Thank you so much to SoftGrungeFairy for beta'ing last chapter and this chapter! I appreciate you, darlin!
Spencer
Of the many things Spencer excelled at, public speaking certainly wasn't one of them. Whether it was a presentation in class, giving a profile, or standing up in front of the group at Beltway Clean Cops, talking in front of a crowd was always a constant struggle. Tonight was no different.
It'd taken him half the evening to even work up the courage to just think about sharing, and now he really wished he hadn't. For all the knowledge and information tucked into his mind, he couldn't think of a single thing to say to get him started.
Finally, he settled for a feeble, "my name's, uh, Spencer, and I'm… I don't really know what I am."
The obligatory chorus of hello, Spencer bounced around the room and he bobbed his head in thanks, folding his hands together as he tried to get his nerves under control. He took a couple moments to gather his thoughts, and then finally cleared his throat.
"This is – this is my first meeting. I guess I… I know I had a problem with dilaudid, but um, I stopped. Ten months ago I stopped. I thought it was over, but recently I'm – I've really been… your literature uses the term 'craving'. It started about a month ago, I… a-a suspect was murdered in front of me. A-a kid. I thought that I could save the kid, but I couldn't, and…"
While he tried to collect his thoughts, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Grateful for the distraction, he murmured an apology as he pulled it out to read the text he'd gotten.
From: Garcia
Hey, brainiac, got a big case. Get to Quantico ASAP!
Spencer took another shaking breath, eyes falling to his shoes as he closed out of the text and tucked his phone away. He knew she'd be waiting for him to confirm he was on his way, but he was in the middle of something. He'd committed to being here, and he at least had to finish explaining his story; or, at least, voicing the part that he'd been trying to ignore. After clearing his throat, he gathered his thoughts and looked back up at the crowd.
"I was with our team's intern. She – she's young, and new to all of this. Usually our Unit Chief keeps her with him, but I asked if she could stay behind with me. He trusted me to look out for her, to protect her, and… I guess I feel like I let her down. Let both of them down. She shouldn't have had to be in that situation, to see what we did. And now I feel like I should be helping her through all this, because we're both suffering, but I – I can't. I want to forget about what we saw. I just want to escape."
A heavy silence fell over the crowd. Some listeners nodded in understanding, some gave him smiles of sympathy. At least for right now, he didn't feel alienated in his struggle. The others around him understood the conflict he was fighting with. They knew the guilt and the second-guessing that came with the line of work they were all in, and at least he felt validated with that aspect of it.
As Spencer went to continue, feeling a little more empowered, he got another text. Irritation sparked to life, uncharacteristic anger stirring in the hollow of his chest. The heavy heartache and dark memories plaguing him shifted his saturnine attitude to borderline bitter, and now he couldn't make sense of his own emotions.
He'd snapped at the barista on Monday because she'd given him decaf instead of his regular dark brew. Normally it's something he would've dismissed – or asked her to remake politely, if he was feeling particularly plucky that day – but his burst of anger had come out before he could stop it.
He'd spent the day feeling l awful for losing his temper with her, but what had shaken him most was the impulse to throw the drink back at her.
Spencer Reid wasn't brash, or confrontational, or rude, but he had been on Monday and he hated feeling like that. He tried to write it off as a bad day, rationalizing that as the result of almost two weeks of near-constant guilt, anxiety, and broken sleep. When he'd lost control again last night, though…
His neighbor, Mrs. Decker, was a sweet woman. Being retired, she filled most of her time writing to her pen pals so they often ran into each other checking their mail in the lobby. They always exchanged a few casual words – she'd ask how his day was, he asked how her dog was doing – and they'd share a wave before heading on their way.
Last night, all she'd done was ask how his day had been and he'd snapped at her to "keep her intrusive questions to herself for once". The startled, crestfallen look on her face had kept him up half the night; the guilt from his outburst still made him wince when he thought about it.
Now, he was finally in a place that could help him figure this out, get his ever-increasing temper under control, and he was being called away. He spared another glance at his phone to read Garcia's second text.
ASAP as in now, boy genius.
He hesitated for just a second longer, debating just shutting his phone off, but he couldn't do it. That was his impulsive irritation speaking; he didn't want to turn his back on his friends, on the people that needed him and the team.
"I… I have to go. I'm sorry," he relented, pressing his lips together and turning without looking back, rushing out of the room. He'd only made it a couple feet out of the door when a familiar voice called out,
"Spencer!"
"Sorry. I'm late," he tried to dismiss, but instantly the man pressed,
"Places to go, people to profile?" Spencer paused, not having expected anyone to know what his job was – this was Narcotics Anonymous, after all. When he saw who had followed him, he blinked in surprise and turned to face him. Seeing the recognition on his face, the man continued, "you know who I am."
John McMahon, supervisor from the Laboratory Division. They'd crossed paths a couple times, and though it wasn't a surprise to Spencer that he recognized Mr. McMahon, he hadn't thought someone higher up like himself knew who he was, let alone what department he was in.
"Of course I do, sir. I just – um," Spencer took a breath as he thought out what to say, managing finally to tell him, "I didn't expect to see a man of your position… here."
"Here, there's no 'sir's. I'm just John here," Mr. McMahon – John – told him, and gave a small, brief nod towards the building they'd both come from. "And this isn't something you talk about at the office. Especially our office."
Spencer's phone buzzed again and he bit back the irritated sigh that rose up as he dismissed the third text and muttered, "I'm sorry. I really do have to go –"
"Here. Take this," John urged, stopping him before he could even turn away, holding up a gold token he produced from his pocket. "It's my one-year medallion. Took me six years to get it."
Spencer held the medallion gingerly, studying it, taken aback by the kind generosity of a man he'd never spoken to before. He understood just how important these were to the people who had earned them. He'd been hoping to have his own soon.
"For the past thirteen year, I've never left home without it," John told him, his voice gentle but laced with a firm understanding of the struggle Spencer was up against. When he looked up again, John held his stare and said meaningfully, "Because I know if I forget that, I'll lose my gun, my credentials, my home… everything. Hold onto it."
Spencer studied John for a moment, still not fully comprehending why this man would be so willing to give up something this important to someone who was essentially a stranger.
"I only have ten months," he started; John nodded.
"I know."
"It's your most prized possession."
"It is."
"You're just giving it to me?"
"No," John corrected, and now Spencer frowned, at a total loss for what was happening. John had already begun to back away, leaving Spencer to stare after him as he explained, "in a couple of months when you get your year, you can give it back to me."
Did he truly see how close Spencer was to the edge of his addiction's cliff? Was it that obvious? Did he know it had taken all of his self-restraint – and self-discipline he really didn't have – to even get himself out of the apartment before he did something he'd regret? Did he know exactly how much he needed this little piece of metal that promised him, others did it so you can do it too?
As he curled his fingers tight over the medallion, John called out, "oh, and Spencer?" he looked up to see John paused in the doorway watching him, a warmth in his gaze that confirmed he did indeed know exactly what the token meant to him. "Remember, you're not alone. Your friends love you, care about you, and want the best for you. Now, more than ever, it's important to let them help you."
John went back inside, but Spencer didn't move; he was rooted to the spot. He held tight to the medallion like it was a lifeline, fighting back the wave of guilt rising up in him. Again, John had seemed to figure out the thoughts Spencer hadn't said. He'd started to isolate himself more, and though he knew he shouldn't, he couldn't stop. The rest of the team hadn't questioned his increased reclusiveness, they'd just taken his behavior in stride as something Spencer did from time to time.
Aria hadn't.
Even with how hard Chula Vista had been for her, Aria had been focusing on making sure Spencer was okay. She always knew when he fell out of step with the rest of the world, and she always pulled him back on track. She went out of her way to care for him, and she did so effortlessly. Ever since she'd shown up in the door of Gideon's office, she'd been able to connect to him in a way no one else had. She knew how to read him, and she did it well. No matter how hard he tried to hide his bad days, she always noticed and she always cared.
Right now, he really wished she didn't.
It was selfish of him to take all the care and concern she gave him and give nothing in return. Others would pull back, or insist on putting themselves first, but Aria's benevolent nature kept her at his side, picking up the pieces of himself he was dropping. She didn't know the kind of man he was, didn't know the things he'd done that he kept from everyone else; she didn't realize Spencer wasn't worthy of her compassion. She didn't see how selfish he was, how destructive he could be.
Part of Spencer knew it was irrational to think like that. He knew closing himself off from Aria was a foolish idea, especially when she'd become the one bright spot on his dark horizon. Logically, he knew Aria genuinely wanted to help him. If she didn't, she wouldn't fight so hard to break down the walls he continuously put up between them.
