Title - Whittled - Part 4
Author - Kourion
Summary: For two months, Spencer Reid had been missing. And now he had been found. Abducted by a man called the Hunter Moon Killer. And like all of the HMK's victims, Reid had been brutalized. But unlike the others, he's the only one to have ever been found alive. / Reid-pain. HC/ Morgan-Reid friendship fic.
Please note: my comp is back! :) I should be able to write more now (which is making me feel calmer just thinking about it)...
I want to say THANK YOU to so many of you. Some of you guys didn't just write the kindest reviews, but you also pm'ed me personally with encouragement. One or two notes in particular were amazingly sweet (you know who you are, although I have to PM you guys back later on as well!) I wrote this chapter primarily while listening to Rae Morris' "Don't Go" and Daughter's "Youth." The later, especially, reminds me of something that would be played on Criminal Minds.
Next chapter: Reid focused. It is going to get pretty intense soon.
Morgan's POV
When I get to the BAU parking lot, I turn off the ignition and sit.
I'm supposed to see Reid this afternoon, but we've been called to address a multiple home rape in the DC area. While usually that sort of case would fall to the local police or detectives, this case has been especially graphic and almost all of the victims have died shortly after their rescue, several within hours of getting to the Emergency Room.
So Rossi and I are going to go talk to the only victim who has made it; 24 year old Alicia Devitt. A PhD student pursuing a profession in abnormal psychology.
The irony of such a fate chokes me.
I gulp down rapidly cooling Starbucks and then crumple the container and pastries wrapper into a tidy ball, quickly searching my car for any lingering litter to take out at the same time. I'm able to find part of a wrapper to a previously half eaten granola bar, and reach for it too.
God.
My car is a mess.
Right by the seat, half covered by an afghan throw is a paper bag - starchy and new. I pull it towards me and examine the contents. I notice the Barnes and Noble receipt and my eyes fall on his name.
Spencer Thaddeus Reid.
His cashier was Delia.
He purchased the items at 11:44 am, almost four months ago.
And I have no idea what this is doing here. Until I realize that I gave Reid a lift to the bookstore ages ago. A lifetime ago.
When Reid was still...Reid. Quirky, animated. Happy to quote statistics. Pushing tangled brown locks behind his ears out of habit.
This has been in here all this time...
We had met up for a morning of cappuccinos and book scavenging (for him), and later - searching for new PS3 games and a couple new toys for Clooney.
Thaddeus.
Spencer Thaddeus.
Huh.
I never even knew his middle name before today.
I never even gave it a thought.
One of my best friends. And I do not even know the basics.
Thaddeus.
What do you know? Reid's more meticulous in how he fills out his application for the Barnes and Noble book club than he was when filling out his information for the BAU.
It fits him, though. I certainly could not envision someone naming him Scott, or Steve.
The books now lay out before me. There is one about conducting astronomical calculations within city limits. A few advanced crossword books. A couple sci-fi classics with covers that probably haven't changed much since 1950. And one that jolts my heart.
Me, Myself, and Them: A Firsthand Account of One Young Person's Experience with Schizophrenia, by Kurt Snyder.
I try to tell myself that it's nothing.
That it's just Reid. Reid doing everything he can to learn as much about the condition that has grabbed ahold of his mother. But the title, and his worries...
It does not feel like nothing.
Especially recently.
You've certainly got more than enough to contend with, don't you kid?
I check the receipt date again, as I feel almost compelled to put the memory into some sort of linear perspective.
We were at the bookstore exactly two weeks to the day before he was taken by Daley.
Less than three weeks before he would be repeatedly raped.
But this is what was on his mind.
At best, he was distracted.
At worst, he was dealing with the fear that he was losing his mind.
I roll up the bag and fold everything over cleanly, before putting it back under the afghan. I don't want to be the one to give him the parcel, now, knowing that he'll be aware I've seen the contents. Reid's always been intensely private. About all issues relating to his health, his body, or the inner workings of his mind.
But I guess, in his own way, he has shared more with me than any other member on the team.
