To all my wonderful reviewers, who all basically say the same thing: I love you guys!! You make me feel very good about my writings. :) Hope you don't mind that some of you are getting referred to as "my rabid fans" whenever I make a comment that I need to update this. If makes me feel warm and fuzzily inside.
I feel really, really, really bad about the whole not-updating-for-months thing. I have this little problem called "school," and my parents are paying for me to go to school, not write fanfic (sadly enough). I hope you all understand.
Now that we're in full swing in both seasons I'd like to note that this takes place in both season breaks, so over the summer (ignoring the CM finale). So therefore nothing from Psych season 4 or the team's issue with the Reaper going after Hotch has happened. (Speaking of which – season premiere – EEEHHH! Awesome!)
And, as usual, I own nothing.
Chapter 8: For the Record, Angry FBI Technical Analysts Angry FBI Profilers
Lassiter groaned. He was sitting up, propped up against something. Or someone -- it seemed like whatever it was might be breathing. He felt like someone had set off a pound of C-4 inside his head. Perhaps a cannon on top of that -- maybe a Gatlin. It would, at least, explain the pounding. He hadn't had a migraine like this . . . well, ever, and there was that pesky gunshot wound in his arm that hurt like hell . . .
He decided to risk opening his eyes and scanned the basement he found himself in. Soundproofing on the walls. Red stains on the floor. There were two doors, both set in the wall opposite him. The floor seemed to be cement. Lassiter tried to move his arms. Cuffed behind him. He didn't seem to be shackled to the floor, though. He tried to stand.
"Dammit, Detective!"
Lassiter found himself in a situation straight out of hell.
He was kidnapped by a group of unstable cop killers.
And he was handcuffed to two other people – which made running difficult, to say the least. But that voice sounded familiar . . .
"Agent Morgan?"
"Yeah." Came the definitive reply. "They haven't been back since they left us down here. They only had me out with chloroform, so I guess I came around the fastest."
"Who else do they have?"
"Spencer."
"Yours or mine?"
Morgan chuckled, and Lassiter would have hit him. This was not a time for amusement. "Yours. Mine's probably having a panic attack right now and telling anyone who'll listen that he should be the one stuck here."
Not only was he handcuffed to an FBI agent, he was handcuffed to that damned psychic.
To hell with the beatings. This would be torture.
#
"What do we have?" Hotchner asked immediately upon reaching the table.
"Forensics said that Spencer tried calling Detective O'Hara around 10:35, meaning he was abducted about that time," Vick said, hardly turning from the boards.
"Shots were heard around 10:44 and the van was seen speeding out of Lassiter's house around 10:55," Reid added.
"How long does it take to get from the Psych office to Lassiter's house?"
"About ten minutes if you do the speed limit," Gus supplied.
"And Morgan was abducted around 10:20," Prentiss said.
"Which works, because it takes approximately fifteen minutes to get from your hotel to the Psych office," Juliet added. JJ carefully set her hand on Juliet's shoulder, making the detective jump slightly. Juliet seemed to be blaming herself for (at least) Shawn's abduction, considering the fact that he had tried – and failed – to call her in the middle of it. The call had never gone through, but it had still registered as 'Missed' on her phone for the half-second it had connected.
"So we have a timeline," Rossi said. "Morgan is abducted at 10:20. Spencer is abducted at 10:35. And Lassiter is abducted at 10:55."
"Someone had to be waiting for each of them," Gus said. "I had only left the office at 10:32-ish. That's minutes before the van could have gotten there."
"Didn't Lassiter say there were two people waiting for him when he got home?"
"Three, if forensics can be trusted," Hotchner said. "They said it looked like someone was hiding in his closet, also."
"They expected him to head for the master bedroom?" Vick asked.
"Serial killers make the best profilers," Rossi said with a heavy sigh. "So each one had someone waiting for them. They subdued them and then threw them in the van when it came, and then left."
"So that means there's at least eight UnSubs," Reid said.
"How do you figure?" Vick asked.
"Well, there's evidence that there were two for Morgan, then two for Shawn, and three for Detective Lassiter. And, you'd need one to drive the van."
"How did you do on the cases?" Hotchner asked. JJ stepped in, holding up the smaller pile.
"We determined that these were the best candidates." She dropped them onto the table. "They're all perpetrators with wealthy families that could best carry something like this out."
"Do you know if Garcia left yet?" Hotchner asked.
"I haven't called her," Reid said. "You told me –"
"I told you not to tell her that Morgan's missing, but we need her. I'll call her."
