Essential Listening – Beautiful Freak, by Eels
0o0
Derek drove slowly through the Cass Corridor, part of Detroit that had suffered greatly during successive economic downturns – and it showed. Thin, angry people were scattered about the streets, looking defeated but defiant, hunger of various kinds etched into the lines of their faces. Trash blew from pile to fly-tipped pile. Bottles rolled between ragged blankets. The only greenery were the weeds coming up through cracks in the mottled pavement. Every other house had its windows boarded up.
"It just isn't fair," Pearce commented bitterly, "that the people who caused this slump get financial support while the most vulnerable victims are turned out onto the street and told to fend for themselves. Bloody capitalism."
"I don't think the bailout's gonna cover this," remarked Prentiss, from the passenger seat.
He saw Pearce nod bleakly in the rear view mirror, watching as the residents of the Cass Corridor slid suspicious and wary eyes over their unmistakably official SUV.
"Anything seem strange to you?" Derek asked, as they came to an intersection.
"Yeah, they've set up camps," Prentiss observed. "I don't see a single person who's isolated themselves from the others.
"Safety in numbers," said Pearce.
"People on the street usually don't care about safety in numbers," Morgan reminded them.
"They're territorial," Pearce agreed. "They have to be, if they want to survive."
Prentiss nodded. "Unless something's scared them into changing their behaviour."
"I mean, look at this," said Derek, gesturing towards a crowd of people on the pavement. "Drug dealers are out in the open, prostitutes seem to be working in groups. I mean, if this guy did kill ten people I don't see how he could've done it without witnesses."
"And therein lies the rub," Pearce mused, as Derek pulled up in the alley they were due to canvas. "Street people have lots of reasons not to trust law enforcement. Even if we do find someone who saw something, why would they tell us?"
"Well, we gotta take that chance," said Derek. He glanced at Pearce and Prentiss. "So, how do you wanna work this?"
"I figure we start with the most recent victim first, see if we even had a crime here," said Prentiss.
"Agreed," Pearce said, as they gathered their files ready to exit the vehicle. "Don't get separated, though. There is still a drive for territory here, and everything about us says 'intruder'."
Outside, in the shadow of a bridge, they paused to take stock.
"I'll head up this way," Pearce announced, nodding towards a collection of strung-together blankets that constituted the only shelter some of these people had. She must have spotted something she wanted to check out because she didn't wait for their acknowledgment, quickly disappearing among the tents of the shanty town.
"Alright, why don't you start out with the junkies, and I'll take the workin' girls," Derek suggested, with just enough of the side-eye that Emily knew he was playing.
"Pfft," she scoffed. "Keep dreaming."
Derek grinned, then moved off to the nearest pair of street people: a couple of women in ragged clothes, who shied away from his approach. "Hey, ladies, either of you seen these two people?" he asked, flashing photos of Hightower and his alleged tenth victim.
Both women murmured in the negative.
"Okay, thank you," he said, and moved on to two men with the strained eyes and restless limbs that indicated a serious meth addiction. "Hey, my man," he greeted, and these two were more interested than frightened, so they came closer. "You seen a brother like that?"
As soon as they realised there was no reward in it for them, they shook their heads and slunk away; Derek let them go. He could tell from their body language that there had been no flash of recognition.
He moved on again, this time lighting upon a young man stretched out on a mattress that had been folded against the wall like a couch. Like the mattress, the kid had seen better days, but he didn't give Derek the side-eye, or move in a way that suggested fear and defiance.
"My man," he said. "You mind if I ask you a few questions?"
The kid shrugged. "Depends what you askin'."
Alright, thought Derek, and crouched down beside him. He pulled out the picture of Hightower's alleged tenth victim. "You know him?"
He knew the young man did, even before he spoke. "'s Charles," he said, with the heaviness of knowing that Derek wouldn't be out here asking for him if something bad hadn't happened. "I don't know his last name."
"You ever seen him get into any type of beef with anyone?"
He shook his head. "Charles was a junkie," he told him, and gestured towards himself as if to say, 'like me'. "Junkies want peace."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "You just said he 'was' a junkie," he pointed out. "You know somethin' I don't?"
"Just that he's gone. Two days now."
"Is that weird? For him to disappear for two days, like that?"
