Note: Many thanks for any and all reviews/comments. For any who have left anonymous guest reviews, I do so appreciate them, and I would like to answer you. Moving forward, per the update on my profile, I will be answering guest reviews on my tumblr.
Please pay close attention to the dates for the next three chapters. Things will not be entirely linear. And, sorry, we won't be seeing Spencer again until chapter 17.
.
.
.
THURSDAY, MAY 2
"And in further news this afternoon, a developing story: we've received report that a suspect is currently in custody for the recent abduction and murder of Marion Knowles."
"I'm here standing in front of the Sheriff's County Station, where a suspect in the Linen Assassin case has been taken into custody."
"Marion Knowles' death seems to be in relation to the recent presence of federal agents, who, according to sources, arrived on the twenty-third of April to assist in the investigation of the finding of two bodies in Stokes State Forest. The nature of these particular crimes points to a more sinister criminal pathology that warrants their assistance."
"The moniker The Linen Assassin has been attributed to the perpetrator of these crimes due to certain characteristics of these murders, most notably that upon discovery, the victims are wrapped in white linen and are wearing white clothes."
"The federal investigators are soon to make a statement."
HOPATCONG, NEW JERSEY
His stale, cold coffee was from this morning, and he stuck it in the microwave to reheat it. A hand wove through his damp hair and as he looked at his phone with the other to check for the time. Less than an hour from now, he had to be at work, but damn was he more keen on climbing into his bed and doing nothing for the rest of the day. He'd just had an intense training session at the gym. If there wasn't such a pressing need to pay rent and utilities and other things besides, he would probably call out. His job could certainly function another day without him being there.
At the beep beep beep of the microwave, he was compelled to move. A sip, a wrinkle of his nose accompanied by a hum of displeasure, and then the settling of the mug on the small table filled the small room before he walked mere feet past his bed to his closet, where he rifled through his neat clothes to pull out a polo and a pair of khaki cargo pants.
He refused to look at his reflection after dressing in his pressed polo and khaki pants cinched with a belt. Five steps forward brought him to his fridge, which he opened and perused for anything he could throw in the microwave to eat on his way to work. He never knew why he dressed well for this damn job that had him picking up after people and working the floor. His clothes always wrinkled and stained by the end of the day. But it was his nature to keep his things clean.
No need to make dinner if he could buy some of the garbage the large superstore sold.
He threw his frozen food in the microwave for something to munch on during his drive and turned to his small console table to grab his keys. Afterwards, he walked over to his bed and sat on it until his food would finish. The keys jangled in his hand as he spun them around the ring and caught them on a full rotation. Spin, jingle, catch; spin, jingle, catch; spin, jingle—
He hated living like this—hated that his life had come to this. He wasn't old, no, but he was beyond youth's vigor. Too many things had spiraled—
The ninth step was a difficult threshold to traverse, and fear of more ostracism was at its end. He saw no return to his new normal and knew that whatever semblance of this life he had built would crash down. So he never improved this pathetic life.
A few days ago, though, he had contributed to a capacity he was able to somehow allay the ever-gnawing guilt. He knew those forests as well as he knew the rather niche history of the Anglo-Saxon heptarchy prior to the formation of Danelaw Army.
He couldn't volunteer for the search party, as he had to work this damned low-paying job so that he could pay for things he never once imagined would be factored into his life. His life had become a miserable existence, and he couldn't even see his own child.
It was enough sometimes that he wanted to take to the bottle again, but he swore he wouldn't. He'd done well. To stave off his cravings, he often went to the gym during his free time or read through and collected his new research in a cloud folder online. There wasn't much else to do when at his lowest he had been shunted, shamed.
The microwave beeped, he grabbed the food from it, and tucked the packaging between his teeth, heading to the door that he always had to jimmy just right to get it to unlock.
It opened for him, slamming inward, wood crackling as it split from pressure of an unknown source. In the next moment, men with assault rifles—some with Glocks pointed toward him—wearing blackened gear and hardhats, advanced into his space like water gushing from a breached dam, roaring at him.
