Chapter Text
"I remain too much inside my head and ended up losing my mind."
— Edgar Allan Poe.
"She's perfect."
I can't count the amount of times Spencer has said that, but I'll never disagree. It's one of the most peaceful nights we've had in a while. Sara's staying over at a friend's and her girlfriend's mom is on a well-earned date with her new husband. It seemed like the perfect opportunity. They needed a babysitter and we need the practice.
So, it's just the two of us. Or three. Some TV show plays quietly in the background but we're not watching it, too focused on the infant bundled up in my arms. Spencer sits close, an arm around my shoulders. I've never seen him so smitten. We thought we'd put her down to sleep and then settle down to watch our show — having just dedicated ourselves to a full rewatch of Babylon 5 — but nothing could be more fascinating than the child.
"She's tiny," I comment.
"Look at her little nose."
It scrunches a bit and her mouth opens in a yawn. "Hi, sweetie. Was that a nice nap? Were you dreaming?"
"Babies don't dream," he says softly. It's a well-intentioned correction. He has so much information and he's always eager to share. Our bookcase has become rather full with books of all kinds — parenting guides, pregnancy, conception, female reproductive hormones and Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. He's become quite the expert.
I raise a brow, encouraging him. "They don't?"
Offering a finger, he beams as the infant grabs hold of it. "No," he coos. "Well, it's hard to say, since they can't communicate it. Babies, especially newborns, spend about 50% of their sleep in the REM stage, but neuroscientists generally believe that their brains aren't developed enough to dream in the way adults do."
I give an exaggerated gasp, making her gurgle in amusement. "Is that true? Poor girl's got an underdeveloped brain, huh?"
"Don't tease her."
"I can't help it. She finds everything so funny. Does she even know what we're saying?"
"No, she'll mostly respond to familiar voices and emotional expressions. Or certain words, such as... Rosie!" She looks to him, wiggling and grinning at the sound of her name. I let him take her and he holds her up, his voice soft and high-pitched. "Hi, Rosie. Yes, that's you, isn't it? That's you, Rosie!"
She giggles, little hands reaching. He humours her, lying her on his chest and letting her grasp at his tie. I laugh when she starts to root around, sticking the fabric in her mouth. "Whoa, there. That is not for eating, sweetie. How about we get you a bottle? Sound good?"
She has no idea what I'm talking about. Ruffling his hair, I head through to the kitchen, taking a bottle from the fridge. Marian left some instructions for us and I read through them. There's a portable warmer in the bag of Rosie's belongings, and I put the bottle in, turning it on. In the last minute or so, Spencer enters, a blanket over his shoulder to protect from her drooling. "You're a natural," I say. I'm not kidding or teasing him, it's completely true.
"Well, I had practice with Henry. And I've learned the hard lesson about keeping my shirts clean."
The machine beeps softly. Taking the bottle out, I hold it against my wrist to check the temperature. "We should totally get one of these, it's amazing." Getting nothing but silence in response, I look over to find him staring at me. A lot of things suit him, but I never expected holding a baby would be one of them. "What?"
He blinks, snapping out of it. "Nothing I just wasn't expecting you to want to start preparing so soon."
I shrug. "Better to spread the purchases out, right?"
"Right. I just mean, well, I know you feel under pressure sometimes. I do too. I don't want having those things around to make you feel rushed."
He's always so considerate, gazing with those puppy dog eyes. Uncapping the bottle, I offer it to Rosie. She latches eagerly and tries to take the bottle, but I know better than to trust her confidence, holding it for her as I look into those molten amber eyes of his. "I can manage. Can you?"
"Yeah. Besides, I don't think it'll be long."
"You don't?"
He shakes his head a little. "I have this feeling."
"Don't get your hopes up too much."
"I will," he protests in a rare show of defiance. "We are having another child, Dani. I don't care if it's got our genes or not. I want to give the kids a sibling, I want this house to be filled with laughter and learning, I want moments like these where we talk and look after our little one without having to give her back in the morning. I want to raise a child with you, fully this time. It isn't an if, okay? It'll happen."
A sigh passes my lips. I bring a hand to cup his jaw. Just below it, the skin on his neck puckers in a pink line. Four months and it's mostly healed, but the scar of what he went through in Texas remains. A reminder of what I could've lost. "I know."
"Come on. Rosie's looking like she needs a nap, and we could do with some ice cream."
The offer of dessert lifts my spirits instantly, but I find myself hesitating. "I shouldn't. All that sugar and fat..."
"I know you're trying to keep on top of things, but you can't cut out everything. You deserve a treat."
The sweetness last for a little while. Until Rosie wakes up in the middle of the night in tears. I've heard plenty about this particular parental plight, but now I've experienced it I'm not so eager for that part of having a baby. And yet I think we're both in higher spirits than usual.
Entering the main office building, Spencer catches sight of one of the elevators starting to close. He jogs over and jams the doors with his satchel, beckoning for me to hurry. The woman already inside glances between us in amusement as we sidle in with her. "Sorry. Hi."