'You know that profile kind of makes it sound like Schizophrenia leads to serial killing."
"That's not what we said at all, Reid."
"You know, my mom has Schizophrenia. There are many different types."
"I know that."
"Catatonic. Disorganized. Just because someone suffers from an inability to organize their thoughts, or they can't bathe or dress themselves...doesn't mean they stab someone in the chest 30 times post mortem."
"Reid? What's really going on?"
Rap rap rap rap.
I look up quickly, startled by the sound.
Garcia's standing by the car, her lipstick a vibrant purple. She is wearing a t-shirt today. Ruby Gloom, or something.
She looks both cold and worried, having come outside in a rush.
I roll down the window.
"Sorry, Pen. I'm late. I know."
"Come on sweets; Rossi's waiting for you."
I sigh, and grab my keys and sunglasses, mentally checking off things I might need later in my head.
Reid's satchel bag actually isn't a bad idea. A place to chuck any potentially needed items, saving mental energy for other things.
Like questioning witnesses. Or in Reid's case, creating astronomical science projects from his balcony with a telescope.
The drive to the hospital seems to drag on and on. Rossi plays something bluesy, while I try to focus on the case.
Rossi hits the blinkers, and we wait for a car to turn on an amber light.
"You're not usually so late," he starts, calmly.
Carefully.
I suck in some air. Hold it.
"Well. We're all human on this team, Rossi."
Rossi nods. Starts to ask another question. Stops.
I can see his self deliberation.
Then: "How's Reid doing?"
I let my hand graze over a healing cut on my palm.
"He's better than what he was. Still not great," I admit with unconcealed honesty.
Rossi tilts his head a little bit.
"Of course not. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. It's not going to go away overnight."
Suddenly, I feel pissed off.
I recall Reid, years ago - battling with Dilaudid withdrawal. And later, from cravings. Denying that he even had problems. As if he couldn't expose his weakness to us. His vulnerability. But confiding in me about what happened to him at 11. Tied to a goal post after having all his clothes removed at the hands of countless bullies. I wonder how much that seemed like a molestation to him. To my scrawny, sensitive friend - who still changes in the locker rooms. Even today. As an FBI agent.
This is probably the worst thing that has happened to him. In a long line of cruel events.
"Has he put on any weight?," Rossi proceeds carefully.
My head suddenly hurts.
"No. Not really."
He's lost weight. It is obvious. Reid's BMI was around 18 when he was taken, and was hovering at about 17.5 for the bulk of the time I've known him. Thin enough. Definitely thin enough.
But now he's clinically emaciated.
And I'm terrified.
"He's lost weight," Rossi surmisses.
I close my eyes. Count to ten.
I'm not mad at Rossi.
I'm scared out of my mind. Because Reid's getting sicker. And there's only one reason for that.
"Mmmm," I add, not wanting to implicate my friend, but certainly not wanting to lie.
"Derek," Rossi stresses, turning onto North Capitol. "If he's not eating, they're going to address it. He's with the best people he could possibly be with right now. Specialists."
I rub my hands together.
"Daley fed him, Rossi."
Rossi looks up abruptly.
"But the pattern. He starved the others. It was part of his MO."
My head dips down. Almost to my knees.
"But he fed Reid. Reid told me. And when Reid wouldn't eat, Daley would force it into him just like everything else Daley forced on him."
Rossi's face looks grim.
"Well that explains more than enough, Derek. Reid links eating with what he went through. It probably feels tainted to him now. Emotionally, it might even feel obscene to eat."
I unclick my seat belt, emotionally try to put myself in a different headspace. One of professionalism and calm.
"I know that, Rossi."
Rossi turns off the ignition.
"If Reid equates eating with sexual assault, or even just sex - which I suspect he does, it explains a lot. But it gives us a starting point too. On how to help him. Reid's overtly rational - he understands what he is doing doesn't make sense. Not if he wants to regain his strength and come back to work, which he's stated he wants. So now he has two differing needs. To regain what he's lost, and heal. But to also avoid any situation where he feels coerced. Or any situation where he feels as he did when he was with Daley. And right now, as scary as it is - it's not rationality that's winning out. It's fear, and it's self-loathing, and it's all the horrible feelings he experienced when he was with that bastard. But it's not out of a need to purely punish himself, and that's what you should focus on right now. It is a power play, but it is soothing to him."
