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Fic: A Touch of the Wild, Part 02
Title: A Touch of the Wild
Author: Soledad
Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or the White Wolfe characters and settings or any of the other shows from which I've borrowed characters for cameo appearances. All I own are a few OCs and a really twisted plot idea.
PART 02
Author’s note: As I haven’t been able to figure out Hotchner’s actual age, I gave him that of the actor (Thomas Gibson) who plays him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dr. Spencer Reid had just finished his daily letter to his mother when his cell phone buzzed. Seeing on the display that the caller was JJ, he sighed involuntarily. A call from JJ meant that they had a new case, which meant that he’d have to go to the office a great deal earlier than originally intended, which, on the other hand, meant that he had to put the basic idea for his BA thesis in philosophy back into a little used corner of his formidable mind until the case was solved and he might get an afternoon – or even a whole day – off. Unlikely as that sounded.
The necessity to cut his creative early morning short annoyed him a little. He liked his work as a profiler and believed in it, even after his recent ordeal, but sometimes he wondered if choosing a purely scientific career wouldn’t have suited his abilities better, after all. As much as he knew he was needed at the BAU, he also often felt that he was intellectually underused – which was why he’d toyed with he idea of a new thesis lately. To give his brains a proper workout… before he’d rot them completely with Dilaudid.
Unfortunately, his work required such an amount of his time that he hadn’t found a chance to at least outline the idea properly. There was always one more case that needed to be solved – preferably by yesterday or the day before – and he just couldn’t work on the plane, not even when all his colleagues were asleep. He needed his own surroundings to achieve that particular mindset that would make creative work possible. The plane was definitely not the right place for that.
He sighed again and picked up the call. As he’d guessed, they had a particularly disturbing case. Debriefing would be at eight and they’d leave for LA at ten.
Reid acknowledged, picked up his emergency bag that was always packed for such unexpected calls, pocketed a few e-books to have something to read, just in case, holstered his weapon and left the house. He’d just have enough time for a visit at Stafford's, the little, independently owned coffee shop hefrequented when he was home, before riding the subway to his workplace.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When he reached the FBI building, he found the team already gathered in the bullpen… well, with the exception of Garcia, of course, who was probably busy researching all available facts in her office. Reid took his usual place, ignored the usual juvenile jab from Morgan about the dark rings under his eyes, nodded his greetings to the others, returned JJ’s somewhat tremulous smile and looked around expectantly to learn about this new, urgent case.
Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, a dark, handsome man whose austere demeanour made him look older than his forty-five years, cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“We’ve been called by the West Bureau of the LAPD to help them with a series of brutal murders that have happened across half Los Angeles during the last four to six months,” he began. “So far, there have been fourteen known victims. We have no idea yet how many more there could be. As you can see,” he gestured at the photos put up on the whiteboard, “the unsub is extremely violent.”
All eyes turned to the pictures, and now Reid understood why JJ had been so… queasy, just a moment ago. After her encounter with Tobias Hankel’s man-eating dogs, seeing so many victims with their throats torn out as if by some particularly large predator must have awakened still-too-fresh, horrid memories.
“Are you sure we’re looking for a murderer and not just for some rabid animal?” Derek Morgan, the only team member truly familiar with dogs, asked. “Those wounds look an awful lot like as if they’d been caused by a dog… or a wolf… or any other kind of large canine. And urban wolves had been a threat in many cities for quite some while.”
“That must have been a huge animal – if it was one,” Prentiss looked at the garish photos with her usual detached self-discipline, but her face was deathly pale. “Or a whole pack of them. I don’t think a single dog or wolf could have caused quite such damage.”
“Could the CSI find any DNA in the wounds at all?” Morgan asked.
“I didn’t have the time to read the autopsy reports yet, but we can ask Garcia,” Hotch replied. “I’m sure she already has.”
“That’s more than likely,” Morgan agreed and reached for the phone.
“You’ve reached the oracle of ancient wisdom and secret knowledge – how can I be of assistance?” Garcia’s voice – almost obscenely cheerful in the light of the horrible crime – answered his call.
“Hey, sweet cheeks, have you got the autopsy reports from our new case?” Morgan asked.
Garcia answered in a tone that almost made them see her exasperated eyeroll with their inner eye.
“Have you forgotten whom you are speaking with, hot stuff? Of course I have them – and I hope you guys already had breakfast, because these are not the kind of sight one would want on an empty stomach.”
