.
.
.
It was a vibration in Jennifer's lap that awoke her, and another that prompted her to orient herself.
At some point in the nighttime hour, her desire for comfort had won out: she fell asleep leaning over the bed, and her hand never left Spencer's. And as far as she knew it, he'd slept undisturbed.
Easing away and stretching, she navigated through her messages.
A couple of private ones from Penelope, who would be coming tomorrow in the afternoon, and a few from Will.
» You up? Henrys up
» Hows Spence? Kiddo
wont stop asking after
him
» Hes got ZERO filter
lmao. Gotta tag you in
lol
» BTW did some digging
last night and theres
this place about 20min
from here called
Creation Station
» Thinking about taking
Henry. Not sure when
youll be coming but we
can make it one of them
sappy bonding family
things for just a couple
hours
She responded to the string of messages.
« Good idea to me.
Spence still asleep. I
wanna leave him
undisturbed for
as long as possible
« I'll be over in a bit.
Gonna bring Starbucks
After bantering and making plans between a few more messages, Jennifer placed her hand atop Spencer's, passing her eyes over him—his greasy, blond hair, the dead skin browning underneath his nails from his scratching. At least what she could see of his expression was peaceful in his long-needed repose.
Bringing up his hand to her lips, she then breathed out a sigh against it. "I don't like seeing you like this, Spence. Not at all. It's not you. But you'll get through this. You will. You're strong." Her thumb massaged his hand, and she rested her cheek over his curled knuckles. "And you're loved, Spence. So much."
Replacing his hand on the bed and patting it, she pulled away. After writing a note and leaving it for the interpreter at the bedside table, she stopped by the receptionist and then headed to the Starbucks below.
The brief walk to the hotel was refreshing. There, she showered, changed, ate with her husband and son.
Henry was vocal and uninhibited regarding Spencer and the hospital, asking if he would be able to see him again. In return, Jennifer and Will gave him digestible responses.
The following hours were devoted to her son and husband uncontested, free of any guilt. It was as the day after they had found Spencer—the breaths she and the team could finally take as though the constant tightness around their chests had unfastened.
Something felt different. Something had changed, and she was relieved.
Henry seemed to have served as a salve to the wounds that Jennifer couldn't fully comprehend. A solitary visit from her son wouldn't cover over the profoundness of his hurt, she knew. Small or large, she hoped it would be one of the many catalysts to steer him towards recovery.
It seems it may have been, though she couldn't make concrete sense of it.
It came in the afternoon in the form of a text message after they'd returned to the hotel to relax.
"Oh my god," she blurted, staring at her phone. "Oh my god."
Henry, napping, stirred beside her but didn't wake. Will sat up.
"What's up, babe?"
"Spence just woke up—"
Will checked his watch. "Damn. It's almost two o'clock. He been asleep that long? Since yesterday evening?"
"It's overdue, yeah, but that's"—she gave a soft laugh—"that's beside the point." She looked over at Will. Her eyes pricked.
"What is it?"
"He requested a bath."
—
There was a caveat.
"Spencer doesn't want staff to bathe him," Cassandra said after she and Jennifer became acquaintances.
Jennifer squinted and tilted her head. "Ah. He wants me."
"In so few words."
Jennifer, schooling herself, turned to the attending nurse. "That alright for me to do, Liv?"
"While it's not recommended, it isn't entirely off the table, and it isn't as if you hadn't helped a couple of times. Besides, when patients transition to outpatient caregiving, we do train primary caregivers for this very reason."
"Right. Okay."
"Now that he's conscious, there's definitely awkwardness and embarrassment. And likely shame on his part. I won't sugarcoat it. But you've seen exactly what's done to help a person maintain their dignity."
She straightened her lips into a thin line and dipped her chin. "You'll be there to make sure I don't mess up."
The nurse nodded. "Oh, I have to be there. There are certain aspects that I can't have you handle, such as the removal and replacement of the catheter, handling the IV line—all the technical stuff. For anything else, I can assist you from a small distance to make sure it's all done correctly."
Jennifer turned to Cassandra. "And if he says anything, I'll need your help."
"Of course, Agent Jareau. Once you're ready to start, I can stay on the outside of the privacy curtain until I'm needed."
"Okay. If this is what he's most comfortable with, I'll do it."
—
Jennifer's gaze darted to each item on the rolling cart and then shifted to Spencer. He still wore the sleep mask, and his ears were still plugged with foam buds.
Instead of wading through uncomfortable hesitation, Jennifer heaved a breath and moved forward, nearing the bed. Her hand fell upon Spencer's shoulder as she glanced at Cassandra.
"It's JJ. I'm here, Spence. To help."
But for a slight tilt of his head, there was no response after Cassandra pulled away.
"Did you sleep okay, Spence?"
His chest heaved, and he lifted his shaking hands.
"I'm not clean."
Her eyes flitted everywhere—from his hands to his shoulders and to his partially-occluded face—to better gauge his body language.
She knew him well; her attempt at small talk had just been evaded.
Move on.
"Are you sure you'd like me to help with this, Spence?"
His jaws clenched and unclenched like he was chewing over a response, and his nostrils twitched.
"I'm not clean. Please."
"Okay. A nurse is here to help me. Let me know if you need me to stop or if you want to attempt cleaning any areas yourself. I'm going to pull the curtain and Cassandra will be on the other side so she won't see anything. While we're getting the water and washing our hands, it might be a good idea to void if you need to."
The flaring of his nostrils, its settling, and then another flare—nothing flew over her head. Observations only went so far she couldn't claim to intuit his exact desires or reservations.
But he set his lips to a thin line and his chin bunched.
Eventually, he nodded.
She herself heaved a long, deep breath, eyes fluttering as she resolved not to linger on Spencer's detachment. At the very least, he was being autonomous and forthright with what he wanted in this moment, and she wouldn't question that.
