A Touch of the Wild
by Soledad
Author's note: For disclaimer, rating, etc., see Part 01.
Warning: Gory details of vampire CPR ahead! Only for people with strong stomachs.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Part 08
Murietta was the first to arrive to the morning meeting, filled with unease and the premonition of impending doom. Agent Sandoval had contacted him during the previous night – it wasn't as if either of them would be sleeping at nighttime, which was the reason why they usually had the graveyard shift – and informed him about the insights won in the Vesuvius… such as they'd been.
The news forced Murietta to go Hunting again. He didn't exactly need it, not yet anyway, but he knew that day shift would be taxing for him, so it was better to face the day having himself under tight control. That left him less than three hours to rest before going to work, but that couldn't be helped right now. Fortunately, he didn't need much rest.
He was still reading through the night reports when Reid arrived. Murietta didn't like the sight of him. The young man seemed exhausted and agitated at the same time, the dark rings around his haunted eyes a lot more prominent than usual, even for someone suffering from the Dark Eye Syndrome. But again, facing Mr. Magic X must have been an unpleasant experience for a sensitive man like him – and a lasting one.
Before he could ask any questions (although he'd check with Allison later, of course), Officers Grant and Doyle from the night patrol arrived, leading in two homeless persons whom they'd presumably arrested for pretty theft. In truth, they were Morgan and Detective Hoffs, barely recognisable under the layers of dirt and stinking rugs they were wearing instead of halfway acceptable clothes.
"Gah, I've forgotten how unpleasant it can be to do undercover work," Morgan complained, scrubbing his hands under the hot water repeatedly until his very skin began to hurt.
"And I'm getting way too old for it," Detective Hoffs practically collapsed in an armchair and accepted a mug of coffee from Reid. "Thank you, honey; you're a life-saver."
"So, has it brought something, at the very least?" Lieutenant Bronowski asked, coming in for his shift, shrugging off his light jacket.
Hoffs nodded. "We've managed to identify another one of the homeless victims. Nobody knows his true name, but he used to work in cabarets as a rubber man, under the stage name of The Snake."
"Let me guess," Lieutenant Bronowski said sourly. "He used to do gigs in the Vesuvius, right?"
Hoffs gave him a surprised look. "Actually… yes, he did. Among other places. For a while, he shared performances with a famous illusionist named…"
"… Mr. Magic X," Reid finished for her.
Hoffs' eyes widened to the size of soup tureens. "Yes… how did you know that?"
Reid waved off her surprise. "An educated guess, nothing more. Why did he stop working with the Maestro, though? I assumed that would be considered a great honour; a ticket to the upper class of artists."
"Perhaps," Hoffs said, "but apparently, The Snake liked cocaine too much to care for his professional future. He was constantly high on stage, and in the end, he ruined their shared number completely."
"I imagine the Maestro reacted a little… impulsively," Reid said.
"I don't know," Hoffs replied. "Apparently, he never told about it anything else than that he was thrown out on his ear."
"I'm surprised he still had an ear by then," Reid murmured. "In any case, that could be a stressor, too."
"Yeah, if the Maestro had been the one who got killed," Morgan said. "Obviously, he wasn't, though."
"It can still happen," Reid said ominously.
"Possibly… but unlikely," JJ said, arriving with the rest of the BAU team. The fact that they stayed in the same hotel made coordination really easy. "I can hardly imagine any humiliated customer – or ex co-worker, for that matter – who'd have the balls to attack that man. He's positively creepy."
"Have we learned anything about him?" Lieutenant Bronowski asked.
Reid nodded and handed out printouts of Garcia's founds.
"Our technical analyst did some digging last night, and she came up with a complete family tree," he replied. "It seems the Maestro's real name is Christopher Houghton. His family of wealthy businessmen came to Los Angeles from Boston in the early 1820s, hoping for fewer business rivals down here. They used to be involved with financing Hollywood studios, movies and fashion houses and the likes, until they lost their interests to local tycoon Salvador Garcia in the 1940s. To Garcia senior, I assume, as the current one is in his early fifties."
"Lost them?" Hotch asked with a frown. "How does one lose such extensive business interests at once?"
"The circumstances are still unclear… and will likely remain so," Reid answered. "The only known fact is that after the death of their main business partner, a Hollywood magnate by the name of Don Sebastian Dominguez, the Houghtons have practically vanished from the playground. Until the Maestro resurfaced a few years ago, that is, and made himself a name as a stage magician."
