" Birds sing after a storm. Why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them? "
— Rose Kennedy
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4.2 ; PLAIN SIGHT
"THE UNSUB BROUGHT HIS weapons with him—tape, glue, wire," Gideon said to the room full of police officers. As he spoke, they all began jotting down notes from the profile. "He did not leave them at the scene. He took them when he left. He has a kind of killing kit that he carries."
Hotch crossed his arms in front of him and surveyed the room as he spoke, "Organized killers usually have a skilled job, likely technology related, which may involve use of the hands."
"The crime scenes are far enough apart that he needs a vehicle," he continued, "This will be well kept, obsessively clean, as will his home. He's diurnal, the attacks occurred during the day, so the vehicle may be related to his work, possibly a company car or truck."
Derek, who had been standing silently beside Caroline, spoke up. "We believe he watches his victims for a time, learns the rhythms of the home and knows his time frame. You're not gonna catch him accidentally."
Caroline watched the police bob their heads up and down in agreement. Their focused eyes were all focused on the profilers standing in the front of the station. It was almost unnerving to have so many eyes trained on her at once—especially since the image of the victim's glued-open eyes were fresh on her mind.
She took an involuntary step back and her back bumped into one of the evidence boards, jostling it a little. Derek cast a glance at her, his eyes questioning. She shook her head nonchalantly, playing it off. She didn't want him to know that she had gotten freaked out—he would run straight to Gideon and tell him.
Then Gideon and Hotch really would have a reason to kick her off the case. She knew that they thought this case hit too close to home for her—Gideon had even told her as much on before they boarded the plane in a vain attempt to get her to stay home. She had refused to stay back.
There was no way she was letting this son of a bitch off that easy.
"He destroys symbols of wealth in the victims' homes," said Gideon, looking back at the crime scene photos directly behind him. All the jewelry and wrecked expensive china that Tommy had broken in such a violent rage glared out at Caroline. "He harbors envy of and hatred toward people of a higher social class. He feels invisible around them."
Reid cleared his throat from behind Derek. He had been almost hiding behind the muscular profiler, avoiding everyone's stares. She was surprised he was even speaking.
"Class is the theme of the poem which he left at various crime scenes," Reid told the police officers, his voice low. "At one point in the poem, the women attempts to bribe death, but he doesn't accept it. He says this is the one moment when riches mean nothing. When death comes, the poor and the rich are exactly alike."
"So he's poor?" Captain Griffith asked from his seat in the center of the room.
"Probably middle-class," Hotch answered. "A decidedly lower-class person would stick out in a highly patrolled neighborhood. This guy appears to belong there. He blends in."
A tall, dark-skinned detective in the back raised his hand and pointed at the picture of Brenda Samms eyes on the evidence board. "Why does he glue the eyes open?"
Hotch glanced over at Caroline and she stepped up. This was her job, she reminded herself. She can handle this.
"The unsub is an exploitative rapist," she explained, keeping her voice confident and sure. "Most rape victims close their eyes during that attack, turn their heads. For some rapists, this ruins the fantasy." She could feel a tingle run up her spine. A fantasy...her rapist had called it a fairytale, like he had been destined to find her. No, she thought to herself, Focus! "For this type of rapist, the goal is more related to the victim watching him than the act itself."
"The verses, the staging, the aggressive language, 'I am Death', this is a guy who, while being in control at the crime scene, almost certainly feels inadequate in the rest of his life," Hotch remarked.
"That's why he couldn't wait for you to figure out what he'd done," Gideon explained to the officers, "why he needed to make sure all his crimes were counted. His victims, they represent whatever it is that's controlling him, and he wants that control back. He is under the thumb of a powerful woman who frightens him."
"And a final point." He paused, interlacing his fingers. "He is white."
"We have witnesses that identify him as a black male," Captain Griffith objected, his voice hard. She could tell he didn't like what they were saying one bit.
"The attacker was black," Gideon agreed before continuing on, his voice complacent. "But he is not The Tommy Killer."
Before Captain Griffith could disagree or say anything else, Hotch stepped in.
"Mrs. Gordon's husband came home at the same time that he always does," he reasoned with the officers. "The Tommy Killer would've known that."
"And Mrs. Gordon's attacker wore a ski mask," Caroline added. "The unsub knows when he walks into a house, he's going to kill the woman who lives there. If you're not leaving any witnesses, why wear a ski mask?"
"And he wants the victim to see him anyway," Derek interjected. "Your attempted rapist is a garden variety disorganized young man."
"As the victims age goes up, generally, the attacker's age goes down," she explained. "Mrs. Gordon is about 60, which puts her rapist at about 20."