"Spence, I'm just going to let you know the steps, okay? I'm going to start with your teeth first. It's just going to be swab sticks with some solution on it. Then I'm going to wash your hair. I'll need to remove your EEG headband, the sleep mask, and the earbuds for that. Afterwards I'll move on to washing your body. Trust me to help but tell me when you need me to stop. Cassandra's going to go on the other side now."
He blinked and his chest swelled, but when Cassandra was done, he nodded.
And so it started after a towel was tucked at his neck—with Jennifer placing her gloved hand under his chin to steady him. But as the swab touched his lips, he jutted his chin downward and brought an unsteady hand to his mouth, trembling fingers curled at his lips.
"Hey, it's okay, Spence," she cajoled in a whisper, brushing her other hand over his.
As his flaring nose reddened, she continued her attempts to ease his apprehensions with gentle kneading.
There was no questioning it. During his coma, she had seen it when she helped with his hygiene. If she had teeth forcibly removed from her mouth, she would be ashamed to let anyone see it. And his tongue—while healing—was unsightly.
"Spence. I don't have to look. I won't." The words would be lost on him with such softened intonations, but she tried to wait him out.
She could understand, and so she waited until he was ready.
The muscles of his face twitched as he lowered his fingers.
After a moment's pause—with her thumb swiping atop his hand and moving to his chin again—she slipped the swab past his lips. She wasted no time gliding it over his teeth and inner cheeks—front and back with gentle pressure to encourage him to loosen his jaw, and even over his tongue—and being done with it after a rinsing wipe.
The nurse then assisted with bending him forward so they could untie his gown and loosen it. Afterwards, the bed was flattened and raised, the pillows were removed, the IV infusion bag and tubing were dealt with, and everything was gathered to prepare for washing his hair.
Jennifer squeezed his arm before doing as instructed to fulfill her part.
At the removal of the sleep mask, Spencer's shaking fingers crawled over his face, tips pressed against his eyes.
The nurse handed Jennifer a folded washcloth. "Maybe he would prefer to put a towel over his face? To keep the water from pouring there? Then he could relax his hands. I'm sure he's uncomfortable."
Jennifer smiled in gratitude and nudged the towel over his shaking hands. Spencer, in return, pressed his fingers over the towel above his eyes.
"Hm."
And so she bent over him and went through the process—wetting, tilting, lathering, lifting, scrubbing, rinsing—and repeated it for a thorough washing and conditioning.
His hands didn't fall throughout the lengthy process—didn't move as she toweled his hair, remained after she was done and a dry towel was laid underneath his head with the removal of the shampoo tray.
Jennifer observed him throughout, the stiffening of his limbs and the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Not that she expected otherwise, but these were the actions of someone who was alert, wary, and prepared for peril.
"Gonna move to washing your face, Spence." After the words gritted out, she clenched her jaw and chided herself, seeking to concentrate on her task.
She tilted his head again, left and right, removing the foam buds to wipe at his earlobes, removing the hand towel and working past his fingers to clean his eyes. Her towel wiped across his face, his jaws, his scarred neck, rinsing and repeating for a thorough wash.
"Spence, can you hear me?" she tested, elevating her voice.
His chest heaved and his thumb—which had jittered across his jaw in that soothing motion—stopped. His chin tilted down.
"Do you want a shave?"
No response came.
"Spence?"
His head ticked left to right a moment after his thumb resumed its gliding.
"I'm going to give you a bath, then. You're going to feel a bath blanket cover you, and I'm going to pull off your gown and the sheets underneath it. I just need to get the gown off you, and you can place your hands back over your eyes if you want after I wash your hands and arms."
Jennifer proceeded just as she told him. As she took care to wash his hand, to clean the grime underneath his nails, he rotated it, exposing his palm. Instead of lingering on that which she and the others had occasionally observed during his emergence, she kept her pace, drying off, moisturizing, and massaging—fingers to shoulder. His other arm was given the same treatment, and in turn he did the same.
As she continued working, she announced what she would do next. With the nurse's assistance, she dealt with the ostomy sites at his torso with care and then weaved a clean gown underneath the bath blanket.
The weak bobbing of his exposed knee, the grooves in his thigh—she sought to overlook these.
"Just be genuine and relaxed, JJ, yeah?" the nurse whispered to her.
Jennifer started. She hadn't realized how tense she'd become as she worked at one leg at a time—
"Continue telling Spencer what you're doing before you do it."
—or how quiet the room had become at her lack of warning interjections.
But at this point, she actively avoided looking towards his reddening face as she worked below.
There was no denying it: this was unorthodox. Working at his other leg, rolling Spencer to his side to clean his back, moving then to clean his buttocks—that which gave her some pause—these weren't normal things. A distinct flaw in an already imperfect universe.
The room was far too heated, its decor and occupants too blurry, the quiet punctuated with soft splashes of water too stifling, and the air too thin.
Damn them. Those sons of bitches.
Lorraine did this to him. To Marcus. To the others.
That bathtub was manifest before her, the restraints in and around it, the utility cart and the stool next to it. She had a face to Spencer's abductor, conjured unbidden and in full. Spencer being bathed by Lorraine—perhaps even at times by Russell, his rapist—against his will. The humiliation he must have endured the first time it happened. The violation.
At some point, did he come to find it normal like it seemed Marcus had done? Did they ever allow him to bathe himself, or was the ritual that essential to complete the fantasy? Did Spencer ever—
"JJ."
There was pressure against Jennifer's arm, and she came to attention.
"Hm?"
"Why don't you dry him off and moisturize his back? I don't see any sores."
Jennifer cleared her throat as she dabbed the towel against him and moisturized his skin. When done, she tied his gown and the two rotated him to face the ceiling again. She stepped back and averted her eyes as the catheter was removed.
"Spence." Her lashes fluttered and she cleared her throat. "Spence," she repeated, raising her voice. "Do you want the nurse to . . . to clean your groin?"
