For all returning, welcome back. For any newer readers, welcome. You've all traversed this difficult journey with me, and I thank you—some of you agonizing with my weekly(ish) updates. We're here, at the beginning of a new and difficult part of this journey, though. Have faith. All is not lost. It won't be easy, but eventually Spencer will come to us again. Not quite now, but eventually. So please join me as the ones who truly love him learn how they'll need to take his hand and help lead him from the darkness.
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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2013 AT 6:53PM MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY
Hospital halls were often punctuated with the tap tap tap of rushing feet or the lull of the midnight hour, but not the heavy cuh-lunk of pacing heels. Penelope Garcia, ever the unconventional, was a person whose presence was preceded by that very sound and whose flashes of color and whorls of patterns were an undeniable testament of her essence.
She splashed the drab medical halls as she walked left to right and then right to left like an agitated, trapped butterfly.
Derek had called her—she checked—six minutes ago, now. They found Spencer, and the emergency vehicle she had faithfully and astutely told them to bring to the McAllistars' home for immediate medical care had left and was on its way.
That was all Derek had said: 'We found him.'
In the background, sirens blared. When she asked after Spencer, Derek didn't answer at first. So she pressed him to tell her.
'He's not good, Penelope,' he'd answered.
It was the way in which it was said—with nary an inflection, his use of her first name, his lack of exuberance, his lack of detail, and the way it was followed with a We're headed to the hospital and an abrupt end to the conversation—that she knew: this was very serious, and very bad. But they found him alive, and after the call ended, she refused to weep. They should be triumphant.
But why was this taking so long? She looked at her phone again. Only nine minutes.
Realistically, they couldn't just materialize in front of her.
So she waited. Rather, she resumed pacing, little relieved that she had requested that the ambulance attendant be well versed in emergency medical care and not some run-of-the-mill medical technician who would execute the barest of procedures to maintain a severely abused victim's livelihood.
"Oh god . . ." Her belly pinched, a pit opened beneath her feet, and she felt like she was falling. "Oh god, god. Reid."
She sat before her legs might collapse beneath her, and she waited.
Finally, the doors slid open and she lifted her gaze to see Jennifer, Alex, Emily, David, and Derek walking in with a somber defeat.
Alex and Jennifer both had stains of blood on their hands, and Penelope gasped upon seeing them.
"Oh my god. Are you hurt or—"
Jennifer's eyes were hooded and haunted, glazed over, the whites stained pink. Her nose was reddened. On seeing Penelope she tightened her jaws.
"It's . . . it's Reid's," she declared.
"Oh no," Penelope said in a horrified, deepened voice. "How—what—"
"Excuse me," began a woman at the receptionists' counter. "Would you please be able to clear the drive aisle?" she asked kindly.
The six moved to the side and went toward the chairs.
"Are either of you injured?" the receptionist asked Jennifer and Alex, to which the two declared they weren't.
"Somewhere, something is looking out for that kid," David said.
Alex hummed so softly that they barely heard her.
But an hour—half an hour, even—delay, and they would have been met with far worse a sight. Even Penelope having the ambulance on scene before they even breached the house saved precious minutes.
Somehow, they arrived at the proverbial eleventh hour and fifty-ninth minute. And yet. They only ever found Spencer due to luck. A drug hustler who happened to be fresh out of prison and right back in the system was what had given them any break at all, what had started this all. Alex—wishing to stay in DC instead of going to Boston with her husband—put together the largest piece of the puzzle. Penelope, indulging in her need to dig into the lives of these victims' families who were long past the team's periphery, had unfurled a grander understanding of how all the families were linked.
All fortuitous.
Yet Derek said nothing. His faith in anything was always on a rocky precipice, day by day. If any divine intervention had been involved in the first place, preventing such a gross perversion would have been better than prolonging all of this.
Penelope perked. "Where's Hotch? And Agent Alvez?"
Derek's voice rumbled out. "Hotch rode with Reid. Alvez stayed behind to oversee everything at the McAllistars."
"Oh. Okay, good, yes." And then Penelope, wishing to be a beacon of hope beyond their glum and tired expressions, turned out to them. "We have him back. We have him back."
Emily shook her head and averted her gaze downward.
"You're all breaking my heart." Penelope's voice cracked. "I need hope. I need someone to tell me that he's okay."
All Derek did to allay her worries was extend his hand to her. She moved forward and took it. In the next moment, she was seated next to him and leaning against him.
"Derek." Her voice was just a soft hush. "Please. Please tell me he'll be okay."
"I can't do that."
Penelope moaned.
A couple of minutes passed without anything being said among them.
Jennifer kept vigil by the automatic sliding doors and peaking out—again and again.
Derek—by now—had his other hand on his face, covering his eyes, stooped over.
Alex, who had been seated and lost in thought, stood and looked around before she—finding what she was searching for—approached Jennifer.
"Come with me to the bathroom?"
They both had blood on their hands and needed to wash it off.
—
But for the running water, silence stretched between Alex and Jennifer as they cleaned their hands. Jennifer splashed her face, grabbed a few towels, and patted it dry, wiping her hands afterwards. Alex pulled her hand away from the stream of water and it turned off. She stared at the pinkened water going down the drain.
"You almost called him your son."
Alex blinked, catching Jennifer's form through the mirror. She tightened her lips before she unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, making a clicking sound as she breathed in.
"Yeah," she sighed out.
Jennifer blinked at her, fingers curling over her lips as she tilted her head. That near-misalignment of Spencer's name in place of Ethan's—that admission to Lorraine that Alex was a mother—was the first Jennifer had known that Alex had a child at all. She was sure she wasn't the only one.
But Jennifer was nothing if not perceptive. Alex connected with Lorraine for a reason.
"Your son. He . . ." She found she couldn't finish as her throat throbbed.
Alex tightened her lips.
"How old was he? Ethan? When he . . ."
Alex's eyes burned and lowered as she breathed in a deep and tremulous breath. Lifting her eyebrows and giving a pained smile, she opened her mouth, but the words met a barrier that took a moment to lower. She was grateful for Jennifer's patience. When she was ready, she answered without looking at her colleague or her reflection, voice gentle.
"Ethan was . . . he was nine." The words petered to a wistful lilt that almost made the statement sound like a question, like she wondered if he had truly existed all those years ago. "A little too young, but they always are when they go before you."
Jennifer's hand lifted away from her lips as she wiped an errant tear from her eye with her finger. She thought of Henry, who was barely half that age. The thought of him not even getting to ten made her eyes flutter, and she understood why Alex was able to empathize with Lorraine—why Lorraine responded. In some way, that woman could sense and intuit that same pain.
Of course, in a way, Jennifer understood that loss, too. It was like something in her had prepared for that new space where her unborn child would have been loved and cherished when she found out that she was pregnant again, and that child never even got the chance to fill it. It left an empty hole, a vacuum of space.
Which had been worse? The preparation of a future and then the emptiness—hopes and asperations unobtained? Or having had something for just a few, tender years and having it torn away? Perhaps it wouldn't do to make comparisons and it might be better to just share that pain.
"He would've been 26 this year. And a lot like . . . well, like Spencer. Bright, inquisitive, gentle-hearted but with a streak of that"—she let out a fond, tender laugh—"that defiant spunk."
Jennifer's smile was but a flash. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She put her hands together, pressing the tips of her fingers to her mouth, resisting the urge to hold Alex's hands. "I'm so sorry, Alex."
"I am, too." Alex finally lifted her eyes to Jennifer and her next words were void of full devotion. "We found Spencer, though."
Jennifer couldn't bring forth the effort to even smile. They left the bathroom and returned to the ER entrance, where everyone else was seated.
David was stolidly staring at the floor, his head tilted and his eye twitching every few minutes, as it was prone to do whenever he was stressed.
Emily, shaking herself out of some reverie, pulled off the large jacket she was wearing and extended it to Derek.
"Mm. Nah. Keep it for now."
"Thanks." The reception area, being right next to the emergency entrance, was chilly.
Within another minute, though, she was biting her nails and the jacket was laid across her lap.
With the distant pule of a siren, Penelope moaned, covering her face. "Oh god. I'm not ready. I'm not. I'm not I'm not."
They waited for a mere minute before several faraway footfalls pattered and grew louder—along with the intensifying wail—rushing towards them from within the hospital. They all turned and saw several emergency staff members.
"Incoming patient with intraoral hemorrhaging due to traumatic amputation. Paramedics had to perform an emergency cricothyrotomy on scene. SCA following a tonic-clonic event. Currently receiving automated cardiopulmonary compressions and was given two shots of epinephrine."
"Damn," an emergency nurse murmured. He was bound for the mortuary, without a doubt.
They overreached the agents sitting on the side and the doors opened as they piled outside, waiting.