“They’re not the sight you’d wish for in any condition, if the crime scene photos are any indication,” Morgan replied. “Can you tell us if there was any DNA found in the wounds?”
“Yep,” Garcia replied, “and before you start asking something stupid, no, it wasn’t from a dog. Or from a wolf. Or from any other animal with big teeth.”
“You mean a human has bitten the victims?” Morgan asked, very obviously shocked.
Reid couldn’t blame him. Murderous animals would be bad enough, but humans killing that way… Although, considering the cases that landed on their desks on a regular basis, he perhaps shouldn’t be surprised by anything in these days.
“Nope,” Garcia replied promptly. “Not unless that human had the jaws of the Hound of Baskerville or whatnot. No, I said that the only DNA found in the wounds was human, not that it got there while that human actually bit the victims.”
“How would he – or was it a she? – get his DNA into the wounds otherwise?” Prentiss asked, bewildered. “And, more importantly, why? That would make all the efforts to make it seem like the attack of some large predator rather pointless, wouldn’t it? Is the DNA in the system?”
“Nope,” Garcia replied. “It’s male, that much is certain, but it has never come up yet… and trust me, I’ve searched all available databases in the States – even a few less available ones. Nothing. Nix. Nada.”
“As for the why,” Reid intervened, “this can very well be a series of ritual killings, in which case we’re going to have a hard time figuring out the motivation behind them.”
“Do you have any ideas?” JJ asked.
Reid concentrated for a moment. “The closest think I could think of would be someone with strong tribal roots who identifies with his totem animal so strongly that he needs to imitate the hunt.”
“Or one of those vampire wannebes on crack,” Morgan commented dryly. “Considering how many idiots believe to be the next incarnation of Count Dracula or Nosferatu, especially in the Goth scene of LA…” he trailed off because Hotch shook his head.
“This is not the work of a simple madman,” the unit chief said. “According to the detective assigned to the case, a certain Joaquin Murietta from the West Los Angeles Community Police Station, the unsub targets a very narrow slice of the population: young Caucasian males of a certain type, who’ve achieved a great deal of success in their chosen field, despite their relative youth.”
“Jealousy, perhaps?” Prentiss guessed. “Could he be envying what they had and he doesn’t have?”
“That’s rather unlikely,” Reid quickly scanned the detective’s report; being a speed reader came in handy in such occasions. “Six of the victims were homeless people, living on the streets.”
“True; but perhaps they, too, had potential at once, potential that they wasted, after the years of their youth,” Hotch said. “They might have failed spectacularly later on, but at least at one moment of their lives, they might have been very successful, some even celebrities.”
“We definitely need to learn more about all the victims,” Morgan said. “Victimology won’t be easy in this particular case.”
“You said ‘a certain type of young Caucasian males’,” Prentiss said to Hotch. “Are there physical similarities between the victims? These crime scene photos are not very… conclusive when it comes to their original looks.”
Hotch nodded. “Garcia, can you show us photos of the victims? I mean pictures of how they looked before…”
“Watch your screen, oh ye of little faith,” the technical analyst replied.
The others did so, and whent hey had seen the photos of ten of the fourteen victims – some of the homeless ones hadn’t been identified with a hundred per cent certainty yet – the tension in the bullpen became almost palplable. JJ was the first to break the silence.
“Perhaps Reid shouldn’t go with us this time,” she said. “He matches the prey scheme of the unsub too well. It’s too risky.”
Reid rolled his eyes. “Oh, JJ, please!”
“She does have a legitimate point, pretty boy,” Morgan said. As the ne specializing in crimes pertaining to obsession, it was only natural that he’d voice his opinion. “You match practically every single one of the unsub’s criteria.”
“In case you haven’t realized, I’m not a boy!” Reid snapped with surprising anger. “I’m a grown man, and despite the questionable pleasure of having recently been displayed on the internet during drog-induced madness, I won’t let myself be victimized by anyone. Not even by my well-meaning colleagues.”
As soon as it was out, he regretted it already, seeing JJ’s hurt expression. He realized too late that JJ’s reaction was probably a reminiscence of her own emotions concerning posts cases in which he victims had been the same type of women as she was.
“Nobody tries to victimize you, Reid, least of all JJ, so stop overreacting,” Hotch said placatingly, cutting Reid’s still somewhat frayed nerves some slack. “She’s just concerned about putting you to unnecessary risk, and quiite frankly, so am I.”
