Premeditated Chapter 16b
"Ding!" the facial recognition software sounded the alarm in the tones of a kitchen timer.
Reid looked up from his lap, upon which he had been reading a magazine that he had picked out of the recycling bin in the CCTV control room. The magazine was called "Cosmopolitan". Normally, he would never have read such a thing, but after three hours of alternately sitting on his hands and twiddling his thumbs, he had become so bored that even a vacuous sex-crazed scandal sheet was better than nothing. Besides, the pages were glossy and perfumed, and there were pretty pictures of pretty girls in pretty dresses to commit to memory. He had even taken some of the quizzes. One of them had scored him as "frigid". All across the board, he had been disappointed with the results.
"Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!" the software sounded the alarm for every frame in which it spotted the target.
At the sound, Reid tossed away the magazine and fumbled for the keyboard. Having set the software to automatically analyze the CCTV footage as it streamed in from the falls, he had not considered that the hits would orchestrate a neverending din of dings to alert him. Quickly, as a Pavlovian response to the unwelcome noises, he pressed a button to mute the sound. In the welcome silence, he leaned forwards to gaze studiously into the computer screen.
On the computer screen was a live feed from the main viewpoint above Niagara Falls, and in the live feed was Detective Scott Collier, prowling the area in much the same way that he had done during his heady early days as an impulse-driven predator. Reid wondered what had taken him so long to get to the falls. Had he seriously spent three hours eating breakfast at the diner? Or had he simply waited until after nine, when the CCTV footage would be ready and his doom spelled, to take the absent-minded professor up on one or both of his options? Reid didn't know. Reid didn't care. He picked up his cell phone to call Hotch.
"Yeah, Reid, what is it?" Hotch answered on the second ring.
"Collier's not at home," Reid said.
"I know," Hotch answered. "We just entered the house a few minutes ago. The officers are doing a sweep of a property right now. Collier's not here."
"I know," Reid said. "He's not at home, because he's at the falls."
"What? How do you know?" Hotch asked.
"I'm sitting here in the CCTV control room, watching a live feed of him wandering around the falls," Reid added a hint of panic to his tone. "I don't know what he's doing there. At the moment, there's no one else in the frame, but I'm afraid that someone's going to come by, and Collier's going to push them down the falls. What if he devolves, ditches his M.O., and shoots them instead? I'm going to go over there to stop him."
"No!" Hotch shouted sharply into the phone. "No, Reid, no! You stay put! We're heading over there right now."
"But you're thirty miles away," Reid argued. "By the time you get there, Collier will have racked up several more victims. I can be there in a few minutes, if that."
"Do not, Reid!" Hotch ordered firmly.
"We've got no other choice, Hotch," Reid argued further. "Most of the officers are away on the raid with you. The only two who didn't go responded to a 911 call fifteen minutes ago. I'm the only one left. Don't worry, I'm not going to try to arrest him. I'll make up something about the case. I'll say that the CCTV footage was corrupted or that we're still waiting on the warrants for Terrence Wood. I'll talk to him and keep him occupied until the rest of you show up. Sorry, Hotch, but we've got no other choice! What if he takes me up on one of those options? I knew I shouldn't have mentioned them! It's all my fault that he's out there right now! I've got to go stop him before he kills anyone else. Sorry, Hotch, gotta go..." he hung up, ending the act of promotion.
Dropping his cell phone on the floor, he stood up and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. At the door, he poked his head out and peered both ways before sneaking out of the room, darting through the deserted police station, and rushing into the parking lot, where a lone black SUV, separated from the flock, awaited him.
On the drive towards the falls, a single thought dominated his mind. For several blissful minutes, he drove and thought and parked and thought and ran and thought. He thought about the act of promotion. He thought about his hopes for the future. Hoping against all hope, he hoped that this time, he would finally be caught.
The hopes lasted as long as the drive and as long as the run. They lasted no longer, because as soon as Reid spotted the UnSub leaning over the railing on the trail along the river, all other feelings were driven away by a single overwhelming urge to kill the man and get away, yet again, with yet another act of premeditated murder. In the same hopeless breath, he realized that the act of promotion had been concomitant with the act of obstruction, because the two acts had been one and the same.
"Scott!" Reid called from a distance.
"Dr. Reid, what are you doing here?" Collier turned away from the rushing falling water.
