Criminal Minds: Trompe L'oeil (part 13)
Part 1 Part 7
Part 2 Part 8
Part 3 Part 9
Part 4 Part 10
Part 5 Part 11
Part 6 Part 12
~ (part thirteen) ~
The police chief is, at the very least, acting like he trusts them. He seems to understand the uniqueness of his position. The jurisdiction of the case is in FBI hands. It was before he'd ever heard of it. But his town is under siege-three women missing and an officer down. He's not wasting time questioning their methodology or objectives. He's coordinating, and supporting, and waiting, but Hotch can tell he's worried.
Anyone would be.
The police station itself is tense with waiting, battening the hatches against the potential storm. His own team showing the wear. Rough in places, like fraying wire.
Across the station, in the conference room they've taken over, Morgan and Prentiss are moving files around the table with silent intent. Reid is bent sideways in a chair by the wall, one elbow pressed down over a map, fingers laced through the front of his hair.
The ghost Hotch sees sitting next to him feels too real. Form and substance. Waiting chessboard and calm expression.
"My men are still canvassing the street," the police chief says. "With what they've found so far, no one saw anyone up in that apartment. Ms. Poe's been down in Buena Vista for the past week at another gallery she owns, and her husband's in Denver for the day. Worse, he doesn't have a cell phone."
Hotch shifts. "When does she expect him to return?"
"According to her, just sometime today. I have uniforms waiting back at the store. They'll bring him here when he arrives."
"Thank you," Hotch says, running a finger across the back edge of his eyebrow as he turns his head to scan the room. There are four entrances into the building. Two stay locked to the outside. The others are monitored by police aids.
A wide window runs along the east wall where Rossi and JJ are standing. Too exposed. Behind them, hints of an actual storm can be seen far off in the distance and the hairs on the back of Hotch's neck whisper in protest.
"Is the husband a suspect?"
Hotch shakes his head, changing his eyeline. "No. It goes against the profile, but he may have information that can help. We should locate him as soon as possible."
The chief lifts his eyebrow, questioning.
"The unsub wouldn't be married," Hotch explains. "At least not currently."
"Okay. What about the kids from the coffee shop? You want me to still keep them in custody?"
"They're not under any suspicion, but I would keep them here if you can. The unsub has a tendency to double back and they could both be targets." It's paranoia in excess, but Hotch doesn't want to let loose pawns in a game where he can't see the whole board.
"Hotch," calls JJ, moving away from the window. "We're ready."
~
In front of the whiteboard, Hotch clears his throat, drawing focus from the uneasy rigidity outside the room they've claimed. "We have to stop treating this unsub like he has the higher ground," he begins. "He has us thinking he's some kind of ghost and it's time for that to stop. All the second guessing we've been doing stops now."
Reid shifts on his chair, creaking metal against polished concrete as he drops his gaze, pale hand rubbing at his eye. To Morgan, he looks worse now than he did right after the explosion. Limbs wilted, words and thoughts averted to some distant space. He's not shaking anymore, not with the same intensity, but everything else about him seems wrecked.
"He's studied our methods," Hotch's voice continues. "That's apparent. He knows us-yes. But we know him better. Better than he knows himself and escalation to this level doesn't come without leaving a trace. Somewhere in the last 24 hours he's told us who he is. We need to figure out where."
"Gideon always told us our best weapon is a thorough and accurate profile," Reid says, lifting his eyes from the table.
Hotch looks towards him, silent, mouth closed.
Morgan flicks his gaze between the two and sees Rossi do the same.
"He's right," Hotch says, an instant later. "Everything. We need to fill in everything we have. Everything we've learned since coming here."
Fighting the taunt of unease still locking down his jaw, Morgan breathes, shutting out the bitter smell of smoke still sticking to his skin. "He used a bomb," he supplies. "We never profiled for that."
He's trying not to think backward, trying not to think in should haves, but it's still bothering him. Along with his jacked knee and the pulse he can feel beating through the cut on his forehead. All his experience working ATF bomb squads and he'd nearly walked half the team into oblivion.
Hotch folds his arms, the joints of his suit jacket wrinkling finely. "Sometimes it's what they don't do," he mumbles, meeting Morgan's eyes. "You said the explosive was rigged more for smoke than fire. The unsub didn't intend the blast to kill."