“And I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary,” Reid answered stiffly. “I can take care of myself quite well, thank you very much. Now, can we concentrate on the case?”
There was a small, uncomfortable silence that lingered for a moment. Then Hotch shook himself mentally to get over it and continued.
“Detective Murietta, as the one coordinating the investigation in the West Los Angeles area, has sent us his preliminary analysis, which seems to be a surprisingly accurate one, for somebody who’s not a profiler,” he said. According to his theory, the unsub is someone beyond his first youth, perhaps between thirty and thirty-five, who most likely looks younger than his age. It’s possible that he isn’t very successful in his current job and envies his victims for their success. All this basically matches that which we have put together so far. But in order to get any further, we’ll need more information.”
“Is antropophagy involved?” Prentiss asked. “By the size and the location of the wounds it could at least be possible.”
Hotch shook his head. “No, unless you count the heavy blood loss and the fact that nobody seems to have a clue where all that blood has gone.”
“Which brings us back to vampirism,” Morgan pointed out, this time deadly serious. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Or a very particular obsession,” Reid said. “The fact that he’s partially eviscerated the victims might suggest intended revenge over imagined wrongs.”
“Couldn’t it also be an inverted hate crime?” Prentiss asked. “The motivation to punish other young men for their success that has been denied the unsub himself wouldn’t necessarily exclude an ethnic motivation. There has to be a reason why he only murders white men.”
“There can be several different reasons for that,” Reid said. “One of them being that he might see himself in those men and punishes them for not being him, after all.”
“That’s a very good possibility,” Hotch nodded. “But we can’t rule out an ethnic motivation offhand, either. We just need more evidence; which is why we’re leaving for LA at ten. Any further questions?”
“Nothing about the case itself,” Reid answered. “I’d like to learn more about this Detective Murietta, though. He seems to be a very observant man, even for someone who works in law enforcement.”
“I think Garcia will be able to dig up a few details,” Morgan grinned. “You will, baby, won’t ya?”
“You can bet your a… your assets on it, hot stuff,” they could hear Garcia typing away furiously on his keyboard. “All right, here it is, boys and girls. Joaquin Murietta, age thirty-six, born in Alamos, in the state of Sonora, Mexico. Migrated with his parents to California at the age of four. No siblings, no wife, past or present, no children. With the LAPD for twenty-one years, served in the same precinct – that would be the West Los Angeles Community Police Station – for the last seventeen, climbed the ranks from simple police officer to Detective II gradually during those years. Has had the highest success rate in the West Los Angeles area since working together with his current partner. He’s received the Police Star twice so far and was proposed for the Police Medal of Heroism, which he didn’t accept, after all, saying that there were other officers who deserved it more.”
“That’s all?” Reid couldn’t tell why he was so disappointed. Perhaps because with a name like that he’d expeced something more… spectacular. This was the short bio of perhaps every second successful detective in the LAPD.
“For now, it is,” Garcia answered, a bit defensively. “What do you expect after a quick search? Even a wizard like me needs time to do a more thorough job.”
“This is more than enough, Garcia,” Hotch interrupted. “Tell me something about this partner of his – who’s he?”
“Actually, it’s a she,” Garcia was typing again. “Detective Bianca Moralez, age thirty-three, born in Berkeley, California. She had a brother, Jamie, who chose to join the Marines but was killed under somewhat… unclear circumstances during a covert operation in Belize. The official declaration was suicide, but the whole thing is top secret. Not even Detective Moralez was given any further information. There might be something really ugly if the Corps has closed the case so air-tight. I could try to break into…”
“No,” Hotch interrupted empathically. “Absolutely not, Garcia. We don’t need any trouble with the CIA again. Besides, it’s none of our business. What else can you tell me about this Detective Moralez?”
“Well, she started her career in the same precinct where she’s working now,” Garcia said. “At first, she did some undercover work for Vice… wich couldn’t have been easy. She got transported to Homicide eight years ago and has been working with Murietta for seven. They’re permanently on night shift because neither of them has a family of his own; plus, one of the other detectives has night blindness, so they can’t rotate like other departments do.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason?” Hotch asked sharply. “Or just some convenient cover-up for a disciplinary action they didn’t want to make public?”
