Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.
Morgan frowned at the case file open on his knees. "Reid, what do you think about-"
He paused. Reid was lost in thought, his forehead scrunched and his chin resting on his hand. The youngest team member had been suspiciously quiet and dazed during roundtable and completely silent when they boarded the plane. A few months ago he would have thought his behavior was strange. Now it seemed normal. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
"Hey, Reid," he said again. "What's goin' on up there?"
Reid's solemn frown deepened. "I was just thinking of this old friend of mine from Las Vegas...Ethan," he said. "I'm pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."
"Really?" Morgan said. He could count on two hands the number of times Reid talked about his mother; he couldn't remember Spencer ever talking about friends. "Gonna give him a call?"
Reid shrugged. "We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything. Spelling bees, science fairs," he said. "We also both had our hearts set on joining the bureau, but...first day at Quantico he backed out."
"He probably just couldn't take the heat," Prentiss chimed in with a little grin.
"It's not really for us to judge, is it?" Reid shot back.
Her smile faded quickly. "Right," she said. "My bad."
Morgan felt a little sorry for her. Prentiss had been attempting to win Reid over for weeks, but more often than not she ended up on the receiving end of his temper tantrums. At least when Reid had the energy to snap back. Lately he just stayed silent.
JJ, as if she hadn't heard what had just happened (but they all did, the plane wasn't large enough for secrets) started handing out fax pages to each team member. "These are copies of the newspaper articles on the murders, dating back to early August 2005," she said. "It's all we have to go on."
They discussed the case for most of the flight, talking over theories. Morgan kept a close eye on Reid; he had plenty to add and his voice sounded more clear and coherent than he had in a while, but he was pale and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. He wasn't sure what the hotel situation was going to be in New Orleans, but he had half a mind to room with Reid just to make sure the kid got some sleep for once.
It was cold on the jet, as always, but an hour or two before they landed Reid took off his heavy cardigan. Morgan had noticed that he'd taken to wearing bulky sweaters- today's example was a particularly ugly brown with a green stripe- but despite the chilled recycled air, a flush had risen on his high cheekbones and sweat clustered at his hairline. How was he possibly getting overheated at a time like this?
Hotch checked his watch as the jet began its descent. "I'll get set up at the precinct," he said. "Prentiss, Reid, I want the two of you to go to the morgue and talk to the ME."
"I'll go with Reid," Morgan said.
"No, I want you to go with Gideon and JJ to the initial crime scene," he said.
He's not gonna do well with Prentiss, he thought. He's already miserable, and he's just going to make her miserable, and maybe if I can get the kid alone for once I can drag more than two words out of him.
"Fine," he said aloud. It wasn't worth picking a fight with Hotch, especially not publicly, especially not in front of the kid. He'd just have to try to talk to him alone some other time.
Humidity collided like a freight train as he stepped out of the jet. "Holy shit," he said. "It's only June and it feels like this?"
JJ tied her hair up in a ponytail as she jogged to keep up with him. "Yeah, welcome to Louisiana," she said. "Everybody, remember to drink water."
Hotch strode ahead to talk to the PD representative waiting for them on the tarmac. Morgan slowed his pace. Reid was several steps behind, struggling to put his cardigan back on. "You really need that out here?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm cold," Reid snapped, wrestling with the heavy sleeves.
"It's like ninety degrees and humid as fuck," Morgan said. "You okay?"
"I'm fine, and I'm not a child."
Morgan bit back his reply, waiting for Reid to button up his sweater. "I know you're not a child," he said quietly. "But god knows you've been doing a shit job of taking care of yourself. You're running yourself into the ground."
Reid dropped his arms and huffed, glaring at him. "Are you done yet?" he asked, exasperated.
"Yeah," Morgan said. "Good luck at the morgue. Don't bite Prentiss's head off. You know she means well."
"Like you?" Reid shot back, and he slung his bag over his shoulder and stalked away.
Morgan watched him go, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He didn't know what to do with him. It seemed like no matter what he said to Spencer, it was always the wrong thing, and all he was doing was pushing him farther and farther away.
"You're sure?" Spencer repeated.
"Go," Hotch said. "We can deliver the profile without you. There's not much we can do until the ME processes the body. When do you think you'll be back?"
Spencer shrugged. "An hour or two?" he said. "Ethan works pretty close to here."
"Then go," Hotch said. "Keep me updated if anything holds you up." He squeezed Spencer's upper arm lightly, a rare affectionate gesture. "Stay safe."
"I will," he said. "Thanks."
He texted Ethan as he walked away from the yellow-taped crime scene, then dropped his phone in his pocket. There was a coffee shop nearby and he desperately needed caffeine to wake himself up before he had to carry on a conversation.
He ordered a hot americano- extra shot, two pumps of vanilla, six sugars- and clutched it in both hands, letting the warmth seep into his cold skin. Despite the oppressive humidity he was absolutely freezing and his fingers wouldn't stop shaking.
If he was honest, the shaking had started a few weeks ago and hadn't stopped. It started when he ran out of the first bottle, and there was only a little bit left in the second, and he had to find another solution.
They kept asking him if he'd seen a doctor, and at first he only went to get the team off his back, but the doctor asked him if he was still in pain, and he saw an opening, and he gave the right answers, and he was rewarded with a prescription.
Dilaudid in pill form wasn't as effective as an injection, and it certainly wasn't as powerful as Tobias's blend, but it staved off withdrawal and it was a hell of a lot easier to keep hidden than the syringes. And it meant he could save the injectable stuff for when he really, really needed it.
He knew eventually the prescription would run out, and he didn't know what he was going to do when he couldn't get his hands on more. But he had to get more. Going without it wasn't an option. Granted, he didn't feel like himself anymore, and his thoughts were slow and stilted, and nothing seemed to stop him from spiraling farther and farther down, but he couldn't stop.
He took a cautious sip of boiling-hot coffee and exhaled slowly. His last dose had been just a few hours earlier, right before they left the hotel for the crime scene, and he let himself sink into his painless, thoughtless haze. He kept drinking the coffee, heedless of his tongue burning, and tossed the empty cup.
