CHAPTER 35: Painless (Season 7, episode 4)
Character(s): Rossi, Hotch, Reid
A/N: Some spoilers for the case/unsub, as well as the events ten years prior that led up to said case. References to "Elephant's Memory" as well. Thanks once again to FirefliesFlash for her help.
Also, there will be allusions to disturbing images and situations in this chapter as well, so a heads up once again to all readers out there.
"Wounds make better lessons than lectures." – Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson, Dune: House Harkonnen
October 13th, 2001:
Silence.
Haunting, somber silence.
Well, almost. There was the soft crunching noise of fallen leaves underneath Hotch's feet as he crossed the school lawn, a noise which seemed even more noticeable amidst the eerie quiet of the scene before him. Quite a stark contrast to the frenzied sights and ear-piercing, terrifying sounds Hotch had been witness to the day before.
Bright yellow police tape surrounded the building before him. As Hotch gazed up at the high school, he could already tell out of the corner of his eye where the damage from the bomb blast was mostly located.
The bodies had long ago been removed and sent to the morgue. Another team member was over there now, gathering the necessary information about how the victims died. Hotch found himself incredibly relieved that he didn't have to be there – he'd seen far too many images similar to this one in the past, both in photos and in reality, and he'd had more than his fill of that experience by now.
Still, though, he felt a pang of guilt towards the agent who had been assigned that task. I'll talk to them later, see how they're doing.
Mind, the task he was assigned wasn't exactly much better. He knew the rest of the crime scene had been left in its current state, so as not to contaminate the evidence…and now he had to go inside and investigate it all. Hotch took in a deep breath, steeling himself as he slowly climbed the steps and prepared to enter the school.
The lack of noise was even more chilling once he was inside. At first glance, standing just inside the front doors of the school, the ones that lead to the main hallway, things seemed very intact. One could easily be forgiven for not realizing anything had even happened here the day before.
Until Hotch turned the corner to his right.
The cafeteria doors were wide open, as though they were beckoning Hotch to the room. As he stopped in the doorway to the lunchroom, the first thing he laid eyes on was the gaping hole where the wall opposite him used to be. Hotch could see straight outside, past the field all the way over to the homes across the street. Could feel the breeze of the chilly autumn air against his skin, heard the birds chirping in the tree just outside.
Once Hotch stepped inside, he was then greeted by the many overturned chairs and flipped tables. He'd been outside during yesterday's noontime siege on the school, helping pull people to safety. Now he found himself picturing how the students stuck inside at that very same moment spent their time. He could almost see kids cowering behind those pieces of furniture, hoping and praying the wood and plastic materials were strong enough to stop the bullets.
And they'd do this knowing all the while such hope would prove futile. He grimaced at the very thought.
Peeling his eyes away from the tables and chairs, Hotch continued on with his exploration of the room. He noticed blackened, charred blobs from the explosion scarring the tiled floor, as well as the remaining parts of the brick walls. Burned and blackened backpacks and schoolbooks littered the floor, tripping Hotch up a time or two during his walk.
And then there was the blood.
Yes, Hotch had seen many bloody crime scenes before. And yes, he'd learned, over time, to build up a strong stomach and mindset when observing those scenes.
But on this sort of a mass scale? Especially considering the ages of the particular victims involved? It was hard not to become overwhelmed by such situations.
Hotch could see the deep red splatters from those who immediately died where they stood (or cowered). He quietly observed the drops and trails that led out the door of the cafeteria from the students who tried desperately to stumble out despite their injuries. Cast a mournful glance at the dried puddles from those who had lingered on the floor for minutes…hours, even…in a state of agony that no human being should ever be allowed to experience.
He stopped then, standing in the middle of the room, his stunned, horrified gaze finally taking in the scene in its entirety. A seventeen year old boy did all this.
The weekend had arrived. These kids should've been at home, either celebrating their lack of homework or grumbling about the teachers who were "mean" enough to give them work. They should've been planning, and having, dates. Hanging out with their friends. Getting ready for next week's homecoming activities, and Halloween parties not long after that.
