Chapter 3 – The Meaning of LUST
Essential listening: The Hunger, by Coral Fang
0o0
JJ perched on the edge of a sturdy San Francisco Fire Department desk, going through the initial paperwork with the smartly dressed woman beside her.
Detective Castro was like most of the officers JJ came across in the course of investigations: smart, competent and hardworking – and like most of the detectives the BAU liaised with, extremely pissed off.
She was frustrated by a case that to all outside observers looked impossible to solve: no witnesses, no clear connection between the victims, and no obvious motive other than the visitation of a particularly unpleasant death on families of fairly nice people.
Castro pulled a case file towards her with a sigh; half of JJ's job these days seemed to be convincing various members of America's law enforcement services that her team could be trusted to get the job done.
They didn't always make it easy for her.
"This place is great!" said Reid, hurrying towards them with two cups of coffee balanced precariously in one hand, the station's first aid kit in the other. "They have their own espresso machine!"
JJ gave him a rueful smile, glad to have him as close to normal as Reid ever got.
"Uh – Dr Reid, this is Detective Castro," she said, hoping he'd take the hint to be slightly more professional.
"Hi," he said, handing one of the coffees to JJ and waving the first aid box in greeting.
"She's with the SFPD liaison."
He managed a smile and tried – unsuccessfully – to open the box.
"I burned my hand on the espresso machine – ah…" he said, as the contents of the first aid box spilled out across the desk.
"Woah," said JJ, as he scrambled to clear up the mess.
"A genius, you said?" Castro asked, unconvinced.
"Yeah, uh…" said JJ, watching him trying to repack the first aid box. "His co-ordination drops off when he's thinking."
She gave a Reid a bright smile as he shot her an I'm-right-here kind of look.
"Good," said Detective Castro. "Because we need to figure out why this psycho chooses these families."
"He's most likely targeting the men," said Reid, pulling out a plaster, "they're the most similar members of the two families."
Fielding Detective Castro's dubious glance, JJ nodded towards Reid, who had abandoned the treatment of his burned hand to reassess the incident board. Detective Castro followed him, clearly unimpressed.
"Sue Jarvis, twenty-nine, worked full-time," he said, pointing her out. "Charlotte Cutler, thirty-nine, was a stay-at-home mom. The Jarvises had two girls in public grade school – the Cutlers had a son in private high school. The Jarvises went to church, the Cutlers didn't – nothing holds. Except with the men," he continued, waving at the family portraits tacked to the board. "Both in their late thirties, white, approximately six feet tall, brown hair. Nice homes, nice families, good jobs – that's the connection."
"What connection?" asked Detective Castro, who by this point could probably have given them the families' shoe sizes if they'd asked. "Cutler was a lawyer, Jarvis an executive. There's no evidence they ever met."
"But they're of the same type," Reid explained, patiently. "Uh – we know that most serial arsonists are white males – a complex MO develops over time. This guy's in his mid-thirties: he sees the victims as successful versions of himself, and he resents them for it."
He gave an awkward smile; Detective Castro was still staring dubiously back at him. JJ didn't blame her; at this stage, the profile was just too general to narrow things down enough for a frustrated detective with seven corpses on her books.
"I'll issue an APB for a resentful, six-foot, white guy," she said, barely containing the sarcasm. She stalked away, clutching her stack of files; Reid watched her go, full of that familiar confusion he felt when someone from outside the team didn't understand him.
JJ gave him an 'A-OK' sign and made to follow the detective. She paused as Agent Pearce walked in, looking pale and shaken.
"Are you okay?" she asked, abruptly changing direction.
Pearce gave an uncomfortable little half-shrug.
"More or less," she said, clearly hoping that that would be the end of it.
JJ, who had been the BAU's media liaison long enough to learn a thing or two, stood her ground, and after a few moments Agent Pearce sighed, rolling her eyes.
"I threw up at the crime scene," she admitted, in a small, irritable voice.
"Oh," said JJ, a little surprised. Given the level of gore associated with their last case she wouldn't have thought Pearce would have a problem with a crime scene with no bodies in it.
"My Dad died in a fire," she added, reluctantly, noticing JJ's expression. "It sort of brought it all back."
JJ couldn't think of anything to say to that. Agent Pearce was clearly annoyed at herself for losing control in front of two agents and about twenty fire investigators, and JJ could imagine how embarrassed she must be.
"Uh, how about you get started on the victimology with Reid," she suggested. "I have to work through the case files with Detective Castro."