He heard footsteps in the alleyway behind him and leaned around the corner, grinning. "Jeez!" Ethan exclaimed. "Reid, you scared me."
Ethan was different than he remembered- his face had filled out, and his hair was longer, and he had a beard now- but he still reminded Spencer of the teenager he'd known in high school. "Always been one step ahead of you, man," he said.
"Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night," Ethan grinned. "I'm glad you called. It's good to see you." Ethan clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's get a drink."
"You know any good places?"
Ethan laughed. "Do I?" he said. "Kid, I've played every bar on the street. Don't worry about it. Come on."
The afternoon passed by faster than he expected, and before long he'd been out for a lot longer than an hour or two. They'd gotten drinks, and then Ethan said he knew a great place he'd like for lunch, and then now they were at the lounge where he worked. It was still only midafternoon so the bar was quiet, just a few couples chatting here and there. Ethan walked straight up to the bar and said something to the girl behind the counter. Spencer hung back.
"Stephanie's great, she'll make something you'll like," Ethan said.
His phone rang and he checked the screen. It was Prentiss calling, which meant it was definitely something work related, which meant he definitely should answer it, but he wasn't about to do that.
Stephanie slid two glasses across the bar. "Thanks," Ethan said. "Hey, Steph, this is Spencer Reid."
"Oh, the eight-year-old who beat you in the ninth grade spelling bee?" she smirked. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Okay, yeah, he spelled me down in ninth grade, but I beat him in the science fair in tenth," Ethan said.
"Only because the judges were biased towards robotics projects," Spencer protested.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night," Ethan said. Stephanie handed him a drink and he slid it over to Spencer. "You still got valedictorian, so there's that." He looked Spencer up and down. "Back then you were so small you had to stand on a box to be seen over the podium. Guess that growth spurt finally hit, huh?"
"Yeah, finally," he echoed. "Right before I got to the academy. Although that still didn't help much."
Ethan snorted. "Yeah, you had to get that FBI guy to pull strings for you to stay," he said. "You were never much for sports and stuff."
His phone rang and he checked it. Still Prentiss. He still wasn't going to answer.
Ethan took a sip of his beer. "Okay. So," he said. "Are you gonna ask the question?"
His lips tugged down and he crossed his arms over his stomach. "What question?"
"Come on, man. It's me here," Ethan said. "We haven't talked to each other in years. I know it's why you called me. Ask the question."
Spencer sighed. "Why did you quit after only one day of FBI training?" he asked.
"Well…" Ethan said slowly. He reached over to pick up his beer. "I'm sure you've considered the evidence...analyzed the signs." He regarded Spencer over the rim. "What's your theory?"
He didn't understand it back then, when he was a starry-eyed child playing grown-up at the academy, but he understood it now. "You were battling your own demons. You didn't have time to analyze someone else's," he said.
Ethan took a sip of his beer. "Not bad, not bad," he said. "Those days, I did prefer Jack Daniels to Jeff Dahmer." He leaned in close enough for Spencer to catch the scent of his cologne, warm and spicy. "They both weigh on your soul eventually."
Ethan's piercing stare made him dizzy. HIs phone rang again and the spell broke. "Sorry," he mumbled.
"The bat phone," Ethan joked, taking another sip of beer.
It was Prentiss again. He closed the phone and this time he turned the ringer to silent. "Let me ask you this, Ethan," he said quietly. "Do you ever regret it?"
Ethan set his drink down. "You know, I may not be changing the world, but...my music makes me happy," he said. "And it doesn't take a profiler to see that you're not."
Spencer blinked in surprise. Ethan strolled away from him and sat down in a comfortable armchair in the lounge. He dropped a tip on the bar for Stephanie, picked up his drink, and followed him. "It's not easy," he said. He had the sudden, irrational urge to defend himself. "And it's not...I...don't think you'd believe some of the things that I've seen."
Ethan lounged in his chair, clearly at ease. "John Coltrane. He was a genius, too," he said. "Died of cancer. But most people think it was the booze and heroin that did him in."
A sudden spike of anxiety shot through his chest. "What are you trying to say?" he said, hunching forward in his chair, trying to sound calm.
"You look like hell," Ethan said quietly.
Spencer shifted his shoulders as he set his drink down. He couldn't make eye contact with him. "I'm fine."
"Come on, man. I'm a jazz musician in New Orleans. I know what it looks like when someone's not well," Ethan said. "This may be the one time I can tell you something that you don't already know. That might help you forget, but it won't make it go away. And if I can tell…"
He leaned forward, his dark eyes focused. Spencer shrank back, his arms wrapped around his stomach. "You're surrounded by some of the best minds in the world, and if you think they don't notice…"
He held out his hand and wobbled it back and forth. Spencer hid his shaking hands against his sides. "Well...for a genius, that's just dumb," Ethan said, leaning back in the chair.
Spencer huddled in the chair like a chastised child. "Is...is it that obvious?" he asked.
"You practically have a neon sign flashing above your head," Ethan snorted. "What is it? Coke?"
He looked down at the patterned carpet. "Dilaudid," he admitted softly. He had never said it aloud before.
"Huh. An unusual choice, but then again, you've never exactly been ordinary," Ethan said. "How'd it start? Get shot in the line of duty and get hooked?"
"Kidnapped and tortured, actually."
Ethan choked on his beer. "Shit, really?" he said. Spencer shrugged. "Damn." He took another sip. "I'd ask what happened, but...you've never been one to talk about your problems."
"No offense, but most people in high school were more concerned about me helping them study or cheating off my test papers to ask about my problems," Spencer said.
Ethan was quiet for a moment. "The goalpost," he said. "You remember the goalpost?"
A shiver crawled down his spine. "That sort of thing is a little hard to forget," he said bitterly.
"I wasn't there when it happened," Ethan said. "I was out of town, visiting my grandparents. My first day back I was in yearbook, and everybody was talking about this photo-"
"Yeah, I was there for that," Spencer snapped. "You saw it, I guess?"