Instead, thirteen young people were now gone forever. And an untold number of survivors had their carefree teenage years permanently shattered. All in a matter of minutes. All thanks to one young man's seething rage.
Hotch took a minute to close his eyes, attempting to collect himself, before continuing on with his exploration.
ooo
David Rossi wasn't a superstitious man. The closest he'd ever come to giving any sort of nod to otherworldly interference of any sort was whenever he'd kiss the rosary he sometimes wore, or making the sign of the cross at tense moments. Otherwise, he preferred to keep his feet firmly rooted in the realm of realism and logic.
Today's date, however, loomed ominously in his mind as he prepared to return to North Valley High School. October thirteenth. Thirteen people dead. Unlucky thirteen.
He really didn't want to be here. For the obvious reasons, of course, but also because of more personal feelings that, were he to voice them aloud, he feared would come off rather selfish.
Rossi had made a living in recent years writing many books about true crimes. Serial killers, rapists, domestic terrorists, and so on – name the topic, and he wrote on it at length, expounding on theories and explanations and rants and studies about these heinous crimes and the people who committed them.
Stories about the abuse and murder of children, as well as school shootings, however…those were always subjects he was particularly wary of writing about. People dying in violent crimes at any age would always be tragic, of course, but the ages of the victims in those sorts of cases was enough to give Rossi pause every time. He never seemed to be able to delve into an exploration of those topics without a feeling of intense anger building up within him. Having to go in depth on the descriptions of cruelties visited upon such young souls made him incredibly uncomfortable. It felt…invasive. Just how much did the public deserve to know about a criminal's mind and behavior in those cases? Why would, or should, anyone want to buy a book about tragedies involving children? To say nothing of profiting from sharing such horrid stories…
As a result, despite the fact that Rossi didn't plan to write about the tragic events that had taken place the day before here in Boise, he couldn't help but fear people would see his lingering presence as a means to exploit the situation somehow. Or they'd start ranting about bringing in all the "high-profile" names such as him, robbing the victims of the attention they deserved, forgetting all the while that they were ironically adding to the lack of proper focus with their own outrage. Or they'd pester and distract him as he attempted to do his job. This situation was stressful enough already for the townspeople. Rossi didn't need those added distractions, frustrations, and misconceptions floating about and adding on to the problem.
What could he do, though? The FBI had called him in. He'd known how urgent and dire the situation was upon getting the call yesterday, and couldn't very well refuse to lend a hand given the circumstances. Even if the situation hadn't been so immediate, turning down a request to help the Bureau always felt like a dereliction of duty to him. A disservice to all the hard working men and women he'd worked alongside, as well as the time and effort he'd put in, all those years ago.
Rossi had helped Aaron Hotchner pull Principal Givens to safety amidst all of yesterday's chaos. He saw victims falling and dying before his very eyes. Waited, and prepared, for the flurry of parents descending on the school grounds, begging for, if not flat out demanding, any sort of information on their children.
He watched some of those same parents collapse in grief later on that night upon receiving the devastating news about their kids. Either that, or he watched parents clinging to their children who had survived, refusing to let go or even briefly let them out of their sight.
No. Rossi couldn't turn his back on these people. Not now. Not when they needed all the help and support they could get.
Still, he felt his stomach curl up in ugly little knots anyway as he settled into the driver's seat of his car. Making a quick sign of the cross, he then pulled out of the motel parking lot, his face an expression of deep weariness. This was going to be a long, long day.
ooo
As Rossi and Hotch quickly made their way up to the Slade residence, they noticed a group of people had gathered across the street from the house. They were shouting as well, making quite a ruckus for so early in the day as their voices echoed throughout the neighborhood. The exact words being yelled were hard to hear clearly at first, but as the two men strained to listen more closely, they finally realized what the group was doing…
…and their hearts promptly sank.
The group was hurling various insults and threats in the Slades' direction.
