Traction
"The probability that we may fail in the struggle ought not to deter us
from the support of a cause we believe to be just."
~Abraham Lincoln.
*Author's Note: The final section of this chapter (Jack's "Jude, close the door" moment) picks up from a section in Chapter 6, after Jude has just finished interviewing Rossi…I think this section makes that clear enough, but just in case it doesn't, now you know.*
February 2015. Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.
By the time the rest of the team returned from Quantico, Rossi and Prentiss were already installed on Penelope's couch, waiting with the anxious blonde. Emily bolted to her feet the instant that she heard a knock on the door, rushing over to open it, with Penelope hobbling close behind. She was greeted by Aaron Hotchner's impassive face.
"How'd it go?" Aaron and Emily asked in unison.
He knew he had to answer first, because Emily and David wouldn't be able to focus on anything else until they knew that Reid was alright. "He's managing. He was able to communicate his theory to Blake about the UNSUB—and it's a pretty compelling one."
"This sounds both hopeful and very, very bad," Penelope admitted, sparing a worried look at Derek Morgan, who'd slipped in past Hotch. Once Blake and Callahan were inside, she shut the door, turning the lock as if it could keep out the troubles and dangers of the outside world.
When she turned back around, Derek was right there, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in a comforting hug.
Blake quickly explained Reid's message (Emily and David exchanged knowing smirks at the mention of how he relayed it—wunderkind strikes again) and Hotch finished by adding in their own theories of what it meant.
"So, how does that help us narrow down the suspect pool?" Emily asked, looking around in concern.
"Well, if this is one of Curtis' accomplices, then it has to follow the pattern," Rossi pointed out. "He used Donnie Bidwell to replicate Bryan Hughes. Hughes was a case that Blake worked on, but Bidwell was someone who'd been wronged by the Bureau years earlier—at least in his mind."
"I never worked on a case that involved bombing a federal building during my time with the BAU—I mean, I consulted on a series of mail bombs in Tempe, Arizona, but I only did over-the-phone consultations. We never went in the field," Blake replied, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Maybe the apprentice is writing his own script," Hotch spoke up. "Curtis might not have intended to blow up Quantico."
Emily Prentiss made a face that implied her lack of certainty on that point. "Still sounds right up his dark and twisted alley."
Kate Callahan, who still hadn't formally met the woman, decided that she liked Chief Prentiss.
"But the UNSUB could still be someone who was previously wronged by the Bureau—either in reality, or from his own perspective," Rossi brought them back to the more important point.
"That's the problem," Morgan pointed out. "You know how many people hold a grudge against law enforcement—real or imagined? Our suspect list just expanded to every dude wearing a tin foil hat, every sovereign citizen, every person who's ever been considered a suspect in an investigation."
"Every person who's ever lost a loved one due to a Bureau case," Rossi added quietly. There was a heavy moment as everyone tallied up the people in that room alone who could fit such a description.
Hotch shifted gears, "Garcia, pull up every Bureau case involving bombings and attacks on federal buildings."
"How far back?" She was already hobbling over to her desk.
"As far as you can," he gave a slight toss of his hand. Her expression informed him that he was about to be in way over his head, but he ignored the silent rebuttal. Instead, he turned his attention back to Emily and Dave, "What about Linnea Charles?"
Emily shifted uneasily, "Her husband, Mason, had no idea. As far as Mason Charles knows, we simply want to question his wife about a source for an article she's written."
"You didn't mention her connection to this case and the implication of her disappearance?" The note of disapproval was clear in Aaron Hotchner's voice.
"He's received text messages from her," Emily pointed out. "A weak link at best, I know, but everything he told us about her makes her absence seem entirely ordinary—and we still don't have any real proof that she's missing. There's nothing that really implies she's doing anything other than giving us the slip, which technically isn't illegal, since we're not trying to arrest her."
"And yes, Mason Charles gave us that spiel, once he got the sense that we were trying to track her down to get to one of her sources," David Rossi arched a disapproving brow.