I grit my teeth. I don't want to be here today.
"He feels like we're against him. Keeping him there. He hates it there. You know how he is about psychiatric hospitals."
Rossi shifts towards me.
"Of course he does. Because he knows what being there means. Reid's not typical. He's not dealing with typical insecurities and fears. Even for a rape victim. But as he can't take basic care of himself right now Morgan - he needs to be there. If for no other reason that that, he should be in clinic. You have to let go of the guilt."
But that is damn hard to do when all I can envision is him, as he is now. Skeletal. Eyes hollowed out like a corpse. Folding garments anxiously, like clothing material itself would bite him.
I cannot help but think he would do better if he was with friends.
We could encourage him to eat, to sleep.
It might not be easy. But we would support him.
We would care about his recovery so much more than a stranger ever could.
Alicia Devitt has rust coloured hair and the palest skin.
Her eyes are marred by two purple streams of bruising. Both corneal segments are red and unnatural, marred by subconjunctival hemorrhaging.
I pull up a plastic seat, leaving at least four feet between myself and her bed. Rossi lingers back even further.
"Hey Alicia. I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. We will try to keep this short."
In another world, another time, a person might refer to Alicia Devitt as "baby faced." It's true, too. She looks more like a teenager than a woman in her mid 20's. She even sounds like a kid, when she speaks. The tone. The timber.
"I want to help. If I can."
Her breath comes in wooshes too, as if she's sprinted ten laps and is still catching her breath.
"Ok." I try to give her a reassuring smile. "My name's Derek Morgan."
Rossi holds up a hand, by way of introduction.
"And that's Dave Rossi. Now, at any time you need to take a break, or you don't feel well - anything at all - you let me know. We will only go as far as you're willing to go with questioning, alright?"
Alicia nods, but does not look any more relieved.
"Ok." I smile again, briefly. "So three days ago you were preparing for a party. Was this a friend's party?"
Alicia hesitates.
"Basically. One of my peers. We weren't that close, but we...we got along well when we did spend time with one another."
"Birthday?," Rossi asks.
Alicia shakes her head.
"No. She had been accepted into a PhD program. I thought it might be nice to celebrate."
"Wow. That's definitely something worth celebrating," I encourage softly. "Psychology?"
Alicia shakes her head once more.
"No. Sophie does work in theoretical physics?"
She poses it like a question. As if she's not a hundred percent certain of the accuracy of her statement.
I realize that I've seen this sort of self-doubt before. Suddenly - like a lightening bolt - I feel terribly sad.
"She's not one for having parties or celebrating much. She's extremely serious, because it is expected of her. Everyone always expects her to get top grades, to always be the best at everything she does, because she is clever."
I give a nod. "Reminds me of someone I know. A friend of my own."
"Sophie didn't really have a lot of fun growing up. So a couple of us decided to host a surprise party. Invite only those who were relatively close to her. Nothing fancy, but just-"
The wheezing gets worse.
"I think that it was a very kind idea," I interject. "Can't think of anything worth celebrating much more than that."
Alicia's eyes darken.
"Sophie's only 19. She's...it hasn't been easy for her. It's a competitive program, and people can be cruel. Especially when someone is so young. Most of the PhD students are in their 30's. Or older, even."
In my mind, I see a slightly yellowed copy of a photograph. Diana Reid at about 40, arms encircling a gangly 12 year old Spencer, who looked more like 9. Glasses - like something out of the 1960's, slightly shaggy hair. Body, rail thin. He'd just lost a tooth, a bottom one. A high school graduate, cap and gown. Huge smile splitting his face.
Little boy lost.
Cast into an adult world at 12, 13. No one else in sight at his level.
Certainly not with his awareness, his sensitivity.