Just when he started to convince himself to let her in and accept her help, the dark voice of his addiction in the back of his head convinced him otherwise. She wouldn't care so much if she knew the truth about him, if she knew the real Spencer Reid, and he couldn't let that happen.
Regardless, though, Aria insisted on being at his side, metaphorically - and sometimes even literally - holding his hand.
Spencer didn't want to be alone and, if he didn't push her away, he wouldn't be. If he let her, she'd break herself trying to fix him, and he was ready to let it happen. That frightened him just like his uncontrolled temper did.
It hurt him to push her away, but it was better than hurting her.
Aria
Penelope was trotting through the lobby as I stepped off the elevator, stifling a yawn. At the ding, she looked over and instantly her tired face lit up in a smile. As she approached I gave her the best smile I could muster.
"Oh good, you're –" she paused at my side, peeked behind me into the elevator as the doors shut, and leaned back to ask, "is Reid with you?"
Pointedly, I looked around the totally empty lobby and raised my brows. "Yeah, Pen, I've got him stashed in my purse. Let me get him out for you."
She huffed and rolled her eyes, linking our arms and turning to pull me into the bullpen. All the desks were empty; the only movement came from the conference room we never seemed to get away from. Hotch and Morgan were by the window, clearly deep in discussion, and Emily was just settling at the table with JJ and Rossi.
On instinct, I glanced to Spencer's desk. "Why'd you think Spencer was with me?"
"I didn't, I was just hoping," she admitted, shaking her head with a sigh, the jingle of her earrings magnified in the quiet office. "I texted him like three times, and called twice, and he hasn't answered. We don't know where he is... You know what, I'm gonna go try him again. I'll meet you in there."
As she gave my arm a squeeze and bustled to her lair, concern took hold of me, a hand falling to the phone in my pocket. Almost immediately, I abandoned the thought of trying to call him. Why did I think he'd answer me? We had hardly spoken outside of the office; even on our last case, he'd said maybe ten words a day to me. He wasn't rude, he was just… resigned.
I hated it.
Though he insisted it had nothing to do with the drunk midnight call a few weeks ago, I was starting to think that wasn't quite true. When I'd woken up face down on Penny's couch, my dead phone under my cheek where I'd passed out on it, I'd instantly had a bad feeling. The last coherent memory I had of our girl's night was being upset that the handsome guy supposedly flirting with me wasn't Spencer, and then toying with the idea of texting him to try and get us talking again.
To my horror, I saw I'd made a nearly hour-long call to him and I remembered practically none of it. Save for a few mentions of flimflam and a mildly long-winded rant about Captain Jackalope and Miss A, the rest was a blur. It had taken all day – and the constant encouragement from Penny, Em, and JJ (read: borderline harassment with undertones of blackmail) to get me to call him.
Spencer had promised it wasn't anything bad. He'd been sweet on the phone, assuring I hadn't been a bother and he really hadn't minded my drunk chattiness at nearly 1am. When I tried to ask what we'd talked about, though, he'd simply said just the usual, and then diverted to asking how I was feeling before telling me he had a load of laundry to do and he'd see me Monday.
Since then, it was almost like he was trying to avoid me. It was hard to believe I hadn't done something to upset him, especially with how out-of-character he'd been lately. Being MIA was just another thing on the list of disconcerting actions of his I'd been observing.
He's fine. He's probably just stuck on the Metro or something, I reasoned, trying to push my worry out of my mind. Hotch gave me a tired smile as I came into the conference room. It was just past midnight, and we'd all left the building not five hours ago.
"How was your drive in?" he asked as I shuffled up to the coffee pot in the corner. It was thankfully already brewed, and Morgan passed me a mug as I slumped against his arm.
"Well, the good thing about coming into work at this godforsaken hour is I don't have to deal with the usual traffic," I admitted, quirking a smile at him as I poured my coffee. Morgan chuckled and gently nudged me up off him as he teased,
"There's lil miss positivity. Glad to see you're still shinin' at midnight, Sunshine."
"Barely," I countered, though I smiled a little wider just for him. Emily patted the open seat beside her and I instantly trudged over, plopping down and then slumping onto her. "I'm pretty sure my internal clock is completely broken at this point. Can't UnSubs respect normal working hours?"
"I heard it's a focal point of their next meeting," Rossi assured me; I narrowed my eyes at him and he hid his smirk behind his coffee mug. As Hotch sat down by Rossi and JJ, I could've sworn I saw him fight the beginnings of an amused lip-twitch. When I turned my sharp gaze to him, he spoke before I could.
"Do you happen to know where Reid is? Garcia told me she couldn't reach him."
When I shook my head, Hotch frowned just a hint. "No, sorry. Penelope said she's gonna try and call him again, though."
"Alright. JJ, let's get started. We'll just catch him up when he gets here."
She nodded and turned, bringing up a picture on the screen as she began, "just a few hours ago, there was a home explosion. Rod Norris, the homeowner, was D.O.A., and they're still working on ID'ing the remains of the second victim. Police believe it may be his 16-year-old daughter, Jordan."
"Alright, so deadly home explosions are bad, but not call in the FBI in the dead of night bad," Rossi pointed out, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. "Why are we being pulled in so fast?"
"It wasn't necessarily the explosion itself, but more of what came after," Hotch explained, nodding to JJ for the next slide. Two officers popped up on the screen, and all of us ah'd. "Deputy Lou Savage and Officer Byron Letts were gunned down just moments after arriving on scene."
"Gunned down? Nothing to do with the fire?" I clarified, not totally sure if I'd heard him right or if the lack of sleep was getting to me. JJ nodded and brought up a video onto the screen.
"Officer Letts shot this just before he was killed –"
The sounds of scurrying footsteps caught our attention and JJ paused the video as we all turned to the door. Relief bubbled through me and I couldn't help the smile that came out; Spencer was here! He came rushing up the ramp into the conference room, clutching his satchel to him as he sank down into the seat at my side.
"Sorry I'm late," he said quickly, dropping his bag as he tucked his hair behind his ears, eyes fixed on the folder in front of him as he instantly began reading to catch up to us. Rossi eyed him with a tired frown and replied,
"I hope she was worth it."
"I hope we get a name," Morgan added, elbowing Rossi playfully as he took his seat. My stomach sunk unexpectedly at the thought of Spencer being held up by someone instead of something.
Before I could get too caught up in my thoughts he told them,"Um, no, sorry. I was at the movies."
Rossi – clearly more grumpy than the rest of us – snarked out,"Oh really? Why don't you tell us what it was about?"
My scowl cut into him and he met it with one of his own. Spencer, the sweet, naïve genius he was, hadn't picked up on the sarcasm and began, "uh, I had to leave early, so I can't really –"
Rossi made a noise of exasperation and Spencer paused at the expression on his face. Like it was a reflex for him to do so, he instantly looked over to me for help. He'd used to do it all the time. Spencer Reid and social cues just didn't mix, and the rest of the team teased him for it. He knew I didn't judge him, so he'd started to rely on me to help him navigate the uncharted waters he found himself in so often.
With a glare at Rossi that promised pain if he kept harassing the scruffy doctor, I turned and flipped him to the right page in the case file and assured, "you're fine, Spencer. You haven't missed much."
He bobbed his head quickly, ducking down a bit and letting his hair fall forward to hide the embarrassment lighting up his cheeks. Rossi had the nerve to let out a pointed sigh and I turned back around.
"I know it's late, I know we're tired," Hotch interjected just as I'd taken a breath, ready to go off. Reluctantly, I bit back my snark when he caught my eye and reminded, "but we've got two dead cops and a small town that needs our help."
After a moment, Rossi relaxed back into his seat as he had been before and I just pressed my lip together, opting for silence so I didn't get myself in trouble. To move us along, JJ started the video up again for us. Our team watched in quiet horror as Officer Letts and then Sheriff Savage were shot, one after the other.
As the video ended and their photos came back up instead, Emily sighed and rubbed at her forehead. "Well, clearly, whoever did this used the bombing to set the officers up for an ambush."
"Now hold on, this says DHS already issued a terror alert for the border states," Morgan realized, looking up from the folder incredulously.
Spencer nodded and instantly explained, "It's a well-established terrorist tactic. First wave takes out civilians, then the second wave takes out first responders. It makes sense that'd be the first precaution to take."
"I've never heard of this place. I mean the militia, okay, that I could see," Morgan said, shaking his head and tapping the folder as he pressed, "but really? A terror attack in West Bune, Texas?"
"They're not exactly a tier-one target, but due to the timing and nature of the attack, DHS wanted to err on the side of caution," JJ continued. Before Morgan could bring up another point to argue, I asked the question that had popped into my head.
