Chapter Five
24/06/2019. 17:03 hours. FBI Offices, Quantico, Virginia.
Emily settled behind her desk with her umpteenth mug of coffee. Her wrist ached from the never-ending stacks of reports on her desk. For all she had worked relentlessly, the pile did not seem to shrink. She suddenly had a new appreciation for Hotch and everything he did for the team. She understood why Haley was unable to cope with it anymore. She missed the days of slipping her files into Spencer's pile. A pinging noise sounded on her computer, attracting Emily's attention. She brought the navy blue Department of Justice mug to her lips and sipped the steaming hot beverage as she opened the new unread email. Her brows pinched together at the link in the email, apparently sent from an unknown sender. She set her mug down on her desk, in the faded circle in the varnish from all of the other times she had put it there, and dialled a number, putting it on speaker.
"You have reached the office of supreme genius! Speak and be dazzled!" came Penelope's chirpy voice.
"Hey, Garcia. I've just gotten a weird link in an email from an unknown sender. Could you trace it for me?" Penelope audibly scoffed.
"Can I? My sweet, sweet lady! Of course I can. Just give me a hot second." The sound of rapid-fire clicking came through the speaker. "It's bouncing through multiple proxy servers, however the link looks like it's from the Department of Corrections." Emily's frown deepened.
"I'll gather everyone in the conference room. I think we need to see what's on this."
"Be right there, my liege." Emily grabbed her mug and swiftly exited her office. She cast her deep brown eyes over her team in the bullpen.
"Everyone! Round table!" She turned on her heel and paced across the platform to the conference room, her heels tapping rhythmically against the wood.
Emily was met with grumbles from her team mates at the prospect of a new case right at the end of their working day as they shuffled into the room and took a seat at the table. She understood their distain. They all looked weary. David Rossi drummed his fingers against the table in frustration. Penelope trotted into the room on blue wedges that were much too high for comfortable wear, her laptop tightly grasped between her hands. She set it down on the table next to David. Emily sighed and grabbed the matte grey remote from the table. She pressed a button and the TV monitor flickered to life, revealing her most recent email and the link.
"This had better be good, Emily. I have a twenty-five year old single malt Scotch waiting for me at home," sighed David.
"I'm sorry guys. I just got this email. I had Garcia track it and it's bouncing off multiple proxy servers, however it appears to be from the Department of Corrections." Dr Tara Lewis sat up straight in her chair, her brow furrowed.
"Why would the DoC send you footage?" asked Tara.
"I don't know, but we're about to find out." Emily gave a nod to Penelope who clicked on the link. A separate window opened up on the screen showing grainy security footage of a small prison wing. A figure lay on their back in the centre of the recreation area. It was difficult to ascertain who it was, but it certainly did not look like any inmate or correctional officer.
"Garcia, can you zoom in on the person?" asked Luke Alvez. Penelope nodded again and zoomed in on the figure. The room fell into a deathly silence as they noticed the long, thick waves of chestnut hair, the frightened hazel pools and the colourful mismatched socks. His hands were pinned behind his back and his legs had been restrained at the ankles and the knees with belts. A thick, black cloth was firmly wedged between his teeth and tied tightly around his head. A heavy-set man in an orange jumpsuit stalked his way over to the bound man.
"Is that Reid?" asked Matt Simmons, his dark eyebrow quirked in confusion.
"Yeah," replied JJ, her eyes filling with tears and her hand hovering over her mouth.
"Where is the kid anyway?" asked David. Emily glanced down at her feet.
"San Quentin. He's supposed to be interviewing Walter Melnick," answered Emily. "It was mandated by the director. If Spence didn't go, his job was on the line. We can't lose him. Not after everything he's been through. Everything we've been through." The team looked on in horror as the inmate socked Spencer twice in the face, pulled down his trousers, and roughly flipped him onto his stomach, before brutally pounding into him. Spencer's muffled screams were heart-breaking to hear. It only got worse when another two inmates joined in. By the time they were done, their genius was laid broken and bloody on the floor. Penelope's mouth bobbed, her mascara streaking her face in black lines. No one could say anything.
"We're going to San Quentin. Now," growled Emily, her eyes black with fury.
...
24/06/2019. 21:38 hours. San Quentin State Prison, California.
Spencer had no idea how long he had been out for. His mind felt jumbled and his limbs felt heavy. His eyes slowly peeled open to find himself staring at the all too familiar sight of a prison cell. He attempted to sit up on the edge of the cot, only to drop back down with a groan at the strike of pain that shot through his lower back. He blinked several times to clear his blurred vision and noticed Michaels seated in the bolted down chair with a smirk on his face. Michaels edged over to him and knelt down in front of the cot. He pulled the gag from Spencer's bloodied mouth. Spencer took a shaky breath in and stretched his bruised jaw.
"What happened?" asked Spencer, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
"You had a seizure, Dr Reid. I sent your team a little something while you were out." Spencer swallowed thickly, his face unable to hide his fear.
