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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2013–ONWARDS
The Linen Assassins—

Stokes State Slayers—

The perpetrators behind the heinous killings—

—with upwards of at least six victims—

—and terrorized the people of New Jersey, terrorized campers, thru-hikers—

Two of the victims have been identified as Noah Turner of Port Jervis, New York—

The murderers of Marion Knowles of Boca Raton, Florida and—

The killers have been—

It intrigued the whole tri-state area for months, and got notoriety elsewhere, too, going viral on the internet—

Last night—

On Friday night—

With the assistance of the FBI—

Russell McAllistar—

Lorraine McAllistar—

Husband and wife, Russell and Lorraine McAllistar of Chester, New Jersey—

Their reign of terror—

—and they're going to become household names now that they—

The couple you see here is already being called the new Ken and Barbie Killers—

—have finally been caught.

—apprehended.

—now seems to be over.

They're both good people. I've known Lorraine for years. I can't believe any of this.

—and he is always very quiet. Good businessman. A little intimidating, yeah, but just all around a good guy.

—was a bit sick, so she took some time off, but he's been getting at home care from what she's told me.

They're not involved. This is slanderous. It's those damn FBI agents. They don't know how to do their damn jobs. The Stokes State Slayers are still out there.

As ever, people are curious to know—

The live stream video went viral on the night of Monday, April 29th earlier this year. Purportedly—

This happened hours after Marion Knowles' body was found on Interstate 80 after he'd gone missing about two nights before.

But as further details are coming to light, an important question is starting to formulate in people's minds. With a majority of the victims being blond, we now wonder: Where is Kenneth McAllistar?

According to a live streamed video that has gathered almost one million hits, an FBI agent or a law official was abducted that night.

—and another agent was severely injured.

Identities have been withheld for the duration of the case. Since then, and for almost six and a half months, it's believed that the victim, the law official, was in captivity for reasons unknown.

Speculation and process of elimination may have narrowed it to a male law official, with high probability that it is an FBI agent.

—two ambulances left the home in Chester, New Jersey, going in different directions.

—currently knows the events of that night. We hope to find out more soon and let you know.

Come on! Everyone wants to know who their victim was. Was it a G-man? Was it a cop? What did the previous vics go through? We've been given so little detail.

—how he or she survived for over six months and what they may have suffered during that time.

"Agent Rossi. It's been a few months. I didn't want to pester you, but I've been . . . I've been watching. I saw Agent Jareau in the news earlier. I needed to call, I'm sure you understand."

"I do."

The voice came out strained. "Is it true, then? Is this over?"

"We found him."

"And he's . . . There's rumor that two ambulances left the, ah—the—"

"The site? Yes. He's currently in surgery."

"So he's—he's—he wasn't"—a gasping breath—"how is he? How—how was he?"

"He's been in captivity for nearly seven months by violent sadists. I'm sure that you can imagine that he's not well. There were life-threatening complications when we arrived."

"Oh god. My—my—"

"It's not very good at all, I will warn you. There's a chance that . . . he doesn't make it off the table. Even then, post-operatively, there may be complications. I'll give you a call as soon as I can to let you know."

"Thank you, Agent Rossi. Thank you. I—thank you. For everything. For everything you all are doing for him. You're . . . I—you're good people. Spencer works with good people, and I—I'm—I don't deserve—"

"Mm-mm. No, sir. No. I'm not sure if it's appropriate that you unburden yourself on me. I'm no counselor."

Maybe that was a bit rude.

"I know. I'm sorry. This isn't easy. It's just that—"

"Again, Mr Reid, no. I'll call you when I have an update on him."

"Diana still doesn't know, but I—"

"—and we appreciate that you're keeping to that. We'll need to maintain that pretense for as long as possible."

"I wouldn't want to violate any wishes he has for his mother. I wouldn't want to get between them. But I need to see him. I want to see him. I would like to see him. I'll be flying over."

"I'd highly advise against it, Mr Reid. He's not the same right now, there's a media frenzy out, and there are certain aspects of this investigation—of his captivity—that might make this—your being here—"

"He's my son. Please. He's my son. If I could just—please—"

The tone was desperate and annoyingly small.

In the face of this case, something in David stirred. Rage and turmoil. Where had this man been for nearly two decades of Spencer's life for him to so suddenly take an interest in him?

And yet he said it to Derek months ago, hadn't he? That there should be room for reconciliation. The untimeliness of this all was irritating.

And yet, if there were no chance of tomorrow or next week—if this was it—

The sudden pang that struck David was enough to make him let out a softened, aborted hum.

"Agent, please."

"I'll give you a call when everything slows down."

"Thank you. Thanks. Th-thank you."

"Have a good night, Mr Reid." David hung up the phone. He should have listened to Derek months ago. He shouldn't have given that man any means to keep the lines of communication open with him. He shouldn't have wedged himself in the middle of this. But—

He sighed.

He wondered what it would have been like to raise James. Would he have ended up like Jason and Stephen? Like William and Spencer? Would he have been fit to raise a child, given the demands of his job?

He didn't know how Aaron did it, or Jennifer. In Aaron's case, the job had brought about casualties to his family. Jennifer nearly faced that same fear just over a year ago.

God forbid if he ever had any children. He didn't know how he might handle being a suitable parent. He didn't know, either, how he might deal with his child being hurt and the powerlessness of such a thing. But for nearly seven months, he thought that maybe he'd skimmed the surface of such depths of emotions.

Russell McAllistar, just having turned 47 years old, was a physically imposing man who stood at six foot three, weighed 238 pounds, and whose breath wasn't wasted when he spoke in a deep rumble. His responses were clipped, monosyllabic, or they didn't come at all.