"With it being so close to the border, is it possible this could be traffickers sending a message?"
Hotch nodded and explained, "it's one of a few scenarios the locals have been putting together, and it's one we need to keep in mind."
"Well, whatever the reason, they gunned down two cops and blew up a teenage girl," Rossi reminded us, shutting his folder and sitting up, clearly ready to go. "What matters right now is stopping them. Until we do, no one in that town is safe."
As the team stood, stretched, and started to gather our things, Hotch paused in the doorway and looked to each one of us before saying, "we need to be sensitive with the locals, namely the other officers and the Sheriff. They've lost two of their own, they're anxious, they're scared, and they're going to want revenge."
Rossi and his lack of filter, of course, said what we were all thinking.
"Can you blame 'em?"
None of us had anything to say.
Already two hours into the flight, and I'd barely written half a page of my psych paper. After almost ten minutes of trying to figure out the word I wanted to use – and coming up empty – I finally admitted temporary defeat. My laptop got shut and dumped onto the empty seat in front of me as I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off a brewing headache. If I didn't get some caffeine soon, I'd be out until we hit Texas.
Nearly all the rest of the team was asleep like normal humans should've been. JJ and Emily had tried to keep themselves awake to pick up their game of sudoku (that they'd been playing for almost three months), but now they were slumped over onto each other at the table.
Morgan and Rossi hadn't even tried. They were snoring in tandem across from the girls before we even took off.
Hotch being awake and productive in the corner to my left was no surprise. I had a feeling he'd be up the whole flight, and ready to go the second we landed. He glanced at me when I stood, giving a fleeting half-smile before going back to the file in his hand.
Up until just now, I'd assumed Spencer had passed out on the couch. He was normally the one that beat out Morgan and Rossi on in-flight napping, but this time he was at the snack bar, finishing one cup of coffee as he waited for the pot to finish brewing for another. He didn't look at me as I took against the counter beside him, and my heart sank just a little.
I missed the little moments we'd stolen on nights like this, where it felt like we were the only two on the plane. We'd sat together at the end of the jet, our hushed whispers and stifled giggles filling our own little world with a warmth only Spencer could bring. Now, there was only a chilled silence between us.
I hated it.
"You're not tired?" I asked to try and get a conversation going. Instantly I internally cringed at the stupid question, only more so when Spencer just held up the cup of coffee as his answer. "No, yeah, I just – I meant like, you don't want to sleep? Like the others?"
"You and Hotch are awake," he countered quietly before taking a sip, not looking away from the percolating coffee across from us. Frustration at his dismissive reply wreathed around the despondent ache in my chest. The last few weeks, he'd just seemed quiet and withdrawn. Now, though, it was starting to feel like he wasn't even interested in holding a conversation with me.
In answer, I shrugged and looked up at him to tease, "well, I'm trying to do homework, and Hotch just doesn't require sleep. What's your excuse?"
I'd meant it playfully, but at the defensive frown that came over his face, I realized it hadn't come off that way. He looked down at me and asked curtly, "do I need one?"
"No, of-of course not," I said quickly, heart plunging into my stomach when he instantly looked away. When the coffee maker beeped, he pushed off the counter and grabbed the pot, pouring a full cup before turning to walk away. My hand shot out and I caught his arm.
He stopped, and I half expected him to shrug off my touch, but he simply looked back to me. The defensiveness was gone. For just a fleeting moment, a deep, forlorn sadness pooled in his eyes. I was so caught off guard all I could do was look up at him, my hand tightening around his arm.
"I'm sorry," I murmured, slowly pulling my hand off his arm to let him leave if he wanted to. "I didn't mean it like that."
"I know," he promised, his voice just as soft as mine. "I am tired. I just… don't want to sleep."
Though I wanted to ask him to elaborate, I could tell just admitting that little bit had taken a lot. So instead, I just nodded and offered, "I'm doing a paper on the differences between altruism and egoism for my Personality Psychology class. I'm always up for company and input if you wanna join me."
I'd expected the rejection of my offer, but it still stung a little when Spencer gave a small shake of his head and slipped past me. "I'm sorry, I'm not really up for that right now."
He was already on the couch, back to me, by time I managed a weak, "that's fine, I understand."
Spencer didn't acknowledge he'd heard me as he sipped his coffee, looking out the window to watch the dark skies. Heart in my stomach, tears pricking my eyes, I sat my empty mug back down and went quietly back to my own seat.
Kicking off my heels, I tucked my legs up to my chest and grabbed my jacket, curling up underneath it. Homework could wait; I wasn't up for much of anything now.
Spencer was definitely not himself today.
While Morgan and Emily were bickering about the best era of music, the backseat was thick with melancholy silence. Since we'd gotten into the SUV, Spencer had been hunched up against his door, satchel bundled in his arms, eyes trained on the Texas scenery. I made a few feeble attempts to get him talking; the first two, he met with a twitch of his lips that just barely passed as a smile. By the third, though, he didn't even look at me. After my fourth, with no response, I just fell into my own brooding silence.
Though he'd been off for close to a month now, the last couple of days it was like he was almost a completely different person. Even with him next to me in the backseat, it felt like he was miles away. I knew pulling into himself was his own way to deal with his demons. It was his natural defense from the inevitable nightmares and guilt and general heartache Chula Vista had brought us. I knew that, but it didn't make it any easier to watch.
More often than I wanted to admit, my periodic nightmares of Connor now had doses of Ryan Phillips begging us to save his life. And, if it was still haunting me this heavily with therapy, how hard was it hitting Spencer if he was facing this on his own?
He wouldn't have to do it alone if he'd say more than a few words to me, I sighed to myself, giving him one last forlorn glance as we pulled up to the scene. I'd have to table my gnawing concern for now; we had a case to focus on.
We regrouped with the rest of the team just as the Sheriff approached us. JJ stepped up and asked, "I take it you're Sheriff Hallum?"
"Yes ma'am," he confirmed, giving us a tip of his hat as we all gathered around him. JJ, in the middle of us, introduced,
"I'm Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone. This is the rest of my team: Agents Hotchner, Rossi, Dr. Reid, Prentiss, Morgan, and our intern Miss DiMaggio." At least Spencer managed a wave. I copied him as JJ sympathized, "we're so sorry for your loss. We're here to help you however we can."
"Thank you. Where do we start?" the Sheriff asked us, ready to cut the chatting and get right into it.
"The first victim, Rod Norris. What can you tell us about him?" Hotch asked. The Sheriff sighed and put his hands on his hips as he rattled off,
"Manager of the chemical plant over at Ibis. No arrests in ten years, not since his wife left him. Can't blame her for leavin', but it's a shame she left Jordan behind."
Emily hmm'd and asked him, "what can you tell us about Jordan?"
The Sheriff shrugged and said simple, "ah, she was a sweet girl. A bit slow, but very sweet."
"Slow?" I spoke up, tilting my head. In all the reports we'd gotten so far, no one had mentioned anything like that about her. "As in, she was mentally challenged?"
"Eh, not quite. Special Ed and all that stuff. Takes some talkin' to her to notice it. I think her mother leavin' took its toll."
Nodding in understanding, JJ told him, "that's good to know, Sheriff. Thank you. I'd like to gather your people back at the office so I can brief them all together, if that's alright."
"Sure, but I'm stayin' here."
"Of course. Thank you," she said, and as she skirted past us to collect the rest of the officers, Hotch turned to us.
"Prentiss, Rossi, Reid, I want you to examine the home, see what you can learn about the explosion." As the three of them nodded and split off from us, Hotch turned to the Sheriff and asked, "can you show us where Officer Letts and Deputy Savage were shot?"
The Sheriff gave a terse nod, lips pressed together, pushing back the pain that rose up on his face. Losing members of his force probably hurt as deeply as it would if I lost a member of our team. Just the thought alone was enough to make my stomach twist, and I pushed it aside as I hurried after Hotch, Morgan, and Sheriff Hallum.
As we approached the cordoned off sections of the yard, Morgan instantly started analyzing the scene.
"Hit pattern says they were fired on full auto. Tight grouping for it," he explained – for both mine and the Sheriff's benefit – as he waved his hand across the ground in front of us. "Single burst put them both down, which would take some skill and serious training to pull off. Whoever did this knew how to handle themselves around an automatic weapon."
Hotch nodded slowly as he took in what Morgan had said. After a couple moments of contemplation, he turned to me and prompted, "we would naturally assume the UnSub would've tried to leave a crime scene and ensure there aren't any witnesses. Letts lands here, still alive, Savage falls there dead: what does the UnSub do?"