"I came to ask you something," Reid sputtered breathlessly as he approached the railing.
"What? Did something come up with the case?" Collier asked.
"Yeah, something came up," Reid answered. "You know the CCTV footage? The files that were deleted and recovered?"
"Yeah, what about them?" Collier asked anxiously.
"Wood's not in the videos, not a single one," Reid replied. "Not a trace of him in any of the footage. The software gave us zero hits. I had to watch the videos myself. That's why I came down here in such a rush. In the footage, I saw you from all five days that week. You must have been patrolling the falls at the end of your day shift or the beginning of your night shift. Why didn't you tell me that you had patrolled the area on those evenings? I came to ask you if you had seen anyone suspicious at the falls. Maybe the same person from all five days that week?"
"You came all the way down here just to ask me that?" Collier narrowed his eyes. "You could have called me instead."
"I know, I know," Reid nodded, still slightly breathless. "But I wanted to be here to see the look on your face when I asked you if you had seen anyone suspicious. Maybe the same person from all five days that week?"
"What...What do you mean?" Collier stared blankly. "I, I dunno what you're..."
"The look, the look," Reid pointed at Collier's face. "The look that you're giving me right now...I don't know how to describe it exactly. It's like this...It's blank. Yeah, blank. It's like this mixture of sheer horror and utter relief that you're dying to show on your face, but it's not showing, because you're not letting it show, because you're still clinging to your pride or dignity or self-respect or whatever it is that you hold so dear that it's stopping you from telling anyone that you're a killer, but you can stop that now, because you can tell me, because I'm the same as you, because I'm a killer too, and I'm dying to tell someone too."
"Um, are you alright, Doc?" Collier backed away a few paces along the trail towards the falls. "You sound...kind of..."
"Crazy? Maybe, yeah, maybe," Reid squinted in serious consideration. "But that's beside the point. See, I didn't come here to ask you about your crimes. I already know all about your crimes. To be honest, your crimes aren't that interesting to me. The only thing that stands out is the M.O., and even the M.O. isn't that interesting if you consider the fact that, duh, you live and work near Niagara Falls. Why shoot someone if you can push them down the falls instead? It's so much cleaner that way. Plus, you're a big guy. You can push someone over the railing, into the river, and down the falls much more easily than I can. Did you do it from this exact spot? Is that why you came down here, to this exact spot, to take me up on one of those options? I'm curious. Which one did you pick? 'The Angel' or 'The Devil'?"
"I, I don't know what's going on, Doc," Collier replied. "But I think you should go back to the police station. Right now, before any of this goes any further."
"Back to the police station? But I don't want to go back to the police station!" Reid whined. "There's no one there. Everyone's gone off to search your house and arrest you. But you aren't there, because you're here. And they're not here, because they're there. But I'm not there, so I'm here. I'm here to tell you about my crimes. I've got to tell someone about my crimes. I tried to tell my boss, but I failed. I wanted to tell my colleagues, but I didn't even try, because, uh, because, uh, because I'm afraid what they'll think of me if they knew. I'm ashamed of my crimes, and I hate myself for committing them! I can't bring myself to tell my friends and colleagues, so I'm going to tell you instead. You're the only person I can tell, so I'd appreciate it if you'd hear me out, alright?"
"What...What crimes are you talking about?" Collier frowned deeply.
"Mine!" Reid tapped his chest. "Not yours, but mine! As I said, I don't care about your crimes. But you can still tell me yours after I tell you mine. This is called reciprocity, or 'Tit for Tat'. I'll confess my crimes to you. You'll confess your crimes to me. Afterwards, we'll both feel better about ourselves."
"Ahem," Reid cleared his throat to begin. "My name is Spencer Reid. I am 29 years old. In my life, I have killed a total of eight people. Each person is a data point on a plot of saving people vs. killing people. Saving people is on the x-axis, and killing people is on the y-axis. Is that clear, Detective?"
