SATURDAY, APRIL 27, 2013 AT 8:30 AM SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
The next morning, the team met at half after eight, again having to enter the precinct through the back to avoid the swell of reporters at the front.
Aaron didn't waste any time. "We have tons of new tips to filter through."
"And," started Penelope over the phone, "I'll be sending you my super-narrowed down list in a couple of minutes. Info is still trickling in."
"Great, Garcia, thanks," Aaron responded.
Penelope was able to whittle down the suspect list from 351 names to 81 potential suspects which—while still large—was an easier number to swallow for now. They wouldn't dismiss the other 270 names but would put them on the back burner.
Spencer and Derek divided the task of going through the 81 names and histories, as well as police records and medical records where applicable. Those with more extensive paper trails were given to Spencer.
Alex was going through the other list of potential abuse victims.
Aaron, David, and Jennifer filtered through the tip lines but followed up with everyone who had called, or they met with others who were still coming in with items to use for DNA matching.
There were a few crossovers with the list of names that Penelope had generated of missing blond males, but none were a DNA match so far.
In the early afternoon, they ordered food to keep them energized and ate through working. Spencer unreservedly drank green tea with honey. He checked in with Penelope regarding the person of interest from The Cellar, and she still hadn't been able to get his identity. By the time everyone was done with their tasks, it was nearing quarter after one.
Among the 81 potential names, there were 34 viable suspects, and Aaron found it a much more palatable number of people to work with. These people matched much of the criteria they were looking for.
Of these 34, ten lived out of state: Three in Pike County, Pennsylvania; seven in Orange, Sullivan, and Rockland Counties in New York. The remaining ones lived in the surrounding counties Warren, Sussex, and Morris Counties in New Jersey.
Aaron expelled a puff of air. "Alright, guys. We're going to interview these people. We'll have the local deputies follow up on those that live here in Jersey. Reid and Morgan, you two will head into New York and cover these three. Dave and Jennifer will cover the four remaining in New York. Blake, you and I will head to Pennsylvania to cover the three there."
—
Aaron and Alex's drive was punctuated by silence as they crossed over the Delaware River into Pennsylvania.
Alex was waiting, though. She knew why Aaron paired up with her. He wanted insight on how Spencer was doing because he knew that she had rapport with him.
To his credit, he was patient about bringing up the subject.
They'd interviewed their first suspect—a barber—at his job after not finding him at home, ushering him away from prying ears while he was working with a customer. He urged them to make quick work of the question.
'I can't trust Fisher out there with my client, he'd said with a derisive tone. 'The guy's got two left hands.'
A classic need for control. He was irritated with the whole process and made no effort to hide it, which left Aaron and Alex with a sour taste. But the line of questioning led them nowhere. He had a solid alibi for the evening of Noah's abduction, and even of the days leading up to his murder and burial. They would have Penelope check against his claims anyway.
The other two interviews, one at the suspect's home, and the other while the man was at the gym, had been similar, though they were a bit more pleasant to deal with. Again, the line of questioning led them nowhere, as the two men both had solid alibis. Again, they would have Penelope check against these.
It wasn't until hours later, when the two were headed back into New Jersey, that Aaron dove headfirst into the subject without preamble:
"Alex, what are your thoughts on how Spencer is progressing?" No flourishes, no hesitations, just straight to the point.
Ah, there it is. Alex appreciated it. It had been quiet, and she had been waiting. She dipped her head, spreading her palms down toward her lap. "Progressing. That's being generous."
"Mm."
She sighed. "He's hurting, Aaron. In ways that we couldn't possibly imagine."
Aaron was quiet for a moment. In a tone that he used rarely—the soft, contemplative one—he next spoke. "I don't have to imagine it, Alex."
She realized her error all too late. "Oh, Aaron." She shook her head, closing her eyes. "You're right, and I'm sorry."