After a stretch of time, he shook his head.
Jennifer swallowed, and her hand hovered above him. You have a son. You have a son and a husband. Literally nothing you haven't seen or touched before.
"Don't overthink it, JJ," the nurse said in a calm and even tone. "Just a natural part of the human body. Just doing this for someone who's unable to handle the task on their own. There's no shame."
"Right, yeah." She nodded. "Of course."
As she was coached in the proper procedure to clean his genitals she followed the steps, clinical in her approach of touching, grasping, cleaning, lifting, and toweling off Spencer.
Spencer didn't move.
When done, Jennifer lowered Spencer's gown beneath the blanket, removed the protective cover, pulled up his new cover sheet, and began pulling off her gloves as she walked around the privacy curtain.
After she and the nurse washed their hands, a hand was placed on her back.
"Hey—you did great, JJ. You gave Spencer what he needed and wanted. And you did it while maintaining his dignity."
—
The privacy curtain was long retracted, and Jennifer stepped back into the room after having made a hasty exit, leaving the nurse to deal with all proper disposal.
It was just her and Cassandra now. Many feet between them, Spencer sat with the bed in an upright position, eyes covered, but ears unblocked.
Jennifer spoke up. "Hey, Spence. How . . . um . . . you okay? How are you feeling?"
He worked at his jaw, and Jennifer gave him all the time needed as he seemed to formulate his response.
Cassandra spoke up after he made a simple gesture. "Clean," was his answer. And then after a lingering moment: "Thank you."
Jennifer straightened her lips and tucked her interlaced fingers under her chin. "Good. I'm glad."
Her hand reached out and landed on his, light, hesitant.
His head tilted toward his touched hand, and his fingers began to twiddle.
"Thank you, Spence. For trusting me. To do that for you."
He gave no response, and she left her hand as it was. A quiet settled in the room, and minutes passed without any exchange.
But as Spencer's hands moved with purpose, she pulled away.
Cassandra spoke up for him. "Was he here?"
Jennifer buckled her eyebrows. "Who?"
But Spencer shook his head in dismissal. His right hand weaved to his left chest and the thumb started moving left and right again over his collar bone.
Jennifer watched the motion. "Do you mean Henry, Spence?" Her eyes flitted to his hand, which stilled. "Henry was here. He visited you last night. So did Will. They were both here."
She unlocked her fingers and reached forward, placing her hand on his wrist and squeezing again. "Henry would like to visit you again before we go back to DC tomorrow. Would that be okay?"
He didn't answer, and she soothed his wrist with her thumb.
"Spence?"
In turn, he pulled his hand toward himself.
—
"How's my dove?"
Jennifer sighed and averted her attention a few feet away, where Will was playing with Henry in the recreational area.
"Jayge?" Penelope dipped her head into her periphery.
"Mm. Yeah." Jennifer gave an uneasy smile. "He's been sleeping in bursts since yesterday afternoon."
"Good good."
"Mm. Busy day today, though. Early this morning, they wanted to see if he might be ready to go through decannulation since they've not suctioned him since yesterday morning. They used a—um—a speaking valve? But he wasn't managing his coughs or secretions well at all, so they had to cuff it again and get rid of the valve for now. And just a couple of hours ago, Dr Kane ran a preliminary rehab assessment. Dr Henderson was able to attend, too." She cleared her throat, blinking. "Didn't last very long. But either way, Dr Kane thinks it's time to transition Reid to rehab, and for him to be closer to home."
Penelope nodded. "Mm. I think Hotch and Rossi have been passing the idea around too that it's time we bring him home. How did it go, the assessment?"
Jennifer blinked something out of her eyes as she swiped her hand across her forehead. "I mean, Spence was fine for it, mostly, if I can put it that way. The best way to describe it is"—she shrugged—"resignation. He just goes with it despite how disengaged he seems."
Penelope sighed. "I guess it's hard to tell because we don't know much of it is emotional or how much of it is because of"—she circled her hand around her head—"actual brain damage."
"It's both. But the emotional and psychological aspect seems most precedent. During the assessment, they wanted to help him stand. Alex said that the other day, she was able to help him sit up and that he could generally keep his balance. But standing . . . you know, his legs are just—they're so weak. Like two little toothpicks. So in order to assist with the ambulatory assessment, at one point they had to use a waist belt, and"—she cleared her throat again and ran her hand through her hair, shaking her head—"they barely put it on, Penelope. He had one of his blackouts. I mean, while he was at the edge of the bed—like someone cut the strings. He just crumbled."
"Oh my god, no." Penelope's hands were planted against her cheeks.
"Thankfully there was staff on hand to—you know—they were assisting, and I was there, too, so he didn't fall, but . . ." She shook her head, clearing the memory from her mind. "Psychologically, physically—it's a lot, Pen. He's going to need help for weeks and months. And he prefers using this sleep mask Alex got him the other day even when he's awake. What the McAllistars did to him, it's a part of him. Dr Henderson wants that habit broken, and I can see why."
"Oh god, Reid. I can't. He hates the dark."
"Mm. I just can't imagine how he must be feeling about all . . . this. He requested a bath yesterday, but today he seemed reluctant to have one, so I didn't push it. He asks about Henry but won't even answer when I ask him if it's alright that Henry visits again. His engagement is limited. He's been distant since he's come out of the blackout."
Penelope shook her head and pursed her lips. "I just wish we knew what was going on in his noggin'. Just . . . I know how he hates to be babied in any way and he's so independent, but tell us what you need, Reid, please. We'll give you anything."
Jennifer stood as she saw her son and husband walking towards them. "The boys are done."
"Ope, yep."
Henry ran the rest of the way towards Penelope and crashed into her legs with his arms spread wide. "Aunty Pennie! Are you gonna see Uncle Spencer with us?"