Time to see if my advanced profiling class had been paying off. After going over his question and eyeing the scene a second time, I started, "they walk past Letts, and shoot Lou Savage in the face. They would've known he's already dead, but made the choice to leave Letts and focus the violence on Savage." I looked up to Hotch and told him gravely, "this wasn't some random terror strike. This was personal for whoever did this."
"They knew each other?" the Sheriff asked me doubtfully, hands on his hips as he eyed us all.
"Yes-" I started, and didn't even finish the word before Spencer practically materialized at my side to confirm,
"Enough to know Rod Norris would enter through the back door while smoking."
I barely kept my instinctive shriek of terror inside, hand flying to my chest as I whirled to squeak out, "Jesus, Spencer, a little notice next time!"
Hotch and Morgan both snorted at my reaction and I glared at them as Spencer murmured a quiet, "sorry, thought you heard me."
"Not at all," I assured him, getting a small smile out of the Sheriff now as I fought to bring my heartrate back to normal levels. Hotch – looking thoroughly amused at my brush with cardiac arrest – picked up what Spencer and I had been saying.
"Whoever did this had to know everyone involved in this. Not only did they know about Rod's smoking, they also knew Lou Savage was on duty, and he'd be the one to respond."
"So, what're we talkin' about here?"
"This wasn't terrorism, domestic or otherwise. Terrorists rarely know their victims, and if they do, it's almost never personally."
"You're gettin' all that because they knew Rod Norris was a smoker who used his back door?"
"They shot Deputy Savage in the face, at point blank range," I pointed out to him, and he furrowed his brow, looking down at me to ask,
"What, they weren't just bein' thorough?"
"No, sir. Letts was still alive, but instead of shooting him a second time, the UnSub walked past him to shoot Savage in the face when he was already dead," I told him, and the Sheriff still looked unconvinced so I continued, "with responders already on the way because of the explosion, that last shot was risky overkill."
"Overkill means rage. Rage means a close personal relationship," Spencer spoke up, stopping the Sheriff from voicing his continued doubts about what we were telling him. I glanced up to give him a small smile of thanks, but he didn't look to me like he normally did. I tried to ignore the ache in my chest.
"Sheriff, Rod Norris and Lou Savage were the specific targets of this attack," Morgan told him, pulling me back to the task at hand as he and Hotch came up to gather with us. "Can you think of anyone with a close, personal connection to both these men?"
I expected the usual no, no one comes to mind that we usually got with that question, but instead, the Sheriff made a noise of realization. "I – yeah. I mean, I didn't even think about him, because of the terror alert…"
"Think about who?" I pressed, and he let out a heavy sigh as he revealed,
"Owen Savage, Lou's son. He was dating Jordan Norris."
Reid, Morgan, Hotch, and I all looked up at one another in unison. The son of a cop, who'd know his dad's schedule, know personal details about Rod Norris, and probably have access to and knowledge of high caliber weapons?
If that didn't spell out suspect, I didn't know what did.
This time, I wasn't the only one who took note of Spencer's withdrawn demeanor. Hotch was driving and I'd taken the passenger seat to discuss the walkthrough I'd given at the scene, and now Morgan was trying to get Spencer to engage in a conversation.
It was going about as well as I expected.
"C'mon, kid. You're tellin' me you don't have a single fact to give about high-powered weapons?" At first Spencer didn't reply. Unlike me, though, Morgan didn't accept silence as an answer. He nudged Spencer's arm and nagged, "I know you know somethin'. Give me somethin'."
Stifling an agitated sigh, Spencer finally relented and said simply, "it's very rare to use a fully automatic weapon in a crime, and if it is, it's usually because it was a weapon of opportunity."
It wasn't the full-on Spencer Reid knowledge spiel, but hey, it was more than I'd been able to get out of him. Which, just kind of made me feel a little worse; I couldn't help thinking he was upset with me.
"Alright, there we go," Morgan encouraged, and pressed, "so, that means if it is Owen we're lookin' at, we need to confirm if Deputy Savage's guns are missing, right?"
This time, Spencer just mhmm'd and shifted a little closer to the door of the SUV. I'd been watching him in the rearview, and now I saw the concern on Morgan' face. He felt my gaze on him and when we met my eyes, we shared a troubled frown.
We'd just pulled up to the Savage house, though, so we'd have to let it go for now. At least I had Morgan on my side. Maybe he could help me get through to Spencer. As we climbed out, the Sheriff led up the walkway to the house, reporting, "My deputies didn't find Owen at home, and he ain't at school."
Welp, this wasn't looking any better for Owen's innocence.
"How long did you know Lou Savage?" Hotch asked as we filed into the house. Spencer instantly peeled off from us, and I shared another look with Morgan before we broke away too, examining the minimally decorated home.
"My whole life," Sheriff Hallum answered, the pain clear in his voice. As I skirted along the edge of the living room, I noticed him watching us as we worked. Clearly he wasn't too comfortable with us profiling a lifelong friend. To give him a little reprieve from all of us prying, I followed Hotch's lead and came to stand at the Sheriff's side instead.
"What about Deputy Savage's wife, Hope? How did she die?" I asked, pulling his attention off of Spencer and back onto the case at hand.
Sheriff Hallum sighed and lamented, "drunk driver in '02. Lou was in Afghanistan, so Owen lived with us until he got back."
"Semper Fi," Spencer commented from behind us. Hotch and I glanced back, surprised at hearing the borderline-snarky comment coming from the normally docile Dr. Reid. Come to think of it, I'd never heard him take that tone in any of the cases we'd worked this far. Heck, not even back at Quantico.
The Sheriff had turned to frown at him as well; thankfully, Morgan was on it. "How long was Lou in the Marines for?" he asked, giving me a chance to slip past Hotch and follow Spencer into the kitchen. He didn't look up as I approached.
"Everything alright?"
"Fine," he murmured dismissively, not even looking at me. Instead, he turned to focus his attention on the fridge like it was the most fascinating thing this side of the Mississippi. Yeah, because that was a totally convincing answer. I didn't get the chance to press him, though, because as soon as the Sheriff mentioned Lou being discharged to raise Owen, he'd turned back to the living room to ask bluntly,
"Is that why he resented him?"
The four of us all stared at Spencer, taken aback by his comment. Sheriff Hallum was the first to recover, giving an affronted scoff as he bit out, "pardon me?"
"Uh," I jumped in, coming to his side and subtly nudging him back as I placated, "did Lou blame his wife and son for ending his career in the Marines?"
"Lou was a good man."
"I believe it," I began, and suddenly Spencer was elbowing me back as he countered,
"A good man that doesn't have a single photo of his dead wife or only son anywhere in his entire house?"
Come on, man, work with me here! The Sheriff was coiled tight, ready to shove Spencer's accusation right back down his throat. At the look Hotch was giving our disgruntled doctor, he seemed to be on the same page as the Sheriff. Ever the professional, though, he simply soothed the situation by assuring,
"I know this is hard, and if we had more time, we would be more sensitive, but we don't."
Sheriff Hallum looked around at the rest of us as – thankfully – the indignation slid off his face. Hands resting heavily on his hips, he looked down and admitted, "Hope was the drunk driver. I didn't write it up that way, but it didn't matter. Her drinking was no secret in town."
"Everybody knew the truth before you had the chance to try and guard her and her family's dignity," I said gently, and his pained eyes flicked to me as he gave a quick nod. Uncle Randy had tried to do the same thing, after Jude's accident.
It had hurt enough losing my big brother; having to deal with the hate and the judgement from strangers was almost harder, in some ways. They didn't know Jude, they didn't know what he went through, how much he'd been trying to get sober… "you didn't want Lou and Owen having to shoulder the burden of Hope's mistakes, on top of losing her to her poor decisions."
"You get it," Sheriff Hallum agreed, bobbing his head as he cleared his throat. I gave him a supportive smile and Hotch even nodded in understanding. To segue past the heavy conversation, he motioned to the Sheriff's side as he asked,
"I take it that's Deputy Savage's gun safe. Do you know the combination?" When the Sheriff shook his head, Hotch continued, "We're concerned one of his guns was the murder weapon. I'll need your help trying to get this open. We can start with significant dates: birthdays, anniversaries –"
"Where's Owen's room?" Spencer cut in with a clipped tone. Seriously, was this guy gunning for a death wish before noon? He was already toeing a dangerous line with Hotch. I mean, the guy had been up for at least twenty-four hours now, and he already had minimal patience when he was fully rested. Sure enough, I could see the thinly veiled irritation on Hotch's face. He pressed his lips together in a tight line as he let out a slow breath, forcing back the sharp words I knew he wanted to say.
Sheriff Hallum eyed Spencer, and after a moment of deliberation, he motioned down the hall behind him. Hotch instantly caught my eye, signaling for me to go with him. At the look on his face, I figured it was safe to assume he was hoping I'd be able to fix whatever was clearly bugging Spencer.
