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Of Sex, Suggestions and Secrets
Spencer and Mariyah pulled up outside the home of the second victim, their arrival only noted by an old looking dog hidden under a battered deck chair. The difference in standard of living was vast. The first victim had a nice house, two nice cars and a checker board patterned lawn. This victim had a run down trailer in a run down trailer park and the nicest car around was a battered pickup truck propped on cinderblocks. There were no lawns in this area.
Mariyah climbed the rickety steps leading up to the trailer directly in front of them, Spencer following. A rusty iron '4', propped up beside the door informed them that this trailer was indeed the last known address of the second victim.
Spencer knocked on the screen door and the pair waited for nearly five minutes before a man came to the door. He wore a crumpled t-shirt with food stains on it and he hadn't shaved in weeks. He peered blearily at the two agents on the porch and asked loudly, "Wha' you want?"
Spencer took the lead and said, "I am Special Agent Doctor Reid and this is Special Agent Doctor Alexandrovar, from the Behavioural Analysis Unit with the FBI. Are Mr Richards?"
Mariyah took over, "We're involved in investigating your son's death."
"Where da fuck were ya when ma son needed ya?" The man shouted. He leaned forward threateningly, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey.
"Sir?" Spencer was knocked off kilter by the statement, but the man continued on.
"Ma son is six feet under 'cos of ya stupid rules-" The man was cut off by a second voice from somewhere in the mobile home "Let them in Earl, they ain't gonna hurt us!"
The man snarled wordlessly in the direction of the interior of the trailer and stood aside. Mariyah and Spencer sidled into the home. Spencer's brain was itching to say something, anything to relieve the heavy glare the man was directing in his direction. Stepping in to the living area, Spencer noted it was gloomy, cramped and incredibly clean. The air smelled overwhelmingly of pine cleaner and polish and every surface shone so bright it reflected even the few rays of dim sunshine. Mariyah sat down in the one armchair Spencer stood behind her.
A shuffling noise came from behind the two and they turned as one. A woman shuffled into the room, her head to the floor. She wore a grey long skirt and a black shirt, which were crumpled but clean. She had red rimmed eyes and no makeup; the same look as Alex Kethman's mother.
She sat down on the couch and drew her knees up to herself. Her husband stood behind her. He looked threateningly at the agents; she sniffled and asked, "How can we help you?"
Mariyah asked "We need to ask you some questions about your son's habits and then we need to see his room. Is that alright?"
The woman sniffed again, blowing her nose on a paper tissue and nodded, the man frowned but stayed silent. Spencer wondered whether the great hulking, six foot tall man would actually contribute to the question but wisely held his tongue. It would not be fun explaining to Hotch how he managed to end up in hospital on the second day of the investigation. Not to mention the stick he'd get from Morgan.
Spencer and Mariyah ran through the same questions they'd gone through with the same answers. The questions yielded nothing in the way in information but maybe the bedroom would show slightly better results.
After asking permission from the parents and receiving a nod and a sniffle from the woman and a glare from the husband, they were led through the small trailer by the man who grudgingly showed them into the room and left them only after being called twice. Spencer rolled his shoulders, still feeling the harsh stare of the man despite the two rooms and three walls and nineteen feet of space in between him and the man.
He looked around, mentally comparing this room to that of the first victim. This room was small, cramped and had an odour that smelled distinctly of old trainers and unwashed clothes. No medals lined the walls and the single window was small, dirty and the catch was broken. No posters of famous swimmers lined the walls, instead were pictures of half naked or nude women with a rabbit logo in the corners. Apparently, victim number two had a healthy attitude with the other sex. Though Spencer mused as he saw the three foot high pile of 'adult' magazines beside the bed, there was such a thing as addiction.
Mariyah had already pulled on a pair of gloves and was picking through the closet. "Nothing except dirty clothes and shoes," she said backing out, "Not that I'd expected anything else."
Spencer was leafing through the text books on the desk and rummaging through the drawers. "Nothing here either." He glanced around at the rest of the room. He stared at the mattress. Was it his imagination or did the mattress slope? The more he stared at the bed, the more he became convinced that the mattress did indeed slope and rather a lot.
"Ummm...Mariyah?" He said, "The bed slopes."
"Beg your pardon?" Mariyah looked at him with a slightly puzzled look.