Pearce gave her a grateful smile.
"Thanks," she said, quietly. "I feel like such a n00b."
"Don't worry about it," JJ assured her. "We all have something that gets to us."
Pearce nodded and moved to where Reid was hovering, around the incident board.
Thinking that their new agent looked a little unsteady on her feet, JJ went in search of the fabled espresso machine and convinced it to make something resembling hot, sweet tea.
She dropped her own coffee and the case files on the desk she was sharing with Detective Castro in Vega's office on her way past.
"Hey, look, I'm sorry," said Castro, looking up from her files. "It's just that this guy is…"
"It's okay," JJ told her, with a smile. "I get it – you just want to catch the guy."
Detective Castro smiled back, ruefully.
"I'll be right back," said JJ, waving Pearce's cup of tea as she departed. She stopped short of the incident room, however, standing just out of sight behind a glass display case.
Agent Pearce was sitting heavily on one of the desks, looking weary and defeated, her guard down completely. She was giving Reid a wan smile, who was fiddling absently with the plaster on his hand. Even from here, JJ could tell that they were speaking in hushed tones – probably about Pearce's sudden departure from the crime scene.
But – and this was why she had paused at the room's entrance – there was something odd in the way Reid was standing. He was – consciously or otherwise – blocking the view of several members of the SFFD, none of whom were paying attention; leaning slightly towards her, protectively. They were much closer than you would expect two new colleagues to be: almost (but not quite) touching.
Just on the edge of being intimate.
She thought back to the night she had glimpsed an altogether different side of Spencer Reid in an alley in New Orleans, when he was supposed to be in Galveston and Pearce had barely known any of them. Since then, they had behaved as nothing other than friends, as far as JJ had seen… but now…
Spencer was usually so easy to read.
She watched him drop his hand over Pearce's with a subtlety that she didn't know her friend possessed, looking for all the world like he was reaching for his coffee. The ghost of a smile flickered across Agent Pearce's features; an acknowledgment of comfort received. JJ frowned. Reid hated to be touched.
She thought of all the times Pearce and Reid had walked out of the office together in the evenings, or sat chatting together at lunch. And he did bring her a drink every day. JJ had put it down to Reid's own peculiar way of making someone feel welcome, but now she had to wonder.
Still…
She stepped out from behind the display case and headed briskly towards them, wondering how they would react. Reid stepped away from Pearce as soon as he saw her, somehow making the movement seem entirely natural.
Nothing to see here, his body language seemed to suggest. Just two co-workers talking through a profile.
"Here," said JJ, handing Pearce the tea. "I thought you could use it."
"Thanks," the agent said, gratefully. "Nothing like tea to pick you up. My old Governor said it builds character."
"Oh, yeah?" Reid asked; JJ glanced at him. There wasn't a trace of embarrassment in his features. Either she had read the situation wrong, or he had no idea that their unusual behaviour had been observed.
"Yes," said Pearce, contemplatively, equally oblivious to JJ's scrutiny. "But he said the same about ale, too. And rugby. And certain types of cheese. And –" here she frowned – "patrolling crime scenes at three AM in the freezing rain."
Reid chuckled and when back to staring at the incident board, as if it held a pattern that only he could see, apparently reassured that Pearce was alright.
JJ left them to it, deciding that whatever was going on between them was much less important right now, compared to the man roasting families alive.
0o0o0o0
They were ranged around Detective Vega's office, reading files, checking facts, tossing theories around.
"Okay, great – I got it. Thanks," said JJ, as Garcia wound up another fact-filled phone call. She glanced up as Hotch walked in, expression grim.
"Charlotte Cutler died," he announced, heavily.
"Sorry," said Gideon, with feeling. "Next time, I'll go."
"What have we got on the vehicle?" Hotch asked, briskly.
"Uh-" said JJ, checking her notes. "It was a 1999 gold Ford Taurus. 85% of that model / colour-combo were sold domestically as fleet vehicles – company cars, rental fleets."
"You checked rental agencies?" Hotch asked, reading the printout that JJ passed him.
"Yeah," she said. "No one kept one for the past three weeks, or rented during both fires… so, I was thinking: who keeps a rental care for three weeks?"
"And if it's not a rental?"
"It would have to be a company car," said JJ. "This guy, he had to have time to stalk his victims, and if his job involved driving…" she trailed off, allowing the assembled agents to fill in the blanks.