Luke obtained a warrant for a suspect sexual examination, and Russell consented to it without objection. As protocol dictated, Luke remained in the room while a contracted examiner came on location and conducted the examination.

Russell's lax disposition grated at him.

When told, Russell dropped his clothes, raised his arms, allowed his pubic hairs to be combed through, allowed buccal swabs and skin swabs to be taken at each scratch site, allowed the blue light to illuminate his skin when the room was darkened, allowed photographs to be taken of him.

The scratches and bruises peppering his body were evidence of offensive wounds that Agent Reid's hands had formed—from Russell's thighs to the tip of his head.

There were dots of red near his hairline where his victim had tried to wrench his head away. The worst was still the one he'd seen when they'd found Agent Reid—the scratches that dragged down the right of his face from eye to chin and were now crusted, puffy, red and black. His knees were raw, red, and abraded.

Not all of the wounds were defensive, though. Not all were indentations of nails meant to fend off, but of deep impressions of grips. The ones on the shoulders, the ones on Russell's own hips, buttocks, near his ribs, going down his back and on his thighs—Luke himself sometimes bore these marks during more intense and feral sessions with long-term or transient lovers. He would later come to wonder if these were attributed to Agent Reid or perhaps to Lorraine.

Nevertheless, these were each photographed and swabbed for DNA.

Seminal deposits were found in Russell's underwear, and these were collected. They also drew blood samples, did a urine test, clipped his hair and nails.

Luke found it all irritating for the reason that Russell didn't bear the smug attitude that would incite him to curl his fist and knock the man's teeth out. But Russell held no guilt or shame in his gait, either. He was a shell of a man, hollowed out.

Luke would have preferred something more than emptiness from him. When it was all done, a sealed bag was handed to him from the examining nurse, and Russell was led back into his holding cell.

It would be found that Lorraine McAllister—44 years old, standing at five foot six and 138 pounds, thin and muscular—was the more vocal of the two. The whole ambulance ride—to a different hospital a few towns over—was punctuated with the unsubtle rubs to her belly with one clinking, cuffed hand, murmuring a soft and calm mantra of Kenneth and My miracle boy and Finally. The EMTs—understanding who she was—were disturbed, earnestly wondering if she had taken drugs as well or if she might be drunk. But they maintained their professionalism.

At the hospital and while she was treated for the bullet wound, blood samples were drawn to check for blood alcohol levels and illicit drugs in her system. Just as was done for Russell, a urine sample was also taken for her, as well as a hair follicle sample. Afterwards, she consented to a sexual examination, where they found that she had been involved in recent sexual activity and where they found seminal deposits, both on her underwear and internally.

'Will it hurt the baby?' she'd asked before it got too invasive. 'I can't let you do anything that will hurt my son.'

Within a couple of hours, she was laid up in her bed with the same blissful expression, staring at the ceiling despite one of her wrists being shackled to the bed. There was an officer posted outside her door.

While the rest of the team was at the McAllistars', Aaron spent the following hours speaking with various people in brief bursts: Luke, Sheriff Reiner, Erin Strauss, the Assistant Director, and even had a brief call with Beth.

His agents returned to the hospital an hour past midnight. At David's insistence, as Penelope had collected Aaron's go-bag, she also went to everyone else's rooms and collected all their things. David had already found a hotel nearer the hospital, booked several rooms, and that's where they would be staying.

They flopped or eased down tiredly beside Aaron. In the passing hours, each of them swam in and out of sleep until Dr Goswami entered the busying emergency room and requested Aaron's presence some time near seven in the morning, cradling a clipboard to her chest.

The other members blearily watched Aaron disappear behind the corner again.

"Spencer's perforated bowel and his anogenital wounds have been dealt with successfully, Aaron," the doctor began. "I'm unsure if the passing hours have weathered your decision regarding the replantation. Has that changed or . . ."

He had, in fact, thought over it in the passing hours. "Yes, I . . . I'm still of the mind to move forward with it."

Dr Goswami's mouth ticked upward. "That's alright then. It's a huge endeavor and the risks are understood, but after a consultation, we've decided that we can move forward with the replantation surgery."

Aaron couldn't help but let out a relieved puff of air. "Thank you."

"As a reminder, there are still risks during the replantation that may cause us to abandon the procedure, but there's a diligent team of specialists who are all hands on deck and eager to see good come of this. I don't want to delude you into thinking that everything will be fine after this, but we are ready to move forward."

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. We're going to be monitoring Spencer's stats closely during and post-operation. So we'll get started on this immediately because time is rapidly running out to get this underway."

"Thank you. How is he, though?"

"Still critical, Aaron, and nowhere near out of the woods."

Aaron nodded. "Understood."

"This will also be hours long, as I mentioned before, so I invite you all to a private room in the meantime. I'm afraid it's nothing more than an old and unused conference room with furniture that was never taken up for donation, but I'm sure you'll find the privacy a reprieve from the revolving door of other patrons."

"We would, thank you. The accommodations are appreciated. Given the public nature of this investigation, it's only a matter of time before we're recognized or followed. You don't want that kind of circus."

"Mm, no. Best to avoid that, then." The doctor smiled. "I'll have an attendant settle you in that room and have them see to it that it's comfortable. We'll keep you apprised of any complications. In the meantime, Aaron—I do need you to sign a waiver of liability. I'm sure you understand."

Aaron blinked down at the clipboard and pen below, and his resolve shook for a moment. He could still back out of this. The worst was dealt with, and he could let Spencer rest.

But an endless montage—that of the Did-you-knows he could barely remember and some he could, and random, often unwelcome rants that suddenly he realized were just a part of Spencer's essence, those which he had missed entirely too much for these near seven months—flashed before him.

Taking the pen in his hand, he signed the papers on the clipboard after giving a cursory glance at the clauses and handed the board to her with a hardened, even stare.

