"'But I don't want to go among mad people,' said Alice. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the cat. 'I'm mad. You're mad. We're all mad here.'"

"He's a goddamned fed, John."

Reid frowned indignantly at the speaker—considering John's praise from earlier, he'd expected to be received a bit more warmly.

"I knew you'd react this way," John said, sighing. "If you'll just hear me out—"

"You've got the FBI on our backs," the man interrupted. Reid noted that this man seemed, unlike all the others he'd met, to be about John's age. "The kid's photo is plastered all over the front page—and now you've got poor Ellie and her brother involved with it all—"

"Oh, yes, poor Ellie and Marland," John cried, rolling his eyes. "This investigation will surely jeopardize their future as upstanding members of the community."

"You've put us all in danger," the man snapped. Although he wasn't as tall as John, he had a violent posture, a gruff voice, mean-looking eyes. "You always do this," he continued. "You see a toy that's off limits and you just have to have it."

"Excuse me," Reid interrupted timidly, not at all thrilled at being spoken of in the third person. "But who exactly…are you?"

The man turned his gaze on Reid, who instantly regretted his decision to speak up. "I'll tell you who I am," he growled, "I'm the guy who's going to snap your skinny neck and dump your body in the lake on the other side of town."

"This is Jack," John informed Reid hurriedly. "He's my colleague. And he's not going to be killing anybody."

Reid narrowed his eyes at Jack. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he said, making no acknowledgment of John's interruption.

Jack burst out laughing. "Oh, really?" he said. "What are you going to do about it—fight me? All ninety pounds of you?" He put his fists up mockingly. "Come on, pretty boy. Bring it."

Reid took a step backwards, but continued speaking nonetheless. "Whether or not you kill me is your decision," he said. "But I wouldn't dump my body on the other side of the city."

Jack lowered his fists slowly and stared at Reid. "Why not?"

"Rational choice theory," Reid said. "It's a geographical profiling method used to determine the relative location of a criminal's residency in relation to his chosen disposal sites. It relies on the killer's desire to both divert attention from his home and to remain in his comfort zone when he's at risk of being caught. You wouldn't want to dump my body in the dumpster just outside the building, for obvious reasons—but you're also not willing to travel outside of the city to dispose of the body because you don't want to be driving around in unfamiliar territory with a dead body in your trunk. Because you would be considered an organized offender, dumping my body as far away as is safe and convenient would be an obvious choice for you, and make it that much easier for my team to narrow down your actual location."

Jack stared without speaking for several moments. "Alright," he said eventually, "Where would you suggest I leave your body?"

"I would suggest not killing me at all," Reid said politely. "Then we could avoid the problem entirely."

There was a moment or two of silence, in which Jack looked like he might be about to punch Reid in the face—then, so suddenly it was almost frightening, he burst into laughter.

"You sure know how to pick them, Johnny," he chuckled, reaching out to clasp John's shoulder. John shook him off, looking annoyed. "Seriously, though. I know you're still upset about Charlie, but we need the feds off our backs. Let me kill him now, and you can pick another one. Alright? Whoever you want. Pinky swear."

"No!" John snapped, stepping in front of Reid protectively. "Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get him here? How much work I put in?"

"Oh, yes," Jack said mockingly. "Ellie showed me all of your poetry. That must have taken ages."

"I didn't write—" John broke off angrily and shook his head once. "You don't have a say in this, Jack," he said. "He's here now."

"You were supposed to consult with me," Jack hissed. "You and I are supposed to consult with each other before giving the drug to anyone."

"I would have told you," John replied carefully, "But you would have said no!"

Jack threw his hands into the air. "Exactly!"

John and Jack stood there for several moments, glaring at each other.

"If it helps," Reid interjected. "Murdering me—well, murdering anyone, really, but especially me—would actually shed a lot more attention on you. If a federal agent turns up dead, everyone doesn't just give up and head home. They would tear the city apart looking for you—and, eventually, they'd find you."

Instead of turning his head, Jack continued to glare at John. "You see what you've done?" he growled eventually, pointing an accusatory finger at Reid. "We can't even kill whoever we want anymore. It's anarchy."

"Don't listen to him, Spencer," John said. "We don't—"

"And another thing," Jack hissed, not allowing John to finish his sentence. "My name is not Jack. It's John."

John threw his arms up into the air. "We've already been through this," he snapped. "You can't be John. I'm John."

"You're Johnny, I'm John."

"No I'm John, you're Jack."

The two Johns stared at each other angrily for several moments.

"Fine," Jack spat eventually. "I won't kill him until I find a better way to dispose of the body." He turned to leave.

"Where's Jeanette?" John called. Jack froze, turned around slowly, then glared at the pair of them with such a look that Reid turned his eyes towards the ground.