Penelope stabilized herself and ruffled Henry's hair. "Oof, Henry. I swear, you're getting to be a Tonka truck. You ready to go up?"
"He's itchin'," Will answered.
And so the four made their way to Spencer's room, with Henry far less reluctant today than he had been on Friday. When they reached Spencer's room, Henry bounded towards the lowered bed, and he wasted no time wrapping his arms around Spencer's arm.
But it was Spencer wrenching his arm away from Henry and tilting himself away that gave all of them, including the interpreter, pause.
"Uncle Spence?" Henry's lip quivered. He reached forward and grasped the blanket, tugging.
Spencer's hand curled and shook over the blanket.
Will bent toward his son and pulled him from the bed. They all skittered out the room and stood outside for a moment.
"Hey now. Uncle Spence might not be too happy today, little buddy."
"Why not?" Henry faced his father, tilting his head.
"He's hurtin', Henry. When a person is hurt—sometimes they just don't know how to show it. Sometimes it looks like they're mad, but they're not."
Henry's faced scrunched. "But we read to him to make him feel better."
Jennifer straightened her lips and glided her hand through his hair. "Sometimes the hurt is too big for a bedtime story to fix."
"But when will it go away?"
Penelope clicked her tongue, hand firm against her chest.
"Henry," Jennifer started, "this is the kind of hurt that won't ever go away. It might hurt less over time, but it won't go away."
"But I don't like Uncle Spencer like this." His lip wobbled. "That was mean."
Jennifer and Will both floundered for a moment.
"You know what, Henry?" Penelope bumbled out, bending toward Henry. "You know, Uncle Spence doesn't like being like this either. But he needs a little help to get better. I'm gonna help him, and so's mom and pop. So's Uncle Derek and Uncle Dave and Uncle Aaron, too."
Henry tilted his head, his eyebrows puckered upwards, and his voice came out as a whisper. "What about me? Can I help too?"
Penelope's eyes shifted to his parents for permission, and Jennifer gave a subtle nod. "Oh, yes you can, mister!"
His face brightened.
"Today, I think the best way to help is by saying goodbye to Uncle Spencer and telling him you love him and can't wait to see him again soon. Right?"
"What if he doesn't say goodbye back?"
"Bah, that's okay, pumpkin. He's saying it on the inside."
"Ohh! Daddy says that inside voices are what your heart says."
"Does he, now? I think your daddy's a smart guy."
It's precisely what they did when they returned to the room—at least, it was the attempt. Spencer, by now, had tilted his head to the other side of the room in the direction of the window and made no effort to engage with them.
—
Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, Penelope attempted to dote on Spencer in whatever capacity he would tolerate.
He didn't entertain her or her poor attempts of affection at conversations.
So when he requested a bath the following morning, she tried to minimize her surprise and went through the process with hesitant care. Though she—along with an accompanying nurse—took the request in stride and though she made sure to help massage and moisturize his limbs, he was disengaged and remained as such throughout the day when he wasn't dozing off. When she wasn't clacking away on her laptop while the rest of the unit was in the midst of a new case, she tried to remain attentive to Spencer: making sure his pillow was properly fluffed, placing soft or firm figurines underneath his fingertips, and comforting him after another brief rehab session that left him winded and further withdrawn.
"He's just so hurt, Derek," Penelope sighed out over the phone later in the evening. "Like a barrage of negative energy coming from him. I know it's not as simple as giving my dearest dove all the love in the world and melting this all away, but it's what I wanna do."
"You know he hates being treated like a kid."
"Yeah, well—he's gotta deal with it from me. All of you do."
Derek snickered.
"After Maeve died, do you remember that look he would sometimes get? The one where you just knew that he was thinking about her? Like he was just . . . locked away somewhere, or drowning in that agony all over again?"
"Mm. Yeah. I do."
"He misses them, Derek. He misses them, doesn't he?"
"He might," he sighed out.
"How can he? I mean . . . just—how? Why?"
"It's not easy to fully understand a person's mind, mama. Reid . . . the kid . . . he was already coming from a place of hurt. We already know that he's sought escape before. In the midst of all that turmoil, they likely provided something to him. You put that and the drugs and conditioning all together and . . . bonds form. They do. And it might take a long time to release himself from it. You don't just magically bounce back from that. Somewhere in there, Garcia, he knows that it wasn't right. He does. We just can't force him to negate whatever it is he's feeling right now."
Penelope moaned. "I know. I know I know. They've just ruined everything."
—
"Reid?" Penelope's voice was pitched high and loud. She reached out her hand to touch his. "Hey Reid? You've been a trooper today, dove. I've been hawking over you all day. I can stay, or I can head out for the night. Give you a little space. Which would you prefer?"
She waited out his response in the passing seconds. When it seemed none would come, she gave his hand a tap and pulled away.
"Does she know?"
Penelope—pausing as she turned—looked from the interpreter to Spencer in perturbation.
She blubbered. "Does who know what, dove?"
"Does she know?"
She shook her head despite knowing that Spencer wouldn't see it. "I'm not sure who you're talking about, Reid."
His shaking hands curled around each other and his knuckles whitened before he spoke again. "My . . ."
She tilted her head. "Your . . ."
It took no leap. He had charged her, had he not? Entrusted her to follow a set of instructions. To care for the one person for whom he spared no expenses.
"Your mother?"
Spencer flinched as though he had been struck, tucking his head and giving it a single shake. He brought up his hand to his ear and cupped it.
She squeezed her hand around his shoulder. "Reid, she—"
"No."
She reared her head and turned her attention back to him from the interpreter. "No? Who, then?"
"Diana."
Her mouth dried, and she retracted her hand.
Mother and Diana were always unequivocally synonymous. Now, there was distinction?
"Oh, Reid, no." Penelope's eyes watered as she resisted drawing up from a well of dark and vile feelings. She replaced her hand on his shoulder.
"She's fine, Spence. Your mom—your—Di—Mrs Reid—she's okay."
