Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: SHELL SHOCKED

"If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace."

     — Thomas Paine.

—

The next morning, JJ not only comes up with potential relatives of our UnSub, but she brings them in with her. She directs them into the conference room, pausing to explain. "Dana Woodridge and Max Weston. Her husband and his best friend, Roy Woodridge has been missing since Tuesday."

Having set the room up, we gather around the table with them and listen to their story. Dana is quiet, hands clasped in front of her, eyes downcast. "He was on his way home from work. He called before he left the office and said we needed to talk when he got home. He sounded upset. That was the last I heard from him."

"What was he upset about?" Prentiss inquires.

The two share a look. "He didn't say."

Sensing her reluctance, Weston steps in for her, offering us a sheepish smile. "Dana called me that night when Roy didn't show up. So, the next morning, we filed a missing person's report."

My eyes narrow slightly, flicking between them, but I say nothing. Hotch speaks up from his place at the side of the table, towering over them. "Mrs Woodridge, where does your husband work?"

She's started to fidget with her wedding ring. "He's a consultant at a security firm downtown."

"Did your husband ever serve in combat?"

Weston's demeanour shifts the second Gideon asks that question, his expression becoming noticeably guarded. "Excuse me?"

Hotch elaborates, "Is he a war veteran?"

He wets his lips. "Yeah, we both are. We were in Special Ops — 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company, Third Battalion. But Roy, he retired shortly after things went bad in Mogadishu."

"That was back in 1993," Reid recalls swiftly. "Let me ask you this, does he display any sort of behavioural ticks? Certain everyday things that make him jumpy or startled?"

Dana's gaze is now on him. "Why?" she asks cautiously, confirming our suspicions.

"Does he?"

"Is this going to help find him?"

"Mrs Woodridge, please," Prentiss coaxes her. "We need to know everything we can about your husband."

Still, she seems to be at a loss for words. Once again placative in his manner, Weston takes over, "We all had a hard time over there. You bring some things home with you."

"Like what?" I ask.

Dana sighs, spitting her response out despite her clear reluctance, "He has a hard time with loud noises. He can't be in crowds. He has nightmares and wakes up in cold sweats. The smells are the worst." At that, she gulps. "If he smells something burning, like a barbecue or a gas or fire, he gets sick. It really only got bad about a year ago."

It doesn't take much to figure out the kinds of things he witnessed. But we need details. Gideon looks to Weston again. "What happened to him in Somalia?"

"Nothing." He forces a tense laugh. "Combat happened."

"What does that mean?"

Once again, he changes. His eyes dart to each of our faces, then quickly downward, his shoulders hunching, his hands curling into fists in his lap. His chair screeches back. "I'm going to get a drink of water," he mutters. Dana watches helplessly as he leaves. Gideon follows him out.