Quantico
"Wow, you really are amazing, Penelope." Kevin said on the other end of the line. He had called while he and Spencer were on their way to Miami Metro, and wanted a deep dig on Jonah Mitchell, aka Mitchell Jones. "I was just about to call you.
"You only say that because it's true." Garcia said back. "Anyway, I dug as deep as can be dug on Jonah Mitchell aka Mitchell Jones, and I have to tell you he is about the least creepy guy to ever be in witness protection. The dirtiest thing on his online activity is downloading pictures of bikini clad women washing cars, and I find nothing remarkable about his Net skills; unless you call being remarkably unremarkable remarkable. I swear this guy is strictly point and click, and call tech support if anything goes wrong. I'm not even sure if he knows how to defragment his hard drive. He does have a very cute video of a dog chasing away some jerk who threw a rock at a cat, though."
"I see." Kevin said. "So it doesn't seem likely he's helping this guy Dexter. Well, I bet Dr. Reid will want to talk to him anyway."
Garcia couldn't help but smile; it was sounding like Kevin and the boy genius were working well together. "So far it appears that keeping each other's secret is their only relationship, my dear, but I do have the address where Mitchell is currently staying, and I am sending to both you and the boy wonder...now." She clicked the information to their devices.
"That's great." Kevin said. "Oh, before I forget, Dr. Reid was also wondering how those other files are coming along. He's especially interested in the video file you think you found."
Garcia winced. She knew that was coming, but she was hoping it wouldn't be touched upon just yet. "The video file is proving to be unbelievably frustrating, but I think I'm close to getting one of the documents sorted out." She replied. "I can't be sure yet, but I think it might be notes on Voegel's sessions with Debra Morgan; there's the name LaGuerta that keeps coming up, and that was one of the people whose death really messed her up, right?"
"I wouldn't know." Kevin answered.
"Oh, right, of course you wouldn't. Not that that makes you any less intelligent. Just that this wasn't your case, so you wouldn't have that information..."
"I understood what you meant, Penelope." Kevin said soothingly. "Listen, I better get back to what we're doing here, alright? We have a bunch of work to get through."
"Okay," Garcia said quietly. "Well, 'bye." She disconnected the call. Before resuming her effort to piece together what she thought was the Dr. Voegel Document on Debra Morgan, she gazed at one of her trolls; it was one that Kevin bought her when they were a thing. There was a part of her that still adored Kevin Lynch; he was such a sweet man.
She looked again at the document, such as it was, and then she what she sometimes referred to in her head as a Spencer moment. Looking at her screens, she saw how several of the fragments all fit together so they would actually become something legible. It might not be a whole lot, but it was something.
"..and now a little bit of the Garcia magic to go with the Spencer pattern spotting moment," she muttered as she clicked on her center-most keyboard, "...and voila!" She hit enter. In a matter of moments the fragments she was most interested in began to fall into place. It would still take some time, but she should have at least a piece of a useful document that can be read; and once that piece was established, the rest of it would start to be like a jigsaw puzzle that got easier and easier to see how it fits.
Washington, DC
The plane had touched down in Dulles and Joe Quinn got off the plane. After collecting his luggage, he began searching for his ride; only mildly disappointed with the knowledge that it wasn't Emily he was meeting. He did want to see her as soon as possible, but he was also thrilled with the idea of his showing up in DC being a big surprise. The fact that she can't always read him like she might read one of her Profiles was going to make their relationship that much more exciting; he was sure of it.
Quinn left Angel in a bit of a lurch; it was true. He figured that Angel didn't quite buy his reasons for wanting out of Miami. The thing was that he was telling the truth; it really was time to move on. Batista wasn't stupid; he knew damn well that Quinn's primary motivation for the move was Agent Emily Prentiss, but what Angel seemed to be missing was that was what Joey meant. If he was going to progress in life beyond Deb, he had to get out of Florida. Of course, there was an added bonus to being in DC and close to a Fed. This way, he could keep a finger on the pulse of FBI movements in regards to anything to do with Dex a lot easier; he might even catch wind of stuff before Astor on her computers and gizmos. That was, of course, a secondary concern, what mattered to him right now was resuming his career, and taking things with Em to the next level.
Near the exit of the building, Quinn saw a man with a sign reading his name. He waved high over his head at the guy and made his way towards him.
"You're Lieutenant LaMontagne?" he asked when he got to him.
