Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: FEAR AND LOATHING

TW// Racial hate crimes, racism, use of the swastika by the UnSub.

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"From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate."

     — Socrates.

—

I keep seeing him. In that cabin. Bleeding, dying. A gun to his head.

The memories come back over and over again. I didn't do enough to help him. I didn't even have the guts to get out of that damn car and help him. My excuse to Gideon was fair enough — I don't know what I might have done to Hankel if I saw him. But that's not the real reason why I stayed behind. I stayed behind because, deep down, I'm a coward. I was scared. Scared to be in that place, scared to see Reid like that, to face him.

A week later and I still loathe myself for it. I'm at the office, Prentiss and Morgan chatting nearby. A fresh pot of coffee made, I lean against the counter of the kitchenette, staring blankly into my mug. Someone approaches. I look up and my stomach sinks like a rock in water. It's Reid.

He stops beside me, busying himself with pouring a mug of coffee for himself. He still looks pale and tired — although those dark circles of his have always been a feature. His hair doesn't shine like I remember. The cut on the side of his head is mostly healed, and I see no other evidence of physical scarring, but his presence is still a shock. His insistence on returning had floored everyone, but with a reluctant all-clear from his doctor, we couldn't do much to stop him. I can't shake the feeling when I look at him, however, that he is barely holding on.

Wetting my lips, I force an awkward smile. "Hey, you."

He finishes loading his coffee with sugar, throws away the packets, and walks away. He doesn't even look at me. It takes a moment for me to even register the fact that he just totally iced me out. A part of me wants to follow after him, to confront him, but once again, I just stand there and watch him go.

When we're called into the conference room for briefing, it takes my best efforts not to keep staring at him. My pen twirls incessantly between my fingers, my knee bouncing as I listen to JJ. A video plays on the board of an African-American girl singing onstage. "Sandra Davis. 16 years old. This is her singing at her high school talent show a month ago." The video pauses and the photo of a young, White man appears beside her. "This is her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Ken Newcomb. Their bodies were found in a park near the male victim's var in Groton, an affluent mostly-White suburb of New York City in Westchester County. It's the third of three killings believed to be a series of hate crimes."

"Hate crimes?"

Pacing behind us, Hotch continues on from her, "The first two victims were Keisha Andrews, 15, and Vickie Williams, 17. They disappeared from their homes in central Westchester one night. Their bodies were found in a wooded area in the southern party of the county, near the city."

I take up a file and go through it, my jaw clenching at the sight of the girls' bodies. "Strangled. Beaten. Stabbed," Gideon muses.

"And this was painted on their faces." New pictures come up. Each one shows a girl, a swastika spray-painted over her face. It sickens me, the paper creasing in my grasp.

"What about this couple? How are they part of it?" Morgan asks.

"Another swastika. This one on the boyfriend's car." As she says it, she shows a photo of his car, the word 'STOP' sprayed beside that symbol.

"It's a different victimology," Prentiss points out.

He shrugs. "Maybe just an escalation."

"Or a different killer."