Chapter One: Revenge
'The best revenge is to live.' -Near, 'Death Note'
"Agent Hotchner, please place your non-dominant hand on this Bible and raise your dominant one," the Defense Attorney, a Joseph Olivera, said as he instructed the unit chief. Without hesitation, Hotch reached out, placing his hand on the Bible and raising his opposite one, looking at Olivera for further instruction. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
He nodded curtly before saying, "Yes, I do." Hotch then looked past Olivera, his eyes flitting over the judge, the bailiff, and the jury, as if daring them to call him on a bluff. When no one did, and when the attorney had placed the Bible down and clasped his hands behind his back, Hotch redirected his attention to him, ready for the questions.
"Could you please state your name and your position within the FBI for the Jury?"
"SSA Aaron Hotchner, Unit Chief of my team in the BAU, alternating between all the subunits," he stated, his voice monotone and deadpan as he gave off the full title and position.
Olivera nodded, allowing the full weight of the information to sink in. "As an agent in the BAU- or the Behavioral Analysis Unit- what is it that you do?"
Sighing in annoyance at the tedious questioning, he rattled off the answer in the the same tone from before. "We create profiles of criminals based on crime scene and behavioral analysis."
"So, to put this clearly," Olivera said, positioning himself so that he was half-turned to Hotch and half-turned to the jury, his hands slipping from behind his back as he rose one for additional emphasis. "You're saying that, essentially, you're job is to study the psychology behind criminals and the crimes they commit? Am I correct in my understanding?"
After a moment, Hotch let his head fall slightly to the side as he said, "Yes, along with the application of these studies in order to arrest criminals."
"So then, in your professional and expert opinion, could you please tell us what Mr. Wright's profile is, Agent?" Olivera asked, intertwining his fingers together and folding his conjoined hands in front of him. He rose a brow, waiting expectantly for the answer.
Hotch's jaw clenched, his gaze shifting over to where Andrew sat, examining the man. But his head was twisting to the side, his hazel eyes settled on something else. Following the direction Andrew was looking in, he felt his anger surge to see that he was staring at Reid. Seeming none the wiser to the attention, the young agent was looking up at Hotch, waiting for his answer as he bounced the stress ball between his hands, clearly unnerved. His teeth begun to grind against each other as he looked back to Andrew, the man's eyes still trained, unmoving, from Reid's form. His hands and legs itched with the desire to jump over the witness stand and punch Andrew straight in the face.
How dare he? How dare he, after everything he did, still have the nerve to look at Reid, and obsess over him?
Turning his focus back to the Defense, he said, "Andrew Wright's actions have proved himself to be an organized killer, his murders premeditated and well-thought out. He had planned his abduction, his experiments and everything that went in between. We classified him as a partial Mission Oriented serial killer as he was working towards a specific goal."
Olivera contorted his face in mock confusion. "Partial? Why only partial, Agent?"
Hotch hesitated, knowing exactly where this line of questioning was heading. The defense was clearly trying to plead not guilty on grounds of insanity. And as much as Hotch wanted to lie and omit specific information, manipulate his knowledge and the profile of Andrew Wright to make the mad doctor bear the consequences of his actions, he couldn't. Ethics aside, he had sworn under oath and any indiscretion would surely result in a perjury charge.
Grinding his teeth as he took a deep, steadying breath, he said, "Partial because while most of his behaviors are consistent with an organized killer and with the profile of mission based killers, he also exhibits conflicting cognitive and behavioral differences."
"Like what?" Olivera prompted, his thin-lipped smile turning up into a vicious grin.
His fingers flexed underneath the lip of the witness stand, alternately clenching and relaxing his fist in anger. "Andrew Wright's actions were goal based in that they sought to achieve a cure, yet conflicting because murder was not his intentions."
"So, you mean to say, that he isn't a serial killer, because he didn't want these men to die?"
"The legal definition of a serial killer is one or more murder perpetrated by one or two men on separate events and time lines," Hotch growled out, the irritation in his voice evident as it lowered and became gravelly, dark eyes narrowing in suspicious distrust. "Since all five men were abducted and murdered on different occasions and on their own, Wright meets all the necessary requirements for this classification."