"You leave her alone," Jack snapped. "Or I swear to God I'll rip your eyes out.

"I just want to introduce her to Dr. Reid," John said cheekily. "That's right—it is Dr. Reid, as I'm sure you're aware. I don't believe that Miss Adams ever got around to finishing her doctorate—"

"Because she was nineteen years old when she came here," Jack snapped. "And I think she's done more than enough work to—"

"Spencer," John interrupted, "How old were you when you received your first doctorate?"

Reid continued to stare at the ground determinedly. "Um," he muttered, "I don't remember."

John burst out laughing. "Dr. Reid has an excellent sense of humor," he said. "Let me jog your memory—your eidetic memory, that is—weren't you only seventeen when you received your first doctorate?" Reid heard the sound of angry footsteps as Jack stormed towards the door. "How old were you when you received the other two? I wonder how many doctorates—well, that was rude," John remarked cheerfully, the sound of the slammed door echoing throughout the room. "Come on, Spencer. I want you to meet Jeanette."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea," Reid said, still eyeing the door warily.

"Oh, don't let Jack intimidate you," John replied dismissively. "He enjoys the thrill of confrontation. He and I have a…friendly rivalry going, so to speak."

"What kind of rivalry?" Reid muttered, reluctantly following John down the hallway.

"We're developing different versions of the drug," John explained. "Jack has been working with Jeanette for years now. She's really a very lovely young lady—well I don't like her, actually—I find her rather presumptuous—but Jack gets along with her fine. That being said, he also gets along with Ellie, so take from that what you will."

Reid shook his head slowly. "Why wouldn't you collaborate?" he asked. "Why not share your ideas with each other?"

"Competition fosters creativity, that's what I always say," John said.

"Is that why you brought me here?" Reid asked. "To help you…beat him?"

John laughed. "Out of all of the reasons I brought you here, that is one of the most self-indulgent," he admitted. "I assume you'll forgive me."

They walked in silence for some. Finally, Reid asked, "Who's Charlie?"

There was a tense pause. "I'm sorry?"

"Charlie. Jack said something about you being upset about Charlie. Who is he?"

John looked uncomfortable. "He used to work with me," he said shortly.

"What happened to him?"

John gritted his teeth. "He left. Some time ago."

Reid frowned. "He just…left? Where is he now?"

John shrugged indifferently, then gave Reid a wide smile. "Who can say?" he asked, hurrying towards the door at the end of the hallway. "Ah, here we are—I suppose Jeanette is in here—" As he pushed the door open, they were confronted with a young man and a woman who appeared to be standing with their backs to each other, facing whiteboards on opposite walls. Neither of them turned to look at either John or Reid.

John sighed. "Remy," he called, addressing the girl. "Have you seen Jeanette anywhere?"

There was no response.

"Remy?" he called again. There was no answer. "Dr. Oliver?"

"Yes?" the girl replied, not moving her head from the board.

"Have you seen Jeanette anywhere?"

"Yes." The girl had a flat, monotone voice that was somewhat unsettling. "I saw her in room thirteen. And in room twenty-one. And in rooms three, seven, twelve, five, eleven, ten, and eighteen. I've also seen her in this room before."

"Yes," John said, through gritted teeth, "But where did you see her most recently?"

There was a long pause. "Room twelve."

"And when was that?"

There was another pause. "Saturday."

"Brilliant," John grumbled, "Thanks a lot, Dr. Oliver."

"You're welcome."

Reid tapped John on the shoulder. "Can't we ask him?" he asked, nodding to the man at the opposite side of the room.

John cast the man a dark look. "I wouldn't," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"Well, he—" John broke off, then sighed. "Well, we can give it a try. Are you listening to me, Wilbur?"

The man turned to look at Reid and John. He nodded.

"Excellent. Have you seen Jeanette Adams around anywhere?"

Wilbur frowned. "The limit is approaching zero," he said.

"Alright," John said, "But I was asking about Jeanette. She—"

"The limit is approaching zero," Wilbur repeated, louder this time.

"I'm sure it is," John replied. "But I was wondering—"

"You set the limit equal to one," Wilbur interrupted, seeming quite indignant that John hadn't understood him. "Take the limit of the sin of x and divide it by x as it approaches zero and set it equal to one."

"That's all very well," John said, "But—"

"If the top and bottom are both equal to zero, take the derivate," Wilbur snapped, with a tone of finality, then turned once again to face the board.

John sighed. "Well, I suppose that was about as useful as one could've expected—Jeanette is probably on her way here now, we so we should probably—Dr. Reid, where are you going?"