"It's no problem," Aaron murmured. "In ways, you're not wrong, though. He never saw Maeve until she was moments before her death, and that leaves a first and lasting image. Reid is . . . I've never properly equipped Spencer with ways to emotionally deal with things, both in the work setting and in an overall social aspect. He's just not wired like we are. People who don't know him think robotic. That's not Reid. He's soft. Sure, he has sharp curves, but no distinct edge."
"Mm."
"But I feel like as time goes on, he's being hewn to have them—those edges—and I don't want this for him. I feel like I've failed him over the course of the years."
To this, Alex didn't respond with any platitudes. How could she, when she felt the same way of herself—at least in respect to Maeve?
"It's never too late," she started, "for us to continue helping him. You say hewn. It's not far off. But he doesn't need to be whittled into something sharp. Hewn rock may not have its original form, but under the right hands it can still be shaped to something with beautiful, rich texture."
"Mm."
"Of course, Spencer has to truly open the door. He's trying to in small increments. He's got this"—she gave an uneasy laugh and gestured with an open swing of her palm—"this swing-bar lock around his heart and keeps it armed, but sometimes he lets me peek inside."
Aaron curved an eyebrow and glanced at her before training his eyes on the road. "Is there anyone of those peeks you feel comfortable sharing with me?"
Alex didn't feel like she was betraying Spencer. "Well, we had a conversation last night—just the beginnings of one. I can't tell you the true depth of it because our conversation was cut off, but the short end of it is that he's just not sleeping well, Aaron, and is having difficulty eating or keeping food down. It's all debilitating."
"Mm."
"In his words, he doesn't have inner peace. He can't sleep because he thinks about Maeve, and when he sleeps, he dreams of her murder, or . . . or a situation in which they're on a date, it seems, which they never had the opportunity of truly doing, so he avoids sleeping. It's disrupting his life."
"Yes. And it's affecting his productivity, which is bothering him more than it's bothering us. At least on my part."
"On that note, Aaron, I think I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you what happened at Stokes the other day. He had a dizzy spell, and he nearly contaminated Noah's burial site."
Aaron sighed. "I know about it."
"Do you, now? You didn't let on."
"Yes, I'm aware. You discussed it with Dave and Morgan, apparently, but I only found out when Dave and I went to the third burial site because Dr Bates informed us. You should have told me this sooner, Alex. None of you told me. We can't jeopardize evidence." He paused. "He should have told me."
A breath puffed out. "I know."
"This is indefensible, Alex. Dr Bates has opened an incident report on this. I can forgive Reid's performance, but when something like this goes beyond us it's—"
"I know, Aaron. I'm sure he knows it. And I think—I think that his spiraling instead of improving has moved him to speak to me last night. He wants to move beyond this, Aaron. In his words, he wants to traverse it."
Aaron shook his head. "I can do my best to help him, but I can't protect him—or any of you—when things are above me regarding the law and the judiciary system. My greatest concern right now is his emotional and mental well-being. If that means that he needs to take time off to truly work through his grief, then so be it. He has nothing to prove to us by working himself ragged."
"Mm. I feel the same way, but it raises some confliction in me. He needs to reorder things. This is fact. What he can't do is go about it alone . If all he's doing is being surrounded by his loneliness and pain, left to his own devices, he'll seek escapism. Inevitably."
Aaron sighed. He knew where Alex was leading with the statement, and he wondered how she knew about his addiction. Spencer wasn't the type who was open about his three-week long addiction or the subsequent four-and-a-half-month struggle to break the habit before he went through a rigorous detox. Then again, they had an established closeness, Spencer and Alex.
Either way, to Spencer's credit, he was resisting the urge to fall back on the bad habit. His admission over a year and a half ago that he struggled with his sobriety after he thought that Emily died had highlighted—to Aaron—how much he wronged Spencer. It was a necessary evil, but it underscored not only how much Spencer valued sincerity, but how greatly he cherished his teammates.
"He's not preventing us from being let in, Aaron. It's just a temperate and careful peeling back."