She smiles. The first thing that strikes me is how much I like her hair. It's cut into a bob, dark waves reaching just below chin level. I've been wondering if short hair would suit me but it sounds like such an effort to maintain. "Good morning. Which floor?"
"Six." I pause when I see the number on the panel already lit up. "You, too."
Spencer and I share a confused glance. That's our floor. Nobody goes up there unless they need to talk to us. His eyes flick back over to her, analysing her appearance. "Karaoke at the Benjamin."
"Excuse me?"
"You were singing karaoke at the Benjamin the night it closed."
"I was. Good memory. Billy Joel might have died a little that night."
I snicker, "Yeah, he was not the only one."
He nods, grimacing a little at the memory. "He got us started but we went on to do a six song-set."
"The '80s took a fatal hit, if I remember correctly."
"The '80s has suffered much worse," I reply.
"Have you seen the place that took over? It's, like, techno and twerking."
He falters. "It's not really my crowd."
I'm inclined to agree. "Yeah, I'm more of a hips girl."
"What? You don't twerk?" I raise a brow, smirking at the question, and the way Spencer's eyes go wide. She hastily adds, "I was— I was kidding. I don't twerk."
"No problem if you do. I haven't been to a club in ages. Not very up to date on my moves."
"Things have definitely changed. My friend dragged us there for her bachelorette. We're not in the Noughties any more."
I grin. "Definitely not. We just did a bar crawl for mine."
She glances down at my hand, seeing the two rings there. "Aw, you're married, too? How long?"
"One year, four months and a day," Spencer replies automatically.
"Wait, you two are— No, I definitely remember you now. Very cute rendition of Total Eclipse. of the Heart. Congrats, by the way. The first year's always the hardest."
In honesty, it wasn't, but it would probably sound like a boast if I say that out loud. The elevator opens and we head through. He jogs ahead to grab the door for us. "A gentleman and a scholar. You're one lucky woman."
"Don't I know it."
"Agent Hotchner's office is the first one at the top of the stairs," he says helpfully.
Her eyes narrow slightly. Probably wondering how we figured it out. "Thanks."
"Good luck."
Watching her go, we head to the kitchenette where he starts on some coffee. I lean against the counter. "She seems nice."
"She does. What's twerking?"
"A conversation for later. C'mon, dose me up."
He scoffs. "That's one of your two cups for the day. Use the next one wisely."
I groan, throwing my head back dramatically. "Ugh, being healthy sucks."
"Enjoy it while it lasts. When this baby comes, you'll need to limit it to 200 milligrams of caffeine, if that."
"Is it too late to change my mind?"
He takes it for the joke that it is, rolling his eyes. "Oh, I see how it is. You'd rather have your precious coffee than our baby, hmm?"
My brain short circuits when he says that. Our baby. It's always been a baby, the baby. But ours? I half consider dragging him into the supply closet. "Maybe a baby with amazing caffeine tolerance."
"Is that supposed to be a superpower?"
"Please," I reply, "she'll probably get your genius brain."
He pauses. "She?"
I pause. I've never thought much about it. It's not something that bothers me too much. "Not that I care about the sex. I don't."
"A girl would be nice." My heart flutters at his soft tone. I steal a quick kiss, which he eagerly reciprocates.
Now with our coffees, we wander back over to the desks just as the others get in. "I know. It surprised me, too," Rossi is saying to JJ.
Garcia hurries in behind them with Morgan in tow. "What? What surprised you?"
JJ grimaces, reluctantly informing her, "Hotch talked to Emily."
"And?"
"She just doesn't want to come back."
"Why? She loves us."
It is disappointing, and it's been weird without Blake here, but I don't blame her. A lot happened to her on this team. "For what it's worth," Spencer chips in, "Hotch is interviewing someone we've met before."
JJ's interest is immediately caught and she turns, craning her neck to see through the drawn blinds. "He is?"
"How many candidates is that now?" Morgan asks, not so hopeful.
"This one makes lucky number 10."
Garcia huffs. "What? See, this is what happens when I don't sleep. I miss things. Who is this person? Are they nice? Why is that the first question I always ask?"
"She seems lovely."
"She? Who is she? Tell me everything."
There isn't much to tell Garcia, but it seems we won't have to bother any longer, as Hotch enters the conference room with the mystery woman. "Everyone, this is SSA Kate Callahan from Andi Swann's unit. She'll be joining the team."
"Congratulations," Spencer says.
She grins. "Thanks. Hi."
"How are Andi and Seaver doing?"
"They're great and they say hello."
"Welcome, welcome," Garcia squeaks.
Anticipating her questions, Hotch cuts in with a pointed look. "We can get started."
She grabs the remote. "Yes, we can. The Mad Butcher of Bakersfield has left another torso in the desert. This brings the body count to three this month and still none of them have been identified."
"At this pace he's going for a record," Rossi remarks.
"Yeah, and quite the imagery. What's he trying to say? A torso by itself has no life," Callahan says, jumping right in. I like her confidence.
"Right. It can't survive. It might be how he sees himself."
JJ shrugs. "It could also be a simple forensic countermeasure. He dumps the torso after getting rid of all the pieces that can identify his victims."