"No," agrees Rossi, moving away from the wall. There's a scrape through his goatee, darkening the skin below his lip. "He just intended to remind us he's still ahead of us. It's theatrics. He's like a puppet master, lurking in the shadows, watching the chaos he creates."
"Watching," says Prentiss, looking at Reid. "You could see that smoke for a hundred miles. Wherever he was, he wanted to be sure he saw it."
JJ hooks an elbow on the table, eyes gliding momentarily to the drawing of herself, tacked to the left of the actual victims. Like faded photographs. Like past and present and future tense. "We do know he's watching," she says.
Looking away from the picture, Morgan leans back and drags his notebook closer, the smudged bandage on his forearm is harsh against the clean paper. "Okay, so he's watching." He breathes. "But setting an explosive like that just to see it from a distance? To know we figured out where he was watching us from when we got into town? To taunt us? Whatever his game with us is, you gotta think there might have been simpler ways to accomplish all three. Going from up close and personal serial killer to setting explosives? It doesn't track. There's gotta be more to it."
"Alright." Prentiss folds her hands and rocks forward. "What does precedent tell us about someone who sets explosives?"
"That it can be for a number of reasons," answers JJ. "Vandalism, make a statement, intimidate, terrorize. At this point, the unsub could fit any of those, couldn't he?"
"It's almost overkill," says Reid.
At that, Prentiss lifts her head a little, looking at the others. "Which begs the question, what did we do to this guy? He wants to show he's smarter than us, he needs the ego boost, I get it, but he's gone to the extreme to show us how much better than us he is. Why?"
Pacing to the right, Rossi stops, rubbing a hand over the scab in his goatee, looking at the drawings and the media fallout stacked in folders below. "Why does anyone push for attention? We ignored him," he says.
"So the explosive was to make sure he has our attention?" asks JJ.
"He already has our attention," reminds Morgan.
Hotch frowns, stepping closer to Rossi, peering over the layout on the board. "Maybe our attention isn't enough," he says, tapping a finger over his chin as he unfolds his arms. "Call Garcia, we need her in on this. And we need a list of everyone who's rented that space. He's smart enough not to give us blatant access to his identity, so I doubt he's one of them, but if it is overkill, maybe we weren't the only target."
Morgan's about to comment on that when his cell starts to buzz across the table. "Speak of the devil," he says, pressing the button that will put Garcia on speaker. "We were just about to call you. Talk to us, angel wings."
"Are you guys okay?"
Reid turns his head, rubbing again at his eye. Morgan exchanges a glance with Rossi, clears his throat, and refocuses on the phone. "Yeah, Garcia. We're fine."
"All of you? Really, actually okay?"
"Garcia, we're good. What's up?"
"Get me on video link," she orders. Her words are agitated, frustrated and worried, but hearing her voice settles something inside him, nerves throughout his body uncoiling in response. He's never known how she does that. Closing his eyes, he presses fingers to the bridge of his nose and lets his muscles loosen.
Prentiss moves the laptop over, pushing it to the middle of the table. "Connecting you now, Garcia."
When Morgan opens his eyes again, detailed irritation is sitting before him in megapixel clarity. "If you guys are okay, then why, why on earth would you let me hear about this on a news feed?" Garcia bends her head down and the screen changes. Footage of smoke rising from the art gallery falls into view, shifting angles at intervals to capture the full aftermath of the explosion.
JJ stands, glancing over at Hotch. "Garcia, you got this off a news feed? Is this national?"
"Not yet. Currently, it is statewide breaking news, but the headline of Small Tourist Town Seized By Serial Killer Who Sets Bombs is kind of an attention getter, and I'd say it's only a matter of time."
"Is that what they're reporting?" asks Hotch.
"Colorado Five has the lead in. They're saying they don't know who's actually responsible for the explosion, but a letter was hand delivered to their office, indicating the unsub may be claiming responsibility. No actual verification on that though, and no report on what was actually in the letter. Also, no description of the guy who delivered it. And wait, it gets worse. They're reporting that in conjunction with the bombing, an officer was critically injured during an abduction at the hospital this morning, where, and I quote-Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid was recovering after being poisoned by the killer."
Reid stiffens, eyebrows drawing up as he glances to Hotch.
