Evolution, a Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 10. Night Flight

Time was of the essence, so it was a rushed meeting in the conference room. Once the salient features of the case had been revealed, Prentiss spoke for the whole team. “If they’ve already got this guy, why do they need us?”

“Because there’s a chance some of his victims might still be alive.” Hotch was tense, straining at the leash to be off.

Rossi, by comparison, was relaxed. He finished arranging for one of his neighbors to pick up his mail and pocketed his phone. “He’s taunting them, Emily. He’s telling them there are multiple lives still out there, slowly ebbing away. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“He has a-l-l-l-l-l the power.” Morgan hated the type. They were just psychotic bullies.

“They’re hoping we can decipher this sicko in time to save…someone…anyone.” J.J’s quiet voice was infinitely sad.

“There’s a chance he’s lying. He might just want the attention that goes with upping the body count and making us think we can still save someone.” Reid dumped a handful of vending machine candy bars into the zippered side of his go-bag.

Hotch rubbed his forehead. “Locals seem to believe him. There are a number of teens who’ve gone missing from surrounding towns in the last few weeks. We can’t take any chances that he’s making all this up.”

They would review the case in greater detail en route. The time factor had local authorities in Needles, California, begging for the FBI to throw everything they could into the mix. So Hotch had asked Garcia to accompany them. The unsub had multiple computers at his disposal, some of which were accessible to the public. It would take an expert to find his signature, if it existed, and to unravel his trail. At this point, they didn’t even know if it was necessary. The Unit Chief wanted their tech analyst on site…just in case. It might not help, but it couldn’t hurt. Penelope was in IT, downloading case files onto the team’s tablets. Then she’d be along for the ride.

Hotch’s phone buzzed. He scanned the display.

“Wheels up…now. Let’s go.”

xxxxxxx

In flight, they made the acquaintance of Mr. Arthur Brandenhoff, forty-three years of age.

Arthur had been apprehended when he revisited what he claimed was only his first dump site. Three bodies had been recovered. Each had been folded, living, into a crate. Each crate had been interred in the loamy, forest soil. Each burial site was marked by a hollow, plastic tube the diameter of a drinking straw. The tubes were flush with the surface of the ground, but they snaked down far enough to reach a hole drilled in the top of each crate. These were slender lifelines; the only source of oxygen for the victims. It wasn’t enough to do more than prolong slow, sadistic suffocation.

Arthur Brandenhoff liked to lie on the ground, ear positioned over the tube opening, listening. When they’d found him, he’d been enjoying the last stirrings of a fifteen-year-old girl he’d abducted from a mall parking lot.

Arthur liked to do other things, too.

 “Oh, God.” Prentiss had skipped ahead to read a lab report concerning trace contents of the crates and a subsequent soil analysis of the dirt in which the tubes were embedded.

“What?...” Morgan paged ahead. “…Oh…Son of a bitch…”

“So air wasn’t the only thing that passed through that plastic tubing.” Hotch’s voice was steady, but disgust and anger simmered just below the surface.

“Urine, semen, saliva…” Reid read the list of substances found, irrevocably tying Arthur Brandenhoff’s DNA to each grave. “I wonder if he was marking his territory, or if there’s something else he gets out of, uh…visiting the victims that way.” Viscous substances had narrowed the airways, eventually blocking them.