"Don't move! Don't move!"
In one moment, he was frozen, and in the next he was tipping back.
"Put your hands up!"
"Oh my—what—" The food fell from his mouth as he screamed. Amidst the various orders, he cottoned on as they ordered him to put his hands behind his head and get on his knees.
A toned, tall, and imposing man with a brooding brow and dark, stormy eyes wearing Kevlar with the letters FBI emblazoned across his chest stalked towards him. He spat out his full name with such well-deserved derision and disgust and pulled out a pair of flexi-cuffs. "You're under arrest."
"What for?" He yelled indignantly as he was pushed flat to the floor and his arms were wrestled behind his back. "Do you have a warrant? Where's your warrant?" But he knew. With the cinch of the flexi-cuffs around his wrists, he didn't need to put on any pretense. He knew.
"You know what for, you son of a bitch." The man wearing the FBI Kevlar was leaning over him, his breath hot, his words clipped. "I got your warrant right here," he finished, waving the paper in his hand. He was hauled to his knees, then to his feet.
The panic had flooded him with fear and indignation with thoughts rushing like rain around him, but upon hearing those words, they locked onto one thing, and like a skipping record all he could think was They know. They know, they know; oh, god, they know.
"I need to see it. I need to see it." His voice was but a flutter.
He knew what he had done was contemptible, but for the FBI to be involved, he knew he was done for. He had evaded this long enough. No longer had he to look over his shoulders. Might it be now that he would be freed from his burden?
SUSSEX COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
Jennifer tipped her head downward and took in a brisk breath. With an impassive expression that belied the turmoil bubbling below, she steeled herself to issue a statement to the rapacious reporters. An imperceptible ahem to clear her throat preceded her opening statement:
"I'm Jennifer Jareau of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. Regarding the murder of Marion Knowles and in respect to an ongoing investigation involving two other identified victims, we currently have a suspect in our custody at this time being detained for questioning."
"Are you able to positively confirm that your detainee murdered Marion Knowles and the other two victims?"
"No, he is not formally accused of committing these crimes but is simply in police custody on reason of suspicion."
"What led you to this suspect?"
"Based on investigative information as well as evidence we've gathered, we have reason to suspect that our detainee has a significant connection to the aforementioned offenses."
Some of them bridled from the political and non-informative answer.
"How many people have been murdered?"
She gave another non-answer: "So far, three victims have been positively identified."
"What is the nature of the murders?"
"As this is an ongoing investigation, we cannot disclose that information until a positive arrest is made. However, as has been made public, upon finding these victims, they are wearing white clothing and are wrapped in white bed sheets. This is a hallmark of these crimes."
Copycats would come out of the woodwork, surely. But that information was already publicized. It wouldn't make sense to keep it close.
"However, isn't it true that there's been an additional abduction? A law official is presumed to have been abducted by this suspect, correct? What's being done to find him or her? Is this a hostage situation?"
There was a stretch of silence before bustling excitement at this scrap of scandalous information caused a swell of voices to raise at the question.
Recent victims be damned, this was titillating. A law official!
Jennifer's heart clamored in her chest and her eyes zeroed in on the young reporter, brows tucking. She gave a quick, appraising stare, digested what she could of this person, and her lip quirked to a near-imperceptible grin that fell a moment later. Her familiarity of this as a media liaison was unparalleled, and her becoming a profiler had only honed her craft. So her bearing shifted back to her reserved baseline. She crafted her bluff and set the bait, knowing—unfortunately—that doing so would throw gas on a flame that had already been blazing alight beyond their control:
"That information is considered privileged and has not been released to the public. You're going to have to give us your source."
It was an unequivocal Yes.
The reporter blinked and sucked in a breath. "Under the Shields Act, Agent Ja . . . reau, was it? I don't have to tell you who my source is," she responded in clipped words. "Was this to do with the accident that took place in Morris County the evening Marion Knowles was found? Are these two incidents related?"
It was too easy. She fell right into Jennifer's trap. No one knew of any accident as far as she was concerned.