He sighed. "We can't win," he said. "He becomes defensive in order to protect himself. His trust issues are deeply ingrained, and he trusted that we would be able to help him with Maeve. It was out of our hands, but that trust was broken, not just with Maeve, but with my and Jennifer's secreting of Emily Prentiss. That caused a chasm. These things have a causality; they have a root and are linked together. Jason leaving, being abducted by Tobias Hankel, the bullying throughout his life, his absent father—these things can hurt a person, but they can also embitter someone, too."
Alex felt that if she were standing, her feet might fall from under her. Just days ago, she had thought about these same hardships that had assaulted Spencer throughout his life. Like Aaron, she had wondered, too, how much more Spencer might take before he wouldn't bounce back.
"I think he may need professional help"—Aaron's hand gripped around the wheel—"so that he can get to the root of these things and properly process his trauma. If he has difficulty coming to us to help him, then it may be beyond us."
"You might not be wrong on that. I know that I don't know Spencer as well as you all, but I think he'll refuse any professional help. His background in psychology might be a hindrance in allowing someone to essentially pick him apart."
Aaron sighed. "We don't give up on him. That's the end-all be-all."
"No doubt. I'll keep working at him."
—
"I feel like this case is just taking off in so many directions." Jennifer clicked on the cruise control as soon as they hit the 84-Interstate highway. She was glad to volunteer to drive, and David was glad to let her do so.
"We have those on occasion," David murmured, eyes closed and all but sleeping as he leaned his head back against the headrest. "Little Henry's going to miss his mama this weekend, mm?"
"Ugh." Jennifer plastered her hand to her chest. "Tell me about it. I feel so bad. But Jack is going to have a sleepover with him tonight, so I think that softens the blow a little."
"Mm-hmm. Hopefully, this case will be solved in a couple more days. If not, or if we don't get some significant lead that gives it more momentum, we're going to have to leave this precinct with what we have."
"Well, Spence keeps saying it: we're lacking sufficient data. I just . . . I hate it when the additional data we get is from new victims."
"Speaking of." David was at full attention now, facing Jennifer. "I noticed that the two of you were having a powwow in the conference room the other day?"
"Mm. Yeah."
"Care to share?"
She shook her head—not because she was refusing David, but because she didn't feel like she knew what to do. "He's just so very hurt by all of this. I wish we could undo the past few months. Undo the lie that Aaron and I told him. Undo what Tobias did to him and what it caused. Undo Jason just leaving like he did without proper closure."
"Tobias?" David parroted. "Hankel? That serial killer that abducted him?"
"Yes. I'm sure you've . . . figured out."
"Ah, the kid's addiction?" David asked.
"Mm."
"Plain as day to someone like me, Agent Jareau. You forget, Gideon and I built up the BAU."
Jennifer gave a sad grin, looking over at him for a moment before putting her eyes back on the road before her. "Oh, don't I know it, Agent Rossi."
"So . . ." David paused. "Hankel drugged him."
Jennifer's throat felt thick, and she cleared it to swallow down the phlegm that was building up. She nodded.
"And he developed a drug addiction afterwards."
She unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, biting on her lip. "M'yeah."
David shook his head in irritation and exhaled a puff from his nose. He hated the circumstances that led Spencer to the habit. "It's not easy . . ."
"No. And the other day, I said something that could have suggested—obviously suggested—that I was stating that he was using again. All I told him was that we knew he was struggling, and"—her hand went straight up by the side of her head—"up his walls went. He thought I was saying that he was struggling with his addiction again."
"Well, c'mon, now. In the face of his trauma, would it honestly be a far-fetched conclusion, though? That's why he reacted as he did: it may be something that he's fighting from returning to. And last year, with Emily returning, he admitted that those weeks he was in mourning for her death were a struggle for him . . ."
It pained Jennifer to hear David say this and to plainly state how real the potential was for Spencer to start using drugs again. "Oh, Spence," she uttered, the words falling from her lips like something was gripping her lungs. "I trust him, though, Rossi. I trust that he wouldn't do something like this. He values his sobriety too much. He doesn't even drink anymore."
"Mm. I know. Alex, Derek, and I were saying the other day that he needs some time off. But when you think about it . . ."
