A Touch of the Wild
by Soledad
Author's note: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 01.
Mister Magic X is "played" by a very young Kyle Schmid. I readily admit that his performance was inspired by a short story of German author Thomas Mann, "Mario and the Magician".
The Blount Sisters – although canon RPG characters of White Wolfe – were inspired in their looks and profession by German dancer twins Alice and Ellen Kessler.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part 07
Since the visit in the Asp Hole hadn't really moved things forward very much, Reid and Moralez returned to the police station. In the meantime, Hotch, Prentiss and JJ had managed to finish mapping the daily schedules of the wealthy victims (with the help of Garcia and Officer Wong), and though the three other homeless victims still remained unidentified, the picture seemed more detailed now.
All wealthy victims had either been connected to Victor Girard's business somehow, or they had visited the Vesuvius regularly. They had no connection among each other, so far, only indirectly: through Victor. Tom Leatherer and Desire LeBlanc were the only ones with actual contact to each other. The three identified homeless victims, Douglas Howser, Ethan Gold and Branco Vukovic, had all been connected to the Vesuvius, one way or another. Vukovic, an ex-model, had also had ties to the Girard Fashion House in the past.
"That settles it," Hotch summarized the results. "The Vesuvius is definitely one of the unsub's hunting grounds. We'll have to take a close look at the guests tonight."
"And at the personnel," Reid added. "Theoretically, it could be one of those, too."
"When does the evening programme start?" Prentiss asked. "We need to put on more… appropriate clothes."
"Nine-thirty," Detective Ioki replied. "We're supposed to take our places around nine, though," he looked at Reid. "I'll fetch you at half past eight."
"Is there a dress code?" Hotch asked. Neither of them had brought evening dresses or tuxedos, and organizing them in such a short time could prove a problem.
Ioki shook his head. "Nah; as long as you're moderately well-clad, you'll be allowed in. It's a popular place, but not that classy. Any of your suits will do. You, however," he glanced at Reid again," should try to select a shirt that looks less like a cleaning rag. I've got a certain standard where my dates are considered."
The others laughed and Reid blushed furiously, realising that his sloppy dressing style might cause a minor problem. He did not have any shirts in his overnight baggage that would match the style of a semi-elegant dance club better than the one he was currently wearing, and was at a loss what to do about it.
It was Moralez who'd finally mercy with him.
"I'll bring you something proper to wear," she promised. "My brother was half a head shorter than you are, but similarly built; and he had a hang for fancy shirts. What colour do you prefer?"
"Spence looks best in moss green," JJ answered instead of him.
Reid shot her an embarrassed look. "I don't want to show off, JJ."
"You'll have to," JJ pointed out. "You're supposed to be on a date. People dress up for a date… well, most people do."
"I never did," Reid murmured.
"When did you last have a date?" JJ asked. "I mean, save the one when you took me to that football match on your twenty-fourth birthday?"
Reid shrugged. He couldn't remember. During college perhaps. Their work left very little time for private things, and he was naturally shy anyway.
"My thoughts exactly," JJ nodded empathically; then she looked at Moralez. "Trust me: green is his colour. Or earth brown, if nothing green is available. No blues, though; he likes them but they make him look like a sick kitten."
Moralez grinned. "Duly noted."
"Don't I have anything to say in this?" Reid protested.
"No!" the two women said in unison, and the others laughed again. Lieutenant Bronowski called it a day, and they all returned to their respective accommodations to prepare themselves for a night in LA's half-world.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Detective Ioki came to the safe house to pick Reid up right on time. He really looked fetching in his black jeans and dark green silk shirt. Despite being almost fifty (albeit looking ten years younger), he was a handsome man. The best-looking date Reid had had for quite a while, actually – although, considering that he hadn't had a date since working for the BAU, that didn't say much.
He almost regretted not being interested in men at all. Almost.