"Garcia," Morgan says, sitting straighter. "They used his name?"
"They used his name."
JJ palms her phone off the table and starts dialing. As she leaves the room, Morgan hears an opaque voice pick up the line on the other end, and the beginning of JJ's diplomatic rebuke-I thought we were clear that if you had any contact at all you would let us know. Obstruction isn't…
"We knew he'd be upset that what he did to Reid didn't make the papers," reminds Prentiss.
"So he made sure it did." Looking at Hotch, Rossi adds, "You were right. Our attention isn't enough."
Hotch stands motionless a moment, a considering expression on his face. Morgan's about to ask what he's thinking, but Hotch speaks first. "Keep going on the profile," he orders, then follows JJ out the door.
~
The TV screen across the bullpen is tuned to the footage, drawing the majority of the focus in the room. The gallery owner is sitting with an officer at a desk near the wall, presumably reviewing her statement, now distracted by the images of her gallery on fire.
"We need to do something about this?" the chief asks, moving to meet him.
"Yes," Hotch says. "We're going to need you to make a statement to the press. Primarily, we're going to need you to reiterate the profile we released earlier, and the safety precautions we've laid out for the public. Agent Jareau will help you. We'll know better what we need you to say when we know more about what information they have."
"Hotch," JJ says, closing her phone and coming over. "The letter seems legit. They're faxing a copy now and sending someone over with the original. And Garcia was right. No one seems to have a description of the person that dropped it off. It was found on the news desk in a manilla envelope marked urgent."
"And the press?"
"They're killing the information he put in about Reid for the next broadcast, and for anything that goes national, but they're running with the rest of it."
Hotch sighs. "Okay. We need to put together a press release from the police department. He wants Reid's name read. We're not going to give him that."
"I'm on it," she says, stepping away. "Chief Harris, I think we should use your office, and, if you can, pull the investigator who read the previous statement. He should join us."
The chief nods, following after throwing a final glance at Hotch.
Hotch stares after. Beyond them, he can see the storm has moved farther across the sky. The wind is picking up, whipping the tree outside the wide window side to side. As he watches, it springs back towards the building, branches knocking against glass with a sharp thwap. Turning away, he steps left into an empty hallway, the only light within coming from a lone, droning water cooler and an emergency exit sign. Fumbling for one of the triangle paper cups sitting at the cooler's edge, he drinks, swallowing slowly before crushing the cup into the trash.
When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, he thinks. Arthur Conan Doyle.
Sherlock Holmes.
Pressing two fingers to his forehead, he sighs.
Contrary to what Rossi may think, he doesn't spend a lot of time consciously thinking about Jason Gideon, but every once in a while he sees his long shadow flickering in the eyes of his team members, even Rossi's. And sometimes, when he looks at Jack, he remembers Haley being pregnant, bantering about naming him Gideon Hotchner.
Gideon. Mighty warrior.
Hotch remembers a lot from those baby naming books.
Aaron means mountain of strength.
Spencer means dispenser. With all the information Reid gives out, somehow it fits.
And, like Reid, Hotch remembers the things Gideon used to say, his lessons on profiling, the authors he used to quote.
Pouring another cup of water, Hotch closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Rossi is watching.
"What is it?" asks Hotch.
"Don't you second guess yourself either," Rossi says.
"What do you mean?"
Rossi steps closer, a near mirror to Hotch's stance. "This morning at the hotel, when we were talking about Gideon, you said you kept thinking something, but you never told me what. Whatever it is, you're still thinking it. Want to tell me now?"
Hotch looks down the hallway to where the team is persisting in the profile, reviewing everything, just one more time. Looking for all the missing pieces.
After a minute, he looks back at Rossi. "I've been thinking this is the kind of case Gideon would have excelled at, and this unsub knows us too well."
~
tbc
~
Apologies for the delay. I’ve been on the road and off the grid and just about everywhere in between. Also, striking the right tone in this section killed me. And the pacing. Even the character voice seemed a bit of a struggle, and that line between being too obvious and too subtle. The good news is, because this chapter was bothering me, I skipped over it and kept going, and the rest of the fic is nearly (nearly) shined to completion. The bad news is, though I just came in, I’m already on my way out. I leave tomorrow, traveling through the next three weeks. After that, I do hope to catch up quickly.