The group stood, Penelope grabbing Derek's wrist, and they inched toward the edge of the drive aisle. Tears filled Penelope's eyes. She whipped her terrified gaze to Derek.
"His tongue?" she squeaked.
Derek, not looking at her, eyes piercing the doorway, nodded.
Two people remained behind. "You're all going to have to stay back," one of them said with an upraised, halting hand.
That siren cried louder; blue and red glowed in the darkened night, the colors dimming in the white of the hospital.
From their vantage point, the ambulance came to a gentle stop near the doors, and the emergency staff went toward it. The two who remained behind kept the doors from sliding closed so as not to slow the pace of the trauma doctors and nurses who—after moments of incomprehensive, muffled, elevated speaking—returned with a rolling gurney, where Spencer was laid and inundated with equipment.
Jennifer's jaw dropped and she had to will herself not to jump forward. She cupped her hands over her mouth.
Spencer's arms were raised, his wrists were strapped securely to the frame of a pumping LUCAS machine, and his abdomen pulsed under the constant, quick compressions.
One of the staff was carrying a small container; Spencer's tongue was within it.
Penelope gasped as the emergency trauma staff came further into the hospital. Upon the gurney reaching her view, her hands flew to her mouth at the sight of blood on Spencer's pale face and what had been wiped from his chest. Another staff member was pumping air via a bag valve into a tube protruding from his neck. The rest of his naked body was swathed in a silvery emergency blanket.
They all sped past the group, words the team didn't fully understand flying around. They went around the left corner, and when their voices fell away, Penelope's tears fell.
A single pair of footsteps then echoed in afterwards.
"Aaron . . ." David's voice rushed out at the sight of Aaron walking toward them.
"Hotch," Emily's voice was frail.
There was blood in small patches on his fingertips, swiped on his shirt, on his forehead.
"Oh my god, Hotch! Sir!" Penelope rushed over to him. "Are you hurt? Is that . . ."
"What happened, Hotch?" Emily asked.
Aaron shook his head, waving the questions off. He spun a little, pressing his hand to his forehead.
"I need a—give me a second." The words were strained and frail, and he pulled his hand away, leaving another patchy print of dried blood.
"Hotch, man, take a seat, take a seat," Derek encouraged as he grabbed his disoriented leader by the elbow and led him to one of the plush chairs.
Aaron sat and curled his back, elbows on his knees. Bearing down both heels of his palms against his eyebrows, he breathed through his mouth, the sound soft and shaky. He remained like this for longer than they could bear, shoulders quaking.
It was rare to see him like this, and yet it wasn't the first time this evening where he was stripping himself before them. It was unsettling, for Aaron Hotchner was a foundation not easily shaken.
Jennifer had a splayed hand pressed against her chest, and she looked at her unit chief in worry, begging, "Hotch, please . . ."
"He, um, he had a seizure and then soon after went into cardiac arrest," Aaron finally said, his voice unsteady.
"Oh my god."
He could still hear the agonizing, steady, unrhythmic beep following Spencer's body having spasmed in repetitive jerking motions.
The paramedic had pumped away at Spencer's chest. Aaron was alarmed by the attendants' flurry of activity. But they didn't even pause—in a split moment, they assessed the situation and reacted. The pulses of the defibrillator pads placed on his chest were found inefficient after shocking him. His chest was pumped again before the two stopped their activity for only seconds to tilt and brace Spencer's limp body. The automated chest compressor was affixed to him, doing the bulk of the work. The attendant was able to pump air into his lungs with the bag valve; the paramedic was able to use the defibrillator where needed and administer the two shots of epinephrine.
They'd yelled at Spencer: Hold on, hold on. We're not letting you go, you're gonna make it.
Aaron was silent, heart thrashing against his chest. Where he could without interrupting the attendants' activity, his hand wavered over Spencer's and skimmed his curled fingers, tightening over them, his knuckles had brushed against his blood-smeared cheek and jaw. He was real, and he was dying.
It wasn't like the films or television where Spencer was revived after just a minute or two minutes of effort. Nor was it like the films, wherein there was a termination of resuscitative efforts after just one or two minutes of no response from Spencer. They had started this nearly fifteen minutes ago, now, and it all continued as everyone disappeared around the corner.
Jennifer, weak in the knees, had to grab a chair, and Emily supported her. She sat down, stomach quavering.
"It's not good," Aaron said with the shake of his head. They could tell the words weren't meant for their ears when he echoed them, eyes fixed upon nothing.
Penelope shook her head. "No. No," she murmured, her voice high and tense. Derek wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "We only just got him back. He can't. He won't."
Aaron said nothing else, and they all found themselves sitting in a short time.
Emily, though, paced like a brooding cat, the tip of her thumb wedged between her teeth.
—
Aaron had gone to the bathroom and returned already, hands now clean of any blood. It was over two hours past Spencer's arrival. In that time, he had filled out Spencer's medical registration to his best knowledge and given it to the receptionist.
Every time a nurse or doctor ran from the right of the hospital to the left where they'd taken Spencer, the group tensed.
And finally, a pair of footsteps hurried to them. They all looked up to see a staff member, and Penelope gasped, seeing a patch of blood on the woman's scrubs.
Based on the complications they overheard and could understand, this seemed far too soon for any emergency surgery to be over for Spencer.
"You're all here for the trauma patient, Spencer Reid, correct?" was the breathless inquiry. Her face was flush behind it's olive overtone.
"Yes." The voices were small and dry.
"We were told that one of you is his legally authorized representative and medical care proxy. An Aaron Hotchner?"
Aaron stood. "I'm Aaron, yes."
She nodded. "I need you to come with me, sir, now," she said with authority.
"What's"—Aaron took a step forward—"What's going on?"
But she was already trotting away, and he followed.
"I can't take this," Penelope murmured weakly into Derek's shoulder. "I really think I might die."
—
Around the corner and past the swinging doors, the doctor stopped.
"Doctor, what's this concerning?"
She looked up at him. "I apologize, sir—ah, agent?"
"Aaron," he corrected.
"Aaron, I'm Dr Goswami." Her warm voice lilted with her faint accent. "I want to firstly let you know that we've been able to successfully recover Spencer from his cardiac arrest."
Aaron let out a breath he'd been holding.
"I don't want to candy-coat anything that I have to tell you, though, Aaron. I've a feeling you want things straight."
Aaron nodded. "Yes. What are we looking at?"
She puffed out a nasal breath. "A severely critical patient, Aaron. Spencer's cardiac arrest has served to complicate and exacerbate a slew of problems. What his body needs after such a traumatic event is rest. Unfortunately, his physical trauma doesn't afford him this. As the assessment of what else his body needs is multifold, I would like to inform you which of these will be or are being handled currently—as they're necessary—which of these can be held off until sufficient recovery, and which of these is least necessary for his survival and which you may want to forgo."
Aaron already felt hollowed out, and he slipped his eyes closed briefly as he prepared himself.
"Apologies. And let me know if you need me to soften the blow."
"No." His eyes met hers. "No. I'd appreciate your candor."
"Then I'll start with the most important and which is going to be dealt with shortly. That is his perforated bowel as a result of his sexual assault. Alongside that are anogenital injuries to be dealt with."
Aaron's eyes stung. It was evidenced all over Spencer's body, but he was no less numbed at hearing the words. The reality of it was jarring.
"—ron? Agent?"
Aaron blinked. "Yes, sorry. Sorry. Continue."
"As you're a law official, there are procedures that I'm sure you're familiar with in the face of sexual assault. I'm aware of how you would prefer that an internal or more in-depth external Sexual Assault Examination be run after his acute medical needs are taken care of. As Spencer's currently unresponsive, you—as his medical proxy—will need to provide us your permission to at the least hand off anything potentially evidentiary to our forensic nurse during our procedures. The reality is that no internal examination can be conducted and forensic photography isn't feasible at the moment but can be conducted later. As I'm sure you understand, Spencer's acute medical concerns supersede the evidentiary concerns."
Spencer had no living relative that he trusted could make a reasonable decision regarding his healthcare, his life, or his assets in case of a life-or-death situation or health crisis. This was why he had elected Aaron to take this on a few years ago. Additionally, in the case that he became non compos mentis due to falling victim of his ever-feared genetic predisposition to schizophrenia, he needed someone he trusted would make the right and objective decisions for his care and follow through with his specific wishes.
Rape—and all the ailments that could potentially come with its violence—had never been considered in the finer details. Spencer was violently private when it came to his body, and he protected that privacy. So his rape infringed upon him, and—according to the passing mention from Derek and Emily regarding what they had seen—he had little autonomy while in captivity. He had every right to refuse that invasive exam. He had every right of self-determination to say that he didn't want it, or that he would allow it—all on his own terms. He deserved to be able to make that decision himself and he couldn't even do it.
