Okay. Let's hope this isn't a load of bullshit, because ain't nobody got time fo' that. Read, review, favorite and all that good shit, okay? Yes. Thank you, and do like my url says and have a great day! X
I shook my head, and pulled out a manila folder, with the picture of the premeditated portrait of the potential suspect inside which was on the desk nearest to me, and I slid it into Hotchner's hands. After looking through it quickly, he passed them onto Morgan, who then passed it onto Reid and then finally onto Rossi, who slid them onto the table near him after he read through the files briefly. The visual that we predicted looked similar to this: the unsub was of a slight, meek build, short in height - between 5 foot 7 and 9, and is fairly young, considering the circumstances. It's probable that this guy, whoever he is, suffers from a mental condition; possibly schizophrenia or acute paranoia.
"There is a direct correlation between having schizophrenia and the increased rates of antisocial behaviour in general and violence in particular, according to Dr Hodgins and Muller-Isberner. Studies show that 5-10% of all those awaiting murder trials suffer from schizophrenic disorder. It has been shown that up to 11% of homicide offenders and up to 9% found guilty of non-fatal violence related crimes suffer from schizophrenia. It's a common thing, however it's rapidly becoming less and less valid in court."
Spencer seemed to reciting this patch of information verbatim, however he appeared to be almost disinterested with what he was saying. He checked his nails, and rubbed imaginary lint off of his shoulder as I was forced to stand on, mouth agape and shock written across my features.
I chuckled lightly and said, "People weren't kidding when they said you knew specifics, huh?"
He simply coughed out a laugh, and raised an eyebrow in my direction. Sarcasm suited him like a second skin, the sardonic little shit. My grey eyes gleamed in a sudden strip of sunlight that fell directly into my face, and I was forced to squint in return. I flipped my squared thick-framed, black Ray Ban glasses from atop my head as it was tucked into my tightly wrapped, light-brown bun, and pushed them onto my nose.
"Well, either way, we've got an unsub who doesn't want to be caught - otherwise he would have contacted the media, or even attempted to inject himself into the case. He's naturally shy, and reserved; he doesn't believe he's worth much, although his confidence is boosting with each kill. I expect that he is searching for some kind of recognition, and if we diverted that attention to someone or something else, he might get angry. An angry unsub equates to a sloppy one."
I smirked as Morgan finished his piece, and I nodded in approval. I had said this from the beginning, but nobody listened to me. I bet now they all would listen, those damned heathens. I pushed off of the desk I had been leaning on, I believe it was Sergeant Rogers' if I wasn't mistaken, and I walked over to my own. I slid back into my swivelled chair, and kicked off my black suede platform heels, and nudged them under my desk. Rolling my neck and ankles in time with each other, I wriggled the mouse, and my computer started up again. New York wifi was always so slow; there were always too many people surfing the web during the day.
Hotchner, Morgan and Reid all picked up different tan folders, and went about walking towards the boardroom, where we would normally hold meetings. They were going to have to work on their own shit right now, because I had things to do. I carried on with what I was doing before I had been drudged out of my lair, I.E. my small-as-fuck cubicle.
I tucked my feet under myself, having to adjust my skirt by hitching it a little higher for me to get comfortable, and I released my hair out of it's restraining bun, having it explode out in a mass of uncontrollable, messy curls. I ran my fingers through it, trying to tame it, and rolled my shoulders, popping my knuckles and toes, smiling contentedly to myself.
Without focussing too much on the time, I carried on typing away, creating profiles and working on blueprints for possible unsubs, which sounds fairly simple, but in reality? It's a gigantic pain in my ass. But it helped, even I had to admit that. It was the foundation of every case we take on, and it was necessary for success. I hated doing all of the paperwork, it just bored me to absolutely no end.
A sharp clatter to my left brought me out of my zone, and I looked around for the first time in however long, and saw that I was one of the only office-workers left. I rubbed my eyes, and stretched my hands out, like a cat, and I glanced down at the digital clock that adorned my desk, and written in the blaring, bright red numbering stated '21:14pm'. Shit, I had been working for over 6 hours, and I hadn't even noticed. I felt my stomach grumble, and the burn of hunger settle deep in my tummy. Oh, I need to eat.
I stood up, slipped on a pair of socks that were hidden in my slide-out drawer, and rolled them on. A pair of white Converse were laying face down next to the socks, and I pulled them on, afterwards. I was not wearing those death trap shoes for any longer than I needed. I'm sorry, but heels hurt like a motherfucker.
I picked up my wallet, and pulled out 30 dollars. I tucked the money in my shirt pocket, and I flipped on my black blazer, and fastened up the final two buttons, making sure my collars were neat, and my cuffs weren't messy. After tying my hair up with the disused elastic band, so that it was back in a messy high, curly ponytail, I began walking out of my office.
Only to bump directly into the chest of a very tired Spencer Reid. Well, god damn.
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