"It's better that we keep our eye over him."
"Mm."
"Protect him."
"Eh."
"I just really wish we could give him a different life. A happier and better one."
"Okay, no," David rushed out without compunction.
Jennifer whipped her head at him for a moment, eyebrows raised. "No?"
"No." The span of David's experiences was expansive: he had three failed marriages; his first ex-wife asked that he be there for her in her dying moments; he knew his son, whose soft cries after he was born were followed by his death mere hours later; a mad criminal punctuated his birthday by taunting him with the deaths of the women he murdered.
He spoke with authority: "What he has now, he has. Reid's not a child to be protected or shielded. We all come from terrible pasts, and we're bound to have awful things happen to us in the future."
It sounded cold, but it wasn't untrue.
Jennifer resisted placing her hand on her belly. Her second child, the one she had miscarried because of that IED—the trauma was recent enough for her that she sometimes felt him or her still swelling and growing inside of her like a phantom being.
Her eyes became wet.
"What's great is . . . the different strings from all of our lives have become so interwoven with each other that we've formed this grand tapestry. This team is a unit in thought and at heart. But the thing about tapestry is that it gets roughed up from time to time, and things will snag into the overlaid threads. Even so, if one string starts to unravel, it takes very, very considerable tugging for it to come loose and fall away. All it takes is a little fixin' to get back into place. That's where Reid is right now. We work together. We help him. We form a support for him. If we can't be the ones to do it, he gets professional help to work things out and uses one of us as his safety net."
"David . . . "
The wonderment in Jennifer's voice wasn't lost on David. "Eh. My mother was a seamstress, and a damn good one at that, JJ. There's a lot about me you don't know," he said.
She smiled. "There is."
"We come from terrible traumas, JJ, but there are wonderful things, too, both in the past and to come."
"You're not wrong," she agreed. "But you know as well as I do. Spencer is . . . he doesn't have the same mind as you and I have. There's a delicate quality to it. Not just delicate like glass—but also in the manner that things might tip the scales for him if he keeps taking these kinds of hits."
"What do you mean?"
Jennifer sighed, afraid to lay bare this truth. "At a certain point, Rossi, there's only so much that someone can take before they become calloused, angry. Or, like glass, they just shatter."
"Mm. On that you're not wrong."
"He's empathized with some of our unsubs—like Owen Savage[1]—and others who weren't even criminals who sought him out for help, because he's said that he knows what it's like to be afraid of his own mind."
"Yikes."
"So he takes another significant blow and he . . . he might just dive in to seek ways to escape, relieve that bitter itch, or he just might fall in and get dashed into so many irreparable pieces."
"Oof. So, we steer him away from a ledge of any sort."
And, Jennifer thought, one way was to work out with him how she'd betrayed him, lay bare the hurt, and work through it so that he could trust that she would never do him the disservice she'd done to him. He valued—above all things—honesty, with no hidden agendas.
She and David interviewed their four suspects over the next few hours. They all had solid alibis for the evening of Noah's abduction, and for the days leading up to his burial.
—
As soon as Spencer had sat in the car, he put his sunglasses on and rested his head against the window. He knew what this would become, and he'd been trying to prepare himself. Where Jennifer gave gentle nudges and Alex drew him out, Derek was insistent.
Derek—for his part—turned on the radio and tuned it until he found an RB oldies station, lowered the volume a little so it was but a whisper of sound, and just drove.
It was quiet in ways that Derek never thought possible, for in the past Spencer oftentimes didn't even need to be stoked to rattle off for the duration of the car rides. It sometimes irritated him, but he tolerated it for as long as he could. In knowing Spencer from their first few encounters with each other, he had a feeling that Spencer had learned the hard way to be quiet and invisible for many, many years. He had to undo a lot of that when he had first met him years ago.
Almost ten minutes of silence stretched between the two. "Pretty Boy. You asleep?"
"Mm-mm."
"Talk to me, man. What's goin' on in that genius brain of yours? Writing any new articles for a journal?"