"One of them I killed because I had to. That's (100, 0) on the plot. One of them I killed because I had to and wanted to. That's (50, 50) on the plot. Three of them I killed because first, I had to, then second, I had to and wanted to, then third, I wanted to. Those are (100, 0), (50, 50), and (0, 100) on the plot. Remember the three muggers in the alley in the rain? The first one I killed as an impulse-driven predator, but also because I had to, the third one I killed as a purpose-driven predator, but not because I had to, and the second one I killed as...I don't know...50-50? For the muggers, I can plot them as a forest - (0, 100) - or as trees - (100, 0), (50, 50), and (0, 100). Both datasets are accurate if you think about it. Isn't that cool? My plot has self-similarity. It's a fractal. It continues with the prostitutes. Three of them I killed because first, I wanted to, then second, I wanted to and had to, then third, I had to. Those are (0, 100), (50, 50), and (100, 0) on the plot. The first one I killed because I wanted to, but I didn't know that I had to, the second one I killed because I wanted to, but I also knew that I had to, and the third one I killed because I had to, to save JJ and to keep JJ safe. For the prostitutes, as for the muggers, I can plot them as (50, 50) or as (0, 100), (50, 50), and (100, 0). Isn't that cool? Still a fractal. Finally, I tried to kill a ninth person, but I failed. Him I tried to kill because I had to, not because I wanted to. On the plot, that would have been (100, 0), but I failed, so the plot is incomplete."
"Why are you telling me this?" Collier backed away a few more paces.
"Why am I telling you this?" Reid scurried forwards to follow. "I told you why! Several times! Do you have a short-term memory problem? Don't answer that. I don't care. Just shut up and let me tell you about my crimes, alright?"
"The first person I killed because I had to," Reid continued. "Let me tell you about the good and bad parts of the killing. The good part was that I killed him. It was good that I killed him, because he was an UnSub, holding me and a bunch of other people hostage at a hospital, so I shot him in the head, straight through the head," he pointed at Collier's forehead. "The bad part was that I killed him. For the first time ever, I killed. I tasted the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and although it wasn't forbidden to me, because I was an angel, not a man, it was still delicious. Not only was it delicious, but it also made me feel good. Do you know what kind of good it made me feel? It made me feel powerful. For the first time ever, I felt powerful. Do you know what it's like to feel powerful? Of course you do! You're a killer, just like me. All killers feel powerful, but the feelings don't always last. In my case, they didn't last. Do you know why they didn't last? Because I didn't let them last. What kind of person feels powerful after shooting and killing someone, even an UnSub who deserved to die? My feelings were all wrong, so I felt them, then drove them away, all within the span of an hour. During that hour, I felt so powerful that I told my boss, who had spent the entire hostage crisis telling the UnSub how much he hated me, but not nearly as much as he's going to hate me once he finds out about my crimes, that he kicked like a nine-year-old girl, and he admitted it too, but only to humor me, because he and I both knew that he didn't kick like a nine-year-old girl, because he kicked like an FBI agent. I kick like a nine-year-old girl, but I shouldn't kick like a nine-year-old girl, because I'm an FBI agent. Do you know why I became an FBI agent?"
"No, no idea," Collier shook his head and stared.
"I could have done anything I wanted with my life," Reid said. "I could have done a lot of good in my life, but I chose not to. I was born with unlimited potential. I could have cured diseases and launched rockets in the same breath, like, uh, like, uh, like Louis Pasteur and Wernher von Braun in one, but I chose not to. Instead, I joined the BAU and became an FBI agent, the youngest ever, just because I wanted to feel powerful. It's pathetic, isn't it? I'm pathetic, aren't I? But there's a reason behind it all, and it all makes sense, because growing up as I had, the youngest whatever, the smallest whatever, power was the one thing I didn't have. Well, one thing among many things, but this isn't a sob story, so I won't bore you with the details. You know that most children don't grow up to become serial killers unless they had some kind of bad childhood, right? In my case...Oh, sorry, details...Anyway, I became an FBI agent to satisfy a pathetic urge to feel powerful, and it didn't take me long to get my wish. Do you know how I felt after I got my wish?"
"No idea," Collier continued shaking his head and staring.
"I felt terrible!" Reid exclaimed. "I hated myself for getting my wish. I hated myself for feeling powerful, even for an hour outside the hospital, so I drove away my feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. For a few hours, it was a relief to feel nothing, but then, on the plane ride home, I realized that I should have been feeling something. Something, but what? I didn't know. Should I have felt guilt? I didn't know. Should I have felt guilt for killing an UnSub who had his assault rifle set on full auto and was going to go down squeezing the trigger if he didn't get the headshot that he deserved? I didn't know! Why didn't I know? Because I should have felt something, not known things! But why couldn't I feel anything? Because I had driven away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong! But why did I do that? Because I didn't want to feel powerful! But why didn't I want that? Because if I felt powerful once, then I might want to feel powerful again! But why didn't I want that? Because if I wanted to feel powerful again, then I might want to kill again!"