"There was a serial arsonist up in Seattle, early '90s, said Detective Vega, with a hint of excitement: they might finally be onto something.
"Paul Kenneth Keller," Hotch nodded.
"Yeah," said Vega. "He used to drive around all day selling advertising for his dad's agency – and picking out places to burn."
"Company car," said Hotch, nodding. "Good work, JJ."
"Let's do the profile," said Gideon.
0o0
The assembled ranks of the SFFD and PD had arranged themselves around the incident room and were watching the agents expectantly, pens poised for their pearls of wisdom.
Grace had chosen to sit well back, on an abandoned desk; the whole situation felt a lot like being interviewed for a job, or taking part in a school play for which she had already forgotten the lines.
Confidence was the key, according to the briefing that Agent Hotchner had given her when they'd got back from New Orleans and Grace had been sworn in properly. The important thing was for the officers to trust the profile – even when it changed with new information – or there was no real point in giving one.
Sound like you know what you're doing, said her father's voice, emerging from her subconscious from years before. If people believe you're on the right track they'll follow along as far as it takes them. The trick is to fool them into believing.
Smiling slightly at the memory, Grace altered her posture; it was difficult to appear in control when slumped on a desk.
She could feel Reid's gaze on her as she did it, and realised that he'd been keeping an unobtrusive eye on her; she winked at him, making him smirk. It felt good to have found herself on such a supportive team.
"The UnSub we're looking for is a highly intelligent, underachieving thirty-five to forty-five year old male, with a severe narcissistic character disorder," Hotch announced, kicking things off.
"Nothing in his life works for long," Gideon continued, over the sounds of thirty people scribbling industriously. "If he was married, he's now divorced. And if employed, it won't last."
"Whatever jobs he has or has had," Grace expanded, "he won't be very good at – and he will be constantly puzzled as to why. He'd be the guy who sits there wondering why the universe is always picking on him, even though in reality he's had just as many opportunities as everyone else – he just lacks the character or drive to act on them."
"What he wants is admiration," said Morgan. "But he's got no respect for others. Not their feelings and most certainly not their safety."
"He feels entitled," Gideon added. "He's like a petulant adolescent: he both resents and he absolutely expects others to take care of him."
"And given that a male relative wouldn't tolerate this behaviour, he most likely lives with a female relative," said Hotch. "His mother, grandmother, aunt – whom he exploits."
"His arson kit is expensive: fire suit, oxygen mask," Morgan continued. "This suggests that he may be employed, but his personality will not allow him to work closely with others in an office setting."
"This, along with the information about his vehicle, leads us to believe that he's a travelling salesman of some sort, who works for a company big enough not to notice he's a sociopath," Hotch added.
"Okay," said Detective Vega, reviewing her notes. "This scumbag has issues, we all get it. But why fire?"
"He's – uh – like a drug addict," Reid explained. "Only fire's his drug, and each time an addict needs a fix, they need more of the drug to get off, so his crimes will most likely get much worse…"
There were a few raised eyebrows around the room at that, and Grace watched as her fellow agents focussed on Reid more closely, probably wondering just how much personal experience he was speaking from.
"It would be almost impossible for him to quit without help," Reid added, quietly, looking as though he suddenly felt very exposed in the centre of the room. His eyes flicked to Gideon, and then to Grace, who nodded slowly.
There was a long pause as the FBI portion of the room subjected their young friend to some well-meaning scrutiny.
Acutely aware of how awkward this seemed, Grace was compelled to fill the lengthening silence and get them back on track.
"So basically, he won't stop until we catch him," said Grace, jolting the team out of their thoughts. "He won't be able to."
"Thank you very much," said Hotch, abruptly, dismissing the officers.
As San Francisco's finest began the general milling around that Grace associated with the start of a shift, Reid caught her eye.
She patted him on the shoulder as she moved out of the room.
0o0o0o0
Deep in her tech cave, Penelope Garcia typed manically away at her keyboard, busily cross-referencing, correlating and number-crunching all the facts she could find relating to their victims.
She grinned at the screen, secure in the knowledge that somewhere in this morass of data a serial killer lurked, and that – bit by bit – she was closing in on the sick fuck.
"She shoots," she said, typing in her search terms. A website matching her criteria flashed up on the screen. "She scores! The crowd goes wild!"
Beaming, and enjoying the appreciative noises of the crowd in her head, she hit the dial button on her phone.
0o0
Back in the SFFD HQ the team had once again congregated in Ricardo Vega's office. It was surprisingly spacious.