Moralez had brought him a ruffled dress shirt from her late brother's collection. Not a green one, but a golden brown one, which suited him extremely well. So well, in fact, that it almost made him uncomfortable. He'd been hit on by gay men before, and it had always embarrassed him very much. Not the fact that they'd been men, but the blatant interest for his body. He was used to his brain being admired, not his looks, which, in his own opinion, weren't much to look at. Real men looked like Hotch and Morgan, not like him.
He only hoped that Ioki's gorgeous presence would keep any unwanted interest at bay, despite being clad like the proverbial eye candy.
Ioki must have felt his discomfort, because he grinned at him like a loon.
"Don't worry," he said. "I promise if anyone tries to molest you, I'll break their noses. I'm entitled to be jealous on my date with a pretty boy half my age."
That dubious promise only served to make Reid even more self-conscious, of course (even though he knew that Ioki was straight and only joking), but that couldn't be helped now. Allison brought forth the car – not the usual one the BAU-team had been given for daily use, but a black limousine with tinted glasses, presumably belonging to her true employer, the tycoon Salvador Garcia – and they got in, to arrive at the Vesuvius in grand style.
The Vesuvius turned out to be a rather… extravagant place. It was arranged like the atrium of an ancient Roman villa, with the dance floor in the place of the fountain pond. It also served as the stage for whatever performance was about to take place. The low tables surrounding the stage were equipped with equally low couches instead of chairs, so that the patrons could choose whether they wanted to sit or lie down while watching the performance, like in Ancient Rome.
The waiters and waitresses were clad in ancient-fashioned tunics, and they were all young and very, very pretty. As the place only offered drinks and snacks, no warm food, lying down at the table didn't prove to be much of a problem. Even so, both Hotch and Reid felt more than a little awkward and chose to sit on their couches.
"You really need to loosen up a little," Detective Ioki teased, stretching out behind his 'date' and leaning casually on one elbow. "Nobody will buy the dating act if you just sit there like statues. Like very embarrassed statues."
"This is a little unusual," Prentiss admitted, but followed Ioki's lead. She'd lived in foreign lands long enough to adjust to local customs fairly quickly; even if the local custom only meant weird seating in a club. "Come on, Hotch, fake some interest at the very least!"
JJ, who'd made herself comfortable on the double couch with Agent Sandoval already, laughed at Hotch's extremely tense expression.
"When in Rome, act like the Romans," she quoted and accepted the ordered drink from the waiter. "Although, I must admit, drinking like this requires a little practice."
Reid nodded absent-mindedly and looked around to check out the large posters hanging on the walls between the fake marble pillars. Surprisingly enough, they weren't announcing any of the performances that had been promised in the programme. Instead, they all advertised the guest appearance of a certain Mister Magic X, who, if the pictures were any indication, must have been some sort of stage magician or illusionist. Or something similar. In any case, he was portrayed wearing a tuxedo and a tall hat, the trademark costume of all stage magicians.
"I thought the Blount sisters would have a gig tonight," Detective Ioki said to the stage manager, a handsome Philippino wearing the name tag Flores. "We've specifically come to see their performance."
"Oh, they will perform all right," the man replied; he had a husky voice and a soft, exotic accent. "But there had been an extension of the programme. Mr. Magic X rarely makes an appearance, so if he does, other artists are happy to make room for him Especially where advertising is concerned. He's the best illusionist in the southern states and fills every theatre where he makes a gig. You'll see… he's positively eerie.
"Great," Reid murmured. "Just what we needed, on top of everything else: a stage magician who can freak out his audience."
"I've heard about him," Agent Sandoval said, looking just a bit uncomfortable, which surprised them all, as he usually wasn't the person to freak out easily. "His performances are… unusual, to say the best. I'm not sure which of his numbers he's showing tonight, but please keep in mind: don't offer your assistance when he asks for volunteers."
"Why not?" Prentiss asked, suspicious now.
The local FBI agent shook his head. "I don't want to worry you unnecessarily. Perhaps he'll simply do magic tricks. But I was told that people with secrets – which includes all FBI personnel – shouldn't volunteer for his performance."