"The rights of the Shields Act are negated when the privileged information that is not disseminated from the investigative team is obtained and released during a pending criminal investigation, as it can hinder the progress. Deputy?" Jennifer looked at one of the officers stationed at the sidelines and tilted her head to have the reporter detained.
The reporter became ashen as the officer stalked towards her and gripped her by her upper arm to pull her away from the others and lead her inside the precinct. The cameras were clicking and rolling, catching it all.
Jennifer tucked her chin again and squared her shoulders. She knew that the remaining would latch onto that morsel, strike at her for seconds and thirds, and hoped that they would overlook her miscarriage for the moment in light of the fervor of what that reporter had revealed.
"Is the law official that's missing a federal agent?"
"What accident is being referred to?"
"What does the Linen Assassin want with a law official?"
"Marion Knowles was missing for less than forty-eight hours before he was found murdered; were the other two identified victims also in captivity for this amount of time or longer?"
"If your current detainee isn't The Linen Assassin, how can we feel safe knowing that not even someone trained in law enforcement is safe from this menace?"
The dam broke, and Jennifer was no longer able to withstand their attacks. To the last question she answered: "A speculatory line of questioning will not be answered. We ask that you continue to remain vigilant, and that you respect the Knowles' family at this difficult time. We continue to ask that white, blond males between the ages of 20-35 remain cautious. Please always stay in groups of at least two, and be wary of accepting assistance from anyone, even if you're expecting assistance. Until this case is officially closed, please continue to follow these protocols to keep yourselves, your friends, and your family safe. We have reason to believe that our perpetrator is working with a partner, and they are both dangerous, highly sophisticated offenders. The potentiality of having one in our custody, if he is indeed our perpetrator, doesn't preclude the other from continuing his crime without his partner."
She went on to describe for the public again the other parts of the profile that Aaron had released days ago, and requested that suspicious activity or information on the criminals be reported to the anonymous tip line.
"There will be no more questions, thank you."
Jennifer walked away from her podium and went inside the building, ignoring their additional questioning and the snapping of pictures.
She kept her stride even but hurried, head swiveling as her eyes swept around to find members of her team, knowing that but one of those faces would anchor her. Upon seeing David, every limb relaxed, and the fist wrapped around her lungs loosened.
"You still got it, kiddo," David said in appraisal. "They were wolves out there but you fended them off."
"I was barely able to keep myself together," Jennifer admitted. "Rossi, are they questioning that reporter? How did she know?"
"We're finding that out—right now," David asserted. He and Jennifer walked over to the young reporter, who was sitting next to the desk of the same officer who brought her in. She was shaking and her face was reddened. David approached her and he sat on the desk.
She looked up at him.
"What's your name, kid?"
The young woman didn't answer. It seemed she'd composed herself from when she was marched into the station. In truth she didn't look like she even pushed twenty, and he doubted much that she was a journalist employed by any media or newspaper. A college student, perhaps.
New Jersey had one of the strongest Shield Laws in the country, and this girl might actually be well protected under it to not provide any source. But she'd panicked when Jennifer requested that the officer have her brought in and the confidence she had shown when trying to hide behind the law was false. In truth, she might not know the laws with enough skill or experience that it wouldn't take much to scare the wits out of her, crack her.
Embellish a little, then.
David didn't mince his words. "I'm Agent Rossi with the FBI. There are questions you need to answer, you got that? Your refusal to cooperate will end a career that I doubt you've built much of and you'll be charged for obstruction during a federal investigation. Do you understand this?"
She said nothing.
He stretched his arms and then crossed them in front of his chest with the intent that she catch the silver flash of his hand cuffs. "Right. Got it. You wanted to sling the legality of what you were doing out there at Agent Jareau, right? Tit for tat, then. What you're doing is tantamount to concealing a record, document, or other tangible object with an intent to obstruct or impede an ongoing federal investigation and can be punished with up to 20 years in prison."
Her eyes glistened with tears and the words bubbled out of her mouth. "Wait! Okay, I'm not an actual reporter, okay? Well I am, but I'm not!"