"Did you tell him that she wasn't at her grandmother's house—the place where she'd told him that she would be?" Aaron asked, trying not to let his anger grow. The cavalier attitude taken so far by both Emily and Dave was shocking at worst and just plain irritating at best.
The two agents exchanged glances. David spoke again, "According to him, she has a rotating list of places that she holes up in to do work—but of course, Mr. Charles suddenly decided to be all patriotic and civilly disobedient by not giving us a list of those places—"
"He's going to contact us if and when he hears anything from her," Emily added. She glanced at her watch, "So far, it's only been a few hours since she last checked in. Not uncommon, according to him. Before we arrived, she'd just told him that she was about to go dark—a term she used for when she turned off her phone and disconnected the internet on her computer, so that all she could do was write. I mean, we don't know that she's missing, and she is responding to her husband using her usual vocabulary and syntax."
"The kidnapper—if there is one—could be imitating her text speech patterns," Alex Blake spoke up, her voice tinged with regret, as if she really didn't want to be a part of this almost-fight.
"Look, Mason Charles couldn't even file a missing persons report, even if he wanted to," Rossi sat up, holding out his hands in explanation. "Local PD won't do anything about it—she has been in communication with him, via text, and she's an adult with no known history of violence or self-harm."
Emily spared another glance at Rossi. "And we think that keeping silent might be the only way to keep her alive. As far as our kidnapper knows—if she really has been kidnapped and isn't hiding out somewhere else—we aren't aware that she's missing. If he sees her face plastered all over the news, he may panic."
She didn't have to elaborate what might happen if the kidnapper panicked. They'd all seen the end result too many times to need a reminder.
Hotch gave a curt nod of agreement—it was obvious that he wasn't pleased by the choice, but he also saw the logic behind it. Besides, he wasn't going to end his first day with Emily in over a year on a sour note by chastising her for her choices. He honestly couldn't say how he would've handled the interview with Mason Charles, or whether he wouldn't have come to the same conclusion as they had. Still, it felt like a bungle, and he didn't like the feeling.
"Okay," Penelope announced loudly, drawing attention to herself and trying to dispel the uneasiness in the air. "I've got a list for ya—and it's a doozy. I'll divvy it up between you and send them to your tablets. Well, Emily and Alex, I'll send 'em to your phones."
She tapped a few more buttons before pulling herself onto her crutches again. "And I'm going to make some tea. It's going to be a very long night, my lovelies."
Everyone shifted slightly, moving to grab their phone or tablet. Unsure of what to say or how to say it, Aaron made a slight gesture towards Emily, as if attempting to apologize for his recent harshness. She merely waved it away (it's OK, I can handle a little criticism), moving towards the kitchen to help Penelope in her tea-making tasks.
She stopped when she came near to Kate, extending her hand, "Emily Prentiss. I'm assuming you're Agent Callahan."
"I am—and you can call me Kate." She shook the woman's hand—Emily's grip was firm without being too tight, well-practiced and assured. Definitely the handshake of a woman who could handle an Interpol branch office.
"Only if you call me Emily," she flashed a quick smile. However, it faded just as quickly, "I wish we were meeting under different circumstances, but here we are."
Kate gave a hum of agreement and understanding as Emily continued moving towards the kitchen. The Interpol chief gave a slight nod towards Blake, who was currently leaned against the bar. "Good catch on the Morse Code—I'm sure Reid was happy to know you were there."
"He'll be equally happy to know you're on the case as well," Blake returned easily.
"Poor man needs all the reinforcements he can get at this point," Emily admitted, shifting easily around Penelope's kitchen to help her friend assemble the cups and spoons and other tea-based accoutrements.
Alex swiveled, easily slipping onto one of the barstools as she leaned across the counter. The two former BAU members continued their conversation in quiet tones.
Kate watched the two women for a moment longer, and she wondered why she'd ever felt nervous about meeting them. They were here because they loved Reid—adored him, even, it was evident in the way they spoke about him, in the way they'd dropped their own lives to come rescue his—not because they wanted to relive their glory days at the Bureau or somehow remind the others of just what they'd lost when Blake and Prentiss had left the team. They were part of the tribe, and they recognized Kate as one of their own—and like any member of such a small and soul-trying society, they understood the importance of welcoming anyone who was brave enough to join them.