Hotchner walked away, dialing his phone.
"He doesn't want us to say Morgan's missing?" JJ asked, taking a seat.
"It'd kill her," Prentiss answered. "Do you want to tell Penelope Garcia that her – what'd she call him? 'Statuesque god of sculpted chocolate thunder?' – is missing?"
JJ paused. "Oh. She should know, though. So what's he going to tell her?"
They all looked back at the SAC, who ripped the phone away from his ear and glared at it before returning to the group.
"Reid, here."
"Garcia?"
REID?! Reid jerked the phone away and held it nearly at arm's length. They could all hear her. What in hell is wrong?! Do you know what time it is here?
"Garcia, Garcia, calm down."
There were several deep breaths on the other end. What happened, Reid?!
"We're . . . we're not sure. But . . . um . . . Garcia . . . Morgan's missing."
There was a high-pitched scream and the sound of something hitting something else on the other end. They all jumped, pretty sure glass had to have shattered somewhere. Gus was trying to piece together that this was the same cheery voice he'd heard over the phone earlier.
I'm flying out there.
"Garcia, no. You're more useful where you are. We need you back at your computers."
I can't just stay here!
"Penelope," JJ said, calmly taking the phone. "We need you at your computers."
There was deep breathing and then JJ was able to safely put the phone on speaker. All right. I'll head over there with Kevin right now. What will you need me to do? And no, I do NOT want Hotch telling me what to do right now. No offense, sir. Hotchner shrugged, admitting defeat.
"Run every existing dark-colored van in the state of California against these names." Prentiss read them off. "Also, look for anything that may suggest their involvement."
As soon as I know you will.
"And try to sleep at some point."
You too, kids. Reid, I didn't –
"I know, Garcia."
Same to you, Hotch.
"It'll work out, Garcia. Hang in there."
Click.
"She did not sound happy," Gus observed, coming out of shock.
"You have no idea," JJ and Prentiss said in unison.
Rossi looked up at the whiteboard with the names scrawled on it, it what appeared to be JJ's handwriting. "We have a lot of names," he said with a slight nod.
"She'll find something." Hotchner rubbed the bridge of his nose, a nervous habit he'd somehow picked up. "Reid, Prentiss, JJ, go back to the hotel and get some sleep."
"No way in hell," Reid answered defiantly. "I wouldn't be able to sleep."
"Hotch, I'll need you at the press conference," JJ said. "Nice and awake. You need your sleep too."
"I'll be fine."
"Agent Hotchner, I'm sure that Agents Reid and Rossi could cover everything just fine. I was about to grab some sleep in the break room as it is," Vick said with a smile. "Go back and get some sleep. We'll call you if anything changes." She started to walk away. "Mr. Guster, I suggest you – Oh damn it." Vick put her forehead in her hand. "I'm going to have to tell Henry."
"Chief, I'll tell him in the morning," Gus volunteered. "That way, he can just come down here himself and yell at everyone in the same spot."
"Thank you, Mr. Guster." She smiled and nodded. "Now you get some rest."
"I will, Chief." He headed towards the parking lot.
"Cross our hearts, Aaron, we'll call you," Rossi said with a broad grin. "Either you load yourself in that SUV, or I'll help JJ and Prentiss move you."
"You drive a hard bargain, Dave." Hotchner joined the other two agents on the walk to the SUV, and Rossi turned back to Reid.
"Stop being so hard on yourself."
He hated profilers sometimes. "I'm going to get some coffee. You want some?"
"Sure." Rossi watched the younger agent's retreating form and sank down at the table.
"What does the profile say?" Juliet asked suddenly. Rossi nearly jumped.
"Hm?"
"Are they still okay? Or would they start torturing them immediately?"
Rossi scanned Juliet's worried face. "Your partner is fine. I doubt they'll start at midnight. They're probably asleep, and Morgan and Detective Lassiter are busy planning an escape. That they hopefully won't try." He shrugged. "We'll have the press conference tomorrow that will assure the kidnappers we are in no way close to apprehending them, someone may or may not call in a tip, and Garcia will call us and tell us that it's someone on that board. We'll break into their house and the three of them will be standing in the kitchen cooking dinner and asking us what took us so long. I hear Morgan makes some damned good chicken." Juliet couldn't help a smile. "We'll find them."
"I think I'm going to grab some sleep in the break room, then," Juliet said as the Chief reappeared with some blankets and pillows and then disappeared into her office. "Now that it's free."
