Criminal Minds: Trompe L'oeil (part 3)
At the pit.
Or here:
Part 1
Part 2
~ (part three) ~
Resort towns. Low risk victims. Organized. Highly educated. Highly intelligent. An artist who sees poetry in what he does. Who puts time into his victims. Into placing their bodies and not leaving evidence. Who puts time into considering what the police will do. Time enough to wait in a coffee shop for an agent to come looking.
Sending a message. Playing a game.
I'm smarter than you, and I'm not going to stop. Where will I be next?
Emily's head is raging. Too many nights of too little sleep is winning the battle against determination. In a way, it feels like they're all losing. The profile is detailed, but the gaps are doing them in.
Pressing a pin into the copy of the latest flier, she steps back and stares. The crime scene photographs of dead girls and the drawn images from the fliers give the evidence board a paradoxically living quality. Like it is watching her in return. Like the unsub himself is watching, waiting for evidence of their grief.
You didn't kill him, she wants to tell it. He's not dead.
The lines on the latest drawing seem clearer than the rest. A delicate increase in detail that tells Prentiss the unsub gave it more attention than the others. Though the eyes are closed, and the body is currently residing in a morgue, the woman looks almost alive. Black hair. Pale skin. Snow White waiting for someone to just bring her back to life.
The sepia tones give the picture an idyllic feel. Like memory.
Emily sighs, runs a finger down her hairline and closes her eyes.
"The employees from the coffee shop are waiting to be interviewed," Rossi says from behind her.
She turns quickly, nearly stubbing her toe. "Gah," she says, steadying herself with a hand on the table and an attempt to laugh at herself. The effort feels hollow, the whole thing like something Reid would do, and a rush of worry invades her next intake of breath, threatening to blur the lines of compartmentalization.
"Are you okay?" asks JJ, stepping in behind Rossi.
"Yeah," she answers, sitting, breathing again, dismissing the concern with a small smile, deflecting attention to the board with a wave. "He spent more time on the last drawing than the others. He's getting more bold in more ways than one."
"The artist perfecting his craft," says Rossi, looking closer at the picture. "Or his fantasy."
"You were up late last night. You should get some sleep," JJ says, not going with the deflection. "The press release is out. The police are on alert. And Morgan said he'd call if anything changes."
Prentiss shakes her head. She knows, theoretically, that staying awake is not going to help Reid, that Rossi could handle the interviews, that they'd wake her if they got any new information, but it's become like a death game of chess. They need to figure out the unsub's next three moves before he figures out theirs and she can't be asleep for that.
Rossi sets two pills and a cup of water on the table next to her hand without comment.
~
Hotch is pacing laconically across the length of the hallway. It's the most telling evidence of how he's feeling-the storm under the calm. The rectangle shape of glass in the door distorts his legs, twisting them into broken shards as he angles into the corner. Morgan spends a moment reconciling the image before pushing through and handing Hotch a cup of coffee.
"Thank you," Hotch says steadily, taking the cup, but his eyes flicker down over Morgan as if to ensure he's okay.
It's starting.
The further Reid's situation sinks in, the more they're closing ranks around each other and Morgan has the feeling it's only going to get worse. "JJ make it back to the police station okay?" he asks.
Hotch nods. He lifts the coffee up to his lips, then hesitates.
"I made it myself," Morgan explains. "And I washed the pot first. The nurses in the lounge think I'm crazy, but they humored me anyway."
"Thank you," Hotch says again, but he shakes his head a little, as if their collective paranoia should be something he's surprised by.
"Garcia is running the background," Morgan reports, easing down into the space where JJ'd been sitting. He sets his own coffee aside and palms his forehead. "She'll call Rossi and Prentiss when she has something."
"Good. Any information should help."
"Did they find the flier?"
"In the bookstore at the end of the block."
Morgan nods.
After that, silence sits restlessly between them for a while-Hotch drinking his coffee, pacing occasionally. Morgan can nearly see the case notes scrolling through Hotch's head and he tries to do the same, tries to pull the information into his memory and figure out if there's another move they can be making right now, but he can't seem to focus. A beep from the intercom, a voice from down the hall, and his thoughts all shatter.
He takes another sip of his coffee and then taps it away. He knows exactly what went into it, but it still tastes wrong.
Hotch drops his empty cup into the trash and folds his arms, leaning minutely, back to the wall. "When Reid wakes up, when he's up to it, we'll need to walk him through a cognitive interview," he says, "but the level of lidocaine he was dosed with can affect memory. His may not be as reliable as we're used to."
"You think he saw the unsub?"
"I think it's likely, yes. Whether he knows it or not is a different story."