Visibly taken aback by the immediate and concise answer, Oliver frowned and added, "But he didn't mean to kill them, did he?"
His patience waning, Hotch leaned back in the wooden seat and said, "With all due respect, Mister Olivera, I don't think you fully understand what a serial killer is. I have seen many a serial killer who, like Wright, didn't want his victims to die, the death being an unfortunate side effect to the methodic and terrorizing torture they were subjected to." His tone, though casual and rather calm considering the topic at hand, was laced with sarcasm and bitterness, making Morgan raise his hand to cover a growing smile from his seat. Before Olivera could respond to the deploring remark, Hotch added, "It doesn't matter the sanity of Wright during these murders- the facts remains that they are murders, brutal and cold ones at that."
Even Rossi had difficulty hiding the smirk that threatened to break free on his mouth, the feeling of pride he felt overwhelming as Hotch talked down to the Defense Attorney in the most respectful way possible. But Olivera did not see the amusement in the situation and, moving closer to Hotch, his chin raised high and his chest puffed forward, he asked the one question the team of profilers had hoped wouldn't come.
The one question that could result in Wright getting the easy way off.
"Did you and your team come up with a diagnosis for Mr. Wright?"
Hotch fell silent, his steely gaze meeting the pale green eyes of Olivera, neither willing to back down. His heart was racing in his chest as he felt his airways constrict. He couldn't answer that. Answering that would only make the jury lean towards the verdict they were avoiding, make them sympathize with the monster who was still staring at Spencer!
Following the handcuffed man's gaze once more, Hotch looked at Reid, their eyes meeting instantaneously. It was like a rush of two completely different aspects and emotions crashing into the other, a sea of fire and a sea of water meeting at one point and then grappling with each other. Heat against cool, struggle against peace. So different, yet so the same. And like the two combating elements, Reid's gently pleading and emotive eyes of golden-brown and dark green met Hotch's own demanding and closed-from-the-world eyes of searing brown. Currents of hope and sorrow and fear and want swam through the lighter orbs, while nothing passed through the heavily guarded eyes of the older agent.
But the calm that was so present in those unchanging eyes spoke nothing of the war Hotch was fighting inside his mind, guilt and protectiveness in a hand-to-hand fight with obligation and moral codes. How could he betray Reid like this? How could he tell this man- this room filled with men and women- that Andrew didn't know better when Reid was right there? How? He had let him down so many times before- the amounts of this instance increasing alarmingly as of late- that to let him down one more time was too much. Would Reid hate him for speaking the truth? Would he feel hurt? Would he ever trust him again?
"Agent Hotchner?" Judge Philips asked, a white brow raising in question as he leaned closer to the witness expectantly. "Is there a problem?"
Finally tearing his gaze away from Reid, Hotch swallowed hard. "No, not at all, your Honor."
After a moment in which the fifty-year old judge regarded Hotch behind his spectacles, he sniffed and said, "Then please tell the Court the answer to Mister Olivera's question, Agent Hotchner."
Closing his eyes in resignation, hoping that Reid would forgive him once more, he said, "The final diagnosis was a mild form paranoid schizophrenia with an extreme manifestation of dementophobia, or the phobic fear of insanity."
Smiling cockily, the attorney than asked, "Is it safe to say than that Wright was not in his most stable mindset then when these abductions and murders occurred?"
The words registered just enough for Hotch to chew his lip in thought, his eyes wandering once more to Reid of their own volition. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw that Reid had turned away from Hotch, his eyes focusing on the polished wood floor, betrayal evident. He let him down again. How often would this keep happening?
'Not yet, Aaron,' he told himself, his inner voice sounding far more hopeful than he thought possible. 'There's still one trick up your suit sleeve.'
He looked back Olivera, any traces of momentary guilt and pain gone as he said, "No, it's not."
The man actually chuckled, folding his arms over his slim chest. "Excuse me? Didn't you just say that he was a paranoid schiz-"
"I know what I said," Hotch interrupted, sitting to his full height in the chair and looking down at the man, summoning all he could to seem as intimidating as possible. "I also believe I said a mild case of schizophrenia. Wright was surprisingly functioning throughout this illness, functioning enough that his mind wasn't entirely out of his grasp. He was well aware of what he was doing and why he was doing it- his methods were too concise and perfected for it be otherwise. Not to mention the fact that he had maintained his medical practices and position with his employing hospital without anyone complaining or even suspecting something was off." Letting his eyes fall onto Andrew, the fierce and protective lion mewing in peace when he saw that the defendant had finally looked away from Reid, he added, "I would even go so far as to say that he has been in the Residual stage of this disease for years now, with his near obsessive fear of insanity propelling these crimes."
