Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: UNFINISHED BUSINESS

"In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years."

     — Abraham Lincoln

—

Led by a SWAT team, we burst into Harbin's home. I spot him down the hallway, making a run for it. He just manages to reach the kitchen when Elle tackles him. "FBI. Stop!"

He yelps as he hits the ground, an arm twisted behind his back. "Okay, okay!"

"Are you Scott Harbin?"

"What?"

Coming up beside them, I keep my gun aimed. "Harbin. Scott. Ring a bell?"

Behind us, Ryan huffs and holsters his weapon. "Yeah, that's Scott Harbin."

The man groans as he is dragged to his feet. He squints up at us through thin glasses. "Hey, Ryan. You got old."

"Haven't we all?"

Gideon looks him over in distaste, putting on a tone of mock-concern. "You missed an appointment, Scott."

"Oh. They send the FBI now for parole violations?"

"Yeah, we were in the neighbourhood." She shoves him forward for the SWAT team to deal with.

The rest of us split up to look around the house. Coming across Morgan and Hotch in the narrow hallway, I follow them through to what must be Harbin's bedroom. The bed has been made with great care, not a crease on it. Taking a guess, Morgan pulls open the top drawer of the dresser. Inside are socks, briefs and undershirts, all white and unmarked. They have been arranged neatly, folded uniformly in their own sections of the drawers. "Look at this. Socks three inches, underwear six inches. They teach you that at basic training."

"Ryan thought he might have a military background." We fan out across the small room. It isn't long before he calls us back to him in the hall, "Hey, Morgan, Sully." Inside a storage cupboard, each shelf has a plastic tub labelled with a polaroid of its contents: toilet paper, sanitisers, home extermination. "What's the chance he labels his secrets?"

I notice a cardboard box stashed away at the back of the closet, some pink lace peeking out. "Old habits die hard, I guess," I mutter, nose wrinkled in disgust as I pull the box out. "His magazines are alphabetised. Don't think I've ever seen anyone attempt to fold a thong military-style but he's cracked the code. Jesus, he organises them by colour."

Morgan just shakes his head. He grabs some of the tubs from the closet, pausing to peruse his bookshelf for anything strange. Another shout from Hotch and we look to the cupboard he has opened. Inside are a video camera and a television. "Think he makes his own movies?"

"Well, if he's the control freak Ryan thinks he is, why wouldn't he?"

It dawns on us that this could be what we need, some proof that he's the killer. "Where are the tapes?" he asks with renewed urgency, already grabbing some cardboard boxes on the bottom shelf of the cupboard.

We search the shelves, boxes, drawers, all to no avail. Sighing, I take a step too far, my foot knocking into the solid underside of the bed. The sound is strange, hollow and rattling. "Hang on." Dropping to my knees, I knock on the wooden panel. The sound comes again. I manage to pull the panel away and put it to one side, revealing a drawer within. My eyes widen and I urgently call out, "Help me get this out. Quickly!"

It takes the three of us to pull out the drawer. Inside is a body, a woman wrapped in plastic, her ankles and wrists bound and her mouth covered with tape. A piece of cloth has been tied over her eyes. Morgan yells for help while Hotch and I try to get her out. The second he removes her blindfold, she starts to scream. "Let me," I tell him, moving over to gently peel the tape from her mouth. "Ma'am, it's okay. We're with the FBI. I got you."