"You...You, you, you are crazy," Collier shifted his eyes between the trees and the river as he edged away from Reid.
"Maybe, yeah, maybe," Reid nodded. "But that's beside the point. See, I came here to tell you about my crimes. They go from good to bad to worse. The second person I killed because I had to and wanted to. The good part was that I killed him. It was good that I killed him, because he was an UnSub, holding me hostage at a graveyard, so I shot him in the heart, straight through the heart," he pointed at Collier's chest. "The bad part...Well, there were so many bad parts that I don't even know where to start. I'll start with the worst part. The worst part was that I chose to kill him. Well, actually, before I chose to kill him, then killed him, he made me choose who to kill, but I didn't, because I chose who not to kill, but that's not the worst part, because he, not I, was the one who killed them, so the worst part came after I chose who not to kill, then who to kill, because by that time, it wasn't a big deal for me to choose who to kill, then to choose to kill, then to kill, so that was the worst part, that I killed and also chose to kill, and that I had to and also wanted to kill, because I wanted to kill someone, anyone, after feeling so powerless during those two days with those fish guts in that cabin, all because I had wanted to impress JJ with my FBI sleuthing skills, but instead ended up running around the farm like a puppy chasing its tail, and intellectually, I thought that he deserved to die, but emotionally, I didn't feel that he deserved to die, and my feelings were all wrong again, because all the others both thought and felt that he deserved to die. The first time I killed, I killed and felt powerful. The second time I killed, I killed to feel powerful. The first time, I found out what it was like to kill, to have to kill. The second time, I found out what it was like to choose to kill, to want to kill. Afterwards, I felt even more terrible, and I hated myself even more, so I did the same thing that I did before. I drove away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, but I knew things! I knew that I wanted to feel powerful again. I knew that I wanted to kill again. I knew that I would choose to kill, then kill, again."
"But you only, uh, killed these people, because they were, um, UnSubs, right?" Collier asked nervously.
"Yeah," Reid nodded, conceding the point. "But I still killed them, and afterwards, I still felt the wrong feelings and thought the wrong thoughts. Oh, I've spent so much time telling you about my feelings that were all wrong that I haven't had time to tell you about my thoughts that were all wrong! Basically, my thoughts that were all wrong consisted of thinking that I should have felt the feelings that I thought were right but were actually wrong. I thought that I should have felt guilt for shooting and killing someone, even an UnSub who deserved to die, but I shouldn't have felt any guilt at all, because I had only shot and killed an UnSub who deserved to die. Then, because I thought that I should have felt the feelings that I thought were right, I did feel the feelings that I thought were right, but they were actually wrong, because they followed the thoughts that were wrong. It was like starting a chain of reasoning with a false assumption. So that was why I felt guilt for feeling no guilt, and that was why I felt more guilt for all the bad things that I did after that, and that was why I did more bad things after that, and that was why I felt more guilt for doing them, and that was why I felt more and more and more terrible, and that was why I hated myself more and more and more, and that was why I became more and more and more reckless, until I started walking in front of firing squads and into anthrax houses, and that was why I eventually chose to kill, then kill, again. Is that clear, Detective? Do you have any questions for me?"
"Uh, um..."
"Nothing?" Reid sighed in disappointment. "I've told you all about my thoughts and feelings that were all wrong, and you don't have a single question for me? Here, let me help you right the wrong. What you should have said was, 'Yeah, Doc, I have a question for you.' Go ahead, Detective, what's your question? 'So, Doc, why did you wait so long before you chose to kill, then killed, again?' Well, Detective, I waited so long, because I wanted to be good again. 'But, Doc, why did you want to be good again?' Well, Detective, I wanted to be good again, because I had been so bad for so long that I was ashamed of being bad, so I wanted to be good instead. After the second time I killed, I did some other bad things, like using and abusing narcotics when I could have gotten high on Tylenol instead, but at the time, I didn't know that I could have gotten high on Tylenol, so I used and abused narcotics instead, but then, I felt so bad about taking drugs, drugs, and more drugs that I started attending meetings that bored me out of my mind, and during those meetings, I didn't even have magazines with pictures to memorize and quizzes to fail, but in the end, the meetings were good for me, because they helped me quit the drugs, and I felt that I was good the whole time that I was attending the meetings and quitting the drugs, even though I had to lie and claim that I had been going to the movies instead, and even though it made me feel like a total loser to admit to going to the movies alone."