"I saw it," Ethan said. "I was the one who threw it away." He swirled the contents of his glass. "You've gone through some shit, Spencer Reid. I never heard you talk about it, not once. I mean...fuck, the whole school knew your mom was sick and your dad walked out, and the toughest thing you ever talked about was whether or not you were going to get a good score on your SATs."
"Standardized tests are hard when you're eleven."
"Yeah, so's getting tortured by a dozen football players," Ethan shrugged.
Spencer bit back a sigh. "Maybe I should just quit the BAU," he said. "I could make more money in a private sector anyway." He half smiled. "Fewer chances of getting kidnapped and tortured in a white collar job, I'm pretty sure."
"Don't change the subject. I know what you're trying to do," Ethan said. "And you can bullshit all you want, you were talking about the FBI and the BAU when you were eight years old."
"I'm not eight years old anymore, I'm twenty-five."
"Yeah, that's still a baby in your field," Ethan said. He set down his drink. "Listen, Spencer...you can't self-destruct like this. I'm sure that team of yours can tell something's wrong, and I'm sure they want to help you, but you gotta meet somebody in the middle. And if you keep going the way you're going, you know you can't keep your job if you can only function if you're high as a kit." He leaned forward and touched Spencer's knee lightly. "You're gonna end killing yourself, kid. And that's not okay."
Garcia massaged her temples lightly with her fingertips. She should have left the office at least an hour ago, but with her team in Louisiana with a Jack the Ripper knock off on the loose, she was perfectly happy staying at her computer a little while longer until they were accounted for for the night.
"I've already ordered Chinese food once today," she said aloud. "Should I dare order a second time for dinner? Treat myself?"
She picked up a little hamster figure on her desk. "Yes, Garcia, you absolutely should!" she said in a high pitched voice.
Her phone rang and she dropped the hamster quickly. "Hello, yes, I was not playing with toys," she said.
"Hey, Garcia."
She grinned. "Of course, if it's you, Agent Morgan, there are some different toys I could-"
"You're on speaker."
"Hi, Garcia," Emily said, a hint of barely contained mirth in her voice.
"Dammit, Derek, you really ought to lead with 'I'm on speaker,' otherwise I will keep saying all sorts of inappropriate things for inappropriate audiences," she sighed.
"Well, I find it amusing," Emily offered.
"I appreciate that," Garcia said. "So why did you two lovely people call me this evening?"
"Yeah...we can't find Reid," Morgan said.
Garcia frowned. "I thought he was on the plane," she said. "He was supposed to be on the plane, why is he not on the plane? Did you lose him? Did you lose my sweet baby angel?"
"No, we didn't lose him, he's just not answering his phone," he said. "Can you track him?"
"Yes, absolutely, I can track him in a heartbeat," she said, pulling up a new window on her closest screen. "Is he okay? Did somebody take him?"
"No, he went out to meet up with a friend of his," Morgan said. "Some guy he went to high school with. Ethan."
Garcia frowned. "I've never heard him mention a friend from high school," she said.
"Yeah. Me neither. Apparently he went to high school with Reid, and then enrolled in the academy but dropped out after one day," Morgan said.
The screen finished loading. "Well, I have his location," she said. "His phone is currently at a jazz lounge near Bourbon Street."
"Yeah, that's where-"
"Where Ethan Powell, age thirty-one, graduate of Las Vegas High School and one-time academy student works?" Garcia said. "Yeah, I looked him up. He graduated from Brown summa cum laude, enrolled in the FBI academy and almost immediately dropped out...his trail goes blank for a few years, but he's worked at a number of New Orleans establishments as a musician."
"Does he have a criminal record?" Morgan asked.
She clicked around. "A couple of DUIs," she said. "He...ooh, about a year after he quit the academy he was enrolled in a rehab program."
"So that's who Reid is with?" Morgan said. "Instead of answering Prentiss's calls and getting on the plane."
"As far as I can tell," she said. "Maybe he just didn't hear the calls. Or his phone isn't working right. Or maybe he's so caught up talking to his old pal that time got away from him."
"Garcia, does any of that sound like Reid?"
She sighed. "Not even in the slightest," she said.
Morgan was quiet for a moment. "Hold on a second," he said. She could hear the sound of a door clicking shut.
"Are you hiding from Prentiss in the bathroom?" she asked.
"Garcia, I need you to do something, and it's a little invasive, but I think you'll understand," Morgan said, his voice hushed. "I need you to look up Spencer's medical records."
Garcia flexed her fingers over the keys. "Ooh, yeah, that's...yeah," she said. "But yes, I totally understand."
She keyed in the commands and Spencer's medical records unscrolled in front of her. "Has he seen a doctor lately?" Morgan asked. "Or a therapist? Anybody. I know he said he saw a doctor recently, but he wouldn't give any details."
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, he saw his general practitioner a few weeks ago."
"Not a psychologist, or a specialist?"
"No, just a GP," Garcia said. "And he was prescribed dilaudid."
"That's a painkiller," Morgan said. "A really, really strong one. Is he in that much pain?"
"I guess," Garcia said. "Maybe that's what's been bothering him the past few months."
"It can't be just that," Morgan said desperately. "Just being in pain wouldn't make him act like the way he's been acting."
"I don't know what to tell you, sweetness," she said. She scanned through the rest of the recent records, looking for anything that might be a breakthrough, but there was nothing there. "Have you talked to him?"
"Garcia, we've all been trying to talk to him," Morgan said. "He just says he's fine."
"Maybe you're asking the wrong questions," she suggested.
"What should we be saying?" Morgan said, and she could hear the frustration in his voice. "I keep telling him that I'm here whenever he wants to talk, but-"
"Maybe he doesn't want to talk," she said. "Maybe you have to ask him what you need to do. Spencer's great at talking about things that aren't important, but the important things scare him. If you keep just talking about how he feels, he's going to change the subject a million times and suddenly you're talking about quantum mechanics in Star Trek: Voyager. I think you need to ask him about something more tangible."