Part 2 Part 8
Part 3 Part 9
Part 4 Part 10
Part 5 Part 11
Part 6 Part 12
~ (part thirteen) ~
The police chief is, at the very least, acting like he trusts them. He seems to understand the uniqueness of his position. The jurisdiction of the case is in FBI hands. It was before he'd ever heard of it. But his town is under siege-three women missing and an officer down. He's not wasting time questioning their methodology or objectives. He's coordinating, and supporting, and waiting, but Hotch can tell he's worried.
Anyone would be.
The police station itself is tense with waiting, battening the hatches against the potential storm. His own team showing the wear. Rough in places, like fraying wire.
Across the station, in the conference room they've taken over, Morgan and Prentiss are moving files around the table with silent intent. Reid is bent sideways in a chair by the wall, one elbow pressed down over a map, fingers laced through the front of his hair.
The ghost Hotch sees sitting next to him feels too real. Form and substance. Waiting chessboard and calm expression.
"My men are still canvassing the street," the police chief says. "With what they've found so far, no one saw anyone up in that apartment. Ms. Poe's been down in Buena Vista for the past week at another gallery she owns, and her husband's in Denver for the day. Worse, he doesn't have a cell phone."
Hotch shifts. "When does she expect him to return?"
"According to her, just sometime today. I have uniforms waiting back at the store. They'll bring him here when he arrives."
"Thank you," Hotch says, running a finger across the back edge of his eyebrow as he turns his head to scan the room. There are four entrances into the building. Two stay locked to the outside. The others are monitored by police aids.
A wide window runs along the east wall where Rossi and JJ are standing. Too exposed. Behind them, hints of an actual storm can be seen far off in the distance and the hairs on the back of Hotch's neck whisper in protest.
"Is the husband a suspect?"
Hotch shakes his head, changing his eyeline. "No. It goes against the profile, but he may have information that can help. We should locate him as soon as possible."
The chief lifts his eyebrow, questioning.
"The unsub wouldn't be married," Hotch explains. "At least not currently."
"Okay. What about the kids from the coffee shop? You want me to still keep them in custody?"
"They're not under any suspicion, but I would keep them here if you can. The unsub has a tendency to double back and they could both be targets." It's paranoia in excess, but Hotch doesn't want to let loose pawns in a game where he can't see the whole board.
"Hotch," calls JJ, moving away from the window. "We're ready."
~
In front of the whiteboard, Hotch clears his throat, drawing focus from the uneasy rigidity outside the room they've claimed. "We have to stop treating this unsub like he has the higher ground," he begins. "He has us thinking he's some kind of ghost and it's time for that to stop. All the second guessing we've been doing stops now."
Reid shifts on his chair, creaking metal against polished concrete as he drops his gaze, pale hand rubbing at his eye. To Morgan, he looks worse now than he did right after the explosion. Limbs wilted, words and thoughts averted to some distant space. He's not shaking anymore, not with the same intensity, but everything else about him seems wrecked.
"He's studied our methods," Hotch's voice continues. "That's apparent. He knows us-yes. But we know him better. Better than he knows himself and escalation to this level doesn't come without leaving a trace. Somewhere in the last 24 hours he's told us who he is. We need to figure out where."
"Gideon always told us our best weapon is a thorough and accurate profile," Reid says, lifting his eyes from the table.
Hotch looks towards him, silent, mouth closed.
Morgan flicks his gaze between the two and sees Rossi do the same.
"He's right," Hotch says, an instant later. "Everything. We need to fill in everything we have. Everything we've learned since coming here."
Fighting the taunt of unease still locking down his jaw, Morgan breathes, shutting out the bitter smell of smoke still sticking to his skin. "He used a bomb," he supplies. "We never profiled for that."
He's trying not to think backward, trying not to think in should haves, but it's still bothering him. Along with his jacked knee and the pulse he can feel beating through the cut on his forehead. All his experience working ATF bomb squads and he'd nearly walked half the team into oblivion.
Hotch folds his arms, the joints of his suit jacket wrinkling finely. "Sometimes it's what they don't do," he mumbles, meeting Morgan's eyes. "You said the explosive was rigged more for smoke than fire. The unsub didn't intend the blast to kill."