Something told me he was gonna be harder to crack than that gun safe.
Spencer had his back to me, rifling through Owen's desk; I knew he heard my heels on the hardwood, but he didn't look up. Instead of focusing on the fact I was being blatantly ignored, I turned my attention to Owen's room.
It surprisingly seemed to fit the kid pretty well – curtains drawn and an overall messy atmosphere, with grunge-esque décor sprinkled about haphazardly. The only posters he had up were a handful of different anti-authority themes and a few heavy metal bands. The rest were pictures of Johnny Cash and other mysterious miscellaneous musicians.
"Seems like he's pretty set on a 'disrespect the law' motif," I started, hoping to at least get a chuckle out of Spencer. All he gave was a grunt of acknowledgement that I'd spoken. Frustration welled inside me and I pushed it aside; getting annoyed wouldn't solve anything. Instead, I came a little closer and asked, "hey, you sure everything's okay?"
"I told you it was," Spencer replied, nearly monotone, not even looking my direction. Yeah, once again, super convincing. Pursing my lips and swallowing down the mild sting that came with his dismissive attitude, I switched the subject.
"Do you want me to try the computer?"
For his answer, Spencer just shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. "If you want. It won't do you any good, I'm sure it's password protected."
"Smart move if your dad's a Marine-turned-Deputy, I'd think," I commented, coming up beside him now to look up at his face. All he did was hmmm in response before turning sharply and putting his back to me, ending our annoyingly brief discussion.
Alright, this was more than Chula Vista. It had to be the drunk call. He insisted he hadn't minded, but why else would he be essentially blowing me off, giving me an attitude? He hadn't let his sullen attitude affect him like this on a case before. Something had changed, and the only thing that had happened recently was that call. What else could it be? It'd sure be great to ask him if I could get a decent response, I sighed to myself. Before I could linger on that too much, Morgan joined us in the room to announce,
"Gun safe's empty."
"Great," I sighed; more unsettling news. Spencer shrugged and said offhandedly,
"That's a surprise."
Yeah, just fine my ass. The Spencer Reid I knew didn't make insensitive quips or get smart with local law enforcement. Morgan was frowning with me, but like I had, he bit back his comment as he joined us at the desk.
He nodded to a picture taped to the wall and pointed out, "that's James Dean's Porsche, but I don't see any pics of James Dean. I don't think that's a good sign."
"Especially when your mom died in a car accident," I agreed, and before I could finish my thought Spencer added,
"Still haven't found the father of the year award."
With that, he brushed past Morgan and I to cross to Owen's closet. We both turned to stare after him, and then met each other's bewildered look. Morgan's brows raised and he urgently flicked his eyes in Spencer's direction.
Do something!
My own widened and I gave him a baffled shrug. What exactly am I supposed to do?!
He nodded incessantly to Spencer while giving me an unblinking, pointed stare. He didn't care what, but we needed to do something. I had a feeling our brooding doctor still wasn't willing to give me an honest answer about how he was feeling, so instead I went for distracting him and getting him into the case. We'd just fall into profiling like the three of us always did, and keep things calm until he was ready to talk.
I nodded to Owen's desk and told him, "Spencer thinks he's got a password on his computer. It's possible that it's just to keep his dad from digging –"
"Well, that's assuming he cares enough about his son to even snoop."
Okay, I tried, and clearly he wasn't in the mood to listen to me. No surprise there. It was time to tag out. When I turned, Morgan flicked his aggressive brows up and then glanced at Spencer; I shook my head and shifted back to study the contents on the dresser. He cleared his throat at me and I waved a hand of frustration in Spencer's direction. You're turn. Morgan sighed and stepped up.
"Alright, Reid. Check yourself." I peeked over their direction in time to see Spencer turn and give a flippant glance as Morgan elaborated, "that Sheriff out there wanted to take your head off, and if Sunshine hadn't stepped in, I think Hotch might've let him."
Spencer just shrugged, pulling an oh well face as his answer before he turned to study the closet. Morgan looked back at me to give a bewildered now what the hell do we do?! stare as I just shook my head, equally as lost. He knew Spencer better than I did, and if he had no idea what was going on with him, how was I supposed to know!?
"All his clothes are black," I finally offered up to the boys, tugging a handful of pants and shorts out to hold them up. Spencer just mumbled same here; I tried to keep the frown off my face as I motioned to all the photos and posters plastered around us. "Owen's pretty much tacked up his own profile for us, at least. I'm getting the feeling identifies pretty strongly as being a misunderstood loner –"
"What? Those don't mean anything," Spencer instantly argued, turning to finally look at me for what felt like the first time all day. And now, it seemed I'd somehow struck a nerve. "Judging him based on a few photos?"
Well, I mean, that was almost literally our job. "It's not just the pictures –"
"You grew up liking theatre and music, so what? You had posters of Cats and Fiddler on the Roof all over your room? Ticket stubs and playbills up on display –"
"Yeah, actually, I did on my half of the room," I said, cutting him off like he had with me as I crossed my arms over my chest. I'd never had Spencer talk to me like that, and I really didn't like it. "You left out my favorite, but it sounds like you've got the picture. Just like we have a picture on Owen based on the display of his general interests in a space he's made into a reflection of himself."
Both men around me were decidedly quiet. There was a flicker of guilt in Spencer's eyes; he studied me a second before asking simply, "what's your favorite?"
"Phantom of the Opera," I said tersely, turning away and pretending to be busy with the dresser still. Morgan cleared his throat and broke the tense silence as he asked me,
"Alright, Sunshine, so we've got a misunderstood loner. You think he'd be acting out of spite with all this?"
Pushing aside the irritation and hurt bubbling inside of me, I took a breath to calm myself and looked around the room. Slowly, I shook my head and looked back to Morgan. "No. I think Owen's way past just rebelling against his dad for the sake of rebelling. I think he's genuinely hurting, and he doesn't know how to handle his pain."
"I'd say painting his mirrors black confirms your theory," Spencer agreed, getting Morgan and I to look in his direction. He pushed the closet door open all the way to reveal both it and the mirror were totally painted over. Well, it looked like I was right, then.
As I turned back towards the dresser, I caught Spencer staring at me. When we locked eyes, his face softened; the irritation was completely gone. It looked like he genuinely did regret his brusque attitude, and I offered up a small smile.
Before I could say anything to him, though, a furious voice shouted, "don't try to stop me! I need to get by!"
We all shared a puzzled glance before scrambling out of Owen's room. Hotch and Sheriff Hallum were already on the lawn as we crowded onto the porch. Another officer was trying to hold back a seething young woman snarling, "let me by, let me by! Don't you try and stop me, let me by!"
The woman broke free of the officer's hold and surged for us as Sheriff Hallum held out a hand and begged, "Sarah, please –"
"Is it true?"
"Sarah –"
"If it's true, you tell me!" she demanded, getting into the Sheriff's face, tears in her eyes as she spat, "did Lou's freak son shoot Byron!?"
Hotch retreated up the stairs to stand with us, pausing at my side as I murmured, "Sheriff Letts' wife?"
He gave me a small nod as Sheriff Hallum said gently,
"Go home to your kids, Sarah. They need you –"
"My children need their daddy," she hissed; her burning eyes flicked up to take in the four of us and she shook her head. "You send them home. You don't need 'em! You know what you need to do. You find that little son of a bitch. You find him, and you do what's right, do what my husband deserves."
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked away, past a crowd of the neighbors that had started to gather as soon as we'd arrived. They weren't watching her; they were watching us. By the looks on their faces, they didn't seem as relieved to have us helping as the Sheriff did.
"Why do I get the feeling she's not gonna be the only one with that sentiment?" Morgan sighed; I made a noise of agreement as Hotch pressed his lips together and turned to look at the three of us.
"I think you're right. Morgan, stay here with the Sheriff and work the rest of the house, see what you can find. Reid, Aria, we're going to the high school to talk with Owen's teachers and friends. We need a profile as soon as possible to figure out what his next move will be."
Morgan nodded, and as Spencer followed Hotch off the porch, Morgan turned me and rested a hand on my arm to hold me back. "Hey, Sunshine. Whatever's goin' on with our resident pretty boy, it ain't personal, alright?"
With a nod, I spared a look at Spencer as he followed Hotch away and said simply, "I know. He's just having an off day."
"Exactly," Morgan agreed. As we stepped apart, he paused and added, "keep an eye on him for me, alright? I think he could use someone in his corner right now, whatever he's got goin' on."
Despite the lingering hurt from Spencer's attitude, I couldn't help the small smile I gave. Morgan caught it and grinned, throwing me a wink as I nodded and promised, "yeah, I will. Don't worry."
