15th NOVEMBER 2012
Liana looked up worriedly, her eyes darting around desperately. It had been hours since Spencer had left the settlement. It was four in the afternoon, and the shadows of darkness had begun to tear the fabric of the day, swallowing it whole. She stuffed her pockets with leftover pretzels and nibbled one daintily. She took a lighter and a few smokes and scuttled through the archway to find Spencer. Billy was still inside the settlement, sleeping off his drunken stupor, on a pile of old rags. He cursed the cold in the slurred ramblings of his sleep. The cold wind bit at her cheeks, her hair whipped back and forth like dark tendrils, smothering the skin of her neck as she walked aimlessly in her search.
Three streets over, a snow mound had begun to form in the street around a figure, the figure of a man. Spencer lay on the cold concrete, snow sticking to his eyebrows, hair and face, his lips power blue, his face pallid. So many had walked past him, turning their blind eyes to their papers, their cups of pretentious coffee, their cellphones. One man had stopped in front over Spencer's unconscious form. He shook his head mournfully and laid a gentle hand upon his pulse point, below his chin. He felt the weak and thready pulse bump up against his fingers and he pulled out his cellphone.
"I-I need an ambulance, the alley behind Rafters. There's a man; he's lying in the snow. I don't know what happened to him, he looks hurt, and I don't know how long he's been out here. Please hurry. He's unconscious and his heart is really slow," he put his cellphone away and crouched down next to Spencer's head once more. He opened his bag and pulled out a scarf, which he laid underneath Spencer's head, in a meagre attempt to display kindness, that Spencer could not feel.
"I'm sorry this happened to you," the man said, and patted his shoulder lightly, before standing, He exited the alley and continued on his original journey, hoping that someone would be able to help the man he'd left in the shadow of the alley.
LA GUARDIA AIRPORT, MANHATTAN
"Damn, I didn't expect it to be so damn cold here, Hotch," Morgan rolled his eyes and blew warm air into his hands.
"Stop complaining, Morgan, we're here on a case, we'll do what we have to do; snow or not." he sighed with annoyance as his feet were wet with snow and his jacket dusted in delicate, cold, white flakes. He beckoned Morgan to follow him as he strode off once again. Morgan traipsed behind him begrudgingly, muttering under his breath as he did. They strode right past the dark alley, without so much as a glance to the right; for if they had, they would have seen the limp and lifeless figure of a man they once called family.
"Over there! This is the alley!" The dark-skinned, tall paramedic rushed into the gloomy area, and surveyed the scene. He shuffled piles of snow out of the way with his foot, until he glimpsed the pale hand, crunched up into a ball beside him. He quickly brushed the cold blanket from the figure and shouted back out to his partner:
"I've found him! He's hyperthermic! Bring thermal blankets, heated saline and an IV set up. His pulse is only sixty seven, and he's heading towards asystole, fast!" he looked back down at the huddle mass in front of him.
"What happened to you?" he spoke gently, his words falling upon deaf ears. The other paramedic ran through the alley, arms laden with all that was requested. He cleared the area around the body, and he laid a silver thermal blanket across the frail frame. He tucked it around the back and secured it. He rolled up the tattered sleeve of Spencer's right arm and shook his head.
"No stranger to a needle," he sighed and opened up his medical kit, withdrawing a sterile IV needle from a packet. He tied a rubber tourniquet around his bicep, and slid the sharp, hollow needle point into the barely pulsating vein of Spencer's slid him onto the gurney, and lifted him into the ambulance. As they closed the doors and jumped back into the cab of the ambulance, the bluish glow of the rhythmic lights radiated the snow. The shrill screech of sirens rang through the air, as the engine roared back to life after a few attempts, in the cold and unforgiving air. Cars weaved and slowed to make a path like the parting of the red seas, as the ambulance sped with authority down the streets, upon which the snow had greyed and become a toxic melting pot of ash, despair, and unformed shapes.
The ambulance pulled up to Mount Sinai Beth Israel hospital, and in two quick motions, they had pulled Spencer from the ambulance, and were rolling him through the doors. As they arrived, an olive-skinned man in a consultants coat jogged over, tugging the stethoscope from around his neck;
"What have we got?" his eyes were steely and focused upon his newest enigma, and he placed the stethoscope into his ears as they kept up the pace towards the ER department.