He was silent for a moment. "Damn," he said. "I hadn't thought of that."
"Yes, well, I may not have an IQ of 187 like our resident genius, but I do have flashes of brilliance," she grinned. "You and Prentiss stay safe in Galveston. I'll keep tracking Reid, make sure he's okay."
"You let me know if there's anything wrong?"
"The very second," she promised. "Fly safe."
She hung up the phone and sighed. Spencer's records were still scrolling across the screen; she closed the window reluctantly, but she kept the window tracking his cell phone. Just in case.
Spencer slipped into the hotel lobby, scanning for other members of the team. The coast looked clear and he darted quickly to the stairs.
What was supposed to be just an hour or two had turned into the entire day. It was almost midnight, and he was sneaking back to his room like a teenager, afraid of being caught. Ethan had invited him back to his place after his last set, but he knew that was pushing it way too far.
"Hey, where've you been, Spence? I thought you were in Galveston."
His hotel key clattered to the floor. "Uh, JJ," he stammered. He was afraid she could smell the alcohol on his breath. He never drank. "Um...what about Galveston?"
JJ's hair was a mess, a sure sign she'd been tangling it around her fingers, which was a sure sign that something had her rattled. "Gideon said you and Morgan and Prentiss were supposed to talk to a potential victim's fiancee, she relocated to Texas after Katrina," she said.
Spencer's stomach plummeted to his shoes. That was the call he'd missed. That wasn't good. "No, I...didn't have cell service, I guess, I didn't get a call," he said.
It was a stupid lie, but JJ didn't seem to notice. "They think the unsub's a woman," she said.
"Really?" he frowned. "That's unusual."
"That's putting it mildly." she sighed. "Will said it was a theory his father had never looked into."
"Will?" he repeated.
"William LaMontagne, the lead detective," she said impatiently. "He...you know what, don't worry about it. They need us to get to the station as early as possible tomorrow so I need to sleep while I still can. See you in the morning."
"Yeah, see you," he echoed. He let himself into his empty room and flipped on the lights.
He felt like he'd been hit by a train. Lunch had been a long time earlier and he'd had three, maybe four drinks. And his last dilaudid dose had been a long, long time ago, and he could feel withdrawal crawling on his skin like spiders.
He dug around in his go-bag and pulled out the little orange bottle. The pills rattled merrily inside. He studied them closely.
You're gonna end killing yourself, kid. And that's not okay.
Ethan was right. He needed to stop.
He tucked the bottle back into its spot, stripped off his clothes, and laid down in his bed. He could do it. He could quit, and no one on the team would ever know, and all of this would eventually be a distant memory. Like the goalpost.
He slept fitfully, leaving all the lights still on. Around two he rolled out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to throw up- he wasn't sure it was the alcohol or withdrawal, but it was awful either way. He brushed his teeth and dragged himself back to bed, intensely grateful that Morgan wasn't there to see him.
He woke up again at four and took a hit. It was just for the time being, he told himself. He'd quit when he was back home and off the case. It would be easier.
He got up just early enough to get coffee before heading back to the police department. Despite giving in and taking the dose, the shaking in his hands had intensified tenfold. At least he had always been clumsy; if he dropped anything no one would be particularly surprised.
He walked into the conference room to see Morgan and Prentiss already at the table. It was too late to back out. "Hey, you guys are back from Galveston?" he said, trying to sound casual.
"First light this morning," Morgan said shortly. "Where were you?"
He fussed with his bag, avoiding eye contact. "I was out with a friend. I already told you."
"I called you four times," Prentiss said.
"I didn't have any cell phone reception, so I didn't get your message until late."
Prentiss rolled her eyes. "Right," she said.
He shrank back, a little startled. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected from her. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Our unsub's a woman," Morgan said.
Spencer looked away. Morgan was disappointed in him, and he hated it. Morgan had never been disappointed in him before.
Hotch walked into the room. "We just found another body in the quarter," he said. "Gideon and LaMontagne are already on their way. I want the three of you to meet them there." Spencer struuggled to his feet, holding tightly onto his bag. "Reid."
He halted. "Uh-huh?"
Morgan and Prentiss slipped past him into the hallway. "Reid, I gave you a lot of leeway yesterday," Hotch said. "I expected you back within an hour or two. Is there a reason you went AWOL?"
"I didn't have any cell service and I didn't get the call until it was too late," he said. The lie sounded dumber and dumber every time he said it, but he had to stick to his story.
Hotch crossed his arms. "I'll turn a blind eye just this once," he said. "But I expect you to be on your best behavior for the duration of our time in Louisiana. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," he mumbled.
"And I expect you to complete the file on the Hankel case when we get back," Hotch said. "I understand that you've needed time, but if you don't feel the need to complete your mandated therapy sessions, then nearly five months is enough time for you to decompress before completing your work."
His heart squeezed in his chest. "Yes, sir," he said again.
Hotch nodded. "Let's go."
Spencer sat in the back of the SUV, staying silent, his thoughts tumbling. On one hand, he could hear Hotch's disapproving voice telling him to stay on his best behavior. On the other, he could hear Ethan- you know, I may not be changing the world, but...my music makes me happy.
Did his job make him happy? Did anything make him happy?
"Earth to Reid," Morgan said, and he realized with a start that the car had parked. "Let's go."
Spencer climbed out after him. No "kid," no "pretty boy." Morgan was pissed. His stomach hurt. He'd never seen Morgan this angry at him before.
The latest victim had been dumped in a barren concrete alleyway; Gideon was already there with the local PD. Morgan pulled on a pair of gloves and knelt by the body. "Throat's been cut. He's been disemboweled, too."
"Reeks of booze," Gideon commented. "It's more than a pattern."
"Only this time she cut off the earlobe."
"She's sticking with the Ripper's paradigm," he offered.
Prentiss frowned. "What do you mean?"
These were facts. He could handle facts. "In one letter of correspondence, Jack the Ripper promised to cut the earlobe off of his next victim and he did, it was the one day that he killed twice."