Hotch took the printed-out document from Reid and quickly re-read the most important facts of this new information.
"Would I be wrong if I guessed that one of the fashion houses the Houghtons supported was the Girard Fashion House?" he asked.
Reid shook his head. "They've provided the founder of the Girard dynasty with the necessary money to start his business," he explained.
"That would explain at least some of the respect people are showing this arrogant bastard," Prentiss said thoughtfully. "They might have lost their business interests, but perhaps they've managed to save most of the money in time. With enough money, you can buy just about everything. Including respect."
"Or a very good plastic surgeon," JJ added, grinning.
Prentiss nodded. "That, too, yeah."
"It also makes the Maestro a very tempting target," Hotch pointed out. "Not only is he highly successful, but also potentially very wealthy – two different aspects pointing into the same direction, I'd say."
"It would also support Spence's theory about him being the very thing that stressed out the unsub enough to start a killing spree," JJ said, but Hotch shook his head.
"No, I don't think so. I'm sorry, Reid, but the profile doesn't point at a frustrated, humiliated murderer. This man, this… this monster is playing with us. He wants to show us that he can do as he pleases, despite our presence."
"He failed to kill Ash Rivers," JJ reminded him.
Hotch nodded. "True. And that can mean two things: either he didn't truly intend to kill Rivers, just wanted to confuse us with fake trails… or he's becoming unstable. In which case we'll have to count on new victims, murdered even more brutally than before."
"What makes you think that?" Lieutenant Bronowski asked, clearly unhappy about the possibility.
"So far, the unsub has displayed the signs of a remarkably organised offender," Prentiss explained. "If the Ash Rivers case is the first sign of a beginning devolution, though, things can become really ugly."
"What do you mean by devolution?" Hoffs asked.
"Devolution is a process by which an unsub begins to lose control, falling in a downward spiral," Reid answered. "it's the rapid change from an organised offender to a disorganised one. The person starts committing his crimes haphazardly or opportunistically, using weapons found at the scene and often leaving clues."
"Like our killer leaving an eyewitness alive in the Rivers case," Prentiss added. "In any case, there can't be any doubt that this Houghton person is a key player in the unsub's game, whatever that game actually is. He's connected to the Vesuvius. He's indirectly connected to the Girard Fashion House. He's known one of the victims personally. I'd say we really need to speak with him."
"Agent Sandoval is working on it," JJ told her. "But apparently, it isn't an easy task."
"Tell him to work harder, then," Hotch said curtly. "We're about to face a disaster of epic proportions. What else is there?"
The other team members summarised the new insights won the previous evening and during the night. To tell the truth, it wasn't much; only a few more details added to the personal background of the wealthy victims. After the meeting, the team split up again, each one returning with his local guide to his or her assigned area of search.
Before leaving the police station with Reid, Murietta excused himself for a moment to make a call… one he did not want to be tracked.
"It's an informant who's concerned about his own safety," he said apologetically. "He could get in serious trouble if I called him on the police line."
"Take your time," Reid answered. "I was planning to check out that little café on the other side of the street anyway. I hadn't had any breakfast today."
"Allison can ruin one's appetite," Murietta agreed. "She's one of the best, but she can creep one out. Go and get some sugar into your system. I'll keep an eye on you through the shop window while I make that call."
That Reid wouldn't protest against being watched clearly showed how very concerned he was. He took his laptop with him to the café to re-check the info on the rich victim whose ex they were about to pay a visit and made himself comfortable with a double espresso and an enormous piece of cheesecake. Raising his sugar levels rapidly was the agenda of the moment, after all.
Standing in front of the shop window, Murietta fished his second cell phone – the one he only used during special emergencies – out of his pocket and hit speed dial #3.
"Schrecknet dot com," the educated Boston accent of Four-Eyes said on the other end of the connection. "What can I do for you, Joaquin?"
"You need to check out our paper trails," Murietta answered grimly. "That BAU hacker woman has found out far more than she should have."
"How so?" Four-Eyes asked, not particularly concerned.
"I don't know how she did," Murietta said. "Perhaps she is simply good. Or perhaps some of your pals had done lousy jobs. In any case, she managed to track Christopher back to Boston; and she found his connection to Victor's business. This is bad, Four-Eyes; this is very bad. You ought to do something, and soon, or we'll become the hunted instead of being the hunters in no time."