"Looks like your kid gave himself the death penalty!"
"I'm going to be watching your other kid closely, I can promise you that!"
"How could you not know your son was a murderer? What kind of sorry excuses for parents are you?"
Hotch and Rossi threw side glances at each other then. Rossi rolled his eyes, and Hotch knew the man was doing everything in his power to avoid throwing the hecklers a very rude gesture and sharing some choice words of his own at that moment.
I know how you feel. Believe me. A simple nod from Hotch, and Rossi responded with a wry smile.
They entered the house then, Hotch quickly shutting the door so as to attempt to drown out the noise outside. It had already been agreed that Hotch would talk with the parents, and Rossi with the child – Rossi had been insistent on that assignment. Though Hotch was curious as to why, he didn't press the issue. He gave the okay to his friend, who then went off in search of Randy's younger brother, Brandon.
Hotch took that opportunity to head towards the kitchen, where he found Mr. and Mrs. Slade. They sat silently across from each other at their table, looking every bit as despondent and drained as so many other parents Hotch had encountered in situations like this over the years.
The agent gently introduced himself before escorting the Slades to their bedroom, which was at the other end of the house, and took a chair while they settled themselves on the edge of their bed. First thing Hotch noticed was their haunted gazes – they'd been apparent in the kitchen, but seeing their reactions up close forced him to suppress a shiver.
Martha Slade stared off distantly at some point on the wall across from her. Her mouth hung slightly open, looking every bit the definition of dumbfounded. Hotch suspected her expression hadn't changed at all since the events of yesterday. He then noticed her hands, laid in her lap in an attempt to keep them controlled. They still trembled anyway.
Harry Slade, meanwhile, was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded and touching his lips. He just looked flat out perplexed. Disbelieving. Almost as though he was trying to solve the case in his own head. A deep sympathy welled up in Hotch as he observed the couple. It was one thing to have difficulty imagining one's child would ever be the victim of a tragedy like this. It would be quite another to try and even fathom the idea of that same child being the one to perpetrate such an event. The Slades now found themselves cursed to deal with both horrific scenarios at once. If ever there was an example of life's unfairness…
The deeply uncomfortable silence was getting to him then, and he took that as his cue to start talking. "Mr. and Mrs. Slade, before we begin, let me state that I am very sorry for your loss," he said quietly.
"Are you?" Hotch tensed upon hearing Martha snap at him. The reaction wasn't a totally unexpected one, mind – he obviously didn't expect this interview to be easy for these people. That didn't make the reaction any less upsetting, though…and he immediately scolded himself for thinking he had the right to be upset at all about anything at that moment.
"Yes," he simply continued then, his voice firm.
"Come on, honey, he's just trying to help…" Harry cut in tentatively, but Martha's brusqueness cut him off.
"Yeah. Help." She let out a short, bitter laugh. "How nice of someone to actually give a damn."
"Mrs. Slade –" Hotch began wearily.
"No. You don't know the hell we're going through. We don't need any meager attempts at pity. We don't need anyone acting like they're not judging us when we know the truth. We don't –"
"Martha!" Harry said harshly then as he tried to grab his wife's arm. She pushed back, though, and a short flailing match ensued as Martha continued her cries of protest. Hotch silently watched the entire thing unfold, the sad realization washing over him then that this marriage probably wasn't going to last too many more years.
"NO! I don't want to talk about what happened. I don't want to 'discuss his psyche' or listen to someone analyze him, acting like they think they know him. I just want Randy back. I just…want…him back…" Martha finally doubled over as she choked out the last of her words before finally collapsing into loud, gulping sobs. She immediately stood up then, managing a barely audible, "Excuse me," before briskly exiting the room.
Harry sighed as he watched his wife go. "I'm sorry, Agent Hotchner," he said, turning to face the man.
"It's all right. This is a difficult time." Hotch stared meaningfully at Harry then, trying to impress upon him the sincerity of his concern for the family.