"So she's gonna kill again by the end of the day," Gideon said.
"Okay, what do we know about female serial killers?" Emily said.
"Basically, you have two types-"
"The Sante Kimes model- cold, calculated, preys on men for money," Morgan said. "Takes her time building relationships."
"It's more likely we're dealing with the Aileen Wuornos archetype," Spencer corrected. "Motivated by paranoia and fear, luring men with sex."
"Our unsub's organized," Gideon said. "She follows a routine. She meets men in a bar, flirts with them over drinks, and suggests that they consummate the evening in an alley."
"We need to be in those streets," Morgan said.
The New Orleans detective walked over to them and handed Prentiss a plastic evidence bag. "Office just brought me this," LaMontagne said.
Prentiss studied the note in the bag. "Dear boss," she read. "By now I have rid the world of one more. So many men, so little time. I hope you don't mind the mess. They make it so easy, I just can't help myself. Yours truly."
"You're right, Morgan," Gideon said. "We do need to be in the streets. She's targeting these men in public, crowded areas. If we're going to stop her, we need to go where she goes. All of us."
Spencer shifted his weight. He knew that was directed towards him. He had to go back to flying under the radar, at least for the time being.
Emily put her hands on her hips, listening closely. "I'm going to stay here as your main communication point," Hotch said. "The rest of you are going to travel in pairs. JJ and LaMontagne, Gideon and Prentiss, Morgan and Reid. Stay close, make wise choices. Working in crowds is risky, we don't want to endanger civilians. Don't hesitate to call for backup. Any questions?" Emily shook her head; no one spoke up. "Stay safe, everyone."
They split into their respective pairs. She was a little intimidated to be paired one on one with Jason Gideon, but she had to admit she was relieved to not be paired with Reid. The case was hard enough to handle without having to walk on eggshells around him.
The French Quarter was an explosion of bright lights and a million conversations shouted over live jazz and the scent of spilled alcohol. She'd visited New Orleans before, in her reckless party-girl phase, but this seemed completely different. Early summer humidity crept over her skin; her sleeveless purple top was light but sweat clung to her hairline. She followed Gideon to a terrace where they could look down over the courtyard.
"So what are your thoughts?" Gideon asked.
"My thoughts?" she repeated. He nodded. "Well...I mean, it's an unusual case. Female serial killers are rare enough already. A female serial killer who emulates Jack the Ripper and targets healthy young men is...well, a lot more rare."
"'So many men, so little time'," Gideon quoted. "So she's on a quest...to wipe out the race."
"Or... the father who molested her?" she suggested. "Some people think Jack the Ripper mutilated women after his mother sexually abused him for years."
Gideon started to walk towards the crowd and she followed him. "For someone so enraged, this unsub sounds oddly apologetic for leaving a bloody crime scene. Why?"
She picked her steps carefully, her hands tucked in her jeans pockets. "That might be what LaMontagne figured out right before he died," she said.
"Possibly," Gideon said. "Unfortunately, we'll never know."
"Do you think 'Jones' is another connection to Jack the Ripper?" Emily suggested.
Gideon didn't seem to hear her; for a moment she wondered if she should repeat herself or just drop it. "Did you give that newest letter to Reid?" he asked. "He knows that Ripper case inside out. He may see something we're missing."
Emily hesitated. She thought of Reid slinking into the conference room, his hands shaking and nearly spilling his coffee, trying to sell his lie about bad cell service; she thought about their trip to the morgue the day before, how he faded in and out of focus, wobbling on his feet. "I don't think-" she blurted out, and she regretted it instantly as Gideon stopped dead in his tracks and turned around. "Uh…"
"What is it?" Gideon asked.
She thought of Reid snapping at her at the homeless shelter, his skin paperwhite and his cheekbones sharp and hollow.
Oh, in the months that you know me, you've never seen me act this way? Hey, no offense, Emily, but...you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?
"Nothing," she said.
Gideon shook his head. "Come on," he said. "You think I'm not aware something's going on with him?"
She thought of Spencer violently ill on the bathroom floor in the Texas precinct, begging her not to tell anyone, refusing any help. For a moment she almost blurted it out, but Gideon moved away from her through the crowd, and she followed him.
There was too much happening around him. The lights overhead were too bright in the night sky, the music was too loud and clashed with a thousand conversations around him; the scent of alcohol was sharp and bitter and reminded him painfully of the hangover pressing against his temples.
Morgan seemed unbothered by the chaos, fiddling with a toothpick. "Most of the women are out in groups, so keep your eyes open for someone on their own," he said.
Spencer nodded. Morgan hadn't said anything not pertaining to the case all day. He hated it.
The oppressive humidity settled thick and hot on his skin, his hair plastering to his forehead and the nape of his neck. He regretted not wearing a short sleeved shirt, but he hadn't worn anything like that in months. Short sleeves would show the reddened track marks in the crook of his elbow, still raw and unhealed, and he couldn't risk that.
"So, what-"
"You gonna tell me why you missed that flight to Galveston?" Morgan interrupted sharply.
Spencer dropped his head. "I already told you, there was no cell reception," he said.
Morgan's lips thinned. "Right."
He swallowed hard. "What?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.
"I mean, anytime you want to come up with a better answer, I'm standing right here," Morgan said.
Spencer looked away across the courtyard, trying to summon up the words. I got drunk with a guy I knew in high school, and even though we haven't spoken in years, he called me out on my drug addiction.
But he saw a woman in a striking red top, scanning the crowd, and his own problems flew out the window. "Dark curls, three o'clock," he said in a low voice.
"I got it," Morgan said. "She's eyeing those guys outside that bar. Let's go."
He took off through the crowd and Spencer followed in his wake, his heart pounding. "Should I call for backup?" he asked.
"Not yet," Morgan said. "Not until we see something concrete."
They followed the woman at a safe distance, only to see her address her prey by name in a lighthearted voice and hand him back his wallet. "Well, that's a bust," Morgan said. "Come on, kid. Let's get back to work."
