Swivel
"A difficult task can be done immediately, an impossible task requires a bit more time."
~George Santayana.
*Author's Note: Yep, here we are again, with me saying "I know it's been awhile...". Quick thanks to everyone who's stayed with this story for this long. We've less than 10 chapters left to go in this story, so hang on tight!*
February 2015. FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
Scott O'Donnell wished that he still had the energy and naiveté to be shocked by Dawson's request, but those traits were long gone (how had only been a few short days ago, since he'd last possessed energy and faith in the system?). Instead, he merely gave a heavy sigh, nodded in agreement, and promised to make the necessary calls to get the classified files on the Morrow case released to them.
Not that he expected it to be easily done, mind you. No, that would be too wonderfully fantastical to be true.
He braced himself for the call before dialing the number. This would be a fight, he could feel it in his bones. But it was a fight that must be fought, and he'd keep at it until he won. Might as well go in swinging. His grandfather's voice echoed in his head, If ya gotta eat a shit sandwich, best not to take small bites.
Strauss House. Vienna, Virginia.
"You've reached Dora Carrington. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I will get back to you as soon as possible."
Jordan highly doubted that. She hung up, tossing her cellphone back onto the couch and swirling the meager contents of her tumbler, which had once been full of whiskey and coke—filled and emptied, more than once, more than twice.
She was a shit, bringing alcohol back into her mother's house. It was cleaned out completely, after Erin's last rehab stint. Even after her mother's death, Jordan had never brought any alcohol into the house—not even cooking wine. It felt…sacrilegious.
This was legally Jordan's property now, but it would never be hers, not truly, not in the way that counted. She was still a child, home for summer holiday, waiting for her mother to waltz in with a bag of groceries and start ordering her around.
Except Mother never came. Never would come, ever again. Jordan tipped back the rest of her drink, letting the watered down mix of melted ice and alcohol slide down her throat with cooling comfort.
She should sell the house, although she knew she wouldn't. Maybe at least pack up her mother's things—a task that seemed equally impossible.
Jordan Strauss contented herself with the thought that she hadn't done anything she was supposed to, not in a long time…so why start now?
The only thing she was going to start was another drink. It wouldn't solve a damn thing, she knew that. But it would dull her mind enough to stop thinking about all the unsolved things, and right now, that was the best she was gonna get. The best she deserved.
She briefly thought of uttering an apology to her mother's ghost as she added another splash of whisky to the tumbler—but then again, Mom would understand, better than anyone.
FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
"Thank you, Agent Knox," Sura Roza ended the call in her usual brusque manner, setting phone back in its cradle with a satisfying thud. She grabbed her cellphone and placed a call to Dawson, who answered on the first ring.
"Watcha got, Roza?"
"I've got Maura Morrow's location, right now," she announced, slightly louder than necessary—that was for Penelope Garcia's benefit. It worked, because the blonde stopped her incessant typing and turned to look at her. Sura gave a slight nod of confirmation before continuing, "Just got a call from Interpol. They've been following Morrow on CCTV since Heathrow, as best they could. They lost track of her a few hours ago, but using some clever geo-profiling, they started checking the CCTVs within some weird parameters they set up and eventually they found her."
Dawson gave a whistle of amazed appreciation. "That's some legwork for ya. Where is she now?"
"The Grand Islington Hotel. They're sending me the address now. What do you want to do about it?"
There was a muffled pause, and Sura instinctively knew that Dawson was conferring with Aaron Hotchner. Her boss' voice returned, clear and certain once more, "Hold off, for now. Just have them keep an eye on her."
"You got it, boss," she ended the call and began typing an email to Agent Knox, who had retained his chilly and snide demeanor throughout their interactions but had now won a small corner of her heart for his efforts.
"Any further on tracking down Dr. Reid's hacker?" She threw over her shoulder at Garcia. It was pretty safe to assume that the brains behind the scheme was Benjamin Fuller, but they still had to prove it.
"Slowly but surely," Garcia answered, her tone filled with distraction. "I have to trace all online activity, the day that Reid's phone data usage spike back up again. Do you know how many computers we have in that building? How many laptops, tablets, and cellphones we have, coming in and out multiple times a day, reconnecting to our wifi? It's like Grand Central Station."