Things weren't looking good at the moment.
I mean, not that they had been before, but now the balance of the case had fully shifted over to decidedly not good.
In the time it'd taken us to get to the high school, Owen had made another kill. His car had been found out by the interstate, right next to victim number five. On top of that, Rossi had just called to tell us the second body burned in the explosion wasn't Jordan. She was alive, and possibly an accomplice to Owen.
We were running out of the already-short time we had to figure this kid out, and the pressure had just tripled.
"As their counselor, what can you tell us about Jordan and Owen?" Hotch asked Mr. Barter as we made our way through the school. Emily and JJ had gone to interview Jordan's friends as we took on the task of figuring out her UnSub of a boyfriend.
"Not much," Mr. Barter sighed, shaking his head. "They started dating last year when Owen moved to Special Ed."
I picked up the pace to reach Mr. Barter's side (admittedly having to jog just a bit to do so) and asked in surprise, "they moved him Junior year? That's a little late to do that."
"Well, yes, if he'd been put there for academic reasons."
"What other reason would there have been to move him to a special education classroom?" I asked in disbelief, admittedly a little taken aback at the thought. Mr. Barter shrugged and said,
"Well, a bad attitude, lack of effort. Owen applied himself in some classes, and he did very well, but that didn't last."
Though I had more to say on that subject, I kept my mouth shut. It wasn't uncommon for smaller schools like this one to lump together the students they deemed a problem. Oftentimes, kids that struggled in a normal classroom were just dumped into special education classrooms because the mainstream teachers didn't have the time or patience to handle them.
It was a sore spot for me, but the last thing we needed was me going off the rails. Spencer was still decidedly moody, as had become clear in yet another painfully quiet car ride, and Hotch was already at the very edge of his thin patience. As Spencer skirted ahead to hold the door open to the academic office, I caught the look on his face. He looked as indignant as I felt, and I had a feeling he wasn't gonna be regulating his opinions.
Fantastic.
"The problem wasn't lack of effort or a bad attitude," he began as soon as we were all inside. He flipped open the folder of Owen's transcripts and ranted, "the A's in Math and Science tell he's a gifted student. The D's in English in history, that tells us he had difficulty reading. The F in Geometry, that-that indicates a severe problem with spatial relations. That's further confirmed by his atrocious, illegible handwriting."
Mr. Barter gave him a so, what? stare; Spencer clenched his jaw. Hotch spoke before Spencer could snap, saying simply, "all of that is consistent with a brilliant but severely learning-disabled student."
"Yeah, but his standardized tests didn't support that kind of intelligence," Mr. Barter scoffed, and now it was my turn. Admittedly, his biased opinions on Owen were getting under my skin.
"Standardized testing isn't really anything to base a single student's intelligence on, because not all students test the same," I explained, keeping my tone professional so I didn't set off any of the irritable men around me. "A brilliant student with ADHD may know all the answers, but under the pressure of a testing environment – or even the wording of certain questions – they could miss every single one."
Spencer picked up instantly where I was going and finished for me, "a spatial relations handicap affects your hand-eye coordination. Owen couldn't fill in the answer bubble any easier than he could… than he could hit a baseball."
The hesitation in Spencer's voice caught my attention, and I looked up at him curiously. There was a quiet, hidden pain laced in his words and for a moment, I wondered if this wasn't just about Owen.
"Well, he did stay away from sports," Mr. Barter agreed, shaking his head. When we looked at him, he added, "sports was a sore spot with his father. I mean, he joined the wrestling team Freshman year just to appease his old man, but uh, that didn't work out."
The ring of the telephone cut into the conversation, and he held up a finger to excuse himself. As soon as he was away, Spencer turned and began to pace away from us. Hotch was reading through Owen's transcripts now, so I turned and took a few steps after him.
"What're you thinking?" I asked, honestly a little nervous about trying to talk with him. It seemed like every time I tried, he snapped at me. With how wound up he was with this… Spencer huffed and turned on his heel to come up to me again.
"He was probably the smartest kid in class, he just couldn't prove it," he began, and then that same quiet pain was back in his eyes. He lowered his voice a bit and told me, "being the smartest kid in class is like being the only kid in class, and he missed all of it."
This definitely wasn't just about Owen. I gave him an understanding smile and nodded as I agreed, "he had to feel pretty out of place, especially when he got sent to the special education classroom –"
"There was no excuse to treat him like that," Spencer cut in, an edge to his voice. Did he forget I was on his side here?
"Yeah, I know," I hedged, and reminded him gently, "but, schools like this can't meet the specialized needs of every student –"
Great, there was that spark of irritation. I'd accidentally set him off again and I braced as Spencer leaned closer to me.
"Aria, he gives it everything he's got, over and over and over again, and continues to fail because of something he can't control," he seethed, his words sharp with his own pain. I tried to cut in and he pressed indignantly, "and the whole time, the whole time they tell him it's his fault. I mean, it makes sense –"
"What?" I stopped him, giving a bewildered look. For the first time since I'd met him, Spencer was wrong. "No, it doesn't. Not at all, not on its own –"
"He was frustrated. He felt invisible, and trapped, and abandoned by the teachers that should've been there to help him instead of hurt him! What's there to –"
It felt wrong on a lot of levels to correct the man with three PhD's, but I shook my head again and reminded him, "Spencer, an undiagnosed learning disability doesn't lead to this kind of violence –"
"But it did –"
"No, it didn't! Owen isn't doing all this because the school didn't think he was smart. There's more to it, and you know it."
"So you're saying the school had the right to let him down like they did? To let him think he was a weird, stupid little freak?"
"I –" his words were so harsh and unexpected it took me a second to confirm I'd heard him right. "What? No, that's not at all what I'm –"
The ringing of Hotch's phone cut into our hushed argument and we both looked back as Hotch answered, "Morgan, you found something?... Alright, hold on. I'll have you work with Aria for this."
Taking my cue (and the save from the argument with Spencer) I scampered forward and took the phone he held out to me. "Hey, Mr. Clean. What's up?"
"You think you can get to a computer, y'little gremlin?" Morgan chuckled, getting a smile out of me. I turned to Mr. Barter and motioned to the one on his desk.
"Mind if we borrow this for a few minutes?" When he shook his head, I took that as an invitation and settled in the chair. "Alright. Tell me what to do."
It took almost ten minutes – with the poor connection on my end, and the ancient computer on his – but finally, he managed to send us an MPEG titled MOTIVE. That didn't bode well. As I hung up, the guys gathered behind me and Hotch nodded at me to start the video. Owen stood in the school showers, a towel wrapped around his waist, looking nervous and uneasy as he looked to someone just off camera.
Instantly I dropped my eyes to the keyboard. I knew what this was, and I didn't want to watch.
"Guys, I'm not so sure I can do this –"
"It's just us. It's not like you don't masturbate at home, right?"
"No I-I do it, man. I just, I can't do it while you're watchin' me."
The desperation in Owen's voice broke my heart. He was trying so hard to fit in with the team, and they were tricking him into embarrassing himself.
"He didn't know he was being filmed," Spencer murmured, making my heart sink even more. MOTIVE made a lot more sense now.
"You wanna be on the team? You gotta do it. We all did it."
"Okay, I'll try –"
I reached out and hit pause, still not looking at the video; no one argued with my decision. We didn't need to see any more. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach sat heavily inside me, actually making me a little nauseous. Owen had to have been so embarrassed and hurt when he'd realized it was all a trick…
"Did Owen tell you about this?" Spencer asked, fury sharp in his voice. Mr. Barter sighed and shook his head.
"He didn't have to. It was posted on the school's social networking site, but we pulled it down immediately."
"Once it's on the internet, it's out there forever, though," I lamented, folding my arms over my chest as the ache inside me grew. "Owen knew that. He knew there was no way to get rid of it."
Hotch had the same heavy look on his face. Even though the outcome wasn't right, Owen's motivation behind what he was doing was understandable. "Did he tell his father about this?"
"Not at first. But when Owen quit the wrestling team, his father confronted him," Mr. Barter explained, shaking his head. "I mean, he blamed Owen for the whole thing."
"And he'd only joined the team to get his father's approval," Spencer murmured.
My chest gave another painful squeeze and I tightened my arms around myself, saying softly, "that had to be devastating to Owen. Even his own father didn't stand up for him."
"How were these boys punished?" Hotch asked, and at the look on Mr. Barter's face, I knew we weren't gonna like where this was going. Spencer was already tense, looking ready to snap at any second. This wasn't gonna end well.