"Male, estimated around thirty, heavy bruising to the face, first and second intercostal spaces, neck, and skull, possible internal bleeding and lacerations to the forehead and base of the skull. Hyperthermic, we found him out in the snow, looks like he'd been there a while; I'd say he's homeless," the paramedic spoke methodically and when the doctor gave him leave to do so, he returned to his chariot for the wounded. The doctor wheeled him into the bay, and directly, but not forcefully conveyed orders to the two on-call nurses;
"Okay, Sarah, Erica, I'm going to need three bags of saline, with Dextrose at five percent, heated to one-hundred-and-four degrees and a humidified oxygen mask for airway rewarming, I'll also need you to suture this man's head wounds, then call through to CT for a scan; I need to rule out internal bleeding," the nurses nodded and scattered out of the room, as the doctor pulled out his flash light to check for petechiae, and for evidence of aneurysm. Sarah, the nurse who had gone to retrieve the IV solution, came back with her arms laden with fluid bags, butterfly needles, and a mask. She placed them on the medical table somewhat chaotically and pulled on a pair of latex gloves.
"Shall I start the IV, Doctor?"
"Go ahead," he nodded and scribbled something down on his clipboard before hanging it from the end of the bed. He pulled the brown, woollen coat from Spencer's body and rifled through the pockets, looking for some form of ID. He pulled out a few quarters, a button, and a square, plastic card. The picture of the man looked like the figure before him, only more polished and more hopeful. He was a shell of the man in this picture, a fall from grace was one of the hardest things he, as a doctor had witnessed when working with the homeless. The card was damaged, and he was unable to make out what kind of identification it was. It looked as though it had been put through a washer. It was more likely the harsh weather had saturated it. The name was about all he could make out on the card; Spencer Reid. He added the name to the clipboard and placed the card back into the coat., which was then slung on the end of the bed.
The nurse pushed the butterfly needle into the pallid, blue vein of Spencer's left hand, and attached it to the warm fluid bag. The mask was placed around his nose and mouth and as the air and liquid spread across each cell, it warmed and recoloured, and reanimated the tissues of his body.
Hotch took a sip of his coffee, and rubbed his face, frowning in frustration;
"So you're telling me the victim isn't dead after all?" he glared at the deputy, who had provided the original intelligence.
"They were pronounced dead at the scene but their pulse was incredibly weak and faint; the coroner got the fright of his life when his cadaver started to bleed," he shook his head;
he himself was in disbelief.
"So he targets the homeless, he entices them to perform a sex act for money? Food? He doesn't pay and if he does he takes it back afterwards. He beats them, possibly rapes them, even after the consensual act. He then leaves them to die in the snow? Seems like a pretty risky plan; no certainty of death and if they survive he could be identified," Morgan put his hands, clasped behind his head.
"We might be looking at a serial hate crime; out of all of the identified victims - at least five are gay men. Perhaps he is impotent, taking his rage out on the weak, knowing it's the only way he will ever have power," Hotch mused as he stood by the window.
"Or maybe he's gay, and the hate extends deeper than just to others; the ferocity of the beatings indicate pure, unadulterated rage," Morgan added, pouring himself another cup of coffee. Hotch nodded and went over to the map in an attempt to finalise the geolocalisation. He used red pins to mark the places the victims had been found prior to today.
"Which hospital is our victim recovering in?" Hotch turned back to the deputy.
"That would be Mount Sinai Beth Israel, sir," he tipped his hat and scribbled the address and zip code onto a post it note and handed it to Hotch.
"Thank you," he said matter-of-factly as he grabbed his tan overcoat, Morgan jumped up and followed suit, orphaning his cup of coffee in the process, leaving the deputy to look around in perplexity. The deputy had put the victim's name and room number on the note, and they climbed into their FBI-approved hire car and they drove over to the hospital. Hotch frowned at the realisation that he had to pay for the privilege of doing his job, and he slid the money into the ticket machine. He stuck the ticket to the inside of the car's wind shield and locked up the car. They walked into the hospital lobby and Morgan settled his hands upon the reception desk;
"Excuse me, we're looking for a Mr Henry Tyler; we're from the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the FBI and we need to take a statement, and gather evidence about his ordeal," the receptionist nodded after perusing their ID badges, and tapped away at her computer.
"He's in room one-zero-seven if we are correct?" Hotch glanced at the hand-written note again. She nodded;
"That's right, I'll have a nurse take you up there right away," she smiled politely and flagged a nurse down, who lead them down a long, teal-painted corridor. You could tell the teal was an attempt to brighten the walls, make them appear different to what they really resembled; harbingers of illness, of death and disease. No one liked being in a hospital, even if they themselves were not afflicted, it becomes a hotbed of avoidance, and tragedy. In every corner someone was fighting some silent battle; in others the despair radiated from them in waves, in cries, in shuddering moans
They reached the room, and the nurse explained that due to the nature of his injuries, Henry was still heavily sedated. They nodded and stepped into the private room, the only one of two afforded to someone with no insurance, merely due to the sheer volume of people admitted from the streets; the rest were crammed into a ward, not a shred of privacy to be had. In this case however, privacy was a must. Hotch sat down next to Hentry, and gently nudged his hand. He groggily opened an eye and grunted in confusion;
"Mr Tyler, my name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is my colleague SSA Derek Morgan, we're from the Behavioural Analysis Unit and we'd like you to answer some questions about your attack if you feel able," Hotch perched on the small table in the corner of the room to allow Henry some distance from the strangeness of the situation. He crossed his arms and attempted a reassuring smile, that probably did not translate the way he had wanted it to. Henry squinted at the two hazy figures in front of him, and despite the blur, he was still able to make out the stern expression on Hotch's face.
