Chapter 13 – In Black and White

Essential listening: Late Bloomer, by Allie Moss

0o0

Olson's lawyer emerged from the interview room, looking distinctly unhappy.

"Against my counsel, my client would like to speak with Agent Rossi," he said, in the manner of someone who had been arguing about this for several minutes.

He ducked back into the room without further communication.

Dave, Hotch, Morgan and Brady shared a dark look.

"We talked about the possibility of him being curious, asking questions," Hotch reminded him.

Dave thought, Yes, but that was before we knew he was reading my books. Now he just wants to crow about his murders. Like I'm partly responsible…

But I am partly responsible. For Zoe – and for all the others he tortured with the horrors I talked about in my books.

"I'll keep him talking, try to get him to open up," he said aloud.

Hotch nodded. "Good."

Olson was a clean, pleasant looking young man that no one in the world would feel threatened by – unless they met his gaze. There was something dark in his pale grey eyes that unsettled Rossi immediately. Someone with less experience wouldn't have stood a chance.

No wonder Zoe didn't clock him as a threat. Not until it was too late.

And she wouldn't have been out there if you hadn't encouraged her, he reminded himself, feeling wretched.

Olson looked up and smirked when Dave went in, and he had to fight the urge to smack that arrogant little look of the kid's face.

"Agent Rossi," said the young man in greeting as Dave closed the door. "Big fan."

Looks like he's going with smug, thought Dave, resigned to it. Big surprise.

"We have some information that would be of great interest to you," said the lawyer calmly.

Rossi sighed and took a seat. "My ears are burning."

"My lawyer here explains that I'm being charged with eight murders," said Olson. "And that I'm probably looking at the death penalty."

Dave kept his face impassive, ready for whatever bombshell he was about to deliver.

"I have one very important question for you," said Olson, with quiet confidence. "Are you sure it's just eight?"

0o0

Outside the interview room and listening over the intercom, Detective Brady swore. "What?"

"We checked missing persons," JJ told him. "Since he started killing, four people have been reported missing in East Cleveland neighbourhoods."

Morgan nodded, watching Olson through the glass. "We can't rule out any of them as his potential victims."

"He marked pages on several serial killers," Hotch added. "We don't know which ones he tried to copycat."

Brady huffed, frustrated. "We're screwed then. The DA's going to have to offer him a deal."

"The DA doesn't have to give him the option," Hotch reasoned.

"That's easy for you to say," Brady groused. "You get to go home tomorrow. What do I tell the families of the missing? 'Sorry, no idea.'?"

"Detective, we're not gonna leave until we can give you and the families some closure," JJ assured him as Hotch went off to make a call.

"And how are you gonna do that?" he asked, obvs still annoyed at the possibility of a deal.

"Reid," said Hotch, behind them.

"Hotch."

"I need something – anything that might show where he was trawling for more victims."

0o0

"I can't believe he's pulling the 'I have more bodies, you have to cut a deal with me' card," Pearce grumbled, from inside one of the unsub's kitchen cupboards. "That's low, even for an unsub."

"I think, where this guy is concerned, there is no such thing as 'low'," Spencer mused, searching through the stack of takeout menus beside the largely empty refrigerator. "Anyway, you know what they're like. Any opportunity to hold power over someone."

She grunted and got to her feet. "If he took trophies, they're either somewhere else or hidden in such plain sight that we just can't see them." She huffed, tired and frustrated.

"We'll just keep looking," he said, aware of how much the day must have taken out of her.

She wasn't normally this defeatist.

Spencer moved onto the cabinet by the door, which was mostly underused pans, conscious that she was watching him. He could feel her eyes on his back, and when he shifted the cookware to one side, he saw her reflected in the burnished metal, obviously pissed that their unsub was trying to pull one over them and not hiding it particularly well. There was something else, too, in her unusually unguarded expression.

She waited until the forensic technicians who were helping them take the apartment apart had moved into the bedroom before speaking.

"Hey, Spencer?"

That got his attention. It had been a long time since he'd heard her say his first name. And she had spoken so softly. He stood up, brushing the dust from his knees, and turned to her.