As he watched her leave, Rossi prayed to whatever deity was on duty that he was right.
#
"Detective, can you please stop struggling like that."
"Morgan, if we're going to be handcuffed together . . ."
"Fine. Lassiter. Stop struggling."
Shawn groaned and opened his eyes. He was facing a cement wall covered in grey soundproofing. At least, he thought it was grey. It was so dark that it may have been purple, for all he knew.
"Lassie-face?" He moaned, trying to clear his head.
"God, he's awake."
"It's nice to hear you too." Shawn shook his head again. "What'd I miss?" he piped up cheerily.
"It's been about four hours," Morgan answered. "We're trying to sleep in shifts but Lassiter here won't stop trying to wriggle out of his cuffs."
"At least I'm trying," Lassiter defended.
"And you were shot," Morgan reminded him. "Look. I told you. We need to wait for them to come back in so we can best gauge our next move."
"Lassie, you were shot?"
"There were three of them and they had guns, Spencer. What the hell did you want me to do? Invite them to a séance?"
"It would have been more creative. I, at least, hit mine over the head with a plant."
"Guys," Morgan said. "Stop it. I am not going to be stuck in a basement with you two bickering like that."
"He started it," Shawn whined.
"Just . . . Lassiter, stop fidgeting so I can get some sleep."
Lassiter groaned as Morgan closed his eyes.
There was an almost unbearable silence for about a half hour. Shawn couldn't stand it any longer, and started humming Thriller, which happened to be the first thing that came to mind. Oddly appropriate, too.
Lassiter rolled his eyes. The humming was getting annoying, but he knew that waking Morgan up again was inviting death. So he let Shawn hum. For another half hour.
"Spencer!" he finally barked. "Knock it off!"
"Lassie . . ." Shawn moaned, the detective's voice aggravating the already insane headache. "Really? I wasn't doing anything!"
"You were humming! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?"
"I may have a concussion, Lassie, and you wanna tell me how annoying it is that I'm awake?"
Lassiter was suddenly hit with a pang of concern. That must have been why he hadn't woken up for so long. It must be major for him to have been out that long . . . He let it pass. "Yes, Spencer. For all you know—"
"You two just can't stop, can you?"
Both Lassiter and Shawn froze.
"He was humming," Lassiter finally said.
"Yeah, and I was sleeping. I let you get nearly a full four hours before I woke you up so I could get some shut-eye."
"He was humming," Lassiter weakly reasserted.
"I may have a concussion," Shawn threw in.
"Fabulous," Morgan said. "I swear, either of you wake me up again, and I will kill you. When we get out of here, ask Reid. I've threatened it before."
Granted, that had been during Reid's drug problem and he'd needed a place to crash away from the vial of dilaudid in his medicine cabinet that Morgan wasn't supposed to know about.
"We're cuffed, remember?" Lassiter snapped.
"I'm from Chicago. I know how to kill someone in cuffs."
"If you're so good at getting out of cuffs, then why AREN'T you?!"
And the door slammed open.
"Congratulations, Detective Lassiter," Shawn said, still wincing from Lassiter's yelling and the echoing of the door hitting the wall. "You've won the million dollar prize."
"Shawn. Shut up," Morgan muttered. "We need to gauge the situation and your smartass comments won't help."
Silently, Shawn agreed, and resolved to keep his mouth shut as best he could. He closed his eyes away from the lights shining towards them. I hate concussions.
"So," the man in front – Lassiter determined he looked like the guy from his closet (it sounded so disturbing to say) – said. "You're all awake." No one answered. He strode forward with the other two accompanying him. "Detective Lassiter."
"Yeah."
"Do you remember me?" It was more of a statement than a question. The man crouched down in front of him. "Well?"
Lassiter stayed silent, earning him a hard right hook to the side of his head.
"There is no need for this."
"Shut up, Agent." One of the others snarled. "This is between the detective and our boss."
"No. I don't recognize you," Lassiter forced out. He was lucky that fist hadn't broken his jaw. It hurt though, just adding to the throbbing gunshot wound still turning the sleeve of his dress shirt red.
"A pity." The man stood. "I'm looking for revenge. For a sister. Falsely accused."
The man stepped back into the sight of both Morgan and Shawn, and they immediately scanned him.