"Do I have to?" he murmured, he felt his blood burn in shame at the sheer mention of the attack.
"Your attack wasn't the first, Mr Tyler-"
"Call me Henry, Mr Tyler is my father," Henry interrupted Hotch and licked his dry lips. Morgan moved to pour him some water and held the straw to his lips. Henry nodded in thanks and sipped judiciously at the water, draining it almost instantly. Morgan placed the empty cup on the table and Hotch continued;
"Okay, Henry, several other men have been attacked just like you were. Those other men died, you're alive, and anything you can tell us could lead us to this man, and help us get him off the streets before he hurts anyone else," Henry considered Hotch's proposal for a few moments, Hotch turned his gaze to Morgan so as not to put undue pressure on him to respond.
"You keep my face and name out of the papers," he eyed up both special agents and awaited confirmation. Hotch nodded and Morgan too;
"Of course, we have a media liaison back at the department who deals with all media information, you will remain anonymous, the other victims were named as they were deceased, and we had to locate their families. We strive to protect our living victim's privacy, they've been through enough already," Hotch finished his empowered speech and it worked; Henry nodded and looked down at his hands as he agreed to relive his nightmare.
"Okay, if it helps get this bastard locked up, I'll tell you everything I remember," he replied, with more conviction than he had before. Morgan moved to close the door, before Henry began, and as he did, he overheard the nurse who had shown them to the room, and the tall, olive-skinned doctor talking in hushed voices.
"We need to tell them doctor, if it's connected to Mr Tyler they will want to know," she spoked in a harsh and hushed voice.
"I know, but this hospital doesn't need that kind of heat, and we don't know it's connected it's just similar that's all," the doctor replied, trying to remain calm and quiet to avoid raising suspicions.
"This isn't about the hospital, this is about these victims, and if we say nothing, how many more will we have rushed through our doors? Five? Ten? Could you honestly live with that? I know I couldn't. I will go over your head if I have to. They need to know," the nurse was angry now, her hands curled into fists, her expression almost wild. Morgan peeked with one eye through the door that was only a crack open. He knew he had to get that information in such a time-sensitive case.
"The other victim, he's in one-zero-eight, they're already next door, I'm going to tell them if you don't" she turned and quickly left the doctor standing in the hallway, he rubbed his forehead and sighed angrily, before walking away in the opposite direction. Morgan turned to Hotch;
"Hold on, I just overheard we potentially have another victim. He's in the next room, the good doctor didn't want to tell us about it, but the nurse said she'd tell us. Good thing I'm a great listener isn't it?" Morgan smiled thinly and Hotch nodded;
"I'll take Henry's story, go next door and talk to that victim, we need all the evidence we can get. You got a name?" Morgan shook his head;
"Nope, but I'll have one in a minute," he strolled out of the room and turned left; one-zero-eight. The door was closed and he opened it quietly as a sign of both respect, and caution. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight he was about to see; his eyes widened and his heart jumped whilst his blood ran cold. He knew this victim, he had been part of making him one he felt. He hadn't done enough to stop him going down a dark and terrible path. He had let him down, and he felt tears of regret and anger well up in his eyes;
"Spencer," he swallowed thickly and sunk to the ground, his head in his hands, his brain recalling all of the words that had been traded in those final months, the anger and frustration he had allowed to turn him away from this man, his friend, when he needed it the most. He made his way into the chair beside his bed and he reached out to touch his almost emaciated hand, he gasped as in a second Spencer grabbed his hand and pulled him close, fear in his eyes like a silent scream of terror;
"Are you real?" he scanned with his eyes, his hands grappling Morgan's shirt and arms and face. Morgan's regretful tears made his hot cheeks dewy as he took Spencer's arms;
"I'm real, you're here and I'm here," Morgan knew nothing could take back the betrayal he had cause, he and all of them.
"You came to save me after all," Spencer squeaked, in a quiet and almost child like voice. Those words broke him; his heart cracked and his tears flowed like a river of guilt and he nodded, what else could he do?
"Yes, I'm going to save you," he whispered as Spencer pulled him weakly to come closer, Morgan pulled him into his arms and held him tighter than he ever had before.
"You're safe now," he sighed; and now more than ever, he knew he would do whatever it took to bring him back from this; he had failed before but he wouldn't walk away again;
"I will bring you back" he whispered.