What sort of mockery did he endure? Not only in high school? But in University?
Reid had been accepted into his first PhD program at 16, after all.
Rossi now deposits himself into a nearby chair. A marigold yellow plastic atrocity.
"You looked out for Sophie. Saw her like a little sister," Rossi surmises.
Alicia smiles faintly. Her words are resolute.
"Yes. She seems like someone who needs a big sister. A person to look out for her. She's brilliant of course, but in some ways she's also very-"
"Childlike?," I supply, thinking - ridiculously - of a rambling man talking about Star Wars, and the Death Star. And kilojoules of energy and timelines. And whatever else Reid had been rambling about before I had walked away from him that day...
Alicia nods.
"Yeah," she whispers, while toying with part of her hospital blanket.
"So you were setting up the party. The decorations. Getting everything prepared. Who else was with you?"
"No one. Not at three o'clock. The others couldn't make it until five. I knew I'd likely have to do the decorations myself. But it was an open invitation - anyone could have come on over sooner."
"Were you expecting anyone to come over sooner? Had you received a call or anything like that?"
Alicia hesitates.
"Not really. I mean, my parents let me use the house whenever I want. They were out, vacationing in Greenwich. Told me I could do what I wanted, just to clean up before they came home."
Rossi gives a chuckle.
"Rowdy and rambunctious, that's you huh?"
Alicia looks faintly pretty and wilted against the white linens. She closes her eyes as if exhausted. Which I guess she is.
"There was a knock. I didn't think anything about it. I mean, we had planned a party. I thought it was maybe just one of the others...just coming earlier than expected to help put out the food and put up the decorations and stuff like that."
My stomach clenches. I can feel the squirm of adrenaline pulse out along my sides in ribbons of chemical sadness and dread.
We all know what is coming next.
"I would have thought the same thing," I state gravely, empathy cluttering up my words and making my throat ache. Almost as if I'm talking to Reid, himself.
"I didn't check the peephole. We had one; I didn't even utilize it. I just opened the door. I had a way to check to see if it was someone I knew, but I-"
Alicia stops talking abruptly, mentally beating herself up.
Rossi leans forward, taking my place.
"It was the middle of the day, Alicia. In a safe neighbourhood. You were expecting people to show up at a party. You had no reason to be concerned. No reason to guess for even a second that anything bad would happen."
Alicia lets out a shuttery breath. "I don't think I can help you. I didn't see anything."
"He was wearing a mask?," Rossi asks gently, while quickly catching my eyes.
A mask, in daylight. That would have stood out. People would have noticed something so strange. And our unsub wouldn't have chanced it.
"No. I don't think so. No. He didn't."
Rossi clasps his hands together.
"But you can't recall his face? His eyes? Maybe...the colour of his hair?"
"He was dark. All dark."
I glance up at Rossi, who holds out a hand, silently asking me to refrain from asking a question.
"He was black?"
"No," Alicia hisses. "He was not anything. He - it is like he was a silhouette. I close my eyes and try to think how he looked. But he did not look like anything. A black cut out copy. A shadow man."
The girl looks distraught.
"I know that makes no sense. I am sorry. I just...that's how I remember him. Not anything. Just an outline."
Rossi looks sympathetic.
"Listen, Alicia - you are doing everything you can to help us, and we appreciate your assistance. I don't want you to worry about what that means. It means something, and it is our job to figure that out."
Rossi deposits one of our cards onto her night table. Retrieves a pen, and scrawls something else before standing up.
"I am going to leave this with you. It is our contact information - for myself, and for Agent Morgan. If you recall anything at all, do you think you could give us a call? Even if it seems funny, or small. Anything at all. You can even leave us a message if you would like. Okay?"
Alicia looks at her hands. She looks miserable.
I force myself not to squeeze her hand. It would do more harm than good in this scenario.
"If you can, try to get some sleep, Alicia. It helps. It really does."
I find it too hard to say anything else.
Not when I see Spencer Reid in my mind.
It will get better.
It will.
Just do not give up.
The words do not make it out of my throat.