*Happy black Friday, everybody! I hope you enjoy this chapter.*
Hotch could feel his hand shaking, still staring at the phone.
Keep it together.
He swallowed nervously, then took a deep breath. His team needed him. He intended to help them. That was all.
Mechanically, he pocketed Reid's letter, then his phone, then left the apartment. He walked down the stairs and got into his car.
Don't panic.
He buckled his seatbelt and drove off slowly, forcing himself to keep in control. After several minutes of this, the person behind him started honking angrily.
Alright, just go a little bit faster, then. He pressed down on the gas a little more firmly, frightened that he would suddenly lose control and started driving like a madman down the streets.
Finally, he made it to the BAU. His team members were already preparing to get on the jet.
"Where were you?" JJ asked him, her eyebrows raised.
Hotch paused for a moment. "Reid's apartment," he said eventually. "He wasn't there."
JJ nodded sadly, casting her eyes to the ground, and stepped into the plane. Hotch followed her quickly, sitting down opposite her.
"Hotch, we'll debrief you here," JJ said.
Hotch swallowed. "Morgan already told me," he said.
"Right," JJ said, "So, what's your opinion?"
Hotch had to clear his throat several times so that his voice would not come out as a squeak. You're the team leader. You're supposed to have an opinion, remember?
"Well," he began, "The unsub is obviously organized and highly intelligent."
They all nodded.
"He used fire alarm systems and locked doors as a diversionary tactic. This suggests that he knew how these kinds systems worked, and he knew how to gain access to them. This suggests an intimate knowledge of electrical and mechanical systems."
"So are we looking for an engineer?" Prentiss asked.
"Possibly," Hotch said. Or someone who's smart enough to figure out any system with or without being an engineer.
"What about motive?" JJ questioned him.
Hotch was enormously relieved when Prentiss answered for him. "Well, there isn't much to gain from killing mental patients. And they weren't tortured, just shot in the head from behind. They wouldn't have seen the bullet coming." With these words, JJ passed the crime scene photos over to Hotch. Hotch forced himself to look at them without seeing them.
"This suggests a certain amount of remorse," she said, "And according to the nurses, it was these three patients who had the least likelihood of ever being released." She passed Hotch other pictures; normal pictures; of two men and a woman.
"Marcy Chaplin," JJ said, "Her temporal was damaged in a car accident. She couldn't speak or understand speech, and there were reports that she suffered from auditory and visual hallucinations. She had to be put in maximum security for violence against others." JJ paused. "Three suicide attempts."
Hotch gazed sadly at the picture of the happy young woman; before her accident, he supposed.
"This is Clyde Rogers," she said; it was a picture of a man in his late fifties or early sixties. He was gazing distrustfully at the camera. "He had dementia. According to the nurses, it started when he was only forty-eight. His family was afraid to visit him. He attempted to commit suicide, as well, in early March last year. He jumped out his window, and sustained severe injuries which then inhibited his ability to walk."
Hotch nodded, frowning at the picture. "Who's the third?"
"Trevor Ryan, twenty-three. He had childhood-onset schizophrenia."
"That's rare," Morgan commented.
"He tried to kill his mother when he was nine because he thought she was trying to 'cook' him." JJ grimaced. "Anyways, he's been in the hospital since then. Eight suicide attempts."
"Eight?" Hotch asked. JJ nodded.
"All of these victims have tried to commit suicide before," Prentiss said. "So the unsub is just…"
"Giving them what they wanted," Morgan finished. There was a tense silence.
They landed ten minutes later; since the case was in outer Virginia, it was a relatively short flight.
As they were walking in, Hotch spoke to Morgan. "The unsub knew who he was going to kill before he came in here. He must have gotten hospital records somehow."
"Right," Morgan said. The two of them approached the front desk.
"Hello," Hotch said, showing her his badge unnecessarily. The nurse sitting there looked pale and frightened. "Is there anyone here who has access to the patient's medical files?"
"A…all of them?" she stammered.
"That's right," Hotch said.
She licked her lips nervously. "Me," she said, "I'm the only one."
"Alright," Hotch said, "Have you ever given anyone access to these files?"
"That's illegal," she said.
"You aren't in any trouble here," Morgan said, "Are you sure there isn't anyone you let look at these files?"
The nurse swallowed nervously. "Well, I thought I had to," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Why?" Hotch demanded, although he already knew the answer.
"Because," she sniffed, "Because he was an FBI agent, you see."
"When was this?" Hotch felt Morgan stiffen beside him. "What did he look like?"
She burst into tears. "He said it was classified," she spluttered, not answering his question, "He said it was classified and very important. I thought I had to."
"Alright, ma'am, no one is blaming you for this," Morgan said. "When did you talk to this man?"
She wiped at her eyes. "It was two…no, maybe three…two, three weeks ago? I don't remember."
"What did he look like?" Hotch asked. He swallowed again.
"He was…oh, I don't know." She sniffed again. "He was very thin. He was wearing sunglasses. I couldn't see his eyes."
Hotch nodded eagerly, his heart pounding in his chest. "And what color was his hair?" he asked.
"It was…" she trailed off. "Black? No, it wasn't black. Brown? Maybe brown or blond?"
"What was he wearing?" Hotch demanded.
"Oh, like...just what you'd expect an FBI agent to be wearing. Like you, I suppose." She gestured to Hotch.
Hotch frowned. "Oh," he muttered, surprised. "Alright then. Thank you."
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, "I didn't know. He had a badge and everything. How could I have known…?"
"You didn't see his name, by any chance?" Hotch asked sharply.
She shook her head, her eyes wide. "I would've told you if I did. He just flashed it really quick, and even so, I can't remember…."
"It's alright, ma'am," Morgan said, "We'll be right back." Morgan started to walk away; he wondered why Hotch was still standing there, staring at the lady.
"Hotch," Morgan muttered, "Come on."
Hotch's hand reached out and grabbed Morgan's shoulder, vice-like. Morgan let out a cry of protest and tried to yank his arm away. "What the hell are you doing, Hotch?"
Hotch pulled him out of the lobby, into a side room. "Come on," he said, "I need to talk to you."