Spencer opened his mouth. His teeth clacked.
"Seen any new sci-fi shows? Watch any movies? Isn't that second Star Trek film comin' out in a few more weeks? You gonna be seein' it? Want me to come with?"
Evade, then. "Did you know that the birch tree can grow in—"
"No. Uh-uh. You know that doesn't work with me, Reid. What's really on your mind, kid? Tell me, man."
Spencer sighed.
"Reid. C'mon, talk to me, kid." Derek took a quick glance at him. "You're hurtin', man. You've been hurtin' for months."
Silence.
"You thinkin' about Maeve, Reid?" Derek took another sideways glance, and Spencer's back began to bow, like something was pressing down on his shoulders.
Derek switched off the radio.
"You have all these thoughts swimmin' in that pretty little head, kid, and you're keepin' all that locked inside you. Talk to me. I wanna help." After another stretch of punctuated silence, he broke it. "Let me help."
Spencer had to force himself. In doing so, his right hand began to rub on his leg. He couldn't help it. He couldn't.
Derek saw.
"I . . ."
"You?"
Spencer cleared his throat, still rubbing his leg. "I can't yet. I want to, but I just . . . I can't. There are far too many layers."
"Putting the thoughts and the feelings out there helps, Reid. Even if it doesn't make sense. It's cathartic. You know that. You keep it all bottled inside and it just boils until it's burnin' you up from within."
"What about you?" Spencer's voice came out bold. "Did you ever talk about your trauma with anyone? Talked about Buford's recent murder in prison?"
Derek's hand gripped the wheel, the muscles in his arms dancing.
"I'm sorry." Spencer seemed to remember himself, and that spark of fire smoldered. "I shouldn't have—Derek, that was uncouth of me."
"It's okay, kid." But the grip on the wheel tightened.
Spencer had a gentle disposition, but when he felt backed into a corner, his claws could be sharp.
"I'll bite, then." Without hesitation, Derek admitted, "I'm conflicted that he was murdered. I wanted that son of a bitch to rot there for the rest of his life, but I also wished him dead so many times. Now that he is, there's like a . . . like smoke from a doused fire in me that's seeking escape, but it won't ever get the chance, so it's stifling."
Spencer had pulled off his sunglasses and was staring at the road ahead.
"When I was younger and left for uni, Reid, I found an outlet for a while. Football was my outlet. I channeled my rage into running—running at breakneck speed to feel that ball fall into my hands, hitting that touchline. If I didn't make it and I had to rush someone into the ground, that felt good, too. The rush of adrenaline was my drug, man."
"Until you injured your knee."
"Until I injured my knee," Derek agreed. "And I couldn't stop running from my anger at that point, you know? I had to face it, and I had a"—his right hand flicked open next to his head as he continued—"a lightbulb moment and realized that passin' a ball, catchin' a ball, runnin' to that touchline, rushin' some guy to the ground—makin' a life out of that wasn't doing anything for me. It was just numbing me, you feel me? I needed to help people. So, I shifted my focus."
"Mm." And what a shift that was, though Spencer knew it was an inevitability. At his core, Derek Morgan was a classic protector—his was an amalgamation of forged values that galvanized his motivations. A rarity, if his trusted statistics were anything to go by, with an intense focus that Spencer admired.
"To answer your question, Reid: no. I never talked to anyone. And you know what? I wish I had at that time. Just one person. Just one."
Spencer was silent, his fingers tightening around the strap of his satchel. A fire in his own chest burned, and he wanted to let it consume all the Carl Bufords of the world, a people who reached a level of depravity that he hated to know the depth of in far too many ways. "I hate it, Morgan." His voice itself held that smokiness. "That you had to suffer that. I hate it."
Derek shook his head. "No one should."
"No." His voice came out tight.
Derek sighed. He didn't want to dwell on it. "Okay, so, Maeve."