Morgan lets that settle, then swallows and asks, "Do they expect him to?"
"To?"
"Wake up."
"They're… optimistic," Hotch says.
A thump sounds somewhere in the ceiling above, followed by a whir heralding the return of the too-cold, slow-moving air. Sitting back, Morgan sighs.
"There's no antidote for lidocaine toxicity," explains Hotch. "They can only try to treat what it's doing to his system, and so far they feel they're doing that successfully. We just have to wait. And stay hopeful."
Feeling weary, more weary than he has in a long time, Morgan nods. He holds his lips together for a second and leans forward, rubbing the knuckles of his hands together. "Before he wakes up, before we interview him," he finally says, "there's something you should know."
Hotch turns his head, waiting.
"Reid thinks he saw Gideon. Right... before."
There is a flicker, a temperate change in Hotch's eyes. Not cold. Not completely warm. It only lasts a moment, and to Morgan it feels strangely like compassion. It twists at the tucked away part of him that still misses the man, the part that understands why he left, and the part that still doesn't. For a second, he remembers how he felt when Reid told him Gideon had referred to him as a young man he greatly respected and admired. He remembers the sense of subtle confidence that'd settled into his bones when Gideon admitted it.
Focusing on the bleached clean linoleum under his feet, he shuts off the memory.
"Lidocaine toxicity can cause hallucinations," Hotch says simply. But he's eased himself away from the wall and set a momentary hand to his temple.
Morgan frowns. "You don't think he really saw him, do you?"
"No," answers Hotch, "but we should check, for Reid's sake. Jason's not dead and running into him is not completely unfathomable. Breckenridge is the kind of town he would visit."
"It'd still be one hell of a coincidence."
"I know. And I know I asked you this before, but you didn't see anyone, did you?"
"No," Morgan answers. "Like I said, the street was practically empty when I found him. Afternoon business lull. A mom and her kid were walking together way down on the other side, and two teenage kids were coming out of a sporting goods store a few blocks down. That's it. No one fitting the profile of our unsub. And I think I would have remembered seeing Gideon, even if there was a crowd."
Hotch starts to nod when a new voice speaks. "Agent Hotchner?"
"Here," says Hotch, unfolding his arms.
Morgan gets to his feet, muscles tensing in his gut as the doctor makes his way over.
"We think he's coming out of it."
~
tbc
Or here:
Part 1
Part 2
~ (part three) ~
Resort towns. Low risk victims. Organized. Highly educated. Highly intelligent. An artist who sees poetry in what he does. Who puts time into his victims. Into placing their bodies and not leaving evidence. Who puts time into considering what the police will do. Time enough to wait in a coffee shop for an agent to come looking.
Sending a message. Playing a game.
I'm smarter than you, and I'm not going to stop. Where will I be next?
Emily's head is raging. Too many nights of too little sleep is winning the battle against determination. In a way, it feels like they're all losing. The profile is detailed, but the gaps are doing them in.
Pressing a pin into the copy of the latest flier, she steps back and stares. The crime scene photographs of dead girls and the drawn images from the fliers give the evidence board a paradoxically living quality. Like it is watching her in return. Like the unsub himself is watching, waiting for evidence of their grief.
You didn't kill him, she wants to tell it. He's not dead.
The lines on the latest drawing seem clearer than the rest. A delicate increase in detail that tells Prentiss the unsub gave it more attention than the others. Though the eyes are closed, and the body is currently residing in a morgue, the woman looks almost alive. Black hair. Pale skin. Snow White waiting for someone to just bring her back to life.
The sepia tones give the picture an idyllic feel. Like memory.
Emily sighs, runs a finger down her hairline and closes her eyes.
"The employees from the coffee shop are waiting to be interviewed," Rossi says from behind her.
She turns quickly, nearly stubbing her toe. "Gah," she says, steadying herself with a hand on the table and an attempt to laugh at herself. The effort feels hollow, the whole thing like something Reid would do, and a rush of worry invades her next intake of breath, threatening to blur the lines of compartmentalization.
"Are you okay?" asks JJ, stepping in behind Rossi.
"Yeah," she answers, sitting, breathing again, dismissing the concern with a small smile, deflecting attention to the board with a wave. "He spent more time on the last drawing than the others. He's getting more bold in more ways than one."
"The artist perfecting his craft," says Rossi, looking closer at the picture. "Or his fantasy."
"You were up late last night. You should get some sleep," JJ says, not going with the deflection. "The press release is out. The police are on alert. And Morgan said he'd call if anything changes."