"I just wanted to…" she trailed off, looking at the floor, then met his gaze with the barest flicker of her usual steel. "Thank you, for – you know, for being… for the roof."

She was speaking quietly and haltingly, which was most unlike her. The carefully contained mask she kept up in times of stress was practically non-existent, and that fact alone told him how deeply the anniversary of Michael's birth had affected her.

It must be agony, he thought, for the world to keep going on a day like this, and to have to keep pace with it.

"It's okay," he said, gently.

"Really, it –" Grace swallowed. He got the impression that she was taking a moment to collect herself. "It made me feel like I had a foundation again."

"I'm glad I –" He looked down, badly wanting to give her a hug, but knowing it was not a good idea. "Good."

That might have been the end of it, but she continued, unconsciously stepping closer, "Do you remember, just after Henry was born – you had my back then, too. And I didn't know how to –" She took a breath. "Well… thank you for that, as well."

He gave her a half-hearted smile. "That's what friends are for, right?"

"Right."

She nodded and so did he, which made part of his hair fall in front of his face.

He was about to reach up and tuck it behind his ear when her hand rose, as if she had had the same thought. Spencer's mouth went dry. At the last second, she seemed to realise what she was doing and jerked her hand away as if it had been burnt.

"I'm going to go check the – uh –"

"Yeah," he said hurriedly, as she fled the room.

His heart was hammering in his chest; it took a moment for him to steady himself. Before she had moved he could have let her unexpected candour pass, particularly on a day when she so desperately needed comfort. He might even have given in and held her, which was all he'd really wanted to do since he'd gone to meet her on the roof. Just to make her feel less alone.

Bad idea, Spencer reminded himself. Don't go there.

It would be so easy to lose himself in her again – and he would, he knew, if he let his guard down. She was a kind of addiction, every bit as powerful as the Dilaudid had been and – though she didn't mean to be – every bit as cruel. Allowing himself to be with her (or her to be with him) might numb the pain for a while, he reasoned, but ultimately it would come back, far worse than before.

"I can't do this again," he muttered and closed the door of the cupboard he'd been investigating with slightly more force than he'd been intending to.

Roughly, he pushed back the hair that had provided even such a slight temptation, angry at her for needing him. Angry at himself for needing her. Angry that he wanted to follow her and tell her it was all going to be okay – that he was a total ass for bringing up her father's death the way he had, that he really wasn't upset with her at all, but with himself, that being friends again was hard work, but it meant everything to him.

But he didn't.

That way madness lies.

He took a breath, then jumped when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Good, he thought, seeing 'Hotch' come up on the screen. Focus on the case. That's neutral territory. That's safe ground.

"Hey," he said, hoping the storm Grace had created inside his chest wasn't audible.

"We need something on this guy, Reid."

Spencer sighed, leaving the kitchen. "We've been through everything," he told him.

"He marked up Rossi's books," Hotch suggested. "Check the bookcase. Maybe he was scouting for locations to commit more murders."

"Nah, Pearce has already done that," said Spencer. He frowned, trailing off, his eyes on the photographs mounted on the wall of the hallway. "Pictures…"

"What?"

"Hey, Pearce. Come over here – I think I've got something…"

She appeared, wordlessly, from one of the other rooms.

"Framed photographs in his hallway," Spencer explained to Hotch, who was getting frustrated on the other end of the line. He looked around. "Nothing else – nothing else is framed."

"So, they're important to him," Pearce mused.

"They look like originals. Let me call you right back, Hotch," he said, hanging up and reaching for the nearest one.

"Trophies, do you think?" Grace asked, taking down another to examine.

It was easier to talk when their focus was limited to the case, and although she wasn't meeting his eye, she was acting as though nothing had happened, which was a relief.

"Maybe… I saw some pictures like these on his computer…"

She scowled at the picture in her hand. "Plain bloody sight."

0o0

"I need to ask you about your sex life," said Emily, feeling skeezy about it. It was necessary though, to build up a picture of Olson's precise proclivities. It could lead them to the other victims.

"Th-that's personal," Linda protested, looking down at the table, deeply uncomfortable.

