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Fic: A Touch of the Wild, Part 04
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 04
Author’s note: Agent Sandoval has nothing to do with the similarly-named character in Earth: Final Conflict. He’s just been based on that character because I find Von Flores absolutely wonderful. Yeah, I’m that shallow. *g*
Lieutenant Bronowski is an original character, “played” by Brian MacNamara. The Crowne Plaza Hotel is an actually existing place, and the LAPD statistics are real. It’s amazing what you can do with Google.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By the time the BAU plane landed on the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, Reid had memorized every gory detail of the new case. Not because he wanted to – he already had enough stuff for nightmares, personal and professional, for the next decades – ha had no other choice. Having an eidetic memory, while it often came in handy, did have its disadvantages, too.
I guess everything comes at a price, he thought absent-mindedly, while leaving the plane.
They were welcomed by the representative of the local FBI field office, a short, sleek, smooth-mannered man from the Philippines by the name of Ronald Sandoval, and escorted to the cars they would be using during their stay in LA: Then they drove to the West Los Angeles Community Station, from where the city-wide investigation would be coordinated.
“Is the local office involved in the investigation?” JJ asked.
She went with the car driven by Sandoval, who alone knew the way. Reid was the only one going with them; the others followed Sandoval’s car with their respective vehicles.
Sandoval shrugged. “To a certain extent, yes, although we’re trying not to step on the toes of the LAPD detectives. A quarrel about competences wouldn’t be helpful; besides, they know their jobs. I’ve been delegated to the case to coordinate the work of the various police stations affected by the murders, and to serve as a counsellor. But that’s all the FBI involvement there is.”
“In that case we’ll be working together,” JJ said. “I’m the team’s liaison with local FBI branches and police agencies.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Sandoval replied politely, but his stiff stance and unreadable body language belied the courtesy of his words.
No, he was not the least happy with the presence of the BAU team, although he did an excellent job hiding that fact. Reid wondered why he would resent their help – was it simple professional jealousy or had the local agent a few skeletons in his cupboard and was afraid that they might be found?
Some twenty minutes later they reached their destination and were led to the Homicide department, which was situated on the second floor of the old brick building. The local detectives were already waiting for them… and not only the detectives. There was a uniformed sergeant with them – probably representing the regular patrols – and an elderly man of Japanese descent who stood out of the crowd with his elegant suit like a sore thumb.
While most faces were a little wary, Lieutenant Bronowski, a big, handsome, open-faced man in his early fifties, seemed genuinely relieved to see them.
“I’ve been working in this precinct for twenty-six year and seen a lot,” he said, “but never anything even vaguely like this. We’re grateful for all the help we can get.”
He then introduced his three Homicide teams, which were interesting ones, to say the least. Detective Ioki – the man with the night blindness – and his partner, Detective Hoffs, a charming black woman, were both in their mid-forties; Detectives Turner and Barritza near fifty. It seemed that Murietta and Moralez were the youngest ones. Their technical analyst – and such Garcia’s local counterpart – was a tiny, fragile Chinese woman named Wong, who must have delayed her retirement by a decade or two to keep working here, by the looks of her. Sergeant Sanchez, the uniformed cop, looked like someone who’d been the terror of trainees for ages, and the coroner, Dr. Fujiyama – the elderly Japanese in the suit – had probably hit seventy already.
The only outsider at the moment was the representative of the Central Bureau of the LAPD, Detective Kate Lochley: a pretty blonde with a somewhat hostile attitude that, strangely enough, seemed to be aimed at her local colleagues rather than at the BAU-team. Reid wondered whether it was just the usual rivalry between precincts or something more… personal. It was hard to tell with her general coldness towards everyone.
Mutual introductions done, Hotch launched the briefing with a short summary of the fourteen known cases.
“Based on the preliminary analysis of Detective Murietta, we can assume that the unsub is probably a Caucasian male beyond thirty-five, with little or no success in his job,” he then said. “He murders and mutilates his victims because they have achieved a level of success that he, personally, could never manage.”
“What about the homeless victims?” Detective Ioki asked.
“He probably punishes them for failing the same way he’s failed,” Reid answered. “However, we’ll need to do a much more detailed victimology on those particular victims – who they were, what specific talents they might have had, how they ended up on the streets… that sort of thing.”
“Every new detail can help to complete or modify the profile,” Prentiss added. “When we have a clear image of the man we’re looking for, we’ll be able to find him.”
“Your preliminary report said something about the possibility of a reversed hate crime,” Agent Sandoval said.
Morgan shook his head. “Theoretically, it would be possible, but it’s rather unlikely,” he answered. “Ethnically motivated hate crimes are a lot less organised. Someone who has a deep-rooted hatred for young, successful white males wouldn’t kill within such narrow borders. He’d kill randomly, targeting wealthy-looking men, not just a very specific type.”
“The bottom line is? We need to know more about the victims, especially the homeless ones,” Hotch said. “I know the affected police stations have done a great deal of background research, but from now on, we need to coordinate our efforts. We might also need the help and the resources of the local FBI bureau. JJ, I want you and Agent Sandoval to work on this aspect.”
JJ nodded. “Sure. We’ll set up a hotline between Garcia and Ms Wong, so that they can work on the data in tandem.”
“Agreed,” Hotch said. “We also need to see the crime scenes. Every single one of them.”
“What for?” Detective Lochley asked indignantly. “Our people did a thorough job on them. They’re professionals and damn good at their jobs.”
