Disclaimer – I will sadly never own Criminal Minds.
Prentiss and Rossi stood at the nurses' station discussing what they had learnt. Prentiss pulled out her phone and called Garcia.
" Speak mortal and be recognised!"
" Garcia we have some names for you", Prentiss said.
"Go"
" Samuel Kershaw... Glenn Fletcher... Luke Kay and Bill Lynch".
Garcia began to do what she did best. "Nothing of interest ... But the same William Lynch worked at the same firm as Laura Meehan".
"Tell me you have a address"
"Sending to your P.D.A now"
"Your amazing Penelope"...
...Reid sat staring at the same words over and over. He couldn't believe he didn't know it. All the books he read, why didn't he know it.
Reid looked up when Detective Horne entered the room and walked behind him. She glanced down at what he was looking at.
"Other case Agent Reid?"
" AA ye", Reid said.
"I really hate when criminals taint such beautiful things", She said shaking her head.
Reid gave her a bizarre look. " What do you mean?".
"Well who ever the killer was carved poetry on that poor man?".
"Poetry. By whom?" Reid asked standing up.
"Aren't you suppose to be a genius? That's W.B. Yates!", Horne said giving him a strange look.
"Yates!"
"Yep. It's from 'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death. A poem written for, ooo what's his name... Major ... Robert Gregory", Detective Horne said flicking through a file. "I really like it. Life is beautiful because it is painful. Yates is a real master of the inner expressions of the soldier's mindset".
Reid's mind began to race. Yates, of course. Soldiers. Fallen pilot. Reid again pulled out his phone.
"Garcia I need your help again"
"How can I delight you Dr. Reid"
"Has there been any Air force personal killed in the last ...week.
"No"
"Are any of the soldiers who've died recently been Irish"
"Irish? Not recently. But Lieutenant Chris Dowd, died in Iraq almost 4 years ago. He held joint American Irish citizenship".
This makes no sense. Whoever this man is couldn't have possibly been involved in that death.
"Does he have any next of kin?"
" His parents both live in Ireland. And he wasn't married. He still has a house, which has been vacant since his death if that helps". Garcia said sounding apologetic.
"What the address?"...
... The BAU knocked on the apartment door.
"William Lynch. FBI!" said Hotch in a stern voice.
The door opened a crack and a tall, timid man looked out. "Yes".
"William Lynch, Agent Morgan, Prentiss and Hotchner. May we come in?" Morgan asked.
"Sure" .
Lynch closed the door, but he didn't take the chain off. Suddenly Morgan heard hurried footsteps.
"Hotch he's running", Morgan shouted pulling his gun out. Hotch and Prentiss followed Morgan as he moved around the house.
Lynch darted across the garden, and Morgan took off after him. As the UnSub reached the fence he grabbed the top and jumped over it, falling as he heavily landed. Morgan jumped after him, grabbing him by the shoulders he threw him against the fence.
"STOP IT. Stop it. It's over man". Morgan said as the man struggled against him...
The BAU stood and observed William Lynch through the glass. Lynch was large, and looked quite capable of strangling 2 men. But he seemed terrified. He hadn't said a word since they brought him in, and now sat with his eyes firmly on the table.
"CSI said they found both Edna Hemmingway and Laura Meehan's DNA and fingerprints in his house. And there where massages on his phone confirming he was having a relationship with both woman", Rossi said as Morgan entered the integration room.
...Morgan moved around the table so he was standing in front of the suspected UnSub. The man kept his head low, and averted the profilers eye.
"Why'd you kill them William?" Morgan asked sitting down and throwing a file on the table.
"I didn't ... Kill... anyone" he stuttered.
"Well I think you did. I think you killed Laura and Stuart Meehan, and I think you killed Edna and Kevin Hemmingway". As Morgan named the victims he placed the crime scene photos on the table.
"I didn't".
"We know you were having a affair with Edna Hemmingway and Laura Meehan".
"No.. No... I wasn't".
"We found both their DNA at your house. We found messages on their phones to you". Morgan said raising his voice a little.
"I didn't ... I didn't ... want too".
"You didn't want too?".
"They made me do it?", he whispered.
"Who made you?"
But he said nothing. Lynch sunk in his chair, attempting to disappear.
"WHO MADE YOU!", Morgan shouted slamming his fist against the table.
"Her husband! Laura's husband found out ... he paid me to kill her... But then I killed him... I killed him like the dog he was...". Lynch who had been unable to make eye contact with Morgan until now, stared at him with a malicious grin. "I gave him what he deserved".
" What about Edna, did her husband pay you to kill her?"
"NO. I loved her and she wanted to leave me...and go back to him... I couldn't let that happen"...
...Hotch gazed at the board for a second. If only every case was this easy. We lost no one else, good as it gets in this job. So what's wrong. Why do I have such a bad feeling. Shaking his head, he put the last of the files in a box. As he left the room he saw Reid saying goodbye to Detective Horne. He's been so vacant the last two days. It's strange. Something's wrong...
"Pretty Boy, fancy a lift?" Morgan said slapping his co-worker on the back.
"No. It's okay. I have a few things to do"...
Reid parked the car and opened the rusty gate with difficulty. The profiler looked up at the house, it looked normal except the windows and doors were boarded up. Reid looked for a way to get in, the light from his flashlight panned across the structure. He moved around the side of the house and managed to squeezed himself through a door. Reid creped through the dark house, attempting to make as little noise as possible. The young genius hated the dark, and the not knowing was frightening him out just as much. Reid suddenly caught site of a thin beam of light from under a room. The profiler slowly opened the door, gun in hand, and gazed in side. Reid lowered his gun, and walked to the table. The small, oak table was the only piece of furniture in the room, and top was a lamp and what appeared to be a jewelry box. Opening the box he read the typed words.
' I admired the deathly pride of that dying man. He sang an oath of resistance, a declaration of war against surrender. But I performed his execution. For who cared for that soul, at the end of his 78 years. Suicide is a tidy way for a male to give up too ghost, with his head held high'.
... Reid's brilliant mind attempted to understand what he had just read. However something else caught his eyes. Underneath the box was the corner of what appeared to be a photograph. Carefully moving aside the box Reid's shaking hands lifted up the black and white picture. The picture was of a person he knew and cared for deeply, sat on a chair in what appeared to be a empty room. Across the victims' terrified face, was written, in red ink, "I said I'd have no problem killing them". Reid went cold and he staggered back hitting the wall. Suddenly his legs gave way and he slid down. Reid looked at the picture again and tears filled his eyes. Garcia!
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