“It seems genuine enough,” Garcia replied. “The officer in question, a certain Detective Harry Ioki, has been pulled off undercover work around the age of thirty-five, when diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa.”
“With what?” Prentiss asked.
“Retinitis pigmentosa is an inherited eye disease that affects a person's ability to see at night,” Reid answered in Garcia’s stead. “It also affects their peripheral vision. It usually begins with decreased night vision at a fairly young age, but progresses to lessened peripheral vision as well.”
“Man, that sucks, especially for a cop,” Morgan hissed in compassion. “How quickly does person's vision decline? This Detective Ioki – how old is he anyway?”
“The deterioration of the patients’ condition is usually related to their genetic makeup, so it varies with different people,” Reid said, and looked at the data transferred by Garcia to his laptop. “Detective Ioki is forty-five now, and his condition has barely worsened since the he was diagnosed with retinitis. However, having him work during the night would be an unnecessary risk, which is why he and his partner, Detective Hoffs, regularly switch first and second shift with the third Homicide team, Detectives Turner and Barritza, while Murietta and Moralez had apparently offered to do night shift most of the time.”
“For a woman, it’s not that bad,” Garcia commented cheerfully. “Shopping is so much easier in the morning, while most other people are still sleeping or already at work. Cuts shopping time to the half.”
All men groaned collectively, while JJ and Prentiss exchanged amused looks. Hotch thanked Garcia, promised her to check in as soon as they arrived in LA – she worried about them all the time, like a mother hen and would bombard them with calls and text messages otherwise – and then broke the connection. They had a plane to board at ten o’clock.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Once in the air, they took their customary places and began with the pre-case preparations. Only Reid seemed preoccupied, leaning back in his seat and apparently searching for something in his eidetic memory. Even though he practically never forgot anything, he still needed a little digging in the biological database to unearth long-unused details.
“What are you thinking of, pretty boy?” Morgan asked, sitting down the seat opposite him. He knew all too well how Reid’s extraordinary mind worked but couldn’t resist the temptation to tease the young man about it from time to time.
“Oh, nothing important,” Reid answered easily. “I was just wondering how someone named after the most famous Mexican bandit could end up working in law enforcement.”
Morgan gave him a bewildered look. “Huh?”
“Joaquin Murietta, also known as the Robin Hood of El Dorado, was a semi-legendary figure in California during the Gold Rush, in the 1850s,” Reid explained. “He was either an infamous bandit or a Mexican patriot, depending on the point of view from which you look at him. There is little to no historic evidence about his life; sources can’t even agree about his actual birthplace, which is either assumed to have been one of the cities in Sonora, Mexico, or Quillotta, in Chile, near Valparaíso. Equally controversial are the legends of his life and deeds – even of his death.”
“How that?” Morgan asked.
“Well, one of the legends says that Captain Harry Love, the leader of the newly-founded California State Rangers, cornered him and his banditos near Panoche Pass in San Benito County, and killed two of them,” Reid explained. “One of those was supposed to be Murietta himself, the other one his right-hand man, Garcia. The Rangers then took Garcia’s hand and Murietta’s head and displayed them in a jar, preserved in brandy as an evidence of their death.”
“Ugh,” Morgan felt slightly sick. “And I thought we had weird cases. But that means the evidence of his death is pretty hard, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Reid answered. “Because a young woman, who claimed to be Murietta’s sister, said that she did not recognize the head and argued that it couldn’t be his brother’s, as it didn’t have a characteristic scar on it that should have been there, due to some childhood injury. Also, numerous sightings of Murietta had been reported after the announcement of his death. It’s interesting that Love never displayed the head in any of the mining camps where Murietta could have been easily recognized. Some even accused Love and his men to have killed some innocent Mexicans, just to gather the reward money, which was five thousand dollars – a lot of cash in that time. In any case, the head was lost in the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, so we might never learn the truth. Forensic history can’t work without actual evidence.”
“Well," Morgan said after a long pause, trying not to be completely overwhelmed with trivia… and losing, “you can always ask Detective Murietta if he was really named after this guy.”
“Perhaps,” Reid opened his laptop and rebooted it. “Perhaps I will. Right now, I must compare the forensic reports of all fourteen victims, though.”
Morgan caught the hint and left him alone, trying to get done some of his own work while they were on the way. Reid called up the reports and began to shift through the details, hoping to find something that would give them a clue.”