"The bed. The mattress I mean. It slopes and the bed frame doesn't."
Mariyah came over to where he was standing. "Yeah...yeah it does." Spencer went to the edge of the bed and grabbed an edge of the mattress. Heaving the end up, Spencer muttered, "Little help here?"
Grabbing the other side of the mattress Mariyah helped to pull it even further back, revealing the underside of the mattress and the slats. Neither of which were particularly interesting or relevant. However the grey folder and the second pile of face down 'adult' magazines were. "Why hide these?" he wondered, "He makes no shame in hiding the other ones."
Mariyah picked one up, "The other ones don't involve Speedos and the extreme absence of oestrogen." Holding the magazine up to him open, Spencer saw a large man in a pair of distinctly skimpy trunks and handcuffs. "Naughty Swimmers in Naughty Situations," She read the title off the cover, "Classy."
Spencer picked up the folder. Inside were a few pictures, torn from magazines and a notebook. On the front was scrawled 'Diary'. Spencer bagged and tagged it, as Mariyah bagged and tagged the magazines.
Replacing the mattress, the pair did a last sweep of the room and found nothing.
They left the room, the only indication they had ever been in it was the disturbed bedding and the fact the mattress no longer lay over a strange treasure trove.
Shutting the door behind her, Mariyah led the way out of the trailers. The bereaved mother said a teary "Bye…" The man only glared at then as the pair shut the door quietly behind them.
Spencer gave a sigh of relief as he finally felt the father's glare leave his shoulders.
"You want to drive?" Mariyah waved the keys in his direction. "Or do you want the map again?"
Spencer declined the offer to drive again and slid into the passenger seat. Reversing the car Mariyah expertly reversed it through the gates and onto the road back to the centre of town. "Where next?" she inquired.
Not needing to check his notebook, Spencer reeled off "Old Mason Farm, just south of the town, off the old High Road."
"Photographic memory?" Mariyah asked.
"Yeah." Spencer didn't expand and Mariyah seemed content to just let the silence grow.
They drove through the town meeting only a fraction of the traffic they expected. Driving over the High Road, however, proved to be a bit of an adventure. The High Road turned out to be a track road which a truck would have struggled with. In their small saloon, old as it was, Mariyah and Spencer felt like peas in a shaken tin. After a couple of minutes, Mariyah pulled into a little parking spot and took the map. "Well, we got a choice," she told Spencer after a lengthy examination of said map, "Either we ride in this for another forty-five minutes and pray this car doesn't fall apart on us or we walk it."
Spencer took the map and estimated the distance. It was only a few miles to the Old Mason Farm. The car had no air conditioning, there was no wind through the tiny gap the window could be rolled down to and the car was sweltering. And the radio was broken. Since the car couldn't go faster than about one mile an hour and two relatively fit humans could cover three times that in the same amount of time, he surmised it would indeed be faster.
"Walk it?" He said to Mariyah.
"Walk it." She concurred. Driving the car further into the shade, Mariyah and Spencer rolled up the windows, took out her briefcase and his satchel and locked the car. Stepping onto the dirt road, they walked in companionable silence for some minutes before Spencer said, "What was it like, in the Russian BAU?"
"Different" Mariyah said before expanding with a thoughtful look on her face, "There were a lot more independent cases because there weren't many of us. Just four rather six. And we didn't often get to go out like this. Not many people outside the unit trusted what we did. We mostly gave a prelim.() and then expanded on it in court. We rarely got pulled out as far as St Petersburg never mind across the whole country, crossing state lines."
"When was the team set up?" Spencer asked, "I mean we've been around six or seven years."
"We were only set up two years ago and even then only as an experiment. We were only formally made a Division eight months ago."
"Why don't they trust you," Spencer asked.
"A lot of the police officers are old-school. They had a hard enough time excepting DNA evidence when that came through. Catching a killer based on a psyc analysis? That's something they don't trust. Because it's hard to see and requires a degree...well it's difficult for them. Haven't you come across it before?"
"Yes..." Spencer had indeed come across it, on several occasions. Big burly police officers who were two or three generations in the field and didn't believe in namby-pamby stuff like profiles were the usual culprits. Well, they were always the ones eating their words.
A farm house crept into view on Spencer's left. The road curved round to the left and within a few minutes of seeing the farm house, Mariyah and Spencer were standing outside the gate. A sign swaying gently in the wind informed them that it was indeed the Old Mason Farm they were looking at an that the farm owned cattle, horses and sheep, with a few crops growing in between.