“Yes, but they look at a crime scene from a very different angle than we do,” Hotch explained. “We need to see the crime scene in order to get into the unsub’s mind. That’s how we work… well, part of it.”
“In that case we should build small teams,” Detective Murietta suggested. “Say, one of your people and one of ours. There are fourteen crime scenes to date; this way we’ll save time, and at least one of our teams can keep working on the other cases.”
Hotch nodded in agreement. “Which scenes would you suggest we visit first?”
“The homeless shelters,” Murietta answered without hesitation. “Those are the victims we know the least about; perhaps the other residents can be off assistance. If they’re willing to talk to the police, that is.”
“Ioki and I could infiltrate some of those shelters,” Detective Hoffs offered. “We both used to be undercover cops; and we don’t match the prey scheme of the killer – too old, not white enough, and I’m not even male. The people would talk to another homeless person.”
Lieutenant Bronowski looked at Hotch in askance. “What do you think, Agent Hotchner?”
“It’s a risk, but it could prove useful,” Hotch admitted. “I’d be happier of one of us could go with you, though.”
“I’m the only one who’s already worked undercover; I’ll go,” Morgan offered. Hotch nodded.
“All right. Work out convincing backstories. Create the necessary drop points and the means to deliver information without raising suspicions.”
“We can use the uniformed patrols for that,” Sergeant Sanchez said. “My officers have contact with homeless people all the time.”
“Who call it harassing,” Detective Turner added with a grin.
Detective Hoffs shrugged. “That’ll only make our job easier.”
“Good,” Hotch said. “I need someone who’d check out the crime scenes and backgrounds of the more… prominent victims with Agent Prentiss and me. Two teams.”
“I’ll go with Agent Prentiss,” Detective Lochley said. “We can take the Newton Area and the Rampart area, checking the victims in that part of Downtown and the Fashion District.”
“And I’ll check the Central area with you, Agent Hotchner,” Detective Barritza offered. “I’ve lived near the City Hall for quite some years and am familiar with the neighbourhood.”
“What about me?” Reid asked, seeing that all the others had been paired up with local cops – except him.
“You, Dr. Reid, will be my personal responsibility,” Murietta replied. “You’ll stay with Moralez and me and won’t go anywhere without one of us keeping a close eye on you… not even to the head.”
Reid felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “I don’t need a bodyguard,” he protested hotly.
“Not usually, perhaps,” Murietta allowed. “But in this particular case, yes, you do. You’re the perfect bait for our killer, and I won’t let you die on my watch. So, you either stick to us like Velcro or take the first plane back to Quantico. It’s your choice.”
“Come on, it won’t be so bad,” Detective Morales tried to calm down the furious young profiler who was literally spluttering with anger. “You’ll get to see the most interesting places of West LA with us.”
Reid glared daggers at her but didn’t answer. He hoped that Hotch would interfere on his behalf, but the unit chief looked actually relieved to know that he’d be safe-guarded, so he gave up.
“Good,” Lieutenant Bronowski said, clearly as much relieved as Hotch was. “Then this is settled. We’ve booked you rooms in the Crowne Plaza Hotel, as it has a central location between affected precincts. As soon as you’ve checked in, you can freely dispose over your working schedule – and that of your assigned partners. This case has been given priority by the captain.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With that, the briefing was adjourned till the next morning, and the BAU team was accompanied by their local partners to take them to their hotel… all but one. Reid was a little shocked when he saw that Murietta didn’t follow the other cars.
“Aren’t you taking me to the hotel?” he asked.
“No,” Murietta said. “It won’t be safe enough for you. If this killer keeps an eye on us cops, and I’m sure he does, he won’t have any problems to get to you in a hotel.”
“Where are we going then?” Reid felt decidedly uncomfortable about being separated from his team colleagues. Besides, could he be truly certain, that these two could be trusted?
Moralez smiled at him. “To a safe house, which we run for exactly such purposes,” she said. “The people who run it can’t be connected to the police and so don’t draw any unwanted attention. That’s the best place for you to be as long as you’re here.”
Reid still didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about his situation – not at the moment anyway. Making a mental note to give his – hopefully – well-meant jailors the slip at the first possible time, he let them drive him to a little condo that looked very much like several dozen other that he’d seen along the way. Built in the typical Spanish-American style of the 1970s. It had a walled garden, with a dense net of warning sensors faming the top of the wall (although the untrained eye most likely wouldn’t have detected them), and there were well-concealed security locks on both the gate and the front door of the house itself.
A muscular, good-looking Latino man in his late thirties came to greet them and introduced himself as Jesús Ramirez. He spoke with a faint Spanish accent, but not one Reid had ever heard before. Most likely not Mexican or Puerto Rican, then. Perhaps from somewhere deeper down in South America. He was wearing worn jeans and an open-necked, faded blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“The fridge has been stocked up and the security system is online,” he told Murietta. “I’ll be here for the next twenty-four hours, until relief arrives.”
For all that he could have been the gardener or the janitor by his looks, there was something in his speech patterns and mannerism that practically screamed ex-military. Perhaps not a member of any regular army, but definitely someone who once had been part of a fighting unit – perhaps a guerrilla group – and one who’d seen real war, if the ugly scars half-visible under his shirt were any indication.
Murietta nodded. “Who will relieve you?” he asked.
“Allison,” Ramirez said; at Murietta’s apparent surprise, he shrugged. “Hey, hombre, this massacre affects us all. Salvador has been concerned about the killings for some time. If these Feds can help to stop it, more power to them. We’ll gladly baby-sit gringo boy here, and Allison is the best. You know that.”