Reid approached Wilbur and stared at the board. "I like your proof," he said. "Most people would use the double-sided theorem."

Wilbur turned to him and smiled. "Squeeze theorem," he said.

Reid grinned back. "Sandwich theorem."

"Pinching theorem."

"Two policemen and a drunk theorem."

Wilbur looked confused.

"It's an expression commonly used in Europe," Reid said. "If two policemen are escorting a drunk man between them, and both men end up in a cell, then—regardless of the path taken, or how much he might wobble between them—the prisoner must also end up in the cell."

Wilbur looked delighted. "If a function is bounded by two other functions," he said excitedly, as if responding to a question in class, "and the limits of those respective functions are equal at a certain point, the value of the original function is equal to those limits at that point."

"Like two policemen and a drunk," Reid said.

Wilbur laughed.

"What proof are you using?" Reid asked, examining the whiteboard more closely. Wilbur grinned again and started writing.

Suddenly, Reid was aware of John's hand grasping his elbow. "Come on, Dr. Reid," he said, sounding aggravated. "We don't have time for this."

"But he's the nicest person I've met since I got here!" Reid protested, casting one last glance at the whiteboard as he was dragged towards the door. Wilbur raised a sad hand in farewell before turning back to the whiteboard. Remy Oliver hadn't moved throughout the entire interaction.

"Those are Jack's people," John muttered, once they were out of earshot. "I'd suggest not dealing with them—except for experimental purposes, of course. They're all unbalanced."

Reid glanced backwards, still rather upset he hadn't had time to read Wilbur's proof. "How many people live here?" he asked eventually.

"Less than you'd think," John replied. "There are ten of us at any given time—well, twelve if you count Ellie and Marland, which I generally prefer not to. Jack and I are the founders—we originally created the drug—well, really it was me who did most of the actual work, and he did have a lucky hunch or two, but…" he trailed off. "Anyways, right now, there are Michael and Robert—who are mine—you've already met them—and Leonard is mine as well." Reid found the use of the possessive word strange considering the context, but decided not to say anything. "I believe you met Leonard briefly—he's a composer. Charming man. Excellent musician. Anyways—there's Jeanette, who appears to be evading us, and then there are Remy and Wilbur—who you've just met—and then there's Avery." He said the name with marked distaste. "He's supposed to be a painter. Or something. Most unpleasant fellow I've ever met. He's Jack's as well, as you might have guessed, and—why, Jeanette!"

A tall, blond-haired woman wearing a lab coat and blue jeans froze in the entrance of the doorway. "Oh," she said, glancing back and forth from John to Reid.

"Jeanette, this is Dr. Reid," John said happily. "You can call him Spencer. She can call you Spencer, right?" Without waiting for Reid to answer, he continued. "We're all on a first name basis here. He is a doctor, though, Jeanette. How many doctorates do you have, Spencer?"

"Um," Reid said, glancing back and forth from Jeanette to John. "It's nice to meet you." He held out his hand.

Jeanette glanced at his outstretched hand and smirked. "So you're Charlie's replacement, are you?"

Reid felt John tense up behind him. "You could at least try to be polite," he hissed at her.

"I am being polite," Jeanette sneered. She looked Reid up and down. "So you're a fed, huh?"

"Yeah," Reid said, not appreciating the rudeness. "I'm actually here to arrest you."

Jeanette's face darkened for a split-second—likely as a result of the realization that Reid was not as easy to bully as she had expected—then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the anger was gone. "Good luck with that," she said, smiling cheekily, then she pushed past Reid and started walking down the hallway.

"I really hate her," John muttered, more to himself than to Reid.

Reid, however, had more important things on his mind. "What happened to Charlie?" he asked.

John's posture instantly became defensive. "I already told you," he snapped. "Stop asking."

"I'm sorry," Reid said, not wanting to offend one of the few people who apparently didn't want to kill him. "It's just that—everyone keeps mentioning it—"

"It's nothing to worry about," John said, smiling at him once again. "A delicate subject, that's all. I'll tell you later. Anyways—now that you've met everyone. Let me show you my lab."

O

"Ma'am, I said we're with the FBI."

"Who?"

"The FBI, ma'am."

"I don't know you."

"I know you don't, ma'am. It's the FBI."

"Who?"

"The FBI!"

"Who?"

"THE FBI!"

There was a long pause—the lady continued to peer quizzically through the mail-slot in her door at Morgan's badge. Finally, after several moments of silence, she asked, "Are you one of Tommy's friends?"

"No, ma'am. We're with the FBI."

"The what?"

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"Who?"

"We're with the government."

There was a long, drawn-out silence—Morgan exchanged an impatient look with JJ. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, the lady asked, "Are you one of Tommy's friends?"