She turned her attention back to the case files that Penelope had sent. Right now, her focus needed to be on finding whoever had threatened one of their tribe—and making sure that they were brought to justice for their actions.
We Will Wok You Restaurant. Washington, D.C.
A Chinese restaurant hardly seemed the place for a clandestine meeting, but Jordan supposed that her view was influenced by too many mobster movies—besides, when she thought about it, it was probably best to hide in plain sight. No one would expect three individuals to meet up and discuss a potential kidnapping linked to a terrorist attack on the federal government in an establishment with glowing red paper lanterns and a kids' menu that also featured chicken strips and french fries.
However, Karl Miramontz did look the stereotypical computer-genius-possible-hacker—tall, but with stooping shoulders, slightly overweight with a beard and hair that needed a trim three weeks ago.
"That's gotta be the guy," Carrington commented in a low tone, shifting closer to Jordan.
"Yep," Jordan agreed, silently wishing that the other woman would stop acting so nervous and so damned suspicious. She was grateful to have the support, but now that she'd seen Karl and realized that he was relatively harmless, she almost wished that she hadn't gotten Carrington involved at all.
Wish in one hand, spit in the other. See which one fills up faster. Her mother used to say that, echoing her own father, of whom Jordan had only passing remembrances. They never spent much time with Erin's side of the family, and it wasn't until Jordan was fully grown that she realized it had been due to her grandmother's harsh nature and her mother's desire to stay out of its radius. It was funny, how growing up and learning certain truths like that tainted your childhood memories—Jordan's grandmother had died when she was twelve, and she'd always remembered her as a sweet and gentle woman.
She briefly wondered if Karl was about to ruin her view of Linnea Charles, too.
"Hey," she said as she slipped into a vinyl-covered chair, unsure of what else to say. "Karl, right?"
Karl gave a curt nod, his gaze darting between Jordan and Carrington. "And you're Jordan?"
"Yeah. And this is my friend, Dora," she motioned to the brunette, who'd taken the seat next to hers. "She may be able to help us."
Karl looked doubtful, but he continued anyways. "Look, Lin's definitely MIA. Her husband claims that she's texted him today, but I've been through every other area of communication—her email, her work login sheet, everything—and she hasn't left a trace. She hasn't used her credit cards since then, nothing."
"How exactly do you know all of this?" Carrington asked cautiously, as if she already regretted the answer.
"I have skills," was his only reply. He returned his attention to Jordan. "Now, tell me why Linnea would name you as her emergency contact—what does she think you know? Did she leave some clue with you as to where she might…I dunno, hide?"
"I'm not sure," Jordan admitted. "Honestly, I'm not sure how I got this deep into it at all."
Carrington made a slight noise of disbelief (you know damn well how you got in this deep—you can't leave well enough alone, that's how).
"What about your FBI contact?" Karl asked. "Were they able to find anything?"
Jordan gave a slight shake of her head, "That's beyond me, at this point. I called and told them that Linnea was possibly missing, and I haven't heard from them since. Besides, I'm not supposed to be involved anymore."
Another incredulous huff from Carrington on that point, which Jordan graciously chose to ignore.
Karl merely nodded in understanding. "OK. So…on my way over, I got a call from John Adams—that's the guy who apparently is the last person to see Linnea, the one who gave me your name and number in the first place. He tried to contact Linnea after I called him, and hasn't gotten a response, so he's getting worried, too. He said he's going to retrace her last steps as she left the building."
"And what, exactly, is he expecting to find?" Carrington spoke up, her dark brows furrowing in a mixture of confusion and concern.
"I dunno," Karl admitted. "But fingers crossed that it's something worth finding."
The District Times Editorial Suite. Washington, D.C.
In all the years that he'd worked for this paper, John Adams had never been to the security office. Granted, it was on a completely different floor of the behemoth building, but also he'd led a quiet enough existence to never need to know what was taking place in front of the many security cameras set up throughout the hallways and parking garages.