Reid was about to protect again, but a warning look from Moralez made him shut up. If the Latino community decided to help them, who was he to complain? Besides, despite his brave words at the police station, and earlier on back in Quantico, the fact that he looked so much like the victims and thus was an obvious potential target, did creep him out a little. Dealing with the memories of his captivity was bad enough… not that he was dealing with them all that well. Still, he didn’t want to give in too easily.
“So, now that you’ve placed me in my cell, what’s the next step?” he asked sarcastically.
“Lunch, coffee, and then we’re going to visit a few places,” Moralez replied.
“You two have lunch,” Murietta said. “Jesús and I need to re-check the security system; it hasn’t been used for a while, and I don’t want to take any risks. We’ll eat something on our round. Oh, and Doctor Reid, just so that you know – cell phones don’t work in this house.”
“We usually switch off our phones half a mile from the house already,” Moralez added, leading the slightly panicking Reid to the kitchen. “That way they can’t be located, should someone have too good contacts to the phone company. We’d ask you to do the same. It’s for your own protection.”
“But… but you can’t be in contact with your colleagues then,” Reid pointed out, absent-mindedly accepting the burritos she placed before him.
Moralez laughed. “Oh, but we have a secure phone line installed in the house. The number is secret, of course, but we usually call in twice the hour to see if there’s anything new.”
“I’m surprised that the LAPD can run such a high maintenance hiding place,” Reid said. “According to statistics, you guys have been suffering from chronic underfunding and under-staffing in the recent history of the department. With only one officer for every four hundred and twenty-six residents, how can you afford to man this house?”
Moralez, who was about to start the coffee machine, shook her head.
“The house isn’t run by the police,” she said. “In fact, Lieutenant Bronowski is the only one who knows about its existence. This is a civilian initiative of the Latino community of LA, and it usually serves to protect political immigrants from Central- and South-America. Prominent ones, like intellectuals who dared to raise their voices against their government, or freedom fighters and the likes. Sometimes we – I mean we as the police – borrow it to house visiting celebrities who won’t be safe anywhere else. We had here Ernesto Cardenal once – I still have the book he signed for me – Pablo Antonio Cuadra, Pedro Chamorro Cardenal, although that was well before my time, or Dom Helder Camara, the late Bishop of Olinda and Recife.”
“Wasn’t Chamorro assassinated in 1978?” Reid asked.
“Not on our watch,” Moralez said with emphasis, “and neither will you, if we have anything to say about it. Now, how much sugar do you want in your coffee?”
“Four teaspoons, please,” Reid answered, his mind boggling by the thought that he was being guarded the same way celebrities like Ernesto Cardenal – one of the major contemporary poets of Spanish language and most famous theologian of Nicaragua – has been. Sure, he was valuable for the team, but not a person of such importance, and more likely would never be. It was a strange thought.
Moralez laughed. “Do you always drink your coffee in the form of sugar syrup?” she asked.
“I need lots of energy,” Reid said with a shrug. He’d had this discussion with his team members on a daily basis. “My brain functions best with lots of sugar and caffeine.”
Moralez shook her head in a motherly manner and placed the large mug of obscenely sweet coffee in front of him.
“Eat your lunch,” she ordered sternly. “Not even a skinny boy like you can live on coffee alone. You’re just skin and bones anyway.”
The absurd normalcy of that statement quelled Reid’s fears for a moment.
“Yes, Mom,” he laughed and began to eat his burritos obediently.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
An hour later Murietta was back and declared that it was time for them to go.
“Where are we going?” Reid asked.
“To the church of the Nine Choirs of Angels,” Murietta explained. “There’s a fairly large homeless shelter attached to it, and Father Callaghan, the parish priest is an old acquaintance of ours. There are some nuns of the Coptic order working with the people there – they might know something.”
“I thought Morgan and those undercover cops were supposed to visit the homeless shelters,” Reid said.
Murietta nodded. “They are. But there are some Moralez and I have patroned for some time, and there we have better chances. This is one of those. Get your stuff, Dr. Reid, we need to go now. Moralez, can you write the preliminary reports in the meantime?”
“Why am I not surprised that I’m left with the paperwork again?” Moralez grumbled but didn’t seem really mad about it. They must have been a well-oiled team.
The church named after “The Nine Choirs of the Saint Angels” was not far from the safe house – they reached it in about twenty or twenty-five minutes, Reid didn’t really check the clock. It was a simple, elegant Gothic building, and it seemed quite old, although kept in a great shape.
“The oldest in Los Angeles,” Murietta said. “Rumours also say it was broken down and transported stone by stone from Ireland to LA by an eccentric millionaire who didn’t live to see his church being rebuilt in the whole. I don’t know whether it’s true, though. I guess I could find out if I wanted to, but there was never really any need to do so.”
Reid nodded absent-mindedly, making a mental note of looking up the facts concerning the little church later. Not that he needed to – it had probably nothing to do with their current case – he was just curious. “Can we go in?” he asked. “I’d like to see it from the inside.”
“We have to,” Murietta replied. “The shelter can only be accessed through the church. It’s a measure to keep the people safe.”
The church seemed much bigger from the inside, with vast, sweeping ceilings high above, and ancient, pale tapestries hanging on the walls. Row upon row of pews filled most of the interior, a large altar dominating the end of the church opposite to where Angel they stood at the entrance, a wonderfully-carved, huge cross hung from the apse’s ceiling. The tall, narrow stained glass windows broke the late afternoon light into a merry rainbow of colours. It was a beautiful sight.