Thinking for a second, he then said, as though in afterthought, "Andrew Wright tortured and allowed the rape of six innocent men, five of which died because of this. His only reason for doing so was to ensure the stability of his own mental health. He sacrificed the sanity of six people for his own."
The cuffed man behind the Defendant desk, heavily medicated if his drooping lids and listless movements were any indication, seemed to acknowledge Hotch for the first real time since he had been speaking, his hazel eyes too cold for such warm colors. He looked haggard, worn and exhausted. But Hotch couldn't keep the inner voice from saying, 'He still looks better than Reid did.'
Another round of questioning began, the answers requiring less thought and thereby allowing for Hotch to focus predominantly on Wright. He watched with probing eyes as Andrew shifted slightly, drummed his fingers, itched his thigh...and turned back to stare at Spencer Reid as though he hadn't had enough.
As though ruining the genius's life wasn't enough.
As though he wasn't satisfied until Reid was no more, resembling more the confused victim he had been than the doctor he was before all that, and had become once more.
There were many similarities between the two. Not just physically, but in intellect, life experiences, and emotional and social characteristics. But there was one major difference, which Hotch was very happy and proud to make note of.
Andrew Wright was a weak man, consumed by his fears.
Spencer Reid was a strong man, empowered by his fears.
xXx
Reid slumped forward in the uncomfortable bench, his left foot tapping quickly against the floors. Morgan sat beside him, anxiously rubbing his hands together as Hotch spoke in hushed tones to the prosecutor, a younger woman by the name of Angela Redding. While they talked quietly and in their own enclosed shell of space in the expansive hallway, various snippets of their discussion could be heard. Hotch asking what the likelihood of an insanity plea passing was, Angela saying no more than how difficult it was to actually be found not guilty on those grounds, avoiding the question directly. Hotch would than ask her what might the charges be, should he found guilty, receiving a noncommittal answer of, "The degree of murder depends on how competent he's determined to be" with the same being said about all the other charges.
Morgan was straining himself to hear everything while Reid was attempting to do the exact opposite, his feet tapping louder and louder as he tried to tune their words out.
He wanted Andrew to suffer, the way he had, but another part of him was simply not cooperating with this desire. Every time he thought about Andrew's sentencing and imagined the man in jail, there would be the voice in the back of his head that said, 'But if he really is sick, he doesn't deserve that.' And before he could even stop himself, images of UnSubs, destroyed by an uncontrollable fate, distorted childhood, or diseased mind would swim over his eyes like superimposed images. He would view every single criminal that he had, admittedly, felt bad for, the people who he felt were dealt the poor hand in life. The people who were too ill to know better.
And then he would think of his mom.
Was it just a strange coincidence that both his mother and Andrew had the exact same subtype of the exact same disease? Or was it meant to be something more?
Reid wasn't a very religious man, not to say that he didn't adhere to moral codes or completely shun the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient being, but the case remained that he was too level-headed a person to believe that this connecting factor was meant to be a sign of sorts. He didn't think that God himself or any deity for that matter had specially crafted this incident and this bizarre circumstance in order for Reid to suffer an epiphany- he just couldn't let his mind think that.
But still, schizophrenia was a relatively rare disease, affecting only one percent of the United States population. What were the chances that he could be intertwined to two people sharing the same pathology to a near fault? Low, he knew, which made him grudgingly turn to the more divine option, and the pressing question:
If Andrew had done all he did because of paranoid schizophrenia, who's to say that Diana Reid wouldn't? She was not immune to delusions and was, as Reid hated to admit, just as likely as Andrew to have been lead down that path.
So what if it were his mother on the trial, suffering the same charges? Would he think she should go to jail?
No, of course he wouldn't. Biased or not, he would not believe his mother fit enough for it to be a fair sentence. So how was Andrew any didn't? If he wasn't a victim would he still want Andrew to suffer?
