Essential Listening: I Don't Wanna Be, by Gavin DeGraw
0o0
The ability to move quietly was an underrated skill, Aaron thought. It was something that his team had all picked up, from various places, and he'd often debated with both Gideon and Rossi over whether they could get the training unit to somehow run a course in it.
Presently he was using it to observe William Hightower, who was sitting in the holding cell, dealing with his prosthetic leg. Because he felt he was alone, and because the FBI were finally looking into his sister's case, he had allowed the brittle walls he had built up to get their attention to come down entirely.
The rage and the grief was still there – you didn't embark on this kind of quest without knowing that there is a high likelihood that your loved one is dead – but it was under control now he had a way to move forward.
It was something the military instilled into anyone who had responsibility for others; that ability to carry on, no matter what, because other people needed you to. Aaron couldn't help identifying with that.
He opened the door, letting the sergeant know he was there.
He looked up, holding his prosthetic leg, ready to reattach it. "Hey, uh, they say you get used to it." He grimaced. "Right now, it just hurts like hell."
Hotch nodded. He had neither the experience nor the right to comment. The fact that Hightower felt able to open the conversation in that direction implied a modicum of trust, however, which was a very good sign. Not that Aaron had any doubt that this man was innocent of the crimes he had initially confessed to.
Trust for trust.
"We'd like you with us in the Cass Corridor," he said aloud.
Hightower met his gaze, surprised. "Doing what?"
"The same thing you've been doing," Aaron told him. "We'll conduct nightly checks. You have a rapport out there. If something is happening, we'll react more quickly and we'll have more manpower."
Sergeant Hightower frowned. "Is the Detroit Police Department on board?" he asked.
"We're talking to them now about it."
What was it Rossi and Pearce said? The truth, but none of the detail.
It seemed to be enough. Hightower nodded.
0o0
It had taken the detective nearly a full day to come out to see them, which was probably less of a reflection of her and more a reflection of the general workload. Still, Derek was beginning to appreciate some of the frustration Hightower must have felt.
She was looking at the photograph with some weariness. "William Hightower. Yeah I remember him. He was sincere. I felt for him," she said.
"But you didn't look into it," said Derek, trying very hard not to sound accusing.
Detective Benning picked up on it anyway. "Families don't want to see what we do. They'd rather believe someone is dead than admit she's off turning tricks in Chicago or Toronto."
Derek made himself look away. A little way behind him, Pearce was chatting to a friend she had made in the corridor who was introducing her to more of the residents. It was no accident that she had taken a step back when the detective had arrived. There were times when she had trouble keeping her temper in check, and while Derek one hundred percent agreed with her in this case, it wouldn't help.
And from her record, and the empathy she apparently felt for the people in her patch, she wasn't a bad detective. She just had a lot on her plate, and it had made her jaded.
Glancing around at what society had done to the people in the area, he could understand why.
Still, it was no excuse.
"We believe William Hightower might be right," Prentiss said, in the calm but clipped tone that sounded polite but told Derek that she was also having to keep a lid on things. "You might have a serial killer."
Detective Benning stared at her.
"We'd like you to open up your records," she continued briskly. "Let our analyst take a look at reports from the past few months and see if there's been a change in the crime pattern. Disturbances or assaults that may be connected."
To her credit, the detective simply nodded. "I can do that."
"We'd also like to give your colleagues the working profile once we have it to see if anything sparks," Derek added.
"Fair enough," said Benning, gathering up the file they had presented her with. "So, how did he convince the FBI to look into this?"
"He drove his car into the guard post at the Port Huron border and then confessed to murdering ten people," said Prentiss, rather baldly.
"Seriously?" the detective asked, shocked.
"Yes," said Derek, managing not to detail exactly how much he shouldn't have had to do that.
"How many victims did he say?" she asked, clearly reassessing her opinion of someone she had hitherto brushed off as a concerned but misguided relative.
"Potentially eleven, including his sister," Derek replied.
0o0
"Yes, ma'am, right not we just consider them missing," JJ assured the woman on the other end of the phone. "The second I get more information, I'll be in contact with you. Okay."
She looked tired, Spencer thought, and considering the large number of family members she had already had to contact and the large number still to go, he didn't blame her. This part of their job was something he definitely didn't envy her for – and she was very good at it. It was very difficult to bring grace to informing families of their loved ones' deaths or imminent peril, but somehow JJ managed it.
"How's it going?" he asked, as she rubbed her forehead.
"The majority of the people on the street aren't even from Detroit," JJ complained, with a sigh. "We don't have last names on most of them. No hometowns… Unless there's a missing person report on file somewhere, it's almost impossible."
"Most of these people's families probably gave up on seeing them again long ago."
Which makes life a lot easier for our killer, he added privately.
"A mother would never give up," said JJ sadly, mostly to herself.
Spencer glanced at her, watching the play of emotions cross her face as she imagined Henry being lost somewhere out in the world. Then she frowned.
"Can you hand me William Hightower's arrest report?"