Fortunately, Harry seemed to get the message. He straightened up a little before addressing Hotch, a wan expression on his face. "What do you need to know about my son?"
ooo
Rossi found himself in the doorway to Brandon's room. He hung back, simply observing for a moment or two.
The seven year old boy sat on the floor next to his bed. His knees were pulled up against his chest, arms draped loosely around them. He looked confused. Scared. Alone. Rossi could see a glint of tears in his eyes as well, and his heart broke for the boy.
This was way too much for a child to have to take in. What questions must be running through his mind? Feelings? Worries?
Rossi's mind briefly went to Brandon's parents, and what they must be doing at this time. Did they talk to Brandon at all? Has he just been sitting here the last twelve hours or so? Rossi suspected he knew the answer to that question. He turned his attention back to the boy before him, feeling a sudden urge to want to just wrap him up in a tight hug.
He'd always had a soft spot for children. Rossi could be quite the cynical, sarcastic bastard in many aspects of his life, but all that changed whenever he would find himself in the company of a kid. Their innocence, enthusiasm, and curiosity were always nice little reminders for him to not completely take things for granted in his own life, they were a bright contrast to all the darkness he wrote about and saw. If he'd had the chance to be a father himself, Rossi was certain that there were many parts of his life that would've turned out much more differently…and much more smoothly.
Unfortunately, there were also times like this, when those very symbols of innocence and hope were thrust into and changed by the darkness he had to deal with. There were many other similar cases, solved and unsolved, like this one. Far too many. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Children should never be subjected to this kind of pain. Or any other kind of pain.
He took a deep breath.
"Brandon?" Rossi asked quietly, taking a careful step into the room. Brandon blinked, flinching slightly before turning to look up at this strange man who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
"Hi. I'm David Rossi. Your parents invited me in. Is it okay if I talk to you for a few minutes?"
Brandon merely shrugged. Rossi kept cautiously moving towards the kid. No sudden movements. Keep things light. Neutral. He finally settled himself on the edge of Brandon's bed, hands resting on his own knees. Not his dad. Don't push it. "We can talk about whatever you want to talk about, you know. It's your call." He kept his voice soft, comforting, reassuring.
Rossi waited patiently as Brandon continued to sit on the floor, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. The silence gave him an opportunity to observe the bedroom – a couple football and basketball posters on the walls, some figurines from a children's film atop the dresser, a shelf full of books. The bedspread had a huge picture of Spiderman across it. There were various toys scattered about the floor – stuffed animals, action figures, a water soaker, a baseball and a bat. The typical sort of mess for a young boy.
"Cool room," Rossi noted offhand. He chanced a look down at Brandon, who managed the slightest hint of a smile. More silence as Rossi continued his exploration, his gaze finally falling on an interesting setup in the corner by the window. "You like video games, eh?"
A noticeable nod of the head now. Progress.
"Would you like to show me your favorite one?"
Brandon looked up at Rossi then, his eyes full of surprise. I can do that? It's allowed?
"I think we could use a bit of a break. Don't you?" The relieved look on Brandon's face then mirrored Rossi's current feelings. "I won't tell your parents if you don't, though. Just in case. Deal?" Another nod, and the two soon found themselves engaged in a video game.
Rossi continued to wait Brandon out as they played their game. He noticed the subtle increase in aggression as Brandon attacked the "bad guys", saw how furiously the boy punched the buttons on the controller, the tightness of his jaw. Clearly taking a moment to work out a few private thoughts, no doubt.
"No!" A sudden cry from Brandon as his guy lost the round.
"It's okay," Rossi said good-naturedly. "We'll get 'em next go-round here –"
"No!" Brandon said again, more defiantly this time. "It's not fair!" He threw down his controller, stomping away from the game. Rossi set his controller down as well, coming over to sit next to Brandon, who was now lying curled up on his side on his bed.
"It's just a mistake. It happens. I remember once, when I was a kid, I was playing dodgeball at recess, and –" He watched Brandon shrink in on himself, tears now streaming down his eyes. He waited a moment before speaking again. "This isn't about the game, is it?" he asked knowingly.