"Are you actually going to be able to track this hack, you think?"
"Oh yeah," the blonde's tone was nothing but certainty. "Because honestly, whoever did this was definitely an amateur."
"Given the magnitude of what they accomplished, it's kind of inspiring," Sura admitted. She gave a slight grimace, "In a perverse, you-definitely-shouldn't-try-this-at-home way."
This earned her a slightly amused hum of agreement from her office mate. Silence reigned once more, the small space filled with nothing but the tapping of keys and the occasional dings of notifications from various programs. An hour passed before Garcia spoke again.
"Got it," she sat back, holding both hands over her head in victory. "I've got a connection between Reid's phone and one of the hardlined computers."
Sura rolled her chair over to the desk, "Which computer?"
"Tracing the IP address now," Garcia informed her, fingers flying across the keyboard. However, once the answer flashed across the screen, her fingers went deathly still.
"What?" Sura looked at the screen. It was simply a reference number, it meant nothing to her. However, the blonde analyst's eyes were as wide as saucers now.
"Of course." She breathed. "This whole time, I knew I had missed something—it was staring me in the face, the whole time."
"Chief Cruz?"
Mateo Cruz turned at the sound of his name. Jack Dawson and Aaron Hotchner were standing in the doorway, both wearing somber expressions.
Dawson gave a slight tilt of his head, indicating that Cruz should join them. He quietly left the conference room table, giving one last glance at the board filled with the timeline of Linnea Charles' last known movements before slipping out into the hallway.
Linnea's car, which had been found at the long-term airport parking lot, had revealed no new clues to Linnea's possible whereabouts—and although the evidence recovery team was still working on it, they were not hopeful of finding anything. The clock was pushing towards the 24-hour mark since Maura would have last been with Linnea. How badly injured was Linnea, when was the last time she'd eaten, or drank? Had Maura killed her, or left her alive in some shed in the middle of nowhere? Had she left her with supplies, or left her to die a long and painful death?
"What's up?" He asked, as soon as the conference room door closed behind him. Dawson and Hotch were already heading down the hallway.
Dawson motioned for him to follow, "Got a few questions to ask you."
Cruz couldn't stop the stone of dread from forming in his stomach. "What kind of questions?"
A heavy sigh from Dawson was his reward. Aaron Hotchner glanced back at him, and despite his impassive expression, there seemed to be a flicker of reassurance at the corner of his eyes. It's gonna be OK, Chief.
In that moment, he realized all the ways he hadn't shown similar assurance to the BAU—all the ways he hadn't reminded them that he trusted them and that it was all going to work out.
Was this why Dora Carrington had been disloyal? Had he not given her enough reassurances, not been loyal and trustworthy enough to her in turn?
They were back in the small office that served as HQ, which was now even more crammed, due to the addition of an extra table, chair, and technical analyst.
"OK," Dawson motioned towards Penelope Garcia, stepping back to close the door behind them. "Tell us what you've got and ask your questions."
"So…" Garcia's big brown eyes were filled with trepidation, which did nothing to quell Cruz's growing nervousness. "We…we traced the computer that remotely hacked into Spencer Reid's phone."
She hesitated, unsure of how to say the next part. Mercifully, Sura Roza stepped in, her voice clear and direct, "It was your computer, Chief Cruz. The computer in your office, to be more precise."
"Wha….how?" Cruz's pulse was pounding in his ears. Surely they weren't going to accuse him as a conspirator!
"Have you had any issues with your computer recently?" Roza cocked her head to one side, narrowing her gaze slightly. "Had to call in the IT guys, anything like that?"
"Recently?" Cruz searched his memory, came up empty-handed. "No, I don't think so. I haven't had issues in…months, at least. To be honest, you'd have to ask Carrington."
That hit him in the gut. Carrington had taken care of all those minor inconveniences of life—maintenance requests, IT issues, even scheduling and rescheduling his dentist appointments. Who would do that now?
Garcia turned back to her computer, grateful for a distraction. After a few taps on the keyboard, she gave a small noise of triumph, "Ah, that's why—the request is logged in with her credentials, not his."
"When?" Roza asked.