The kid fixed him with a long look. "A lotta people been disappearin' these days. An' when they do, they don't come back."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "That's gotta happen round here all the time, no?"
He shook his head. "Not like this, man."
0o0
Grace lifted the blanket that served as the entrance to the tent, careful to keep her body out of the way, just in case. The makeshift wind chime of feathers, bones and pieces of glass had told her all she needed to know about the occupant of this particular tent. A practitioner lived here – and one who was active within this particular community. This was a place where unusual help could be sought.
"Come in, child, and take the weight off your bones."
Mindful of both causing offence by lingering and how vulnerable she was making herself to attack, Grace did as she was told. It was dark inside the tent, and not much warmer than outside had been. On the far side of a plank of wood that had been laid on the ground in the middle as a table, a figure swathed in layers of cloth stirred.
"You a cop?" they asked, in a much less friendly tone.
"FBI," she replied. "And a witch, if that helps."
The shadowy form stilled and Grace grew aware that she was under a great deal of scrutiny. Then the moment passed and the owner of the tent leaned forward, into the light. They were a young person, entirely (and possibly, carefully) androgynous and unusually clean, given their surroundings. Having certain skills had its benefits. A pair of large, glittering eyes appeared behind cracked spectacles. What might have originally be taken for a cloak turned out to be a large hoody, turned soft with use.
"Interesting combination of life choices," they remarked.
"Same could be said of most people," Grace acknowledged, and the tent owner's lips curled into a smile.
"True. I'm Ganymede. Also a witch, if it helps," they added, with a pleasant smirk.
"I find that depends on the person," said Grace.
"True enough. Take a seat. What can I do for the weird arm of the law?"
Grace did as she was told. "Thank you. We're looking into disappearances from the corridor."
Ganymede fixed her with a hard stare. "We're street people. We drop off the map from time to time."
"Not like this," Grace told them, with a shake of her head. "The kind where people are never seen again."
Ganymede nodded slowly. "Yeah, I'd say there have been a few of those."
"More than usual?"
They nodded again.
"Would you look at some pictures and tell me if you recognise them?"
"Sure."
They spent several minutes poring over Grace's file. Ganymede recognised seven out of ten, though they hadn't spoken to all of them, or known every name.
Ganymede clucked their tongue, looking at the pictures. "You got the guy who did this?"
"Why do you think it's a guy?" Grace asked, narrowing her eyes very slightly.
"Because two of these older guys are scrappy. I mean, the rest of these kids, they're junkies, they're twitchy, but if you catch them on the right day you'd have no trouble getting them away. These two, though?" They tapped the photos thoughtfully. "You'd need to be pretty big to subdue them."
Grace pursed her lips. That, or there's a ruse and a weapon. There are always options when you want to control a person.
"Can you think of a reason they'd separate from the group?" she said aloud. "I get the impression people are sticking together out here right now."
Ganymede sat back, thinking. "Number of reasons. Drugs. Money. Sex. Maybe food, but you're right, most of that is happening in the open these days."
"You seen this guy?" she showed them the photo the military had given them of William Hightower.
"Oh yeah, he's been around," they said, with a nod. "He's not your guy, though."
"Yeah?"
"He cares. Not many do, and you learn to spot it."
So driving into the guard post was a cry for attention, perhaps, but not for himself.
"Thanks." Grace gathered her file back together then met Ganymede's gaze. "Anything I can do for you?"
Ganymede gave her a half smile. "Catch the motherfucker."
0o0
"One minute a girl's on the street and the next she's gone," the woman told her. "But once a John rolls up, you're on your own."
Emily nodded. "What makes you think these people aren't just leaving?"
She gave a hollow laugh. "It's not that easy to get away from this life. Trust me."
"Have you seen this man?" Emily asked, flashing the picture of Hightower.
The woman nodded. "Yeah, he's okay. Not seen him for a day or two, though."
0o0
"He's out here all the time," said the kid.
Derek frowned. Based on this guy's past, he wouldn't have expected him to be so obvious if he was committed to murder on this scale.
"Has anyone ever tried to hassle with him?" he asked.
The junkie laughed and shook his head. "Nah. Brother's got a gun. No one messes with him."
Interesting. Something's off here.
"But he messes with all of you, right?"
"Not exactly," said the kid, to his surprise.
