Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: EMPTY PLANET

"A machine is more blameless, more sinless even than any animal. It has no intentions whatsoever but our own."

     — Ursula K. Le Guin.

—

Barely half an hour later, we get the call. Cooke's car exploded just as he arrived in his office, the bomb located directly under his seat. Sat in the front of the car with Gideon as we wait for Reid to get his book, I mull over the news. "I don't get it. This guy has tried so hard not to hurt anyone. Granted, he wasn't great at it, setting off bombs and all... but he tried."

His bottom lip pushes out slightly in half-agreement. "Like we discussed, he has already taken a life, albeit accidentally. Plenty of serial killers start out with manslaughter, then develop a taste."

"Yeah, but I just don't think that's our guy. And even if that's the case, isn't this a pretty sudden acceleration? Bombing public places is ballsy, so's calling you up afterwards, but that's a far cry from concealing a bomb under a person's seat. Plus, Morgan said it was a compression trigger, set off when Cooke removed his weight from the seat. I don't know a lot about this kind of stuff, but I'm pretty sure that means the UnSub would've had to install it before he got in."

"In our parking lot," he realises.

"It just seems... sudden."

He shifts in his seat, uneasy. "That depends."

"On what?"

"How much of this is him, and how much is this Allegro character." Before either of us can bring the thought to any kind of conclusion, his phone rings. "Gideon," he answers. I watch his expression darken upon hearing the reply, and he promptly puts it between us on speaker, motioning to me with a finger on his lips. "Dr Cooke wasn't hurt. He was murdered."

"Murder is not murder during war," Allegro answers. He sounds fairly young, 20s or early 30s. He comes across clearly with no hesitation, no tremor.

I run a hand through my hair. Those words do nothing to ease my nerves. I wrack my brain for some kind of reason behind his acceleration. "But this— this isn't a war," Gideon tries to reason with him. "Y-You're living a novel. You're living a fiction."

"Will you meet my demands?" I frown. If he was still lucid or at least in denial about his delusions, he would become defensive. Instead, he barely concerns himself with giving a response.

"I can't. Stopping all automation in a week? You know that's impossible."

"Then I want my manifesto printed in the Seattle Ledger by tonight."

We look to each other. I shrug, already searching for my notepad. In my haste, when I fail to find it, I start writing straight onto my wrist. "Not the New York Times? Washington Post?" Gideon queries. "Is somebody in Seattle important to you?"

I wait, pen poised for the reply. Allegro takes a breath. "There's more work to be done. Much, much more. In fact, I'm going visit an old acquaintance right now. I'd invite you, but you're all going to be very busy."

He hangs up, leaving us in tense silence. The avoidance of Gideon's question indicates that it was a good assumption — there is someone else in the city, someone who he wants the attention of. But who? Another target? A potential ally? An estranged loved one? The door to the backseat opens while I continue to consider the options and Reid climbs in. "Got it. It was the last copy left. According to the clerk, it's actually become a pretty popular novel in science fiction circles. Actually, I—"

"Cool, cool. Not a good time."

"What—" He goes quiet when I hold up a hand, warning him off. By now, he has caught onto our apprehension. I hold up my wrist so that he can read the scribbled notes. The gesture perturbs him at first, but he pushes his glasses up his nose and leans closer to get a look.