A man strolled across the yard towards the gate, two dogs loping alongside him. "Now what may I help you with?" He asked in a loud but friendly tone of voice. Spencer and Mariyah flipped open their ID holders and Spencer said," We're from the FBI's BAU, investigating a murder. We need to speak to the Masons, if that's possible."
"Aye, it's possible." The man swung the gate open and waved them through "I'm Benny. I'm a farm worker 'ere on this farm."
"Did you know Michael Mason?" Mariyah asked, pulling a notebook and pencil from her pocket.
"Did I know him? Did I ever. Drove him fourteen and a half miles to school and back again everyday since he was six and a half. Shame 'bout what 'appened to 'im though. He was a good kid."
"Was he ever in any kind of trouble or anything like that?" Spencer prodded as the three traversed up the drive.
"Nah. He was a bright kid, always polite. Kid stood to make it big though. This farm was all going to be his. Since Mr Mason went and did his back in and can't work now. Michael helped all over the farm. Nobody had a bad word to say 'bout him."
"Okay." Spencer shut his notebook as the three approached the house. It looked old, expensive and a big difference from the second victim's house/trailer. A large lawn of nearly an acre preceded the house, mown in lines and with cheerful flowers planted along the edge. A man in green overalls was tending to them, with a water can and scissors. He waved to Benny and Spencer and Mariyah were informed his name was Jimmy and was Benny's "Big Bro."
They climbed the path, elegant crazy paving in green and blue and red. As they got near to the house, Spencer saw it had window boxes and delicate woodwork around the windows on the shutters. A real old farm house, Spencer thought as he saw the plaque declaring it to be built in 1869. Benny rang the doorbell, a huge iron affair made of brass and Spencer idly noticed it was made in the late 1800's by a famous bell maker who also made door knobs. He had a lot of books and too much time he thought dryly.
The door was opened by a maid, with dark skin and an African accent, "Benny! Oh there you are! The Masons are due back any moment! - Oh!" she said as she saw Spencer and Mariyah, "How may I help you?" She dropped back into politeness very quickly.
"These are Special Agents from da FBI," Benny informed her, "They's here investigating Mikey's death."
"Oh! Please come in!" The maid opened the door wide and ushered them inside. Benny waved mournfully at them before the maid shut the door rather forcefully in his face. "Mr and Mrs Mason are in town at the moment. They've been to Church. I shall go call them immediately. Please have a seat." She waved them through to a small reception and hurried off presumably to call the Masons.
Spencer sat down in an armchair, Mariyah on the couch opposite him. "So..." Spencer said, looking around the room.
"So..." Mariyah repeated. "What do we do with diaries?"
"Hotch said to give them to the unit in the town over. We should have it back by tomorrow and we can start reading them."
"We need them tonight. He's been missing nearly three days already. He only has about seventy-six hours left." Mariyah disagreed.
"I suppose we could take them tonight ourselves," Spencer pondered, "Hotch would let us go and we'd probably have them in our hands by nine o'clock ready to read."
"Call and ask-" Mariyah cut off at the arrival of the same maid.
"Mr and Mrs Mason are about five minutes away. Would you like to stay?"
Spencer and Mariyah shared a glance. They would only have to come back again. And it would cost in time and energy, so Spencer nodded, "Please."
The maid escorted them to a formal living room at the other side of the house and as soon as they sat down, a large 4x4 pulled up outside the house. A man and woman got out, but it was too difficult to see what they looked like.
Not thirty seconds later the maid showed the same man and woman into the room and quietly shut the door. Both the newcomers wore Sunday best in black, the woman with a veil and black jewellery, the man in a suit, black as well. She sat on the in an armchair, the man standing to the side of the chair.
"Mr and Mrs Mason?" Mariyah asked.
"Yes. I apologise but who are you?" the man asked, one hand on his wife's shoulder.
"My name is Special Agent Spencer Reid," Spencer said, "This is Special Agent Mariyah Alexandrovar. We're investigating your son's murder."
"Would it be possible to ask you some questions?"
"Sure." The woman replied. Spencer noted she clutched a white handkerchief but thankfully showed no sign of bursting into tears. At least, not yet.