"Diane killed herself, Morgan, but she took Maeve with her. That lingers. The images linger. The pain . . . it lingers. I've never had an outlet. Not a . . . not a proper one. And I ne—I want one." Well, there was the other thing. But he knew that if he started that, like a stoked engine he wouldn't be able to stop, and it would be—
"Okay." Derek felt cold uneasiness spreading in him. God. The kid is screaming for help.
"I just . . . can't escape her. I can't stop thinking about her. You know me, Morgan. I obsess, I fixate on things, and I do it until it's out of my system and I can't"—his hands curled into fists—"I can't get her out of my system. I can't alleviate myself from these aches. I can't release myself from her."
Derek blinked, ticking back as if he'd just smelled something unpleasant. Release. It was a powerful sentiment.
"What about when you were a kid, Reid? I don't say this lightly: your trauma runs deep. After the football team incident, did—mm— your mom—she wasn't lucid that night."
"No."
"But did you ever tell her about it later?"
"No. I knew that"—Spencer straightened his lips, head tilting—"I knew she'd have felt guilt over not having been there to . . . to help me. I didn't want to burden her with that guilt."
"And going to your guidance counselors might have gotten you bullied more."
Spencer scoffed. "Yeah, no. I learned not to do that. For multiple reasons."
Derek shook his head.
"So you've not had any kind of counseling for that incident. Or for anything else besides."
"I haven't," Spencer admitted. "It all sits here"—he tipped his forehead onto his fingertips—"and it thrives. And they often push out with a single trigger unbidden."
"Jeez, kid." It was said lamentably. "What helped? When you were younger. Something had to help you cope."
"I can't . . ." Spencer was ashamed. "I can't, Derek. If you—no, I can't." He couldn't tell Derek about what he used to do as a child that helped to alleviate his anxieties for some time. Whenever someone saw, he was at the butt of ostracism and the bullying—sometimes in the form of crude imitations—escalated. Sometimes it would go on for weeks, and whenever there were more intense circumstances, his voice fluttered away. Since Maeve's death, he'd been keeping it at bay and struggling not to let it out. So it was brimming under his skin like live insects trying to crawl out from every orifice.
To stave the temptations, he'd taken to rearranging his bookshelves when the urge was strongest or counting prime numbers as high as he could to distract his mind, often aloud while staring at an empty space on his green walls. The monotony and repetition helped.
He knew if he started with the other things he wouldn't be able to stop.
While he trusted Derek not to react the same way as his peers, as immature youths would, something deep within convinced him that this was the natural inclination.
"Hey, kid, hey. You know you can talk to me. Any time. Any time. I'll always make time for you. And whatever it is, I'll help you through it. I have before, and I will again."
Derek had been an enduring presence when Spencer was trying to cut his drug habit. He hadn't shown him his disappointment when he slid back again and again after mere days of fighting it. Jason, however, became more bone-weary each time Spencer approached him in his weakness when he slid. Jason's expressions didn't conceal his despondent resignation, an expression that Spencer read as that of despairing capitulation. Or had it been one of betrayal? Betrayal that his book-smart, genius mentee couldn't be less human, couldn't fall under less corporal temptations, like he had expected more of him because he was supposed to be inhuman.
It had wounded Spencer, and he felt so ashamed to approach him that in time he didn't.
He was human. He wasn't some robot. He had his fallacies, and he didn't just process things without perception or sensation of emotions. Jason seemed to have forgotten that. No, he didn't process things normally, according to societal standards, and he felt things cut into him, so he often hid under the guise of being unaffected. The truth of the matter was that things roiled within him.
At the very least, when Jason had been on his six-month medical leave a just a few years before so he could deal with his major depressive episode following the Adrian Bale Boston Bombing case, Spencer had visited him whenever he wasn't on newly assigned cases, whether to sit in silence with Jason or to play chess with him; he had brought him food; had taken him to the park or the library to get out of his place. He visited the museum and looked at original Audubon prints with him. He went bird watching with him. For four months he did this before Jason felt like he could at least teach at the FBI Academy before transitioning back to the field.
Jason hadn't afforded him two damn weeks.
