AN - Thank you to those who reviewed. There was an update to chapter one some minor changes to the first chapter took place, 98% phrasing a small detail added and the tone of Julian's description of the events. But the words didn't change. I don't know why I catch more errors once I publish than I do as I read things over 50 times before publishing.

Translations

Il mele catta più mosche, che non fà l'aceto - you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar.

chi cerca mal, mal trova - he who seeks ill, finds ill


"It takes courage to live through suffering. It takes honesty to observe it."

- C. S. Lewis -

The local precinct in Las Vegas is as full and as loud as he remembers them being in states all over the country. There is a constant hum of movement that runs through the place, a rhythm of life and despite the fact he would be hard pressed to say he missed his old life, David Rossi felt himself relax into that rhythm in the same way he relaxed into a good bottle of scotch or an occasional cigar. He walked past the front desk flipping his wallet open to reveal his rarely used badge, as a lecturer and teacher he still had one, but he did not generally feel the need to use it unless he was in Virginia. When he entered a man in his late thirties stood to greet him.

"My name is Detective Rodriguez, officer in charge, How can I help you agent?" He asked.

"I would like to take a look at a case file, for research purposes." Dave states a smile gracing his features, 'Il mele catta più mosche, che non fà l'aceto.' as mom would say, and without a warrant, a probable cause for this case to be connected to any serial activity, or an invite from the local precinct he would not be getting any information without the local PDs cooperation. So he smiled and within a half hour managed to charm his way into an unused storage closet of an office with a computer and a police box full of files and evidence, contained within them a police report and a taped interview of one Diana Reid.

A short sad kind of laugh bubbled in his throat as he shut the door, remembering all the days he had done the same thing back when it was the Behavioral Science Unit and it consisted of just was Jason and him sitting in a bunker driving around to different precincts trying to convince the sheriffs that the locals needed their help. Back before By now the BAU had hundreds of cases come in a day from locals, consulting on dozens from their desks and flying out in the jet for those cases where they were needed the most.

God he missed that jet, flying commercial was a joke comparatively.

He starts pulling on a pair of sterile gloves and picking through the evidence which is severely lacking. There is an old sponge that has blood on it, a metal frying pan, and three books that had blood on the spines or on the pages. One Tristan and Isolde, A collection of poems by Chaucer, and a hard cover version of The Narrative of John Smith. Books that had been well taken care of and well preserved before they were splattered with blood. The last item almost slipped his notice it was a small brass interior bedroom door key. Used to lock one in from the outside.

After he closely examines each piece of evidence he sets them all back in the box knowing that other than confirming that a frying pan had been involved there was little else the hard evidence could tell him at this point.

Instead he turned to the paperwork, he grabbed the police file opening it to find a stack of pictures, the first of a small house sandwiched between two others that looked practically identical on the outside, but overgrown grass and bushes made the house the officers had been called to stand out.

Slowly he removed the other pictures and started to arrange them on the desk. Placing the booking photograph of one Diana Reid next to the photo of Julian eyes wide and unfocused, pupils were blown wide in fear as she looked not at the camera but at whoever held her right arm up at a sharp angle immobilizing her for the photo. There was no photo of Spencer. So Rossi fished the photograph out of his pocket and placed it next to the others. Some part of the beast in his chest settled when he saw the three together. At least in this sense he could reunite the family.

He then looked through and organized the pictures of the house. Laying them out in front of him as if they were pieces of a puzzle. He started with what looked to be the front room. The inside held a singular threadbare floral couch that had upholstery on the arms sides peeling back to show termite eaten wood. It was covered by a white sheet and speckled with dried blood which was pointed out using blood markers.

The room held nothing else but a small red wagon tucked into the side of the couch and copious amounts of books and loose papers. None of them were close enough to the photo enough to see titles of in the photographs, but it was clear to see that there was not any that would belong to a child. Atop of that photo he lay the photo of the small dining room that looked out into the equally overgrown backyard. This room was equally filled with books, but also held a table and three chairs all made up from different wood types and qualities from what once must have been different table sets and all bolted into the floor using what looked to be shelf brackets.

There was another photo of the kitchen where it seemed the last moments of Spencer Reid, at least in the house, played out. There was a splattering of blood on the kitchen counter that faced the dining room and a hand upturned flat against the white counter top. As well as a pool of dried blood on the old yellow linoleum floor. But even from the bad angle he could see what he imagined were drops of blood coming from the hallway. He rummaged through the remaining photos to try and get a good look at the hallway. It was not really able to be called a hallway, rather a small common Spence in which the houses two bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a linen closet opened into. It seemed the blow happened as the boy faced the front of the house or more specifically the front facing bedroom door.

'A single blow to the head from behind', Dave thought as he inspected the photo. 'the boy must have just shut the door when he was hit.' was the next thought looking at where the blood markers fell around the door. His eyes tracked the floor of the room in the photo finding an evidence marker. He quickly stood digging though the box to find the small door key. 'or maybe he had been locking the door. an extra layer of protection for his sister?'

'Then the kid staggers away fast enough to make it to the kitchen, but he doesn't go down till he reaches the counter.' he thinks picking back up the kitchen photo to get a better look. The blood splatter on the counter wasn't localized so it could be inferred that the blood had come from another injury. Dave's best guess, the frying pan cut the kids scalp.

'He either falls back or is pulled back and lands on the floor.' but that was the long and short of it. There were no drag marks, or droplets of blood that suggested the boy had been carried out of the house. There was a sign of multiple forced entries at the front door which had its crown molding pulled back so the beams of the wooden made house were exposed making the continued forced entries.