Morgan turned to JJ. "Can I kick the door down now?" he asked her.

JJ gave him a look of horror. "Absolutely not," she hissed.

"TOMMY!" Both Morgan and JJ jumped at the sudden and unexpected shriek that came from within the house. "TOMMY! YOUR FRIENDS ARE HERE TO SEE YOU!"

To Morgan's immense relief, a much younger looking man appeared at the door several seconds later. Instead of opening it, however, he simply stared through the window suspiciously.

"FBI," Morgan said, mouthing each word very clearly and holding up his badge. Tommy hesitated for several moments before opening the door a crack.

"What do you want?" he asked. His voice sounded hoarse—his eyes were much wider than normal, and darted back and forth from JJ to Morgan nervously.

"You aren't in any trouble," Morgan said. "We're investigating the death of your brother. Charlie Baker?"

Tommy nodded to himself. "Right," he said. "Charlie's dead."

"Yes," Morgan said. "May we come in?"

Tommy glanced back and forth from Morgan to JJ. "Might as well," he muttered eventually, then stepped back to allow them to enter.

The house was a disaster. Dirty dishes occupied every available surface—clothes were strewn across the floor and, for unknown reasons, an empty birdcage sat in the middle of the coffee table.

"D'you—d'you want something to drink?" Tommy asked nervously.

"That's alright," JJ said. "Do you live here alone with your grandmother?"

"My mom's at work," Tommy muttered. "She and my dad are….separated."

"Alright," JJ said. "We just wanted to ask you some questions about the night before Charlie disappeared. How old were you when it happened?"

"Five years ago," Tommy muttered, nodding to himself. "Five years—yeah. I guess I was twenty, twenty-one. Home from college."

"Where did you go to college?" JJ asked.

"Was at NYU. Dropped out." He shrugged. "Didn't live with Charlie, anyways—he lived on his own. We didn't talk much. He didn't talk to anybody much."

"But the last time you saw him," JJ said. "When was that?"

"Two nights before," Tommy muttered. "He'd been working on some project—I don't know—for months. It was over. We were celebrating, I guess. Family thing. Felt like he didn't really want to be there, though."

"Did he seem different?" Morgan asked.

Tommy nodded. "Yeah," he said. "He was using again."

Morgan exchanged a look with JJ. "Using what?"

Tommy's eyes darted between them nervously. "Cocaine."

"And what made you think he was using?"

"I didn't think he was using," Tommy muttered. "I knew it."

"How did you know?"

Tommy glanced downwards—he almost smiled. "I know," he said. "There was something—different about it. It was the intensity. When he looked at you, man, he just…he looked at you." he trailed off. "Maybe it wasn't cocaine," he said. "But it was something. Maybe something…more. I've seen people on drugs before. Other drugs. Hard drugs. And some people—they get that look about them. I'd seen it before on other people, but never before on Charlie. Not until that night."

"What look?" JJ asked him. "It's that look. When they look at you, like—you don't matter. Nothing matters. It's like this feeling—right now—is all that matters. It's not how they act—they could be acting as normal as ever—but you look into their eyes and you see it."

Morgan glanced at JJ. "I'm not quite understanding," he said. "Could you explain it anymore? Did he have any symptoms? Dilated pupils? Twitching? Irritability?"

"It's not about how you act." Tommy still hadn't looked up from the floor—by this point, it almost seemed as if he were talking to himself more than Morgan or JJ. "It's not about the type of drug or what it does or even really how it makes you feel—it's just that decision that they make. To put life second. And you can see it. Because you can't hide something like that. Not really."

Tommy was silent for such a long time, Morgan began to wonder if he was done talking. Off in the other room, Tommy's grandmother had begun to shout at the empty birdcage. JJ rushed over to her to calm her down—but Morgan stayed where he was.

"And we didn't find out that Charlie was missing until two days later," Tommy whispered suddenly, so softly that Morgan had to lean in closer to hear him. "But I already knew. I never helped look for him—it was useless. He was already gone."

A/N: I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why is the author's note at the bottom of the page, when you usually put it at the top?" No? You weren't thinking that, because you really don't care where I put my author's notes? Were you perhaps thinking, "I feel as if a strange yet undeniable force compels me to leave a review at the bottom of this page?" Because if you were, then you are correct. That is the correct thing to be thinking. Congratulations. You now an objectively wonderful person (and also possibly a psychic, but we can't know for sure.) But since I'm not a psychic, and I can't read your mind, I'd appreciate it if your compulsion to review (which we all know you now have) would manifest itself in an actual review so that I could read what all of you incredibly cool people think of the chapter (also, thanks to all the already-incredibly cool people who left a review on the previous chapter). Thanks for reading! :-)