"That would make sense for someone who's criminally sophisticated," Morgan counters, "but this guy's leaving his DNA all over the torsos."
I'm not convinced. "Right, but we've kept tabs on CODIS. He's not in any system and he probably knows it."
"It's still a risk for him to taunt us," Rossi points out. "Hey, Einstein. You're awfully quiet."
Spencer's head perks up. "I'm just reading here, the ME thinks the victims were alive for 48 hours while he disarticulates."
An old and unwelcome memory comes to me. Frank Breitkopf standing over me with a syringe. I push it away with a long breath, listening to Callahan as she says, "So that means the UnSub's sexual gratification comes from cutting."
"Exactly. He wouldn't go to these extremes if he were merely discarding the limbs. He obviously enjoys the ritual. It's some kind of torture."
"So if it isn't about easy disposal, the limbs could be his trophies," Morgan surmises.
"He'll need preserving agents and isolation. Garcia, come up with a list of suppliers in Southern California. We'll cross that with a geographical profile when we have it."
Spencer chimes in, "Keywords sodium dioxide and silicate."
Sh's clearly relieved that she doesn't have to look it up and risk the gorier details. "You're the best. Thank you."
"Tell them we're on our way."
"Yes, sir."
"'The Mad Butcher,'" Callahan marks dryly, leant against the sideboard in the jet as she reads over her file. "100 bucks says we have the media to thank for that one."
JJ scoffs, "This is Los Angeles. They make everything a spectacle."
It's annoying, being this close to LA and not having the time to visit. It's a two-hour drive, so we can hardly drop in to visit Owen and Celine. We had an opportunity to see them and their son, Nate, in the summer when we were over visiting Diana, but it's still disappointing. I know I can hardly bank on cases to give me the excuse, though.
"I'm sure he's getting off on it," she mutters.
"They always do."
"He spared the second victim the mutilations but the first and latest are covered. There's no clear purpose."
Morgan's right, it's a strange discrepancy. "Maybe he's experimenting."
Callahan jumps in again, "Or he's trying to remove something that could identify those victims, like tattoos, birthmarks."
"Still hard to believe we can't ID a torso. I mean, back in the day I'd get it but nowadays everyone might as well have a microchip."
JJ lets out a breath of laughter but moves on quickly. "Okay, cutting that first victim seems extreme. Wonder if he's linked to him somehow."
"Or he's not the first," I venture.
Sat beside me on the couch, Spencer cocks his head. "None of the victims matched any missing persons reports and were likely chosen for their anonymity. Southern California's notorious for its transient community."
"Going after high-risk victims makes sense for this guy. I mean, there's nothing about him that's particularly unique," Morgan says.
"Except he first attacked a male and then moved on to females."
Looking over to Rossi, Callahan pauses. "That's strange, 'cause a fantasy this advanced is usually specific to one type."
"Well, there was no DNA left on this male victim, so it isn't overtly sexual like his other victims," JJ replies.
"So he's either a victim of opportunity or necessity."
Leaning back in his seat, Hotch decisively lays his pen down on the table. "Three victims in a month means he's got something to prove."
"Either to himself or the rest of us."
"All right, when we land, Morgan, Sully and Reid, go to the medical examiner. Dave and Kate go to the latest disposal site, and JJ and I will get set up with Lieutenant Banks at the PD."
It's always a little weird dealing with bodies like these. It just lies on the morgue table, a lump of flesh. At least with a normal corpse you can see the face and know that it was once living. I'm relieved that we at least have a sheet pulled over it. "No head, hands, prints or dental records. He's not making it easy," the ME huffs.
"What do you know about this victim?" Morgan questions her.
"I haven't completed the internal exam yet, but if she's anything like the others, she'll have traces of some leather particulate in her stomach."
We exchange a look. That's odd. "So maybe he gags them with a belt as he tortures? He's definitely a sexual sadist."
"That's my guess. What I know for sure is she's got good muscle tone and even has tan lines from a sports bra, indicating she's active."
"Both females were in shape, not malnourished?" Spencer asks.
"No."
I frown. "Probably weren't transient, then."
He hums in agreement. "What do we know about the offender?"
"He has a decent knowledge of the anatomy."
I guess he'd have to if he's keeping them alive for so long while he's doing it. "Do you think he has medical training?"
"Not necessarily. He could be a butcher or a hunter. The first step in amputation is ligating the supplying artery and vein, which the offender did."
"That would make sense if he's trying to keep them alive for the torture," Morgan remarks.
She nods. "The next step would involve an oscillating saw, but he opted for a long-angled blade."
He regards the cut just below the victim's armpit. "And he'd have to be pretty strong to make a clean cut like that."
"Absolutely. And they're identical on each victim. The decapitation was one swift, clean cut between the second and third vertebrae. No hesitation."
Takin a peek at the wounds under the cloth, Spencer's eyes narrow. "He's methodical. This isn't mutilation. He followed a line like a surgeon would for breast augmentation."
She looks, too, saying, "She has scar tissue that looks about five years old."
"He removed her implants because he knew we could trace her via the serial number."
I didn't even know they had serial numbers on them. "This guy's smarter than we thought."