At that, she wordlessly braced Aaron's arm, straightening her lips to a thin line. She nodded and left.

Aaron—again selective with his words—informed his team of agents. Not long after, they went to their new hotel accommodations to get cleaned up. Aaron had stayed. Jennifer, along with her support team of Penelope and Emily, was going to go up to the Sussex County precinct to assist with media liaising.

Upon opening her hotel room door after the rap of knocks, Alex was met with the sight of Luke holding up a large coffee and a paper bag—both from Starbucks.

"Is this for me?" She tilted her body to let him in.

"All yours, Alex."

She hummed in thanks.

"Just came from the hospital where I saw Hotch."

"You look like you've been up all night. Been busy, I take it."

"Mm, yeah. Dr Bates arrived a few hours ago and they're digging up all the bones in the yard."

"So they've found them then."

"Just like you'd said. Wrapped up in a white bed sheet. Like Connor, he's not wearing a t-shirt or boxers. But it's a full set of skeletonized remains by the birch trees without any dismemberment. And they found animal bones, too."

"Ginger," Alex posited.

"We'll make a match from Austin's home, but pretty sure, yeah."

"Mm. And the bushes?"

"Two in the bush."

Alex puffed out a laugh.

"Well." Luke pinched his face. "Two under each bush."

Alex tipped her head. "Well, we've got our perps. Wasn't any denying it before but just more confirmation. How long have you been keeping that one in your pocket, by the way?"

Luke expelled some air. "Ever since you mentioned it last night, I've been dying to get it out."

"Could use a little levity now that, well—"

"The nightmare's over and y'all have Agent Reid back. I hear he's still in surgery."

"He is. One component of his medical needs was taken care of by early morning. They're currently dealing with the tongue."

"Damn glad he can keep it. Pretty sure the guy doesn't need to deal with not having a tongue on top of everything else once he's in recovery."

"If."

"If?"

"If he's in recovery," Alex clarified. "I wouldn't necessarily say that much is coming to an end. The surgical trauma might be too much for his body to take. Aaron didn't say as much yesterday, but I've been in hospitals enough times to know how much the human body can endure and when it might be time to give someone some dignity and let them go. Considering the cardiac arrest, the respiratory depression, renal and kidney issues besides, I . . . I'm just preparing myself for the reality that—"

"Yeah, no," Luke dismissed her, lowering his jowls. "Let's look at it as a when-when situation."

Alex chuckled.

"With you guys, he'll be good."

Alex gave a hum that was somewhere between hopeful and detached.

"Ah, so, Alex, this is a bit of a tall order," Luke eased in. "But she's requested to speak with you specifically."

Alex's eyebrows flew up, and she let out a disbelieving scoff. "I hardly think it proper for me to be in the same room with the person who I'm sure attempted my murder, Luke. There's about five things wrong with that."

"I get you, Alex. I do, really. But she wants you specifically. I mean, whatever I caught of what you said to her last night—you connected with her, got through to her."

Alex wrinkled her nose. "Not nearly enough," she lamented. "She still needed to complete that emotional release."

"Well, yeah; there's that. But I won't let anything happen in there. I got your back. She'll be handcuffed to her bed. Unless"—a mischievous grin—"you're worried that I'll need to hold you back?"

Alex puckered her eyebrows and gave Luke an accusatory but mirthful glare. "I'm hardly that kind of person, Luke."

"Well you're better than I am, that's for sure. I get the chance to be in a room with someone that's tried to kill me and"—he shook his head, lowering his jowls—"yeah, I'm still not there yet."

"You will be, eventually. Either way, you brought me this food to butter me up, didn't you?"

"Is it working?"

Alex hummed. "We'll see."

Luke laughed but rubbed the back of his neck. "And while we're at it . . ."

"Mm?"

"So, Marcus Delaney . . . I've been tryin' to get a hold of the dude. Neither the violin nor the case that was in the wardrobe had any fingerprints on it, so as of now it's only circumstantial that his captors were the McAllistars. I mean, we know these are the same people, but we need to keep with the evidence. So . . ."

"Mm-hmm?"

"And you and JJ had rapport with him, too . . ."

"Seems that I threw that all over the place, doesn't it?" Alex quipped, to which Luke chuckled uneasily. "You want me to reach out to him, too."

"Please. We'd like to try to conduct voice lineups for both of them that Marcus might be able to identify. And I figure . . ."

Alex pursed her lips.

"I mean, you did such a great job convincing him to even conduct an interview with us in the first place, yeah?" He gave a glowing smile and then pointed to his mouth in a sweeping motion. "Maybe you might use that silver-tongue charm you have to convince him?"

Alex sighed and tilted her head. "We're going to have problems, you and I, Luke."

"Problems why?"

"Because you know how to compliment me."

"And convince you?"

Alex broke into something of a smile, giving a small shake of her head and the playful roll of her eyes. "And convince me."

In a few minutes, they were leaving the hotel together and traveling to the Dover General Hospital. During their ride together, Alex and Luke discussed how either of them ever began learning Sign language.

By ten, the two were seated at Lorraine's bedside. They advised her of her rights, and she elected to waive representation.

"I haven't done anything wrong." She no longer held that soft expression, but rather her mood was now blanketed, much like her husband's. "Where's my husband?" There was almost no inflection in her voice. "Where's Russ?"

"Russell is currently in the process of being transferred to Central Jersey, Lorraine," Luke answered. "You realize that you may not be seeing your husband again. Probably not for a while to come."

Lorraine's eyes went to the ceiling. "We need each other," she whispered. "We finally have our second chance. Kenneth will need us both."

"Second chance for what, Lorraine?" Alex asked, though she knew.