His chest expanded.
"She doesn't know about this. I'm—we're taking care of everything. She doesn't know."
He gave a solitary nod, chin and nostrils twitching.
She stayed. Spencer, in turn, was restless throughout the night.
—
Come early morning, and not long after the interpreter arrived, Penelope was sat at Spencer's bedside, typing away or consulting with the team during their case. The stillness was breached when Dr Henderson entered the room after a hasty double knock.
"Dr Henderson." Penelope perked. "Didn't realize you were—"
"—just a precautionary measure, but there's no need to enter, no." Dr Henderson, still facing the hall outside, put up a halting hand. "You can both just stand post out here."
Penelope watched in alarm, standing, and Spencer tilted his head to the door.
At the bedside table, Penelope's phone vibrated but was ignored. "Dr Henderson, what on earth is going on out there?"
"Have you been contacted by Agent Alvez, Agent Garcia?" Dr Henderson's eyes were widened as she turned to Penelope.
"Have I—Agent Alvez? Why? What's going on?"
"He requested an immediate security detail be put on Agent Reid, and—"
The phone at the bedside table vibrated. Penelope lunged for it.
"Oh god—what? What's going on, Derek?"
"Garcia, Alvez tried to call you." Derek's voice came through the other end in a tone Penelope remembered on a late April night.
"What for, Morgan? What for? What's going on?"
"If you're with Reid right now, can you get to some kinda private room and bring your laptop with you?"
Penelope's eyes slipped closed as she braced her other hand against her belly, letting out a petering moan. "Oh god, I don't like this. Derek, please."
"Just pump your breaks, Garcia. We need to conference. Now. I'll get Alvez to join."
Penelope was already moving toward the door with her laptop clutched at her chest. "Going—doing now." She turned to Dr Henderson. "Nearest empty conference room, please please."
Dr Henderson nodded and went to the door. "Follow."
"Gimme a sec, Morgan—gonna put you on hold 'til I get to a room."
They meandered through a few halls before Dr Henderson stopped at a door, knocked, waited, then permissively let Penelope into a small conference room.
Penelope rushed into the room, and the door closed behind her with Dr Henderson on the other side.
"Okay I'm—conferencing you in a sec. But would you please, please tell me what's happening!"
"Yeah, so, news media is already doing a bang-up job covering it—"
Penelope's stomach quavered. "News? Coveri—Why? Covering what?"
"A body was found at an overlook on Route 80. Just a few minutes ago."
"An overlook, or the overlook?" she rushed out. "Where Marion Knowles was found? Where Zachary Bridges' car was left?"
Derek was on her screen, alongside the rest of the team, all of whom had already been gathered mere minutes ago to share a profile with the Boston police.
"The very same," Alex answered. Her hand rubbed at her clavicle.
Penelope shook her head. "I mean, I don't understand. They're in prison. The McAllistars are out the picture until it comes time for trial, so"—her hands sliced away from each other with the emphatic shaking of her head—"so, no."
In another screen, Luke Alvez was carrying his phone and walking. "Guys, there's no mystery about who this victim is, and news outlets are going to publicize that soon enough," he started, staring into the camera. Overhead, what was a grey, wintery sky was becoming occluded by bare branches as he kept walking.
"Name?" Emily asked.
"Wyatt Anderson, 37, resident of Washington, DC."
"A DC native? Up there?" David asked, eyebrow raised.
"Mm-hmm. Anonymously reported to DC police as missing this morning, and it only gets hairier from there."
The camera flipped around, and Penelope balked, unprepared for the sight of the dead victim.
"This is how they found him."
"They who?" Penelope shied away from the image but couldn't erase the brief flash she had seen—that of an indelicately crumbled, paper-pale nude man with purpling wounds on his neck and ankle and whose wrists were in manacles.
"News 12 NJ."
"How did they possibly find his body?" Jennifer asked. "Even with the dead and bare shrubbery, the body wouldn't have been easy to spot."
"That's because they were also tipped anonymously. A small, padded envelope was delivered to their mailroom, with a return address belonging to Wyatt Anderson. In it were three teeth and a bad photo scan of an old, double-sided Interstate 80 Allamuchy postcard. On the back, this dude replaced some of the text to bear a message We're not finished. News 12 NJ put two and two together."
"It's the first copycat," David opined. "And the jagoff is eager for attention."
"Enough to be a little criminally sophisticated," Derek mumbled.
"We're not finished," Alex repeated. "We could indicate a conversation between unsub and local residents. Or it could be We in the sense that there's more than one person who did this."
Penelope typed at her keyboard. "Wyatt Anderson. Works in the heart of DC. Data analysts of an international company."
"Oof. News and social media already thinks that it's either a team and that we've messed up or that there were more perpetrators involved in the original crimes," David sighed out, scrolling through his phone.
"Is it possible that there were others?" Penelope asked.
Aaron shook his head. "Everything points to Lorraine and Russell as the sole perps."
"Trust me," Luke interjected. "The way footage is looking, there's no doubt that she wasn't only complicit, but pretty much dominating things."
David sighed. "Lorraine aside, things like this . . . public perception is the strongest voice right now, and casting doubt on us as protectors or as pillars of justice—people are already wary of the government; people already have conspiracy theories about us. This just further puts a wedge between us as an institution and the public. So this copycat . . . these copycats—if it's multiple people—they're unwittingly causing more mistrust."
"I don't want us to get distracted by this angle," Aaron said, waving his hand in the air. "Let's concentrate on the victim." He leaned forward. "His skin looks a little yellow, I'd say. Is that Dr Dale, Alvez?"
"It is, Agent Hotchner," the pathologist answered as she looked over the body. "Long time no see."
"Can you check his eyes, Dr Dale? The sclera? And Alvez, can you zoom in on them?"
Dr Dale and Luke both did as asked.
Aaron's fist went to his chin. "Would you agree that it looks like jaundice, Dr Dale?"
