Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE: LUCKY

TW// Gore, cannibalism. Generally very disturbing themes.

—

"God sends meat, and the Devil sends cooks."

     — Thomas Delaney.

—

"Bridgewater, Florida. Local girl, Abbey Keaton, 19, left her parents' home to go to the local junior college. She never came home. Three days later, joggers found her — part of her — in a nearby park."

The image of her upper-half appears on the display screen. Just her upper-half, minus all her fingers and thumbs. She has been beaten, dried blood darkening both nostrils, she has a black eye that never had a chance to swell, and her throat has been slit. The sight sends me slipping back into memories of dismembered bodies, a sinister smile, my body tied to a bed. A chill runs up my spine and I have to look away.

"What did that to her?" Prentiss asks, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Bridgewater is off of I-75, which is often referred to as Alligator Alley, for reasons that are now apparent. Everything below the waist had been eaten."

Rossi leans back in his chair with a sigh, "Ah, the circle of life."

Sending him a sidelong glance, Prentiss mutters, "Suddenly, I don't feel so guilty about my alligator wallet."

With a frown, Hotch picks up a photo from the table. "Alligators didn't cut off her fingers, slit her throat or carve this into her chest."

He slides it over to Morgan. "An inverted pentagram."

"The locals believe the killing was committed by a satanic cult."

"Some things never change."

But at Rossi's remark, Prentiss shakes her head. "Killer satanic cults don't exist. They were debunked as a suburban myth." He just raises a brow. "What?"

Catching my eye, Reid shares my amused smile. "Rossi's the one that debunked them."

"Oh, right. Thanks."

He shrugs. "Cult or not, the killing was ritualised. This will turn serial if it hasn't already."

"So, killer satanic cults don't exist," JJ starts with a frown, "but satanic serial killers do?"

"'Lasciate ogne speranza voi ch'entrate.'"

I watch him leave, cocking my head. "Right. 'Cause that was a solid answer."

Beside me, Reid chuckles. "It's from Dante's Inferno. 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.'"

"So that was a yes."

"A big yes."

——————

I still can't stop thinking about Frank. The arm and torso we found in New Mexico, the remnants of Sarah and Rebecca's eviscerated corpses, my own body drugged and waiting for the same fate. The memories flicker through my mind in a silent movie, the soundtrack his laugh. A hand rests on mine, snapping me back to reality. I gasp, though my breath returns to me when I find Reid watching me with concern. "Are you okay?"

I follow his gaze down to my hands, which have been picking at the corners of a crime scene photo. Paper snow scatters my lap and the armrest of my plane seat. "Ask me tomorrow."

Though clearly not reassured, he nods and returns his attention to Rossi. "We never found any evidence of a killer satanic cult," he is saying. "In reality, there are only two types of violent satanic criminals."