"Oh, to be a family again." It was said with such relish. "He's coming back to me, you see."

Luke feigned ignorance. "Who is?"

"My miracle boy. Kenneth." The hand rubbed at her belly. "I just know it. I can already feel it."

"You saying you're pregnant, Lorraine?" Luke asked.

"Oh, I know it. I know I am. We've been trying, you see. We've been trying for a few years. Yesterday we finally did it. We had to have. It was the first time since . . ."

They were silent.

"You're a mother." Lorraine turned to Alex, smiling at her. "How did you know? Tell me, please. How did you know? Did you know it just after, like I do? I didn't . . . I hadn't known the first time until . . . Oh, I hurt him." Her face reddened, her eyes glistened, and with her loose hand she covered her eyes as her chin and lips quivered.

Alex stiffened in her seat.

"I'm sorry, Kenneth," Lorraine sniveled, voice fluttering. "I'm . . . Oh, Kenneth."

"Being sorry for Kenneth doesn't erase what you did to other people, Lorraine," Alex chided. "Or to me. Sorry doesn't give us our lives or livelihoods back. It doesn't fix you or Russell."

"I know." Her head bobbed at Alex and her expression was clear of any of that remorse that had been there just moments ago. "I know. I know it. I do. I know I know. I"—her hand moved down to her belly—"I won't anymore. I won't. I had to before, you have to understand. But he's coming back to me. I think I know now. It's that—that little seed starting to take root inside of you? Latching onto you, and you just immediately begin nurturing it and nourishing it? I just know it. I know this time. I can already feel it."

Alex, blinking, didn't respond to her. She found herself wrinkling her nose at the sheer lunacy. Maybe she couldn't be here after all.

Luke leaned forward. "What did happen to Kenneth, Lorraine? How'd he die? Was it the cancer or . . ." Luke intentionally left it open, trying not to lead her to anything.

"Mm. Kenneth." Lorraine's hand went to her belly again. She shook her head. "In nature, nothing dies, you know. He's already coming back to me."

"Yes, but before that, Lorraine."

Her eyes were trained upon nothing, and then they watered again. Her chest swelled with the large heave of air she took, and then the words puffed out as her tears poured. "I wasn't there when he left. I wasn't there with him."

Alex had to sit back and shut her eyes for a moment.

But Lorraine wept. "I wasn't there when he . . ."

Alex stood abruptly, finding that she could no longer be in Lorraine's presence.

"Wait. Wait, please, agent."

Alex paused.

"How is he?" The voice was thick.

It was obvious to whom she was referring, but Alex wouldn't respond. She reached forward for the handle, but Lorraine continued, voice swelling with some sort of pride.

"He was so good. He's so good for Russell. Russell loves him, too, you know. Russell loves his boy. He never quite liked them as much as his boy."

Alex pivoted and took a few steps back toward the bed; Luke leaned forward as if to intervene, but no such thing was necessary. Alex stopped at the bedside, and her voice was thin and level as she stood over Lorraine McAllistar.

"I'm sorry, Lorraine, but you don't get to ask about him. As your goal was that he died, his existence isn't your concern anymore. He's not Kenneth. Your son died. Another child—if you do happen to become pregnant—will never replace your dead son, and I would know it. That's a false hope that's caused untold suffering."

At that, she turned back around and reached for the door. The words Lorraine next spoke halted Alex in her footsteps. She reined in her slipping control, exited the room, and leaned against the wall outside.

Alex wished for a time before she knew anyone at all named Spencer Reid so she didn't have to experience this onslaught of emotions.

Just before noon, Aaron sent Derek a text message, requesting that he meet him in his hotel room.

Derek left the hospital and went to the hotel, where Aaron was fresh from a shower.

"Take a seat," Aaron said with the gentle kick of his head.

Derek grabbed the chair and—though it was plush and he could sink down comfortably in it—he sat upright. "What's goin' on, Hotch?"

Aaron cleared his throat and let out a sigh, sitting on the bed. "I've been having discussions with Erin, Assistant Director Barnes, and the director himself. Barnes is tenacious, and I'm not sure how much longer I can lead this team. Right now, every decision I make is being looked at under a lens."

"What're you saying?"

"We've been keeping a pretty tight lid on Reid being the latest victim, but Assistant Director Barnes has been worrying over the publicity that this investigation has undergone. In her opinion, this case has caused the Bureau to be seen as a laughingstock to the public multiple times, and the team is falling under scrutiny despite the favorable outcome. In the end, this is what Erin Strauss has been trying to protect us from—having to deal with Barnes."

"Wait." Derek clasped his hands together. "Why are you tellin' me this, Hotch? Rossi's your right hand.

Aaron straightened his lips and his brow twitched. "Oh, he knows. But. You know Dave hates the politics of the job."

Derek shut his eyes and swept his head in slow but large arcs. "This is Foyet all over again, ain't it?"

"It is. And you've proven yourself in past and more recent cases."

"We don't know if this is happening, Hotch."

"We don't, Morgan, but I want to be prepared, just like last time. It might be weeks or months down the line, but I don't want to be caught unawares. Barnes' internal investigation will be far more rigorous than Erin's, if you can imagine it. You're a good leader, Morgan. So I want you to be prepared, if this is a laurel you're willing to take."

"If it comes down to it, we can continue to work together like we have the last few years, yeah?"

"Of course." Aaron twitched his lip upward. "I won't disappear on you."

Derek heaved a huge sigh. "This is a lot of heavy stuff to deal with all at the same time, man."

"Mm."

"So tell me, Hotch. 'Cause I can see it on you, man. The stuff you talked to that doctor about. Because I know there's more than what you told us last night or earlier today. You're loaded down right now."

Aaron sighed. "I'm trusting that you keep this between us."