"Why did he do that?" Brandon asked. Rossi had to lean in to catch his words, he'd said them so softly.
"Why did who do what?"
"Randy. Why did he do that?" He looked up at Rossi. "Why did he hurt those kids?"
Rossi sighed. "I don't know," he said finally. "That's what we're trying to figure out."
"He was supposed to take me to a movie this weekend," Brandon continued glumly, staring off at some random spot across the room. "I really wanted to see that movie, too. He promised."
"I'm sorry," Rossi replied, sadness in his voice.
"I hate him."
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do. He's a bad guy."
"He did something he wasn't supposed to, yes. But I think he was a very sad boy." Brandon looked back at Rossi again. "And sometimes, when people are very sad, they do things that don't make a lot of sense."
"Did he do this 'cause he doesn't love us anymore?"
Rossi hesitated for a moment. He still hadn't the foggiest clue as to what may have been running through Randy Slade's mind leading up to this horrible event. But somehow, he suspected – or maybe he hoped – that that wasn't the reason for this chaos. "No, kiddo," he eventually spoke, placing a reassuring hand on the boy's foot. "I don't think so. I don't know why he did this, but I promise we'll figure it out."
The two fell into silence for a time after that, Brandon lost in thought, Rossi keeping an eye on him all the while. When Brandon eventually dozed off, Rossi placed a blanket over him before quietly leaving the room, quickly swiping at his eyes along the way.
ooo
"So, how'd it go?" Rossi asked as they headed down the sidewalk. He noted, with some relief, that the hecklers seemed to have disappeared. Hopefully they'll stay gone.
"Martha wasn't interested in talking," Hotch told him, his tone a mix of sympathy and frustration. "She felt we were merely pitying and patronizing her. Harry said she's already talking about wanting to move."
"Can you blame her?" Rossi lamented.
"No." A pause. "I got some information about Randy through Harry. Nothing too substantial, though."
"What'd he say?"
"Basically the same thing any parent says. Randy was a good kid. Popular, got top grades, had girlfriends. Any time I brought up any moments where there might've been warning signs, he had a ready answer for them. Randy showed signs of aggression, well, he's just a typical teenager. Randy liked weapons, well, lots of boys like weapons. Randy played violent video games, well, so do other kids, and they don't kill people."
"He didn't want to acknowledge his son could be an exception," Rossi stated. "And why should he? He's right. Many kids go through all of that without becoming school shooters."
"So what was it about Randy that made him snap?"
"I don't know. This whole case is confusing. From what I've heard about his plans, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to any of what he did, whom he targeted." Hotch could hear the frustration in Rossi's voice as he spoke.
In many respects. Hotch changed the subject then. "How'd you do with Brandon?"
"All right. Took a little while to draw him out, but he opened up." Rossi looked away for a moment, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. "He thinks Randy didn't love his family anymore. He seemed to feel like this was their fault somehow or something, with the way he spoke."
I had to ask. Hotch sighed then, rubbing his forehead.
"When the hell's it going to stop?" Rossi muttered then, looking away. Whether it was to Hotch or to himself, Hotch wasn't sure. But he responded anyway.
"I wish I knew." With that, the two men quietly continued on with their investigation.
October 12th, 2011:
"Nobody sees the signs, Reid, you know that."
No, they really don't.
As Reid sat in his hotel room late that night, watching the news reports about the recent murders, as well as their coverage of the ten-year anniversary of the school shooting, he shook his head in dismay.
The media, as usual, was making a big deal out of the fact that this latest string of killings was done by an "outcast". That part of it all didn't surprise Reid – outcasts "seeking revenge" against the world was always going to be a big story. And the aforementioned media would, without any hint of self-awareness, pile on about what exactly made people like Robert Adams outcasts in the first place. They were quiet. Dressed "funny". They were geeky, awkward, shy. Not good with girls. Etc., etc. Stating all of this as though those aspects in and of themselves were supposed to be "warning signs" that somebody was a "bad person".