"About six months ago," Garcia turned to give a meaningful look towards the other analyst, who simply nodded in agreement.
The three men simply stood, watching this unspoken exchange and completely lost as to its meaning. Roza turned back to them, leaning her elbows on her desk, clasping her hands in front of her as she kept her gaze focused on Mateo Cruz. "Six months ago, you had computer issues."
"Sounds about right," Cruz nodded, remembering. Had it really only been six months ago?
"Carrington handled it?"
"Yes. It was fixed by the time I got back—I was at…a meeting or a hearing or something."
Roza nodded, as if he'd somehow given the correct answer. She continued, "She most likely agreed to have someone remotely access the computer, to fix the issue."
"We don't keep that many IT people at Quantico," Garcia piped up. "D.C. has a pretty solid remote access program that makes a lot of the in-person stuff unnecessary."
"Thank you, governmental budget cuts," Dawson murmured.
"Somehow, that remote access was also granted to another program," Roza informed them. She arched one eyebrow, the only indication of how impressed she was with the hacker. "And through that, someone could control your computer as if they were seated in front of it."
"But…how?" Cruz's head was spinning. "We have one of the best firewall—"
"Trust me, I know," Garcia held up her hands. "I helped design it. But if this program had the right access codes, the same credentials and permissions as every other Bureau-approved program, then the firewall wouldn't blink twice."
"So where is the master puppeteer's computer?" Dawson asked the more important question.
"Still working on that," Garcia informed him with a slight grimace.
"So…someone hacked into Reid's phone, using Cruz's computer," Hotch condensed the information, in his usual concise manner.
Cruz swore lightly under his breath. "This guy really was trying to frame the BAU, from every angle."
Dawson spoke up, glancing at Cruz, "You're in the position that once belonged to Erin Strauss—John Curtis' main nemesis, as it were."
Now he turned his attention to Hotch, "Could this possibly be an unfinished Curtis scheme that Morrow and Fuller decided to play out?"
Hotch considered the thought. "The general theory is that Curtis still had several scenarios in the works—but it all went out the window when Strauss joined the team in New York."
"Explains why this seems so amateur," Roza was speaking to Garcia now. "Fuller and Morrow didn't have the same skills as Curtis."
"So the remote access program was added six months ago," Dawson got everyone back on track. "What was it doing the morning of the bombing?"
"Installing the program on Reid's phone…and then uninstalling it, via relay from the master computer," Roza said, her tone implying how stupid she found his question.
"That's the thing," Garcia spoke up. "That morning, I went to Cruz's office. And I distinctly remember the computer being on. It was staring me in the face, this whole time—I just couldn't quite figure out why that detail mattered."
"Well, you've figured it all out now," Hotch assured her. This earned him a warm and grateful smile from his technical analyst.
"Can we prove all of this?" Dawson gave a helpless flop of his hands. "Or any of this?"
Now Roza and Garcia exchanged uneasy glances.
"Well…that depends," Roza admitted. "The computer was on the ninth floor…and once the sprinklers were activated…."
She didn't finish, but rather gave a slight shrug. Everyone knew that water and electronics didn't mix well.
"It was encased in a credenza," Garcia pointed out. "So there's a slim chance that the hard drive, tucked under that thick furniture, might still be salvageable."
"We need to go check," Dawson announced the obvious.
"Already on it," Roza informed him. "Macareg sent an evidence recovery tech up to the ninth floor to retrieve it and bring it to us."
"So…what?" Cruz looked around. "We just wait?"
"Yes and no," Roza rolled her chair closer to her keyboard. "Every Bureau computer keeps a running activity log, which autosaves actions every three to five minutes, depending on certain factors. We can access the activity log and see what the last autosaved action was."
"Why haven't you done that already?" Dawson asked.
"I am doing that currently," Roza corrected him, her tone slightly arched. "I can multitask, Jack Dawson. The program has a lot of logs to trawl through, which it was been patiently doing while I was explaining all this to you."
Over her shoulder, she directed her next statement at Garcia, "These people, they watch these crime dramas and think everything happens in the blink of an eye."
Garcia ducked her head, hiding a smile.
"Ah, here we go," Roza announced. With one last benevolent smile at her chief, she asked, "Was that soon enough for you, dear?"