David looked up at Jennifer. Normally something like this would amuse him, turning the screw a little, but his mind was consumed with finding his missing teammate. He hadn't slept well these last few days and was hardly patient. He and Aaron had to keep their wits about them as everyone else frayed at the edges a little.
"Maybe you guys haven't heard of a little thing called the internet, but there were about three people who weren't part of law enforcement or the rescue squad that saw the aftermath of the accident before they were removed from the scene. They heard things. One of them streamed a video with his phone. That stuff's already on YouTube, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Reddit; you name it, it's out there. We're not dumb so we don't use hashtags like #FBI or something obvious, 'cause it'll circulate right back to you guys."
"Hashtag," David parroted. He looked at Jennifer.
"What are they?" Jennifer asked, eyes widening.
"The hashtags?"
"Yes, what?"
"Um, look up, um, #SussexCountyPigs, #LinenAssasinNJ, #StokesStakeKiller, and #DirtyJRZAtItAgain." She spelled the last one for Jennifer.
Jennifer abruptly turned and walked into the conference room that had been set up for them over a week ago now.
She watched Jennifer and as her eyes slid to David, her face scrunched. "Sir—Agent Mr Rossi, sir. I—please, I'm just . . . I've just started studying investigative journalism in college and I only wanted to get an interesting story for our newspaper since this has all started. Please, I don't want to go to prison. I've never even gotten detention."
David rolled his eyes at her. With the flick of his wrists and his hands splayed in a flourish, he grumbled, "Get out of here."
Her breaths stuttered. "What?"
"No one's arresting you. In the future, I advise that you not go to infiltrate press conferences and try to ignite contention with a federal investigator."
"Oh my god." She shot up from her chair and grabbed her bag. "Oh my god, thank you Mr—Sir—Agent Rossi, sir!" She reached both hands forward to shake his but turned like a robot and walked away at his apparent refusal.
Jennifer was already looking through the hashtags and found the video. She approached Penelope. "Garcia, take a look at this. We need damage control on this immediately."
"Oh my god . . ." Penelope grabbed Jennifer's phone.
APRIL 29, 2013 AT 10:13PM MORRIS PLAINS, NEW JERSEY
The sirens were blaring, lights were flashing, and hearts were thrumming. The 46-minute drive took them only 28 minutes as they sped on the highways—reaching upwards of 95 miles per hour—and then went through local roads twenty miles above the posted speed limits.
When the two cars reached the site of the accident and screeched to a halt, Derek bound out of the driver's seat and raced toward the vehicle. The SUV was angled toward the woods, the driver's front-end crushed inwards.
There, an ambulance had already arrived, as well as a fire truck. At the edge of it all, there was a roadside service vehicle, and the man was talking to several police. In the dark night, the lights were flashing white and red and blue.
The person who reported the accident and tried to assist—as he was an off-duty EMT—was standing with his friend by his own car, being questioned by the local police. Their other friend was still seated in the back seat, his window up but his phone out.
—
"Alright, so guys. This is your boy, Adrian. We just got back from seeing Cirque du Soleil tonight at the MayoPAC. I can't get home 'cause"—he rotated the camera from himself to the scene before him, pressing his phone against the glass as he watched and live streamed in intrigue—"there's been an accident." He sat in the car and watched the professionals do their job. He himself couldn't help.
Several members of the rescue squad had carefully pried the crunched door, and the woman behind it was handled with care, affixed with a neck brace and being spoken to in words that Adrian couldn't hear. She was extracted, put on a stretcher and they immediately addressed her chest wounds, cutting her shirt open.
"Looks like the person that hit them sped off. Su-spi-cious," he sang. "I'm sure their car is messed up. Like, how do you just drive away from something like that?"
Two more large, black SUVs—one with the word Sheriff imprinted on it—arrived and screeched to a halt, flashing red and blue, wailing.
He watched as a man jumped out of his vehicle and raced toward the woman being helped, muffled words weaving into the car. Several others poured from the vehicles, two wearing police clothing, and the other three, a blond woman and two older men. He was sure he saw them on the television recently.