Yes, the media would spend all their time on such superficial discussion, with absolutely no interest in going deeper into what made certain people "snap". Same ol', same ol'.
No, what was really bothering Reid at that moment was how those same news anchors handled their discussion of Randy Slade in all their "ten years later" coverage. He was popular, unlike Robert Adams. He had girlfriends. He was a top student. No way could anyone fathom a guy like that doing anything so deplorable. No, there had to be some part of him that was strange, that made him just enough of a "freak", to go on a shooting spree. Did he listen to strange music? Did he like scary movies? Was he not of the right faith? The reporters would take any theories.
And yet Reid knew, he just knew, that if, God forbid, anything like the school massacre or Adams' killing spree ever happened again, these same news casters would have the gall to seem positively shocked about all of this, wondering why nobody noticed something was wrong.
Because you never tell anyone what's really wrong. Nobody does.
Reid flipped off the TV then. He wasn't really in the mood to get his blood pressure up any further. Lying back on his bed, staring up at the motel room celling, he analyzed the two men further, their differences…and their similarities.
They both demanded credit for their actions – Randy never mentioned Lewis Ramsey during his killing spree, wanting the world to know he was the mastermind behind it all. And Robert wanted the world to know he was the one who dared to look Randy in the eye, stare him down, and beat Randy at his game.
They also both longed for recognition. What was it Randy had said before he blew the school up all those years ago? He'd proclaimed himself God? That's about as big a way to gain attention as one could manage. And Robert was angry over not being part of the media blitz afterward. He also wanted desperately to be noticed by others in general. He'd felt the sting of rejection one too many times, and wanted to seek his revenge on those who'd shunned him for so long.
A lot like Owen Savage in that way.
Reid felt a chill run through him at that realization. It was happening again. Here was another unsub he could empathize with on some level. Robert's history of being an outcast among outcasts…that was the story of Reid's life as well.
He'd always hoped to get invited to parties, too – not the wild, drunken gatherings his classmates often held, necessarily, but a simple birthday party, for example…was that too much to ask? Or an invite to the movies on a Friday night, or a pre or post-school dance get-together?
He wanted to have a girl ask him out on a date, and actually mean it. Wanted to be able to walk through the hallways at school without having to automatically flinch anytime somebody from the football team walked by.
When he came home and saw his mom was having "an episode", there were days he desperately longed to be able to talk to somebody about it, without worrying they'd make fun of her, or call him a freak, or refuse to visit his house anymore. He even…even sometimes wished for a friend whose home he could escape to for a few hours on the bad days.
Reid never dared admit that last one aloud, though. Just thinking about such selfish things was enough to make him ashamed of himself.
Seeing teachers praise and utilize his intelligence, instead of appear exasperated, intimidated, or unsure of what to do with him, would've been nice, too.
And yet, he'd also wished he could've told Robert to be careful what he wished for, too. Much as Reid longed for all of the above, there were also so many days when he would've absolutely loved it if everybody in school had just left him alone.
He would've loved to go through one school day, just one, without being shoved into some locker, or being harassed, or tied to a goalpost. He would've loved to quietly admire a pretty girl in his class without fear that she'd laugh at him or trick him, the way Alexa Lisbon did.
To say nothing of the kids for whom "asking for help" meant "copying Reid's homework and passing it off as their own". The fact that he was a few years younger than most of his peers just made him stand out even more as it was.
It would've been quite nice as well to not have to worry about administrators scrutinizing him, hoping and praying a teacher wouldn't notice his shabby clothes, forged permission slips. And it would've been especially wonderful to not constantly need to come up with new stories and quick explanations on the fly as to why a school administrator couldn't call his mom (or dad) for this or that reason.
In those moments, being an outcast was a salvation.
Maybe, Reid thought as the realization dawned on him, that's what helped save me?