"I need to know everything this brother does," said Derek. "How he talks. How he moves. Every bit of his behaviour. Can you do that for me?"
0o0
Dave watched Aaron walk into the interview room; the way Hightower's countenance didn't change one iota. The wall of aggression remained intact – but if what Morgan, Prentiss and Pearce said was correct, it couldn't stay up forever. There was absolutely more at work here than there seemed to be.
Fleetingly, he thought of Jason Gideon, and the arguments they had had, back in the day. One thing they had always agreed upon was that interrogations were more like chess matches than conversations.
And as in chess, the opening gambit was all important.
"I'm Aaron Hotchner," said Hotch briskly, wearing his most unreadable expression. "I'm the Behavioural Analysis Unit Chief from the FBI."
"You're here to analyse me," Hightower guessed.
"No, I'm here to take your confession," said Aaron, shutting him down. "And find out where you dumped your victims." He paused briefly, then followed up with, "Or are you wasting my time?"
Hightower didn't answer the question, which was telling. "I gave you names. I gave you dates."
"You didn't give me a dump site."
Hightower glanced at the table; the chink in the armour that told Dave – and Aaron – everything they needed to know. He wasn't guilty – of this, at least. It would take a little while to unfold what his game was.
"You were a sergeant," said Aaron, taking a seat. "You led troops, probably lost men."
"A few," Hightower agreed, and suddenly the rage was gone, replaced with pain and the institutional shield that the military engendered in a person.
It reminded Dave strongly of Pearce.
"How would their parents feel if they didn't know whether their sons or daughters were dead or alive?"
"Don't lecture me on notifying families," Hightower retorted. "I've been on those doorsteps. No one cares about those people." He paused and the emotional shield slid back in place. "Why should I?"
Aaron had touched a nerve. This, Dave suspected, was the real William Hightower.
"Here we go," Dave murmured.
To his right, Jeff looked up, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"An interrogation doesn't really start until you get the first lie," he explained.
Inside the room, Aaron tilted his head – just so. "See, that's just the thing, William. We talked to the people on the street. You were out there every night. You took their photographs. You checked off their names in a notebook."
Hightower's Jaw twitched. "So?"
"Your behaviour was more like a protector, like someone in the army doing a bed check." His demeanour wobbled a little more, and Aaron leaned forward, capitalising on it. "You've gone to a lot of trouble to confess to a crime you didn't commit."
"The folks on the street – did they tell you people were missing?" he asked, almost vibrating with the effort of keeping control.
"If my team is here then there are cases we are not working on," said Aaron, using the voice he usually employed for bureaucrats who were impeding justice. "You are wasting our time."
Hightower's eyes narrowed. When he spoke his voice was almost a growl of rage. "Ten people dead. It's not enough for you."
"I've watched the tape of you at the border cross over and over again," Aaron continued, knowing exactly the buttons to push. "You wait until every guard is out of the booth before you drive into it. If you wanted to kill people, you had your chance."
"Are you investigating these murders or not?" Hightower shouted, making the detective monitoring the interview with Dave and Jeff jump.
And there we have it, thought Dave.
Aaron's face softened. "So, that's what this is all about? Making sure we investigate?" He shook his head. "If you thought people were being murdered you should have gone to the police in Detroit."
"I did," Hightower told him, tears of frustration filling his eyes. "Three times."
Dave felt his heart sink.
"They told me the kind of people I was looking for disappeared. They said that's the way life on the street works. Do you believe the people I showed you are missing?"
"I believe it's possible," Aaron replied.
"Don't give me a political answer."
Aaron gazed at him for a moment, assessing him. "Tell me what happened the night before the border cross."
"I did a head count," Hightower told him, still in the manner of giving someone giving a report to a superior. "Every night for the last month like we do in Baghdad. That night I saw a boy named Charles wasn't where he usually camped down, so I made another pass."
"He didn't turn up?" Aaron surmised.
"By the morning, I knew he was gone."
Aaron frowned. "William, people don't do what you did out of honour. They do it out of love. Who were you looking for on the streets every night?"
Dave watched the soldier's façade crumble.
"I got home from Iraq. First thing my mother told me was that my baby sister Lee was on the streets. She asked me to find her."
"But you couldn't."