The medical team had to put out their hand to stop the man as he approached the woman. "—m FBI, man," the voice boomed. "—t's—partner!"
"I think these guys are FBI! Oh, oh, oh dang! Okay, so, quick update? Apparently, there's, like—some bodies were found in the forest near the Delaware River near the PA border, right? FBI is all over this. And then Friday night this other dude went missing, and he's from, like, three or four towns away, and rumor is they found him dead earlier this evening and I think that's why the FBI is around?"
He shifted the view of his camera to another one of the agents, a man with dark hair and a severe expression, who was pointing to several officers and sweeping his hand in a broad, striking gesture. "Fede—gents! We—you—area! Clear—now," he urged. His voice was pitched low and was gritted, his words swift. Then the man pointed toward the car he was in. "—ecint for—oning."
"Yo! Hoho! They're trying to get people to clear the area. This is unreal, guys. Hashtag Dirty Jersey At It Again."
"Don't—where—" It was another voice, that belonging to the blonde woman, who looked like she had seen a specter. She stalked around the smashed car, the tied, blond hair whipping her face as she swiveled her head left and right. The darker man turned to his colleague and looked back at the woman on the gurney before skipping off to head to the mangled vehicle.
"Oh shit," Adrian gasped out. "I think there were two people in the car but one of them's not there or something?"
Adrian didn't know where to focus his lens. A clacking of metal made him tilt his hand, and the woman who'd been in the vehicle was loaded into the ambulance. The EMTs said something to the other agent when he approached them. He nodded, then rushed to the one who was ordering the police to have people clear the scene. They spoke briefly, the other nodded, and the older man went inside the ambulance.
"Live footage, guys. I think—"
The front doors opened. "They're makin' us go to the station. Turn that off, you asshole. This is serious."
He hadn't turned off his camera. "Yeah I know, but are those guys Feds?"
"Yeah, they're Feds," the young woman responded. "It sounds like someone's missing. I dunno if it was another fed or just a cop."
"Oh damn."
The hood of the car was smacked twice, and a local policeman's muffled yell for them to follow the police car ended the recording.
—
"The door was closed, Morgan, it was closed and Reid's—he's not here." Jennifer was pacing, eyebrows raised and skin wan.
"Hotch!" Derek's voice travelled over the din. When he saw his unit chief turn to him, he continued. "Get over here, man!" He and Jennifer looked at the side of the car, under it, stepped toward the line of trees on the side. He took out his flashlight and was waving it through the trees to find anything.
"What's going on?" Aaron asked. He sucked in a breath at seeing their frantic searching. "Where's Reid?"
"We don't see 'im, man. Hotch, the car that hit them is gone, and so is Reid. Is this really happenin'?"
Aaron's world slowed at the words, his focus pinpricked and sounds unable to penetrate his ears.
"Hotch."
Aaron breathed in a quick stuttering breath and walked over to Alex's side of the car. He hadn't seen it before, but there was a piece of a red bumper that was wedged underneath the car. He looked at the damaged front end; it was localized to the driver's side. With his flashlight, he surveyed the damage that crushed her bumper, the frame of the door that was laid on the ground after rescuers had to pry it off its hinges to get her out. The beam of light caught red flecks of car paint on the SUV and on the ground and was able to gauge the type of impact.
"Sheriff Reiner," he called out, voice cutting through all the hubbub.
The sheriff walked over to him. "This is a mess, Agent Hotchner. What the hell is goin' on? We got an agent missin'? That Agent Reid?"
"You need to immediately issue a BOLO for a vehicle that's sustained significant frontal damage. Either look for an all-red car, or one that is at least partially painted red. And it's likely a . . . a sedan or a sports car."
"A sedan? A sports car?" the sheriff asked in shock. "That doesn't make any sense!"
"It doesn't. But—"
"No matter. I'm on it." The sheriff nodded his head and jogged to his vehicle.
Aaron reached into his phone and called David. "Dave."