Spencer followed him back through the crowd, some of the tension in his chest relaxing. Morgan called him "kid." Maybe things would get back to normal.
JJ had worked on some overwhelming, confusing cases over the years, but this one was a hell of a lot more than she ever expected. And this was even more confusing, because every time she heard William LaMontagne's absolutely irritating Louisiana accent her heart turned flipflops. She had certainly never experienced that in the field.
"Well, that was a big ol' bust, wasn't it," William drawled. "Sorry about that."
"I guess so, but you don't need to be sorry, it's not your fault," she said.
"I'm more sorry you had to spend your first visit to the French Quarter working," he said, flashing her a bright grin. "Someday y'all will have to come back, try it again."
"Yeah, that'd be nice," she said. She looked down at her watch. "Wow, it's late. I...I should probably get some sleep."
"See you in the morning, then, Jennifer," he said before turning and walking away.
"JJ," she called after him, and he turned back. "You...can call me JJ."
"See you in the morning, JJ," he said.
She exhaled, wiggling her fingers. Now was not the time to flirt, now was definitely not the time to flirt. She pushed the hotel door open and relaxed in the cool air conditioning in the lobby.
"Never thought you'd be a sucker for an accent," Morgan teased.
She jumped. "What? No, I'm not a sucker for an accent," she sputtered. "Does he have an accent? I hadn't noticed."
Morgan grinned. "Oh, come on, little mama, they can see those heart eyes from space," he said. He threw an arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry, I won't tell."
She rolled her eyes and shrugged his arm off. "You're in a better mood," she said. "You've been sulking all day."
"Sulking, really?"
"That's what I'd call it," she said. "You can't possibly still be mad at Spencer for missing the plane, right?"
Morgan stopped. "JJ, you can't possibly believe his bullshit story," he said. "There's no way that his phone just didn't work. He missed that plane on purpose and you know it."
She sighed and pushed the elevator button. "I know," she said quietly. "I just...it's not like him."
"Jayje, nothing he's done since Georgia has been like him," Morgan said. "We can't keep letting him self-destruct and claim we're giving him space. We gotta do something."
"Like what?" she said. "He won't even take himself to the doctor."
"Oh, no, he did," Morgan said.
The silver elevator doors slid open. "How do you know that? Did he tell you?"
Morgan had the grace to look a little embarrassed as they stepped into the elevator. "I...may have had Garcia look into it," he admitted.
"Derek Morgan! That is entirely unethical," she scolded. The door slid closed. "So what happened?"
"Not a lot," he said. "He saw his GP and got a painkiller prescription."
"That's it?" she said. "Not therapy, not a specialist?"
"Nope. And the prescription was for dilaudid, and that's the intense stuff, so there has to be some kind of pain he's in that he won't talk about."
She frowned. "That's strange."
"Why?" he asked.
"Dilaudid was the same drug Hankel used to take," she said. "Prentiss and I talked to his sponsor from his NA meetings, Hankel made his own blend of dilaudid and a psychedelic." She bit her lip as the doors opened on their floor. "It's strange that Spencer would end up prescribed the same thing."
"Probably not that strange," Morgan said. "If he's hurting, maybe that's just the best option for him."
"Maybe," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."
She let herself into her hotel room and flipped on the lights. Morgan seemed so sure that it was a coincidence, but the gnawing pull at the pit of her stomach wouldn't let it go. It wasn't a coincidence, and she knew it, she just knew it.
She remembered hovering in Spencer's hospital room while they worked over him, remembered the red marks peppering his inner arm.
Looks like track marks. He must have been injected with something. A couple of times, it looks like.
What if Tobias Hankel had started something that Spencer couldn't finish?
Spencer took a step back, letting the others take over. His heart was racing too fast but his mind felt thick and sluggish. He'd participated in hundreds of takedowns at this point in his career, but he couldn't do it like this anymore. Or maybe he just couldn't do the job anymore.
He let the others take over- cuffing the unsub and leading her out of the seedy hotel room, tending to the victim and handing him over to the EMTs, securing the scene and protecting evidence. He couldn't do it. At least not right now.
He slipped outside, unnoticed, and took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, but the night air was hot and sticky, like breathing in steam, and it did nothing to cool the burning in his veins. His hands shook as he took off his bulletproof vest and left it on the hood of one of the unmarked SUVs. He needed to get out of there, needed to clear his head.
He ended up back at the lounge where Ethan worked without consciously making the decision to walk there. The bouncer checked his ID and he found himself standing at the edge of the room, his hands in his pockets, lost in the crowd.
"Hey, you're Ethan's friend, right?"
He glanced up. "Oh, hi, um...Stephanie," he said. It took him a moment to remember her name.
The bartender smiled at him. "You want anything?" she asked. "Don't worry, it's on the house."
"Oh, uh...no, thank you."
Stephanie tilted her head. "Maybe just some ice water, darlin'?" she offered. He nodded silently; she filled a glass and handed it to him. "Go on and find a seat, Ethan's set is about to start."
He mumbled his thanks and wandered over to an empty armchair. His whole body ached, soreness running deep in his muscles, and the chair was surprisingly comfortable. A faint headache buzzed at his temples and he sipped the cold water carefully.
Ethan stepped up to the small stage to a smattering of polite applause and sat down at the keyboard. He played easily, effortlessly, without any need for sheet music.
He remembered Ethan playing the piano back in high school. Of course, his parents had pressured him to drop out- playing the piano for the school orchestra wasn't nearly as impressive as participating in student government and AP chemistry and SAT prep courses. He'd seen Ethan's parents at every school function, his lawyer dad and his stay-at-home mom with their neat catalogue-perfect clothes and polished smiles, talking to each teacher about their son's performance in class.
Sometimes he envied Ethan's over-involved parents. They were overbearing, but they were there. Ethan never had to worry about the water getting shut off or the fridge being empty or how he was going to replace his shoes when the soles fell off. Ethan was always well-dressed, always carried fresh notebooks and unsharpened pencils on the first days of school, always bought whatever he wanted for lunch in the cafeteria.
