Essential Listening – Fishing for a Dream, by Turin Brakes
0o0
She hadn't entirely been looking forward to it.
Ordinarily, an evening spent meandering around an art gallery was something SSA Grace Pearce would rather enjoy. She liked art, when it wasn't entirely self-involved, and the opportunity to get out of the house for something other than work was generally welcome, particularly when you spent your days sifting through the very worst things humanity could find to do to one another, but this wasn't entirely her crowd.
The gallery was full of the unapologetically wealthy, dressed impeccably in their perfectly tailored suits and dresses. Grace felt woefully underdressed, even though she had dusted off something she'd worn to a friend's wedding.
SSA David Rossi had invited her, he said, because his publisher had got him tickets and he had to go to one of these events every so often just to keep them quiet – and this particular exhibition was right up her alley.
When they had arrived and she had finally seen the poster (The Occult in Medieval and Renaissance Europe), she had had perked up considerably.
"I told you it was your thing," said Rossi, gallantly taking her arm.
Grace gave him a look. "I'm just here as arm candy, admit it."
Rossi laughed.
Inside, small groups of visitors flitted between the exhibits. Rossi detached and Grace browsed among the artefacts, letting him network.
The feeling that she was utterly out of place receded. It seemed to her that there were three kinds of people in the room.
Most of them, Grace suspected, were here for the novelty. The little thrill people got from being in the presence of what is considered dark or esoteric. This collection of late and post medieval occult artefacts (or things that were supposed to be) was exactly the sort of thing that brought out the looky-loos.
Then there were the people who were here to network, like Rossi and a handful of writers and artists Grace thought she recognised from the dust covers of the hottest new fiction.
Here and there, though, were people who fit neither category. Not exactly unobtrusive, but not calling attention to themselves either. These were the ones who were actually interested in the exhibits – who saw them as more than just a passing curio. If she concentrated, she could pick each one of them out; even with her back to the room she could feel them behind her.
As it turned out, this was exactly her crowd.
It wasn't a threatening feeling – the gallery was a neutral space – but still. It was a curious sensation after such a long time to be among quite a few practitioners. Several of them had charms at work – perhaps on their appearances, or their possessions. The traces of them fizzed in the back of Grace's mind, like comet trails or birdsong only she could hear. It was pleasant to be among it, and to not be working.
No one was going to approach anyone else here without a reason, and Grace was willing to bet that apart from Rossi and one of the women he was talking to that she recognised from a true crime event he had been to, no one knew her – or what she was famous for.
Rossi came and found her while she was examining an allegedly cursed mirror from a haunted house (completely inert, in fact, unlike the nondescript prayer shawl in the next case, which was giving off a tremendous amount of sinister energy).
"So," he said, handing her a drink. "In your professional opinion, how much of this is legit?"
Grace gave her friend a sidelong look. She and Rossi valued one another's knowledge and experience, but they had been known to clash over the weirder aspects of their work. The trouble was, while Rossi was an inherently flexible thinker and prepared to follow his (or one of his teammates' instincts), he also required cast iron proof if you wanted to change his mind on something.
Any whiff of a psychic was kind of a trigger – and it didn't help that Grace knew that sometimes that kind of thing was entirely real.
They had settled into a tolerant acceptance that neither was ever going to change the other's perspective, so Grace responded in that vein.
"Oh, at least half of it," she said with a grin.
The truth, but none of the detail.
Rossi chuckled. "I'll take your word for it." He launched into a discussion of the mystery surrounding a slim volume of terrible poetry that Grace wouldn't have touched with a bargepole, and she met the gaze of a conservatively dressed woman on the far side of the display.
They shared an amused smile.
Sometimes, Grace thought, anonymity was bliss.
0o0
"The latest victim is Tara Farris, 20." SSA Jennnifer Jareau handed the files around the situation room. "She's the third victim in two weeks."
The members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit were gathered on a cold November morning, ready to pick apart the details of another victim's life in the name of catching their killer. It was a strange way to spend a life, SSA Emily Prentiss mused, frowning down at Tara Farris' autopsy report, but if it meant saving lives further down the road, then it was worth it. Most of the time.
"They were all found on freeway off-ramps by commuters," JJ continued.
"Well, he's not hiding them," SSA Aaron Hotchner remarked.
"An LA freeway during morning rush hour?" asked Rossi. "He wants them found."
"Quickly," said SSA Derek Morgan, acting Unit Chief.
"Well, they're still dressed," Emily pointed out. "That minimizes the shock value."
"Maybe he's concerned for them," said SSA Doctor Spencer Reid. "Think he wants them taken care of?