"What's going on out there, Hotch? How's the kid?"
Alex's voice drifted in as incoherent, slurring murmurs that were then covered over by the voices of the EMTs aiding her.
"It—it looks like Reid's . . . we can't find him, Dave."
There was silence on the other line, then a deep, pained sigh. "Do you think this was our unsub?"
"I don't know," Aaron responded, looking around as Jennifer and Derek stepped into the woods along with a few other local policemen, flashlights beaming around. The words rushed out faster than he could stem: "Possibly. It's not impossible, Dave. I don't know. Where would he be otherwise?"
"This doesn't make sense, Aaron," David reasoned. "The unsub is meticulous. This is as reckless as anyone can get."
"Is it?" Aaron responded. "We theorized that he's devolving. But they had a flat tire, Dave. Do you think that was an accident? There were cones blocking off both ends of the street, just like with Marion's abduction. Blake's side of the car sustained more significant damage. The other half of our theory was that he had his sights set on someone special."
"Marone," David breathed out. "Alex is out for the count: she's concussed and they're working to keep her stab wounds stabilized. She also wasn't wearing her belt since they were parked, and they're worried about spinal damage from the whiplash. They're also assessing if she's got any fractured ribs and internal bleeding. Looks like her clavicle is broken, too."
"Damn it," Aaron murmured with a sigh. This was a mess. This unit wasn't going to be together much longer if the director had anything to do with it. They were looking for any opportunity to separate them.
"Damn it is an understatement," David responded.
"Okay." Aaron sighed, not liking any of this. "You're headed to the Medical Center, correct?"
"Yes. Take your time out there, and we'll see you soon. Keep me updated."
"Same to you. Worry about Blake." Aaron hung up the phone and walked past the car again, towards where he could see white lights sweeping through the woods, strobing between trees. Derek and Jennifer broke past the front line, and he watched numbly as Jennifer clasped her forehead. She was wearing a vinyl glove in one shaking hand.
—
"I can't, Derek, I can't. We can't do this again."
Derek was holding Jennifer upright, bending his knees to meet her eyes. "We'll find him, JJ. We have before."
"How, Derek?" she roared frustrated. "How? This—this isn't Tobias Hankel! This unsub doesn't have or want any contact with the media!" She swallowed, stiffened, calmed. "He'll hide himself away and he'll take Spencer with him. Or if he's—if he's devolving, Spencer could be dead in hours. It feels like we're no closer to finding him now than we were when we first arrived. We have an incomplete profile, a drastically different murder, and we don't know . . ."
She inhaled, then clasped her hands together, tucking her head down and bearing her chin down on her knuckles. Without tilting her gaze back to Derek, her voice came out thready.
"We kept saying that we had insufficient data. We kept saying that we would be closer to catching him with a fresh crime scene. You and Rossi just said earlier that the next victim would be special. That shouldn't be anyone at all. And yet it's Spence."
Derek remembered the sensation he felt when he was still training to be a beat cop and he was shocked with a taser during one of the courses. Even though he expected it, that inescapable jack-hammering sensation jolted through him and dropped him to the ground. It was its after effects that stuck with him the most as he got back up. There was no soreness or pain, but he was sapped the rest of the day. This was the same. Those words electrified him, but their meaning was sobering. His hand covered his mouth and he averted his eyes, wilting for just a moment.
"I can't, Derek."
Derek lifted his hand to clasp her neck and dipped himself down to meet her lowered eyes.
"We'll find him, JJ. We won't stop. We find each other."
Aaron walked over to the two and he clapped his hand on Derek's shoulder and kept it there. He regarded his subordinates, the wreckage of the car, the people bustling about, and just exhaled for a moment to recalibrate himself.
—
"Eyebrows," Penelope sighed out in glee. "I was just about to have some dessert with my . . . er, a friend, if'n ya get my drift. What's goin' on, Brown Su—"
"Garcia," Derek interrupted without his usual light tone.
"Derek? What's wrong?"