Mid thirties, real Rolex. Salt and pepper hair, cut short, clean shaven, wearing a fairly nice suit. Probably a businessman of some sorts. Has a gun in the back of his pants. My best guess is that he's an anger-excitation sociopath. Asking for pity will probably not work. After all, the profile says that he's only in this for the torture. Revenge is just a cover. Morgan shifted slightly to keep his eyes on the man at all times.
Dude, is that a real Rolex? Shawn's mind whirled, not helping his headache. He's got some money. Gun in the back of his pants – only idiots who don't mind blowing off sensitive body parts do that. He's probably a businessman. I bet Gus would know what that suit was. I'd say he works in construction, judging by the calluses on his hands. Probably self-made, at that. Doesn't look like he gives a damn. That's not good.
"My name is Brossart. Stuart Brossart. Does that name ring a bell, Detective?" He paced out of the other two's sight again.
"Jody Brossart?" Lassiter asked, being rewarded with another strike across his face.
"You shouldn't be able to speak her name freely," Stuart said, threateningly wagging his finger at him. "You helped put her away for nothing."
"I wasn't even a detective for that case!" Lassiter argued. "I was still a beat cop when she went to prison! I didn't even work that case."
Stuart kicked Lassiter in the stomach as he straightened up, making him double over. Morgan and Shawn were jerked in the process. As he walked away Lassiter toyed with the idea of kicking him . . . but decided that tact would be a better option this particular day.
"What about you, psychic? You know about the Jody Brossart case?"
"Dude, I'm pretty sure I was in Jersey when that went down," Shawn mumbled. "Maybe Thailand. Somewhere far away from here."
"You can't psychically glean anything?" Stuart made a motion around his head.
"Not when you do something totally uncool like that," Shawn retorted before jamming his mouth shut. It didn't keep Stuart's size 15 from impacting his side, causing him to curl into a ball.
"What about you, Agent Morgan?" Stuart directed his attention to the remaining captive. Morgan smiled grimly.
"I profile serial killers, serial rapists, terrorists, and arsonists," Morgan replied. "Your Jody any one of these? If she isn't, I'm pretty sure I've never heard of her before." Morgan's reply earned him a generous right hook. He grinned. "You want some defense classes, jackass? Shawn can hit better than that!"
Shawn wanted desperately to comment, but knew that Brossart was about to deliver another when Lassiter piped up. "She was running with a drug cartel." He coughed, still trying to get oxygen back into his system. "When they busted it, they found out that Brossart was actually the ringleader. She's in federal prison for racketeering and narcotics charges."
"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Stuart declared before parading out the door, followed by his two cohorts. The door slammed and locked.
"Well, now we know what he wants," Morgan said.
"And that's good?" Lassiter asked. "Spencer?"
"I'm fine," he moaned. Stuart had decided to kick him in the same spot as his scrawny companion had earlier, and it aggravated the existing bruise. "He just got with the skinny guy who grabbed me and got me in the same spot."
"Lassiter." Morgan leaned slightly over to the detective. "Look. This is going to suck, but we need to get as much of this as we can directed towards us."
"Why is that?"
"He's a civilian." Morgan's tone suggested who he was talking about. "Us? This is a risk with our jobs. We're trained to face . . . well . . . He's a consultant. He shouldn't even be here."
Lassiter nodded slowly. "Unfortunately, we're going to need to be in good shape to risk an escape either way. And knowing his luck," Lassiter slightly jerked his head back towards the psychic. "He'll get himself shot."
"Sadly enough I have to agree. But we need to try and keep that from happening."
Lassiter groaned and wished he had a wall to lean back on. "I wish I was stuck with McNabb."
"I heard that, Lassie."
"All right," Morgan said, drawing their attention back before they could start bickering. "Spencer, you understand what's going to happen to you here, right?"
Shawn nodded (Sadly enough, I do) and then cleared his throat. "Yep. I'm gonna feel like Bruce Willis at the end of a Die Hard movie."
"As long as we're clear. This guy is an anger-excitation sociopath. He's claiming to exhibit anger displacement, but it's dubitable due to the torture. Not impossible, but dubitable. If you plead, it won't do anything. If you scream, it'll excite him more. But if you don't, it'll only piss him off."
"Isn't anger-excitation usually used for rapists?"
"Not always." Morgan sighed. "Unfortunately. As it is, you can try whatever you think may work but . . ."
"It won't work."
"Exactly."
"Now what?"
"Lassiter, keep Spencer awake. And I swear to God, if either of you wake me up again . . ." Morgan closed his eyes, hoping it would be enough to get at least an hour's worth of sleep before the torture started.