However, the security guard on duty was accommodating enough, going back to the previous afternoon to scan through various feeds looking for Linnea Charles. It took them a while to find her (Johnny suddenly realized that there were many women at the office that shared Linnea's willowy frame, and he couldn't quite remember what she'd been wearing the day before), but once they did, the journey became relatively easy—the guard knew which feed to switch to with an ease that implied years of experience.
"And the parking garage, it has cameras, too?" Johnny asked. He knew that would be Linnea's next stop, because the camera had shown her getting her parking validated at the front desk.
The security guard gave a small nod of confirmation. A few moments later, he pulled up another screen—the video was grainier, but Johnny saw the elevator doors open and Linnea Charles step out onto the ground level of the parking garage.
She headed to the right. The guard moved to another camera feed.
And that's when there was a problem. The screen was black.
"There's no way," the guard sat up slightly. "That screen is clear right now—I check all the cameras, as soon as I start my shift—it's protocol. It's working fine."
"But it wasn't working then," Johnny's voice was low. His stomach was beginning to tighten into a ball of fear. He didn't believe in coincidences. "Can you go to the next one?"
The guard obliged. Linnea Charles never appeared.
"She had to've been parked in the area covered by the other camera," the guard said, a bit unnecessarily. "We can go to the camera set up at the parking garage's exit—you'll be able to see her leaving."
"I don't remember what kind of car she drives," Johnny admitted.
His companion made a small noise of sympathy, "The garage cameras aren't the best. You might be able to make out her face inside a car, but most of the time, you've got the sun reflecting on the windshield, or the streetlights or the lights from the garage. It isn't easy to tell, sometimes."
"Well, won't know if we never try," Johnny sighed, not really feeling as if he'd have much luck.
And he didn't. They went through thirty minutes of footage, and only three cars left—and none of the blurry drivers resembled Linnea.
John Adams thanked the man and turned to go.
"I think you're gonna want to see this." The security guard's voice stopped him just before he closed the door.
He turned back around—the guard had returned to the feed from the blacked-out camera.
"Look at this," he instructed, rewinding and fast-forwarding to get to the right place. In this part of the feed, the camera still had an unobstructed view of the rows of cars and concrete pillars. Then, as if out of nowhere, a small piece of material appeared, slipping up from the left-hand corner to cover the entire lens.
"Someone blocked it on purpose," Johnny announced, an entirely unnecessary statement.
The guard nodded. "I dunno if this changes things—"
"It does. It very much does, I'm afraid."
And that was the God's honest truth. Johnny Adams was afraid. Very afraid.
FBI Evidence Lab, Main Building. Quantico, Virginia.
Adelaide Macaraeg gave slight nods of greeting to the Quantico analysts who'd been assigned to help the New York team, weaving her way through the stainless steel tables as she tried to keep her go-bag from bumping into anyone or anything—she'd come straight from the tarmac to the lab, not wanting to waste a single, valuable second.
She easily found the back room where Masterson and Lewis had sequestered themselves with the notebooks, giving a quick peremptory knock on the door as she opened it.
"Welcome back," Jeff Masterson glanced up, his face impassive with fatigue.
"Anything new?" Mac didn't bother with pleasantries or preambles. She set her bag to one side and slipped out of her overcoat, hanging it next to her colleagues'.
"Not yet," Lewis answered, returning her attention to the notebook in front of her.
Mac moved closer to the table, titling her head to better read the running tally that Jeff was keeping—the number of references to the doctor, Reid, and the mysterious she, as Masterson and Lewis had dubbed her, all contained within the pages missing from Jeff's set of journals, but still present in Rowena's.
The numbers were interesting. More references were made to the doctor and the mysterious she than to Reid, at this point—though it could simply be because Fuller referred to Reid as the doctor more often than using his real name. This could either prove Dr. Reid's innocence or damn him further, depending on what this woman said once they found her and questioned her.
Agent Lewis began reading aloud again, and Masterson made a small sound to imply that he had that page in his journal as well. They flipped the page and began again. Stop, go, stop, go, read, confirm, flip, repeat.