Currently, the church was empty, save from the young parish priest who seemed to be checking something in one of the large tomes already laid out for the evening service. He wore black jeans, and a black, dog-collared shirt. He had a pleasant, open face, and longish hair, just long enough to reach his collar. Sensing their presence, he looked up and came down the three steps of the dais to greet them.
“Detective Murietta!” he said with a welcoming smile, his voice accented heavily with Irish. “I’ve been waiting for you to come by one of these days. And this would be?”
“Dr Spencer Reid, from the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit,” Reid introduced himself, shaking the priest’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid,” the priest’s grip was strong and warm. “I’m Philip Callaghan. Now, how can we help you guys? It’s about the recent killings, isn’t it?”
Murietta nodded. “We need to talk to the people in your shelter,” he said. “How many do you have in average?”
“Between twenty and thirty, plus the same number coming additionally for a plate of warm food,” Father Callaghan replied. “That’s all the presbytery can handle. We don’t have much room in the building. But they won’t talk to you. They won’t even talk to me, unless one of them wants to make a confession, and God knows that happens rarely enough.”
“We must speak to them Father,” Reid insisted. “Some of the homeless victims aren’t even identified yet, and without a detailed victimology, we have no chance to find the killer.We have some photos with us…”
“Well,” the priest said thoughtfully, “perhaps the sisters can help you.”
“The sisters? You mean the nuns who work here?” Murietta asked.
Father Callaghan nodded. “They come over each day from their small convent, not far from here,” he explained. “Sister Maura has been the sacristan of this church longer than I have been alive, and Sister Ingrid is a nurse. They’re the ones who have the most contact with these people; they might be able to recognize some of the victims.”
Murietta and Reid exchanged somewhat doubtful looks. As a rule, social workers and other people taking care of the homeless didn’t cooperate with the police too eagerly. Finally, the LAPD detective shrugged.
“It’s worth a try, I guess,” he decided.
“Come with me, then,” the priest led them across the nave of the church to a small side door that opened to the anteroom of the presbytery, from which several other doors led to other rooms. One of those rooms was a small office, barely enough to house a desk and a wall-to-wall shelf for the official records.
A young and surprisingly pretty nun sat in the office, working on an aged computer. She wore a habit of coarse, undyed wool, held together by a leather girdle with three plaited crosses, an equally undyed linen wimple that covered her chest and her head like the hood of an astronaut, and a long black veil that reached down to her waist and was draped over her head. She looked up when they entered and smiled pleasantly.
“Can I help you?”
“That is Sister Consuela,” the priest explained, “she does all the booking and filing for the presbytery. We’re looking for Sister Ingrid and Sister Maura, actually.”
“Sister Ingrid is having a lesson with the children in the conference room,” the nun told him. “Sister Maura is controlling the other rooms right now,” she shrugged apologetically. “We need to do that at least once a day, because of the danger that someone might smuggle in drugs. Quite a few of our people are addicts, trying to get away from that stuff, and since they can’t afford therapy, the only way to do it is going cold turkey. We can’t allow anyone to endanger that.”
Father Callaghan nodded. “Very well, I know where to find her then.”
He led them down a corridor, with door leading to small rooms left and right.
“These used to be the rooms of the other priests, at the times when there were more of us – long before my time,” he explained, “as well as guest rooms. We use them to house the homeless people here now; mostly women with their children or elderly people. Sometimes we have a few younger ones as well. Not as residents, but they come regularly to eat. Sister Maura will be able to tell you more.”
“To tell more whom and about what, Father?” a voice rough with age asked. Turning back, they faced a truly ancient-looking nun who wore the same clothes as the young sister in the office. Her wrinkled face looked like seasoned wood in the white frame of her wimple, and her hand, with thickly seamed veins and swollen knuckles, spoke of a life spent with hard physical work.
“Sister Maura,” the priest said, “these men have come from the police. They’d like to show you some photos, to see if you can recognize any of them.”
The old nun looked at him sternly but with fondness at the same time; as a doting grandmother would look at a promising but somewhat wayward grandson. “I don’t work with the police,” she said curtly.
“I can understand that you want to protect these people here,” Reid interrupted, nodding vaguely in the direction of the rooms. “But the ones on the photos we want to show you are already dead. We jut want to know who they were.”
“What for?” Sister Maura asked. “The dead are dead. Even if I could recognize them, that wouldn’t make them alive again.”
“Perhaps not,” Reid allowed. “But giving them a name would make them persons again, instead of mere numbers on a murderer’s list of victims. And we’d like to find the man who’s murdered them, so that he won’t hurt more people.”
The old nun considered that for a moment – then she reached out for the photos.
“Show me,” she said. “Whoever they were, they deserve at least to have their names on the headstone.”
Reid handed her the photos, and she looked at every single one very carefully, seemingly unfazed by the gory details of the killing. Of the unidentified victims there were no other pictures than the crime scene photos, and Reid had originally hesitated to show them to an old woman who must have led a sheltered life in her cloister. To his surprise, the only emption he could see on that withered old face was pity.
“Poor things,” old Sister Maura said. “That such young lives had to end in such a terrible manner. It’s wrong, and I hope you will find the one who is responsible.” Then she selected two of the photos. “I know these two,” she said. “At least I think so.”