Part 03
Author: Soledad
Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or the White Wolfe characters and settings or any of the other shows from which I've borrowed characters for cameo appearances. All I own are a few OCs and a really twisted plot idea.
PART 02
Author’s note: As I haven’t been able to figure out Hotchner’s actual age, I gave him that of the actor (Thomas Gibson) who plays him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dr. Spencer Reid had just finished his daily letter to his mother when his cell phone buzzed. Seeing on the display that the caller was JJ, he sighed involuntarily. A call from JJ meant that they had a new case, which meant that he’d have to go to the office a great deal earlier than originally intended, which, on the other hand, meant that he had to put the basic idea for his BA thesis in philosophy back into a little used corner of his formidable mind until the case was solved and he might get an afternoon – or even a whole day – off. Unlikely as that sounded.
The necessity to cut his creative early morning short annoyed him a little. He liked his work as a profiler and believed in it, even after his recent ordeal, but sometimes he wondered if choosing a purely scientific career wouldn’t have suited his abilities better, after all. As much as he knew he was needed at the BAU, he also often felt that he was intellectually underused – which was why he’d toyed with he idea of a new thesis lately. To give his brains a proper workout… before he’d rot them completely with Dilaudid.
Unfortunately, his work required such an amount of his time that he hadn’t found a chance to at least outline the idea properly. There was always one more case that needed to be solved – preferably by yesterday or the day before – and he just couldn’t work on the plane, not even when all his colleagues were asleep. He needed his own surroundings to achieve that particular mindset that would make creative work possible. The plane was definitely not the right place for that.
He sighed again and picked up the call. As he’d guessed, they had a particularly disturbing case. Debriefing would be at eight and they’d leave for LA at ten.
Reid acknowledged, picked up his emergency bag that was always packed for such unexpected calls, pocketed a few e-books to have something to read, just in case, holstered his weapon and left the house. He’d just have enough time for a visit at Stafford's, the little, independently owned coffee shop hefrequented when he was home, before riding the subway to his workplace.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
When he reached the FBI building, he found the team already gathered in the bullpen… well, with the exception of Garcia, of course, who was probably busy researching all available facts in her office. Reid took his usual place, ignored the usual juvenile jab from Morgan about the dark rings under his eyes, nodded his greetings to the others, returned JJ’s somewhat tremulous smile and looked around expectantly to learn about this new, urgent case.
Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, a dark, handsome man whose austere demeanour made him look older than his forty-five years, cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“We’ve been called by the West Bureau of the LAPD to help them with a series of brutal murders that have happened across half Los Angeles during the last four to six months,” he began. “So far, there have been fourteen known victims. We have no idea yet how many more there could be. As you can see,” he gestured at the photos put up on the whiteboard, “the unsub is extremely violent.”
All eyes turned to the pictures, and now Reid understood why JJ had been so… queasy, just a moment ago. After her encounter with Tobias Hankel’s man-eating dogs, seeing so many victims with their throats torn out as if by some particularly large predator must have awakened still-too-fresh, horrid memories.
“Are you sure we’re looking for a murderer and not just for some rabid animal?” Derek Morgan, the only team member truly familiar with dogs, asked. “Those wounds look an awful lot like as if they’d been caused by a dog… or a wolf… or any other kind of large canine. And urban wolves had been a threat in many cities for quite some while.”
“That must have been a huge animal – if it was one,” Prentiss looked at the garish photos with her usual detached self-discipline, but her face was deathly pale. “Or a whole pack of them. I don’t think a single dog or wolf could have caused quite such damage.”
“Could the CSI find any DNA in the wounds at all?” Morgan asked.
“I didn’t have the time to read the autopsy reports yet, but we can ask Garcia,” Hotch replied. “I’m sure she already has.”
“That’s more than likely,” Morgan agreed and reached for the phone.
“You’ve reached the oracle of ancient wisdom and secret knowledge – how can I be of assistance?” Garcia’s voice – almost obscenely cheerful in the light of the horrible crime – answered his call.
“Hey, sweet cheeks, have you got the autopsy reports from our new case?” Morgan asked.
Garcia answered in a tone that almost made them see her exasperated eyeroll with their inner eye.
“Have you forgotten whom you are speaking with, hot stuff? Of course I have them – and I hope you guys already had breakfast, because these are not the kind of sight one would want on an empty stomach.”