"Dat would be me." LaMontagne confirmed. "It's good to meet you face to face at last. Welcome to DC. Oh, and since we ain't on the clock just now, you can call me Will."
"I'll do that," Quinn replied, "but only if you call me Joey; or Joe if you like that better."
"Well, t'en, Joey it is." Will said, grinning a grin with just the kind of charm that Joey had no doubt got the Lieutenant laid plenty of times. He noted Will had a wedding band and wondered if he was true to his wife or if he liked to step out every once in awhile. He quickly dismissed this thought, though; that kind of thinking was part of what he was trying to leave behind.
They shook hands. As they ventured off to Will's car, they chatted a little. Will told him some of the places that were good to hang out in, some of the better neighborhoods to live in (one which Joey had evidently managed to pick out when arranging his new accommodations before taking the transfer), the fact that he and his wife had a running bet with each other over the Saints and the Redskins, that sort of thing. For now, Quinn mostly listened. He was the new kid in town; it was best to get a lay of the land before making too much noise. He expressed his love of the Dolphins, though, and that he didn't think would die. Then Will invited him to a welcome to town dinner at the house; he could meet and greet with his wife and his two boys.
"Actually, you prob'ly already know the wife," Will said casually. "I'm sure you met a little while back in Miami when she was part of case over that way; SSA Jennifer Jareau; you know her?"
For about a second, Joey was speechless. "Yeah, I remember her. Goes by JJ, right? Works on the Unit led by Prentiss?"
"That'd be the one." Will confirmed. "So what do you say? You wanna come in? I been setting up somet'ing real nice on the slow cooker all day." He offered.
Joey smiled, not believing his good fortune. He had an even better in on this new town than he thought. It was looking like he was getting some that old Irish luck back. "Yeah, sure, I'd like that, thanks. Just let me get a little settled in my place first."
Miami, Florida
The first person that SSA Dr, Spencer Reid and Technical Analyst Kevin Lynch that Capt Batista had arranged an interview with was Lead Forensic Investigator Vincent Masuka; a short, bald, middle aged Japanese man with a slight frame that was surprisingly well toned under his lab jacket and a pair of spectacles. He was also sporting a necktie that was bordering on being obnoxious, though Spencer saw no need to comment on the tie.
"Thank you for taking the time to see us, sir," Spencer greeted. "I'm sure you have a heavy caseload right now with all the gang-related activity in your city. That is why we'll try to finish this as quickly as possible."
Vincent Masuka nodded.
"As I understand it, you were the Lead in Forensics during the original Bay Harbor Butcher case. Is that correct?" Spencer asked.
"Well in theory at least." Masuka answered. "Thing was, Lundy basically snubbed me, and deferred all his forensic questions to Dex. My guess is that's because he was trying to make sure that Dex would be okay with him trying to bang his sister. I can respect that." He let out what had to the most lewd sounding burst of laughter Spencer had ever heard in his entire life; or at least from someone who wasn't completely deranged. Once again, it seemed Dexter Morgan managed to run interference; it was possible that he presented forensic evidence in a manner that would lead the investigation away him being a suspect. That fit some of Lundy's early notes: That Dexter Morgan fit several elements of the profile Lundy was developing, but no clear evidence linking him to the crimes. In his notes, Lundy also indicated part of the reason he was sticking close to Dexter was to see if he, Dexter, would slip up and inadvertently or sub-consciously confess. The other part of his reason, evidently, was that he found Masuka vile in his manner of speaking. Spencer could see Lundy's point on that matter.
"According to the files I reviewed, there was an incident that caused the destruction of a great deal of evidence shortly after the bodies were discovered." He said.
Masuka pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. "Those fuckin' moron garbage men," he said, reflecting. "There were so many bodies we had to store them off site in a massive cold storage unit. One night, those idiots bumped a dumpster into the cooling unit lines and fucked up the air flow. What a mess that was; by the time we found out about it, we were knee deep in human soup. And the smell was un-fuckin-believable."
"So you maintain that it was an accident?" Reid asked.
"Well, yeah," Masuka replied. "A really convenient one for Doakes, but..." he paused and thought it over. "Hey, you don't suppose that Doakes engineered that accident to slow us down, do you?"
"It's possible." Reid answered.
"Or what if he had an accomplice?"