"No," agrees Rossi, moving away from the wall. There's a scrape through his goatee, darkening the skin below his lip. "He just intended to remind us he's still ahead of us. It's theatrics. He's like a puppet master, lurking in the shadows, watching the chaos he creates."
"Watching," says Prentiss, looking at Reid. "You could see that smoke for a hundred miles. Wherever he was, he wanted to be sure he saw it."
JJ hooks an elbow on the table, eyes gliding momentarily to the drawing of herself, tacked to the left of the actual victims. Like faded photographs. Like past and present and future tense. "We do know he's watching," she says.
Looking away from the picture, Morgan leans back and drags his notebook closer, the smudged bandage on his forearm is harsh against the clean paper. "Okay, so he's watching." He breathes. "But setting an explosive like that just to see it from a distance? To know we figured out where he was watching us from when we got into town? To taunt us? Whatever his game with us is, you gotta think there might have been simpler ways to accomplish all three. Going from up close and personal serial killer to setting explosives? It doesn't track. There's gotta be more to it."
"Alright." Prentiss folds her hands and rocks forward. "What does precedent tell us about someone who sets explosives?"
"That it can be for a number of reasons," answers JJ. "Vandalism, make a statement, intimidate, terrorize. At this point, the unsub could fit any of those, couldn't he?"
"It's almost overkill," says Reid.
At that, Prentiss lifts her head a little, looking at the others. "Which begs the question, what did we do to this guy? He wants to show he's smarter than us, he needs the ego boost, I get it, but he's gone to the extreme to show us how much better than us he is. Why?"
Pacing to the right, Rossi stops, rubbing a hand over the scab in his goatee, looking at the drawings and the media fallout stacked in folders below. "Why does anyone push for attention? We ignored him," he says.
"So the explosive was to make sure he has our attention?" asks JJ.
"He already has our attention," reminds Morgan.
Hotch frowns, stepping closer to Rossi, peering over the layout on the board. "Maybe our attention isn't enough," he says, tapping a finger over his chin as he unfolds his arms. "Call Garcia, we need her in on this. And we need a list of everyone who's rented that space. He's smart enough not to give us blatant access to his identity, so I doubt he's one of them, but if it is overkill, maybe we weren't the only target."
Morgan's about to comment on that when his cell starts to buzz across the table. "Speak of the devil," he says, pressing the button that will put Garcia on speaker. "We were just about to call you. Talk to us, angel wings."
"Are you guys okay?"
Reid turns his head, rubbing again at his eye. Morgan exchanges a glance with Rossi, clears his throat, and refocuses on the phone. "Yeah, Garcia. We're fine."
"All of you? Really, actually okay?"
"Garcia, we're good. What's up?"
"Get me on video link," she orders. Her words are agitated, frustrated and worried, but hearing her voice settles something inside him, nerves throughout his body uncoiling in response. He's never known how she does that. Closing his eyes, he presses fingers to the bridge of his nose and lets his muscles loosen.
Prentiss moves the laptop over, pushing it to the middle of the table. "Connecting you now, Garcia."
When Morgan opens his eyes again, detailed irritation is sitting before him in megapixel clarity. "If you guys are okay, then why, why on earth would you let me hear about this on a news feed?" Garcia bends her head down and the screen changes. Footage of smoke rising from the art gallery falls into view, shifting angles at intervals to capture the full aftermath of the explosion.
JJ stands, glancing over at Hotch. "Garcia, you got this off a news feed? Is this national?"
"Not yet. Currently, it is statewide breaking news, but the headline of Small Tourist Town Seized By Serial Killer Who Sets Bombs is kind of an attention getter, and I'd say it's only a matter of time."
"Is that what they're reporting?" asks Hotch.
"Colorado Five has the lead in. They're saying they don't know who's actually responsible for the explosion, but a letter was hand delivered to their office, indicating the unsub may be claiming responsibility. No actual verification on that though, and no report on what was actually in the letter. Also, no description of the guy who delivered it. And wait, it gets worse. They're reporting that in conjunction with the bombing, an officer was critically injured during an abduction at the hospital this morning, where, and I quote-Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid was recovering after being poisoned by the killer."
Reid stiffens, eyebrows drawing up as he glances to Hotch.