Mac was already fully up-to-speed on their methods—she'd had Jeff give her a full briefing on the plane ride back, so that she could be ready to hit the ground running as soon as she got back to Quantico. She assessed the stacks on the table, noting their progress as she turned her attention to the stack of notebooks that didn't have a match.
Either Fuller hadn't made a copy of those, or the killer had taken them because they'd contained too much information to simply remove page-by-page, like the others. Given Fuller's meticulous nature, odds favored the latter option.
She picked up a notebook from the top of the stack with a light sigh. As soon as she settled into a chair, she heard a light commotion from the main lab. Frowning slightly, she sat up and listened—Jack Dawson's voice was unmistakable.
She was on her feet and back in the main lab within seconds.
Dawson was speaking to one of the Quantico analysts, "I'm going to need all the evidence collected from John Curtis' house –that's the Replicator case in 2013."
"We don't keep that on-hand in the lab," the analyst informed him. "It's gonna be in the evidence locker—that's the building right next door. You'll need the access codes and someone with badge clearance—"
"That's alright, Mr. Wells, I'll handle it." Mac stepped forward, offering a small smile to the analyst. "If I can borrow your badge and access codes, I can help Agent Dawson while you continue your work."
Dawson seemed slightly surprised to see her. "Aren't you supposed to be out of state for something?"
"I was. Now I'm back." Mac gave a polite nod as the analyst handed over his name tag, "Thank you. I'll have this back to you as soon as possible."
Wells nodded curtly, relaying the access codes, which Mac repeated back. Then she retrieved her overcoat and a penlight—the power in the main building was still out, meaning that flashlights were needed for navigating hallways and staircases.
Jack Dawson waited until they were outside the lab before speaking again. "You don't trust Wells to find a few boxes in an evidence locker?"
"Honestly, I'm sure he could find it faster than I can—he's got the home field advantage, after all," Mac returned easily, opening the door to the stairwell. She raised her voice to be heard over the echoes of their footsteps, "But as head of the evidence team for the case, I should be involved in handling the actual evidence—"
"Can't say I disagree there," Dawson admitted.
"And it gives us a chance to talk," she added. She waited a few beats before continuing, focusing her gaze on the stairs, "Lewis and Masterson may not offer interpretations on evidence—they wouldn't, they're too good and too careful. But I'm older and I care far less about stepping on toes."
This didn't sound good, Jack decided.
"This has nothing to do with Dr. Reid," she informed him. "Well, the UNSUB has some kind of connection, but the bombing itself has nothing to do with him. Benjamin Fuller's obsession was with 9/11 and the Amerithrax case. Spencer Reid had zero involvement in either of those—he's never even made any kind of public commentary on those cases. And yes, I did check. There have been people who've posed theories and examined evidence retroactively, but Reid wasn't one of them."
"And what part of your evidence analysis led you on such a quest?" Dawson asked. To be honest, he'd already had Sura Roza look into any connections between Reid and the Amerithrax case, but he was still surprised that Mac, whose job was evidence recovery, would take on such a task.
"The newspapers we found at Fuller's house. It made me wonder if somehow Reid had gotten caught in the crossfires, by commenting on the cases later on," she replied easily. With a slight smile, she added, "Having all that extra time on the plane didn't hurt, either. It's not like I could do anything else besides search the web."
He gave a hum of amusement as he pushed the main door open—he liked her work ethic. They hurried through the cold night air, ducking their heads against the wind tunnel created between the two large buildings.
"So what are we looking for, exactly?" She asked, once they'd arrived at the evidence locker and successfully passed all the keypads and card-readers.
"I'm not entirely sure," Dawson admitted, slightly distracted in his attempts to find the light switch. The fluorescent bulbs twittered and whined before fully zapping on, flooding the rows of shelving units with a sickly green light. "Earlier tonight, Dr. Reid spoke to Agent Hotchner—they discussed the case, naturally, but he kept making references to John Curtis. Who, as you know, was involved in the Amerithrax case."
"And he tried to blow a bunch of Federal agents sky-high, too," Mac pointed out.