"And it takes years to develop the level of calm and sophistication that Tommy displays at a crime scene," Gideon stated, his gaze sweeping over every police officer in the room. "And the rapist is far too young for that."
"Mrs. Gordon told me that there's a young man who delivers groceries to their home," Caroline recalled. "He fits a lot of what we're describing here."
Captain Griffith stood up, the exasperation on his face evident. "Great. So we're back to zero on Tommy."
"Not at all, actually," Hotch told the captain. "May I see Agent Lucas and I see you in your office for a moment?"
The captain looked over at him and Caroline staring them down. Eventually, he signed in resignation and gestured towards his office in the back of the station, where the two profilers followed him inside.
Captain Griffith's office was dim, like all the lights had busted. It wasn't very elaborate either, with a small desk in the center of the room and a bookshelf filled with criminal law textbooks and novels—but nothing like Gideon's collection back in Qunatico.
The captain marched over and stood behind his desk, his arms crossed expectantly in front of him.
"You have a tip line for the public, correct?" Hotch asked him.
The captain nodded. "Yes."
The Unit Chief looked over at Caroline, and nodded at her to continue.
"We have a technician back at Quantico who can tap into your phone system," she told the captain.
Captain Griffith frowned. "He's gonna call us?" The tone in his voice was unsure, skeptical.
"Well, he's gone out of his way to show you how scary he is, and when the 11:00 news leads with the capture of a 6-foot-tall black man in connection with his crimes, he's going to furious," Caroline replied.
"So? What does it matter if Tommy gets pissed?"
"Because he'll be furious enough to call."
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Caroline watched with sharp eyes as Derek escorted Mrs. Gordon's attacker through the police station. The young black man kept his head down, avoiding any and all eyes contact. The press must have been extra aggressive tonight.
Elle walked in to the station not far behind Derek. She spotted Caroline standing with her arms crossed and she went over to her, her shoulders relaxed.
"He confessed to Mrs. Gordon's attack before we even got to the car," Elle told her.
She nodded. "Thanks, Elle."
JJ approached Caroline, her heels tapping against the floor as she walked.
"This should make the 11:00 news," JJ reported.
"Did they get good footage?"
"Yeah, couldn't miss him."
Caroline nodded as she pulled out her phone and began to dial Garcia's number. "Perfect. JJ, find Hotch and Gideon and tell them everything. I'll check and make sure Garcia is ready with the trap-and-trace."
The press liaison nodded once before she took off. Caroline pressed her phone to her ear as it rang, waiting patiently for the line to pick up.
"Go for Ms. Penelope Garcia," the tech analyst's voice sang through the phone.
"You ready with the trap-and-trace?" She asked.
"Peaches, this is the office of unmitigated superiority. I am always ready," Garcia replied confidently. "With the awesome power I have in this room, all I need is 15 seconds on the phone to nail this skeevy perv."
She raised an eyebrow, unsure. "15 seconds?"
"If that," Garcia declared, her voice light. "Really, Care-bear, the doubt is quiet hurtful. Have I ever let you down?"
"No, not ever," Caroline smiled a little as she spoke. "Forgive my unnecessary and ill-mannered skepticism."
"You are forgiven. I will call you the moment I have this profligate's location. Au-Revoir, my love!"
There was a click and the line went dead. Caroline pocketed her phone as she went to sit by her assigned phone. Eventually, the rest of the BAU began to file into their phones, along with some police. Hotch was pacing up and down the aisles between the desks, watching.
They were all waiting.
Reid came over and sat down in the chair beside Caroline, a Rubik cube in his hands. He didn't say a word as his fingers moved and twisted, matching the colored sides adeptly.
She felt the nerves bubble in her chest. Her hands were itching to do something—anything—so they began to pick at the wood desk. She carved her fingernails into the wood, etching in small designs and patterns. She was doing the best she could to try and distract herself, but it wasn't working.
She needed The Tommy Killer to call. He needed to mess up, and then they'd catch him. She could catch him, and his proliferating attacks would stop.
She needed him to call.
"God, I hate waiting like this," Caroline sighed, resting her head in her hands. She began to message her temples, trying to chase away the headache thumping in the back of her brain.
"Do you think it's weird that I knew that ballad?" Reid asked her, referring to what he had said on the plane.
She lifted her head from her hands slowly and looked over at him. His eyebrows were furrowed; his mouth was mashed into a small, thin line and he didn't look up from his Rubik cube.
"I don't know how it is that you know half the things you know, but I'm glad you do."
His fingers slowed, hovering over the colored puzzle cube. "Do you think it's why I can't get a date?"