They quickly ran through the questions. Once again no answers that would help break the case. The murdered teen was just another charming little boy without a problem in the world.
"Just one last question, please. Why did your son work in a shop if he had an allowance?"
"Oh," Mrs Mason chuckled, "He was insistent on earning the money for his gap year himself. So my brother found him a part-time job in his little store. It didn't pay much but Mikey was happy."
Mariyah nodded. Spencer asked, "May we please see his room now?"
"Of course." Both parents answered in unison. The mother showed them up to the room on the third floor, in the west wing. On the door, a red and white flag was prominently displayed. "The high's schools hockey team colours."
"Did he play?" Mariyah asked
"No, his best friend does." The mother pushed the door open, "Sorry about the mess."
The room had two beds, two wardrobes, and two dressers, two of everything. The similarities ended there. Where as the side of the room with the bedspread embroidered with Matthew was as messy and chaotic as you please, with model cars and mecha-assult models and other childhood paraphernalia liberally scattered around the area all in varying shades of red, the side with Michael embroidered on the bedspread was as neat and tidy as ever it could be. School books neatly lined up in the bookcase, in subject order, and files meticulously labelled in neat cursive handwriting followed the same neat pattern as the bed with hospital sharp corners and the polished desk.
"Why does Michael share with his younger brother?" Mariyah asked.
"Because Matthew has such horrible night terrors and he sleepwalks. Michael volunteered when he was nine and Matt was just three." Mrs Mason stared wistfully into the room, "Matt once walked out onto the balcony and fell off of it. Nearly killed himself so we decided as a family he had to share with someone. He couldn't stay in our room so Michael stepped up. They've always been close as brothers, always knowing when and where the other is. Even though there's such a large age gap between them, Michael always took care of his baby brother. It's always been that way."
"Can we speak to Matthew?" Spencer figured since the two brothers were so close, Matthew might know something.
"I'm sorry. He was so distressed and fearful we sent him to my parents in France. He was asked so many horrible questions and reporters and people wouldn't stop bothering him. My parent's offered to take him so we did."
"When's he returning?" Mariyah asked.
"Not for another three weeks." Mrs Mason shrugged, "Sorry."
"Oh. All right."
"Can I trust you alone up here? I don't think...I can't..." Mrs Mason trailed off.
"Certainly Mrs Mason." Mariyah watched as the woman descended the stairs.
"What do you make of the fact they shared a room in this huge house?" Spencer asked.
"I was close to my oldest brother. We were the only two not part of twins or triplets, so I guess we just bonded through that. I used to get nightmares as well, and we'd often share a room until he was in his late teens. The only reason I stopped was because I went to boarding school." Mariyah laughed, "If I had been a boy we would have had to have kept sharing anyway."
They systematically went through the room, through the files and the desk and even under the mattress. Nothing. Nearly an hour later, nothing.
Mariyah came to stand by Spencer, "A whole hour spent looking an nothing." She shifted her weight to her other leg. 'Creeeaaak!' The floorboards groaned. She did it again with the same result. "That's wrong." She said.
"Why?"
"You do it." Spencer did it. No sound. Moved to another part of the room. Still no sound. Mariyah moved again and there it was 'Creeeaaak!' Together they pulled back the rug. And underneath it was a small trapdoor. Mariyah shifted her gun out of its holster.
Spencer raised his eyebrows and pulled the trap door open. Inside was a crawl space big enough to allow a man to pass through or stay in with reasonable comfort. It trailed under the floor, it's end too far away to see.
"So what do we do?" Mariyah asked.
"Call Gideon." Spencer knew somehow that Gideon would want to know of this development in the case.
Forty minutes later, the Sheriff, three police officers and the crime scene investigation unit were on the scene. Mrs and Mr Mason had professed no knowledge of the crawl space and had gone downstairs to give another statement.
"Well, well, well." The Sheriff didn't seem too impressed, "It's a crawl space. What does it prove? It's probably been there since this house was built."
"Only if they had Black and Decker power tools in the mid-1800s." Mariyah stood up, "there's a stamp in the screws. Black and Decker primary range one. You don't have to be a genius to work it out. And they look new. No more than a few weeks old."
The Sheriff pondered on that for a moment. "So," He said finally. What do we do about it?"
"We have to send someone down there." Hotch said decisively, "And Mariyah and Spencer are going to be the ones to do it."
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