When he attempted to detox and failed, and when he didn't dare approach Jason about it, it was Derek who sensed his distress, and he didn't ask to help him, he imposed, and it was that imposition that had saved his life.
It was Derek who insisted that he help him. It was Derek who reasoned with Aaron that a rehabilitation center would too closely mirror mental institutionalization, which posed a threat to his psyche. It was Derek who had taken it upon himself to serve as his constant vigil.
Derek stepped in, had put up with his agitation and irritability, made him laugh at his worst moments, took him forest bathing when he was restless, taught him breathing exercises when he panicked, showed him proper stretches to do to relieve his joints and his pains, kept him cool when he was feverish, and warmed him up when he was shivering from cold.
It was such a physical and emotional intimacy that he had gained with Derek in those days of absolute distress, and he found it nearly impossible to repay him for his attentiveness. Never in his life had he felt a closeness with someone—apart from his mother—and never had he felt so indebted to someone; not even on the day he had first met Jason, which was a pivotal moment of his life. He owed Derek his life and wouldn't hesitate to give it up for him.
So, yes, he had no doubts that Derek would be there for him.
As much as he had enjoyed the high that the drug gave him at that time when he was at his weakest, and as much as he struggled to forget what that euphoric bliss felt like as he tried to keep the non-memories at bay—especially for the first few days after Maeve's murder—this was not something that he wanted to fall back on, not just for himself, but for Derek as well. He couldn't do that to Derek.
"But," Derek's voice cut through his thoughts, low and serious.
Spencer waited for the rest.
"I will smack you five ways to Sunday if you're talkin' about what I think you're talkin' about."
Spencer was unable to suppress his laughter. There it was again; that ability to make him crack a smile despite the weight of the situation. He felt something warm spread to his limbs.
"I'll do whatever it takes to make you realize that you don't get to do this to yourself. Don't think I'm kidding."
"Oh, I don't," Spencer answered.
Derek flashed his signature white and straight-toothed grin as he reached his right hand over, tucking it under Spencer's chin, and tapped his right cheek a couple of times in an affectionate and playful gesture. Spencer flushed with warmth.
Derek put his hand back on the wheel.
"I just need a little more time. Maybe to—to gather my thoughts. Don't give up on me."
"Never, Reid. You know that. Never. When you're good and ready, kid. When you're good and ready, you'll lay it on me, and I will be there."
"Thank you."
The rest of the ride was spent in amiable silence before they reached the first suspect.
But Spencer put his sunglasses back on and tilted his head away and directed his gaze out the window, a heat pooling behind his eyes.
He knew the ache of Maeve's absence was something that would never ebb, and he knew that time might never weather the hurt within him. He oftentimes didn't want to put in any effort in bettering himself. But he didn't want this to destroy him. For Derek, a person who exhibited a fierce ardor for him—a concept he still couldn't understand but that he cherished all the same—he wanted to try.
7:45 PM SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
After regathering later in the evening, the team felt like they were making progress. Of the 34 suspects that had been interviewed throughout the day, there were seven who didn't have alibis, and aside from that there were other aspects of their personalities that marked them as high persons of interest. They were all Jersey natives. Penelope would be running a thorough background check on them, and she was flagging all purchases moving forward to look for suspicious activity. They felt like they were gaining momentum at this point. They went back to their hotels and rested for the evening.
Aaron facetimed Jack for a little while, and his son excitedly told him of the fun that he and Henry had during the day. Jennifer did the same with her son; he was currently bathing and would be going to sleep soon, tired after such an exciting day with his proverbial big brother. Derek had knocked on Spencer's door and held up a bag of takeout Indian food, and Spencer let him in; they watched the last couple of innings of a basketball game together and Spencer broke down both teams' shooting strategies and rattled off statistics on some of the players. After Derek left, Spencer wrote a letter to his mother, then pulled out the boxload of files that he'd taken with him from the precinct and started looking through additional people who might be connected to the unsub. Alex spent the evening reading, and David went to a bar to enjoy a couple of glasses of bourbon before heading in.