His cell phone started ringing as he did so, so he was distracted when JJ left at some speed. He glanced after her, but he knew better than to interrupt her when she was on a mission. Instead, he answered the phone.
"Hey Garcia."
"Sherlock, it's Watson," their technical analyst replied, bringing a smile to his face. "I think I've got something."
Footsteps behind him told him he was no longer alone, so he switched to speaker as Rossi joined him at the conference table.
"What do you have?" the senior agent asked.
"I checked Detroit crime reports over the last month because Derek, Grace and Emily astutely thought there might be some sorts of assaults or disturbances having to do with our unsub."
"And?" Spencer asked.
"Well, it's tres weird, but on five of the abduction nights Detroit PD reports a break-in or a robbery at some type of medical facility."
"You're right," said Spencer, his mind already spinning through all the implications of 'disappearance-plus-medical-kit'. "That is weird."
"What types of medical facility?" Rossi asked.
"We got a hospital, blood bank, medical supply company, the Red Cross –"
Spencer raised an eyebrow. "What is he doing, stealing narcotics?"
"That's just it," said Garcia. "He isn't some drugstore cowboy. The stuff he took is, like, anaesthesia and sterilising equipment and syringes."
Spencer pulled a face, which Rossi mirrored. What the hell is going on?
"Negative on the Narcota."
"Garcia, where were these places located?" he asked.
"Putnam Street, St. Antoine, East Hancock, Martin Luther King Boulevard."
"Those are all in the Cass Corridor," Spencer remarked, resolving them on his mental map of Detroit.
Rossi quirked an eyebrow. It made sense. "Do you have a list of what else he stole?" Rossi asked.
"Uh, I.V. tubing, infusion pump, units of O-negative blood, chest tubes, o-silk sutures, Elastoplast."
Is he keeping them alive?
"Garcia, thanks a lot," said Spencer and hung up. "You don't just randomly know how to hook a line up to an infusion pump."
"Or that O-neg is the only safe blood type for any victim."
"I'll tell Hotch we think we know what he's doing with them."
0o0
Dave surveyed the faces of the assembled law-enforcement who Bedwell had gathered for the profile. Most of them were a little confused as to why the man they had arrested for taking a run at their border guards was presently drinking coffee at the conference table and was being sent to the neighbouring city as part of the investigative team, but they trusted Bedwell, and he trusted the BAU, so they were going for it.
"We believe the man we're looking for is a sexual sadist," Dave began.
"What this means is that for him, the torture becomes a substitute for the sex act," Reid explained.
Hotch added, "The fact that he's stealing medical equipment like sterilising equipment and anaesthesia tells us he may be performing experiments or surgeries on his victims."
"We believe this unsub gets gratification from his ability to keep his victims alive in order to endure more torture," Reid expanded.
"The choice of items stolen is extremely specific, which makes us believe he's got a medical background," Hotch continued.
"Check disciplinary files at hospitals, med schools and community health organisations," Dave instructed. "People would have noticed his behaviour."
Reid nodded. "This is someone who would volunteer to perform painful procedures. And he would spend extra time probing, say, a broken hand or a distended abdomen."
"And after a long day, when everyone else is emotionally drained from treating multiple traumas and mangled bodies, he'd be the one pushing his co-workers to go out for a drink and talk about their day," said Dave, and noted the expressions that suggested this part of the profile matched basically every first responder everyone in the room knew.
"Now, a profile is fine, but our best shot at stopping this guy is still to catch him in the act," Hotch told them.
There was a murmur of agreement from the room at large.
Reid picked up the thread. "This unsub is extremely smart and obviously organised. He's managed to abduct very different victims with very different abilities, all with no witnesses."
"Now, we're coordinating with the police," said Hotch. "And our agents on the ground in Detroit."
"We've also asked Sergeant Hightower," Dave continued, nodding towards the sergeant, "to act as a guide on the streets in Detroit."
"While he's in our custody," said Bedwell, rather hurriedly. "That's it. Any questions, you find me or one of the agents."
The members of the detective branch of the RCMP began to file out, and as they did so, Hightower turned, caught sight of something and froze.
Dave followed his gaze: at the front desk, JJ was signing in a woman – presumably a family member. He glanced at the deer-in-headlights look on Sergeant Hightower's face and thought, Hello, Mom…
Hightower pointed at her – she hadn't looked up yet – and demanded, "What's she doing here?"
"Well, we've notified all the family members we can locate," said Aaron.
"You have no right," Hightower complained, shaking.
"It's her daughter," Dave pointed out.
"No. No, it's one thing to – to believe Lee is lost on the streets," Hightower argued, "I don't want her to know there's a killer out there."
"We know how this is gonna end," said Aaron, as gently as he could.
"No, we don't!" Hightower insisted, and Dave winced. "Look, everything I have done is to find the truth so I can spare her. I don't want her living off hope."
From the far side of the table, Bedwell leaned in. "There are worse things," he said, speaking from years of experience.
Hightower whipped around. "You're wrong," voice thick with emotion. "Bad news stops us for a while, but then you move on. Hope is paralysing."
