Chapter Two: No Reflection
Heading toward Ohio, the team collaborated on the jet, discussing what intricacies were already apparent in the case. Among them, Reid sat and pondered, worrying at the cuff of his sweater. In his bones, he was sure of at least one other connection the rest of the team had yet to make. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he gathered courage to share this information.
"Hey, Hotch?"
Agent Hotchner's dark gaze met Spencer's own nervous eyes. A certain gravity in the older man's eyes told Spencer that he had been waiting for Reid to speak.
"Yes Reid, what is it?"
Eyes shifting to evade several gazes fixed on him, the words finally began to filter through his mouth, uncharacteristically hesitant.
"The letters - I mean, the messages left with the victims, that's the key to finding the link. They're all lyrics to Marilyn Manson's songs."
Morgan's eyes narrowed quizzically.
"He's a singer," Reid added, rather redundantly.
"Yeah, I think we all know who Marilyn Manson is, kid. You're suggesting that the unsub, for some reason, is obsessed with Marilyn Manson and murdering otherwise unconnected people?" Rossi looked and sounded rather dubious.
"Maybe the unsub's inspired by him," Prentiss chimed in, taking the attention away from Reid, "Marilyn Manson is quite the icon for satanic worship and other occult theories."
"Actually, Satanism has nothing to do with murder. In fact, one of the Satanic tenets is to respect other people, and only sanctions violence in self-defense. Marilyn Manson is pretty well aware of this and he writes extensively about the many misperceptions of his band in his memoir."
Morgan raised his eyebrows. "Reid, you've read Marilyn Manson's memoir?"
Spencer met the other agent's gaze evenly, answering his question with a slight affirmative shrug.
"And if the unsub is leaving Marilyn Manson quotes with the bodies, it is likely that they've also read Marilyn's memoir," Hotch added, following Spencer's line of reasoning.
"If that's true, then it is likely to be the words themselves, if not the writer, that connects the murders," JJ's blue eyes briefly met each of her co-workers'.
"Reid, will you look for comparisons from the songs the lyrics were taken from?" Hotch ordered nicely. Spencer nodded, though he had already started on the task long before boarding the jet. He was vaguely aware of the incredulous look Morgan directed his way. He struggled to ignore the slight pull he felt, the urge to peek behind the curtain of reality, to perhaps glimpse what would have happened if he had not confessed as much in front of the team. But really, he didn't need special abilities to know that more people would die, needless deaths that could have otherwise been prevented.
Mostly, Reid was worried that another blackout would happen, if you could really call it that. Typically he had a choice to ignore or embrace his visions, even if he suffered a headache for the latter decision. But recently...he recalled the overwhelming sense of drowning in terror Cynthia felt as she watched her murderer approach in the rearview mirror...lately he felt that it was he who was drowning, scrabbling at handholds of control he couldn't find. If the team realized what was going on...but how could anyone figure out what was amiss? The BAU was built upon rationality and this...this was something else that even he, the Garcia dubbed 'boy-wonder', could barely grasp.
Feeling Hotch's loaded gaze resting upon him, Reid lifted his eyes from his fidgeting hands, making the slightest eye-contact needed to acknowledge Hotch's concern with a weak reassuring smile. The rest of the team had already begun to delve into their respective tasks and so he flipped open his copy of the case-files, scanning the victims' profiles with glazed eyes.
As has already been established, Reid wasn't stupid and he recognized that these particular visions, the ones starring what he could only assume were the victims' last moments, only occurred when he listened to Manson's music. Some irrational part of him felt that if he just stopped listening to the music, so too would the murders cease. Another, darker part of himself wanted to listen to the music just to see what would happen. Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he mulled over the lyrics of 'Killing Strangers', 'Putting Holes in Happiness', 'Deep Six' , and 'Devil Beneath My Feet', which were the songs the phrases had come from. He wondered at his reluctance to share this information with the team, though he found that he had already begun to write down the songs in their entirety on the backs of the profiles.
He stared dispassionately at the boxed phrases, running through potential connections to the victims' lives. Why these phrases? It was as if the unsub had chosen portions of the lyrics that were purposefully divorced from the chorus and titles, but why? If he was trying to make a statement with Manson's words, wouldn't he have picked the more easily identifiable refrains?
"Reid, what is it?" Hotch's voice cut through his ponderings.
Reid's head snapped up, startled brown doe eyes meeting Hotch's. He offered his scribbled notes to the BAU chief.
"These are the rest of the lyrics to the songs that accompanied the victims. I was just thinking that the unsub seemed to have chosen parts of the lyrics that didn't directly reflect the song's title or meaning."
Hotch passed on the notes to Rossi, whose brow rose.
"That's some speedy work, even for you, Reid," Rossi's implied 'how' hung in the air, adding a pressure greater the cabin's. Spencer licked his lips, knowing that the forthcoming confession was inevitable.
"I like Marilyn Manson's music," which was probably the shortest sentence that Reid had never expounded upon.
Rossi's lips pulled down into a thoughtful moue.
"Good to know that you expand your horizons beyond the classical realm," Morgan's tone was joking, but a hint of surprise still colored his words. Petty resentment bubbled up in Reid's chest. He disliked the nerdy box that his co-workers constantly constructed around him. Though to be fair, he was a nerd, but that still didn't mean they knew everything about him. He frowned at Morgan, though he was partly frowning at himself, for he had known that sharing his musical interests with the team would elicit some amount of surprise and perhaps even judgment.
"Well that should make this easy, if you're our resident Marilyn Manson expert," Prentiss' tone was jocular, but simultaneously chastising, sensitive as she was to Reid's moods. She offered him a reassuring smile, which only embarrassed Reid more. He shouldn't need other people to create his boundaries for him. He broke eye contact with her, frustrated with his awkwardness. It was only then, when he confronted his annoyance and self-deprecation, that he recognized the pulsating whisper of a headache beginning to form.
Alarmed, he attempted to clear his mind, forcibly trying to relax in hopes that this would appease the rising ache. This was what he had feared, and the more he focused on the wave of agony that rolled through his head from pre-frontal cortex to cerebellum, the more the fear snaked its way up and around his spine. Mutely, Reid watched his colleagues discuss the lyrics as if a sheet of soundproof glass isolated him. He wanted to rush to the bathroom and splash some water on his face, do something to bring himself back to reality, but he couldn't move, and he couldn't shake the horribly undeniable feeling that this was reality. His vision blurred.
Blood spilling along neat grouted bathroom tiles. A razor resting in limp fingers, his fingers.
Hotch was saying something to him, his expression serious.
A pained groan echoed with the faint gurgle of water running down a sink drain.
Reid clenched his fists, digging his nails deep, deep into his flesh, trying to remain conscious enough to answer Hotch.
Whimpering cries. "Reid?"
"Reid? Reid, are you ok?"
He opens his eyes. The dark silhouette of someone in the doorframe.
A hand on his forehead silences the clamor of concern. He leans into the cool touch, eyes unable to stay open.
"Oh my god, Reid! Reid, can you hear me?!"
"Morgan, it's fine. Go away," his tongue feels thick and fuzzy as he answers the other Morgan, the one in the doorway.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need to report an um...an attempted s-suicide."