"I'd say yes," she began, "but would of course prefer to empirically come to that conclusion."
Aaron pulled back and stood straight. His voice came out thin. "Would you be able to check his teeth, Dr Dale? Just a cursory look to see if this victim actually has missing teeth."
"Sure." With two tongue depressors, Wyatt's blue lips were parted. "Mm . . . Looks like . . . three missing teeth that I can readily see. I can't assess if a tongue is missing or not without altering the state of the body."
"Have you had a chance to check internal temperature?"
"I haven't, no. But being that he's been in these wintery conditions for who knows how long, it'll be hard to assess a narrower time of death."
"My concern would've been if you found signs of sexual assault or not."
"Ah. Well positioning of the body does allow for me to look at his buttocks, but I see nothing overtly pointing towards rape as of yet."
Luke scrunched his nose. "Also . . ." He wafted his hand in front of his face. "Mm, yeah. I'm smelling beer."
"Beer?" David parroted.
Aaron hummed. "Are those needle puncture marks? In the crook of his arm?"
"Yes, but these don't look very fresh."
"Seems he has a little vice," Emily suggested.
Aaron continued, no longer standing ramrod straight, but making a slow left-right vacillation. "Does it look like there might be others visible? Perhaps intramuscularly?"
"Cursory glance, no . . . but that doesn't exclude the possibility. I'll be sure to check during the autopsy."
"What are you thinking, Aaron?" David asked.
"It's peculiar what aspects this copycat got right and wrong," Aaron answered. "The public knew about the missing teeth. We intentionally publicized that rope was used to keep the victims captive to throw people off, but this victim is manacled with what seems to be the true means of subjugation for most of the victims. The public knows the perps as The Linen Assassins because of how Marion Knowles was found, but this victim is nude."
"Only two were nude," Emily started, "Victim E, and . . . well, Reid."
"But the beer and the signs of jaundice?" Aaron questioned. "I think this victim was drugged. Overdosed."
"With Ketamine?" Derek asked.
"Possibly," Aaron responded, eyebrows tucked low. "Public doesn't know about drugging the victims. Alvez, do you remember which three teeth were sent in the package?"
"They're in evidence right now, but from what I remember, an incisor, a canine and . . . damn, I can't remember the other one."
Aaron's head tilted, and something akin to disfavor washed over his face.
Jennifer sat up. "Wait." It came out in a weak breath disguised behind a weaker, uneasy laugh. "A premolar. It'll be a premolar."
"Well two of the teeth match what this victim has missing," Dr Dale confirmed. "And yes, Agent Jareau the third is a premolar."
Jennifer shook her head. "That's . . . Those are the exact teeth that Reid has missing."
Aaron sighed. "They are. A displaced DC native who on the surface looks to be upstanding but who harbors what is likely a drug problem. Jaundice from what could be ketamine poisoning. The removed teeth. Cuffs made of what look to be iron and leather. This victim is nude while most others were clothed and wrapped in white."
"What do you make of the beer, though?" Emily asked. "Weren't two victims found to have been drenched in bleach?"
"But not Reid. His alcohol levels were dangerously high that night we found him, though, and from Marcus' account, beer was used before the rapes. There are too many coincidences, and I think I know what this is. Considering this victim is brunet, I think that may have been an intentional choice."
"You guys are saying this is like Agent Reid?" Luke asked. "From when we found him? How is that possible when most of the victims were aligned to Kenneth McAllistar? The only people who would know that is someone in law enforcement or the EMTs—everyone who was there that evening."
"Agent Alvez," David puffed out. "This isn't terrorization against the residents of New Jersey living around Stokes. We're not finished wasn't a message to the public. It's to us. Our team. It's an attack on us, specifically."
Alex's eyes slipped closed and she shook her head. "A taunt against us. By someone who knows our cases. Who has unfinished business with us."
Emily perked in her seat, her eyes falling on them in groupings. "You don't mean—that Unsub you guys've told me about? The Replicator?"
Penelope gasped as it all caught up to her. "Repli . . . wait. Wait no, no. We don't need this now. I thought he was gone, too."
Aaron's lips set into a thin line, and Penelope watched as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He excused himself the next moment.
Jennifer's eyes rolled heavenward. "He baited us out, we caught up to him—"
"When he wanted us to," Alex threw in.
"—then he went underground."
"What's The Replicator?" Luke asked.
But Aaron returned, and he placed his phone on the tabletop. "Alvez, would you step away from Dr Dale—anyone for that matter, please? And mute yourself."
Luke's eyebrows knotted up, but he nodded. "Okay, what's going on?"
Aaron spoke into his phone. "Assistant Director, you've got the floor. It's just myself and my team."
"And Agent Alvez, yes?" the voice coming through the speakerphone responded. She went on, her words clipped. "Agents, this is Assistant Director Barnes. Afternoon. We've all seen the . . . resurgence of this Stokes States Slayers nonsense. I'm sure you would all agree that this case has damaged our optics ever since one of our agents became directly involved with the perpetrators. Things like this—agents being abducted, agents getting shot in their own homes by serial killers, cases that are left incomplete—these are unsightly blemishes on a unit that is known nationwide as the crown jewel of behavioral profiling, are they not?"
The question was met with silence.
"I thought you would feel the same way. There will be no need for you to intercede from this point on. The Newark Field Office has all pertinent information on this case and will be containing this properly, so you won't need to spoon feed Agent Alvez any notes. While you'll have access to the case—as would any bureau agent—you don't have any investigative stake in it."
Derek pointed an open hand at the phone, raising his eyes to Aaron. Aaron's steely expression dropped for a moment with the smallest quirk of his brow towards him, and then he leaned forward, planting his hands on the tabletop.
"All due respect, ma'am, but given some of the criteria that we've just discussed regarding this victim, we have suspicion that this might have to do with The Replicator, who began targeting this unit in 2012. If that's the case, I can guarantee you that there will be more victims."