'No, you wouldn't. You'd feel bad for him because you would understand his fear, and you know it,' he thought, biting his lip angrily. Since when did having an opinion become so difficult to manage?
"Hey, Pretty Boy," Morgan said, standing up from his seat and stretching. When Reid turned to him, prompting him to continue, he asked, "How would you feel about some coffee? I think I might run out and get us all some before the recess ends."
All thoughts of the case, Andrew, and his mother seemed to fly away from his mind as he nodded emphatically, his mouth salivating at the promise of coffee. "I'd love some," he answered, relieved that Morgan had given him the option. The trial had started so early and he had only managed to get in one cup, something that he vowed would change when he was out of the hospital.
Morgan nodded, smiling at the over-enthusiastic response. "Alright, I'll be back soon." With that, he left, leaving Reid to sit on the wooden bench, his thoughts grappling one another, as Hotch and Angela than began discussing Varney's case, one Reid was decidedly not willing to listen to.
He wasn't sure how long Morgan had been gone for when he felt someone take the seat that had previously been used by the dark-skinned agent, the man's elbows nearly touching Reid's as he moved in closer. "You seem to be doing very well," a familiar voice said in his ear, causing the young genius to bite his lip as a name and face escaped him. He knew the voice but couldn't quite place it...
Turning to face the new man, his memory too addled by something to give him the answers he needed, he found himself staring face to smiling face with Dr. Ostheim. He gaped openly, doing a remarkable impression of a fish out of water, before shaking the surprise from his body and letting himself smile. That's why he couldn't recognize the voice immediately- the fog of his temporary psychoses having made those little more than three months seem like a scene from an old movie, forgettable and fading as the film strip neared its end. But despite the hallucinations and extremely misguided delusions, he could still recall Dr. Ostheim, albeit with much straining of his perfect memory and with a not-so-clear idea. He did, however, remember feeling very much attached to him.
"Hey," he said, twisting his body around in the bench to better face the trauma specialist.
Dr. Ostheim did the same, placing his arm over the back of the bench for leverage as he said, "How have you been? I heard you've been lucid for two months now, about."
Feeling his cheeks burn with humiliation, still embarrassed and prone to the idea of having been anything but lucid his whole life, Reid cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh...yeah. Two months."
"That's good. I was afraid for a bit there that you wouldn't come out of it at all, to be honest," the doctor said, smiling thoughtfully as he looked up at the ceiling, his head tilting to the side. "I'm glad you did, though. You, more than anyone, deserve to see these two go to jail."
Reid nodded, the tinge of pink gone from his face as he asked, "Not to sound rude or anything, but why are you here?"
"I have to give a basic medical and psychological account," he answered, turning back to Reid and smiling. "I really only need to be here for today, and then again once during Varney's trial, but I talked to the hospital about getting a couple weeks off so that I can see this to the end. Both trials, you know."
"Oh, alright," the young genius answered, biting his lip. He wasn't entirely sure about what to say- what was the proper etiquette one was expected to have when talking to the doctor who had seen him at his worst? It was strange situation, and not one he was particularly fond of, either.
Dr. Ostheim broke the silence, his voice quiet and even as he said, "Good luck taking the stand, Spencer. I can honestly say I've never met someone as strong as you, and I'm glad to have made your acquaintance."
Reid snorted in response just as he stood to stand, brushing out the wrinkles in his gray suit before turning to the genius, a brow raised. "What?"
"I...I'm not strong. I mean, look at me! My waist is the size of Morgan's upper arm," he said, smiling wryly at the slightly exaggerated comment. In truth, he had never taken a tape measure to his torso nor to his colleague's muscular arm, but he was almost positive that the numbers wouldn't be too far off from the other. He wasn't exactly the picture of masculinity or girth, as it were.
Straightening the lapels of his suit jacket, Dr. Ostheim shook his head and said, "After everything you went through, you proved medical science wrong and became lucid. And if that weren't enough, you came to attend the trials of the two men who did that to you in the first place." After a moment in which he let his words hang in the air, the medical doctor smiled and added, "I'll see you back in the court room."