"Your boyfriend's a serial killer," Emily reminded her bluntly. "Your relationship is no longer private."

Wearing the look of a woman who would rather be anywhere else, Linda stammered, "It-it's completely normal to experiment with sex."

So you were doing something that you feel the need to defend, Emily inferred. Or rather, he was doing something with you.

She nodded, however, allowing that. "Okay, it might be normal to have sex in a public park, but the other things?"

"We were just role playing," said Linda desperately. "Every couple has fantasies!"

"Did you ever think it was strange that your boyfriend has fantasies about strangling and raping women?"

"Not women!" Linda assured her, as if that somehow made it better. "Just me."

Ah, thought Emily. And that's how she's been rationalising it.

She winced internally, knowing what she was about to do to this woman – and that it was necessary.

"Did he kiss you on the forehead too?"

Linda was stunned. "How did you know that?"

The remaining colour drained from Linda's face when Emily told her.

0o0

"We're going to have a lot to talk about when the DA gets here," Olson taunted, obviously trying to get a rise out of Rossi.

He'd been doing this job too long for that, however, no matter how personal the case was.

"What do you think you're going to get out of this?" Dave asked, keeping his temper in check.

"I don't know." Olson smirked. "We'll see."

"You don't have to say anything else, Eric," said the lawyer, evidently conscious that the young murderer beside him would likely run his mouth if left to his own devices. He could hear the superiority in his voice as well as Dave could. But it was his job to look out for Olson's interests, no matter how little he wanted to succeed at it. "You got to speak to him. Now let's just wait for the DA."

Sound advice, thought Dave. But he won't be able to resist.

"I don't know how to break it to you, kid, but you don't have a card to play here," Dave told him. "We're three steps ahead of you."

"Oh? Really." Olson was unimpressed, but it was obvious he wanted to say more – to gloat about his own intelligence.

"We've already considered the possibility that you killed other people," Dave explained. "We knew you were young, wanted to experiment. It was likely you would copycat as many serial killers as possible to figure out who you are and what you liked."

He leaned forward, confident he had the smug bastard's full attention.

"So, let me ask you a question. How do you know you haven't told me already where the other bodies are buried?"

Olson smirked and cracked his neck.

Dave sat back, maintaining his expression, but that threat obviously hadn't held anything for Olson to be concerned about.

They needed leverage – and badly.

"Now, were you sick much as a kid?"

"I got strep throat every flu season," said Olson, mildly surprised. Then he smiled. "Did you just profile that about me?"

"Her name was Zoe Hawkes," said Dave, ignoring the question. "The girl you killed three days ago. We found your DNA on her forehead."

The lawyer rolled his eyes. "It'll never be admissible in court," he remarked, aware of how many times Zoe's body had been moved.

"Now most people would ask what you did," said Dave, unconcerned. "I know what you did. You kissed her on the forehead."

Olson looked down, rattled.

"What I want to know is, why?" Dave continued.

Olson leaned on the table, as if they were simply two people discussing a theory. "Why do you think someone would do that, Agent Rossi?"

"Well, that's why I asked if you had been ill much as a child," Dave explained. "You see, you're slight, pale, sickly. Most parents, they kiss their children on the forehead to see if their temperature is warm."

He watched the flicker of uncertainty form on his opponent's face.

"Now, my theory is that you, somehow in your development, warped that caring gesture into something perverse," Dave went on, as Olson became visibly uncomfortable. "So, did you sit next to Zoe? To see if she got cold? Is that why you kissed her?"

Olson rearranged his features to something that looked appropriately bored. He would make a poor poker player.

"That's a really interesting theory," he said, forcing ennui. "Make a great chapter in one of your books."

Dave nodded, watching him. It was a poor attempt at needling him at best – but Olson still thought he controlled the deck.

House always wins, thought Dave. And if we can find those other bodies, you're going to find out just how true that is.

0o0

"We found pictures on his computer in a special folder he created. They're scenic places in the city," Spencer explained over the phone, as Pearce carefully tagged and labelled each framed photograph. "Three of them I recognise from his crime scenes – but there are more pictures of places I don't recognise."