"Garcia . . . Blake and Reid—there's been an accident and—"
"Oh, no! How—how are they? Do I need to come—"
"Garcia. Penelope, I need you to listen. We . . . can't find Reid."
There was a pregnant pause as it seemed Penelope digested the words.
"No. No, Derek."
"I know you're not working right now, but we need a location on Reid's phone, if it's on."
"If it's . . . on. Oh, god, Derek."
"Hey, hey. We're trying to keep our heads cool. Can you do it from your laptop?"
"Y—of course. I'm—doing—it now. Sam, hold on a minute." There was shuffling and clacking. "My children go off into the dangerous world and I can't fully breathe until they return to me. How's Alex? I'm sorry; you need to go, Sam. We can't do this. My friends are in . . . trouble and I need to work."
"Last was that she's headed to the nearest hospital. She was stabbed."
"Stabbed! Oh my go—I can't—just why—do you guys get hurt—and get put into these situations, and I thought you said there was an acci—oh, no."
"What, Garcia?"
"I can't locate his phone, Derek. I can't—I can't find it."
"Okay, the phone is probably shut off or broken."
"Brok . . . Oh god, oh god, no, no—"
"Okay. Garcia? Garcia? Pump your breaks. Let's try to be cool. I'll call you as soon as possible."
"Ugh. Okay—good—yes, okay."
—
It took all of twenty-five minutes for the car to be located. It was around the corner from a local car repair shop, not too far from where other vehicles were also parked along the sidewalk, but not close enough that any nearby cameras would pick it up. It was a brilliant effort, like hiding a tree in a forest. However, the unsub made a mistake. Had it not been for the fact that the repair shop was solely for foreign-make cars, the two patrolling officers would have missed the parked vehicle altogether. One of them, a car enthusiast, had a keen eye.
It was also so brightly colored against the other muted cars, a red Mustang with a brush guard and tinted windows. The damage to the vehicle was as significant—if not more so—as the damage to the SUV. The officers radioed it in.
The dwindling BAU team and Sheriff Reiner arrived within four minutes and the CSU not long after.
Aaron, Derek, and Jennifer looked at it, disturbed. This was wrong. Everything was wrong. And Sheriff Reiner was vocal about it:
"I gotta tell you, agents; your profile said SUV or utility truck, muted in color, and this just ain't it. What's it mean?"
Anything that could have indicated what model it was had been removed from its body, including the logo, but it was clearly a late model mustang. They didn't have to wonder for too long how someone could have walked away from this much damage to the vehicle, either; when the front door was finally jimmied open after forensic samples and photographs were taken, they all peered inside and could see that the car was gutted and well-fitted with a roll cage, which had completely protected the driver. There was no front license plate, but there was a back plate, from Pennsylvania. Another mistake.
Derek took a few steps away and pulled his phone from his pocket to call Penelope again.
"Do we still think this is the work of one unsub?" Jennifer tried to process all that she was seeing and understand how it fit together. "Hotch, this is . . . it's too elaborate and organized for one person to orchestrate. This car could not have been driven here. It had to be transported."
Aaron looked at Jennifer gravely. The implications of it being a partnership was there. They had dismissed a second unsub based on the need for control, but as Jennifer said, this car couldn't have been driven to this location.
But if it had been two people, why did they kill off Marion so quickly?
"We're . . . looking for a team," Aaron agreed, trying to swallow something large down his throat.
It didn't make sense.
"Hotch . . ." Jennifer murmured, looking down and furrowing her brows. "Why . . . why did they kill Marion? Two people—it makes it easier to keep someone under control if there's more than one captor."
The uneasiness came back up and sat at the back of his throat. A layer peeled back.
It had still been clean. There was still control, order, and purpose shown in Marion's murder. Two unsubs meant that they had an intention of keeping their victim. They should have wanted to keep Marion; he matched their victimology—whatever victimology the team had been able to put together.
It wasn't a devolution.
"Because they didn't want Marion," Aaron said conclusively.
A grander picture was unfolding, a curtain was rising.
"What?" It was a thready sound that came from her.