"Owen identified them, but on film, all we have is their voices," Mr. Barter began, and at Spencer's (justified) scoff he argued, "I mean, even if they'd admitted involvement, all they'd need to say is Owen didn't have to do it –"
"He didn't know he was being filmed!" Spencer said incredulously, and Mr. Barter turned to scowl at him. He was defensive; he knew they'd let Owen down, but he wouldn't admit it. Especially not to the people who were essentially accusing him of doing so.
"Look, it's his word against theirs! Parents will get involved, the school board, lawyers… I mean, cyber bullying is a hot issue right now," he tried to defend, and I stepped up to Spencer's side.
When Mr. Barter looked at me, I pointed out, "and this is why. Kids know they can get away with it. Heck, they already do with bullying in person, and it's so much easier to stay anonymous online. They knew they wouldn't have to face repercussions because no one wanted to try and hold them accountable –"
"Of course not! We get ourselves that involved in somethin' like that, and the whole thing would wind up on 60 Minutes. How's that gonna help Owen?"
"What did you tell him?" Hotch cut in before I could keep going. Probably a good idea, because I was running out of polite ways to say he and the school had messed up. In response, Mr. Barter rattled off the worst advice to give a wounded, desolate kid like Owen:
"I told him that dealin' with bullies is part of growing up."
Spencer scoffed and bit out, "yeah, sounds familiar."
Mr. Barter turned fully to glare up at Spencer as he tried to explain, "look, boys have a way of sortin' these things out for themselves –"
"Yeah, they sure do," Spencer agreed with a humorless chuckle; oh god. Before I could stop him, he smiled and nodded out the window. "Right now, Owen's out there sorting it out with an assault rifle –"
"Reid," Hotch cut in sharply. Spencer pressed his lips together, throwing Hotch a heated glare before dropping the folder to the floor and spinning on his heel, stalking out of the office. As the door slammed shut behind him, I knelt and scooped up the papers as Hotch said quietly,
"I apologize. It's just that we've heard those phrases before when we interview school shooters."
Hotch caught my eye past Mr. Barter's arm and then glanced behind me. Again, he wanted me to try and get a handle on Spencer. Honestly, I didn't want to confront him. He'd already gotten snippy with me earlier, and now he was in an even worse mood.
But clearly something was wrong, and Morgan was right: he needed someone in his corner. I sat the file aside and murmured excuse me as I hurried out after Spencer. It took me a second to spot him; he was halfway down the hall on a bench, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands.
He didn't look over as I sat down at his side. His words from just now came back to me. Sounds familiar. I went back over what Spencer had summarized about Owen: brilliant, struggles with spatial relations reflected in his struggle with sports and awful handwriting… he saw himself in Owen. He'd never mentioned it before, but I was willing to bet he'd been bullied too. The anger he felt now was in response to not only how Owen had been treated, but how he had been as well.
"I'm sorry," I said softly, studying him as his brows pinched together in question. His eyes slid to the side, but he didn't turn to face me.
"For what? You didn't do anything," he tried to dismiss, looking ahead again. I turned to face him, my leg resting against his own. He tensed but didn't pull away. Well, so far, so good.
"No, but I know why you can empathize with Owen so well," I said, softening my voice a little more as I told him, "I'm sorry that you were bullied. I know how hard that is to deal with, and for someone as smart as you it had to be really isolating. You shouldn't have had to go through that."
Really, at this point, I had no idea what to expect for his reaction. Part of me had been hoping he'd soften up a bit like he did on the jet, or earlier at the Savage house after he'd snapped at me, but my words just seemed to strike a nerve and he let out a bitter laugh and said sarcastically,
"Yeah, I'm sure you know all about it, Aria. Thanks."
Lashing out is just his defense mechanism, I told myself before I let the tone of his words cut too deep. It's a sensitive subject and he's already upset about it. It's not personal.
"I do, Spencer, and I know how awful it can get. It's even worse when the people that are supposed to protect you just sit back and let it happen." He didn't respond, still didn't look at me, and I bit back a sigh of frustration. I'd just keep going then. "High school really sucked as it was, and being bullied just made it even harder –"
He let out another hollow laugh and finally turned to me; I wish he hadn't. There was the same pain from last night in his eyes, but the sadness was replaced with a deep, dark cynicism that burned straight to my core and took my breath away.
"You were bullied?" he scoffed; I was at a loss for what to say, so I just managed a hesitant nod. Spencer shook his head and said bitterly, "beautiful girls don't get bullied, they are the bullies."
My entire body short-circuited, and I stared at Spencer in total surprise. He realized what he'd said, and he snapped his mouth shut, turning and scooting away from me so fast he almost fell off the bench.
Had… did he just call me beautiful?
Wait – was he insinuating I was a bully? But, he'd said beautiful – but he'd just invalidated me and called me a bully. Except he'd called me beautiful – okay, Aria, focus! Whether or not he'd just complimented me (the butterflies in my stomach did another round of somersaults) he'd also just insulted me and invalidated my own experiences with being bullied.
He's just hurt. He's having a bad day, and his emotions are getting the best of him, I reminded myself. He just needs someone in his corner.
Taking a chance – and tabling what he'd just said for me to overanalyze later – I scooted closer to him once again. When he didn't move away, tentatively settled a hand on his knee. "I know you keep insisting you're okay, but… if something's wrong, we're friends. You can talk to me."
I knew he remembered that was exactly what he'd said to me when he'd been trying to get me to open up about Connor. When Spencer turned back to me, I could see his defensive anger fizzling out. There was regret, and there was also that same sadness he was trying so hard to push away.
He opened his mouth, ready to speak, when Hotch called down the hall, "Aria, Reid, we need to go. Now."
As was the theme of the day, it sounded like things had managed to get even worse somehow. Before we stood, I gave Spencer's knee a gentle squeeze. The smile he offered was barely more than a tiny upturn of his lips, but it was genuine. I'd take it.
As soon as we were close to Hotch, he turned and led us down the hall at a pace so brisk I had to nearly jog to keep up. Something had happened.
"What's going on?" I asked him as we burst out the front doors, heading for the parking lot. Hotch sighed and spared a glance back at me, a troubled frown on his face.
"Owen uploaded a video to the school's social media site. He killed the three boys that took the video of him. We're ready to give the profile."
Hostility and resistance wasn't the reaction we'd been expecting when we gathered the officers for the profile. Twice, JJ had tried to start us off, and the officers around us had essentially heckled her until she stopped talking. After the third try, she snapped,
"Once you've heard the profile, you'll understand -"
"We're wasting time! Owen is still here, and we should be knocking on doors, not listenin' to you guys talk about his past an' whatnot!" Deputy Lawford argued, throwing a hand up in exasperation; the other officers and Sheriff Hallum made noises of agreement.
"That's not a good idea," Hotch interjected. He was just as fed up as the rest of us were, but he was still fighting to keep the peace and keep us all on the same page. Sheriff Hallum met Hotch's stare and crossed his arms, challenging,
"No? Why is that, huh?"
"Because Owen's watching us. He's monitoring the news, keeping tabs on what we're finding out," Rossi explained, and when the Sheriff went to argue, Spencer straightened. Oh god, not another outburst.
Before he could start, I interjected, "right now he thinks you think he's gone. He feels safe. If we start knocking on doors, though, he's gonna know that he's not. He's gonna feel trapped."
"Why the hell should we care about this little bastard's feelings?" The Sheriff sneered at me, and this time it was JJ that stepped up and defended,
"Alright, we're here to help you bring in Owen Savage with minimum loss of life. The profile tells you the best way to do that. Can you please hear us out?"
There was a quiet grumbling from the other officers, but finally the Sheriff gave a stiff nod and sat back.
Hotch took the lead, revealing the decision we'd come to on the conference call with everyone on our way back from the school. "Owen Savage fits the profile of a type of school shooter known as an injustice collector. He's trying to avenge perceived wrongs -"
"If he's a school shooter, why hasn't he hit the school yet?" the Sheriff argued; well, at least he'd let Hotch get out a full sentence before he felt the need to challenge us. Emily stepped up to his side and explained,
"Jordan. Most of these guys are so angry and hopeless, they just want to kill as many people as possible and commit suicide. Jordan's giving him a reason to live."
"Otherwise, he's a textbook case," I picked up, keeping the Sheriff from honing in on her. If we just kept talking, he couldn't stop all of us, right? "Injustice collectors often have a skewed or distorted interpretation of events that happen to them. In Owen's case, he -"
"His life was one torment after another," Spencer cut in, and I almost let out the groan that rose up; I could feel Hotch clenching his jaw. I murmured a quick Spencer to try and get him to stop, but if he heard me, he didn't care. "His teachers gave up on him, his classmates bullied him, and his father blamed him while giving him access to guns. Given these conditions, you're actually quite fortunate."