"We think they're trophies," said Pearce, whose mask of professional calm was firmly anchored once more. "Reminders of the places he's killed – or where he's buried the bodies."

"Email them as soon as you can," said Hotch. "And Pearce, I'm going to need you out there."

"Yeah, I figured," she said, as Spencer hung up. She stood up, stretching her back. "No rest for the wicked, I guess. Will you be okay here?"

She didn't meet his eyes, Spencer noticed, the only sign she was embarrassed about the moment of might-have-been that they had endured together before.

But then, it was quite an exceptional day, as far as Pearce was concerned, and – feeling calmer now and more in control of himself – he doubted she would have been so forward if she hadn't already felt so lost.

"Sure," he replied. "Will you? Out there, I mean…"

"Nothing I can't handle," she said briskly, but he knew she was lying.

He had seen the aftermath of her hunting for grave sites before.

0o0

As soon as they had figured out the link between the places Linda told them Olson had taken her for sex and the places he had killed – and to the photographs on his wall – they had him. It was especially satisfying to see him crumble, particularly given the smirk he'd had on his face since they brought him in. It had obviously given Rossi some closure to be able to deliver the final blow.

He had been curious, just as they had profiled he would be, and had offered the BAU (specifically Rossi, but they weren't going to give him the satisfaction) as many interviews as they wanted, as long as they explained to him why it was he had the compulsion to do what he did.

Derek swirled the end of his beer around his glass, contemplating the case. Most of the others had gone to bed already, except for Prentiss, who had challenged him to a game of Cards Against Humanity (just as soon as she fetched them from her room), Reid, who was staring out of the window on the far side of the bar with a slightly lost look on his face and Pearce, who had yet to return from the grave sites.

Rossi had gone too, though Derek didn't believe for a moment the man was sleeping. This case had cut too close to the bone for that. He'd decided to visit Zoe's grave after the funeral, Derek knew, to pay his respects. Hopefully that would turn out better than trying to pay for the funeral had.

It had really rattled him that Olson had taken 'inspiration' from Rossi's books, just as Zoe had – albeit in a much darker way. But that was the price of writing about the things the BAU dealt with. You couldn't prevent the wrong people from reading them – you just had to hope that enough of the right people did that it made a difference.

He'd heard him cancel the rest of his promotional anniversary tour on his way to the elevator, and Derek couldn't help but be a little relieved.

He glanced at Reid.

"Sure you don't wanna play, Pretty Boy?" he offered. "You were killin' it at New Year's, and I could do with a wing-man against Prentiss, if you know what I mean."

"Sorry, man," said Reid, with a flick of his eyebrow that never boded well. "Not really in the mood for jokes about dead children today."

Morgan nodded. As much as he liked the game, there were some cards that just weren't funny, in their line of work.

"Yeah, I hear you. I'm pretty sure Prentiss took those ones out though."

"Besides," he said, quirking an eyebrow, "I wouldn't want to give you an unfair advantage." He frowned slightly, as if he'd caught sight of something out of the window, and finished his drink. "I'm pretty tired. I'm gonna head."

"Sure," said Derek, as Reid hurried away towards the lobby.

Derek twisted in his seat to follow his progress, and saw him encounter Pearce by the main doors. Her dark glasses were back, despite the late hour, and she looked very pale. But then, she had looked off all day, now Derek came to think about it.

Reid called to her and she turned, sluggishly, which suggested she felt about as good as she looked, and Derek saw him press something into her hand. He could only see the colour (blue) and the size (small, about the size of something that might fit in a jacket pocket), but he was pretty sure it was Advil.

So he was waiting for her, he thought, as the kid practically fled for the stairs, leaving Pearce by the elevator, watching him go. But he doesn't want to be in an elevator with her…

"Everything okay?" asked Prentiss, from behind him.

Derek looked up to see her following his gaze.

"With me? Yeah," he said. "With them?"

They watched as Pearce got in the elevator and pushed a button, scowling at the doors until they closed.

Prentiss sighed. "Yeah."

0o0

In youth we learn; in age we understand.

Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach