Chapter 9 – The Demon Beat
Essential Listening: The Hunger, by The Distillers
0o0
They watched the young man from behind the glass of the interrogation room.
You could tell from the way he held himself that he thought he could do no wrong. He had got away with rape – maybe more than one, thanks to Smitty's dismissal of the case – and clearly felt that he was invincible.
He had been irreverent with both Prentiss and JJ, proving that he was not the sharpest tool in the box. He was playing right into their hands – he thought that he could control them – that they were 'only' women – and they would put that to good use.
"Mr Tibideaux, we need to ask you some questions about a disturbance you were involved with in 1998," said Prentiss, coolly.
Tibideaux shrugged.
"Don't know what you're talkin' bout."
Behind the glass, Grace rolled her eyes.
"At a bar called 'Jones'," JJ added, and they all watched the flash of recognition cross his arrogant features. "It was Mardi Gras," she added, helpfully.
He chuckled – actually chuckled.
"Well then, I must'a been drinkin' or somethin', 'cause I don't remember a thing," he said, oozing what Grace was sure he thought was confidence.
"We just need to know the name of your accuser," said Prentiss, gently. Grace suspected that the agent was seriously resisting the urge to hit the smug git.
"Look, I told you, I don't know what you talkin' 'bout," Tibideaux said, a hint of aggression colouring his voice.
"The statue of limitations is up," said JJ, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "We just need a name."
He looked blankly back at her.
"Someone accuses me of rape," said Prentiss, sitting down across from him. "I'm gonna remember his name."
"Well, what can I tell you, cher?" Tibideaux drawled, under the impression that he was the powerful one in the room. "I guess she didn't make that good of an impression."
The agents behind the glass shifted in revulsion at the man's obvious contempt for his victim.
"Unlike yourself, right now," said Prentiss, and Grace admired her restraint.
"You know, I'm guessin' if someone did do somethin' to that girl that night," he purred, oozing across the table. "Then she was probably askin' for it."
There was a kind of foul intensity about him, Grace reflected, grimacing. For a moment she wished that their girl had already caught up with him. She pushed the thought away, aware that it wasn't the sort of thing a police office – now an F.B.I. agent – should probably hope for.
"Maybe," he added. "Even liked it."
Unconsciously, as sometimes happened when she was frustrated, she took out her chagrin on the odious little man in the interview room. Underneath the table, his shoelaces quietly undid themselves and flowed back together seamlessly.
"Guy's not givin' up anythin'," said LaMontagne, clearly frustrated.
"Reid," said Agent Hotchner. "After the double murder, what was the Ripper's next move?"
Reid glanced at Grace.
"He mutilated Mary Kelly in her one-room flat until she was unrecognisable," he said, with a sense of defeat. "It's believed to be his most vicious kill of all."
"The one he broke pattern for," said Grace. "An evolution, of sorts."
"So she'll need privacy," said Hotch.
"And time to torture his victims before killing her," Morgan added. "Maybe we're not too late."
JJ put the crime scene photos of the French Quarter murders in front of Tibideaux, resplendent in their gore.
"She murdered these men," said JJ, softly, watching the sudden look of discomfort break across Tibideaux's face. "And I'm guessing it's only a matter of time before she works her way back to the one she really wants to kill."
Tibideaux looked up at her, real fear in his eyes.
"She make an impression now?" asked Prentiss.
0o0
Garcia answered on the first ring.
"Work me," she instructed.
"We have a name: 'Sarah Danlin'," said JJ. "I need an address."
"1141 Sherman Avenue," said Garcia, staring into cyberspace. "It looks like she was a med student at Tulane, but dropped out…"
"Lemme guess: February 1998," said JJ, writing hurriedly.
"Yeah."
"Thanks," said JJ, hanging up. "We got her," she told LaMontagne, handing him the notepad.
There was a crash from the interview room behind them; JJ moved out of the way as Agent Pearce hurried past, looking mildly sheepish.
Detective LaMontagne and JJ peered into the interview room: Mr Tibideaux had got to his feet to follow a young Sargeant through to the front desk and had plunged to the floor, taking the table with him. Somehow, his shoelaces had tangled themselves up during the interview.
0o0
They had been making out all the way up the stairs.
She closed the door behind them as he fumbled with her shirt.
"I'm John, by the way," he said, and she pushed him roughly against the rails of the bed.
"John," she said, letting the word roll off her tongue, as if she was tasting it. "Take off your clothes."
He gave her a predatory smile and started unbuttoning his shirt.
Man, this girl is SMOKIN' hot, he thought, as she moved purposefully towards him.
0o0
The team moved around the side of the apartment complex.
Grace had been told to stay at the back, and there she lurked, tense and alert, mentally cursing her lack of firearms certification.
Back home it wouldn't have been a problem, she had years of training under her belt, but here in the States she'd need to be recertified.
There were other options, too – it wasn't as though she actually needed a gun. In her old unit she wouldn't have hesitated to use her talents in this kind of situation. But this wasn't her old unit: this was the F.B.I..
Explaining how a sturdy looking light fitting had suddenly detached from the ceiling and fallen directly onto their offender did not sound like a conversation she needed to have.
How would Agent Hotchner even write that up? she wondered.
She shook the thought away: she needed to concentrate.
She frowned, ignoring the old familiar beat that was pounding away in her mind; it was trying to push her forward, to the front of the group.
This is their chase, not mine, she told it, but still it persisted at the back of her mind, like her own, personal demon drummer.
She followed Dr Reid around the back to cover the fire exit, staying low and silent in the hot night.
She hung back at the edge of the wall, painfully aware of how vulnerable she was without a gun.
Distantly, she heard Morgan kick down Sarah Danlin's front door.
She had to hand it to the team, they were certainly efficient.
0o0
John grinned up at the woman as she bound him to the bed; this looked like being his lucky night.
She sat astride him and he shifted restlessly.
"The things I'm gon' do to you," he drawled, lustfully.
"Me first," she said, looking hungry.
Oh yeah, he thought. My lucky night.
0o0
They burst into the apartment, shouting and clearing each room; Grace followed closely behind them.
"She's not here," said LaMontagne, frustrated.
"Some people have suggested that Jack the Ripper killed Mary Kelly in a room he rented for the night," said Grace, looking around. "Gave him more time to take her apart."
Reid glanced at her, mildly annoyed, as if he had been about to say that.
"I'll have Garcia check Sarah Danlin's credit card accounts," said Morgan, dialling. "It's a long shot, but maybe we can chase a room back to her charge cards."
Grace ran her eyes over Sarah Danlin's furniture. It was kind of homey and incredibly bleak all at the same time, as if the soul of the place had been sucked out. She supposed that it had, really.
0o0
She was running her fingers over his chest now, teasing him, drawing the moment out.
He was more than ready for her, straining at his silken bonds.
He wasn't ready for the knife.
She cut into his chest, leaving a searing line of pain along the path of the blade.
He cried out, but she was looking at him as if Christmas had come early.
"What the hell did you do that for?" he demanded, suddenly a lot less into it.
"Shh," she purred, and he saw that predatory look he had thought so attractive return to her eyes.
A wave of fear washed over him as he realised that he couldn't escape: she had tied the ropes around his wrists and ankles tightly; they wouldn't budge.
"You're crazy!" he choked, beginning to panic.
"You never did explain these things you could do to me," she said, in a seductive voice, her dark hair falling across her face, casting dark shadows.
John struggled against his bonds, but it was no use.
He was completely at her mercy.
0o0
"Souvenirs," said Agent Hotchner, plucking leaflets off the table. "These are leaflets from bars in the French Quarter – this one's for Mon Cherie," he handed it to Morgan, who sighed.
"She's trawlin' for victims in the place where it all began."
"She can't move on," said Hotchner. "The rape isn't the whole story – I bet there's a history of sexual abuse that contributes to her rage as well."
"It's almost like by taking on the Ripper persona she was trying to kill something inside herself," Reid reflected, darkly.
Morgan's phone rang, making them all jump, tense as they were.
"Yeah, Momma, what have you got?"
They all waited for Garcia's information, standing around Sarah Danlin's sad apartment, each of them on tenterhooks.
"Oh Babygirl, you never disappoint," said Morgan, and Grace felt the beat within her speed up a notch. "Thank you." He turned to Detective LaMontagne. "Royal Ruby Inn?"
"It's about two blocks from here," said LaMontagne.
"Let's go."
Aware that she had her next victim, they ran.
0o0
John shivered as the pain of cut after cut seared through his flesh. She was taking her time with him, playing – enjoying her sport.
He'd tried shouting – hadn't been able to avoid it as the knife had sliced through his chest – but no one had come to his rescue.
No one would hear him. They had chosen this hotel room with that in mind.
He struggled beneath her, panicked and bloody, as she trailed the knife upwards towards his neck…
John had never been a religious man, but here, with this evil, crazy woman playing with his life, he prayed hard, unable to take his eyes off hers, with their zealous, excited glint.
"Please, please, please," he begged her, over and over.
"Stop your bitching," she said, amused. "You asked for it."
John closed his eyes, terrified.
He heard the door bang back against the wall and his eyes flew open in hope.
0o0
"F.B.I.!" Agent Hotchner shouted, aiming at the back of Sarah Danlin's head.
"Drop the knife!" Morgan commanded, moving to her other side.
"Drop the weapon!"
Grace craned to see over Detective LaMontagne's shoulder; he and Reid were forming an effective barrier in the doorway.
"He wanted it, he got it," the woman on the bed snarled, her knife at the man's throat.
He was tied to the bed posts, bloody and shivering. Grace called for a paramedic on her radio as Detective LaMontagne moved into the room.
"Put it down, now," Morgan instructed, steel in his voice.
"What are you waiting for?" Danlin asked, turning to face the gun barrels behind her.
Grace caught a glimpse of her face beyond the agents in front of her, and saw a woman unhinged.
"Ma'am, we don't wanna shoot you," said Morgan, calmly.
"Be such a shame to waste this," she drawled, and they could see the madness in every plane of her face. "Do you want it, too?"
"What I want is for you to put that gun down," said Morgan, levelly, not moving an inch.
The man on the bed swallowed as the knife pressed against his throat; beads of sweat trickled down his bloodied skin.
The demon beat at the back of Grace's mind took on a more insistent tone.
Could she make Danlin drop the knife without any of the others noticing? Could she guarantee it wouldn't hit her latest victim?
"Come on," Danlin purred. "Don't fight it!"
Could they take her down safely if she did?
"Sarah, we don't want to hurt you," said Agent Hotchner, softly. Everyone tensed, ready for her to lash out.
"Men," she hissed.
"Sarah," said Detective LaMontagne, softly, quietly putting his weapon down. "My name's Will LaMontagne Jr. You knew my Daddy?"
Danlin paused restlessly above the terrified man on the bed.
"Yes," she whispered, glancing at the detective from beneath her hair.
"Hey there," he said, gently. "You trusted him, so trust me."
"Where is he?" she cried, a tear falling running down her cheek.
"The storm took him," he said, and she moaned in grief. "Come on now, it's over," he urged, and she handed him the knife, unable to process the senseless death of the only man she trusted anymore.
"It's over," said LaMontagne, taking her in his arms as she broke down.
Grace watched him half carry her down the hallway and into the night.
She moved to check the man on the bed as the team put their guns away.
He had passed out from sheer relief.
She started to undo his wrists as Hotchner lightly shook his shoulder. The drumming thing in her mind was silent now, satisfied.
He stared up at them, groggily.
"What's your name?" Grace asked, gently
"John…"
0o0
Detective LaMontagne watched them load John into the ambulance disconsolately. He had helped Sarah Danlin into the back of a police car ten minutes earlier and he'd thought he would feel better.
He didn't.
After so long carrying his father's burden, now he simply felt numb.
"Hey," said JJ, leaning against the car, beside him.
"Hey there."
"The medic says that our victim's gonna be ok," she said, and he nodded, mutely. "I heard what you did in there," she said, gently. "Your Dad would be really proud."
He smiled wanly for a moment, taking what small comfort he could.
"It's weird," he said. "I spent all this time focussed on closing this case for him, and now it's over…"
"Yeah."
"I thought I'd feel happy, but I jus' feel lost."
" 'Cause you gotta move on," said JJ, firmly.
He smiled at her, making a joke of it.
"What, and now you're leavin'?" he said, and she looked up at him in surprise. "How will I survive a woman like you goin' so far away?"
JJ smiled, flattered.
"Well, despite what you may have heard," she said, digging in her pocket. "Cell phones can be very good for your health."
His smile widened as he took her card.
"See you," she said, and he watched her walk away, smiling to himself.
Well now… he thought.
0o0
Reid watched Ethan play in the dark club.
His friend looked happy, at home with himself – in his own element. He wasn't the same boy Spencer remembered growing up with, but then, neither was he.
Today, he could even be happy for him.
If Ethan could find a way to be, then he could, too.
He looked up as Gideon sat down in the chair next to him, and he crossed his arms, suddenly uncomfortable. He knew what was coming, and there were questions that he still didn't want to answer.
Not yet.
"How'd you find me?" he asked, wondering briefly whether Grace had told him where he was. He wouldn't blame her if she had.
"You're not all that hard to profile," said Gideon, and he smiled.
Reid waited quietly, reassured.
Watching Ethan for a moment, Gideon remarked:
"Your friend is good."
Reid nodded. He really was.
It would almost have been a shame if Ethan had stayed in the F.B.I.. He might never have found out that he had this in him.
"I missed that 'plane on purpose," said Spencer, coming to a decision. If he was going to have to explain then it would be on his terms. He would take responsibility. He owed it to Gideon; to the whole team.
"I know," Gideon said, and Spencer wasn't surprised. He hadn't even fooled Agent Pearce, who had known him – at that point – for about twenty-six hours. He took a deep breath. What was it she had said? That admitting that you needed help was the hardest part?
"I'm struggling," he said, softly.
There it was, out in the open. No going back now.
He looked at Gideon, wondering how his mentor would react.
The older man sighed.
"Well, anyone who'd been through what you've been through recently, would."
"This was all I was groomed for," said Reid, the words spilling out of him, unexpectedly. "I never even – I never even considered another option."
"Now you're questioning whether you're strong enough to be here," Gideon stated, glad that his young friend was finally opening up to him.
This wasn't what Spencer had expected at all, and he was grateful. Glad that he still had his team behind him.
He nodded.
"Yeah."
"I have been playin' at this job – in one way or another – for almost thirty years," said Gideon, gently. "I've felt lost, I've felt great, I have felt scared, sick… insane…" he shrugged. "I don't know. I think the day this job stops gnawing at your soul and your hands – your hands stop feelin' cold… maybe that's the time to leave."
Spencer nodded, understanding.
"I guess I just needed to figure out if I could step away from this job," he said, quietly.
"And?"
He looked at Gideon feeling calmer and more determined than he had in months.
He would get through this.
"I'll never miss another 'plane again."
Gideon nodded, and the two friends sat back to listen to Ethan's music, reassured.