"We're good. What's up?"

"Right. So. I don't know where Reid might be once he's out of surgery or if he even survives it, but there are certain clauses to his medical directives. There's a time frame that Reid wants me to follow through with and"—he swallowed—"I have a few weeks—"

"Damn."

"—before I have to make any . . . permanent decisions."

Derek tilted his face away, covered it with his hands, and swiped them down, blinking. He didn't want to hear this.

"I don't like any of it."

"I don't imagine you do, man."

After a beat of silence, Aaron made the admission: "I may not have made matters any better."

Derek sat straighter. "What do you mean?"

There was a brief hesitation. "After his intake assessment last night, Dr Goswami advised against the reattachment surgery for Spencer's tongue. Multiple times. It would be too dangerous to keep him under and introduce additional surgical trauma unnecessarily. Especially after he's suffered cardiac arrest, a second seizure, and considering his brain injury."

Derek blinked at his superior, shoulders tensing.

"They had to hold a consultation to address the ethicality of proceeding with the replantation in his state. The reality is that there are multiple ways for something to go wrong and for them to cease the replantation while in operation. If not that, then even after the operation, the surgical trauma and recovery may be too much for him."

"So you took all sorts of chances with him."

Aaron's eyes bore into Derek's and held steady. "I was prepared to do that, yes. When the first procedures were dealt with this morning, she asked me again if I wanted to move forward with the replantation despite his state." He brought up his hand and cupped it like he was cradling something delicate. "I'd held his tongue in my hand last night, Derek. It was just for a couple of minutes, but it's like its weight and shape is still there in my palm. And earlier, I was asked again if that little inconsequential thing is enough to further risk his life."

The gaze that Derek held with Aaron was unwavering, filled with a medley of things that he couldn't quite pin. But something in him shook when Aaron—a man who rarely averted his gaze in shame or insecurity—did just that, budging a shoulder up.

"And I told her that it was."

"That's his life, man," Derek strained out, unable to bring his outrage to its full capacity. "That's his life you took a risk with."

"I know, Morgan. Trust me, I know it."

"You're saying that this could be what tips him over, and if it does . . . if he dies from something this unnecessary—"

"Regardless of if this procedure was followed through or not, Reid's foot was in more of a grave than it wasn't, according to the doctor's assessment."

Derek groaned, bent forward, and his head was dropping into his hands. It moved left and right. Without lifting it, he spoke. "I wouldn't wish to be in your place right now, Hotch. I honestly can't even imagine having to make any of these decisions." And then he lifted his head, and his expression was inscrutable. "But . . ."

Aaron ticked his brows up. "But?"

"I got your back, Hotch."

Russell was seated in a private, locked room, and his hands and legs were both chained and shackled—to each other, and to the table.

Luke was with David, but David would let Luke take the reins. When they entered, Russell's eyes locked onto the items in their hands before sliding up to them.

"Afternoon, Mr McAllistar," Luke spoke evenly before he sat. "How's your stay here so far?" The tone was cold. "You comfortable?"

Russell didn't respond and merely blinked. He looked at what they were holding again and kept his gaze steady on them.

One was a thick folder and the other a thick album taken from the office in his home.

Finally, Russell splayed his hands slightly, but it went no further than this.

"Mm?" Luke shifted his head left and right as if indecisive. "Yes? No?"

Russell lowered his jowls. "You can both spare the pleasantries," he said in a low voice.

"Right." Luke kicked his head back. "Since you already have some vague idea about how this sort of stuff goes, yeah?"

"Mm."

"Maybe more. Got lots of true crime and court case DVDs lining your shelves in your family room. Podcasts, audio books. Sort of a hobby for you since you failed to graduate from any academy."

With a stony expression and not a twitch to be had, Russell's eyes bore into Luke's as the statement hung in the air. After a few beats of silence, Russell puffed out what could be a scoff or a controlled release of air.

"I already know that this"—Luke's finger thumped on the album—"has Lorraine's touch. This is her thing. And honestly, most of what happened with these victims—that was emotional fulfillment for her. But what's with the videos, man? You guys that deviant that you had to relive it all?"

Silence.

"You like to relive the good bits? Probably helped you get it up with Lorraine when you didn't have any victims with you?" Luke smiled. "That it?"

Russell's hands were folded into each other, and his left thumb tap-tapped above his right.

But Luke sat back and pulled out a few pictures, sliding them in front of Russell. They were the pictures of Victim E in the grave and the surrounding area of Silver Spray Falls. Luke pointed to one of them. "Who was he, Russell?"

Russell blinked languidly at the picture, then stretched his jowls, crinkling his chin. He shook his head.

David finally spoke. "Speak up, will you, Russell? It's best to get verbal confirmation from you. We have video and recording, but words hold up better in court."

The corner of Russell's mouth flashed up into a humored grin before smoothing into the same, feigned indifference. "Dunno," Russell answered.

"You didn't have any connection to this person?" Luke asked.

Russell slowly heaved in a breath. "No."

"You didn't stalk him."

"No."

"So you just went ahead and decided to pluck this guy off the street."

A puff of air.

"He do somethin' to piss you off?"

Russell didn't answer.

"Was he deaf? Did he know Sign Language?" When Russell was silent, Luke sat back. "You gotta give us something, man. What happened with this dude?" Luke pressed. "What about him edged you this much? The guy was stabbed multiple times, man. Some of his bones were fractured like you'd taken a bat to 'im." Luke presented pictures to him.

Russell's eyes flashed at Luke, and he gave him a bored expression. "We spent a couple of days getting to know each other."

"Know each other. Did you rape him?"

Russell, again, looked bored with the question.

"Or, rather, did you try to rape him but found that you couldn't get it up or that you couldn't complete the act?"