Various news outlets, websites, and social media continued to cover the story of the supposed two bodies that were found in Stokes State Forest, but with waning interest. A small handful of people were duly cautious—with themselves, with their sons, with their boyfriends or their husbands, and with their friends. But most continued their lives without unrest caused by a fear of seizure.
The sensationalism that arose when males were victims of serial crimes didn't swell with the same fervor that it did with female victims. The imperative just wasn't there to be cautious.
People carried on.
And yet.
DATE UNKNOWN LOCATION UNKNOWN
Marion Knowles pulled his car to the side street, then drove in a little before parking it, mumbling at the piece of crap car that never failed to disappoint him. He turned on his hazard lights and, opening his door, walked to the other side to surveille the tire that'd begun to flatten. Perhaps it succumbed to the pothole that he hadn't been able to avoid. He paid his taxes; there shouldn't be any reason that these roads should be in such terrible conditions.
"Damn it," he hissed after observing the tire. A car approached, slowed down, then continued. He went to his trunk to pull out the needed equipment as well as his spare tire so he could replace the flattened tire with the donut. Minutes later, another car passed him, and as it rolled on by, he could hear music and laughter blasting from the open windows. The driver—or some other passenger in the car; he truly didn't care who—yelled out the window something along the lines of Sucks to be you!
"Sucks to be the dregs of society!" he yelled back. Assholes.
Once the car was raised high enough with the jack, a whole process that took a few minutes more, Marion began wrenching the lugnuts off.
A truck rolled toward him in the opposite lane. Before even reaching his car, the truck crossed into the opposite lane and parked, facing the front of his car, beams high as the driver turned on his hazard lights. Marion looked over his right shoulder as he saw the front driver door open. The proverbial good Samaritan stepped out.
"Hey," the deep and congenial voice called as the silhouetted form sauntered toward the vehicle. "Did you need help?"
Marion gave a tight smile., squinting at the outline of the man who was offering his assistance. "Ah, thanks, sir, but I got this. I've changed a spare before."
"You sure?" the man pressed, his form cutting beyond the headlights, face obscured in the shadowy night.
The waning-gibbous moon was bright and high this evening, yes, but thick clouds were painted over its full glow.
The form neared Marion and stooped to peer at the tire, blocking the headlight further, forming a halo around him and further obscuring his face. "You're having trouble with that lugnut."
Marion exhaled, pausing so he could reign in his patience. He just wanted to fix this damned tire and get home. While he appreciated the gesture, his day had worsened steadily. He was disinclined to deal with anyone. He'd just come from the gym to get out some pent-up energy, but a problem that had followed him throughout the day came circling back to him through a text. Then this damned tire.
"I'm good, sir. This one's just a little tight. Thanks, though," he said with a note of finality.
"Alright," the man said in a tone that betrayed his unease. "Let me give you a flashlight and I'll be off. I have one in my truck. Doing this without enough light is hard." After this, he took a jog to his car.
"Uh, thanks," Marion said as he got loose the third of the lugnuts as the man approached again. In truth, he could use the flashlight, he thought as he squinted, positioning his tool properly to remove the next. "Thanks again."
The other man said nothing.
With Marion's hand locked around the lug wrench, the good Samaritan knew he wouldn't be able to react. He quickened his pace, and—as the young man looked up in alarm at hearing the grit on the road slide underneath the other man's feet—he slammed the flashlight upon the younger man's head.
Marion lurched to his side in a stupor. His attacker didn't wait. He pulled out a small Ziplock bag from his pocket. Within it was another sealed Ziplock bag. He used the contents within to set about his next task.
It would be enough to ensure that this victim would be out for a few hours—just enough time to begin setting things in motion.
Set the bait; lure in the prize.
There were many other things left to do, and he began by reaching with utmost meticulousness into the car.
It was three minutes and forty-seven seconds ago when the dregs of society screamed out their window as they passed Marion's car.
It was the last that Marion Knowles would be seen alive.
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In reference to the footnote [1] in this chapter, you can find additional information on my tumblr.