"Fuller was too young to be an agent at the time of the Amerithrax case," Dawson continued as they walked down the row of filing shelves, looking for the appropriate location. Mac was walking in the opposite direction, scanning the rest of the shelves, so he raised his voice. "But Curtis wasn't the only agent whose career got tainted by that case."
"So…what? You're thinking one of Curtis' former team members from the Amerithrax case saw what Curtis did and decided to take a little revenge of his own?" Mac stopped for a moment, then gave a sharp whistle, indicating that she'd found the right shelf.
"Yeah, maybe." Dawson made his way back to her—she disappeared into a row and he was oddly reminded of playing chase in corn mazes when he was a child. One step, and the person you were chasing disappeared.
By the time he reached the row, she was already pulling down file boxes.
"You don't sound too sure about that, Dawson," she commented, grunting slightly at the weight of a box as she slid it off the shelf.
"Can't be too sure about anything on this case," he returned easily, and she made a small noise of agreement. He took the box from her arms. "But whoever this was, he or she had insider information—the similarities are too close to be entirely coincidental. So even if it was someone from the Amerithrax case, they still would also need to have access to Curtis' operations as the Replicator."
"Why are there so few boxes?" Mac frowned, stepping back to scan the shelves again.
Dawson lifted the lid on the box in his arms, motioning towards the evidence bags filled with charred bits and pieces, "There wasn't much evidence left to collect, by the time the fire department made it out there and hosed everything down."
"Shit," she leaned forward, rifling through the slick plastic bags. "What's in here probably already has issues with mold and mildew—the fire department would've soaked most of this stuff, and I doubt much of it was properly dried out."
"You don't have much faith in the Quantico evidence collection team," he commented dryly, although at first-glance, her predictions appeared to be accurate.
"No, I've just been doing this long enough to know how it goes. The case was closed, they had their man. They probably had a dozen other active cases to analyze evidence for, and the time and effort required to restore everything to its best possible version seemed wasteful. Sometimes it isn't about what you can do—it's about allocating the time you have to the tasks that are more important."
"I understand the sentiment," Jack assured her. "But this is one of those moments when that mentality gets proven wrong."
She hummed in agreement, placing the lid back on the box. She jerked her chin towards the end of the aisle, "C'mon. They've got huge tables lined up, where we can spread all this out and see if there's anything worth taking a closer look at."
He had to admit, for a woman of such a slight frame, she lugged those huge, heavy boxes around like they were nothing.
Like everything else, Adelaide Macaraeg had a system. She assigned each box its own table, spreading out the evidence bags on each one so that they had a clear view of everything.
"Alright, so what are we looking for?"
"Notebooks, scraps of paper—anything like that."
"Ah of course," she gave a curt nod. "You picked the one thing least likely to hold up through fire and water damage."
"What can I say? I'm a man who likes a challenge," he held out his hands in a helpless gesture. His reward was a snort of amusement as Mac busied herself with the task. He chose another table, glancing at the various pieces of evidence with a critical eye.
"So. Why else do you think Reid isn't our guy?" He asked the question that had been on his mind ever since her declaration in the stairwell. The BAU protesting his innocence was to be expected. But Macaraeg was a relative stranger, with no ulterior motive towards proving Reid's lack of involvement.
"It's too easy," she informed him, her tone slightly distracted as she continued to focus on the evidence bags. "Too obvious. This case has been nothing but dead-ends and odd turns, and we were handed Reid on a silver platter. Even Agatha Christie wouldn't write it that way."
"You're right," he admitted. "It is too easy."
"Then why are you still holding Reid as a suspect?" She was more curious than challenging, and after all the flak and backlash from everyone one, he greatly appreciated her tone.
He appreciated it so much that he decided to be honest, "We're not holding him as a suspect."
"Of course you are," Mac stopped now, looking up at him in genuine confusion. "Why else—"
She stopped herself from fully asking the question. He saw the understanding flicker through her amber eyes. Then she quietly asked the right question, "What am I missing here, Dawson?"
24 Hours Earlier (The Night of Spencer Reid's Arrest). FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.
"Jude, close the door," Jack Dawson kept his voice low. Scott O'Donnell had just left the room, and he wanted to keep things as quiet as possible.