At Russell's continued silence, David leaned forward. "Did you try to rape him the way your father raped you?"

It happened in a flash. Russell's clasped hands tightened and his neck reddened as his whole body tensed. But in the next moment, he expelled some pent up air as a soft sigh, and every muscle in his body relaxed again.

With a decisive nod, he spoke. "We won't talk about my father."

"I think it's a great opportunity to talk about Raymond McAllister," David responded pointedly. "Your father raped you, didn't he? And you raped the men you kept captive because that gave you some—control? A sense of power? These things were taken from you, and you're in a marriage that—from what we've heard—has some elements of a controlling wife, so what better way to express your power and control over men that have none, yeah? The lines are obvious to follow. Then your wife's eyes land on a new target—one who happens to be a law official. Taking away all that power." David nodded as he said the last words. "Intoxicating, right?"

The corner of Russell's lip quirked, but his otherwise dry expression didn't waver. "We won't be talking about my father. Or my wife."

"We'd be glad to clear it all up, then," Luke said congenially. "Why did you stab this guy repeatedly, Russell? Why did you bash the guy's face in?"

The nasal puff of air that he let out was punctuated with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Drawing his eyes to his hands, he lowered his jowls and gave his head a single left-right tick.

David sighed. "Alright, then. Tell us why you buried him nude. Why take the time at all to bury someone that clearly neither you nor Lorraine care about? Delaware River's not far off."

Russell's voice lacked any inflection. "Why not?"

"Ah, a philosopher." David's fingers drummed on the table. "Wonderful."

Russell shrugged a shoulder.

"Did you learn his name when you got to know each other?"

"A lot was left unsaid," Russell answered, letting the words sink in. And then his lip turned up again.

"A real wise guy."

This interview wasn't getting very far. They might have to revisit this questioning at some other time. Luke decided to change tactics.

"Does this make you more comfortable?" he asked without voicing the words.

Russell blinked at Luke, but his eyes followed the motions.

"I've heard that people with severe dyslexia take well to Sign Language. Some have a co-existing auditory processing disorder that's mild or severe. The way you turn your head when we talk . . . Is that the case for you? Or maybe it's a subconscious habit you picked up because of your son. Were you ever diagnosed with anything?"

David, unknowing of the words, watched as Russell trained his eyes on Luke, engaged. But Russell pulled his head back and straightened in his seat.

"Let me tell you how this goes, Russell," David began as he took the pictures away. "We've got a slew of people out there, and they wanna know. They wanna know what kind of man you are. Your character. Your motivations. If you're that stand-up guy that's been working in this community for years or if you're a nasty, rotten egg. I think you want people to believe you're a good guy, yeah? You don't talk, then people are gonna speculate. Because they're starting to see the missing piece of this puzzle. They're startin' to notice that your kid—that Kenneth McAllistar is missing in action."

Russell's eyes glided over to David.

"There's already a lot of talk of what's happened to these victims because, you know, the mind supplies us with all kinds of stuff when we don't have the full details. They already rightfully think these victims have been assaulted. So—to them—you rape men who are supposed to represent a blond guy in his mid-twenties to early thirties—same age range as your son—you bury them in white and make 'em look all innocent, and, well, they're gonna come to the conclusion that that's what you did to poor Kenneth because we in this room"—his finger wavered in a small circle to indicate everyone in the room—"all know that that's what your daddy did to you, right?"

The hand slammed on the table with a loud bang, and Russell's body was tense. "You will not talk about my father again."

David smiled, unaffected by the physical reaction. "From where I'm sittin', Russell, you're not gonna be able to intimidate me. I'm not chained hand and foot to a two-hundred-pound bed. But you don't wanna talk about this guy right now?" He shrugged his shoulder. "Fine. Tell us about this other guy, then. Or tell us about what actually happened with Kenneth. Because we're pretty damn sure that the body we found in your yard is your own son."

"We won't be talking about my son."

"Why? Don't want us to dig up the truth? That you or even Lorraine or—hey, maybe both of you—abused him? That you kept up the family tradition? Or maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe things went well with the three of you. But maybe you couldn't stand to see your only kid suffering anymore, so you had to put him out of his misery. Maybe you might wanna get some stuff off your chest."

Russell's nostrils flared and there was a glint in his eyes. "We're not going to talk about my son. Do you understand me?"

"Again, Russell—from where I'm sitting, you're not in any position to give demands. But. That's fine. We can move on. Give us just one bone, will you?" So David pushed the album toward Russell, opening its first pages.

"This guy."

There were multiple pictures of the same person, a man in his mid-twenties who was most certainly Victim C. Of the many pictures in the album, there was one—only one—of this young man where his face wasn't occluded with a blindfold or some kind of leather paraphernalia. Under it was the date of May 10, 2012. It was presumably the day he was abducted. In the photo, he laid unconscious, he was sporting facial hair and looked haggard, tattered and dirty clothes covering him and contrasting greatly against the pristine white bedsheet below him.

"Who was he, Russell?" Luke asked. He flipped to the very last page of the book, and there was another date of June 21, 2012 underneath a photograph taken of this person next to his grave with a white sheet underneath him. He looked a day dead.

They'd already calculated it in the background, knowing Austin's exact death date from his album, too. The McAllistars apparently had almost a year-long cooling period between Austin and this victim.

"Looks like you and Lorraine cleaned him up"—Luke flipped through some previous pictures—"got him sober. Even fattened him up a little, hmm?" On the latter, this victim had been the only exception to the rule, it seemed. "That was very"—Luke shrugged, unconvinced of his next words—"kind of you two."

"I would like to know how my wife is," Russell said, completely ignoring the questioning.

"I thought we weren't to talk about her," David retorted.