“They’re not the sight you’d wish for in any condition, if the crime scene photos are any indication,” Morgan replied. “Can you tell us if there was any DNA found in the wounds?”
“Yep,” Garcia replied, “and before you start asking something stupid, no, it wasn’t from a dog. Or from a wolf. Or from any other animal with big teeth.”
“You mean a human has bitten the victims?” Morgan asked, very obviously shocked.
Reid couldn’t blame him. Murderous animals would be bad enough, but humans killing that way… Although, considering the cases that landed on their desks on a regular basis, he perhaps shouldn’t be surprised by anything in these days.
“Nope,” Garcia replied promptly. “Not unless that human had the jaws of the Hound of Baskerville or whatnot. No, I said that the only DNA found in the wounds was human, not that it got there while that human actually bit the victims.”
“How would he – or was it a she? – get his DNA into the wounds otherwise?” Prentiss asked, bewildered. “And, more importantly, why? That would make all the efforts to make it seem like the attack of some large predator rather pointless, wouldn’t it? Is the DNA in the system?”
“Nope,” Garcia replied. “It’s male, that much is certain, but it has never come up yet… and trust me, I’ve searched all available databases in the States – even a few less available ones. Nothing. Nix. Nada.”
“As for the why,” Reid intervened, “this can very well be a series of ritual killings, in which case we’re going to have a hard time figuring out the motivation behind them.”
“Do you have any ideas?” JJ asked.
Reid concentrated for a moment. “The closest think I could think of would be someone with strong tribal roots who identifies with his totem animal so strongly that he needs to imitate the hunt.”
“Or one of those vampire wannebes on crack,” Morgan commented dryly. “Considering how many idiots believe to be the next incarnation of Count Dracula or Nosferatu, especially in the Goth scene of LA…” he trailed off because Hotch shook his head.
“This is not the work of a simple madman,” the unit chief said. “According to the detective assigned to the case, a certain Joaquin Murietta from the West Los Angeles Community Police Station, the unsub targets a very narrow slice of the population: young Caucasian males of a certain type, who’ve achieved a great deal of success in their chosen field, despite their relative youth.”
“Jealousy, perhaps?” Prentiss guessed. “Could he be envying what they had and he doesn’t have?”
“That’s rather unlikely,” Reid quickly scanned the detective’s report; being a speed reader came in handy in such occasions. “Six of the victims were homeless people, living on the streets.”
“True; but perhaps they, too, had potential at once, potential that they wasted, after the years of their youth,” Hotch said. “They might have failed spectacularly later on, but at least at one moment of their lives, they might have been very successful, some even celebrities.”
“We definitely need to learn more about all the victims,” Morgan said. “Victimology won’t be easy in this particular case.”
“You said ‘a certain type of young Caucasian males’,” Prentiss said to Hotch. “Are there physical similarities between the victims? These crime scene photos are not very… conclusive when it comes to their original looks.”
Hotch nodded. “Garcia, can you show us photos of the victims? I mean pictures of how they looked before…”
“Watch your screen, oh ye of little faith,” the technical analyst replied.
The others did so, and whent hey had seen the photos of ten of the fourteen victims – some of the homeless ones hadn’t been identified with a hundred per cent certainty yet – the tension in the bullpen became almost palplable. JJ was the first to break the silence.
“Perhaps Reid shouldn’t go with us this time,” she said. “He matches the prey scheme of the unsub too well. It’s too risky.”
Reid rolled his eyes. “Oh, JJ, please!”
“She does have a legitimate point, pretty boy,” Morgan said. As the ne specializing in crimes pertaining to obsession, it was only natural that he’d voice his opinion. “You match practically every single one of the unsub’s criteria.”
“In case you haven’t realized, I’m not a boy!” Reid snapped with surprising anger. “I’m a grown man, and despite the questionable pleasure of having recently been displayed on the internet during drog-induced madness, I won’t let myself be victimized by anyone. Not even by my well-meaning colleagues.”
As soon as it was out, he regretted it already, seeing JJ’s hurt expression. He realized too late that JJ’s reaction was probably a reminiscence of her own emotions concerning posts cases in which he victims had been the same type of women as she was.
“Nobody tries to victimize you, Reid, least of all JJ, so stop overreacting,” Hotch said placatingly, cutting Reid’s still somewhat frayed nerves some slack. “She’s just concerned about putting you to unnecessary risk, and quiite frankly, so am I.”