"Garcia," Morgan says, sitting straighter. "They used his name?"
"They used his name."
JJ palms her phone off the table and starts dialing. As she leaves the room, Morgan hears an opaque voice pick up the line on the other end, and the beginning of JJ's diplomatic rebuke-I thought we were clear that if you had any contact at all you would let us know. Obstruction isn't…
"We knew he'd be upset that what he did to Reid didn't make the papers," reminds Prentiss.
"So he made sure it did." Looking at Hotch, Rossi adds, "You were right. Our attention isn't enough."
Hotch stands motionless a moment, a considering expression on his face. Morgan's about to ask what he's thinking, but Hotch speaks first. "Keep going on the profile," he orders, then follows JJ out the door.
~
The TV screen across the bullpen is tuned to the footage, drawing the majority of the focus in the room. The gallery owner is sitting with an officer at a desk near the wall, presumably reviewing her statement, now distracted by the images of her gallery on fire.
"We need to do something about this?" the chief asks, moving to meet him.
"Yes," Hotch says. "We're going to need you to make a statement to the press. Primarily, we're going to need you to reiterate the profile we released earlier, and the safety precautions we've laid out for the public. Agent Jareau will help you. We'll know better what we need you to say when we know more about what information they have."
"Hotch," JJ says, closing her phone and coming over. "The letter seems legit. They're faxing a copy now and sending someone over with the original. And Garcia was right. No one seems to have a description of the person that dropped it off. It was found on the news desk in a manilla envelope marked urgent."
"And the press?"
"They're killing the information he put in about Reid for the next broadcast, and for anything that goes national, but they're running with the rest of it."
Hotch sighs. "Okay. We need to put together a press release from the police department. He wants Reid's name read. We're not going to give him that."
"I'm on it," she says, stepping away. "Chief Harris, I think we should use your office, and, if you can, pull the investigator who read the previous statement. He should join us."
The chief nods, following after throwing a final glance at Hotch.
Hotch stares after. Beyond them, he can see the storm has moved farther across the sky. The wind is picking up, whipping the tree outside the wide window side to side. As he watches, it springs back towards the building, branches knocking against glass with a sharp thwap. Turning away, he steps left into an empty hallway, the only light within coming from a lone, droning water cooler and an emergency exit sign. Fumbling for one of the triangle paper cups sitting at the cooler's edge, he drinks, swallowing slowly before crushing the cup into the trash.
When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, he thinks. Arthur Conan Doyle.
Sherlock Holmes.
Pressing two fingers to his forehead, he sighs.
Contrary to what Rossi may think, he doesn't spend a lot of time consciously thinking about Jason Gideon, but every once in a while he sees his long shadow flickering in the eyes of his team members, even Rossi's. And sometimes, when he looks at Jack, he remembers Haley being pregnant, bantering about naming him Gideon Hotchner.
Gideon. Mighty warrior.
Hotch remembers a lot from those baby naming books.
Aaron means mountain of strength.
Spencer means dispenser. With all the information Reid gives out, somehow it fits.
And, like Reid, Hotch remembers the things Gideon used to say, his lessons on profiling, the authors he used to quote.
Pouring another cup of water, Hotch closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, Rossi is watching.
"What is it?" asks Hotch.
"Don't you second guess yourself either," Rossi says.
"What do you mean?"
Rossi steps closer, a near mirror to Hotch's stance. "This morning at the hotel, when we were talking about Gideon, you said you kept thinking something, but you never told me what. Whatever it is, you're still thinking it. Want to tell me now?"
Hotch looks down the hallway to where the team is persisting in the profile, reviewing everything, just one more time. Looking for all the missing pieces.
After a minute, he looks back at Rossi. "I've been thinking this is the kind of case Gideon would have excelled at, and this unsub knows us too well."
~
tbc
~
Apologies for the delay. I’ve been on the road and off the grid and just about everywhere in between. Also, striking the right tone in this section killed me. And the pacing. Even the character voice seemed a bit of a struggle, and that line between being too obvious and too subtle. The good news is, because this chapter was bothering me, I skipped over it and kept going, and the rest of the fic is nearly (nearly) shined to completion. The bad news is, though I just came in, I’m already on my way out. I leave tomorrow, traveling through the next three weeks. After that, I do hope to catch up quickly.