That was all he was willing to say, and shortly thereafter he excused himself for a moment to make a couple of phone calls. Reid was wondering whom he was about to call and why he refused to go into any detail. The fact made him even more nervous. He felt his hands shaking ever so slightly – from nerves or from the craving for Dilaudid, he wasn't sure. In any case, it seemed safer to put his drink down onto the table.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Half an hour – and two more rounds of drinks – later the programme finally started. At first, the stage manager introduced all artists performing that night, starting with Velvet Vellour herself, the owner of the club, who was about to read from her own poems.
Against all expectations, she turned out a gifted poet and a very talented performer, with a beautiful, expressive voice. Her poems were fairly dark, full of existential angst and some underlying horror that couldn't be caught directly, rather hinted at, and she read them in a somewhat understated manner that brought out the horror element much stronger than any overdramatising could have done. When she was finished, Reid found himself shivering, and could see that JJ didn't feel any better.
Fortunately, the Blount Sisters provided a welcome distraction, showing a number the effect of which was the polar opposite of the poems' darkness. They were twin women of some indeterminable age between twenty-five and forty, natural blonds, with smooth, beautiful, ageless faces, crystal blue eyes and legs so endless that the eye grew tired travelling their entire length. They had pearly white skin – a trait extremely rare in sunny California – and the acrobatic dance they performed with the aid of three drummers and a couple of high stools alone was simply amazing. Reid never thought human bodies could bend or twist that way without any visible effort… or without suffering any permanent damage.
They earned great applause, not least, he thought out of gratitude for loosening the atmosphere in the club. More drinks were ordered from all around the room, and for a while only the zigzagging of the waiters could be seen.
Finally, as the greatest attraction, came the performance of Mr. Magic X. Reid, something of an amateur magician himself, was full of expectations. He was fairly sure the illusionist wouldn't lower himself to such simple tricks as sleigh-of-hand… not in such an elegant place. However, the actual performance filled him with profound discomfort.
For starters, he had to admit that the floor manager had been right: Mr. Magic X was an eerie sight to behold indeed. The man in the supremely elegant tuxedo, tall hat and long, creamy white silk scarf looked like a young boy – and an incredibly beautiful one. He seemed all but sixteen or seventeen, tall and finely-muscled for his age, with a flawless face, collar-length, wavy dark hair and large, soulful dark eyes.
That was the first impression anyway. Because if one looked into those eyes a bit longer, one saw icy dismay in them: a cold and nasty personality behind that angelic image. If anything, this artist definitely despised his audience.
"He's older than he looks," Reid commented softly, and Detective Ioki nodded in agreement.
"His file says he's twenty-eight. He's been on stage for almost ten years by now, and hasn't changed a bit."
"Then his file is a fake," Reid said. "He must be much older."
"With that face?" Ioki asked doubtfully.
"The face doesn't matter," Reid answered. "Plastic surgery can make you into anyone you want to be. The eyes are that which count; and those are the eyes of a much older man."
"It isn't just the face," JJ murmured. "Look at his hands: they're smooth and soft like those of a child. What kind of plastic surgery can provide that effect?"
"The obscenely expensive kind, most likely," Prentiss said with her usual dry humour. "I'd like to meet his surgeon; even though I probably wouldn't be able to pay for as much as a simple consultation. I think we've chosen the wrong profession, JJ."
"Sometimes it seems so," JJ agreed, and they all laughed.
But their lighter mood didn't last much longer. For now the performance began, and soon it turned into a weird horror trip. Eerie wasn't even beginning to describe it.
After a few very elaborate illusionist tricks, including mysterious disappearances and the likes, the magician asked for volunteers from the audience to demonstrate his mesmerising powers, as he'd phrased it. The FBI-agents and detectives remembered Agent Sandoval's warning and didn't volunteer, which was a very good thing, as they came to realise.
What the illusionist actually did would have put the hypnotist Cipolla from that Thomas Mann novella to shame. He practically hypnotised the clueless volunteers in front of the audience. Made them reveal their dirty little secrets publicly and made them do humiliating things; things they'd probably never done otherwise, not even in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Like fondling themselves, kissing someone from the audience or produce animal noises while rubbing themselves on the stool there were sitting in the most shameless manner.