Caroline raised her eyebrows. She couldn't tell if she felt confused or just outright shocked by his question. "Have you ever asked anyone out?"
Reid paused as he thought, then he frowned. "No."
"Well, that's why you can't get a date."
She peeked over at him through her blonde hair and their eyes met. Their gazes lingered for longer than was necessary, almost like the one was waiting for what the other had to say. Her heart pounded, thumping so wildly against her rib cage, Caroline thought it was going to burst right through her chest.
She wanted to say something—anything—but she couldn't seem to find the words. Everything she said was laced with some double meaning—ask me out, don't ask me out. It felt like there were two halves of her who couldn't agree, neither relenting. Her head said that her crush was just that—a crush. It was irrational and, not to mention, against regulations. She wasn't ready for a relationship, how could she be? She had her family to worry about and Haley and her job, not to mention all the emotional baggage she has.
Her heart told her mind to shut up. All she could focus on was the butterflies flitting around in her stomach and the pink blush creeping up on her pale cheeks.
Then there was just Caroline, who couldn't decide which to listen to.
Eventually, she looked away, her blue eyes focusing on her clasped hands in her lap. For a moment, she wondered why she felt so helpless whenever she was with him. Was it his intelligence that intimidated her? Or was it his complete and utter innocence in the world that shook her to her very core?
He was a 24-year-old genius and he has seen his fair share of demons in his job—their job. But he has never experienced it. He didn't know what it felt like to be the victim. He could go outside his apartment without fearing the word. He didn't see the horrible memories of chopped up bodies and dead little boys and girls that haunts her sleep. He still believed in people. He had yet to experience the worst in this life and that made her feel so incredibly helpless.
There would be nothing she could do to save him when that day comes and it felt like an elephant had sat on her chest, snuffing out her breath.
Then, Derek shot up from his desk in front of Caroline's. He was tense, his back muscles clenched. He whirled around and she saw the office phone he had clutched to his ear, his face just as tense and anxious as his body language.
He had the unsub on the phone.
"Line 6," Morgan announced to the precinct. The station went silent. JJ, who was sitting at another desk at the other end of the room, began dialing Garcia's number on her cell to tell the technical analyst what line to tap. Hotch, Elle, and Gideon shot up from their seats and gathered around Caroline's desk, where she quickly pressed buttons, putting the unsub on speaker.
"You stupid, incompetent sons of bitches!" A wild, taut voice cursed over the phone. The unsub was definitely male and definitely very, very angry. "I don't make mistakes! I am Death! You hear me? I am Death!"
No one said a word as the unsub paused. She heard someone suck in a shaky breath, then the release of air, like he was trying to calm himself. It didn't work.
The unsub's voice was quieter now; he was no longer screaming into the phone. But his voice morphed into something much more dangerous and frightening, like a low guttural sound from a seething animal.
"You'll see now. Tomorrow. Mark my words, you will see," The Tommy Killer growled, his words echoing as they came out of the small phone speaker. "And while I'm taking her, I'm gonna be thinking of you!"
There was a sound of the phone slamming against the receiver and then the line went dead. Caroline glanced up expectantly at the blonde press liaison once the call ended, talking vigorously to Garcia.
They had to have something on this guy. Anything.
JJ met Caroline's gaze. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, the phone still pressed against her ear. "Garcia says she got nothing."
Derek's head swiveled towards the press liaison, his eyes bewildered. "Nothing?"
"We missed him?" Hotch demanded, the surprise and sharpness of his voice cutting through the room. JJ only nodded, her face regretful.
Caroline turned to Reid as Morgan slammed the phone back down on the receiver aggressively, shaking the desk just from the sheer force. Their eyes met and she swallowed, but the tight lump in her throat still remained.
Spencer's eyes were wide and guilt-ridden. She could tell he was thinking the exact same thing as she was.
They might have just gotten a woman killed.
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The next morning, the BAU and the entire San Diego police department went out into the nice, quiet neighborhood from where the Tommy Killer raped and murdered and began searching for the unsub. The BAU had separated into groups of two, each pair given an undercover car. Reid and Morgan had taken the two-seater red convertible, Hotch and Elle grabbed a black SUV, and Caroline and Gideon had grabbed a small, late-model silver Honda from the garage. They all had parted ways, wishing the others good luck before heading off to their designated blocks.
Caroline glanced over at Gideon sitting patiently in the driver's seat, his hands resting of the black leather steering wheel. During the ride from the station to the upper-class neighborhood and the hour they had been sitting in the humid car, watching, it had been completely silent. Neither Gideon nor Caroline attempted to have a conversation. They couldn't—not when they knew what was at stake.