That would have left him, as Spencer's medical proxy, to be thrown the onus of making that decision for him. It would be one more way to take away that which Spencer entirely lacked these past few months—control. At his relief of knowing that he wouldn't have to make any decision regarding an invasive internal examination, he knew it now: he was clearly bad for Spencer. Spencer's trust in his ability to be objective had been sorely misplaced—he cherished him far too much to keep something so personal at arm's length.
"What are those medical concerns, then, Dr Goswami? A perforated bowel and the anogenital injuries. I'm assuming that you're referring to are"—he puffed out a breath—"fissures and or fistulas."
She straightened her lips. "A few are in various stages of healing, but yes—those. Some fresh fissures. As I'm sure you understand, a perforated bowel is no good news, as this opens the possibility for sepsis. Infection—possibly peritonitis—is inevitable. Glossing over the grittier details, I can say that we're thankful that there's no sign of necrosis and he can endure suturing of the perforation."
"Where does that put him?"
"After this is dealt with, he'll have a temporary colostomy. That would then cover the most immediate of his needs. From there, we'll move on to treating his anogenital wounds, and then we'll move on to keeping him in a medically induced coma."
"What about his tongue? Where does this fall in the roster?" But Aaron knew. "The window for reattachment is about half a day, is it not? Ideally, how long are the procedures for his perforated bowel and his anogenital needs going to take?"
"Honestly, Aaron, his tongue is the lowest on my list of concerns, but not how you would wish—"
He sucked in a breath; she, in turn, reached out a placating hand, shaking her head.
"—and I implore you to understand why. While tongue reattachment can be done successfully, it's a delicate, intricate, and an hours-long procedure involving microsurgery and the careful hand of at least two specialists. We've stabilized the wound, and I wouldn't want to delay replantation beyond a certain window of time. Sixteen to eighteen hours isn't abnormal, and there have been cases where extremities such as a toe or a finger have been replanted upwards of thirty hours after amputation, but there are no cases that I know of where this has been done with a tongue. So the window is small. The procedures that we're going to work on following this conversation may take upwards of another eight to ten hours."
Aaron looked at his watch. "And we're already slightly over three hours from amputation."
"Mm, yes. So deterioration—specifically what is medically called ischemia—of the amputated limb is being slowed drastically because it was handled so quickly but is nonetheless taking place. As I mentioned before, pending our discussion of the additional acute medical needs, you will come to the conclusion—as his medical proxy—that forgoing the replantation is the most sensible choice and not worth the risk of his health or livelihood."
Aaron's head whipped back. "No. That's . . . that's completely off the table," he asserted. "Whatever you can save—whatever can be done to restore Spencer to being as whole as possible, I want it to be done and attempted without question."
Her lips straightened to a grim line. "I understand, Aaron. Given that the amputation was clean and that his tongue was handled with the least amount of contamination, the potential for recovery, restoration, and function after replantation is high. My doubts are not with the success of this surgery if this were any other case. My concern is that his body is in a state that needs rest—not additional, unneeded surgical trauma—to support his recovery, to maximize his survivability once this major surgery is complete. This is my priority. To take a surgical risk in the face of something that is not necessary for his survival is unwise."
His head was repeatedly ticking from left to right. He couldn't do this. He needed to be able to process this all in a clear, clinical manner without the emotional burden put upon him.
A look of sympathy washed over the doctor's face, and she sought to soften this blow. "This is a lot to process in such a short amount of time, Aaron; I understand that. Please don't think that I'm being intentionally insensitive about where the priorities are."
He sighed. "No. You have no need to apologize. You're doing your job; I know this." He swallowed and his voice trembled. "What are the other prognoses?"
Her face scrunched. "In truth, the damage is extensive, Aaron. If Spencer is strong enough to survive this all, his recovery will be long. Not impossible, but long."
Aaron's stomach fell and he took a stuttering breath, blinking rapidly to stave off the tears. It was a corner that he didn't want to be pushed into on someone else's account. Spencer's life and livelihood was being placed in his hands.
Her hand reached out as she endeavored to stabilize him. "Are you alright, Aaron?"
He held out his hand to stave the contact. "Yes," he lied, voice shaking. "Please continue."
She tilted her head sympathetically. "Yes, well, the state of his laryngeal trauma has caused obstructed breathing aside from the respiratory depression. Our otolaryngologist will be making a more thorough assessment to determine how best to proceed and classify what category Spencer falls under regarding the severity of his injury. This might surprise you, but reparations in this area, while absolutely necessary, aren't currently life-threatening and can be held off the longest—for multiple days, potentially even a week or more—during an observational period while he remains intubated, as his airway is no longer compromised. This is why I'm comfortable with addressing this after Spencer has had sufficient rest."
Aaron nodded. "Okay. Good. Yes, that's . . . good."
"While on the subject of intubation and to segue onto the next thing, Spencer's Glasgow score is unreliable. One of the reasons is the intubation. But the reality is that there's a significant chance that due to his respiratory depression, it will have led to hypoxic brain trauma. We won't fully know the severity for some time, but based on some reactions during basic testing, it seems that he may straddle a line between mild or moderate. Each brain injury is unique, though."
Certain clauses of Spencer's medical directive came to mind, and Aaron was unable to suppress a groan and the fluttering of his belly. The corner he was backed into was within a room that was shrinking by the minute. He took a step back and braced himself against the wall. There were no seats here in this hall, or he might be slumping into it.
"Aaron?"
"Please continue." He put up his hand and kept his eyes closed.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Her voice was whispery. "Across many units here, we've run most of the necessary tests, blood samples and a urine sample are being run for toxicology and urinalysis, and an MRI will be conducted at a later time. We had to halt further testing when he suffered another tonic-clonic seizure."
He thought that maybe his heart stuttered, and his eyes flashed open. "Another?" It was soft, breathless, and disbelieving.
"Yes. What you told the paramedic was completely viable."
With a nod, Aaron spoke. "He has Ketamine in his system, then." At her nod, he explained. "The perpetrators did this to at least two of their victims—administered high levels of ketamine just before murdering them. When I saw he was in respiratory distress, I . . . I was sure the same was the case."
"Knowing helps us tremendously. This may be what's exacerbating the seizures, though it could be a plethora of things—the hypoxic trauma, the asphyxia—but ketamine induced seizures aren't uncommon."
He sighed. "The likelihood is that there may be other illicit drugs in his system, as well as alcohol. One of the previous victims was found to have both MDMA and GHB in his hair follicle analysis."
She blinked.
"It might do to run these, too, in your toxicology assessments. I know these all can be potent and toxic."
She nearly blubbered. "Deadly, Aaron, and if this is the case, the medley of all these things undoubtedly contributed to the respiratory depression and can induce seizures. We'll test for these and . . . and other potential date rape drugs."
He closed his eyes and took a moment to try to compose himself.
"This is all a perfect storm that can set him off. Again, his cardiac arrest just gives us further cause for concern in regards to the seizures. It's not an often occurrence, but at times, they can cause the heart to slow or stop temporarily during, which is called an ictal asystole event. In Spencer's case, however, his cardiac arrest didn't occur during his seizure but followed it due to many factors: his body is just so acutely overtaxed and traumatized by the drugs, the alcohol, the reduced oxygen levels, by the blood loss, and probably other things besides. He's likely to continue experiencing them at high frequency for some time to come before, hopefully, the electrical activity in his brain settles down and they're only an occasional occurrence. What I can tell you, which I know you won't want to hear, is that seizures post cardiac arrest are a poor prognosis factor. And from what you've told the paramedic, this isn't the first time that he has suffered drug-induced cardiac arrest."
"Yes, that's correct. Several years ago—about six years ago—he suffered cardiac arrest and was successfully revived. We later found that it was because he was, um, forcibly drugged."
She tutted. "Two in his lifetime is two too many. Unfortunately, additional future cardiac arrest is quite possible and dangerous. We'll have to see how he responds after surgery to truly assess what his prognosis will be, but the survival rate after cardiac arrest really hinges on the first 24 hours. Again, you see why the replantation is further cause for worry and is seen as avoidable in the face of his acute medical needs."
Aaron's mouth was dry. "Barring what you mentioned about the cardiac arrest and returning to the seizures . . . would that mean that he might have epilepsy?" His eyes pricked with unshed tears. He couldn't concentrate on the last part of what she had said.
"Basically, yes, sir—Aaron. He's only had the two that we know of; I'm unsure of what he may have suffered in the months before coming here, but I don't doubt that he's had previous episodes. Individuals with any history of epilepsy may be more prone to ketamine-induced seizures; so we have to wait as it leaves his system. We've already induced an invasive therapeutic hypothermic protocol to minimize any further risks of hypoxic brain damage, cardiac arrest, seizures, or respiratory depression. We'll be monitoring his stats closely to minimize any adverse effects of this procedure."
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Aaron's fist pressed against his mouth. "Okay. Okay; alright."
Dr Goswami's hand met his elbow, braced it. "Okay?"