"And now I'm asking."

"Why don't you worry about yourself, Russell?" David suggested. "You're going to do this all by yourself, like a big boy."

Russell's eyes bore into David's. Again, his lip quirked upward in amusement.

And David egged him: "You may as well forget the name and face belonging to Lorraine. But that's going to be hard, isn't it? Since you're her little lap dog, right? Bit of a stooge?"

Russell's jaws tensed and his fingers drummed against the back of his hand.

"Honestly," David started, "what you have and haven't told me says more than enough, Russell. Because we don't think you stabbed Connor, and we don't think you stabbed this Sally from the alley, either. This tough guy act isn't gonna work with us. You know why? You're not manly enough for that."

At this, Russell leaned forward towards the two agents, and the chair beneath him scraped against the floor.

"Don't do anything dumb, Russell," David warned. "You're at no advantage here."

It did nothing to stop the man from standing ramrod straight and towering above them. His hands were clasped into each other, and his breaths whisked in and out from his flaring nostrils. But after a few seconds of this self-calming, he ticked his head in a single nod, eyes trained ahead of him and not to the two agents beneath him. And then he nodded again—just the once—after a recalibrating blink. He finally looked down at them, his lips set into a straight line, and then he spoke.

"We're done. I'll take that representation now. I get a call."

The recorder turned off, and the two agents stood.

After they left the room, David and Luke walked down the hall towards the bullpen.

"That was too much engagement for me," David said. "It took everything I had in me not to goad him to violence."

"Did it really? I thought you did a damn good job at pissing him off. Was surprised he didn't do to you what they'd done to Connor."

"Yes, well," David began, "there are a lotta eyes on us right now. I honestly think it might be for the best that we're more divorced from this investigation for a while to come. It ain't gonna be very long 'till we're taken off, anyway."

"It might be for the best, yeah. I don't want to stomp on your guys' territory, though."

"Oh, you wouldn't be. It's still early, you'll have to start looking into any forensic psychologists to get on our side now that we've nabbed these two."

Luke let out a hum and wavered his hand. "Yeah, we're gonna have to start digging into that. That and a good prosecutor too."

"Now that Russell's gonna lawyer up, who knows what his representation might try to convince people of. We need to make everything stick."

"Mm. Looks like you were right, though."

"About?"

"Lorraine asked after Reid. Russell didn't mention him even when we alluded to him."

David shrugged. "I dunno. The guy is already pretty tight-lipped. It doesn't surprise me that he wouldn't initiate anything about any victims."

"Probably 'cause they meant nothing to him."

"We'll find out about that in time, but that sounds about right."

By early-afternoon, everyone was resettled at the hospital, trying to ground themselves and unbend their limbs from the uncomfortable, cushioned chairs, or trying, at the least, to make themselves as comfortable as possible however they could.

"Neck pillows, therapeutic sleep masks, and throws," Penelope announced as she, Emily, and Jennifer entered the room, handing large, shopping bags of the very items to Derek, David, Alex, and Aaron. "In your bags you'll find snacks, water, and gift cards to use at Starbucks."

"You're makin' me look bad, kid," David complained.

"She insisted on comfort and was more than happy to drag us along," Emily groused with a near playful lilt.

"There's nothing in any handbook that asserts that we be miserable while we wait," Penelope argued, wedging her very own neck pillow around her neck before falling into her seat. "And I don't know how I could possibly make you look bad, sir—what with you already paying for our hotel accommodations."

She swathed herself in her own blanket until just her hands were peeking out. And reaching into her own bag, she pulled out thick yarn, large needles, and began knitting.

Soon the room was filled with the sound of evening breaths or the click-clicking of the needles.

And it settled in. Just 24 hours before this, they were desperately trying to connect the dots that would lead them to the capture of the McAllistars. Further exploration of the home—the pantry and its contents, the room where the victims were held, the solarium, the backyard, and elsewhere—had and was still revealing their mindset.

But now, there was a strange and inexplicable lull as the team waited, again, to know what Spencer's fate would be. In many ways, a weight was lifted off their shoulders. In other ways, they were in dread of what the future might bring and if there might be any future at all. The danger was now gone, and the hurt could now pulse at them.

They sat, napped, paced, made phone calls, and took breaks from the tense waiting where they could.

Dr Goswami finally came at nearly eight o'clock in the evening, and she looked haggard and tired.

They stood. "Doctor," Aaron spoke.

Dr Goswami addressed him. "We'll need privacy to discuss. We could step out the room again."

"Nonsense," Penelope's voice broke through, and she was already standing. "I'm sure you've been on your feet for hours on end. We can leave. You have a sit."

Dr Goswami looked to be edging on an objection, but Aaron gave a nod. "She'll insist. Please."

There were no further words—the group of agents left the room and gave Aaron and Dr Goswami privacy. She sat, and Aaron could detect the slight looseness of her frame.

"The replantation procedure in itself had a few hitches here and there, but nothing so severe that they needed to forgo it."

Aaron couldn't help but unleash the tension that had tautened his own muscles.

"So we're two for two as far as major reparative procedures go. The laryngeal trauma, again, can wait. But realistically, Spencer's still critical. Although we were met with a sick patient, everything was handled in such good timing and helped influence a better outcome despite what he was facing—the responsiveness in dealing with his tongue, his airway compromise and respiratory depression, and the medical teams' responsiveness on the way here. I have to admit—we all do—that despite the asphyxiation, drugs, convulsions, cardiac arrest, and the surgeries, the fact that Spencer is still alive is astounding. He's endured this much, and it all bodes well for him now that the surgeries are over."

"He's resilient. I already know this much."

She gave a brief smile. "Well it's good you placed your faith in that resiliency and not on my nay-saying yesterday."