"What? What did you send them?" Michaels let out a small laugh. His features told Spencer all that he needed to know. "You sent them the security footage?" Michaels nodded, his smile widening. "They know I'm here."
"I know they do. They should be arriving soon, just in time for the finale." Spencer shook his head frantically.
"Please, don't make them watch this."
"It's so cute when you beg, doctor. Making them watch is the best bit. Time to get you ready to go." The belts around his legs came undone. Spencer moved his legs experimentally and sat himself up on the side of the cot. Michaels dragged a pair of leg shackles out from his trouser pocket and fastened them tightly around Spencer's ankles. He untied the gag from the back of Spencer's head and pulled it away from his face. Deep purple and black lines stretched across Spencer's cheeks from the corners of his mouth.
"Those look nasty," commented Michaels, indicating to the corner of his mouth with the tip of a finger. "Have you ever seen the movie Con Air, Dr Reid?" Spencer frowned and shook his head. "Oh, it's a great movie. A group of convicts are being transported by air-"
"I'm well aware of what it's about. I just haven't seen it. Movies aren't something that interests me." Michaels backhanded him hard across the face.
"I didn't ask for a lecture. I bring it up because I'm going to do to you, what the guard does to the convict that spits at him, and what the convicts do to the ones being let off in Carson City." Spencer licked his lips nervously.
"And what would that be?" Michaels leaned in close to Spencer's ear.
"They get gagged and bagged, agent." Spencer tensed.
"This doesn't need to happen, warden. There's no way out of this for you."
"I no longer care. The man responsible for my brother's death sentence will finally succumb to his own. I will die a happy man." Michaels sniffed Spencer's hair and traced his thumb over the agent's trembling bottom lip. Two more officers entered the cell behind Michaels. One held a roll of grey duct tape in their hand, the other held a black hood. Michaels seated himself beside Spencer on the cot and moved his hand up to the back of the doctor's head. Spencer winced as Michaels wrapped his fingers in his curls and wrenched his head back. The officer holding the tape peeled some away from the roll and tore off a long strip. He pasted it firmly over Spencer's mouth, stretching across his battered cheeks. The adhesive stung as it entered the cut on Spencer's lip. Spencer's pleas were muffled and unheard as the hood was pulled over his head. Hands firmly grasped his upper arms and forced him to his feet. Still weak and hazy from the seizure, Spencer stumbled along with them, his movements restricted by the shackles around his ankles and blinded to his surroundings.
The walk back to death row felt like it took a lifetime. Spencer could feel his anxiety increasing as he knew they were approaching the desired block by the sound of the jeers that he had heard earlier. His pace slowed somewhat when he realised that they had passed the cells. There was only one other place he could have wound up, and the prospect terrified him. He struggled against the hold on his arms, planting his feet firmly into the ground. He was tugged forward, the chain between his ankles hindering his movement, forcing him to trip and land face down with a heavy thud and a groan, his jaw connecting hard with the ground.
"Tsk, tsk. You should really more careful, Dr Reid," admonished Michaels as Spencer was clumsily dragged back up on to his feet. Dazed, Spencer was easily led into a large, white room. The sterile smell caught Spencer's senses and he instantly knew he was in the death chamber. He twisted and turned to try and escape as one officers hooked their arms under Spencer's armpits, clasping their hands around his chest. The other grasped his chained ankles. He felt himself being lifted up. His groans and pleas were lost into the tape over his mouth. The handcuffs came undone and he was laid less than gently onto a hard surface, his arms held firmly at his sides. Spencer pulled his arms back, determined to get out of the hold. Michaels jabbed his tazer into Spencer's ribs, forcing his back to arch and a muffled scream to tear from his throat. It was all too easy then for the officers to pin Spencer's arms down and secure his wrists tightly to the gurney with the leather padded cuffs. Spencer panted heavily, his ribs burning with each breath. Another leather strap was buckled around his waist. The shackles were released from his ankles and replaced with another set of leather cuffs. A pair of hands unbuttoned the cuff of his right sleeve and rolled it to his elbow. Spencer knew he could not fight any longer. He felt a rubber tourniquet tie tightly around his arm and a large bore needle slide into the crook of his elbow before being taped down.
Spencer fought against the handcuffs binding his wrists, a leather strap between the chain and buckled around a wooden bar at the front of the chair he occupied. Tobias tied a belt around Spencer's bicep and inserted a needle into his arm.
"What are you doing?" At the realisation at what was about to happen, Spencer whimpered. "Don't. Please don't." Tobias offered him a small smile.
"It helps. Don't tell my father. He doesn't know they're here."
"Please. I don't want it." Tears streaked Spencer's dirty face. "I don't want it. Please."
"Trust me. I know."
Spencer was unable to hold back the hot, choked sob that bubbled up in his throat. He knew too well that Dilaudid was not used in executions, though it did nothing to appease his terror in any way, shape, or form. Michaels bent down so that his breath could be felt on Spencer's covered face.
"Your team are here. It's time." Spencer's frame trembled and he pulled weakly at his restraints.