Reid watched as he walked away, his teeth clamping down on the insides of his mouth and grinding the soft tissues slowly, deep in thought. Everyone had been calling him strong since he got out of Andrew's care. When would someone be honest with him and say that he was weak and foolish for having gotten into the situation in the first place?
xXx
It wasn't until the third day of the trial that Reid spoke, the first day having been spent on opening statements and Hotch and Ostheim's testimony, while the second day was dedicated to the testimonies of JJ, Morgan and Dr. Forte. It had become very apparent that the trial was not focused on claiming Andrew's innocence so much as it was proving he was too insane to truly be punished. No one was questioning if Andrew did it, it was just a matter of deciding whether or not he deserved prison over mental health services.
And it had become very apparent as well that that decision would not be made easily.
It seemed that every time the defense proved Andrew was too mentally unfit during his crimes for him to be held accountable, the prosecution would rebuttal with an argument that proved he was. And just when the team started to relax, thinking that they had proven to the jury the real nature of the murders, the defense would simply produce another piece of evidence. It was almost like a drawn out game of tennis in which the opposing parties were equally skilled, the ball bouncing back and forth between both courts, no progress made on either side to win.
"Your testimony will seal the deal," Hotch would say to Reid every time the ambiguity of Andrew's sentence had come into question, never confirming either fate as he himself didn't know. "When they hear your side of the story they'll realize Andrew was too lucid to be considered insane, don't worry." Still, no confirmation. But Hotch's attempt at comforting the young genius were admirable, even if Reid still was unclear as to what he wanted for Andrew. And as the day of his testimony drew nearer and nearer, his anxiety and fear for the approaching moment where he would take the stand increased impressively. He couldn't think without his worries passing through his mind, he couldn't sleep without his fears taking on an all-to-real form as the nightmares he suffered from that week seemed to return with a vengeance. There had been two occasions where he woke to Morgan shaking him awake and Hotch standing in the doorway, a concerned and questioning look on their face. He knew what question was sitting on the tip of their tongue, what they wanted to ask their youngest companion as they sat in the room, giving him extra anxiety meds in some early morning hour:
Is he really able to do this?
They would share a knowing glance, unaware of how angry it made Reid to see them do that, to speak without speaking about him, in front of him. He wanted to yell at them, demand they look at him and say what they weren't saying. But he couldn't- the medicine worked too fast and, as Morgan would hand him another dose of his Seroquel, it took only moments for him to fall back against his pillow in a deep, unperturbed sleep.
Regardless of the unasked questions as to whether or not Reid was ready to speak against Andrew, they still let him do it, waking him up earlier than usual on that day and dressing him even nicer than he had been. JJ forced him to eat a full though light meal, knowing the food would help settle his stomach. And Morgan had limited his intake of coffee, not wanting him too wired while Hotch made him take extra anxiety medication, saying that preemptive action was the best action.
Needless to say, Reid was thoroughly drugged as he sat on the bench, between JJ and Morgan, his eyelids drooping listlessly over his hazel eyes and his shoulders slumped. He wasn't nearly as medicated as Andrew, still more than capable of walking without shuffling his feet, but the extra dosage which he wasn't used to had effected him greatly.
He looked out from beneath the short wisps of hair that had fallen into his face, his eyes lazily looking out at Angela as she walked to and fro, speaking to the jury. In truth, he was only half listening to her speech, his mind somewhat dazed and fuzzy as a low hum seemed to fill his head. Maybe he had taken too much, in retrospect. But Hotch wouldn't intentionally drug him, especially during such an important event, and he wouldn't accidentally drug him either, as the man was smart enough to speak to the doctor before making such decisions. Still, he felt very hazy, but not unhappily so. He was relaxed, a calm he hadn't felt in so long.
But the calm ended the second he heard his name being called, all eyes turning to him, as he was asked to take the stand.
xXx
Author's Note: Cliffhanger! Oh no! Thanks to everyone who reviewed and whatnot! It means so much! Please remember to pass the love onto this chapter!
Also, I recently got back from my family's cabin in Phoenicia again. Hurricane Irene really altered it! The Flats is no longer deep enough to swim in, which has me and my cousins devastated! (It was the best place to go for swimming) All the rocks were moved into the middle now. Makes me rather sad...
Anyways, next chapter: Reid's testimony, the start of Varney's trial...