The Waste Land

Part One: The Burial of the Dead

'All men would be tyrants if they could.'

Daniel Defoe

'April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.'

T.S. Eliot – The Waste Land

Author's Note: Betaed by the awesome Windy City Dreamer. Also, Plot development!

Chapter Six – Best Served Cold (Morgan)

Derek Morgan is no stranger to death.

He doesn't officially keep a list, but he can remember every single death that he has seen, starting with that of his father. Morgan had been ten years old when he accompanied his father, Christopher Morgan, to the local corner store to buy bread and milk. Christopher never made it home.

Though it has been over twenty years, Morgan still remembers the men yelling at them to get down. Remembers his father's voice as he tried to reason with the robbers. Remembers the gun-shot, the screams, the blood.

At the funeral, Morgan was silent, as people he barely knew – some he'd never even met before – told him that his father was a hero. But that didn't make sense to Morgan. His father was dead. Heroes weren't supposed to die.

After that day, Morgan was never quite the same. He went through things that no child should ever have to experience. And yet all of those things made him the man he is today. That an irony they can all apply to their past. Upsetting, for some of them, but without that influence, they would just be another I.T worker, or another stockbroker.

He never set out to be like his father. He might have oft been accused of trying to play the hero, but he had never really considered himself one. He'd never even considered the thought until a victim they had saved called him one. And that, more than anything, made him remember just how dangerous the job was. They go out there every day, risking their lives. A great deal less courageous, he thinks, than then people who lose their lives for no reason at all.

He's staring at the body. He doesn't know her. He's never met her before in his life, and yet he can say with some certainty that she didn't deserve this fate. Didn't to be stabbed, to have her throat slit in the middle of the night by a complete stranger. She deserved something more.

It's a little past ten a.m. The autopsy had been fast tracked. The fact that an autopsy was even needed confused Morgan. The Medical Examiner had explained to him how the Boston Police Department don't want any stone left unturned; Foyet had given them the run-around last time – they don't want to give him the same satisfaction.

Cause of death: Thirty-eight stab wounds, throat slit.

Manner of death: Homicide.

Mechanism of death: Exsanguination.

That's what Morgan manages to glean from the technical information given him. He's sure that Reid probably would have done a better job understanding, but that's not an issue. They'll get the official autopsy report later. The proceedings have told them one highly important thing; so far, the killer is using the same techniques as Foyet. There're no drugs, no hidden surprises. It's either Foyet, or a copycat that hasn't quite had the chance to shine.

A burst of anger flows through him at the thought of Foyet. Arrogant son-of-a-bitch that thinks he can play the team, can play Morgan. It's not going to happen this time. They're not going to let him get away. Morgan would be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to seeing the look in Foyet's eyes as he was cuffed. Would be lying even more if he said he didn't want to put a bullet right between those eyes. He won't, though. Not unless he has to. He's not going to throw away everything he's worked for, for some petty revenge scheme. No matter how much he wants to.

He's not that guy.

He drives back to the police station in silence. There's something in his pocket, pressing hard against his leg. It's a bullet. More specifically, it's the bullet that George Foyet left him on their first encounter. The encounter that left Morgan unconscious. The encounter that left him doubting himself, doubting the job.

If they fail again, he doesn't know if he can keep going.

***

'Hey there, hot stuff.' Garcia greets him with a grin, in spite of the circumstances. She and Reid are the only ones there – it's barely past eleven. The others won't be back for a while.

'Anything?' Morgan asks hopefully. Garcia shakes her head sadly in reply. Reid says nothing. He's staring at the board in silence, occasionally flipping back to the file.

'It's so impersonal,' the younger profiler says eventually. Morgan raises an eyebrow. It's not like Reid to be having qualms about death. He's not. 'Foyet's a narcissist. We caught him. He would want us to know that he returned. He would just kill a teenage girl – he'd make it personal.'

'So...' starts Morgan. 'It's a copycat.'

'I think so.'

And Morgan isn't quite sure what he wants to think about that.