But in retrospect…... that didn't seem to make Ethan happy. Ethan fought him neck-and-neck for top scores in class because his parents wanted him to. Ethan applied for Harvard and Yale and MIT because his parents wanted him to. Ethan enrolled in the FBI academy because his parents wanted him to.
But Spencer couldn't remember a time when he didn't dream about becoming an agent. He had planned his career when he was eight years old. Imagining his life in Quantico had propelled him through his time in college as a child.
Did he still want it? Could he still do it?
He watched Ethan play, his eyes closed as he was swept up in the music. He remembered Ethan playing on the old upright piano in the school theater before assemblies, plunking out film scores and pop song melodies from memory. Music had always brought Ethan more joy than getting a blue ribbon at the science fair or a gold trophy at a spelling bee.
What, Spencer thought, brings me joy?
He honestly didn't know.
Gideon crossed his arms as he watched the last squad car pull away from the curb, the sirens and lights switching off in the dark. Everything was tied up and put away, except-
"Where's Reid?"
He frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked.
"I haven't seen Reid since...well, I don't remember when I last saw him," Morgan said. "He was with us on the takedown, but he-"
"Found his vest," Prentiss said, holding it up. "He left it behind."
"Shit," Morgan sighed, dragging his hand over his head. "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with that kid."
"Where could he have gone?" Prentiss asked.
Gideon looked up at the night sky. "Don't worry about it," he said quietly. "I think I know where he is. Oh, and...don't tell Hotch. If he asks, just tell him he's out with me."
"Good luck," Morgan said.
Gideon headed down the street towards a nicer section of town. It wasn't like Spencer to disappear, no, but then again he'd never known him to have friends outside of the team before either. If he was right, he'd find him at the bar where his friend worked.
Morgan was right, though. No one knew what exactly was wrong with Spencer. The boy was increasingly withdrawn, sullen and angry at turns, and worryingly silent. He'd seen agents suffer after traumatic cases, but he'd never seen this kind of behavior before.
And unlike other agents, he felt...responsible. Maybe if he hadn't given a fifteen-year-old kid his business card after a college lecture, or pulled strings to keep him in the academy, or insisted that he join his team, this wouldn't have happened.
Gideon stepped into the lounge, and there he was, sitting in an armchair with his back to him. He bit back a sigh of relief. At least he was safe.
He crossed the room and sat down in the armchair next to him. Spencer started in surprise, his big hazel eyes going wider, but Gideon said nothing. If they were going to talk, he was going to let Spencer speak first. He got comfortable in the chair instead, keeping his eyes on the musician playing on the small stage. Spencer crossed his arms protectively over his stomach.
"You found me," he said in a small voice.
"You're not all that hard to profile," Gideon said. Spencer dropped his head. "Your friend is good."
Spencer was quiet. They sat in silence, listening to the music.
"I missed that plane on purpose."
This was monumental, but Gideon didn't blink. "I know," he said quietly.
Spencer swallowed hard, tried to speak, stopped, tried again. "I'm struggling," he whispered.
Gideon paused. Spencer worked so hard to keep from being vulnerable around the team- overcompensating for being the baby, because intelligence and education couldn't always beat an extra ten, fifteen, twenty years of experience. This kind of fragility was rare for him, and he couldn't afford to say the wrong thing to him.
"Well...anybody who's been through what you've been through recently would," he said.
Spencer looked down at the floor, his cheeks hollow in the warm yellow light. "This is all I was groomed for," he said. "I never even...I never even considered another option."
"Now you're questioning whether or not you're strong enough to be here," Gideon said gently.
Spencer nodded. "Yeah," he whispered.
He needed to choose his words carefully, needed to keep from scaring him away and closing himself off again. He couldn't lose him. "I have been playing at this job in one way or another for almost thirty years," he said. "I've felt lost. I've felt great. I have felt scared, sick, insane." He shrugged, palms up. "I don't know. I guess the day this job stops gnawing at your soul and...your hands stop feeling cold... maybe that's the time to leave."
Spencer pressed his lips together. "I guess I just needed to try to figure out If I could step away from this job," he said.
"And?"
Spencer lifted his chin, his eyes too bright. "I'll never miss another plane again," he said, his voice cracking.
Gideon smiled. Spencer didn't smile back, but he could only hope that he was reassured somehow. He knew this didn't mean everything was back to normal, because Spencer would never be the same kid he was before Tobias Hankel took him, and clearly the damage ran deeper than anyone could see. But maybe this was a crack in his armor.
He sat with Spencer in comfortable silence, listening to the music. "I think...I'd like to go back," Spencer said.
Gideon raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?" he said. "You don't want to stay and talk to your friend?"
Spencer shook his head. "No, I can talk to him later," he said. "I'm ready to go."
"All right," Gideon said. He stood up and offered a hand to help him up. Spencer accepted his hand, wobbling to his feet. "Then let's go."
No, Spencer wasn't ready to fully confess what was wrong. But he was a step closer.
He reached for the dilaudid the second he got home. He kicked off his shoes, leaving them with his go-bag in the middle of the living room floor, and wandered into the bathroom. The little glass vial was waiting for him at the bottom of his medicine cabinet. He'd been saving it, there was just enough for a few more doses.
Dreamily he rolled up his sleeve and tied the band around his bicep. His veins made a blue ribbon in his pale arm; pinprick marks scattered like stars on his skin. He drew the liquid into the syringe and he slid the silver needle into the vein, leaving a hot red dot of blood welling up in its place. The dilaudid bubbled through his body, warm and blissful and forgiving, and he closed his eyes.
He would quit soon. He would.
Just not yet.
Spencer threw himself into work. He got there earlier, left late. He was sleeping less and less, surviving on coffee and vending machine food. It was like high school again.
He still couldn't get himself off the dilaudid. He tried, his first weekend off from work, and he couldn't do it, he barely lasted twelve hours before he was scrambling for his next dose. It would happen eventually, he told himself, when the time was right. Maybe when he ran out. That would be the final push. He knew it.