It was disgusting, Reid found, unworthy a real illusionist who took his art seriously. He said so… to Detective Ioki, in a low voice, as there was no reason to insult an apparently much-respected and widely-celebrated performer. Although, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why people would find obscenities like this worth watching. And paying for.
Ioki shrugged. "It's the same thing that makes porn, rape and torture vids or TV-shows like Big Brother so popular," he guessed. "They approach man's basest, dirtiest instincts. Everybody states to despise them, but more people watch them than you'd believe… or be comfortable with."
"I still find it sick," Reid declared, perhaps a little more forcefully than originally intended, because the illusionist caught his remark while releasing his last volunteer from the stage.
For a moment, he stood in the middle of the floor, his beautiful face icy cold and white like marble, cold fury in his wide eyes. Then he stormed out without a word and without waiting for the applause.
"Perhaps you should keep your voice low when criticising such a celebrated artist," the floor manager said to Reid quietly. For some reason, he seemed nervous… almost frightened.
"Perhaps he should take better care not to humiliate people publicly," Reid answered with disgust. "Such an experience could well serve as a stressor for violent crimes – perhaps our serial killer was one of your great artist's so-called volunteers, and now he's killing young men who remind him of his sick sadist."
"In which case Mr. Magic X should be careful about his own safety," Ioki commented. "Sooner or later, the killer might find a way to him, too."
"That's unlikely," the floor manager said. "The Maestro can take care of himself… more so than most people, actually."
"There's always a first time for everything," Hotch said. "We should speak with him and warn him."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," the floor manager said apologetically; the very real panic in his eyes made Reid thoughtful; apparently, the illusionist terrorised the personnel of every club he performed. "The Maestro doesn't grant audiences."
Ioki tried to argue with the man, but Reid stopped him with a raised hand.
"No," the young profiler said," it's useless. The Maestro is apparently a self-centered, arrogant and sadistic bastard who considers other people as pawns in his great game of entertainment. He won't listen, no matter what we're about to say."
"But he's in mortal danger!" Ioki pointed out. "He could be killed, just like the others."
"Perhaps that would save lots of lives," Reid answered cynically. "Perhaps if the originals stressor is eliminated, the killings would stop. It's known to have happened before."
"How often?" Prentiss asked quietly. "Come on, Reid, you've got statistics for just about everything. How likely is it? How often did it happen in the past?"
"Fifteen per cent of all known cases," Reid admitted a little reluctantly. Hotch shook his head.
"Even if it were one hundred per cent, we couldn't just lean back and let him be murdered," he said. "Agent Sandoval, I'll need a background check on this person. And I need to talk to him. If he refuses to grant a… how did you phrase it? … to grant an audience, we'll have to take him to the police station and question him there," he looked at the obviously distressed floor manager. "You can tell your Maestro that."
With that, he released the man, but Reid was once again puzzled by the barely masked fear in Flores' eyes.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Agent Sandoval said slowly, "but wasn't it our intention to come here undercover, so that we can watch personnel and audience without raising any suspicions? It seems to me that we've just blown our cover, big time," and he looked at Reid accusingly.
Reid gave him an indignant look… although he had to admit that their liaison to the local FBI branch was right. He had given them away in his distress.
"Well, it doesn't really matter now, does it?" he returned. "I mean, we've learned more than we've hoped by coming here. We know what the stressor that started the killings must have been. Or, to be more accurate, who it was."
"I wish it would be that easy," Hotch sighed," but I'm still not fully convinced about it. However, it seems likely that this illusionist has something to do with our case. Which is why we need that background check urgently. I think we ought to follow all the others threads, though, that have shown up so far. Starting with talking the owned and the personnel of this club."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the privacy of her boudoir, which was furnished in a vaguely Egyptian style, unlike the rest of her club, Velvet Vellour looked every bit as exotic and mysterious as on stage. She was an African-American woman of great, albeit somewhat tragic beauty, seemingly in her late twenties. Her ID-card said she was twenty-six, but after a closer look, she seemed older.