"Marion's death—his abduction—had nothing to do with a devolution. It was an adaptation, used to draw us out. To get to Reid. He was their intended target."
There was something crawling up from Jennifer's throat, and she swallowed it down.
Derek was speaking to Penelope further away. "Still nothin', Garcia. I know. Yeah, tell me what you can get me on this Pennsylvania plate." He recited the license plate to her and waited. "What? Hold on; wait a minute." He walked back to his two team members and pressed the speaker button on his phone. "Say it again, Garcia; you're on speaker."
"Hey, guys." Penelope's voice came out softly, glumly from the other end. "So, I just ran that plate against the car-make, and they don't match at all."
"What?" Aaron asked, perturbed.
"The car that belongs to that plate is a navy-blue Mazda registered in 2011 to a Zachary Bridges, a 31 year old Pennsylvania native."
"Get us everything you know on him immediately, Garcia; he's now a person of interest," Aaron demanded. "And give me a sec." He stretched out his hand and Derek handed him the phone. He started walking back to the car, and the other two followed him. "Can I get a moment here, please?" he asked the two crime scene technicians who were trying to collect evidence. They backed away, and he swung the door out a little. "Damn it."
"What?"
"The VIN's been scratched off.".
Derek checked the other door. "Here, too," he declared.
"Can we open up the hood?" Jennifer blinked, trying to clear the blurriness from her eyes as her voice trembled. "Can it be opened?"
"Not without compromising the damage site," Derek answered. It didn't matter; a swelling grasp on the situation was enough to tell him that any VIN numbers to be found were destroyed.
"Garcia," Aaron spoke.
"Yes, sir."
"Everything you have on the owners of a red Mustang."
"Model?"
"Can't tell. It likely won't be registered; VINs are missing, all appliques remo—"
"Damn it!" Derek barked.
"What?"
"This isn't the original paint, Hotch." Derek had walked over to the hood of the car, standing next to Jennifer. There was a palm-sized area where the red paint had chipped off near the site of the impact, and he could see scratches on bare metal where the original paint had been stripped.
"Oh god," Penelope said over the phone.
"Could one or both of them be a mechanic?" Jennifer asked.
"What do you mean both?" Penelope's voice was small but deep.
Derek puffed out a breath, jaws clenched, head shaking, eyes closing in understanding. "This couldn't have been done by one person, Garcia," Derek concluded. " Son of a bitch!"
"Oh, no."
"And, yes, JJ, it's very possible," Aaron answered. "Okay, Garcia, anything on people who registered a late model Mustang within the last . . . five years. And get us any information you have on a Granger Foreign Auto Body Shop here in Morris Plains, its shop owners, and all the workers, past and present." Aaron suspected that the unsub—unsubs—were diverting attention from themselves, but it was a line of evidence that he couldn't just push away.
"I'm on it, sir, I'll get you all information as soon as I can. And sir?"
"Yes."
"Please find my dove."
Aaron huffed, hanging up the phone.
Sasha Everton, the lead crime scene technician, came up to Aaron. "Agent Hotchner, can I show you something? This is actually unbelievable." Her eyes were widened and her head was giving little shakes.
"What?" Aaron asked. Jennifer and Derek paid rapt attention, and the woman pointed to the front driver tire, then the rear driver tire.
"These two are different treads."
Aaron sighed. Derek wiped his hand over his head. "My god," he mumbled.
"And the two passenger tires are the same tread, but neither of them match to these two," she continued.
They were speechless.
These unsubs had been five steps ahead of them this whole time, and were throwing out all sorts of things to throw them off and slow them down.
"JJ, get into contact with local PD. We need to question this shop owner as soon as possible."
"Do we think that this place is connected?" she asked, pulling out her phone.
"It's probably not, but we need to exhaust any possibility at this point."
Derek was watching the frustrated CSIs trying to gather evidence from inside the vehicle.
"We should head to Morris Plains PD and talk to Jeffrey Paek, the off-duty EMT that found Blake."
There was much to do to find Spencer, with no true starting point.
