member. He's not going for the high-risk targets. He likes a challenge.'
'Then what about Helena Moon?' Prentiss spoke up. 'Sure, he's taunting us by putting the body out in the open, but she doesn't exactly fit the victim pattern.' It was a discrepancy that they had acknowledged before, but had not yet discussed in detail.
'I don't think she was about matching the victim types,' postulated Rossi. 'She was a message, to us. He's trying to tell us that we're nothing to him. He's arrogant. He's turning this into a game, and he's making up all the rules.'
***
'Hey, Morgan.' He turned from the whiteboard at the sound of Prentiss calling his name.
'Yeah?'
'I was thinking…since you can't really do much more on victimology until the rest of the lab results get back – did you want to come with me to interview a potential witness?' Truth told, she wasn't sure if Bill Walton was a witness or a suspect, but she did know that Morgan needed to get out, even for just a little bit.
'I…' He hesitated briefly. 'Yeah, I'll come.' He knew what she was doing, and he was grateful for it. Her own experiences matched his in terms of severity – she had spent nearly eleven days trapped in that cult compound, and when she had finally got out, it was difficult to tell the color of her skin beneath the blood and the bruises. He knew the experience had changed her, just as his ordeal with Henkel. It was a bizarre form of solidarity.
Bill Walton lived in a rather impressive looking home. It had expensive vases, expensive paintings, even a rather expensive looking Jacuzzi. The only thing missing seemed to be someone to share it with.
He was a bachelor, and a playboy bachelor at that.
'We'd like to ask you a couple of questions about the death of Helena Moon,' Prentiss started. Walton took a glance at the photo she handed him.
'Dead stripper,' he said. 'So what? I didn't do it.'
'Helena's colleagues suggested that you had some kind of infatuation with her. That you wanted to rescue her from the business, so to speak. Is that true?'
He shrugged. 'I was looking for a trophy wife.'
Prentiss raised an eyebrow. She couldn't understand why some women fell for people like this. Morgan shared her disbelief. Walton, however, was oblivious.
'Say,' he looked first at Morgan then at Prentiss. 'Do you think any of the other dancers would be interested in my offer?'
Ignoring him, Morgan asked, 'Where were you last night between the hours of midnight and four a.m.'
'I was here,' Bill answered, and neither profiler could see even a hint of a lie in his face.
'We'll be in touch,' Morgan told him, handing over his card. 'If you hear anything…' he trailed off.
'Jackass,' Prentiss muttered under her breath as they left the glories of fame and fortune behind them.
***
'Hey Garcia, it's JJ.'
'How's everybody doing?' The technical analyst had been observing the members of the BAU surreptitiously; they were all looking rather stressed as of late. The time spent in the BAU had not been kind to any of them.
'About the same,' answered JJ. 'I need you to go over the footage from the club where Helena Moon worked. See if there's anyone paying an unnatural amount of attention to her.'
'It's a strip club, sweetie. They're supposed to pay attention.'
'This guy wouldn't care about the nudity. He'd be looking for a suitable victim.'
'I'll see what I can do,' sighed Garcia. 'But no promises.'
***
'Freya Woodgate? My name is Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner. This is Special Agent Jareau. Could we come in, please?'
The woman before them looked fearful. She had been expecting this visit for nine years, but that still didn't prepare her. She let them in wordlessly.
'This is about my daughter?' she asked, but it was more of a statement than a question.
'Your daughter's body was discovered yesterday in a mass grave. I'm sorry.' JJ's voice had a note of false sympathy. So many bodies, so many death notifications, being able to cope became her top priority, cynicism aside.
Freya Woodgate nodded, but no tears came. She had cried so many times since her daughter's disappearance, and to have even the smallest semblance of closure was a relief.
'Was there anyone that might have wanted to kill your daughter? We have suspicions that the killer may have known his victims in some capacity,' Hotch asked. His face was blank from expression, but even his mask couldn't hide the bags under his eyes.
'No,' said Freya. 'No, there was no-one.'
***
He watched as the older man stood next to the whiteboard, examining the profile. A few times, he made changes. Rubbed out bits that didn't work, added things, adjusted other things. Silently, he evaluated this man.
Yes, he was intelligent. But more intelligent than Spencer Reid.
Unlikely.
The older man heard a small sound, and turned.
'Can I help you?' he asked.
Spencer Reid gave a slight jump, more for the sake of the profiler than from actual fear. 'Agent Rossi,' he said, in a tone of faux intimidation. 'My…er…My name is Officer Spencer Reid. They sent me over to help with the case.'
He smiled shyly.
He was going to milk this for all it was worth.
A/N: Okay, first things first: Characterization is a little off on purpose, just to emphasize the idea that things would be different without Reid around. Some things that happened to Reid happened to other people instead, and some cases that would have been affected a lot by Reid's input would have turned out a lot differently.
Secondly, looking today I realized that I have six stories that I'm working on, so I've put up a poll on my profile page if anyone wanted to vote on which I should be prioritizing.