Though his vision blurred with his tears, he nodded. He peeled his shaking fist from his mouth and held it before him again to stave off her contact.
"We've not wanted to do anything too invasive and unnecessary considering Spencer's condition but are prepared for the inevitability that when he's in recovery, he will no doubt acquire pneumonia from what he's aspirated. As I'm sure you understand, this will just complicate his recovery."
Aaron steepled his hands over his face.
"So you can see—"
He shook his head.
"—I'm sorry, Aaron, but I'm sure you're better understanding"—her tone grew more insistent—"how critical a condition Spencer is in already. And these are just the more major issues. You're looking at a hypoxic brain trauma patient who is currently at risk for further cardiac arrest, will undoubtedly have complications with anesthetic administrations due to his drugged state, is in respiratory distress, and who has critical anogenital and abdominal injury. This is all perioperative. Other worries are that his blood tests, so far, are showing abnormal liver and renal function, likely due to minor alcohol poisoning and the ketamine. Stomach flushing, removal of toxins from his system—this is all taking place. Again, a critical patient. Given these comorbidities, we would be exposing Spencer to an unacceptable risk of serious perioperative complications after highly difficult surgery and a prolonged if not impossible recovery."
It would have been better for her to just tell it to him straight: Spencer was a dead man. If that was the case, then—
His hands drew down and his voice was thick. "Can nothing be done about his tongue? Is it an absolute impossibility?"
Her eyebrows scrunched at the edge of desperation in his voice.
"If"—he stuttered around the word—"if you knew him, you would know what kind of blow this would be to him. To suffer all he has and come out this unwhole would destroy him."
"Aaron," she endeavored to reason.
"Can nothing be done?"
"You would—" She had to take a bracing breath. She averted her eyes to the floor and gave her head a shake before redirecting her eyes to him. "You would potentially risk his life for this, Aaron?"
"By your risk assessment, there are already multiple factors that are already life-threatening. Is that not the case?"
She blinked, sucking in a breath, no doubt knowing—understanding—where the question was coming from. Her voice was small. "Yes."
"This is just the least important thing to potentially bring him closer to such a point."
"Well, yes, Aaron, but . . ."
God help him; he would gamble what was left of Spencer's life. "Then proceed with the replantation at the latest possible intervention before ischemia makes it impossible. I have confidence that you'll be capable of this, that you'll do whatever is necessary to try. Please. Please."
The doctor's lips whitened with how much she clasped them together, staring up at Aaron. Finally, her watering eyes fluttered.
Her voice was thick with emotion that Aaron couldn't quite decipher. "I admire your faith in our capabilities, Aaron. But understand that this requires further consult with a multidisciplinary team consisting of myself, the anaesthesiologist, the cardiovascular specialist and the otolaryngologist, the cardiologist, and the hospital director. I will insist and advocate on your behalf to move forward with this at the earliest juncture, but they must all agree to move forward with this. If this isn't unanimously decided, then it's out of my hands, unfortunately. No sane physician would allow this. The last thing needed right now is to bring an ethics committee into this, and I'm sure this isn't something that you want. If deciding to move forward, at any sign of distress—cardiac arrest, seizure, or shock—we will have to terminate the replantation procedure. Even after this, post-operative infection is likely, and will likely result in a reversal and debridement of infected or necrotic tissue. I'm sorry, but these are the only options that I can conscionably allow."
Aaron's eyes were shut, but he was nodding as she spoke, accepting.
And then her voice softened. "That does mean, Aaron, by some small stroke of luck and with diligent and careful hands, there is some hope that he's resilient enough to traverse all of this post-operatively. I've seen recoveries that aren't explained by medical intervention."
"I understand. Thank you."
"I'd suggest that you and your friends get some rest. Spencer will be in the best hands, and there's nothing here that you're all going to be able to do. We can contact you if there are any changes or any emergencies. You registered him, correct?"
"I did."
"Is there anything else from his medical history that we should know before administering anything? You also mentioned to the paramedic that he's severely allergic to carbenicillin, yes?"
"Yes," Aaron answered. Beyond that, he didn't know much more about Spencer's medical history despite being his medical proxy.
"Thank you, Aaron. Please keep your phone on standby."
"I'll be close by," he reassured her. "You'll find me in the waiting room."
"Right, then."
"Oh. Ah."
Dr Goswami had started to turn away, but she rotated back to Aaron's direction.
"He's been prone to intense migraines since early March? Some have been debilitating. They . . ." He licked his lips then began to babble, "They might be psychosomatic due to previous emotional trauma, before all this happened, but he has records of it happening a few years ago besides, has MRIs for them, and—"
Gently, softly, she interjected, surely sensing his increasing distress. He was glad for it.
"We'll see about that when we conduct the MRI and compare it to the rest of his medical history. That will come once he's more stable, though."
"Understood. Thank you. Let me know of anything else you'll need from me—any further consent you'll need for reparative procedures, major or minor."
"We certainly will. And Aaron?"
His eyebrows lifted.
In turn, her eyebrows puckered, and her chin wrinkled. "Please know that I am sorry that this is something you have to even consider at all."
Aaron was unable to thank the doctor, could only swallow around his dry tongue, but he nodded once in acknowledgement as his eyes pricked and she walked away. He let out a shaky breath as everything she expressed—every risk he was taking with Spencer—circled in his head.
Spencer had expressed on multiple occasions that sometimes one had to go beyond the confines of convention in order to achieve hitherto unforeseen breakthroughs in medicine, science, and neuroscience—go beyond the box.
It was that purely objective view that he and Jason had endeavored to break him from but had never fully been able to. Now, Aaron was doing the very thing—going beyond the bounds of what was thought as feasibly possible—to selfishly keep Spencer despite not knowing if Spencer even wanted to hold on to his life.
He pressed his fingertips to his eyebrows and gave a deep sigh before taking a long, slow inhalation. Just a moment. Just one to gather and piece himself before he would have to walk out the double swinging doors towards the reception area, face those under him, and keep from them that he may have written a death sentence for Spencer.
—
Upon Aaron's return, everyone stood.
"What's going on, Aaron?" David asked, voice wispy and thin.
"Please take a seat," Aaron croaked, hand patting the air.
It seemed he'd returned too soon and hadn't shifted back to his unreadable comportment. Whatever it was he was giving off, they were reacting to it in equal sum:
Penelope whimpered, and Jennifer fell into her seat, eyes filled with tears. With her elbows on her knees, she leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands.
"Please," Aaron implored.
They sat.
"Just tell us, Hotch." Emily's voice didn't fluctuate. "Is he . . . has he . . ." Her stomach jittered at just the prospect of saying what she feared.
Aaron shook his head. "No."
"What's—what has she said?" Jennifer asked.
Aaron sighed out, eyes averted. "It's too much." The words he first spoke were to himself, said in an undertone, and they had to lean forward.
"Hotch?" David urged.
Training his eyes on his subordinates, Aaron spoke, selective about what he would say. "They've recovered him from his cardiac arrest and are currently prioritizing which procedures will take precedence due to his current state, but Reid is at high risk for . . ." He swallowed.
Penelope braced her hand against her chest.
"His condition is critical. Any of these procedures puts him at risk for . . ."
"And the procedures being?" Alex asked, blinking away the possibility of his death.
Aaron swallowed. "There are signs of hypoxic brain injury—whether mild or moderate cannot fully be determined—further indications of cardiac distress is deadly, he's seized again during assessment—"
Alex's eyes slipped closed.
"—he's in a state of respiratory depression, has a laryngeal fracture, and is showing signs of renal and liver abnormalities because the McAllistars did drug him heavily with Ketamine, that they are positive of so far."
Penelope's hand was plastered to her chest, and she looked physically ill. "My dove," she bemoaned.
"What about his tongue, man?" Derek asked.
Aaron puffed out a breath. "They haven't begun reattaching his tongue as they've stabilized the hemorrhaging for now and are conducting other assessments before he's even in surgery for anything. Everything will take several hours to get under control, but anything . . . anything right now is putting him at risk in his condition. I'll stay here, as I'm Spencer's proxy, but it may be best that you return to the hotel and get rest, or—"
The squared shoulders and straightened backs warned him of their objection.
"Hotch, I'm not goin' anywhere, man." Derek's rumble voiced what most were thinking. The very idea of leaving now!
"Or," Aaron continued, holding out his hand, "if you're understandably restless, there's a crime scene currently under investigation by Agent Alvez. We're not yet taken off this case, but at this point I promise you that we will be. So it could use our expert eyes. What we see—what we assess as behavioral analysts—will help Reid in the long run. Because we will be the ones to help him."
"We can't leave, Hotch," Jennifer objected. "That's Spence in there."