"I see," Four-Eyes said after a short pause. "I'll do some damage control immediately. Then I'll find out who screwed up so colossally. Hawk won't be pleased about this; and he'll make his displeasure very obvious."
"Good," Murietta replied. "Mistakes like this mustn't happen again. Modern technology, as useful as it can be sometimes, can also created unexpected dangers for us. We need to stay one step ahead of the Kine all the time if we want to keep our advantage."
"Agreed," Four-Eyes said. "I'll keep you informed. Will you be in the safe house tonight?"
"Of course," Murietta said. "I trust Jesús, but he might not be able to handle things on his own… should anything unexpected happen."
He hung up, relieved a little, knowing that Four-Eyes and his Nosferatu hackers would take care of any potentially hazardous trails left behind in cyberspace. They were the best,
He pocketed the phone and entered the café to fetch Reid.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Their first task of the day was to question a certain Flavia Santucci. She'd been involved with Dennis Vincent, the late star of the Los Angeles Lakers, who'd left him as soon as she'd become pregnant. Neither had the man paid aliments fort heir now two-year-old daughter; who, as Vincent's only child, would now inherit her murdered father's millions.
That alone would have been a very inspiring motivation. But Ms Santucci was also connected to the local mob, through her uncle, who had some influence among the mafiosi controlling certain docks of the Los Angeles Harbour.
While it wasn't likely, one couldn't rule out the possibility by default that the Santucci clan had Vincent killed and created the fake serial killer case to cover their tracks. Personal honour was something that families like theirs took very seriously. Murietta didn't believe it, though. The Santuccis were too brutal and too stupid to come up with such an elaborate scheme. But they couldn't leave any oh-so-unlikely possibility unchecked.
So they visited Ms Santucci, who was living in her uncle's big and posh mansion, guarded by Italian thugs who looked like the extras of some really cheap mafia movie. Their weapons seemed real enough, though, and they apparently found having police in the house most distressing.
Ms Santucci, on the other hand, was very open – not to mention very vocal – about her ex, treating them to passionate tirades that described the character of the late basketball star (or rather the complete lack thereof) in loving detail. But she couldn't really tell them anything useful. Yes, Dennis had often visited both the Asp Hole and the Vesuvius – those were the places he'd picked up new girls, that bastard. Yes, he'd preferred custom-made suits from the Girard Fashion House – he was so vain! Yes, he'd kept his money in Mr. Leatherer's bank, and hadn't that been a pain, to get his accounts opened after his death! But that was about everything she knew; and besides, they hadn't had any personal contact since little Fabiola's birth, whom that brigand of a father hadn't even seen in two years!
However, she took a good, hard look at the victims' photos, and unexpectedly picked out one of the so far unidentified homeless victims.
"I know this one," she said. "This is Luigi Gascone. He used to play for the Lakers, too, even though he was not tall enough by far to be a front player. He was really good at organising the others during the game, though. Until he got into a bar brawl, stone-drunk, and got his leg broken in several places."
"I imagine that was the end of his career," Murietta said.
She nodded. "He would never play basketball again. Uncle Vic was most displeased; he used to sponsor the little idiot."
The grisly death of the young man – or that of her ex, for that matter – didn't seem to bother her particularly. Perhaps it came with he status of being the niece of a mafia don; albeit of a minor one. It could seriously lessen a person's sensibilities.
She couldn't tell them anything else, so Murietta thanked her and they left. They visited the significant others of two other rich victims on that afternoon, and though they learned a great deal about the men, nothing seemed to push the case forward a bit.
"I think we've done enough for one day," Murietta finally declared. "Let's return to the safe house. We can analyse the date there and send our report to Bronowski via e-mail."
Reid found that a very good idea. He was tired and had a raging headache from not having slept much in the previous night. He hoped some Dilaudid would take care of the problem; hadn't touched the stuff for two days, but felt that he couldn't face another night without it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
They drove to the safe house and found both Moralez and Ramirez already there. Moralez was preparing dinner for Reid, assuming (and being absolutely right, of course) that he hadn't eaten a hot meal for two days. Not since she'd stuffed him with breakfast the previous morning. Allison wasn't known for her homemaking skills.
"I'll come in a moment," Reid promised. "I just need a bit of fresh air to get my head free again." And to finally take some of the pills he'd kept in his trouser pocket all the time. "I'll be in that little pavilion in the garden. Honestly, just five minutes, okay?"
