A/N: Here we go! This story may get a little dark, so prepare yourself. Let me know what you think!
Spencer Reid flew out of his chair as an object skimmed the back of his mop of russet colored hair. The chuckling culprit was painfully obvious, and Spencer shot him a pointed eye roll.
"So close," chided the voice of Derek Morgan from across the room, in his syrupy sort of low drawl.
"Nice throw, asshat," Reid retorted, flinging the wad of lined paper back at the gloating agent. It tittered to a halt feet away from where Morgan was reclining in his rolling chair, legs atop the desk like some cavalier frat boy. Reid had to laugh at his own pathetic toss.
"Break it up, kids." A hurricane of blonde hair whizzed past, a mountain of files in hand, grinning at the squabble. Boys, JJ thought, they never really change.
"Hate to end this lovefest," she said, tucking a wily lock behind her ear, "but we've got a case."
Emily Prentiss popped two extra strength Advils into her mouth as JJ, Reid, and Morgan strolled into the conference room to meet the rest of the team.
"Long night last night?" Rossi asked incredulously, raising his eyebrows. Dave curled his hand into the universal bottle signal and raised it to his mouth.
"Shut up." She forced a haughty laugh and gave him a nudge.
Sure, maybe she'd had a little too much to drink. But lately, there hadn't been much of a choice. It had been months since she'd returned from Paris. Six months since she'd had to worry about Ian Doyle, who now slept soundly six feet underground. But the nightmares came anyways, and she could swear she sometimes saw his husky frame lurking in her hallways, waiting for the opportunity to end her for good this time. There was no running from the twisted tales her mind was so proficient at spinning, as much as she wished she could. Emily knew if she confided in any of her team members, they'd assure her the reaction was natural after such a traumatic few months. And deep down, she knew this as well. Still, for some reason, she just couldn't find a way to forgive herself for being so damn scared all the time.
Emily sighed and began to massage her temples as JJ took her customary place in front of the screen.
"Granville, Ohio. Population 6,000." JJ gestured to an overhead shot of the small town. "Local authorities have found a total of nine bodies dumped in the same creek in the past three months. They've been pretty out in the open, no forensic countermeasures." Images of waterlogged and mutilated corpses began to litter the screen. Penelope Garcia put down her cat-shaped coffee mug.
"That's my cue to leave," the shaken blonde said, grimacing. "If you need any technological wizardry, you know who to call." She exited the room self-soothingly humming the Ghostbusters theme song.
Reid's eye's didn't leave the screen, that signature 'genius-wheels-are-turning' look screwing his features in a pensive frown.
"Something you want to share with the group?" Hotch asked, smiling to himself. Reid was a genius, that much was indisputable, but a toddler could read him. Aaron thought that it was wholly entertaining—Spencer wore his emotions on his sleeve without even knowing it.
"Nine murders in a small town. This case could've been called serial after victim number three. Why weren't we called in? It doesn't make any logical sense, unless the local PD are uneducated and highly incomptent."
Hotch bit back a chuckle.
"Incomptent, maybe," JJ said with a snort. "But it could have something to do with the fact that six of the three bodies were found at once, though the coroner estimated three of them had been decaying in the water for about a week longer than the others. Our unsub seems to be hunting in threes. Three victims go missing, he keeps them for three days, tortures and kills them, and then dumps the bodies all together." She gestured towards the nine driver's licenses photos that were scattered about the TV. JJ couldn't help but think about her own ID picture, such a simple and innocuous thing. But in death, or unsolved murder at least, it became all that was left of you besides an uninhabited and battered body lying somewhere in a medical examiner's office. Staring into the pixelated eyes of the victims, she couldn't help but picture her own face plastered to the screen. This was not a new fear for the young profiler, but it was one she never seemed to be able to ditch. And god, it made her feel like shit. She shoved it into the depths of her brain every time it surfaced, but somehow the grim notion always lingered, taunting her.
"Moving on," JJ said, swallowing hard, "Victimology is all over the place. He takes two women and a man with no known relation to each other. Race and socioeconomic background varied. Vics have been ages 24-42."
"What about the torture?" Morgan asked, fidgeting slightly in his chair.
Emily glanced down at her tablet. "Ligature marks were found on arms and legs. Deep bruising all over the bodies. Scattered shallow knife wounds. Taser burns. This guy has a lot of rage."
"Three out of the six women were sexually assaulted, but the DNA wasn't in our database," Rossi added as he swiped through the images.
"The ultimate COD was exsanguination due to a stab wound to the abdomen," Hotch said, his voice tight and professional. There was something about this case he couldn't put his finger on. Something sinister.
Then again, he supposed every case they worked could be classified as sinister.
Reid swallowed the urge to spit out every fact he knew about evisceration, instead only chiming in, "Bleeding out from the abdomen can take on average 2-4 hours. It's a painful death, exacerbated by the previous wounds and malnutrition."
Hotch glanced around the room grimly. "Brief segments of the torture were also live streamed directly to the local sheriff's office, though the camera quality is poor. It appears to take place in a basement. Our unsub is 6'1, around 200 pounds. He wears a mask on camera. Sorry to spoil your weekend, but we need all hands on deck. Wheels up in 30."
Once their leader had exited, the profilers abruptly changed the conversation from mutilated bodies to personal gossip. It was a rather strange ritual that happened laughably often. After having to discuss the ins and outs of unspeakable horrors, they distracted their restless minds with casual banter. Each one pretended that the images wouldn't plague their vision the instant that they closed their eyes.
The jet touched down a few hours later, and the string of yawning agents stumbled across the tarmac into a set of the usual black SUVs.
An exhausted and hapless Reid climbed into the car, exiled to the backseat by Prentiss and Morgan. As it jolted to life, he pressed his forehead against the welcomingly cold window. He found his thoughts wandering to his mother. The doctors at her facility had called him yesterday, mentioning something about attacking a staff member and forced sedation. Reid had tried to block out the words streaming through the other end of the phone, responding only with halfhearted agreement. He thought of his own genetics, the enigmatic and unknowable spirals of DNA that would decide if he would be allowed to grow old with his sanity, or lose it somewhere along the twisting path. To the genius, his brain defined his entire value. Without it, he assumed he'd be tossed aside by the Bureau, and even by his friends and team. There was something incredibly haunting about not knowing your own expiration date.
He was pulled out of his reluctant musings when the car jerked to a stop.
Breathe Spencer. Just another case.
"SSA Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone." JJ shook hands with the greying cop and smiled her reserved-for-the-media smile, effervescent and glowing, never failing to charm it's recipient to pieces.
"Detective Whittaker," came the 50-something man's reply. He reached up to scratch the top of his balding head, moving so stiffly that it exuded stress. "Thank you folks for coming down here on such short notice. The whole place is in a damn panic."
"Of course," came the commanding voice of Aaron Hotchner, approaching with the rest of the team. The detective was almost instantly pulled away by a younger cop, mumbling half-hearted apologies. The tension in the town was palpable—it gave off the dense air of horror, thick and suffocating, like an anvil pressed down from the heavens.
Hotch knew, better than most, that there wasn't much time. "JJ, you and Prentiss stay here and interview relatives. We need to know as much as possible about the victims' routines. Morgan and Rossi head to the dump site. Reid, stay here and do the geographical profile. We're on a clock people. It won't be long until he takes three more. We need a profile." He nodded, signifying his spiel was over. The team split apart without another word, walking in their respective directions with the haste that only imminent murder can muster up.
Outside the police station, a crowd of interested citizens had gathered. Among them, a middle-aged man in a baseball cap smiled to himself, imagining an utterly glorious grand finale. This was exactly what he had been waiting for.