"Despite this, he has a long way to go, yes?"

"Quite. The analyses for his liver and kidneys are still showing abnormal results and will likely do so for a while to come. We're medicating him for arrhythmias and other alterations to the state of his heart. But I want you to have realistic expectations. Everything discussed hinges on Spencer's recovery. Spencer's neurological prognosis regarding sequels isn't ideal."

At this, the doctor sighed.

"There is slight brain swelling, or what's called edema. This doesn't bode well. At the moment, we've not needed to remove any part of his skull to relieve the intracranial pressure, which is good, but there's pressure nonetheless and we've taken steps to relieve that. Considering the concurrent acute medical needs, we're looking at a steep recovery. The prognosis for a hypoxic brain injury is difficult to predict, and while some patients may seem to make a full recovery, the extent of a brain injury is often not known until sufficient time has passed to observe the patient. We have to hope that he makes progress in the passing hours and within the next day or so while the induced coma does all the work that his brain right now is incapable of doing to relieve his body of additional stress."

"If that swelling persists for too long, what, then, is the prognosis?"

"It becomes more bleak. We alleviate this pressure by removing parts of the skull if necessary, but we want to avoid this. And this might put you in a position to make some difficult calls. He may have medical directives that dictates how this all goes. Despite this, we're aiming for an optimistic outcome. This besides, we're doing what we can to minimize his chances of developing hospital acquired infection, but he's at risk of developing aspiration pneumonia, peritonitis, among other infections. These can prove fatal given the co-morbidities—especially his abnormal liver function. As such, we're presumptively administering a combination of non-penicillin antibiotics to keep those infections at bay. But in spite of preemptive treatment, there's still risk of developing sepsis, so we'll keep monitoring him and conducting blood tests. That's where he is right now, and it's best to take this all one day at a time."

Aaron cleared his throat. "Understood. Okay."

"It's all about the fight, now. And at the very least, he's pointing north rather than south, but, unfortunately, is subject to change."

Aaron nodded. "Are we able to see him, or is that impossible at the moment?"

"You may absolutely see him, but I fear that it will have to be at a distance," she answered with the permissive dip of her head.

At that, Aaron stood and walked toward the door.

"I warn you that he currently doesn't make for a pleasant sight and you may find it difficult to recognize him as someone you once knew," she continued. "We also can't permit in-room visitation at the moment. Please understand that this restriction is potentially life saving, and is a measure needed to introduce as limited contaminants as possible due to his state."

He opened the door and stepped out, and Dr Goswami followed. "That's fine," Aaron said with little conviction. "We would like to see him if at all possible."

At this, both Penelope and Jennifer turned to the doctor in near desperation.

"Oh, he's—oh, he's okay, and"—Penelope blubbered, and her eyes watered—"we can see him? We can?"

"As I told Aaron, you can, but it won't be in-room at the moment, unfortunately. We generally request that congregating in the ICU hallways be avoided for the comfort of other patients and families, but this once and just for a few minutes, I'll allow for an exception."

Penelope nodded.

"If you'd follow me, then."

At that, they followed Dr Goswami as she led them deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the hospital interior until they were in the ICU ward.

She stopped, turning to them, and began in a soft voice, "I need you to be prepared for Spencer's appearance. I told Aaron before, but Spencer won't be recognizable, and that can be a bit jarring."

The eyes glistened.

"Alright then?"

Jennifer's hands were clasped together and pressed against her mouth.

A few steps further, and they reached his room, the glass doors exposing Spencer for anyone in the ICU to view.

Penelope let out a quavering moan upon seeing Spencer inundated with machinery, and she dug her face into her hands. "Reid," she groaned. "No, no."

Aaron had to turn away; Derek clenched his jaws and he averted his gaze downward as he swiped his hand across his mouth to stifle his rumbling groan.

Emily took a step forward, and Alex, like Aaron, turned away and took a step back.

His pallor made him look positively alien, but the blue extremities were now gone. With a bite block fitted into his mouth and a tube protruding from his neck, it was difficult to recognize him. He was proned, and his head was turned to face the view of those staring at him in thinly veiled horror. Various tubing, nodes, and wires snaked atop and from him—from the tip of his head to below the small fabric covering him waist to thighs, maintaining some poor semblance of his dignity. The bruises—old and new—marred and peppered him where strokes, scratches, finger pad markings, and prominent bite marks more visible under the harsh and cold fluorescent lights that illuminated the cruelty he had suffered, that which crawled from his sides to his back. A thin drainage tube protruded from the top of his head where a spot was shaved from the blond hair.

"When you're allowed for in-room visitation," the doctor's whispery voice weaved among the horrified agents, "you'll still have to follow proper protocol to minimize bacterial infection and wear proper PPE just as you see our staff doing."

But beyond the people within the closed-off room rustling about in the protective blue, they could only see Spencer.

If they saw no face at all, they would think they were in the wrong room.

Emily's cool exterior deteriorated finely, a steady decomposing from fixed and straight to quavering and crumbling and openly tearful. She lifted her hands to steeple over and cover her mouth before she brought them down, giving her head a firm shake.

"God, Reid," she lamented. "Spence . . ."

Jennifer, endeavoring to keep some composure about her, straightened her lips and dipped her head in a single nod, but the low, drawling moan couldn't be contained.

They wrecked this person. Lorraine and Russell took an already broken man trying to reorder his life, and they dashed him into pieces.

Dr Goswami hadn't been far from the truth. There was nothing familiar to them about him. John Doe would have suited him better than Spencer Reid.

This just wasn't the person they'd come to know.

And yet.


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Many thanks for your patience! The next chapter may take another couple of weeks to come out, but in the spirit of transparency, it's entitled Emergence. Take from that what you will, and ta til next time!