I'm a horrible person and I'm not sorry.
For the full effect of this story, listen to the song as you read it. Or before it. Trust me, it will make much more sense.
WARNING: THIS STORY MAY BE TRIGGERING. STORY INCLUDES SUICIDE, QUESTIONING RIGHT FROM WRONG, AND MURDERS.
The song is "Slow Motion" by Big and Rich
I own nothing but this twisted mind of mine.
Like any other nice day in Virginia, it was sunny and hot out, a little uncomfortably hot for the people not used to the heat. People walked up and down the streets, looking at monuments or buildings or just trying to get to work. It was summer time and school was out, so kids were playing in the park. Even the members of the BAU were enjoying the weather. It had been relatively quiet, the cases being short and easier to handle, but no less disturbing. The last bad one they had was an extreme feminist who would kidnap males of any age, lock them in her basement, and try to neuter them with dull knives. They arrested the woman. Maybe if they would've paid closer attention at the time, they would've realized that something was off about the smartest one in their group, who had left the room when they found the woman and found in the hallway, puking. They should have seen the far away look in his eyes then, the shaking in his hands.
As with many cases, the first ones to find it were the police. They received a call saying someone living in their building had heard a gunshot coming from across the hall. They responded immediately, and were given the keys to the room when they arrived. Other officers remained outside the building in case anyone tried to make a run for it. There was no point in it. After demanding the door be open and nothing happening, the officers forced it open, and stopped dead in their tracks. Almost every surface of the room was covering in writing; the walls, the floors, the furniture, the counters, everything. There were pictures taped or tacked up all over the place of dead bodies or mug shots of men and women who had been arrested or killed earlier in the year and several years back. On the kitchen counter was a little fish bowl with a single fish swimming in circles, oblivious to the world around it.
The officers walked further into the room, guns ready in case anyone jumped out, but there was no one there. They walked into the small living room, and there on the coffee table they saw the thing that took this completely out of their hands. There was an I.D., and while it was mainly covered in blood and scratched up to point it was unreadable, three large letters were visible: FBI.
BAU Headquaters...
"We just got a call about a possible murder in the city." Someone said from the desk. "They said there's an FBI I.D. but the rest is all scratched out. They're waiting for us before they go any further."
"Whats the address?"
The man scanned his computer screen and read out the address and room number of the murder, just as Derek Morgan walked passed. He paused as soon as he heard that address.
"That's Reid's apartment." He said, looking over the shoulder of the other agent.
"I'm sure there are plenty of other people living in that apartment building, Morgan. Reid has a stomach bug, I'm sure he's fine." Aaron Hotchner said, flipping through some paper work.
"That's his apartment number though!" Morgan insisted. "C'mon, we all know Reid. A stomach bug wouldn't keep him away for this long. It's been a week!"
"Maybe he got some bad food poisoning." Someone suggested.
"He's called in sick every day this week. It's almost two in the afternoon, and he hasn't called." Morgan pointed out. "Something isn't right."