David stood and walked to Aaron's side. "Aaron's right," he said shrewdly. "Our being here does nothing for the kid. Right now, he's in the best and most capable hands possible. It's been a packed few days and we need rest so we can continue doing what we do best. Or we can take a couple of hours to go to the McAllistars' home and continue working this case."
Jennifer shook her head in defiance. "This case is closed." The very idea of spending another second away from Spencer filled her with such despair. Any significant distance from him and he might disappear.
"It's far from that, and we know it," David retorted. "Interviews, inquisitions, the law versus the McAllistars—that's all to come. Now that we have the McAllistars, we can truly understand and find out who they are and what Reid dealt with. There are also still two unknown victims to identify. Reid doesn't encompass this whole case. They've not removed us from this yet, so we can go in, gather what information we can, like Aaron says." And then he dared to make the bold statement: "Think about what Spencer would want or do in this situation."
They did, and they all knew it. The brainwork. That would be what he would concentrate on to avoid feeling. It was how he protected himself.
Jennifer dipped her head down, and then—pressing her hands on her knees—she stood.
"I'm not gonna be able to rest, man." Derek declared with the shake of his head as he stood. "I—I'll look at the home. After that, I'm comin' back here."
David tipped his head at Derek's decision-making. "I'll do it with you. Anyone else?"
"I'll go," said Alex. She hated hospitals, and she was ashamed to say that she was glad that Aaron wanted them to leave.
David gave a permissive nod.
Jennifer and Emily relented and also agreed to go.
It was obvious that no one could quite rest.
Penelope, terrified that she was losing her grasp on everyone and unable to determine where she could best be put to use, tearfully looked at her superior. "What can I do? Please give me something to do," she begged.
Aaron tilted his head toward the hall, indicating that he wanted some privacy with her.
Instead, the others gathered and prepared to leave.
"We'll see you later, Aaron," David said.
"I'll call you if anything changes," Aaron affirmed. When they were beyond the double doors, he turned to Penelope. "I need you to do me a favor, please?"
She looked at him gravely, wringing her hands. "Sir? Anything. Tell me."
"Would you . . . be able to get me a change of clothes from my go bag back at the hotel?"
Penelope was nodding in fervor before he was even finished.
"I don't have my keycard but I can give them a call and let them know you're coming."
"Absolutely, sir. Absolutely." She reached her hand up and squeezed his arm. "I'll be back soon," she declared before grabbing her things and heading to the doors. She turned back to Aaron, walked up to him with intent, and braced her hand on his arm again. When his chin wrinkled, she tutted and cupped his jaw.
"Sir. You did good, sir. We have him back. You did good. Thank you."
His throat bobbed at this, and he averted his reddening eyes. "You wouldn't think so, Garcia. If you knew, you wouldn't think it." He couldn't put any force behind the words.
Penelope tutted. "No no, sir. Don't say this. You always do good, and you do it well."
She went outside and—on looking back in—saw that Aaron was already sitting down on one of the chairs, bent over again with his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking, and he looked to be weeping.
CHESTER, NEW JERSEY
When the team arrived at the McAllistar home, there were lights flashing against the concerned neighbors watching behind the barricades. Officers and members of Sasha Everton's crime scene unit were milling about outside and inside. Even from the front, it was clear that the backyard was alight with bright floodlights.
And, of course, the news media was out front, too, and assaulted the agents with a barrage of questions as soon as they were out of the vehicle.
"Two ambulances have left this site, agents. Are we to understand that there were two victims? Was this one of the perpetrators? There's been report of a single gunshot."
"Is the Stokes State Slayers nightmare finally over?"
"Is the law official who was abducted in April still alive?"
"What can you tell us about the owners of this home, Russell and Lorraine McAllistar?"
"Days ago there was a public appeal made to the female perpetrator, assumably to Mrs McAllistar. Was she coerced into participating in these crimes?"
Jennifer turned around and addressed the mass of people. "We have currently detained the homeowners, Mr and Mrs Russell and Lorraine McAllistar, for questioning. Physical evidence will be investigated to determine their connection to the previous crimes. There will be no statement in regards to the most recent victim in order to protect their privacy. In the following hours, the public will receive updates as to the progress of this case and the investigation. As of now, there are no further comments."
At that, she peeled herself away from them and met back with the rest of her colleagues. They went inside the home—now fully lit—and met with Luke, Sasha, and her investigators.
Derek wanted to brave a returning to the basement. Jennifer offered to go down with him, and Emily volunteered to go upstairs.
Alex and David went into the backyard, towards the corner—the focus of where Spencer could have died. There were two CSIs at work. Beyond them, the axe—that which had caught the moonlight glint hours ago—still leaned against one of the birch trees.
They had yet to make it to the very spot and were in no rush to get there. Their feet, instead, shifted over the lush, green grass.
"So." David placed his hands in his pocket to keep them warm.
"Mm?"
"You love the kid like a son, eh?"
"Ah." Alex hummed. "'s hard not to," she admitted.
"I agree," David said. "We're a family."
Alex puffed a mirthless laugh. "A real motley crew."
Reaching the site where they had earlier stood, Alex and David requested that CSI give them some space just for a few minutes, and it was given them.
The black sheers—a hand pruner—was resting on the matted grass. There was a streak of blood—Spencer's blood—congealing on the straight blades and the handles. Where Spencer had fallen away after Aaron's bullet pierced Lorraine's right shoulder and she wrenched her body—where his mouth had quivered and he gurgled as blood began to pour—was a puddle. They both recalled it.
—
The bullet that pierced Lorraine's shoulder just a moment too late stunned her to twisting herself.
Clamp and tongue still in hand, Russell turned toward his wife and barked out her name in distress. Wedged between them, Spencer was jostled.
The agents were moving in the next moment, though.
Aaron holstered his smoking gun, rushed forward, and didn't have to wrestle the clamp and tongue from Russell's loosened hand. He had the wherewithal to pull an unused vinyl glove from his pocket and wrapped the muscle in the untouched inside. Stepping back and away, he cupped his shaking hand over it like it was a delicate and fragile, precious thing. Surely it was, for it was Spencer's tongue. He stood there, unmoving, eyes fixed on Spencer.
Derek also holstered his gun, reached forward, and dragged Russell away from them before he bodily wrestled the man prone to the ground.
"Lorraine. Lorraine." Russell's eyes didn't leave his wife, but he didn't resist as flexi-cuffs were cinching around his wrists. He was pulled up to his knees.
"I oughta kill you right here, you sick son of a bitch," Derek seethed. The man, not even looking at him, said nothing more, eyes locked beyond him and onto his wife before they fell to Spencer. "Someone get this man outta my sight."
With all the movement, Spencer had rolled to his back and didn't move but for the spluttering and gurgling.
Alex and Jennifer had rushed to him, turning him to his side as Emily had screamed for the SWAT to get the paramedics over and prepare to transport a small, severed limb.
David instructed for another to call an ambulance for Lorraine.
Jennifer—on her knees and bent low—cradled Spencer's head in both her hands, repeating his name to get any reaction out of him.
"Spence. You're okay, Spence. You're okay, you're okay, you're okay."
The words placated no one at all.
Alex—kneeling in front of him—worked his jaw open to prevent him from swallowing and aspirating on his blood more than he probably already had.
"Oh god," Emily gasped out at the sight of it all upon closer inspection. She pulled off her jacket and bent next to Alex, covering Spencer's nakedness, warming him from the biting chill and rubbing his quivering leg beyond the fabric of the jacket.
They hadn't seen his back before, and now that they could, tears came forward unbidden. It was the raised, thin and fat lines of crisscrossing pale welts, some cracked and bloody, alongside scores and scores of scratches and abrasions that made them stop with worry, not wanting to aggravate the wounds. And Jennifer could better see it from her vantage before the jacket had covered it: there was dried blood at the seat of his posterior.
In the muffled background, Agent Alvez told Russell his Miranda Rights and pulled him up to standing before he and an officer frogmarched him away.
David, for his part, went to Lorraine, who—sitting up and gripping her bloody right forearm with her left hand—moaned and sobbed Kenneth's name, tilting forward.
"Let him go," she begged. "Please let him go. I need to be sure. I need to be sure that he's coming back to me this time."
It made no sense. But with a hardened expression, David gripped her shoulder while standing behind her, stilling her, keeping her from doing anything else to harm Spencer and complete a proper release.
Two medical attendants with large medic bags rolled a gurney through the side gate and across the plush grass. When they reached them, one went towards Lorraine.
"No no." David's fingers curled on her shoulder. "She's fine. We've requested a separate ambulance for her. Help him." He kicked his head to the others.
"Where's the amputated limb?"
"Here, here," Aaron burst out, reaching his cradling hands forward.
The tongue was taken and dealt with properly, wrapped in gauze, and placed in a bag before being placed in a cooling container.
There was more gurgling and aborted gasps from Spencer.
"We have both airway compromise and respiratory distress," one of them rushed out after little inspection.