“And I appreciate it, but it isn’t necessary,” Reid answered stiffly. “I can take care of myself quite well, thank you very much. Now, can we concentrate on the case?”
There was a small, uncomfortable silence that lingered for a moment. Then Hotch shook himself mentally to get over it and continued.
“Detective Murietta, as the one coordinating the investigation in the West Los Angeles area, has sent us his preliminary analysis, which seems to be a surprisingly accurate one, for somebody who’s not a profiler,” he said. According to his theory, the unsub is someone beyond his first youth, perhaps between thirty and thirty-five, who most likely looks younger than his age. It’s possible that he isn’t very successful in his current job and envies his victims for their success. All this basically matches that which we have put together so far. But in order to get any further, we’ll need more information.”
“Is antropophagy involved?” Prentiss asked. “By the size and the location of the wounds it could at least be possible.”
Hotch shook his head. “No, unless you count the heavy blood loss and the fact that nobody seems to have a clue where all that blood has gone.”
“Which brings us back to vampirism,” Morgan pointed out, this time deadly serious. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Or a very particular obsession,” Reid said. “The fact that he’s partially eviscerated the victims might suggest intended revenge over imagined wrongs.”
“Couldn’t it also be an inverted hate crime?” Prentiss asked. “The motivation to punish other young men for their success that has been denied the unsub himself wouldn’t necessarily exclude an ethnic motivation. There has to be a reason why he only murders white men.”
“There can be several different reasons for that,” Reid said. “One of them being that he might see himself in those men and punishes them for not being him, after all.”
“That’s a very good possibility,” Hotch nodded. “But we can’t rule out an ethnic motivation offhand, either. We just need more evidence; which is why we’re leaving for LA at ten. Any further questions?”
“Nothing about the case itself,” Reid answered. “I’d like to learn more about this Detective Murietta, though. He seems to be a very observant man, even for someone who works in law enforcement.”
“I think Garcia will be able to dig up a few details,” Morgan grinned. “You will, baby, won’t ya?”
“You can bet your a… your assets on it, hot stuff,” they could hear Garcia typing away furiously on his keyboard. “All right, here it is, boys and girls. Joaquin Murietta, age thirty-six, born in Alamos, in the state of Sonora, Mexico. Migrated with his parents to California at the age of four. No siblings, no wife, past or present, no children. With the LAPD for twenty-one years, served in the same precinct – that would be the West Los Angeles Community Police Station – for the last seventeen, climbed the ranks from simple police officer to Detective II gradually during those years. Has had the highest success rate in the West Los Angeles area since working together with his current partner. He’s received the Police Star twice so far and was proposed for the Police Medal of Heroism, which he didn’t accept, after all, saying that there were other officers who deserved it more.”
“That’s all?” Reid couldn’t tell why he was so disappointed. Perhaps because with a name like that he’d expeced something more… spectacular. This was the short bio of perhaps every second successful detective in the LAPD.
“For now, it is,” Garcia answered, a bit defensively. “What do you expect after a quick search? Even a wizard like me needs time to do a more thorough job.”
“This is more than enough, Garcia,” Hotch interrupted. “Tell me something about this partner of his – who’s he?”
“Actually, it’s a she,” Garcia was typing again. “Detective Bianca Moralez, age thirty-three, born in Berkeley, California. She had a brother, Jamie, who chose to join the Marines but was killed under somewhat… unclear circumstances during a covert operation in Belize. The official declaration was suicide, but the whole thing is top secret. Not even Detective Moralez was given any further information. There might be something really ugly if the Corps has closed the case so air-tight. I could try to break into…”
“No,” Hotch interrupted empathically. “Absolutely not, Garcia. We don’t need any trouble with the CIA again. Besides, it’s none of our business. What else can you tell me about this Detective Moralez?”
“Well, she started her career in the same precinct where she’s working now,” Garcia said. “At first, she did some undercover work for Vice… wich couldn’t have been easy. She got transported to Homicide eight years ago and has been working with Murietta for seven. They’re permanently on night shift because neither of them has a family of his own; plus, one of the other detectives has night blindness, so they can’t rotate like other departments do.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason?” Hotch asked sharply. “Or just some convenient cover-up for a disciplinary action they didn’t want to make public?”