"I managed once. Brought her home. We got her fed." He took a moment to control his emotions, but it was clearly hard going. "She even wore my dog tags… for good luck. Two weeks later she slipped back onto the streets." He was crying openly now. "That was it."
"William, you've got so much information about the other potential victims," Aaron asked gently. "Why not Lee?"
"I hid it in a spare tyre," he admitted. "In my car. I needed to wait – until I was sure… that you were on board."
0o0
William, it's Lee. Something bad is happening. It's dark. I don't know where he's taking me."
"After that, the signal cuts out," said Hotch, closing the flip phone they had found in the spare tyre in Hightower's car.
They had convened in the makeshift situation room that Detective Bedwell had prepared for them. The rest of the team were liaising with the Detroit Police Department, or they were in theory. According to Morgan, they had already been keeping them waiting, which went some way to explaining why Hightower had chosen this rather bizarre means of getting their attention.
JJ sighed. Detroit had a history of being spread insanely thin, especially with the economy the way it was, but when someone has to go in three times to report their sister's disappearance (let alone all the other victims) and is still ignored all kinds of red flags went up in JJ's mind. She was mentally preparing herself for the potential fallout of having Morgan, Emily and Grace marauding around the local Police Department and Getting Shit Done. Not that she would expect anything less from them. It was her job to smooth ruffled feathers, not theirs.
"This is the same night she left her mom's house?" Spencer asked.
Hotch nodded. "Hightower called in an army favour. They triangulated the call to a cell tower in Canada, just over the border in Port Huron."
"It explains why he crossed into your jurisdiction," Dave said to Jeff, who nodded.
"It's also a sure fire way of getting the FBI involved," Spencer added. "He knew we'd investigate an American citizen being held on multiple murder charges."
"And you believe him?" Bedwell asked, still halfway unconvinced.
"I do," said Hotch, then answered his cell phone, putting it immediately on speaker. "Go ahead, Garcia."
"Good news and bad news," she said. "I've got IDs on multiple border crosses for the dates in question. Trouble is, I've got hundreds and as far as I can tell, if your license doesn't ping for any prior felonies, you're pretty much gonna pass go and collect two-hundred Canadian dollars."
"She's right," said Bedwell. "Busiest cross in North America. Lot of commercial traffic, trucks mostly. Stop and searches would cause too many delays."
"So he's got virtually free passage," Rossi remarked.
Reid sighed, looking at the map in his file. "And once he crosses, there's nothing but woods to hide whatever he's doing.
0o0
"I don't understand why we need to talk in private," said Detective Bedwell, as Aaron and Dave followed him into his office.
Aaron closed the door behind them, aware that Bedwell was not going to like their request.
"We want you to release William Hightower into our custody," said Dave, who had a better rapport with the man.
Jeff Bedwell's eyebrows shot up towards his fringe. "I can't do that."
"He's documented a potential victim pool in Detroit," Aaron explained. "He's our best eyes on the street."
"He tried to murder five border agents," the detective reminded them.
"You can't personalise this, Jeff," Dave warned, though Aaron might not have made it sound quite so patronising – but then, he didn't know the detective as well as his friend did.
"Isn't that what you're doing to me," he pointed out shrewdly, "trading on our relationship to get me to release a prisoner?" He shook his head. "I respect what you've taught me, but when you leave, I still have to be able to look my men in the eye."
"Then do whatever you can to catch the unsub," Rossi countered.
"It's not that simple," said Bedwell, and he had a point, Aaron reflected.
As a plan, it made sense from their perspective – and he was prepared to fight for this option, Hightower was their best initial source of information – but if anything went pear-shaped, Bedwell would be the one to catch the flack.
"You getting pressure from above?" he inferred.
Bedwell sighed, confirming their suspicions. "They're not gonna let me turn William Hightower into a hero," he said, suggesting he thought that the higher-ups were being particularly short sighted in this instance.
"This unsub kills in two and three day cycles," Rossi argued. "Which means he's about to go back out there, hunting."
"Release him into FBI custody while he's in Detroit," said Aaron. "When the case is closed, he'll be back under your jurisdiction."
And if anything goes wrong, that will be on us.
"Your shop, your call," said Dave, but all three men knew he was halfway to agreeing.
Bedwell sighed again, tutted and then gave them a half smile. "Well, they can fire me if they want."