"We need more lights."
Derek used his walkie and asked any member inside the home to turn on the yard lights. After a moment, the light flashed on, but it was insufficient. So the agents collectively used their flashlights, standing back and away.
As this went on, the attendants below assessed the best course of action given the visible physical trauma and his respiratory depression and other complications. The quick and proper decision was made to perform an emergency cricothyrotomy. After the incision, he was aspirated and intubated.
—
The two shivered from the cold wind that blew and the memory of the event.
Alex found that her hand was tucked above her clavicle at the base of her neck. "There's something about this place," she murmured, taking a step back, spreading a hand before pointing her finger to the area where they stood. "Right here."
"Aside from the obvious?" David tilted his head to the tree with the axe leaning against it. It was a horror that they wouldn't be able to unsee—a manifestation of how near they might have been to arrive too late and have a dismembered colleague before them.
"Aaron and Morgan said it: Kenneth's cancer was a death sentence. It's rare if someone lasts longer than a year with glioblastoma."
"Yet there's also no death certificate. Like I said, he might be in the forest. Maybe in a very special place."
Alex looked at this corner of space in the yard, and it suddenly made sense. "No," she argued. "Maybe not in the forest. With over half an acre of land and all this privacy, they had all the opportunity to bury their victims right in their backyard."
"Mm."
"But maybe their backyard is too special—too sacred. The others . . . Lorraine can emotionally distance herself from them and be apart from them. But. Three grafted birch trees into one trunk—one unit—that has clearly stood here for years." Alex pointed to the very corner, where the trees stood. "Fern bushes." To the left of the trees, she pointed to the frosting ferns. "Four unevenly growing, recently mulched rue bushes, which shows extra care."
"Noah, Zach, Austin, and our unknown Victim C had been slaughtered and probably bled to death in this very spot. Spencer had nearly met that same fate. The three birch trees: the mother, the father, and the child. Now, in the face of Kenneth's death, it can be for the rebirth of a new family. The four rue plants to mourn for and memorialize those four surrogates. The fern bushes for eternal youth and more new beginnings."
"And the consuming earth itself, returning them to Mother Earth," David finished, cottoning on. "This was an altar."
"Kenneth is buried right under our feet."
"Mm-hmm. Think we might find the victims' hands under those rue plants?"
—
Emily looked through the main bathroom. Toothbrushes were together and towels were drying on separate racks. She opened the medicine cabinet and peered at its contents.
There was nothing prescribed for Lorraine, but there were bottles of homeopathic, natural remedy drugs on the shelves, ones that—upon doing a cursory check on her phone—treated depression and anxiety or other issues: sarcosine, brain and nerve health botanical drops, various ayurvedic herbs in pill forms, ginkgo biloba pills, Vitamin B6 in pill form. Separately she had containers of wild yam root, kudzu root, maca root, Epimedium, and black cohosh pills. She had to look up the purpose for some of them and groaned in distaste.
They slept in one king sized bed.
Well.
Upon further inspection of the neat and made bed, one side dipped and was more concave than the other. In the nightstand drawer by the bed, she found old, expired bottles of Mirtazipine prescribed to Russell. Digging further and surmising that this was his side of the bed, she found other things: Midodrine, Viagra—his choice of medicine less natural and more chemical—but also found a few bottles of homeopathic pills.
Again, Emily had to use her phone to check the Midodrine. Interesting, the results.
After finishing there, she went to another bedroom—what may have been a guest bedroom. Perhaps this was where Marcus had stayed that first night. But there was nothing interesting or of note there. Another guest bedroom revealed all of nothing.
The last bedroom, however, was obviously Kenneth's. It had a lingering fresh, sterile scent, not unlike the undertow from the basement. There was an IV stand by the bed, and medical supplies were upon the night table. The bed itself was hospital grade. The room had various posters and photography and other things on the walls. The bookshelves were laden with books about photography and light art and the mechanics of SLR cameras and histories of cameras.
Other shelves had various cameras, from old to new, traditional to digital, polaroids and digital and single lenses and even a rolleiflex. On another he had various lenses to be fitted onto some of the cameras.
She looked at the bed, where the sheets were clean and dust free. Even though the sheets were perfectly fitted, it couldn't prevent the little indentation in the center.
Someone slept here regularly, and she would wager that it was Lorraine.
The bedroom had its own en suite bathroom that also exited to the hallway. She entered it, gave it a sweeping look. It had been renovated in the past to accommodate a medical bathtub.
Despite herself, she felt her eyes stinging. She couldn't be up here anymore. She wasn't a person who often held onto resentments, and she found that she was already losing sight of it here while unraveling these people's sad lives. She preferred to let it linger for as long as she could tolerate.
Upon searching for Luke, she found him in an office downstairs alongside another CSI, all of whom were wrapping their minds around a new, unsettling find.
—
Photographs and samples from the room Spencer had been in were already taken. Currently, the pantry and all of its contents was being raked under a finer eye.
Derek and Jennifer went to the incinerator and were relieved to learn that it was empty.
"Looks like they were just pre-heating it," one of the CSIs said.
But Derek and Jennifer looked around. "There's nothing here to indicate that they were getting ready to incinerate anything," Derek observed. "Nothin's seeming outta place. When we take a second sweep of the other room, maybe something might jump out. But aside from the clothes and the paraphernalia I'd seen on the floor, it didn't look like they were gettin' rid of anything."
"Maybe . . ." Jennifer swallowed. "Maybe it would've been for their clothes? If we'd not arrived, they would've been covered in blood. They weren't wearing anything to protect themselves from Reid's—"
"Mm, the axe. And." Derek shook his head, tensing his jaw. His hand flickered toward his mouth.
Jennifer's eyebrows ticked up. She and Derek found themselves just standing for a moment in the pantry. Jennifer then walked to the counter where—shoved in the corner—there were a pair of earbuds on a charging station. She pointed to it and hummed; Derek, in turn, plucked them up and peered closely at them. He was unsure how to explain it, and in the next moment it was put on the back-burner.
"Would you like to see this, agents?" Sasha's voice wavered between them.
They shuffled over to her, where she showed them—in one drawer—stacks of keys in various cuts, all in separated cells that were labeled and coded alphanumerically in black sharpie. There were a few padlocks, K-300 keys, and two rings of keys attached to two carabiners, meticulously separated by their alphanumeric code-type. They took both sets with them and then crossed into the hellish room.
Their bright blue vinyl gloves and booties were like beacons. Most things in here were white, and now that the door was opened so that the investigators could collect evidence and take photographs uninhibited, Derek found that the distinct, unfavorable stench that had assaulted him upon first entering the room hours ago was waning. He didn't know if he could attribute this to his familiarity and desensitization of crime scenes or to the exhaust fan.
The two of them had just finished testing the door, where Jennifer, trapped inside the room, had to use a complicated latch system to make an exit. It required a key to free its prisoner and seemed to be more of a safety measure if the door closed with Lorraine or Russell inside.
When Derek walked back in the room, Jennifer's face wrinkled in displeasure. He sighed in enervation.
They were currently at the bathtub, trying the keys. They started understanding the alphanumeric system quickly. The carabiner with the numbered TF and TH labeled keys were for the padlocks here. TF for tub foot; TH for tub hands.
"This here," Derek started, pointing at the horizontal wrought iron bar that was drilled securely to the wall a couple of feet above the bathtub. "Russell probably made it himself. He's all about the craft."
"Mm. IronHide. You'd mentioned it before that he probably made the leather restraints, too," Jennifer said in agreement.
Derek shook his head. "Maybe even the bed. This was all where he channels his grief and rage over the loss of his son." This time, Derek was able to reach for the length of chains and the leather cuffs hanging from the bar above the tub. It was a simple but effective system of slipknotting chains and securing their lengths with padlocks.
Jennifer's voice came out thin. "They didn't even let him bathe freely."
Derek exhaled nasally, irritated. He pulled on the two hanging restraints, tugging them toward the head and the foot of the tub. It didn't allow for much mobility.
In Jennifer's hand was the third restraint. She and Derek tugged their respective chains toward each other.
"So Lorraine washed him," Derek concluded, clenching his jaw. He looked over at the utility cart. "Just like she did with Marcus. She washed him and shaved him with an old school straight razor." His leg jittered up and down as he fought against giving into his rage and upending everything in this sparse room.
Jennifer shivered at the thought of having someone's unwanted hands crawling over her skin, of having to trust someone—who had used the means of a sharp weapon to stab their victims, to remove their tongues—with bringing a blade to her neck and face. She couldn't hold back a groan as the vision of it flashed before her eyes and so pulled away from the tub.
She moved on to testing the lengths of the chains as they were—padlocked and doubled up. None from the bed or the tub could reach each other or the toilet area unless the padlocks were removed to lengthen the chain. The BF and BH labeled keys were for various locks on the bed—the feet and the hands.