She answered their questions willingly enough, admitting that yes, the already identified homeless victims had all worked for her establishment for short periods. She seemed especially taken by Ethan Gold, whom she called the boy Paganini, and explained that Ethan's skittering down into the drug scene was the greatest loss of the decade for the world of music.
"That a place like Pittsburgh could have bread a rare gem like him is almost unbelievable," she said with passion. "And that he must have ended like this, just because of some selfish little prick broke his east is a scandal!"
"Excuse me, but according to the rainbow press it was him who'd cheated on his boyfriend first," Ioki commented. "Tried to hide the fact that he was gay in the first place, just to secure his career in the music branch."
"So what if he did?" Velvet Vellour replied snippishly. "He was a great artist, the greatest of his generation perhaps. His shitty little boyfriend should have been more understanding. Should have valued his good luck; that he was allowed to share that greatness."
"Aren't you judging by some pretty weird double standards here?" Reid asked with a frown.
Velvet Vellour gave him a blinding smile. "Sweetheart, you may be cute as a button – well, you actually are – but you've no idea about what it means to be a true artist. Such people can't be measured like common folk."
"Does this fit for Mr. Magic X as well?" Hotch asked quietly.
For some reason, the question seemed to make Velvet Vellour very nervous – frightened almost. It was the same reaction her floor manager had shown just a little earlier.
"The Maestro is a category unto himself," she replied evasively. "We never interfere with his wishes."
That was all she was willing to say, no matter how hard Hobbs tried to get more information out of her. After a while, the BAU team leader gave up the hopeless struggle and declared the interview finished.
"It's no use," he explained the others. "She's obviously too frightened. Let's hope Garcia can find us some detailed information about this infamous Maestro. I don't know how and why, but he seems to have a much bigger influence on everyone here than a simple stage magician ought to have."
"Nothing is simple about this man," Reid muttered darkly. "Nothing at all."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was well beyond midnight when the unflappable Allison took Reid back to the safe house. It was dark and empty; Moralez had long gone and Ramirez still hadn't returned. The prospect of spending the night alone with the cold-eyed ex-assassin freaked Reid out more than even the sadistic magician had, but there was nothing he could do about it.
He barricaded himself in his bedroom and booted up his laptop, knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep under such circumstances. He contacted Garcia, hoping that she'd be still awake, due to different time zones, and she didn't disappoint him.
"What can I do for you, sweetcakes?" she asked cheerfully.
"I need whatever you can find out about a stage magician under the name of Mr. Magic X," Reid hurriedly explained her his new theory about the sadistic illusionist having started the killings unknowingly. "We can't be sure, of course, and Hotch's right about one thing: the profile doesn't actually point in the direction of such a stressor. Still, he matches the prey schema of the unsub, and who knows, perhaps learning more about him will bring some light into this case."
"I'll do what I can," Garcia promised, "and as you know, I can do a lot. Is it okay if I send the results directly to the police station, to this Officer Wong? She might be elderly, but she knows her stuff."
"As long as you mail a copy to my laptop," he replied.
"Sure," she said. "By the way, what's Morgan doing? He hasn't called me for ages; it's not like him. Is he okay?" The fear in her voice was very obvious. Morgan was her best friend, and she was constantly worried about him.
"Of course," Reid answered soothingly. "Bu you know what it's like when one of us has to go undercover, right?"
She sighed. "No private calls, I know. Tell him I expect him to call as soon as he's back."
Reid promised to do so and signed off. He spent the rest of the night working on his laptop, trying to make a match between the established profile and his new theory concerning the illusionist but couldn't bring the two aspects of the case in alignment.
Not yet, he told himself, grasping for every straw that promised a solution for this case. But he would. All he needed to do was to re-check every known fact another time. There had to be something they were still overlooking, and the night would still last several hours.
Dawn was already breaking in the outside when he finally fell into a restless slumber over his still activated laptop. In his dreams, he was chased by Mr. Magic X through empty streets in a thick fog.
~TBC~