Dawson merely rolled his eyes.
"So…last backup was eight minutes before the bomb went off—obviously, the last autosave hadn't fully transferred into the system. We also know, thanks to Linnea Charles, that the email was sent five minutes before the bombing…not that it would show up in the activity log, per se. It just shows what programs are running or accessed." Roza was scrolling through the log, eyes darting from side to side. "Right. So, we have a program accessed about eleven minutes before the bombing…Ok, this is a little weird. Apparently, the computer accessed the agent shift records."
"There was a specific target," Hotch surmised. "Fuller was making sure the target would be there at the time of the explosion."
"That only helps if we knew what time the explosion was actually supposed to occur," Dawson pointed out quietly.
"The master computer's IP address is untraceable," Garcia announced, not looking up from her own screen. "Correction: it could be traced, but our Bureau computers don't have the capability to do it."
"Not so amateur now, huh?" Roza commented, sotto voce. This earned her a disgruntled huff from her blonde counterpart.
"Either way, we have solid proof that Dr. Reid's phone was hacked—specifically the day of the bombing, and within enough time to send the incriminating email," Dawson was speaking to the technical analysts, but his gaze never left Aaron Hotchner.
"Right," Roza gave a curt nod, which Garcia mimicked.
"Then I see no legal reason to continue holding Dr. Reid in custody—even if it's for his own safety," Dawson sent another look Hotch's way (because I need you to know, that was my main concern, my main intention—to keep him safe). "I'll arrange a protective detail, made up of agents from the DC office. Plus Agent Shostakovich, once he's back."
Garcia gave a whoop of delight, and though Cruz and Hotch were less vocal, their relief was evident as well.
Dawson held up his hand in warning, "I still consider Dr. Reid to be at risk, since he's the only person at this point who was specifically targeted by Fuller and Morrow—besides Chief Cruz."
"I think we can all agree that mine was much less involved," Cruz pointed out, and the room nodded.
"I'll go round up a detail," Dawson headed for the door. He turned back to Hotch, "Would you like to deliver the good news?"
It was a peace offering, of sorts. Hotchner accepted it, "Gladly."
Dawson gave a nod and left the room, intent on his task. Hotch turned back to Garcia, who was looking at him with puppy-dog eyes. "Would you like to join me, Ms. Garcia?"
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "I thought you'd never ask, sir."
Spencer Reid sat back on the couch, enjoying the sensation of the cool leather, the sound of the cushions giving way beneath him. He tilted his head back, taking in the rows upon rows of books—the bookcases were floor to ceiling, wall to wall, and there wasn't a single open space anywhere. The spines were greens and reds and a few fairy blues, each catalogued according to their usage. Green books for his work memories, red for his personal life, and blues…blues for special occasions.
Memories of Maeve were in the blue books. Rare, beautiful, too precious to be stored in the ordinary files of his daily life. Even his dreams of her were carefully recorded, put into books and stored within the library of his memory palace.
Over the years, his memory palace had dwindled from numerous rooms to this single one, his memory library. He'd first started the mental exercise years ago, as a teen—but as life went on, it became more confusing, adding rooms or filing memories in different places. So he'd redesigned and condensed.
He should be cataloguing and recording the events of the past four days, but the thought alone exhausted him. No, now was not the time to focus on the present. He needed a break, a quick slip away from reality, or at least his current reality.
He reached for a blue book—the first book of Maeve. The one that began so innocently, so naïve to just how deeply this story would go, how complicated the plot would become. It was simple and pure, filled with promise.
There was a knock—but not on the memory library's door. On the real door. The real door to the real room he was in, the office-turned-holding-cell that Dawson had kept him in for almost 48 hours now.
Reid opened his eyes and cautiously rose to his feet. The door opened and Hotch's face appeared.
"Hope we're not interrupting your vacation time." Hotch's eyes were practically dancing, and Reid's heart surged with hope. The door opened wider and Penelope Garcia's face appeared from behind Hotch's shoulder.
"We're busting you outta here!" She proclaimed, much to the alarm of the agent standing guard outside his door. Hotch quickly smoothed things over while Penelope, oblivious, charged into the room as quickly as her crutches would allow.