Dave glanced up as Spencer cleared his throat. In the time Hightower had been facing the other way, JJ and his mother had crossed the office. She had heard every word. When he turned and spotted her, all the air left him.
Mrs Hightower gave her son a look that was right out of Dave's mother's repertoire, and stepped into the room. "You did a stupid thing."
Hightower stood and faced her, and nodded meekly. "Yes, ma'am."
"Come here," she said, and they embraced, the mix of hope and grief and despair they both felt rolling off them in waves.
Dave watched as Mrs Hightower – who had initially only had eyes for her son – take the measure of everyone she could see over his shoulder and then spot the board where her daughter's picture was projected, alongside ten other potential victims.
"All these people are missing?" she asked, with the sorrow of someone who understood exactly how all those people's families were feeling.
"We believe so," JJ replied.
"You have any suspects?"
She looked at Dave, so he answered for the room. "No, but we have a strategy to try to catch him, and William is helping."
Mrs Hightower sighed and touched the picture of Lee. "My daughter… There's a chance she – she might be alive?"
"It's possible," Aaron told her.
Out of the corner of his eye Dave saw the sergeant look away, angry.
"Do you know what he's doing to them?" she asked.
"It's difficult to say," said Aaron, with extraordinary tact.
0o0
The 13th Precinct of the Detroit Police Department was well-kept, but you could tell, even from the parking lot, that it was clearly desperately over-stretched.
"Thank you for believing me," said Hightower, as they pulled up.
"William, I want you to understand that even if we catch him, you're probably gonna end up doing some time in Canada," Aaron told him.
Hightower gave a combined nod and shrug that reminded Hotch of any one of his team members when they had done something risky that helped the case. "I can live with that."
Prentiss, Morgan, Pearce and the local detective they had been working with came out as they crossed the parking lot, clearly ready to go and take on the Cass Corridor – or, if he knew his team as well as he thought he did – ready to tear the night apart for the son of a bitch taking people off the street.
"Detective Tay Benning, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner," Morgan said, as Benning came forward and shook his hand.
"How do you do?" said Aaron, automatically. "This is William Hightower. He's gonna help us on the ground."
He read from both Benning and Hightower's faces that she had been the detective that had put him off on multiple occasions and decided to breeze past it before it could get in the way of the investigation.
Instead, he addressed the sergeant again. "These are agents Prentiss, Pearce and Morgan, Detective Benning."
"We've met," said Hightower, in a slightly dangerous tone.
The detective nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't look into your sister's disappearance."
There was a moment when Sergeant Hightower stared her down, but then he lowered his gaze and nodded back. They had a job to do now, and both the sergeant and detective had been trained to move forward.
"We should split up and cover male and female potential victims," said Aaron and noted that Pearce made an effort to catch his eye, suggesting that she would take on the weirder element of the Cass Corridor, and had probably already made contact with them.
"We'll take the men," Morgan offered.
"I'll make the introductions for you," said Hightower, and Morgan handed him a file containing the information he had collected, augmented by everything Garcia had managed to pull out about the probable victims.
"Stay close to your phones. If anyone's out of place, Detective Benning can get a name and a description to our patrol cars as quickly as possible," Aaron instructed, waiting for the woman's acknowledgement, which she gave quietly, evidently feeling wretched about having entirely missed the presence of a prolific serial killer on her patch.
0o0
Jeff Bedwell, no matter the pressure he was under, was a gracious host, so he bought the three agents still in his conference room coffee from his own private stash. Coffee, after all, was more or less the grease that kept the lumbering machine that was interdepartmental cooperation moving.
"You really believe he's about to abduct someone again?" he asked, as Rossi and his colleagues greedily inhaled caffeine.
"It's coming soon," Rossi replied. "Tonight. Tomorrow. We know he sticks to a tight cycle."
"The question is, why alternate victims in clusters of men and women?" Doctor Reid asked, frowning at the screen displaying the victims' photographs.
Bedwell followed his gaze, pleased that he'd called this team in. He was good, but they were trained to ask the weird questions – and it was working.
"Why take the men at all?" Agent Jareau questioned.
"What do you mean?" Jeff asked, with a frown.
"Uh, we said he sees these people as disposable," she explained. "It doesn't matter if they're male or female."
"For a sexual sadist, male or female isn't important," Agent Rossi considered. "The torture itself is the sex."
"But… wouldn't' it be much easier to approach a prostitute?" their media liaison argued.
"She's right," Agent Reid reflected. "A prostitute will get into a car with an unsub. It's a victim he can isolate easily with no witnesses."
There was a thoughtful silence, which Dave Rossi broke. "Is Hightower's mother still here?"
Jeff nodded. "She's resting in my office."
"JJ, see if she's willing to talk to us," the older agent instructed. "I want to know everything I can about her daughter."
"In the meantime, we need to figure out how he's separating his male victims from the pack," the young doctor suggested.
Assuming there's only one of the bastards, thought Jeff.
Rossi nodded, as if he'd heard him. "And hope that Hightower gives us an edge on the street."