No one mentioned his disappearances in New Orleans but he still felt like he needed to work himself back into everyone's good graces. He did everything asked of him and more, running errands, taking on extra paperwork, going on coffee runs. No one had told him he was in trouble, but he needed the forgiveness.
There was one thing left that he needed to do, something he'd been putting off for months. He waited till the end of the day, when everyone else said their goodbyes for the night and he could be alone.
He pulled up the Hankel case file and skimmed through everyone else's contributions. His fingers trembled on the keys, and all he wanted to do was run, but he needed to do it. He took a deep breath, and finally he began to type.
Hotch bit back a yawn as he walked through the glass doors. It had been a rough night- he and Haley had been kept up with a cranky, colicky Jack- and when he couldn't fall back asleep he figured he might as well pick up a strong coffee and get to work early.
He walked into the bullpen and stopped dead in his tracks. Reid was hunched over his desk, his head resting on his arms, and if he wasn't mistaken he was wearing the same clothes he'd worn the day before.
Hotch set down his coffee on Prentiss's desk and placed his hand gently on his narrow back. "Reid," he said. "Reid, wake up."
"'m sorry," Reid mumbled. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
Hotch rubbed his back between his sharply jutting shoulderblades. Now was not the time for Spencer to have a nightmare. "Reid, wake up," he said, raising his voice a little.
Reid flinched, jerking back in his seat and raising his head. His eyes were wild and when he saw Hotch he yelped, flinging himself away from him. "I'm sorry!" he screamed.
Hotch grabbed him by the arms. "It's me, Reid, it's me," he said. "Spencer. You're all right, you fell asleep at your desk."
Reid blinked unsteadily. "I...what?" he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Hotch?"
"Yeah, it's Hotch," he said. He was intensely grateful that he'd gotten to work early before anyone could have seen this. Reid was a wreck, his hair rumpled and his clothes wrinkled. "Take a minute, get yourself together, okay? And then meet me in my office."
Reid nodded, pushed himself stiffly out of his chair, and stumbled towards the bathroom. Hotch glanced at the computer screen. It was a case file- the Hankel file. He swore under his breath. No wonder Spencer was a mess. Maybe he shouldn't have pushed him to finish it after all.
He picked up his coffee and went to his office. Reid peeked in about twenty-minutes later. "Hi," he said tentatively.
"Close the door," Hotch said. Reid obeyed and took a seat across from his desk, clasping his hands on his knees like a chastised child. "Don't look at me like that, this isn't a formal inquest."
Reid dropped his head. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
Hotch sighed. "Reid, what's wrong?" he asked. He shrugged. "You can't keep acting like you're fine and pretending like no one's noticed. We've all noticed, and we don't know what to do to help you."
"Nothing's wrong," Reid said softly.
"Reid," Hotch said. "You're hurting. You can't keep going like this. You're killing yourself."
Reid pressed his lips together, his eyes glassy and wet. "I can't stop," he whispered.
"Can't stop what?"
And Spencer broke. He covered his face with his hands and crumpled into the chair, his shoulders shaking, and he broke into sobs. Hotch got up from his desk and sat beside him, placing his hand on his back. He didn't know what to say, or what to do, but he stayed beside him, letting him cry, waiting until Spencer began to quiet down.
"What can I do to help you?" Hotch asked gently.
Spencer wiped at his eyes with his shirtsleeves. "I need the week off," he said, raspy and desperate. "Please."
"Absolutely," Hotch said. "But I want to talk to you before you go." He squeezed his shoulder. "Take a few minutes, get yourself cleaned up and pull yourself together, and then come talk to me. Okay?"
Spencer hesitated, but after a long moment he nodded. "Thanks," he said, and he bolted out of the office.
Hotch rubbed at his jaw. He was left at a total loss, and he wasn't sure if what he'd just done had helped Reid, or made things a million times worse.
After a moment he moved the chairs back to their spots, sat down at his computer, and pulled up the notes Reid had added to the Hankel file.
Spencer threw the bathroom door shut and turned the lock, his hands shaking. He was stiff and sore all over; he didn't know if it was sleeping in his desk chair overnight or withdrawal.
It was now or never. He had a whole week to detox and get himself back to normal. The next time he walked into the bullpen, it would be like nothing had ever happened, and no one would ever know.
He fumbled in his pocket for the little orange plastic bottle. The pills clanked together and he shook one out into his palm. He threw it in his mouth and winced as he swallowed it dry, waiting for it to sink into him, burn him from the inside out, let him sink into the quiet peaceful forgetting.
He would quit. He would. Soon.
Just one more time, that was all.
Just...just one more time.
Author's Notes:
OOF.
I had a longer pause between updates this time around; AO3's servers were down and since I'm crossposting over there as well I wanted to wait until things had settled before posting.
The next chapter is going to pick up immediately after this one, and it's going to be a DOOZY. Lots of feelings. Lots of withdrawal.
Thank you to nitrogentulips, fishtrek, mythepoeia, Sam the Duck, ferret54, Cat, and a guest for reviewing! It means a lot to me!
And thanks to Dayanna for the medical advice, expecto-weasleys for beta-ing, and dubuh for the cheerleading!
I'm spending a lot of time on tumblr (I'm not going back to work till July) so please come hang out with me there! I'm themetaphorgirl and I've been filling a TON of Spencer-centric prompts and I'd be happy to fill some for you too! Everything is tagged with "caitlin writes things."
And! And! And! I've developed a brand new AU. It's a boarding school AU and the team are all adorable teenagers and there's a lot of ANGST and...I was going to wait until I finished posting this fic before I start posting the new one, but...I may need to start posting it now. It's tagged "AU: patron saint of lost causes" on my tumblr if you want some sneak peeks.
But yeah! Let me know what you think of this chapter, and if I should start posting my new AU sooner or later! Thanks so much for reading!
Up next: they had stood by in silence for long enough. Even though Spencer thought he could get through withdrawal on his own, they knew they needed to carry him through it.