He couldn't point solely to his mom's love as the reason why his life turned out better than that of people like Randy or Robert. Reid had been in this job long enough to know that there were many killers out there who came from good, loving homes, that it took more than that to push them in such tragic directions. Love and care helped, certainly, and Reid certainly considered himself very fortunate to have such a loving presence in his life. But there had to be more to it than that.
Owen Savage felt like he had very little to live for, outside of his girlfriend Jordan. Robert Adams felt like the world owed him some sort of recognition. And Randy was a narcissistic psychopath. His problems ran a lot deeper than anyone realized, and required more help than most people would've been able to give.
None of those traits or feelings applied to Reid. He'd never been one to be comfortable with the spotlight, for example. Oh, sure, he appreciated and thanked people for the accolades he'd received over the years, be it in regards to various papers he wrote, or his role in diffusing dangerous situations on the job, or some unusual discovery he'd made.
But he never did his work for the awards or recognition. He did it because it was something that interested him, something that helped others out in some way. If a town was left a little safer at the end of the day, or he got to enlighten people a little more on the inner workings of someone's mind in the hopes of helping (and perhaps even curing) those who struggled mentally, that meant more to him than any individual praise from some stranger or organization would.
There was also the immense guilt he always felt whenever he'd shoot an unsub. It wasn't often, thankfully – he'd always try and avoid having to shoot when possible. He refused to point a gun at Owen all those years ago, very nearly paying the price for doing so in the process.
Sometimes he couldn't opt out, though, no matter how much he tried, and those moments never failed to haunt him. How many times had he dreamt about the end of his ordeal with Tobias, after all?
And he felt that way despite being allowed the option to shoot if necessary! No way could he ever imagine shooting somebody just for the hell of it, as a means to vent his own personal issues.
And he wouldn't be able to do half the stuff he could do, if not all of it, if it weren't for his teammates. Hotch, the man he'd follow to the ends of the earth. Rossi, from whom he still had so much to learn. Then there was Morgan's admirable refusal to give up in any circumstance, Emily's ability to take stock of and look at all aspects of a situation, Garcia's lightning-fast means of getting what she wants, JJ's kind, compassionate encouragement…
JJ. Reid winced at the thought of her then, an uncomfortable guilt settling in his stomach. Ever since his "mean girls" comment to her during one of their conversations early on, he'd felt a sense of unease anytime she was nearby.
I should've just quit while I was ahead. He was well aware by now that cases involving school torment automatically put him on edge, and kept that in mind when speaking to others during those cases. Unfortunately, this time around, the remnants of his recent issues with JJ had filtered into their conversation, and he'd wound up stepping over the line. He knew full well she would never have been as cruel as Alexa and Harper were when she was in school, yet he projected his own problems onto her anyway.
Note to self: apologize to JJ tomorrow.
Feeling a little better at the idea of getting that issue sorted, and trying to avoid a headache brought on by all the intense topics that had been running through his mind for the past several minutes, Reid tried to keep his focus going in a more positive direction.
I have a good job. Good friends. My mom. Henry. Still have so many things to learn, to read, to study…
There was so much he'd gained over the years, so much he held dear. Reid sometimes wondered if his younger self knew that, if that was part of what drove him so over the years in school and in work.
Or maybe it really all was just plain luck. He hated thinking of that as the reason, though – why he got that luck where people like Randy and Robert (and Owen) didn't was one of those rare questions he couldn't even begin to give a satisfactory answer to. But assigning specific blame didn't settle well with him, either. His job told him time and time again that situations like this were never that simple. The answer, as always, was somewhere in the jumbled middle.
Reid glanced at the clock on the nightstand then, making sure that it was set early enough for the next day. The team had agreed to a later flight home, having made plans to visit the memorial sites set up for the victims, both past and present, and pay their respects.
Before settling in for the night, Reid made a note to request a trip of his own down the line. There was a young man in Texas whom he wanted to check in on.
"Pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion." – George Eliot, Middlemarch
As always, reviews/critiques/etc. are appreciated!