"If I recall correctly, that investigation was deemed inactive at the end of February of last year. As it stands and if this truly has anything to do with The Replicator, moving forward SSA Mateo Cruz will see to it that whatever supposed attack on you is handled efficiently."
Not one of them was still; their heads pivoted from the phone to Aaron to each other.
Aaron tilted his head. "I . . . don't follow, Assistant Director Barnes. SSA Mateo Cruz from DC Headquarters?"
"Yes, your new acting Unit Chief, effective upon your return from your current case."
Jennifer shifted in her seat.
"On that note, Agent Prentiss, thank you for your temporary reinstatement as an agent of the FBI. As the position is now filled, your reinstatement will be terminated after the conclusion of the current case. You're freely invited to return to your position as Chief at London Interpol."
Emily's face pinched in perturbation. "Wait—filled, Assistant Director?"
But the Assistant Director continued undeterred: "Agent Hotchner, I'm relieving you of the charge to bring in a new agent to replace Agent Reid, and the recommendation you put through has been waived. You have a long roster under your belt, and there's no need to bring in new blood where you yourself would excel as a Special Agent. I anticipate even more success and positive PR for this unit under a competent Unit Chief like Agent Cruz, who has a clean record free from patterns of negligence."
Derek shook his head, and his jaws protruded from the strength of his clenching.
"I expect positive results and that you all continue to exhibit yourselves in a manner that portrays the FBI as a shining beacon of justice for the public and not the laughing stock you've turned it into. Good day."
The phone clicked off.
Derek pointed to the phone. "What the hell was that?"
"That, Morgan, was politics at work," David answered.
Derek shook his head again. "No. No; that was her making a damn point in front of all of us. And that was her shaming you, Hotch, by not only replacing you but demoting you to Special Agent in front of all of us."
"Morgan," Aaron sighed out, "it's already done. We'll work with this. Strauss has spoken highly of Agent Cruz in the past, and he's been the Section Chief of the DC Behavioral Analysis Program at the Washington Field office since '03. He's more than qualified."
"Section Chief, yeah, but does he even have field experience? What is he gonna do, be our babysitter?"
"Morgan." Aaron's tone rang firm. "It's done." His hand sliced through the air. "She could have completely dismantled this team and didn't. That's beside the point, though. Alvez, you still there?"
"Yeah, um, still here . . ."
"Alvez, Garcia will be sending you all pertinent information regarding The Replicator as soon as possible. Familiarize yourself with it. This is an Unsub that has been terrorizing our team by replicating the murders of cases we've had since 2012, using signatures that we've not revealed to the public."
"How is he accessing this information?"
"We've been stalked. We've already checked to see of any breaches in local PDs' security where we've solved the original murders that are being replicated, and there are no signs of hacking. But the intel he has is confidential. The only problem with that is that he's shown to have been in more than one place at the same time, so we could easily be looking at an organization just as well as one perpetrator. At one point, we nearly caught up to him, but he went underground."
"So now the dude—or these guys, if it's a team—is back?"
"It looks like it. The likelihood is that he'll take things back to us in DC, but perhaps your fresh eyes might cast a different perspective on this, and you can look out for any other signs that he might be taking things up to Jersey for some reason or another. I want you prepared for any potential strikes. And your working with us on the McAllistar case may have marked you, in a way, and put you in the cross hairs."
"Amazing," Luke said with a sardonic lilt. "You guys know I'm gonna keep you up to date on everything despite what Barnes said, right? I'll keep it undercover."
"It's appreciated. We'll talk soon." Once Luke's feed ended, Aaron looked out at everyone. "I know that Reid is on our mind, but he's safe where he is right now—"
"But is he, sir?" Penelope piped up. "If we're entertaining even an iota of the possibility that there might be a—a team of people working with or for The Replicator, which— he had Donnie Bidwell, a falsely accused man turned murderer, basically working for him—then shouldn't we do everything that we can for Reid's safety? I don't even feel right having left him knowing what I know now."
Worry flashed across Aaron's face. "Okay. You . . . you stay up there, Garcia, until we figure out next steps."
"More than alright with me, sir. I'm not leaving this hospital at all."
"We have to concentrate on this case right now, and we can't be distracted. Once it's over, and once we're on the jet, we'll talk next steps."
—
"—when we received an anonymous tip regarding the remains of an unidentified male found on this Route 80 overlook area. If this place seems familiar to you, that's because in late April of last year, another body was discovered in this very same location."
"So, Marion Knowles, this guy who was found at that exact spot, like, eight or nine months ago. He was a victim of the Stokes States Slayers. Okay—these are supposedly a serial killer couple—a husband and wife—who've reigned terror in northwest New Jersey. If you ask me, you can't really expect much from America's armpit—"
"However, since the capture of these perpetrators, some people are casting doubt on Lorraine McAllistar's involvement and wonder if she herself was a victim of her husband, Russell."
"And sources tell us that her involvement may have been through coercion."
"—but Lorraine, she's this bright and sunny chick. Always looking out for people. I think this just proves that she can't have had anything to do with them murders."
"Hasn't it been confirmed since last month that another one of his victims was his own son? No one knows how Kenneth McAllistar was killed, but rumor was also that he was sick. I swear, this is one investigation that keeps—on—giving."
"This most recent victim is Wyatt Anderson, a DC native, and his murder has some hallmarks of the previous victim that was found here, Marion Knowles, and descriptions that were given by the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI back in April."
"So this leaves many asking, What does this mean for us in this area? Is it possible that Lorraine McAllistar was not a perpetrator but a convenient scapegoat?"
"The finding of this newest victim only solidifies running theories that Russell McAllistar was working with an unknown partner and that said partner is picking up right where they left off."
"Are the residents of Northwest New Jersey still in danger?"