He didn't know yet, if he believed Mrs. Baker's story or Julian's or some disturbing medium between the two. All he knew is that whatever happened in that house things did not turn out well for Spencer Reid.

He took a deep calming breath and wished that he had a scotch or cigar at this point. Or he wished that he had never spoken to the girl, never heard her haunting discription that even now he couldn't get out of his head. Wishing he had handed over the photo and walked away. Then the name Spencer Reid would cross his mind as a tragedy but wouldn't feel like a crushing weight like it did now.

Exiting the room he was greeted by many looks, no doubt Rodriguez had postured around stating that he had helped the FBI agent. Something that even way back when seemed to tickle the local detective's pink until the FBI agents started telling them what to do. He made his way to the coffee machine and made a cup, even signed a few autographs for some of the more eager officers. Then he holed himself back into that office and decided to start on the written report.

He took note of the case number and the officers reporting Murphy and Stewart. He tracked over the incident code, Then his eyes tracked the date, May 19 , 1991 and his breath hitched. Six months, the officers reported to the Reid house almost six months ago. Half a god damn year.

He shut the file and bit back a curse knowing it would do him no good to create a scene. Knowing that all creating a scene would do would have people start to ask questions about why he was interested in the case, questions that he couldn't very well answer.

After a few moments of pacing the room to calm himself and finishing off the entirety of his coffee he decided to go to the restroom and splash some water on his face. Sure it probably looked suspicious but at that moment he was less concerned with local PD suspicion and more with making it through the rest of that file.

When he reentered the room he took the photo of both children in his hands. One who deserved justice and one who deserved answers. He found himself going as far as to run a finger over the gentle curve of the children in the photo's cheeks.

They were just so small, so scared, and right now the only way either would get what they needed is if he got through those files. So he placed the photos down and grabbed the case file, tapping it twice on the desk before he began to read.

An hour later he put the file down and ran for another round of precinct gruel. When he re-entered the room his eyes drifted back to the file. It told a story that was different from the two he had already heard. This story spoke of a welfare check, that was reported not by a school official but by a professor at the local community college Harris. Who according to Harris was a student in his calculus 2 class, Harris stayed the boy normally, always attended class but had not for three weeks, and only got involved after the boy missed the class final.

The reporting officers stated that they apparently got to the house late at night on the seventeenth. Inside they heard yelling and the clanking of something as it was thrown against walls. When they knocked the door was opened by none other than little Julian Reid. Who from the description of the reporting officer looked a bit like death warmed over. The girl had explained that her brother was 'out' and that her Mama was sleeping. She asked the officers to come back at a different time. The officers pushed forward using a warrant and a bit of force to get through the door. They had only just entered the house when Diana Reid attacked them. Yelling at them that it was their fault, that the government was watching, all signs of a schizophrenia break. It was the child who ended up calming the situation, the child who sat with her mother in one of the bedrooms holding her until more officers and paramedics arrived.

From the report it seemed the next wave of officials had begun Diana's delusions anew and once again she attacked until she was sedated and all of the Reid's were removed from the house. He looked through the child services reports for each child and the psych evaluation for the mother before letting the cases fall open and pushing back in the chair.

Dave hung his head.

Something about this just didn't track. His instincts were screaming at him that this was wrong. That something was wrong.

Watching the interview only confirmed it. He watch the excessive force used by the cops, and the struggle of a woman who clearly wasn't well as she screamed at them incomprehensible thoughts attempting to attack them from where she was shackled to the chair.

He stood packing up the files and placing them together. He tucked Spencer's picture in with his family ready to put the boy to rest.

But even there nestled between photographs of his mother and sister Dave couldn't help but feel that it was wrong so he slipped it back into his pocket and figured asking about missing files couldn't hurt.

He exited the office and walked to the one down the way where Rodriguez sat pouring over his own paperwork.

"Its a rough one right," Rodriquez said intoning his head toward the evidence box that Dave was holding.

"Is there anything else on the case?" He asked. His mind ticking off the things that were missing, an autopsy report for one, a interview with Julian, a psychiatric interview for Diana.

"Nope, that was it. Dad, William Reid, is a hotshot commercial lawyer lot of it was handled in private and quickly you know the type I am sure." The man said, Rossi nodded schooling his expression, because he did know the type. And it spoke of corruption and possibly even a motive to kill. "Got her into a care facility though. Made sure she got help." And made sure that if she did know anything everyone would discredit her. The more this man spoke the more the father seemed to be becoming a suspect.

"Of course, I would love to speak with him. To learn more about how the mother and son interacted before the incident. Do you have an address or number that he can be contacted at?"

"Sure, he is out in Summerland. Moved to get away from the memories you know." The mans said using the flip address book on his desk he then wrote down the number and address and passed it to Dave who gave a nod.

"Thank You," He said. Deciding that talking to William Reid couldn't hurt either.

Once again his mothers voice spoke clearly in his thoughts. 'Chi cerca mal, mal trova' he heard her say in his ear. Most days he agreed, but not today. Today he was chasing that evil, made up or not.

"No problem, I remember this case, for a mother to do that. Did you think you found what you were looking for?" The man asked, placing the files on his desk and looking back up. His hand going to adjust his collar.

"No, but I don't think what I am looking for is in those files." Rossi said before turning on his heel and walking toward the door, the sky outside was black and Dave wondered how a day had passed with Him staring at that file, "Have a nice night." He called back to Rodriquez as his hand gripped the door.

"You as well Agent."