Part 05
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 04
Author’s note: Agent Sandoval has nothing to do with the similarly-named character in Earth: Final Conflict. He’s just been based on that character because I find Von Flores absolutely wonderful. Yeah, I’m that shallow. *g*
Lieutenant Bronowski is an original character, “played” by Brian MacNamara. The Crowne Plaza Hotel is an actually existing place, and the LAPD statistics are real. It’s amazing what you can do with Google.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
By the time the BAU plane landed on the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, Reid had memorized every gory detail of the new case. Not because he wanted to – he already had enough stuff for nightmares, personal and professional, for the next decades – ha had no other choice. Having an eidetic memory, while it often came in handy, did have its disadvantages, too.
I guess everything comes at a price, he thought absent-mindedly, while leaving the plane.
They were welcomed by the representative of the local FBI field office, a short, sleek, smooth-mannered man from the Philippines by the name of Ronald Sandoval, and escorted to the cars they would be using during their stay in LA: Then they drove to the West Los Angeles Community Station, from where the city-wide investigation would be coordinated.
“Is the local office involved in the investigation?” JJ asked.
She went with the car driven by Sandoval, who alone knew the way. Reid was the only one going with them; the others followed Sandoval’s car with their respective vehicles.
Sandoval shrugged. “To a certain extent, yes, although we’re trying not to step on the toes of the LAPD detectives. A quarrel about competences wouldn’t be helpful; besides, they know their jobs. I’ve been delegated to the case to coordinate the work of the various police stations affected by the murders, and to serve as a counsellor. But that’s all the FBI involvement there is.”
“In that case we’ll be working together,” JJ said. “I’m the team’s liaison with local FBI branches and police agencies.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Sandoval replied politely, but his stiff stance and unreadable body language belied the courtesy of his words.
No, he was not the least happy with the presence of the BAU team, although he did an excellent job hiding that fact. Reid wondered why he would resent their help – was it simple professional jealousy or had the local agent a few skeletons in his cupboard and was afraid that they might be found?
Some twenty minutes later they reached their destination and were led to the Homicide department, which was situated on the second floor of the old brick building. The local detectives were already waiting for them… and not only the detectives. There was a uniformed sergeant with them – probably representing the regular patrols – and an elderly man of Japanese descent who stood out of the crowd with his elegant suit like a sore thumb.
While most faces were a little wary, Lieutenant Bronowski, a big, handsome, open-faced man in his early fifties, seemed genuinely relieved to see them.
“I’ve been working in this precinct for twenty-six year and seen a lot,” he said, “but never anything even vaguely like this. We’re grateful for all the help we can get.”
He then introduced his three Homicide teams, which were interesting ones, to say the least. Detective Ioki – the man with the night blindness – and his partner, Detective Hoffs, a charming black woman, were both in their mid-forties; Detectives Turner and Barritza near fifty. It seemed that Murietta and Moralez were the youngest ones. Their technical analyst – and such Garcia’s local counterpart – was a tiny, fragile Chinese woman named Wong, who must have delayed her retirement by a decade or two to keep working here, by the looks of her. Sergeant Sanchez, the uniformed cop, looked like someone who’d been the terror of trainees for ages, and the coroner, Dr. Fujiyama – the elderly Japanese in the suit – had probably hit seventy already.
The only outsider at the moment was the representative of the Central Bureau of the LAPD, Detective Kate Lochley: a pretty blonde with a somewhat hostile attitude that, strangely enough, seemed to be aimed at her local colleagues rather than at the BAU-team. Reid wondered whether it was just the usual rivalry between precincts or something more… personal. It was hard to tell with her general coldness towards everyone.
Mutual introductions done, Hotch launched the briefing with a short summary of the fourteen known cases.
“Based on the preliminary analysis of Detective Murietta, we can assume that the unsub is probably a Caucasian male beyond thirty-five, with little or no success in his job,” he then said. “He murders and mutilates his victims because they have achieved a level of success that he, personally, could never manage.”
“What about the homeless victims?” Detective Ioki asked.
“He probably punishes them for failing the same way he’s failed,” Reid answered. “However, we’ll need to do a much more detailed victimology on those particular victims – who they were, what specific talents they might have had, how they ended up on the streets… that sort of thing.”
“Every new detail can help to complete or modify the profile,” Prentiss added. “When we have a clear image of the man we’re looking for, we’ll be able to find him.”
“Your preliminary report said something about the possibility of a reversed hate crime,” Agent Sandoval said.
Morgan shook his head. “Theoretically, it would be possible, but it’s rather unlikely,” he answered. “Ethnically motivated hate crimes are a lot less organised. Someone who has a deep-rooted hatred for young, successful white males wouldn’t kill within such narrow borders. He’d kill randomly, targeting wealthy-looking men, not just a very specific type.”
“The bottom line is? We need to know more about the victims, especially the homeless ones,” Hotch said. “I know the affected police stations have done a great deal of background research, but from now on, we need to coordinate our efforts. We might also need the help and the resources of the local FBI bureau. JJ, I want you and Agent Sandoval to work on this aspect.”
JJ nodded. “Sure. We’ll set up a hotline between Garcia and Ms Wong, so that they can work on the data in tandem.”
“Agreed,” Hotch said. “We also need to see the crime scenes. Every single one of them.”
“What for?” Detective Lochley asked indignantly. “Our people did a thorough job on them. They’re professionals and damn good at their jobs.”