"And they controlled when he used the toilet or sink," Jennifer added in a thready voice.
Derek shook his head. He had walked to the bed and was currently pulling on additional chains over and underneath it. "They label everything. She's a meticulous cleaner. The rigidity probably bled into a schedule, too. Time to bathe, time to go to the bathroom."
"Time to eat." Jennifer's voice was feathery as she pointed to the edge of the bed where his clothes were. Along with them was leather paraphernalia, earbuds, molding, and an NG tube. "They fed him through that, Morgan, because it likely was done to Kenneth when he was too sick or too weak to do it himself."
But Derek, by this time, had stood up from the bed and was staring at it with a wrinkled nose.
"What is it?" And as she looked, she saw it—a wide belt restraint. Her stomach jittered. "Damn them. Damn them, Morgan."
"These guys are sick, JJ," Derek said through gritted teeth. "They'd chained and locked down Reid like he was less than an animal."
"And if he'd managed to escape any of this"—her hand extended to the bed—"he still had that latch system to deal with."
Derek shook his head. "What was their insurance plan?"
Jennifer furled her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, what would've happened to their victims, to Reid, if something had happened to the both of them—outside of being apprehended?"
"Oh."
"They had to have some sort of back-up, right?"
"Right," Jennifer drawled. "If something happens, make sure to check on my . . . my son." She had to swallow the words down. They would have to dig further into this. She hardly thought that these were the type of people to let their victims just rot away. Despite all the evidence of cruelty, there was still some semblance of care here.
"They have to have something planned. They cared about them in their own sick way."
Derek glossed over the bed sheets. CSU had already catalogued and photographed it, had even done various on-site tests on it. AP tests and ALS tests were showing small traces of seminal deposits that were likely to have resulted from transference. The vomit—both on the floor and on the bed—had also been tested. No semen found in it, but it held the lingering scent of beer.
"I don't understand, JJ." Derek shook his head. "I don't understand how loss and grief manifest into this." He broadened both of his hands to the expanse of the room. "To this." Pointed at the bed. "This." To the leather brace by the clothes on the floor. "And how they could do this to other people—not once or twice but nine times."
"That we know of," Jennifer cottoned on.
"That we know of, yeah."
"This mentally and emotionally exhausted all of the victims. And if they were to represent Kenneth, the brainwashing and parental aspects of this must have been intense. Not just relying on Lorraine as a caretaker, but as a mother."
"Reid loves his mom," Derek mumbled.
"Unequivocally," Jennifer agreed.
"That might've been troublesome for him. And he . . . he's got abandonment issues with parental male figures. Gideon. William."
Jennifer shook her head, eyes watering. "But do you think that Russell wanted to indulge in the parental aspect of this fantasy, too?"
"I dunno." Derek shrugged. "For him, this was probably about just regaining his own sense of power and control and slaking some pent-up, sexual urges."
"But I wonder if there could be any possibility that he also . . . might have cared for these victims as an extension of Kenneth."
"We couldn't know. He certainly didn't in Marcus' case. We might never know. But if he did . . ."
"I can't imagine what this all did to Spence, Derek. I can't."
"Well they kept him almost twice as long as Noah, which means . . . he probably . . ."
"Fulfilled something. He would do whatever he would need to survive, and that probably manifested into becoming a satisfactory surrogate."
"That kind of stuff is reciprocal, JJ—especially when you're emotionally vulnerable, when you have a history of seeking escapism, when you have unresolved abandonment and parental issues, when you have a history of abduction, when you're in survival mode. They might've fulfilled somethin' in him, too."
Averting her blurring gaze from Derek, she nodded. "Oh god, Spence . . ."
"Hey, c'mon." Derek ticked his head to the foot of the bed. Bending down, he picked up the leather gear. "This is all gonna help us help him in his recovery phase and beyond that. What's this say to you, JJ, mm?"
"Okay, yeah, it's"—Jennifer swallowed and blinked to readjust herself—"it's pretty worn." She reached her hand forward and turned the leather hooked on Derek's gloved finger. "It looks fetishist, but it probably served that practical purpose of covering the eyes. Replaces the blindfold. Can't be removed by the wearer. It, um . . . probably rarely came off."
"And the ear buds?"
Jennifer shook her head. "They kept those on him at all times, if the charging ones are anything to go by. They rotated their use. Alex said it yesterday. Because the ASL is intrinsic during the captivity, the victims . . . Reid would've needed to at least rely on auditory feedback in order to reply to them, yeah?" Her brows twitched and she looked back at Derek. "Maybe they sometimes used them to give him instructions beyond the room?"
"Mm. Could be a thing."
"Or . . . or if what Alex thinks is true? If she thinks that suggestibility was used against Marcus, then maybe they could've used these in a more subtle and subliminal manner, used repetition to inundate him."
"Damn. It's . . . yeah, possible. The accounts of sadists doing those kinds of things are . . . multifold."
Jennifer looked over at Derek with dread. "It's a lot to undo, Derek. It's going to be a lot to undo. To . . . to untrain. Derek, what if this is more than we can truly take on? There's already so much that—"
"There's no rule that we have to take it all on, JJ. We're going to support him. We're gonna be here for him at every step. But we can't take it all on. It's not feasible. There are people better equipped for this than us."
"But will he want it?"
Derek's eyes flickered unsurely to her, and he voiced no answer.
He placed the leather brace back on Spencer's clothes, and they at last went to the wardrobe. They braced, prepared to find all sorts of sexual paraphernalia.
CSU had already photographed and documented its contents as they were. Nothing had been moved.
"Looks like this was kept closed with a lock normally," Jennifer observed. But upon asking the CSU if there was a lock on it when they did their sweep of it and they were told that there wasn't, they found it curious.
Within it, they found neat shelving: two large boxes of automatic pressure pads, a folded hood with a leather collar on one side, a folding table, an IV stand, and a continuous feeding machine on one side. On the other, lined in shelves, were the trophies of their victims: Spencer's neatly folded clothes from the day he went missing, along with his satchel, gun, and holster. On four other shelves were the folded clothes and belongings they could only surmise were from Noah, Zachary, Austin, and Victim C. One of them had a dog collar atop the clothes with the engraving of the word Ginger; another had a small, velvet jewelry storage box; laying across the bottom-most shelf was a violin case.
"I hate to say it," Jennifer started as she looked through the items. "This was far more benign than what I thought we might find."
"Maybe this is what they were warming up the incinerator for."
Jennifer nodded and straightened her lips, breathing out. "Maybe that's why it was unlocked. The worst is this . . . this hood. I don't understand its need if they're already blindfolding their victims."
"It didn't mean that they hadn't used objects, JJ. It just meant that they didn't hold onto them and didn't memorialize them. Aside from this—this hood. It's definitely a method of torture."
"Mm." Jennifer flipped through the layers of Spencer's folded clothes and gasped after she lifted his slacks at the bottom. "Oh god." She bent forward, bracing her spread, quavering hands on the shelf and putting her head between her arms, facing the ground at the immediate heat that surrounded her and numbness in her hands.
"Whoa—hey, JJ, JJ, what is it?" Derek's gloves were removed, and he was bracing her face, tilting it toward him.
She couldn't catch her breath, and Derek's voice popped in and out of focus. She locked her hands on his arms.
"In, two, three, four; out, two, three, four," Derek coached her.
It was at that very moment that both Emily and Luke came down and crossed the threshold into the room. Both of their eyes went from searching the ceiling to flitting over to Jennifer.
"JJ?" Emily, knowing the signs of a panic attack when she saw one, splayed a bracing hand on her friend's back and began to rub up and down. She didn't press herself too close, giving Jennifer room to breathe and a bubble of space.
"You okay, JJ?" Derek asked as she drew in long, full breaths and let out equally long ones.
"Henry," was all JJ could say, voice coming out strained and hands braced on Derek's biceps as she nodded.
"Who's Henry?" Luke asked in obvious confusion.
"Her son," Emily answered. She then turned her attention back to Jennifer. "What about Henry, JJ?"
Jennifer's reddened face turned to the wardrobe, her eyes filled with tears. Her expression wasn't sad or devastated, but in harsh, angular lines of fury.
"The bastards. He kept it in his wallet," she seethed. "A picture of Spence and Henry. He kept it in his wallet."
Derek wiped her hair out of her face with a gentle touch.
She closed her eyes. "What reason do they have for taking his picture out?"
Luke peered at the shelf, unable to see what Jennifer was referring to. "Where?"
"Under the clothes. Under Spencer's pants."
"You okay now?" Derek asked Jennifer in a low, soft voice.
Tense under his hands, Jennifer nodded, squeezing his arm just once before she let go and straightened, clasping and unclasping her hands into fists.
Derek left the room and was returning in seconds with a new pair of gloves for himself and for her.