Prentiss shakes her head. She knows, theoretically, that staying awake is not going to help Reid, that Rossi could handle the interviews, that they'd wake her if they got any new information, but it's become like a death game of chess. They need to figure out the unsub's next three moves before he figures out theirs and she can't be asleep for that.
Rossi sets two pills and a cup of water on the table next to her hand without comment.
~
Hotch is pacing laconically across the length of the hallway. It's the most telling evidence of how he's feeling-the storm under the calm. The rectangle shape of glass in the door distorts his legs, twisting them into broken shards as he angles into the corner. Morgan spends a moment reconciling the image before pushing through and handing Hotch a cup of coffee.
"Thank you," Hotch says steadily, taking the cup, but his eyes flicker down over Morgan as if to ensure he's okay.
It's starting.
The further Reid's situation sinks in, the more they're closing ranks around each other and Morgan has the feeling it's only going to get worse. "JJ make it back to the police station okay?" he asks.
Hotch nods. He lifts the coffee up to his lips, then hesitates.
"I made it myself," Morgan explains. "And I washed the pot first. The nurses in the lounge think I'm crazy, but they humored me anyway."
"Thank you," Hotch says again, but he shakes his head a little, as if their collective paranoia should be something he's surprised by.
"Garcia is running the background," Morgan reports, easing down into the space where JJ'd been sitting. He sets his own coffee aside and palms his forehead. "She'll call Rossi and Prentiss when she has something."
"Good. Any information should help."
"Did they find the flier?"
"In the bookstore at the end of the block."
Morgan nods.
After that, silence sits restlessly between them for a while-Hotch drinking his coffee, pacing occasionally. Morgan can nearly see the case notes scrolling through Hotch's head and he tries to do the same, tries to pull the information into his memory and figure out if there's another move they can be making right now, but he can't seem to focus. A beep from the intercom, a voice from down the hall, and his thoughts all shatter.
He takes another sip of his coffee and then taps it away. He knows exactly what went into it, but it still tastes wrong.
Hotch drops his empty cup into the trash and folds his arms, leaning minutely, back to the wall. "When Reid wakes up, when he's up to it, we'll need to walk him through a cognitive interview," he says, "but the level of lidocaine he was dosed with can affect memory. His may not be as reliable as we're used to."
"You think he saw the unsub?"
"I think it's likely, yes. Whether he knows it or not is a different story."
Morgan lets that settle, then swallows and asks, "Do they expect him to?"
"To?"
"Wake up."
"They're… optimistic," Hotch says.
A thump sounds somewhere in the ceiling above, followed by a whir heralding the return of the too-cold, slow-moving air. Sitting back, Morgan sighs.
"There's no antidote for lidocaine toxicity," explains Hotch. "They can only try to treat what it's doing to his system, and so far they feel they're doing that successfully. We just have to wait. And stay hopeful."
Feeling weary, more weary than he has in a long time, Morgan nods. He holds his lips together for a second and leans forward, rubbing the knuckles of his hands together. "Before he wakes up, before we interview him," he finally says, "there's something you should know."
Hotch turns his head, waiting.
"Reid thinks he saw Gideon. Right... before."
There is a flicker, a temperate change in Hotch's eyes. Not cold. Not completely warm. It only lasts a moment, and to Morgan it feels strangely like compassion. It twists at the tucked away part of him that still misses the man, the part that understands why he left, and the part that still doesn't. For a second, he remembers how he felt when Reid told him Gideon had referred to him as a young man he greatly respected and admired. He remembers the sense of subtle confidence that'd settled into his bones when Gideon admitted it.
Focusing on the bleached clean linoleum under his feet, he shuts off the memory.
"Lidocaine toxicity can cause hallucinations," Hotch says simply. But he's eased himself away from the wall and set a momentary hand to his temple.
Morgan frowns. "You don't think he really saw him, do you?"
"No," answers Hotch, "but we should check, for Reid's sake. Jason's not dead and running into him is not completely unfathomable. Breckenridge is the kind of town he would visit."
"It'd still be one hell of a coincidence."
"I know. And I know I asked you this before, but you didn't see anyone, did you?"
"No," Morgan answers. "Like I said, the street was practically empty when I found him. Afternoon business lull. A mom and her kid were walking together way down on the other side, and two teenage kids were coming out of a sporting goods store a few blocks down. That's it. No one fitting the profile of our unsub. And I think I would have remembered seeing Gideon, even if there was a crowd."
Hotch starts to nod when a new voice speaks. "Agent Hotchner?"
"Here," says Hotch, unfolding his arms.
Morgan gets to his feet, muscles tensing in his gut as the doctor makes his way over.
"We think he's coming out of it."
~
tbc