Jude was too tired to even appear curious at his command, simply following it. Jack turned back to the one-way mirror with a heavy sigh, taking a moment to simply watch the back of David Rossi's head. Jude had just finished a rather unhelpful interview with the BAU agent, who hadn't been exactly thrilled about the fact that he and Reid had been treated like suspects, and even less cooperative once he realized that Dr. Reid was the center of suspicion.
The tidbits that had been floating around in his brain since the crime scene were still trying to fully piece themselves together, but he knew that regardless of where the fragments currently were, his team needed to know.
"It is very important that everyone understands this: you cannot discuss this afterwards, even amongst yourselves. What I say next must never leave this room." He could feel everyone shift a half-step towards him, instinctively forming the close-knit circle that their team had become over the years.
He turned back to them, "Spencer Reid isn't our guy."
Jess and Joe exchanged quick side-eyed glances. Jude merely nodded in agreement.
"You said his name was in the journals, multiple times," Jonas pointed out. "You said there was a note in his handwriting."
Jack slipped his hands in his pockets. "The journals mention an Agent Reid, yes. But what was one of the first corrections we received, when we called him that?"
"It's Doctor Reid," Jess murmured. Her eyes were wide.
"That's a pretty thin wire to rest an entire case on," Jonas informed him.
"I'm not resting the entire case on just that. We're sending the handwriting to an analyst, and we won't stop digging into this case. But for now, I'd like to operate under the assumption that Dr. Reid has been framed, and we are responsible for proving his innocence."
"Then why exactly did we take him into custody?" Jess asked quietly.
"Because someone went to a lot of trouble to make us think Spencer Reid was the UNSUB. That someone is still out there—and as long as they are, he's in danger." Dawson took a moment to make full eye contact with each team member. He needed to make sure they understood the situation completely. "Whoever the real UNSUB is, he knows a lot about Dr. Reid and his past—things that only someone close to him should know."
"From the looks of it, the only people here that he associates with are his own team members," Jude pointed out.
Jack merely nodded.
"So…what?" Jess took a timid step forward. "Are you thinking one of the other BAU agents set him up?"
"I'm saying we can't rule out the possibility that someone on his team may be compromised. They'd have the easiest access to his phone to send the email, they'd know the most about his personal life, compared to other agents, and they've all interacted with him deeply enough to develop some kind of grudge."
"Curiouser and curiouser," Jude said, almost to herself. "We're falling into an utter rabbit hole."
She believed that Reid was innocent, she knew that much. But if it meant that someone else on his team wasn't, well…that was almost as difficult to comprehend as the idea that Reid himself could be the UNSUB.
"Listen," Dawson shifted again, keeping his voice low. "The moment we step outside this room, this conversation and what we know about it disappears. To everyone else, we believe Reid is our guy, and we are working to prove his guilt. We do not discuss the possibility of a framing, not even amongst ourselves—anyone could overhear, and we can't afford another misstep."
"Why not simply tell everyone that we have Reid in protective custody?" Jess cocked her head to one side, setting her hands on her hips.
"Because that isn't what our UNSUB wants," Jude answered before Jack could. "He has to think he's won, or else he'll spook and bolt. So we play his game."
Jack nodded, adding, "If we say that Reid is in protective custody, it becomes apparent that we're onto the real UNSUB. He may even make an attempt on Reid's life—if he's robbed of watching Reid's career and reputation go down in flames, he may settle for the next best thing, which is just ending his life completely."
Everyone nodded in agreement.
Jack held up his hands in warning, "I'm not saying he's innocent, and I'm not saying that we won't fully pursue the possibility of his involvement. I'm just saying it seems too easy, and as of right now, the supposed evidence doesn't sit well with my gut."
"Agreed," Jude spoke with a little more force than necessary.
"Agreed," Jess and Joe echoed.
"So I guess it's time to ask the hard question," Joe gave a weary sigh, looking less than thrilled at the prospect. "If Reid isn't our UNSUB, and our UNSUB might be in the BAU—which one do we think it is?"
"Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them."
~Alice Sebold.