"—screwed the pooch on this one. I mean, really. And what ever happened to that law official? We all know it was a Fed."
EN ROUTE TO QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
"So what gameplan do we have with Spencer?" Alex asked as soon as she settled into her seat on the jet. "Aaron, you're currently the power of attorney—do you have anything concrete?"
Aaron's eyebrows jutted up for a moment. "Mm. I had begun making plans to have Reid transferred to an inpatient rehabilitation facility in DC. But now . . ."
David sighed. "The Replicator complicates this. Reid's vulnerable. We put him in a rehab facility, and that's like putting a sign on him for open season."
"I'm not willing to expose Reid to any dangers," Aaron replied. "And if we're stalked, then our homes, Reid's condo—none of these is safe. We need to set up a safehouse, but we also need to make sure that Reid's getting optimal outpatient care."
"I have a place," Derek said, lifting his shoulder. "I mean, I've got four places. If we've been stalked going back since May of 2012, then I doubt The Replicator knows about them. It's been a couple of years since I've touched any of them."
"Where are they located?" Aaron asked.
"One in Michigan, two right in DC, and the other one in Chevy Chase."
"Chevy Chase might be ideal," Jennifer suggested. "It's a little quieter and less stimulating, but it's not that far from the city or the few of us that live closer."
Derek nodded. "Fenced off backyard and flat entrances to the front and back."
"Does it have enough space to accommodate a room that can be dedicated to his rehab?" Emily asked.
Derek lowered his jowls. "It's a pretty sizable space. I can turn one of the rooms downstairs into a bedroom and it has a den room that I can close off. Keep everything on one floor."
"How quickly can you get that done?" Aaron asked.
"If I get a few hands on it and if you'd let me take a couple of days off, Hotch, this can be done by—end of Saturday?"
"Take a couple of days from my vacation time," David offered. "And let me hire those contractors for you. I know a few people who can make it all happen. It'd be ready by end of day Friday."
Alex spoke up. "That's a large load to accomplish in just two days."
David waved his hand in dismissal. "I guarantee you, my friend, before the hour striketh twelve, it'll get done."
Alex smiled at him and turned to Derek. "If you're going to be renovating, I'd suggest looking into ADA-compliant accessibility and adaptive equipment."
Derek nodded. "I can do that, for sure."
"I can go to Reid's place?" Jennifer suggested. "Get some of his things to make him feel more comfortable and at home. I can bring them Friday night, Saturday morning."
Aaron gave a nod. "I think we're settled on Chevy Chase, then, Morgan."
"I'll go there once I finish up at the office tonight"—he turned to David—"and you can get me in touch with those contractors. Guess I'll move in there temporarily."
"This doesn't encompass everything, though," Alex said. "Firstly, Spencer is going to need assistance—at least for a while. We need proper medical equipment and gear And at this point, we haven't even addressed his own autonomy. This may be for his protection, but he needs to have a say in this—"
"Or at least know that we've given his desires proper consideration," Emily interjected.
Alex extended a hand to Emily in agreement.
Emily shrugged. "I put in my leave of absence at Interpol until the first of February. Now that I've been"—she rolled her eyes—" relieved from the FBI, that gives me a few weeks to stay, and I can help out Reid full time until I leave. I can even live there."
"That helps, Emily," Aaron said. "Immensely. Because we need to limit ingress and egress."
Alex shook her head. "We'll still need professionals to help Spencer. And until he can or is willing to be vocal, we'll need interpreters on staff. It takes a multidisciplinary team and a case manager to run a person's rehabilitation smoothly. We're talking about six or seven people at least."
"She's right," Jennifer agreed. "Dr Kane mentioned a neuropsychologist, occupational therapist, speech and language therapist, a nurse, a social worker, an ophthalmologist, a case manager—and that's the start. It's a lot of people."
"And what happens when those days are up, Emily?" Alex pointed out. "We would need to have someone on hand to be around during the day."
Derek perked up. "Okay, but we wouldn't need all those people on hand every single day. Most needed daily is physiotherapy, nurse, an interpreter, and a caretaker to be at home during the day. So what if, for Reid's safety, we cut corners a bit—roll the nurse, caretaker, and interpreter into one?"
"That'd be large shoes to fill, Derek," Alex responded. "Don't you think?"
"But Cassandra checks off all those boxes. She has over 35 years of experience as an RN."
David tipped his head. "Hm. And we've already vetted her."
"She fills more than enough of the criteria," Aaron said, "We'd have to see if she was willing."
David sat back. "I'm sure I can make her an offer she can't refuse. Provide her with benefits, give her a stipend that could more than cover the costs for living and travel."
"Oof, David Rossi," Emily drawled, tilting her head and grinning. "An Italian man who knows contractors and gives monetary offers to people that they can't refuse? Methinks Godfather ought to move over."
"Meh, he ain't got nothin' on me."
After a small bout of laughter, Derek sat back.
"I can help Reid with the physiotherapy in the mornings and evenings. Obviously I'm no professional, but we're trying to keep him safe. I can fast-track my way through some sessions with a professional. Make sure I'm doing it correctly."
"And we can hire out someone when we're on cases," Aaron added. He gave David's arm a light smack. "Perhaps we can offer Cassandra extra incentives to stay on a 24-hour daily watch when we're on cases."
David tipped his head.
"So that's it, then, guys," Derek said, looking out at each of them. "It's decided. So long as Cassandra is willing, so long as all this other stuff works out, we're bringin' the kid back home."
David sat back, tipping his head. "Reid's coming back home," he affirmed.
.
.
.
Thank you all for having been so patient with me - I really do appreciate it. These last few chapters are going through much-needed, drastic re-editing wherein most of their contents are scrapped and rewritten. This is not only to set some of the driving plot/subplots for the next book, but mainly so that the next chapter, where we get a fractured deep-dive into Spencer's mind, will be cohesive.
Hope you enjoyed, and ta til next time.