“It seems genuine enough,” Garcia replied. “The officer in question, a certain Detective Harry Ioki, has been pulled off undercover work around the age of thirty-five, when diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa.”
“With what?” Prentiss asked.
“Retinitis pigmentosa is an inherited eye disease that affects a person's ability to see at night,” Reid answered in Garcia’s stead. “It also affects their peripheral vision. It usually begins with decreased night vision at a fairly young age, but progresses to lessened peripheral vision as well.”
“Man, that sucks, especially for a cop,” Morgan hissed in compassion. “How quickly does person's vision decline? This Detective Ioki – how old is he anyway?”
“The deterioration of the patients’ condition is usually related to their genetic makeup, so it varies with different people,” Reid said, and looked at the data transferred by Garcia to his laptop. “Detective Ioki is forty-five now, and his condition has barely worsened since the he was diagnosed with retinitis. However, having him work during the night would be an unnecessary risk, which is why he and his partner, Detective Hoffs, regularly switch first and second shift with the third Homicide team, Detectives Turner and Barritza, while Murietta and Moralez had apparently offered to do night shift most of the time.”
“For a woman, it’s not that bad,” Garcia commented cheerfully. “Shopping is so much easier in the morning, while most other people are still sleeping or already at work. Cuts shopping time to the half.”
All men groaned collectively, while JJ and Prentiss exchanged amused looks. Hotch thanked Garcia, promised her to check in as soon as they arrived in LA – she worried about them all the time, like a mother hen and would bombard them with calls and text messages otherwise – and then broke the connection. They had a plane to board at ten o’clock.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Once in the air, they took their customary places and began with the pre-case preparations. Only Reid seemed preoccupied, leaning back in his seat and apparently searching for something in his eidetic memory. Even though he practically never forgot anything, he still needed a little digging in the biological database to unearth long-unused details.
“What are you thinking of, pretty boy?” Morgan asked, sitting down the seat opposite him. He knew all too well how Reid’s extraordinary mind worked but couldn’t resist the temptation to tease the young man about it from time to time.
“Oh, nothing important,” Reid answered easily. “I was just wondering how someone named after the most famous Mexican bandit could end up working in law enforcement.”
Morgan gave him a bewildered look. “Huh?”
“Joaquin Murietta, also known as the Robin Hood of El Dorado, was a semi-legendary figure in California during the Gold Rush, in the 1850s,” Reid explained. “He was either an infamous bandit or a Mexican patriot, depending on the point of view from which you look at him. There is little to no historic evidence about his life; sources can’t even agree about his actual birthplace, which is either assumed to have been one of the cities in Sonora, Mexico, or Quillotta, in Chile, near Valparaíso. Equally controversial are the legends of his life and deeds – even of his death.”
“How that?” Morgan asked.
“Well, one of the legends says that Captain Harry Love, the leader of the newly-founded California State Rangers, cornered him and his banditos near Panoche Pass in San Benito County, and killed two of them,” Reid explained. “One of those was supposed to be Murietta himself, the other one his right-hand man, Garcia. The Rangers then took Garcia’s hand and Murietta’s head and displayed them in a jar, preserved in brandy as an evidence of their death.”
“Ugh,” Morgan felt slightly sick. “And I thought we had weird cases. But that means the evidence of his death is pretty hard, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Reid answered. “Because a young woman, who claimed to be Murietta’s sister, said that she did not recognize the head and argued that it couldn’t be his brother’s, as it didn’t have a characteristic scar on it that should have been there, due to some childhood injury. Also, numerous sightings of Murietta had been reported after the announcement of his death. It’s interesting that Love never displayed the head in any of the mining camps where Murietta could have been easily recognized. Some even accused Love and his men to have killed some innocent Mexicans, just to gather the reward money, which was five thousand dollars – a lot of cash in that time. In any case, the head was lost in the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, so we might never learn the truth. Forensic history can’t work without actual evidence.”
“Well," Morgan said after a long pause, trying not to be completely overwhelmed with trivia… and losing, “you can always ask Detective Murietta if he was really named after this guy.”
“Perhaps,” Reid opened his laptop and rebooted it. “Perhaps I will. Right now, I must compare the forensic reports of all fourteen victims, though.”
Morgan caught the hint and left him alone, trying to get done some of his own work while they were on the way. Reid called up the reports and began to shift through the details, hoping to find something that would give them a clue.”
Part 03