A/N:
"I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." ~Chuck Palahniuk
JJ marched into the bullpen on Monday morning, slapping case files on each of our desks. Spencer hadn't arrived yet, which was odd. Hopefully he knew what to do with his neck; mine was artfully caked in tattoo concealer. As the deadline for the briefing dawned closer, I realized I'd have to go without him, so up the stairs I went.
Entering the room, Reid was seated along with everyone else on the team except Morgan and Emily. They shortly followed after me. Hotch and JJ went ahead and delivered the normal case spiel. There have been over ten murders in a rural section of Utah over the past year, and the police have just realized the connection, especially since there were over twenty more unsolved cases from the past ten years that somewhat relate to them. Targets were typically females, no specific age, no specific body type, hair type, ethnicity, social status, or any relation to another victim.
Each had signs of torture. Most women had scalded faces, dismembered appendages, all done before this sadistic bastard killed them. Reid would occasionally look over to me and see how I was faring, but I was too morphed into my concentration. I had to find this person. These women needed justice.
"Wheels up in thirty," Hotch announced. Everyone bolted from the conference room. This included me. Throwing files into my bag, I pulled the duffel under my desk out, out of the corner of my eye I saw an approaching Spencer.
As much as I dreaded it, he did whisper the question, "Are you going to be alright?"
"I swear," I answered, feeling a blush rise to my face.
"Promise me?" he asked, making sure to not make any sort of eye contact to broadcast to the others we were conversing back and forth.
Nodding my head, I spoke an even, "Promise," and passed him making my way up the stairs.
"That's weird," I noticed as we were going over the case file on video chat with Garcia and Reid. "These death dates are rather close to each other, and it looks like the Unsub, metaphorically, 'cleans house' every ten years or so," I concluded. Rossi nodded in accordance and looked to Aaron who might've had the formation of a smile on his lips.
"Oh Florence, your positivity hurts," Penelope commented.
Spencer cleared his throat, butting in on Penelope's screen, "Mormon fundamentalist groups found in Utah could provide reasoning."
"Reid's right," Emily quipped, "And it looks like the Unsub keeps the bodies preserved and distributes them."
"Wait, Whoa!" Penelope exclaimed, typing into the computer.
"What is it Baby Girl?" Morgan raised his eyebrow at the camera, trying to see what Penelope's stroke of genius was about.
Curiosity got the better half of me as well, and I leaned in to find the image of a woman with a scarification of sorts, hands holding a red egg. "Mary Magdalene, patron saint of women, reformed prostitutes, pharmacies, perfumeries, and sexual temptation," Spencer recited.
David nodded, "The argued wife of Jesus."
"Not only this, but…" Garcia trailed, taking the picture of the women off the screen, "This has been happening since the 1960s."
"Family tradition," Rossi negatively announces, "But a Mormon wouldn't recognize or honor saints, this guy has a religion all of his own."
Grinding my teeth, I realized, "He's trying to find Magdalene."
As soon as we all landed, it was straight to the precinct to interrogate family members for most of the team. Somehow though, I was stuck on the video chat with Reid and Penelope. "Bethany Grace Kirkland," I muttered, picking up her file. Abducted at twenty one from the border of Nevada and Utah, she was never seen again until 1971, dead.
"We're supposed to be doing geographical profiling," Reid reminded me as Penelope shot him a nasty look. "Go ahead," he sighed.
"Her sister was with her the night she went missing, her twin to be exact. A lot of the police report is botched," I muttered in confusion. This signified foul play. Penelope began to type away on her computer. Spencer ceased to make red marks on the map before him and focused on the screen Garcia was working on.
Whistling while she worked, a smile crept up my face. Penelope knew how to make any moment lighter and cheery. "Hannah Kirkland Heights, born in 1939, married an auto mechanic at seventeen that passed in World War Two and hasn't remarried since. Deemed insane in 1961, a year after her sister's disappearance, but with no reasoning beneath the accusation. Involuntarily committed to a mental hospital that used to be in the town square, later sued the state, and now lives comfortably in the house she grew up in receiving damages, and knits for the crisis pregnancy center. An absolute saint Flo," Penelope sighed, "She didn't kill her sister."
"If her report to the police is botched and the insanity claim was without reasoning, it could be easily said that she knew who took her sister, and was shot down by society at the time," Spencer configured, smiling over Penelope's shoulder at me. "We'll send the address," he smirked.
The small white cottage was absolutely gorgeous, and from the outside only, it burst with character. Rose bushes of every variety, a white picket fence, a homemade wreath on the door, even the bin attached to the fence containing vegetables from the garden out back free to anyone who wanted any, reminded me of Penelope. A paved cobblestone path led up to the front porch—small—but not too small because there sat two rocking chairs on each side. Hummingbirds came and went from the hanging feeders, and in all reality I felt like seven dwarves would pop out at any moment.
Gathering courage, I walked up to the porch and knocked on the wooden door. Hearing paws on the other side; I eventually heard the door opening. A woman, about my height, but at once probably taller than me, opened the door and smiled warmly, "Hello, how may I help you?" she congenially queried.
"I'm SSA Florence Carter with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, I'd like to ask you some questions Ms. Heights concerning the recently missing women around the area," I tried to sound as friendly as possible. The dog I had heard earlier had a partner in crime; two plump corgis wagged their nonexistent tails at the woman's feet.
"Sure, come in dear, I'm sure that Wallace and Remy don't mind," she gestured towards the two pups at her feet. Her fingernails were painted with juvenile colors, and strangely her walls were covered in pictures of people, despite the fact all of her family is deceased. Yarn sat on the mantle instead of a television—which was housed on the top of a trunk. "The table has just been cleaned up from breakfast," Hannah gestured to the large oak feature, "Come, sit," her motherly voice beckoned.
Taking a chair, I flashed a modest smile, "Thank you, Ms. Heights."
"My pleasure Agent Carter, may I ask what this is about, and may I ask that you call me Hannah?" she peaked an eyebrow with the sharp elderly humor that I thought was downright adorable.
"I'm here because of the recent string of missing women, and your sister Hannah," I paused, waiting for a reaction.
It wasn't strong. In fact—this woman's reaction was quite subtle, "I'm not inclined to share a story that isn't mine Agent Carter."
My, she was classically spunky; when I grow older I want to be like this. "You can call me Florence if you like, but Hannah," I bit my lip looking for the right phrase, "I know that you've been wronged before and deemed unimportant but Ms… Hannah, you are vital to the case and the safety of women in this community."
"I'll do it," Hannah crossed her arms, answering almost immediately. "But we're going to the police station, I'm going to record it on my personal device, and your people can record it on your devices, and I want you to be the one that conducts the interview," she was determined. Hotch would probably be extremely upset, considering he was letting Reid fly out to do the interview, but he'd have to get over it.
"That can be done Hannah," I answered, "Thank you."
"One more thing," Hannah interrupted as I was packing up my things. After she knew she had caught my attention, she rubbed her temples, "You're so young, Florence, you have so much life and love ahead of you, why this job?"
Shrugging my shoulders, I removed myself from the chair and pushed it in as I stood, "It's something I don't think I could stop dreaming about doing." Smiling weakly, the woman stepped into the kitchen momentarily to feed her hungry companions.
"What about love? Kids? Husband?" she queried, closing the bottom cabinet as a bag of dog food emerged.
"I don't know Ms. Heights, I guess I'll have to figure out when I get there," I answered truthfully. She finished the task of feeding the ravenously hungry animals, but not before my phone buzzed with the indication of a text message.
*At the airport, be there in thirty.* Reid announced.
"You sound so much like Bethany."