"Also possible" Spencer allowed. Both of those alternatives were certainly possible, but again it was speculation. Given the amount of time that had passed, it was impossible to prove with anything short of a confession. Another possibility was that it was in fact Dexter Morgan who tampered with the forensic evidence; he would know where the bodies were being kept, and would most definitely know how to ruin the recovered remains, as degraded as they likely already were. One thing was certain; whoever the real Butcher was, he was nothing if not thorough. In an odd way, Spencer felt a little respect for his work.
Once again, he caught his thoughts drifting towards his brief encounter with Dexter Morgan, with whom he had an interview during the Copycat Butcher investigation. Much of Dexter's explanations regarding his faked death and his return to Miami made sense on a surface level, but not so much if one looked even a little deeper. For example, if he faked his death and vanished in order to protect his loved ones and to escape a possible threat from Arthur Mitchell, then why come back to ensure that Astor was safe? The real issue was, however, that none of his claims could be confirmed or refuted; there was simply no proof one way or the other. If Spencer was going to be honest, it was impressive.
"Let me ask you this," Spencer continued with the interview. "It was you who was able to determine which Marina the original Butcher was operating out of, correct?"
Masuka straightened up with pride. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I was able to match the type of algae on the rocks used to weigh the bodies down to a specific location. You see, the water takes on the properties of what is put in the water, and since the water is where the algae grow, the alga takes on those properties, too."
Knowing this, Reid simply nodded appreciatively. Kevin, on the other hand, stared gape-mouthed in awe that anyone would even think to look for something like that.
"Who was it again that was able to determine that James Doakes had a boat in that Marina?" Reid asked.
"That would have been Dexterous." Masuka replied. "Sorry, I mean Dexter; he had a boat there, too at one point, but said he moved his out of there when he found Doakes was there. He said he felt intimidated; and given the way those two were with each other here, there's no denying that rings true."
"Was Morgan's claim ever confirmed?" Kevin asked suddenly. "Was any record of Doakes' boat at that Marina ever uncovered?"
Masuka hesitated in thought; his eyes briefly shifting to the memory center of his brain. "I don't recall any official record," he said finally, but LaGuerta and Matthews did find his boat much later." He nodded slowly, feeling more comfortable with his memory. "Yeah, that was during that whole Koshka Brotherhood mess, when LaGuerta reopened the Butcher case; right after that DDK thing wrapped up. She and Doakes were close. I think they might have even making the beast with two backs at some point..." He made with that awful laugh again. "I guess it makes sense she would want to try and clear his name posthumously, but there it was. All evidence kept going back to him."
"Let me ask you one more thing." Reid pressed on. "Did LaGuerta ever come up with any other suspects in her re investigation?"
"Would you believe this?" Masuka replied, "She actually thought Dexter was a viable suspect! She even suspected that Debra was in on it somehow! I mean, there was no secret that LaGuerta and Deb didn't like each other, but that's completely insane! Dex and Deb were either second or third generation on the force; they were so clean it was almost embarrassing!"
Dr. Reid thanked Masuka and concluded the interview. Next to be interviewed was to be Astor Morgan. Though he didn't think she would be able to shed much light on anything, he felt it would be a mistake not to check.
San Diego, California
It was getting quite late in California, but Dexter Morgan – aka Frank Castle – was on a mission. It wasn't the night yet, but that was coming close; all he had to do was a little bit of recon. Given the type of criminal 'Ace' was, there was a high probability that he was being monitored by the cops so they could bust him again as quickly as possible. That was a problem. What he needed to do was two-fold: First, he needed to figure out their schedule and rotation to determine the best time to make his move. Second, he needed to see if there was a way to spoil the surveillance in order to make an optimum window of opportunity. That was why he was at the Court Pub.
If you ever had a mental image of what a Cop Bar would look like, the Court was that place that filled that image to a tee. Or, at least, it did the job for Dexter. Not that it mattered much one way or the other for him; what mattered was that the Court was a favorite watering hole for Const. Pedro Alvarez before he was shot and killed in a bust gone badly sideways. Even now, months later, the Court had a somber feel to it. This wasn't much of a surprise to Dexter; he knew cops had a tendency to hold on to stuff like this until they felt they settled the score- whatever that meant to them. He had, after all, worked with cops in what now seemed like another life, and cops were in his adoptive family; both his father and his sister were highly decorated and well deserving cops when they were alive. In its own peculiar way, the mood of the Court sort of resonated with him.
If I had any feelings, this place might just be enough to make me weep.
Dexter looked around casually, and then finally took a tool at bar; the one he selected was across from a large photo of Const. Alvez which was mounted behind bar and above the bottle display which manly featured an array of different brands of Tequila. Beside him, another cop sat; if this one looked directly at the photo, he might as well be staring at a mirror- or close enough; that mirror would be making him look like he was about five years younger. The man was drinking an interesting looking cocktail; it was clear but had certain cloudy look to it that Dexter didn't recall seeing before.
"Hey, buddy, what can I get you?" The bartender asked him.
"I'd love a beer; Canadian if you have it." Dexter replied.
"Sure thing, buddy," the bartender said as he reached under the bar to produce a bottle. He twisted off the top and placed it firmly on a coaster in front of Dexter. "Is a bottle okay?"
"That's perfect." He replied. He took a healthy swig, gazing casually at the photo behind the bar; taking note of the small plaque that read: 'IN MEMORY'. He looked at the guy beside him.
"This is probably a dumb question, but what's the deal with that?" He asked, pointing to the photo. "Who's that guy?"
The guy beside him turned and looked at him; as if sizing him up to decide whether he was ignorant or being an asshole.
"Are you new around here or something?" He asked.
"Actually, yeah," Dexter replied. "My family and I just moved in from Seattle Washington. It was time to get out of the rain, you know what I mean?" He leaned over a little and extended his hand. The other guy took it almost instinctively. "I'm James, by the way; James Tate."
"Pleased to meet you." The guy said. "I'm Paul Alvarez; do you mind if I call you J.T.?"
"That's fine."
Paul nodded slowly; apparently deciding that J.T. was not an asshole. He waved a hand towards the photo behind the bar. "My younger brother Pedro was gunned down by some punk hood a few months back; then, get this, the sonofawhore gets to walk all because of some tiny technicality bullshit!" He slammed his hand down hard on the bar and said something in Spanish that ought never be said in any polite society. He quickly apologized, saying he shouldn't go off like that, taking a sip of his cocktail.
"No need to apologize," Dexter said. "I get what you're saying. My dad was a cop back home. He was always going on about how punks and hoods and the 'real bad guys' getting off because of politics. Then the very people that advocate for criminal rights demand that cops keep our streets safe. "
"I hear that." Paul agreed, raising his glass as if to toast the sentiment. Dexter lifted his bottle and clinked it up against the glass. "Your old man sounds like he's a smart man, J.T. So what happened to him, anyway? He retire, get the damn watch, and just cleared out of the crap?"
"Actually, the politics and corruption killed him." Dexter answered. "In the end he took off on a fishing trip, and then ate his gun." The fabrications and embellishments were just rolling off his tongue as naturally as if he never quit his hobby; he hadn't missed a step. Dexter was definitely back.
Paul shook his head slowly. "Sorry to hear it, J.T." he said. "Listen to me; that doesn't make your old man weak or a bad a cop, okay? Sometimes a man just hits a certain breaking point. It's sad as hell when it happens, but that's what happens."
"I know," Dexter said, putting on his very best semi-reluctant acceptance face and voice. He tilted his head slightly to indicate the photo again. "So the guy who shot your brother; I bet the cops are watching him like a hawk, right? Just waiting for him to fuck up again?"
Paul scoffed. "Yeah, but I tell you what," he said, "sometimes I almost wish that butcher guy over in Miami was still around. That would solve this problem for us; know what I mean?"
Dexter stared blankly for a moment, and then changed his expression to indicate recollection. "Oh! Do you mean that guy that chopped up a bunch of killers and dumped them in the harbor a few years ago? Didn't that turn out to be a rogue cop or something?"
"That's the guy." Paul confirmed. He leaned in very close; Dexter could tell from his breath that he'd had a few of those cocktails by then. "I'll tell you something; if he was still around and came looking for this punk on my watch, I just might have been looking the other way at the time if you catch my meaning. I'm not the only one, neither; Pedro was a good kid and a damn good cop. Nobody on the force had a bad word against him."
Dexter nodded slowly, doing his best to maintain a somber expression. That's good to know.
"Well, hey who could blame you, right?" He said. After a pause, he raised his bottle again to offer a toast. "To Pedro, my dad, and all the fallen good men and women on the force" he offered.
"I'll drink to that." Paul said agreeably. They toasted and drank. Then Dexter ordered himself one more and stuck around to do some small talk before excusing himself to get himself home to the wife. He had the information he wanted; and it was even better than he thought. Catching Ace while the cops are asleep at the switch just might be easier than he could have hoped. Even if they saw something that looked like Ace might be in danger, they might not care enough to stop it.