Chapter 4: What He Wanted
Chapter 4: What He Wanted
If you don’t have a name, what do people call you? I mean, do they just wave and smile, or jingle little silver bells or what?
-Neil Gaiman, Sandman #43, “Brief Lives: 3”
Images flashed across the screens almost faster than he could process them, but one caught his eye. “Wait, stop. Go back.”
She glanced at him before flipping a few pages back, and he leaned forward to study the newspaper article. There was a picture of Reid, Reid the way he looked a few years ago, awkward and geeky and skinny, with the heavy horn-rimmed glasses he’d stopped wearing. “Henkel,” Hotch ground out as he scanned the article. “He was killed by Tobias Henkel?”
Garcia nodded slowly. “Yes. Gideon blamed himself; I think it was the last straw, the final failure that lead him to…” She trailed off, and her eyes darted back to the screen.
“Lead him to what?” Hotch demanded.
She said nothing, merely brought up another article. “Suicide?! I don’t believe it. Gideon would never-” He stopped short, realizing that even the strongest of men sometimes reached a breaking point. Hotch had. “You said Reid’s death was the last straw. What else? Tell me about Morgan.”
She swiveled the chair around to face him. “He was arrested in Chicago only a few months before Reid was taken by Henkel. Apparently he killed three young boys.”
Hotch stared at her in astonishment. “Do you really believe that, Garcia?”
She looked away. Fidgeted. “It doesn’t really matter what I believe, does it?” she asked in a strangely thick voice. “The profile fit. Gideon’s profile. The final nail in his coffin was when a well-respected figure in the community testified against him; he ran the local youth center, and he’d been a sort of surrogate father to Morgan.”
Dark brows drew together over furious, flashing eyes. “Didn’t the team go to Chicago? Didn’t they try to prove Morgan’s innocence?”
“Team? What team?”
“The…the BSU team, Garcia. Morgan’s team.”
Garcia blinked. “It’s not really a team, per se. It’s just…a group. A group of men who go around and interview serial killers, or sometimes present profiles to local law enforcement. You know, separately; there’s no team.”
Now Hotch did stumble. He raised shaking hands to his splitting head. “I don’t understand. How can any of this be?”
“Are you ok? Do you need to sit down? Maybe you could tell me how you know all these people, and why you’re so convinced their lives should be different.”
“You don’t understand, Garcia: their lives are different, or they were. Gideon left the BAU, but he didn’t commit suicide. Morgan didn’t kill those kids, and the team helped prove it. We rescued Reid from Henkel. You were shot, but we found the guy who did it; you were still…you. Not this you, but the real you, with the crazy hair and the bright clothes, the inappropriate comments over speakerphone and the abnormal love of all things shiny.”
She looked away, and something in her eyes tore at his heart. “Your way sounds better,” she admitted softly. “I was shot, but then I was released by the Bureau when they discovered I’d been flagging certain cases at the request of the victims’ families.”
“Yes,” Hotch agreed, “you were doing that. It’s what brought you to your shooter’s attention. He thought you were watching him. Tell me, Garcia: who’s head of the BSU now?”
“David Rossi. He took over after Gideon’s death. But it’s nothing like what you describe. Do you understand that? I don’t know who the hell you are or where you come from, but this world, our world, is not the same as the world you remember.”
He nodded slowly, remembering Elle’s disparaging description of his beloved Unit. “Ok,” he said, normally stoic voice shaking, “one more thing. Show me everything you can about the Boston Reaper.”
“That sicko? Why-” Something about his face stopped her mid-sentence, and she merely turned back to the keyboard and did as he instructed. Article after article flashed on the screens; from what he could gather, it seemed as though there had been no deal; no break. Foyet had been killing for years without being caught, and he’d turned into one of America’s most prolific serial killers.
“Can you…can you get me a list of victims?” Hotch asked.
She nodded and typed a bit; a long list appeared on the main monitor. The senior agent leaned forward to get a closer look, and after a moment he pointed to a name. “There. George Foyet, the Reaper’s only victim to survive. That’s him.”
“That’s who?” she asked blankly.
“George Foyet is the Reaper. He stabbed himself so he could follow the investigation as closely as possible.”
She blinked. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
His mouth was a grim line as he scanned down the list. “I know,” he told her simply.
She started to flip away, but he pressed a hand against her shoulder to stop her. “What does that say?” he asked, pointing. “Tell me what it says.”
Garcia looked back at him curiously, then turned to read the name. “John Reynolds, 1999?”
“No, the next one.”
“Oh. Haley Brooks, 2000. Do you know her?”
“I…yes. I know her. She was my wife.” His voice had gone dead, and when she turned again she saw that his face was ashen and carved with deep, hard lines.
“Your wife? You didn’t know-”
“Foyet killed her yesterday,” he whispered. “Not nine years ago; yesterday. In our bedroom. I killed him with my bare hands.”
“Your hands look fine to me,” she said, and to her credit she didn’t flinch away from the impossibilities he was uttering.
He raised his hands, once again entirely baffled by their unblemished condition. He clenched his fingers into fists; dropped them to his sides like the dead weights they were. “I should…I should go. I’ve bothered you enough,” he muttered.
Her brow creased in concern. “Are you sure that’s wise? You’re a ghost. It’s not safe to go wandering around without an identity, and you seem really confused.”
“No,” he replied, “I need to walk. I need air. I have to clear my head. I feel like I’m in a bad Twilight Zone episode.”
She made a face. “That show is so depressing. Have you ever tried watching a Twilight Zone marathon? You’ll want to slit your wrists by the end of it.”
“Yeah. You think watching it’s bad, try living it.”
“I-” She shook her head, realizing further protests were futile. “Here,” she said, thrusting a tin at him, “at least take some cookies. For the road.”
He stared down at the little tin, then back up at her. “You baked me cookies once before, when I returned to work after Foyet’s attack.”
Garcia offered him a pained little smile. “That sounds like me, I guess. At least the me you remember. I’d like to be that me again.”
“You’re still you, Garcia; you’re the woman who sends a complete stranger a lawyer because he needs help. You’re the woman who offers that same, possibly deranged, stranger cookies because you can’t bear to see someone in pain. The rest is just packaging.”
She looked down, a blush rising in her cheeks. “I think I would’ve liked working for you,” she admitted with a quick, flashing smile.
“I was a bully and a pain in the ass, but I took care of my team. I would never have let this happen to you, Garcia.”
“I believe you. You may be crazy, but for some reason I believe you.”
“Thank you,” he said. He looked down at the cookies; back up at her. “For everything.”
“You’re welcome,” she called after him as he turned and walked away.
I know that was a lot of (rather upsetting) information to throw at you all at once, but I figured Garcia would be the best way for him to find out about the more scattered members of the team. Now, what about J.J. and Prentiss? Guess you'll just have to wait...
Thanks to chiroho for cluing me in on Haley's maiden name. :)