Right now there wasn't much they could do until the canvassing turned up some new information – or there was another fire.
The room was dense with frustration, though everyone was still trying to manifest positivity – at least in front of everyone else.
"I just put the entire department on tach alert," Vega sighed, handing the duty rosta to one of his men. Reid passed the man at the door, almost falling over him in his rush.
"Listen, Garcia's on line one," he said, leaning against the door. Vega transferred the call through and put it on speaker; the team leaned in: this ought to be good.
"Brace yourselves," she said, her voice sounding tinny through the phone's speakers. "I'm gonna teach you the meaning of 'LUST'.
"Did she say 'lust'?" Gideon asked, looking up in surprise.
"Uh-huh," said Garcia, with some glee. "I cross-referenced every known fact on the victims, and I just found a website that links both Dennis Cutler's and Matthew Jarvis's companies on a list of, 'businesses guilty of 'LUST'."
"I'm missing something," said Hotch.
"Leaking Underground Storage Tanks."
"Oh, well, I'm glad it's not just the London Metropolitan Police who suffer from inappropriate acronyms," Grace remarked.
"The website belongs to a recently formed San Francisco chapter of the Earth Defence Front."
"The EDF?" exclaimed Prentiss, surprised. "The eco-terrorist group?"
"They aren't eco-terrorists," said Reid. "They're environmental activists."
"Dennis Cutler and Matthew Jarvis may disagree with you," said Morgan.
"I'm pretty sure some EDF people were sent up for torching an SUV dealership a while back in San Diego," said Vega.
Gideon shook his head.
"Nobody died in those fires."
"Maybe they got lucky," said Prentiss.
"No, it's not luck," said Gideon firmly. "This group's dedicated to protecting life."
Grace nodded, thinking of the various environmental groups back in the UK.
"What do they, wait until no one's home and then light the place up?" Vega scoffed in disbelief.
"That's exactly what they do," sad Hotch.
"Are you telling me that the FBI don't have files on organisations like this?" Vega asked, incredulous. "Lists of members?"
"Domestic groups like the EDF aren't the Bureau's top priority right now," said Morgan.
"Besides," added Reid, "they're more of a movement than an organisation."
"There's a central ideology, but the chapters are independent," Gideon explained. "They don't pay dues and they don't keep membership lists."
"What if one of the chapters has broken ranks and has a new belief?"
"Hurting people's never been a part of it," said Gideon, shaking his head. "It doesn't track. It doesn't fit the profile."
"Garcia, can you identify how many members are in this particular EDF chapter?" Hotch asked.
"Uh…" the sound of keys being hit emanated from the phone on the desk. "It looks like one hundred to a hundred-fifty."
Grace winced.
"That's a hell of a lot of people to suddenly become complicit in something like this," she said. "Much more likely we're looking for some lone nutter who's using the EDF cause as an excuse to feel righteous about his urge to kill."
Prentiss nodded.
"That's a lot of members to check," said Vega, unhappily.
"Rule out the women and any non-Caucasians," said Morgan. "What does that leave us?"
"Seventy-four," said Garcia, after a few moments of furious typing.
"Can you cross-check with employment records?" Grace asked.
"For you, anything, sugar," Garcia chirped. "But it's gonna take some time."
"That is something we do not have," sighed Prentiss.
"We've got to narrow this down somehow," said Hotch.
"I'm on it – Garcia out!" the phone went dead as one of Vega's firemen hurried in.
"There's been another one," he told them. "Two units responding."
The assembled agents swore.
"I don't like how fast this is happening," Grace said to Reid as the others hurried out to the scene. "I mean, three weeks is a hell of a short amount of time to go from getting your kicks burning things down in an irritating but non-violent way," she waved expansively at the stack of nuisance fire reports they'd isolated as probably the work of their UnSub. "And now he's up to what? Seven bodies? It's ludicrous."
"Ten," said Reid, sadly, tapping the call log on one of the screens. "Says here neighbours saw the occupier and his two kids go into the garage before it exploded."
Grace dropped into one of the mismatched departmental chairs that had accumulated during the briefing that morning, disgusted.
"It's worse when they're kids, somehow," she muttered.
"He's getting off on the kill now, rather than the fire," Reid observed darkly, reading through the alert. "The rest of the house was untouched."
Grace pinched the bridge of her nose: that was a phrase she had hoped she would never hear again.
"He's getting a taste for murder," she sighed.