"'But, Doc, after you were good again, why did you go from good to bad to worse?' Come on, Detective, once I had tasted the fruit, how long could I have gone without wanting to taste it again? 'Come on yourself, Doc, that's not much of an answer.' Shut up, Detective, didn't I tell you that I wasn't going to bore you with the details? 'But, Doc, I want you to bore me with the details, because I'm a killer too, just like you, and killers are always interested in other killers, because killers always believe that other killers will be able to tell them why they had all chosen to kill, then killed, again and again and again.' Fine, Detective, I'm going to bore you with a few of the details, but you have to ask the question again."
"'So, Doc, after you were good again, why did you go from good to bad to worse?' Well, Detective, I had a dream. I had a dream in which I killed an old man, twice and not at all, and as usual, I conflated reality with fantasy. Intellectually, I knew that I had killed the old man in fantasy, but emotionally, I felt that I had killed the old man in reality. As usual, my feelings were all wrong, because in the dream, after I had killed the old man and dumped the body and evaded the authorities, I felt relief, then happiness, then excitement, and I knew that what I had felt in fantasy was what I would feel in reality were I to choose to kill, then kill, again. So that's what I did. I gave in to temptation. I chose to kill, then killed, again."
"'Wow, Doc, you can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy? What are you, some kinda nut or something?' Well, Detective, I'm not officially crazy, not yet, but I do have a habit of conflating reality with fantasy. That's the price I pay for being me. Everyday, I conflate reality with fantasy in one form or another, because for me, everything, every single thing, whether it came from myself, the others, or the world, is recorded to my undeletable files on my unreformatable hard drive, so everything, every single thing, is retained in its full glory, until I've got so many things bouncing around in my mind that I can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not, and between what I did and thought and felt and what I didn't do and think and feel, and every second of everyday, even while I'm asleep, new things pop up and into my mind to bounce around with everything that's already there, and all the things react with each other to produce more things, and all the things come together in an infinite number of combinations to create an infinite number of worlds, each as rich and vibrant as the one world I live in, and all the worlds make sense or can be made sense of, so yes, I am becoming, in effect, crazy, without becoming officially crazy for some good reason like becoming the paranoid schizophrenic that I've always feared but now wish to become, because at least that would get me committed to the loony bin and keep the others and the world safe from me."
"You, you, you really need help, Dr. Reid, but I'm not the one to help you," Collier held up his hands. "Please leave me alone, OK? Please go back to the police station. Aren't you cold? You're not wearing a coat...You're going to freeze to death out here. It's like...20 degrees out here. I don't know what you want from me, but I can't help you, OK?"
"Sure you can," Reid drew his gun. "You can help me conflate reality with fantasy again," he aimed his gun at the detective, who glanced briefly at his own gun before freezing his hands into place on either side of his head. "See, after I gave in to temptation, I chose to kill, then killed, six more people. I killed the muggers. I killed the prostitutes. None of them were UnSubs. During the killings, I did feel in reality what I had felt in fantasy. I felt the feelings that were all wrong. In reality, I felt them in reverse order as I had felt them in fantasy. Right before the killings, I felt excited. During the killings, I felt happy. Right after the killings, I felt relieved. The whole time, I felt powerful. My feelings were all wrong, so I drove them away. I drove away both my feelings that were all wrong and my ability to feel feelings that were all wrong. Afterwards, I felt nothing. For feeling nothing, I hated myself, so much, so much, so much, that I, I, uh, it's, it's, uh, hard for me to tell you this, so I'll just let you ask me a question, and I'll answer your question, alright?"
"'But, Doc, after you killed all these people, even more people than I killed, what did you do then?' Shut up, Detective, I'm not going to tell you what I did then. It's none of your business what I did then. What you should have asked was, 'But, Doc, after you killed all these people, even more people than I killed, and after you did whatever you did then, what are you going to do now?' Well, Detective, I don't know. (100, 0) or (0, 100)? It could go either way. 'The Angel' or 'The Devil'? It could go either way."