The Tommy Killer could make a mistake today. He's angry and probably hadn't done the kind of surveillance he'd like. They could either catch him or his volatile state could only enrage him even further to torture the women more.
Caroline stared out the windshield at the Brenda Samms' house. It was a large, mute-colored brick house. It sat in the middle of an intersection, the yard still impeccably kept and maintained. From the car, she could still see the yellow crime scene tape stuck to the front door.
"That's the last place he watched," Gideon murmured, nodding towards Mrs. Samms' house. "That house."
"Morgan said the family hasn't moved back in," she replied, her voice equally as quiet.
He sighed. "Probably never will."
She craned her head and stared up at the grey sky above them. Today was an overcast day, the puffy grey clouds blocking out any sun. It felt dreary, heavy almost, sitting in the car, like a wet towel hanging on a rack.
"It's the eyes," Caroline mused, her eyes scanning the grey sky.
"Hm?"
"It's the eyes, Gideon. There's just something not right about the eyes."
"If you mean what he does to them, then yeah, I agree."
She took a breath and turned her head to face her boss. His calculating eyes stared back at her, and she refrained from shuddering. His eyes, her eyes, the victims' eyes. They all were beginning to look the same.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "It's almost a classic move for an exploitative rapist to force a victim to watch."
"But?"
"We're missing something about it."
Gideon didn't say respond. She turned her head and stared out the window again, this time overlooking the concrete street instead of the dreary sky. So far, she's seen two women jogging and a old man walking his dog on the block. Nothing suspicious so far.
"What about what happened to you? Did he force you to watch, Caroline?"
Her blood ran cold. "Excuse me?"
"Did the man who raped you force you to watch?" Gideon asked again, his voice unapologetic. She clenched her teeth together, forcing her mouth shut. "I know he didn't glue your eyes, but he made you keep your eyes open, didn't he? Said if you didn't he'd slit one of your siblings throats. Is that why you're so concentrated on the eyes? Because you can't get his out of your head?"
Caroline sucked in a breath and raised her gaze to him. His face was stern, unyielding. She could feel herself shifting in her seat, angling her body away from him as if she were shielding herself.
"This is highly inappropriate conversation to be having, Agent Gideon," Caroline replied icily, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I suggest we get back to looking for Tommy before he hurts someone else."
"Why?"
"Why?" She snapped at him, her anger beginning to boil over. Her fists curled into tight balls. "Because that's my job—our job! How dare you—you don't have the right to ask me those questions! Why is it so damn important that you feel the need to profile me?"
He stared back at her blankly, seemingly unaffected by her outburst. She wanted to jump out of the car and run. Just run and run and run and not stop. Anything but talk about what happened to her.
"Because I can't remember the last time you've talked about it," Gideon admitted calmly, folding his hands in his lap. "When was it? The day we found you and your family? The coerced therapy session Hotch mandated you to take once you joined the Academy, but managed to effortlessly talk your way out of, perhaps? Or maybe it was the psychological evaluation I gave on you when you first joined the BAU?"
She didn't say anything. She honestly could remember either. She didn't talk about it—ever. It was bad enough the memory plagued her thoughts, her dreams. She couldn't let it effect her speech too.
"Caroline, I know it's hard to think about, much less talk about," Gideon's voice grew softer, surprising her. He had never used that tone of gentleness with her before. "But you need to start talking to someone. You can't let this build up inside you. The longer it festers inside of you, the harder it will be to heal."
Who was she supposed to talk to? Him? Hotch? One of the BAU members? A therapist? No way. No one would understand where she was coming from. They'd try, she knew they would because they were good people, but it wouldn't help. They'd grow to pity her, see her as unable to do her job. She couldn't afford that.
"My life is none of your business."
"Do you still do that thing?" Gideon asked her, ignoring her previous comment. "You know, where you shut it all off? Do you still call it your special skill or have you outgrown that yet?"
She pursed her lips. She could believe he had the audacity to talk about her business. When it came to what happened in Boston with Adrian Bale and Gideon's "depressive episodes", she hadn't pried. She felt a spark of anger at his indifference.
"I take your silence as you do. You, of all people, know how dangerous that can be." When she didn't respond, he continued, his face still a cool mask. "Everything you shove down, everything you hide behind the walls you've built, will come back up. And it will be devastating."
"And you have experience in that subject, I take it?" Her tone was sharp, cold. She could feel the walls she created when she was sixteen start building up.
Gideon glanced away, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. A blank look registered across his face, as if he was remembering something. "Unfortunately, I have had my fair share of devastation as well, Agent Lucas."