The silence that settled after he spoke was deafening. Everyone took a collective breath and we were all frozen, waiting to see what would happen. The officers were staring Spencer down like they were really considering jumping him in the middle of the station. I was pretty sure most of them were on board with the idea.
My hand rested on his arm and he took just a heartbeat to glance at me just like he'd done at Quantico, after Rossi got short with him. I gave a small, wide-eyed shake of my head. Let it go, I urged silently as Deputy Lawford growled,
"It sounds like you're saying the victims deserved this."
"We're not," I assured him quickly, again trying to diffuse the bomb Spencer had just tossed out. The hand on his arm gave a gentle squeeze, trying to soothe him (and beg him to keep quiet) as best I could. "Nobody deserves this –"
"But you could have prevented it."
Well, bomb detonated. The Sheriff recoiled like Spencer had slapped him, and Hotch's last straw broke. Without even looking at him, Hotch started for one of the offices as he growled, "Reid, can I talk to you?"
As the two of them disappeared into the office and shut the door, JJ jumped right on damage control. "I'm so sorry. Cases like this are hard for everyone, and sometimes our emotions get the better of us."
"You're supposed to be professionals," Sheriff Hallum snapped at her, motioning for the rest of the officers to disperse. They looked as wounded as the Sheriff had. Even though Spencer had a point with what he'd said, putting the blame on them after all they'd lost in the last twenty-four hours didn't help anything.
"You're right, but we're human too, just the same as you," Rossi tagged in. "What he said was out of line, and we're sorry. Let's regroup, and I can go over some of the other details with you, alright?"
Thankfully, the Sheriff took his offer, and as Rossi all but herded him as far from our corner as they could get, Emily and JJ turned to me. Instantly I held up my hands and defended,
"I have no idea what's going on with him. He's been like this all day."
"Morgan said he got an attitude with the Sheriff earlier, but I mean…" Emily let out a breath and shook her head. "Attitude for Reid usually means a sassy nose twitch or some harmless info-dumping."
"Not blaming the murders on the police, to their face, in the middle of their station," JJ agreed, running a hand down her face. She looked at me and asked, "has he said anything to you?"
When I shook my head, I shuffled a little closer to the both of them and said quietly, "he's been off for a while, but this last week he's really just been… he hasn't been himself. Are you guys sure you don't remember me saying anything bad when I called him last weekend?"
"I don't even remember most of the weekend," Emily sighed, giving me an apologetic grimace. We both turned to JJ, and she shook her head.
"No, nothing. I mean, I just really heard the beginning, but Spence told you he didn't mind you calling, and you two went off into your own little world. You were laughing loud enough to wake us up, and it didn't sound like a bad call from our end."
At the face I pulled, Emily asked in surprise, "you don't think his attitude is because of a drunk call, do you?" at the look I gave her, she rested a hand on my shoulder. "I really don't think it is. Reid… he's dealt with a lot in the last year. I think, after Chula Vista, he's been going nonstop and hasn't taken time to decompress."
"I think so too. And I want to help him," I sighed, shaking my head as I rubbed my forehead to try and push back the headache that had been creeping up all day. "I just wish he'd quit lashing out –"
A door opening behind us cut me off and we all turned, waiting to see what bomb would drop next. Hotch came stalking out, his face stoic but his dark eyes sparking with irritation. He instantly headed across the room towards the Sheriff, probably to help Rossi fix what had just happened.
When Spencer didn't come out of the office, my heart sank a little. Everything else aside, getting past all his snark and attitude today, he was hurting. And, now he'd gotten chewed out by a very angry Hotch. That'd make any bad day he was having even worse. I was backing towards the office before I even realized it.
"I'm gonna…" I trailed off, honestly not sure what I was gonna do. Emily and JJ understood, though. They both gave me small smiles of encouragement as I took a breath and turned to scurry to the office.
Spencer had his back to me, arms folded tight over his chest, shoulders hunched and body rigid with tension. The click of the door shutting drew his attention and he turned, studying me warily as I slowly approached.
"If you just came in here to try and make me feel better, you can leave," he told me as he turned away again. Exasperation rose up instantly and I fought to keep my head – and my temper – level.
"I didn't, actually," I started; he scoffed before I'd even finished speaking. My own irritation began to bubble to the surface. "I'm trying to figure out what's going on with you. So far, you've squared off with the Sheriff twice, you essentially told the school counselor he sucks at his job –"
"Well, he does."
Okay, he had a point. "You're not wrong. Regardless, this isn't like you. You know that attacking the locals isn't what we need right now. They're already worked up enough as it is and going after them won't get us anywhere."
"Are you saying I'm bad at my job?" he asked incredulously, turning to me to give me a surprisingly furious glare. Man, and Aubrianna thought I got combative when I was feeling attacked. Turns out it was just another thing Spencer excelled at.
"No. Quit putting words in my mouth, Spencer," I sighed, trying to hold onto the few scraps of patience I had left. "I'm saying that attacking the Sheriff and Mr. Barter wasn't the right way to –"
"I'm starting to feel like I'm being held accountable for not doing my job," he said bitterly. I mean, that's kind of what it was boiling down to. When I didn't say anything, he pressed, "so why can't they be held to the same standard? Isn't that a little hypocritical?"
"Alright, let's take a step back," I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose and taking a deep breath. "We're not gonna get anywhere if you keep attacking me. We're on the same side here –"
"Really? We are? Because it sure didn't seem like that at the school, and you definitely weren't on my side just now."
Realization clicked and I let out a heavy sigh; he hadn't been looking at me for a social cue. He'd been looking at me to back him up, and instead I'd shaken my head and tried to take back what he'd said. I really didn't know what side that put me on in his mind, but I knew it wasn't his.
"Look, I support what you're saying, just not the way you're saying it," I insisted. He pressed his lips together, a simple way of insisting he wasn't buying it. "This shouldn't be about taking sides, okay? Regardless of who you think I'm supporting, I'm still -"
"You're missing the point, Aria! It-it's not even about all of that," he said incredulously, and I gave him a purely bewildered look. Didn't he just say it was? "It's – you're invalidating Owen's trauma and !"
"What? When did I ever put blame on Owen –"
"Injustice collectors often have a skewed or distorted interpretation of events that happen to them," he threw back. "You basically just said that he was exaggerating what he went through, that his experiences weren't valid!"
"If you'd ever let me finish a sentence, you would've heard what I was trying to say, Spencer!" I threw back at him, throwing my hands up in exasperation. He pointedly pressed his lips together and motioned for me to keep talking. "I was trying to say that in Owen's case, his perceived injustices are valid, but –"
"But. There's always a but -"
"See? I can't even get an entire thought out before you're jumping to conclusions and making assumptions!"
"I'm not making assumptions, I'm making observations," he bickered; before I could even start the those are pretty close to the same damn thing speech, he had the audacity to say, "and right now, all I'm seeing is that you're no better than the rest of the people in this town."
My mouth opened, but nothing came out. For several moments I stared up at him, still heated, and asked, "what are you saying, Spencer?"
"You're taking away the justification of his pain. Despite what he's doing because of it, his suffering is real, and what he went through at the hands of those kids, his dad, this town, is real. You're supposed to be the empathetic one that can understand someone troubled and broken like Owen, but you're just as bad as the others that bullied him."
"You don't mean that."
"Yeah, I think I do," he said just as quietly.
My face fell before I could try and hide the hurt. The honesty in those five words hit me harder than anything else he'd said. As he turned to leave I reached out, grabbing his sweater as I tried, "Spencer, wait -"
He pulled away from my reach and when he looked back at me, there were tears in his eyes. My hand pulled back slowly, curling to my chest as I looked up at him, my own tears welling. As he pulled open the door he said bitterly, "you're no different than Alexa Lisbon."
"Who's she?" I whispered, voice rough and breaking at the end of my question. He didn't even look back as he said simply,
"A bully."
The slam of the station door echoed in the empty silence I was left with.
All of you: it's so nice seeing Spencer and Aria reconnect and have a sweet moment!
Me: you're right it is! *puts them right back into the emotional blender*
Ahem... well, with that, happy Monday! You've got another long chapter to start your week, and I hope you enjoyed it (even WITH the angst)!
How are we feeling about Spencer pushing Aria away? What about his attitude? And, of course, what about Aria getting the brunt of his short temper? I wanna hear your thoughts! This episode is one of my favorites from S3 and I've been SO excited to write it, so I hope you enjoyed it!
Be sure to visit recollins . Tumblr . com to see Aria's outfit, and the GIF for the chapter!
Thank you all for the love and support, your comments just totally make my day and help me get through the week! Take care my precious lil gumdrops, and have a beautiful week!