"Look, uh, I, I didn't kill anyone, really I didn't," Collier stammered. "Please, please put the gun away. I'll come with you to the police station, OK? You, you can arrest me if you want, OK? Just put the gun away, please."
"I told you, Detective, I don't want to go back to the police station!" Reid snapped. "Do you have a short-term memory problem? Don't answer that. I don't care. See, I came here to tell you about my crimes, then to complete the profile. I should have completed the profile a week ago, but I didn't, because in order to complete the profile, I had to kill myself to keep the others safe from me, just like I killed the UnSubs to keep myself and the others safe from them. Last week, I tried to kill myself. I tried! I did try! I tried to kill myself, but I failed. I tried to confess, but I failed. Why did I fail to confess? Because I didn't want the others to hate me as much as I hated myself! Why did I fail to kill myself? Because, uh, because, uh, because I didn't want to kill myself! Had I succeeded, that data point would have been (100, 0) - 100% saving others, 0% killing myself, killing because I had to, not because I wanted to, an act of love, not an act of hate, 'The Angel', not 'The Devil'! So, because I tried and failed to kill myself, I'm going to try to kill you, but I don't know if I'm going to succeed or fail, because at the same time, you're going to try to kill me, and whoever squeezes the trigger faster will live, and whoever squeezes the trigger slower will die, alright? This time, I'm going to leave it all up to chance. Failure or success. 'The Angel' or 'The Devil'. (100, 0) or (0, 100). Self or other. An act of love or an act of hate. Reality and fantasy. Conflation. If I succeed, then intellectually, I'm going to know that I killed you in reality, but emotionally, I'm going to feel that I killed me in fantasy. If I fail, then intellectually, I'm going to know that you killed me in reality, but emotionally, I'm going to feel that I killed me in fantasy. Either way, what I will feel in fantasy is what I want to feel in reality. I'm going to feel excited, then happy, then relieved. The whole time, I'm going to feel powerless, not powerful, because I'm going to leave it all up to chance. Chance, not choice! Is that clear, Detective? What do you think, Detective? Good or bad?"
Reid stopped, breathless but well. His hands shook as he held the gun, but from cold rather than emotion. He looked at Collier, whose hands shook as well, but from emotion rather than cold.
"Scott," Reid addressed the detective by name. "I want to you follow my directions exactly, one by one. I want you to do exactly what I tell you, no more and no less. Alright?"
Collier nodded quickly.
"Draw your gun, but don't aim it at me," Reid ordered.
Collier drew his gun and aimed it downwards, at the ground.
"Aim your gun at me, but don't put your finger on the trigger," Reid ordered.
Collier aimed his gun at Reid, without putting his finger on the trigger.
"Put your finger on the trigger, but don't squeeze the trigger," Reid ordered.
Collier put his finger on the trigger, burning flesh against freezing metal, without squeezing the trigger.
"Squeeze the trigger," Reid ordered.
Collier hesitated, then flexed his finger to squeeze the trigger. In the moment of hesitation that was the fundamental difference between the two killers - the one who had been caught and the one who had not, the one who could kill and the one who could not, the one for whom the bagpipes would be played and the one for whom they would not - Reid squeezed the trigger. The two shots sounded above the noise of rushing falling water, one conflating with the other as they rang out and faded away. One bullet whizzed through the air and missed its target, hitting a tree branch in the far distance. Another whizzed through less air and hit its target, penetrating a heart and kicking a brain into a frantic quest to let go of living, as a finger, dying, then dead, squeezed a trigger to send a bullet into a tree branch in the far distance.
Eventually, after a second in both reality and fantasy, Reid aimed the revolver, cocked the hammer, and squeezed the trigger again. Excited, happy, relieved. After another second, he did it again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Another, and again. Excited, happy, relieved. Powerful.
In total, Reid squeezed the trigger six times. Six times - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Six targets - UnSub, UnSub, muggers, prostitutes, UnSub, UnSub. Six points - (100, 0), (50, 50), (0, 100), (50, 50), (100, 0), (0, 100). Intellectually, he knew that he had killed Detective Scott Collier in reality, but emotionally, he felt that he had killed SSA Dr. Spencer Reid in fantasy. The plot was complete. The profile was complete. The fall was complete. All that remained was a tabula rasa, upon which he could live however he chose to live.
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