Disobedient

17

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of sexual assault, suicide, and violence

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. We work through tracking down and checking out the people who matched our description, going back and forth with Garcia, answering calls on the tip line, and checking out the alibis of our most likely suspects. The list of people matching the profile is long, and Garcia checks out each person one by one through a national database of employment. In the evening, Reid calls over one of the local police officers.

"Is every news article from the last forty or so years online?" he asks, and the cop shrugs. Reid and I sit patiently, expecting an answer, but instead the man in front of us shrugs. "Maybe not all of the local newspapers. Why?" 

"Because we're trying to find any significant accidents or traumatizing situations that may have made the news," I say slowly. He blinks, and I roll my eyes, continuing. "He brought each victim right back to Rochester. Something here is significant. We just have to find out what." 

"Oh. Well, the public library has copies of each newspaper from... whenever they started keeping them until now," he says. Reid and I look at each other, and he nods. "Let's go." 

We sit at a table in the top floor of the library, laminated sheets of every newspaper published in the last fifty years stacked in front of us. Reid's eyes fly through each paper, and I read slowly, a mess of papers in front of me. Every so often, he points something out to me, and we take a picture to send to Garcia so she can check it out. As we continue going through the papers, I finally see something that catches my eye. An article about a murder-suicide, the dates coinciding with our estimated age frame. "Reid, look." I pass the sheet over to him and he scans it, reading out loud.

(this paragraph has mentions of sexual violence. If you are sensitive to this, please skip the next paragraph.) 

"Wednesday, March 24th, 1978. A family is destroyed when a teenage girl kills her brother and then herself, explaining in a note that her brother..." Reid's voice trails off, and he swallows, visibly uncomfortable. "Her brother sexually assaulted her for two years... it began after their parents died. They left behind a younger brother, Tyler Carroll."

My heart feels heavy. I sigh, flipping through the laminated newspapers again. "Text Garcia, send her a picture of the article. I'll look for obituaries." Reid nods, taking his phone out and typing a text. As I flip through the pages before me, I find the one I'm looking for. 

"Spence. Here." I read the obituary, Spencer's eyes peering over my shoulder. "She looks just like you," he murmurs, and looking more at the picture, I agree. In the picture they used, she's smiling, long, glossy black hair tossed over her shoulder. It's hard to tell her eye color on the aged, black and white sheet, but there's no doubt in my mind that they're a deep brown. 

"Lily Carroll. 19 years old. 'May you find justice and peace, angel. I miss you.'" 

"Who wrote the obituary if their parents died?" Spencer asks, and I glance at him. 

"That's what we need to find out." 

As I drive back to the field office, Spencer dials Garcia's number. Her chirpy, upbeat voice is toned down, clearly upset by what she had just seen. "What can I do?" she asks. 

"Garcia, can you find an address for Tyler Carroll?" I ask. 

"He was 7 in 1978, lived in Rochester, parents died, had an older sister and brother, but they both died in 1978. Murder-suicide. Sister did it," I respond. I can almost hear her grimace through the screen.

"Jesus, the world needs to tone down the trauma for this kid," she says, the sound of her nails clicking against her keyboard in the background of the call. "I'm on it. Hit you back when I find something," she says. 

"Thanks, Garcia," Reid adds quickly before she hangs up. We head towards the station, and I glance at Spencer for a moment. "Keep digging into the newspaper. If they're completely non-digital, they may not have records of who wrote the obituary, but it's worth a shot to see if the person who wrote it can help us in any way. If Garcia gives an address soon, I'm going."

"Hotch won't like that," he says.

"I don't care what Hotch thinks. I'm one of the best damn shots on this team. He knows that. We all know that. I'm going." 

Spencer doesn't respond, and instead looks out the window. We drive in silence, my thoughts filled with Lily Carroll. That poor girl. Losing her parents, caring for a seven year old, and her brother... it's awful. I can't imagine ever going through that. My heart breaks for her. After two years, she finally snapped. The brother got what he deserved, but her... she deserved so much better. 

We pull into the police station, Jumping out of the car as soon as it's in park. We stride inside, Spencer's shoes squeaking slightly from the snow, my heels clicking against the tile floor. We head into the conference room, where the rest of the team is gathered around a conference call. I see Garcia call out an address on the computer screen, and immediately everyone jumps to action. Hotch gives me and Reid a glance, registering that we're here. Internally, I sigh of relief, glad that our personal history isn't affecting the way he does his job.

"We're splitting up. Home and work. Reid, Morgan, Rossi, Emily, go to where he works. Lark, JJ, and I will head to his house. Keep your phones on you. Let's go." The seven of us split up, jogging through the doors and hopping into the SUVs that are already stocked with Kevlar vests and guns. I hop in the backseat, my heart racing as I hand two vests forward for JJ and Hotch. JJ puts hers on, and holds his while he puts the car in reverse and speeds out of the lot. He clicks the lights and sirens on, and we drive. 

We arrive at the address Garcia gave us in about ten minutes, speeding down the small residential street. We pull into the driveway with the lights flashing and sirens blaring. Hotch runs to the door, Banging on it, calling out to anyone inside. After no response comes, he kicks in the door, and the three of us bust into the room, moving in sync into each separate blindspot. We all move forward, checking each room, yelling "clear" to each other as we proceed through the house. Soon, it becomes clear that the single story house is empty, and we regroup in the living room. Hotch whips his phone out, dialing Rossi's number. "No one's here," he says, and I hear Rossi say the same thing on the other line. Hotch hangs up, glancing around. "Start looking around. I'll call the station and tell them to send CSI." Without words, JJ and I each turn in different directions, searching the area. I head into the single bedroom, glancing around. The room is bare, only a bed, dresser, and table. The walls are empty, with only a single photo near the door. I look closer, and see that the picture is yellowed and wrinkling at the sides. Tyler Carroll and his older brother stand in front of a beach, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders. I'm about to call to the others when I hear JJ's voice from the other room. 

"Guys, you need to see this," she calls with an edge to her voice. I walk towards the small kitchen, coming up behind Hotch. Glancing down at the table JJ stands by, I gasp.

A picture of me talking to my father in the coffee shop sits at the center, with dying rose petals framing the scene. I pull a latex glove over my hand and slowly pick up the picture, holding it up to the light. 

"Lark, turn it over," JJ whispers, a hoarseness in her voice. I do as she says, and nearly drop the photo. On the back, written in blood yet again, is a message. See you soon, Lark. I take a deep breath, dropping the photo back into its place on the table. Ripping the glove off with my teeth, I pull my phone from my back pocket and begin to dial a number that's all too familiar. 

"Dad? We need to talk." 

(a/n): if you or a loved one are struggling due to being a victim of sexual abuse, you are not alone. Call 1-800-656-4673 to be connected with someone who can help. you are not alone, and you WILL be okay.