Reid met her halfway, excited and confused, barely able to speak as she clutched him into a bone-crushing hug. "Wait, what? What's going on?"
"Dawson just gave the word," Hotch closed the door behind him, his own face lit up with a rare smile. "Garcia was able to prove that someone hacked into your phone to send the email, and since the handwriting sample has been deemed a forgery, they've got no reason to detain you."
"Oh, that's—oh, thank goodness," Spencer felt his bones melt with relief. "That means I can go see JJ now, right?"
"You are so wonderful," Garcia informed him. "Being suspected of terrorism and all you can think about is JJ."
"How is she?"
"Much better," Hotch slipped his hands in his pockets. He kept a further distance, since Garcia still had an arm around Reid and didn't seem to be letting him go anytime soon. "She's in stable condition, out of ICU. Of course, you'll be able to see that for yourself, just as soon as your protective detail is sorted."
"What? Why would I need a detail?" Reid's face quirked in confusion. The feeling of relief was now tinged with irritation—he was just going from one form of confinement to another.
"Dawson is still concerned for your safety. Linnea is still missing, and you're the only other loose end, from Morrow's point of view."
"But…if you were able to prove that I'd been set up, isn't it a little too late to try killing me before I reveal that I wasn't involved?"
"Morrow doesn't know that yet, obviously," Hotch pointed out. "Dawson and I have discussed how to handle interviewing Morrow, and we think our best bet is to let her continue believing that she's outsmarted us on that front. See what she has to say—and hopefully reveal exactly why you were targeted so specifically."
Reid gave a look of confusion at the last two words, so Hotch clarified, "The program that hacked into your phone was operated via relay through Chief Cruz's computer."
"Add that to the fact that the bomb was addressed to the BAU, and you've got one doozy of a grudge going on," Penelope piped up.
There was another knock on the door, and this time, Jack Dawson appeared. Without preamble, he moved towards Spencer, his hand extended. "Dr. Reid, please allow me to apologize for the past two days. I did what I thought was necessary to ensure your safety, and part of that plan included keeping you in the dark about it. I know this hasn't been a pleasant experience, and I don't expect you to look back on this with any fondness, but I do hope you can look back with understanding."
Spencer didn't respond, but he took the hand that was offered—for once not objecting with his usual bit about not shaking hands. To Hotch, that was symbol enough of his desire to move forward.
"Agent Keller had already implied that I was here for my own protection," Spencer admitted. "Although I'm not sure how you could ever think that one of my team mates could possibly be working to frame me."
"It was a risk that I wasn't willing to take," Dawson returned easily. Glancing towards the hallway, he added, "A risk I'm still not willing to take. You will be given a round-the-clock protective detail—"
"For how long?" The dismay was evident in Spencer's face and tone.
"Until Maura Morrow is back in FBI custody and we have every proof and reassurance that Fuller was her only accomplice." Dawson's reply brooked no refusals. "Now, you are free to go wherever you please, Dr. Reid—just as long as there is an agent from your detail with you."
He motioned towards the door, "The sooner we go out and make introductions, the sooner you can leave."
Spencer gave a curt nod, gathering his things and heading to the hallway with Penelope Garcia right on his heels. Hotch stepped aside, lowering his voice so that only Dawson could hear him, "Reid's first stop will be the hospital, to see Agent Jareau. Garcia and I would like to accompany him."
"Think you'll be able to make it back for the end of day briefing?" Dawson set his hands on his hips. Honestly, he could spare them for the rest of the night. He still had O'Donnell and Cruz to help with the Linnea Charles' case, and Sura could manage on her own just fine, now that the time-sensitive stuff had been dealt with. He'd already decided to have Jonas Shostakovich join Reid's detail, so that there would at least be one person that he truly knew and trusted looking out for the young doctor.
"Absolutely," came the reply.
"Perhaps bring Agent Callahan with you. She's been a cool head throughout the ordeal—wouldn't mind having an extra one of those around. Especially since my team is down an agent or two."
Hotch nodded in understanding. "She'll be here."
He headed for the door, but Jack Dawson's voice stopped him, "And thank you, Agent Hotchner."
"For what?"
"For not saying I told you so, whenever you had every right to do so."
"Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."
~Abraham Lincoln.