Luke lifted Spencer's folded clothes and found what she was referring to—a small, wallet-sized picture of a smiling Agent Spencer Reid with his cheek mashed against that of a laughing, blond boy.
Emily plucked the picture from his hand. "They used this as leverage against him," she concluded.
"How are you sure they did that?" Luke asked.
"Why else would it be taken out of his personal wallet?" Emily flipped it over and then shook her head with the heavenward roll of her eyes. "It has everything here for the McAllistars. Henry's name, and even JJ and Will's names. This is something Reid treasures enough to keep on him. Russell or Lorraine say a simple name, and Reid's reaction is enough to tell them that they have something over their victim."
Luke nodded, concluding, "And then that knowledge is used to get Reid to comply."
"Bastards," Jennifer hissed again under her breath, pressing the back of her hand against her forehead. "Damn bastards." She was unable to fully comprehend how painful it was for Spencer to know that his captors knew about Henry. He would do anything to protect her child; she knew he would.
Oh god. This whole time—Henry's life had been in danger this whole time. By those two monsters. No!
"You sure you're good, JJ?" Derek asked, placing his hand on her elbow.
Jennifer nodded, bubbling with rage and disgust.
"It wouldn't have been a leap of logic for the kid." Derek's jaw tensed as he turned back to Luke. "Henry's a little blond kid—of course Reid's gonna think that any threat against him is genuine. He'd come to the same conclusions that we have or over time have more definitive evidence that they may have assaulted their own child. If that's the case, what holds 'em back from doing it to another child, even though they target adults? So they got his wallet and they know where he lives and . . ." Derek's voice trailed off. He took a couple of steps, delicately dug his hand under the clothes, and found the small ring of keys. He blinked.
"They had access to his home. Even blindfolded, he'd know these are his keys 'cause of this." He held up a circular trinket on the keys. Voice hoarse, he continued, "I gave this to him years ago."
"Spence has my home key," Jennifer's voice was tight. "One of those is mine. I mean, they don't know who we are, but it wouldn't take much to find out. Our names . . . they're public knowledge. My name and face are attached to this case. Will's name is on the back of the photo. They could've easily found out where we lived." Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut and bent down, balancing herself on the tip of her toes as she doubled over, gutted. "Oh god," she gasped. "This whole time. I can't. Garcia and I had already entertained the possibility that they could've gone to his home once we found out about the terrariums." Her hands returned to her hair and gripped. "God—oh god, they could have—"
"JJ," Emily began in her even tone, bending down. "Look at me, Jayge." But Jennifer couldn't, so Emily continued. "Nothing happened to Henry or to you and Will, and we have them both in custody now."
"Nothing happened to us, Emily, yes." She looked over at Emily. "But Spencer didn't have the luxury of knowing that." She stood. "They could have told him that we were dead and it was his fault. Or what if . . . what if . . ." Hands on her hips, Jennifer started to turn in place.
"Don't do this to yourself, JJ," Derek said. "Don't torture yourself thinking about this. It's not gonna help you."
Hands still on her hips, looking downward, Jennifer nodded in quick succession, swiping her hands down her face. "Okay. Yes. Yes, you're right. I shouldn't. Okay." She sucked in a quick breath, shifting her comportment. She blinked a few times, trying to keep calm, and then said, "What did you find?"
Emily whipped her head back. "Are you sure you're able to—"
"Yes," was the aggressive response. "Tell us what you found."
Emily shook her head as she too found her reserved baseline. "I found a slew of homeopathic medicines that treat psychosis, depression, and anxiety—for as much as these things are worth. And, interestingly, lots of pills to increase estrogen levels and that are considered natural performance enhancing drugs. Lorraine had called Kenneth her miracle boy, hadn't she?"
"Oh my god." Derek had to resist wiping his gloved hand over his face, but he was unable to resist turning his body and rolling his eyes upward.
"Because," Emily continued, "in Russell's nightstand, I found three non-homeopathic medications: Mirtazapine, which is medication to treat depression, Viagra, and Midodrine."
"What's that? Midodrine?" Luke asked.
Emily tilted her head and blinked, trying to keep her voice even. "It's medication that treats severe low blood pressure. But it also treats severe erectile dysfunction. Anejaculation."
"Oh god," Derek murmured.
"So coupling the two—Lorraine's pills with Russell's Midodrine and Viagra pills . . ." The gears in Luke's head were turning. "They were aiming for fertility?"
"Most likely," Emily agreed in distaste. "At their age, it's difficult, but it's not impossible. We know that erectile dysfunction—even anejaculation—doesn't cause infertility, but maybe they—or specifically Lorraine—wanted to go for something 100% natural if we can take what Cece said at face value—that Lorraine preferred more natural means of getting Russell going. Reid's research—the one of the plants? Trillium. One of the purported uses for the plant is fertility."
Jennifer's breath was caught in her throat, and she felt the heat coursing through her again. "He mentioned it when we first started the investigation."
Emily's nose scrunched. "It's the dormant season for them, and yet she has a bed of it growing in her solarium. I think that there's some intended use for them. For her."
Jennifer swallowed dryly; Luke was silent; Derek was shaking his head and turning away from them.
"I mean—there's a possibility," Emily began in chagrin, "that they both raped their victims. That wasn't the case for Marcus according to his statement, but they changed the way they operated after he escaped. They escalated."
Jennifer cleared her throat. "If she was trying to get pregnant by having sex with . . ." She shook her head, clearing away unwanted imagery. "By raping the victims, she would either have been successful by now, or she's just unable to have children."
"Maybe she did have some measure of success," Emily reasoned. "Maybe that's why the victims had to die—they'd outdone their usefulness because she did get pregnant. They stop the abductions in the meantime during the gestational period . . . but maybe they were never able to come to full term."
"Okay, but if she miscarried, then there should be hospital records of this. That would be multiple miscarriages," Jennifer concluded. She and Emily turned to Luke. "You need to have the technical analyst you're working with, Kevin Lynch, look into this particular aspect of Lorraine's medical history."
There was something to this. There had to be.
Luke cleared his throat. "Yeah." He nodded. "Yeah, I can get him on it."
Emily tilted her head. "Another possibility's that . . . what if, after that first time Russell raped Marcus, another reason was that—beyond her own sexual gratification—Lorraine was getting these victims to facilitate a sexual release from Russell that might give them what they ultimately lost: a child between the two of them; potentially another Kenneth. A new Kenneth, and not a surrogate. One who might not cause Lorraine so much guilt, because she'll have done everything right this time around—taken care of her health and the health of her unborn child."
"Damn," Luke mumbled.
It was Derek who, hands curled on his waist and eyes trained to the floor, let out a hum. "He's finally coming back to me. I have a miracle." He looked over at them, head and body tilted, fingers twiddling like he was going to take his fist to anything now. "Lorraine said that."
Jennifer moaned, hands curling at her belly.
"Special," Emily hissed. "This is disgusting."
"So . . . Reid may have fulfilled multiple things in them—emotionally and sexually."
"God, god," Jennifer moaned.
Luke then spoke up. "Not to be a Negative Nancy or anything, but . . . we found a couple of other things. I just showed Prentiss . . ."
Emily cleared her throat. "Mm. Yeah," she drawled. "So . . . I think we'll end up having something better than just the McAllistars' statements."
Jennifer and Derek wilted in foreboding.
"Luke uncovered some memorabilia. Photo albums and scrapbooks with . . . multiple thumb drives."
Derek pressed the back of his gloved left hand on his forehead. He could go for that rest now. "They took pictures?"
Luke straightened his lips and tilted his head in unease. "The albums, the scrapbooks . . . they have one for each of their victims. The thumb drives in them have a large storage capacity—I'm talkin' ten or eleven one-terabyte thumb drives just for Noah, for example. The dates on one set of photo albums and scrapbooks corresponds closely with Noah Turner's disappearance and just a couple of days before he was found, and there are multiple pictures of him; the dates on another set of albums and scrapbooks coincides with Zachary Bridge's disappearance and . . . most likely of the day he was killed. Also multiple pictures of him. And other previous victims, too. Austin White, and another one who's unnamed. I'm guessin' Vic C, and it's looking more like he'd been homeless."
They were silent.
"I'm pretty sure you know it. You only need terabytes of information if it's video files, possibly audio and video, you feel me?" As Luke spoke the words, he circled his right index finger around the room a few times, maintaining eye contact with them but with a raised eyebrow.
And then Emily pointed behind her. "It's probably over there." In the center of the room, in the ceiling above them was a single sprinkler. Her lips straightened into a thin line. "The digital forensics techs are gonna be put to work."
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Thanks so much for reading. My time constraints have gotten very difficult and I wasn't sure if I'd actually be able to update this chapter. Unfortunately, this means that I can't guarantee an update for next week and may be releasing the next chapter two weeks from now. Apologies, but I hope this gave you a lot to chew over.