"Or it's not sexually driven," Grace put in. "They're not posed."
"No signs of sexual assault on any of the victims," said JJ.
"Look how pale she is," said Rossi, gazing at the crime scene pictures.
"All of them were severely hypovolemic," JJ explained. "Tara had less than a pint of blood in her."
"Oh no," said Grace, and everyone looked at her expectantly. "Really? Goth clothes, pale skin, serious exsanguination, and –" she flicked through the file and held up Tara's autopsy picture, "yep. There they are. Puncture wounds to the neck?" She rolled her eyes.
"Wait, seriously? Are those supposed to be – fang marks?" Emily managed to keep the smile off her face, though she wasn't sure how. This wasn't the place for humour. She couldn't avoid the slight huff of a laugh that escaped, though. "Vampires?"
"Someone who thinks they are one, at least," said Grace, with the kind of open derision that Emily had come to associate with the beginning of a Seriously Weird Case.
"Look at this," said Reid, who was more inured to the weird stuff Grace periodically came out with than the rest of them. "The first two victims had more than three pints each. If exsanguination is the goal, the unsub is definitely becoming more proficient."
"This is new," said JJ, still giving Grace an odd sort of look. "Tara's the only victim to have a written message." She brought a close up of the victim's arm up on screen.
Someone had used her blood to finger paint two words onto her arm.
"'The Liar'," Hotch read aloud.
"The Liar," said Emily. "That's strange, isn't it? Not 'a' liar, or just 'liar'."
"So what did you lie about, Tara?" Morgan mused.
"All of the victims appear to have been strangled and then bled out through identical wounds in the throat," said JJ. There was an expectant sort of pause. "All of the wounds on the victims were covered in saliva. Human saliva."
Reid pulled a face. "Urgh. As if someone drank their blood."
Next to him, Grace sat back and shook her head. "Bloody vampires."
0o0
In all the darkest pages of the malign supernatural, there is no more terrible tradition than that of the vampire. A pariah even among demons.
Montague Summers
0o0
"Okay. Okay, thanks," said JJ, hanging up her mobile. "So, they've already set up a task force in Los Angeles."
"This isn't their first serial case," Rossi remarked, impressed.
"You remember Detective Owen Kim?" JJ asked.
Morgan, Reid and Hotch all nodded.
Before our time, Grace guessed, glancing at the blank looks on Rossi and Emily's faces.
"From the stalker case," said Hotch, without looking up.
"You remember that case, don't you, Spence?" said JJ, with a grin.
"What's this?" Emily asked, as Spencer's face began to colour.
"I do remember that case," he confirmed, and Grace heard the 'Oh no, don't ask me' tone, loud and clear.
"Yeah, you ever talk to, um, Lila anymore?" JJ teased.
Grace could practically feel him squirming beside her. She filed the name away for later cross-examination.
"You know, I think we should probably focus on this case right now," said Spencer, firmly. "It's a little more pertinent."
"Alright," said Morgan, chuckling. "So, tell us about blood-drinkers. Pearce? Reid?"
Spencer glanced at her and she gestured for him to go first.
"Human blood consumption, or clinical vampirism, is known as Renfield's syndrome, named after the insect-eating character in Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula." He beamed, delighted to have a forum for this particular branch of creepy facts.
Grace hid a smile.
"Are they sadists?" Emily asked.
"Not necessarily," said Spencer. "Pain to the victim is usually only a by-product. Blood is the focus."
"And if it isn't Renfield's Syndrome?" Hotch asked, his gaze resting not insignificantly on Grace.
Officially, no one on the team believed in witchcraft, though JJ had been known to wear healing crystals and Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia regularly provided horoscopes for anyone who asked and several people who didn't. But the real secret, a secret that only Hotch, Reid, and now Garcia were privy to, was that not only was there a whole world of paranatural weirdness out there, Grace Pearce was very much a part of it.
It had come in handy, at times, given her rather unique perspective (she was the only FBI agent she was aware of that had talents of that ilk – but then, it wasn't the kind of thing you would advertise in the bureau). It also meant that when she said extremely strange things at briefings, half the team would ignore her (or assume she was speaking figuratively), but the other half would be forewarned not to touch strange glowing things at crime scenes, for example.
"Well, as usual, it's more complex than that," she replied. "It's quite likely to be a combination of Renfield's and, say a delusion of being a vampire, working for a vampire – or even a blood cult. Blood is associated with power, if you recall our hack sorcerer in Portland*."
Several people made noises of recognition and disgust; Garcia, who had been in unusually close proximity to that particular horror show, went pale.
"Most cultures who consider blood to have power, also believe that consumption can transfer that power."