Murietta wasn't happy about the idea, but he finally gave in. After all, they were in the safe house, under tight surveillance. What could possibly happen? So he allowed Reid to have his five minutes – more so as he needed to inform the other two about the recent events.
"Five minutes," he repeated warningly. "Then you come in, or I'll come out and get you."
Reid promised everything they wanted, just to be able to have five minutes for himself. Retreating to the small pavilion, he put a trembling hand into his pocket to find the phial with the white pills.
Murietta in the meantime told the others everything that had happened during the previous two days. They needed to stay up-to-date, especially as the BAU team believed that things might escalate in the near future.
"We need to stay alert," he said. "Now that the attacks are extended to our own, everything is possible. This killer won't stop, until we stop him."
"I hope it won't take much longer," Moralez sighed. "There have been enough victims already. We can't protect an entire city from a crazed killer. Speaking of which, Reid's five minutes are over."
"I'll get him," Murietta rose from his stool. "That kid is really asking for trouble."
The terrible, piercing shriek of a dying man alerted them to the fact that something – or someone – had slipped through their line of defence. Ramirez was the first to react. With he unerring sense of direction all of his kind possessed, he run to the garden where Reid had stayed behind for a moment; Moralez and Murietta hot on his heels.
When the two detectives reached the garden, all thy could see from the attacker was a fleeting shadow leaping high over the garden's stone wall… at least half a metre above all defensive mechanisms like barbed wire and sensor grid.
"What are you waiting for?" Moralez cried. "Get the bastard!"
Murietta shook his head. "It's too late. I won't be able to catch up. Let's see how Reid is doing; perhaps Jesús has seen something."
They found Ramirez next to the small pavilion, kneeling in the dirt and holding the limp body of the young profiler in his arms. Reid's throat was torn open, and he was bleeding profoundly.
"Do something!" Ramirez begged. "We can't just let him die! Call for help!"
"No human doctor can help him now," Murietta replied, seeing the wound. "We'll have to lick the wound closed and give him some of our Vitae to balance out the blood loss. Then we'll need Gloria."
"Then do it!" Ramirez cried, while Moralez fell to her knees next to him and hurriedly pressed two fingers against the big vein in the young man's open throat to stop the bleeding as well as she could.
"I can't!" Murietta gritted his teeth in frustration. "My Vitae is too strong; it would kill him in an instant. You must do it. You're of Weak Blood; perhaps he'll be able to deal with it."
"No… nonono!" Ramirez protested in panic. "I… I can't sire any Childer… it's hard enough to keep a hold on myself on the best of days…"
"Of course you can do this," Murietta replied calmly. "We're not embracing him; we're just trying to save him – and it's by no means sure that we'll be able to actually do so. Don't panic. I'll talk you through it. First of all, we need to close that wound… if we can. You've done this before, haven't you?"
Ramirez nodded, trembling with fear. Vampire saliva could seal wounds, at least in theory – but Reid's wound was very severe. Still, they had to try. While Moralez still pressed the big vein, the two vampires began to clean the wound, lapping at the blood like some big, dark cats. The wounds began to close, but slowly, too slowly…
"Hurry up, guys," Moralez urged them. "His heartbeat has slowed down dangerously."
She tried not to think of the method the two men used to save Reid. It wasn't the first time that she saw something like that – but certainly the goriest of all.
"He won't manage on his own," Murietta said to Ramirez. "He needs to have his natural self-healing kicked into gear again. You must give him your Vitae, now, or it will be too late!"
"But he won't be able to swallow…" Ramirez protested.
"He won't need to," Murietta replied impatiently. "We'll use Alan's method. Slice your tongue with the tip of a fang, then kiss him and push your Vitae down his throat. The pain will shock him awake. Hurry! I'll call Gloria when it's done."
Ramirez seemed more than a little doubtful about the possible outcome but did as he'd been told. Moralez, despite her occasional earlier experiences with vampire practices, had to fight the sudden urge to get violently sick. This was definitely not a sight for mortal eyes. But it wasn't the time to throw up all over a dying man either, so that she pulled herself together with considerable effort.
"You think this will help?" she asked.
Murietta looked up from his own bloody work. "If not this, nothing can save him," he replied, before turning back to cleaning the wound.
A moment later, Reid's entire body went into convulsions, as if in terrible pain.
~TBC~