“Yes, but they look at a crime scene from a very different angle than we do,” Hotch explained. “We need to see the crime scene in order to get into the unsub’s mind. That’s how we work… well, part of it.”
“In that case we should build small teams,” Detective Murietta suggested. “Say, one of your people and one of ours. There are fourteen crime scenes to date; this way we’ll save time, and at least one of our teams can keep working on the other cases.”
Hotch nodded in agreement. “Which scenes would you suggest we visit first?”
“The homeless shelters,” Murietta answered without hesitation. “Those are the victims we know the least about; perhaps the other residents can be off assistance. If they’re willing to talk to the police, that is.”
“Ioki and I could infiltrate some of those shelters,” Detective Hoffs offered. “We both used to be undercover cops; and we don’t match the prey scheme of the killer – too old, not white enough, and I’m not even male. The people would talk to another homeless person.”
Lieutenant Bronowski looked at Hotch in askance. “What do you think, Agent Hotchner?”
“It’s a risk, but it could prove useful,” Hotch admitted. “I’d be happier of one of us could go with you, though.”
“I’m the only one who’s already worked undercover; I’ll go,” Morgan offered. Hotch nodded.
“All right. Work out convincing backstories. Create the necessary drop points and the means to deliver information without raising suspicions.”
“We can use the uniformed patrols for that,” Sergeant Sanchez said. “My officers have contact with homeless people all the time.”
“Who call it harassing,” Detective Turner added with a grin.
Detective Hoffs shrugged. “That’ll only make our job easier.”
“Good,” Hotch said. “I need someone who’d check out the crime scenes and backgrounds of the more… prominent victims with Agent Prentiss and me. Two teams.”
“I’ll go with Agent Prentiss,” Detective Lochley said. “We can take the Newton Area and the Rampart area, checking the victims in that part of Downtown and the Fashion District.”
“And I’ll check the Central area with you, Agent Hotchner,” Detective Barritza offered. “I’ve lived near the City Hall for quite some years and am familiar with the neighbourhood.”
“What about me?” Reid asked, seeing that all the others had been paired up with local cops – except him.
“You, Dr. Reid, will be my personal responsibility,” Murietta replied. “You’ll stay with Moralez and me and won’t go anywhere without one of us keeping a close eye on you… not even to the head.”
Reid felt the heat rising in his cheeks. “I don’t need a bodyguard,” he protested hotly.
“Not usually, perhaps,” Murietta allowed. “But in this particular case, yes, you do. You’re the perfect bait for our killer, and I won’t let you die on my watch. So, you either stick to us like Velcro or take the first plane back to Quantico. It’s your choice.”
“Come on, it won’t be so bad,” Detective Morales tried to calm down the furious young profiler who was literally spluttering with anger. “You’ll get to see the most interesting places of West LA with us.”
Reid glared daggers at her but didn’t answer. He hoped that Hotch would interfere on his behalf, but the unit chief looked actually relieved to know that he’d be safe-guarded, so he gave up.
“Good,” Lieutenant Bronowski said, clearly as much relieved as Hotch was. “Then this is settled. We’ve booked you rooms in the Crowne Plaza Hotel, as it has a central location between affected precincts. As soon as you’ve checked in, you can freely dispose over your working schedule – and that of your assigned partners. This case has been given priority by the captain.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With that, the briefing was adjourned till the next morning, and the BAU team was accompanied by their local partners to take them to their hotel… all but one. Reid was a little shocked when he saw that Murietta didn’t follow the other cars.
“Aren’t you taking me to the hotel?” he asked.
“No,” Murietta said. “It won’t be safe enough for you. If this killer keeps an eye on us cops, and I’m sure he does, he won’t have any problems to get to you in a hotel.”
“Where are we going then?” Reid felt decidedly uncomfortable about being separated from his team colleagues. Besides, could he be truly certain, that these two could be trusted?
Moralez smiled at him. “To a safe house, which we run for exactly such purposes,” she said. “The people who run it can’t be connected to the police and so don’t draw any unwanted attention. That’s the best place for you to be as long as you’re here.”
Reid still didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about his situation – not at the moment anyway. Making a mental note to give his – hopefully – well-meant jailors the slip at the first possible time, he let them drive him to a little condo that looked very much like several dozen other that he’d seen along the way. Built in the typical Spanish-American style of the 1970s. It had a walled garden, with a dense net of warning sensors faming the top of the wall (although the untrained eye most likely wouldn’t have detected them), and there were well-concealed security locks on both the gate and the front door of the house itself.
A muscular, good-looking Latino man in his late thirties came to greet them and introduced himself as Jesús Ramirez. He spoke with a faint Spanish accent, but not one Reid had ever heard before. Most likely not Mexican or Puerto Rican, then. Perhaps from somewhere deeper down in South America. He was wearing worn jeans and an open-necked, faded blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“The fridge has been stocked up and the security system is online,” he told Murietta. “I’ll be here for the next twenty-four hours, until relief arrives.”
For all that he could have been the gardener or the janitor by his looks, there was something in his speech patterns and mannerism that practically screamed ex-military. Perhaps not a member of any regular army, but definitely someone who once had been part of a fighting unit – perhaps a guerrilla group – and one who’d seen real war, if the ugly scars half-visible under his shirt were any indication.
Murietta nodded. “Who will relieve you?” he asked.
“Allison,” Ramirez said; at Murietta’s apparent surprise, he shrugged. “Hey, hombre, this massacre affects us all. Salvador has been concerned about the killings for some time. If these Feds can help to stop it, more power to them. We’ll gladly baby-sit gringo boy here, and Allison is the best. You know that.”