"Gross," said Garcia, from the laptop on the table.
"Also it's used in spell-casting in several traditions, for amplification or energy," she added, "but I don't see any evidence of that. This is most likely an identity delusion driven by or associated with Renfield's."
Reid nodded. "Renfield's Syndrome is usually accompanied by varying levels of Schizophrenia," he agreed. "And occasionally more classic cannibalism if the condition evolves."
"Classic cannibalism," Rossi echoed. "Lovely job we have."
"I will say this," said Spencer, ignoring him. "True cases are exceedingly rare."
"That's comforting," said JJ. "Sort of."
"Renfield's may be rare," said Garcia, "but vampires are anything but. And there's a huge subculture in Los Angeles of the," she made air quotes, "red-drinking undead."
"Why is that not a surprise?" Rossi asked.
"Vampires are 'cool'," said Grace, who disagreed with her own statement. "People are fascinated by the idea that you can remain young and beautiful forever. Just look at fantasy-horror section in a bookshop."
"Or posters at the movie theatre," Emily added.
"Garcia, all these people drink blood?" Morgan asked.
"Au contraire," she replied. "They mostly just dress up like Prentiss did in High School and they make believe," she continued, over Emily's protests. "It's all kinds of delicious."
"It's not the same at all," said Spencer. "We should refer to this unsub as a vampirist, not a vampire, and they would be attracted to the subculture merely for its professed worship of blood."
"And a large pool of potentially semi-willing victims," Grace added. "Some people get a sense of euphoria following blood-letting. Some vampirists form long-term relationships with their… donors."
"Okay, I'm going to continue spelunking through the various online sites, and see if anything jumps up and bites me."
"Thanks Baby G-" Morgan stopped himself, remembering his position of temporary responsibility. "Thanks Penelope. Stay close."
"Yes sir. Garcia out!"
"You guys, one more thing," said Reid. "Vampirists are coveters. They most generally always have some sort of relationship with the victim, even if it's tangential, and they're likely to become obsessed. They've almost certainly crossed paths in some way."
"Alright," said Morgan. "That gives us something to work with. Prentiss, Rossi – I want you to go to Farris' apartment. Pearce, you go with them. Rule out anything occult."
They nodded.
"The rest of us will head to the Police Department."
Everyone began to shift, either heading to seats away from the others to read through the files, or to the kitchen for drinks and snacks. California was on the opposite coast to Quantico, so it would be a little while before they got in. They had time.
So, Grace said, following JJ and Morgan to the kitchen. "Who's Lila?"
"Lila Archer," said JJ. "You know, the one from that horror flick – The Stepfather?"
"She and Reid had a thing after the stalker case," Morgan told her, sounded greatly amused.
"A thing?" Grace repeated, surprised.
"Yeah, it was all over the tabloids for a couple of weeks," said JJ. "Up-and-coming star has mystery boyfriend and all that."
"I can hear you guys, you know," said Spencer, marooned on the bench seat with his knee injury. He sounded mildly chagrined, and when Grace shot him a mischievous smile, the tips of his ears had turned red.
"You were lucky they only had a picture of the two of you on the street, Pretty Boy," said Morgan, with glee. "And not the part where she pulled you into the pool."
"Fooling around in a pool?" Emily exclaimed, delighted. "Spencer Reid, I didn't know you had it in you."
Spencer glowered at her. "Morgan, shut up."
"Make me."
"To be fair, it's not something we'd forget," said Hotch, not even bothering to turn around. "You looked like a drowned rat."
"Hotch!" Spencer complained, and then tried to whack Morgan with his crutch as he passed, but the acting unit chief dodged out of the way.
JJ tutted, shaking her head. "Don't make me ground you both."
Grace laughed, carrying two cups of tea back to the bench seat.
"You fell in the pool?" she asked, handing Spencer the other.
Spencer made a noise of deep disgruntlement. "I do not want to talk about it."
"Protecting her honour?" Grace teased. It was half-hearted, meant to pass the time more than anything else. But it wasn't as if she wasn't curious, so she when he didn't answer immediately, she prodded him in the side, just enough to goad him into mild annoyance.
"Look, nothing happened. She was a victim, it was classic transference…" Grace didn't believe him, and that must have registered on her face. He checked that everyone else on the jet was preoccupied before he lowered his voice. "Why, are you jealous?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe a bit. Fooling around with you in a pool sounds kind of fun."
"Oh…" said Spencer, surprised. Rather unsuccessfully, he made an attempt to fight off the smile that was forming. "Okay."
0o0
*See Moments of Grace – Season Four, Act Six: The Song of the Sharks, chapters 13 – 25.