Reid was about to protect again, but a warning look from Moralez made him shut up. If the Latino community decided to help them, who was he to complain? Besides, despite his brave words at the police station, and earlier on back in Quantico, the fact that he looked so much like the victims and thus was an obvious potential target, did creep him out a little. Dealing with the memories of his captivity was bad enough… not that he was dealing with them all that well. Still, he didn’t want to give in too easily.
“So, now that you’ve placed me in my cell, what’s the next step?” he asked sarcastically.
“Lunch, coffee, and then we’re going to visit a few places,” Moralez replied.
“You two have lunch,” Murietta said. “Jesús and I need to re-check the security system; it hasn’t been used for a while, and I don’t want to take any risks. We’ll eat something on our round. Oh, and Doctor Reid, just so that you know – cell phones don’t work in this house.”
“We usually switch off our phones half a mile from the house already,” Moralez added, leading the slightly panicking Reid to the kitchen. “That way they can’t be located, should someone have too good contacts to the phone company. We’d ask you to do the same. It’s for your own protection.”
“But… but you can’t be in contact with your colleagues then,” Reid pointed out, absent-mindedly accepting the burritos she placed before him.
Moralez laughed. “Oh, but we have a secure phone line installed in the house. The number is secret, of course, but we usually call in twice the hour to see if there’s anything new.”
“I’m surprised that the LAPD can run such a high maintenance hiding place,” Reid said. “According to statistics, you guys have been suffering from chronic underfunding and under-staffing in the recent history of the department. With only one officer for every four hundred and twenty-six residents, how can you afford to man this house?”
Moralez, who was about to start the coffee machine, shook her head.
“The house isn’t run by the police,” she said. “In fact, Lieutenant Bronowski is the only one who knows about its existence. This is a civilian initiative of the Latino community of LA, and it usually serves to protect political immigrants from Central- and South-America. Prominent ones, like intellectuals who dared to raise their voices against their government, or freedom fighters and the likes. Sometimes we – I mean we as the police – borrow it to house visiting celebrities who won’t be safe anywhere else. We had here Ernesto Cardenal once – I still have the book he signed for me – Pablo Antonio Cuadra, Pedro Chamorro Cardenal, although that was well before my time, or Dom Helder Camara, the late Bishop of Olinda and Recife.”
“Wasn’t Chamorro assassinated in 1978?” Reid asked.
“Not on our watch,” Moralez said with emphasis, “and neither will you, if we have anything to say about it. Now, how much sugar do you want in your coffee?”
“Four teaspoons, please,” Reid answered, his mind boggling by the thought that he was being guarded the same way celebrities like Ernesto Cardenal – one of the major contemporary poets of Spanish language and most famous theologian of Nicaragua – has been. Sure, he was valuable for the team, but not a person of such importance, and more likely would never be. It was a strange thought.
Moralez laughed. “Do you always drink your coffee in the form of sugar syrup?” she asked.
“I need lots of energy,” Reid said with a shrug. He’d had this discussion with his team members on a daily basis. “My brain functions best with lots of sugar and caffeine.”
Moralez shook her head in a motherly manner and placed the large mug of obscenely sweet coffee in front of him.
“Eat your lunch,” she ordered sternly. “Not even a skinny boy like you can live on coffee alone. You’re just skin and bones anyway.”
The absurd normalcy of that statement quelled Reid’s fears for a moment.
“Yes, Mom,” he laughed and began to eat his burritos obediently.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
An hour later Murietta was back and declared that it was time for them to go.
“Where are we going?” Reid asked.
“To the church of the Nine Choirs of Angels,” Murietta explained. “There’s a fairly large homeless shelter attached to it, and Father Callaghan, the parish priest is an old acquaintance of ours. There are some nuns of the Coptic order working with the people there – they might know something.”
“I thought Morgan and those undercover cops were supposed to visit the homeless shelters,” Reid said.
Murietta nodded. “They are. But there are some Moralez and I have patroned for some time, and there we have better chances. This is one of those. Get your stuff, Dr. Reid, we need to go now. Moralez, can you write the preliminary reports in the meantime?”
“Why am I not surprised that I’m left with the paperwork again?” Moralez grumbled but didn’t seem really mad about it. They must have been a well-oiled team.
The church named after “The Nine Choirs of the Saint Angels” was not far from the safe house – they reached it in about twenty or twenty-five minutes, Reid didn’t really check the clock. It was a simple, elegant Gothic building, and it seemed quite old, although kept in a great shape.
“The oldest in Los Angeles,” Murietta said. “Rumours also say it was broken down and transported stone by stone from Ireland to LA by an eccentric millionaire who didn’t live to see his church being rebuilt in the whole. I don’t know whether it’s true, though. I guess I could find out if I wanted to, but there was never really any need to do so.”
Reid nodded absent-mindedly, making a mental note of looking up the facts concerning the little church later. Not that he needed to – it had probably nothing to do with their current case – he was just curious. “Can we go in?” he asked. “I’d like to see it from the inside.”
“We have to,” Murietta replied. “The shelter can only be accessed through the church. It’s a measure to keep the people safe.”
The church seemed much bigger from the inside, with vast, sweeping ceilings high above, and ancient, pale tapestries hanging on the walls. Row upon row of pews filled most of the interior, a large altar dominating the end of the church opposite to where Angel they stood at the entrance, a wonderfully-carved, huge cross hung from the apse’s ceiling. The tall, narrow stained glass windows broke the late afternoon light into a merry rainbow of colours. It was a beautiful sight.
Currently, the church was empty, save from the young parish priest who seemed to be checking something in one of the large tomes already laid out for the evening service. He wore black jeans, and a black, dog-collared shirt. He had a pleasant, open face, and longish hair, just long enough to reach his collar. Sensing their presence, he looked up and came down the three steps of the dais to greet them.
“Detective Murietta!” he said with a welcoming smile, his voice accented heavily with Irish. “I’ve been waiting for you to come by one of these days. And this would be?”
“Dr Spencer Reid, from the FBI’s Behavioural Analysis Unit,” Reid introduced himself, shaking the priest’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Reid,” the priest’s grip was strong and warm. “I’m Philip Callaghan. Now, how can we help you guys? It’s about the recent killings, isn’t it?”
Murietta nodded. “We need to talk to the people in your shelter,” he said. “How many do you have in average?”
“Between twenty and thirty, plus the same number coming additionally for a plate of warm food,” Father Callaghan replied. “That’s all the presbytery can handle. We don’t have much room in the building. But they won’t talk to you. They won’t even talk to me, unless one of them wants to make a confession, and God knows that happens rarely enough.”
“We must speak to them Father,” Reid insisted. “Some of the homeless victims aren’t even identified yet, and without a detailed victimology, we have no chance to find the killer.We have some photos with us…”
“Well,” the priest said thoughtfully, “perhaps the sisters can help you.”
“The sisters? You mean the nuns who work here?” Murietta asked.
Father Callaghan nodded. “They come over each day from their small convent, not far from here,” he explained. “Sister Maura has been the sacristan of this church longer than I have been alive, and Sister Ingrid is a nurse. They’re the ones who have the most contact with these people; they might be able to recognize some of the victims.”
Murietta and Reid exchanged somewhat doubtful looks. As a rule, social workers and other people taking care of the homeless didn’t cooperate with the police too eagerly. Finally, the LAPD detective shrugged.
“It’s worth a try, I guess,” he decided.
“Come with me, then,” the priest led them across the nave of the church to a small side door that opened to the anteroom of the presbytery, from which several other doors led to other rooms. One of those rooms was a small office, barely enough to house a desk and a wall-to-wall shelf for the official records.
A young and surprisingly pretty nun sat in the office, working on an aged computer. She wore a habit of coarse, undyed wool, held together by a leather girdle with three plaited crosses, an equally undyed linen wimple that covered her chest and her head like the hood of an astronaut, and a long black veil that reached down to her waist and was draped over her head. She looked up when they entered and smiled pleasantly.
“Can I help you?”
“That is Sister Consuela,” the priest explained, “she does all the booking and filing for the presbytery. We’re looking for Sister Ingrid and Sister Maura, actually.”
“Sister Ingrid is having a lesson with the children in the conference room,” the nun told him. “Sister Maura is controlling the other rooms right now,” she shrugged apologetically. “We need to do that at least once a day, because of the danger that someone might smuggle in drugs. Quite a few of our people are addicts, trying to get away from that stuff, and since they can’t afford therapy, the only way to do it is going cold turkey. We can’t allow anyone to endanger that.”
Father Callaghan nodded. “Very well, I know where to find her then.”
He led them down a corridor, with door leading to small rooms left and right.
“These used to be the rooms of the other priests, at the times when there were more of us – long before my time,” he explained, “as well as guest rooms. We use them to house the homeless people here now; mostly women with their children or elderly people. Sometimes we have a few younger ones as well. Not as residents, but they come regularly to eat. Sister Maura will be able to tell you more.”
“To tell more whom and about what, Father?” a voice rough with age asked. Turning back, they faced a truly ancient-looking nun who wore the same clothes as the young sister in the office. Her wrinkled face looked like seasoned wood in the white frame of her wimple, and her hand, with thickly seamed veins and swollen knuckles, spoke of a life spent with hard physical work.
“Sister Maura,” the priest said, “these men have come from the police. They’d like to show you some photos, to see if you can recognize any of them.”
The old nun looked at him sternly but with fondness at the same time; as a doting grandmother would look at a promising but somewhat wayward grandson. “I don’t work with the police,” she said curtly.
“I can understand that you want to protect these people here,” Reid interrupted, nodding vaguely in the direction of the rooms. “But the ones on the photos we want to show you are already dead. We jut want to know who they were.”
“What for?” Sister Maura asked. “The dead are dead. Even if I could recognize them, that wouldn’t make them alive again.”
“Perhaps not,” Reid allowed. “But giving them a name would make them persons again, instead of mere numbers on a murderer’s list of victims. And we’d like to find the man who’s murdered them, so that he won’t hurt more people.”
The old nun considered that for a moment – then she reached out for the photos.
“Show me,” she said. “Whoever they were, they deserve at least to have their names on the headstone.”
Reid handed her the photos, and she looked at every single one very carefully, seemingly unfazed by the gory details of the killing. Of the unidentified victims there were no other pictures than the crime scene photos, and Reid had originally hesitated to show them to an old woman who must have led a sheltered life in her cloister. To his surprise, the only emption he could see on that withered old face was pity.
“Poor things,” old Sister Maura said. “That such young lives had to end in such a terrible manner. It’s wrong, and I hope you will find the one who is responsible.” Then she selected two of the photos. “I know these two,” she said. “At least I think so.”
Part 05