She turned her head and stared over at Gideon. Even though he was there physically in the car with her, the far-off look in his grey, tormented eyes told her that he was somewhere else in his mind. And wherever he was, it didn't look pleasant. She immediately felt the guilt rising up in her chest.
She opened her mouth to say something—maybe something comforting or reassuring—but she would never know what she would say. Before she could get a word out, a black-and-white police car rolled up beside the Honda with the windows rolled down. The tan, burly officer inside the cruiser examined them suspiciously, his eyes narrowing at the two agents in the car.
"Can I help you folks with something?" He asked, his tone anything but friendly.
Gideon snapped out of his stupor, blinking a couple of times as he registered the officer's question. He was a little slow about it, but he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge. "FBI."
The officer leaned over and inspected the badge. Once he realized they were legit, he apologized with full sincerity before driving off to continue his patrol.
"After the fourth killing, P.D. doubled the patrol in these neighborhoods, then doubled them again after the fifth and sixth," said Gideon as the officer drove off down the street. He looked fine now, back to his calm, observing self. Along with that, he had dropped the conversation they were having earlier, leaving it alone—for now, at least.
"Yet our unsub still watched the houses," Caroline said.
"How could he not have been seen?"
Suddenly, she heard a loud, high pitch chirping through the rolled down windows. She peered through the glass and up on the telephone lines was a small black bird with bright yellow and blue plumage on its chest, singing its morning song. She tilted her head curiously.
"Is that an oriole?" She asked Gideon. He turned his head to look at her and she nodded towards the bird sitting on the cables above them. He examined the bird for a moment.
"No, that's a black-headed grosbeak."
She raised an eyebrow. "Grosbeak?"
Caroline watched as another bird flitted over to its friend. This was looked slightly different from the grosbeak; instead of bright plumage, it had a grey chest with duskier black feathers. The small bird landed delicately on the cable cord, flapping its wings while it began to chirp along with its friend.
"Grosbeak, too. Female." Gideon chuckled and she looked over at him curiously. "Orson Welles said all the birds who belong to the male sec have prettier feathers, 'cause males have got to try to justify their existence. We spend all our time screaming, 'look at me, look at me'."
Suddenly, his phone went off, his ringtone piercing the foggy air. The older profiler dug through both of his pockets before he pulled out his small cell phone. He flipped it open and held the phone to his ear. "Gideon here."
Caroline stared at the birds as her mentor spoke on the phone, almost fascinated by how they stood so still on the telephone cords. She couldn't hear what was being said, she was starting to zone out. She tried to focus back in on the phone call, but something Gideon had said struck a chord with her.
"Look at me," Caroline repeated, whispering to herself. "Look at me."
Beside her, Gideon hung up the phone and glanced over at the young blonde, the confusion on his face apparent. "Garcia couldn't get a fix on the call because it was routed through 25 different substations."
"25 substations?" She murmured, her brain trying to think.
Before he could stop her, Caroline opened the door and stepped out into the drowsy morning. She marched down the street with a brisk pace, her heels clicking against the pavement. Not far behind her, she could hear Gideon following her, trying to catch up.
"He wanted them to see him," Caroline told him as they approached Brenda Samms' front door.
"You've already established this, Agent Lucas," Gideon replied. She gestured for her boss to unlock the door and he pressed a small silver house key into her palm. She latched onto the cool metal as she inserted the key into the lock, twisting it to the side. There was a sharp click and she turned the doorknob, swinging the door open.
Caroline ignored the nice, well-furnished house. She only wanted to see one thing.
She wanted to know if she was right.
She made her way up the polished wooden stairs with Gideon close behind her. She turned to the right of the stairs and entered the master bedroom. The CSI team had cleaned up the jewelry and electronics the unsub had broken in the middle of the floor, but there were still leftover fragments of metal and springs from the items imbedded into the white carpet. The king-sized bed had been stripped of its sheets, leaving only a bare mattress resting on the mahogany bedpost.
"He's meticulous. Nothing is an accident," she stated as she stared down the somewhat-worn down white mattress. "He vacuumed. Seeing is about domination—his creation. He positioned everything exactly the way he wanted it."
Caroline rested her hands against the mattress. It was soft, comfortable. She began to crawl onto the bed, her knees digging into the soft fabric. She laid down across the bed, pressing the side of her face against the mattress. She was facing the same direction as the victim was, body position and all.
For a moment, Caroline could almost feel like the unsub's hands on her legs, holding her down. She could hear Brenda Samms' screams in her head, pleading not to hurt her. Her terror suffocated her, smothering her with pure, unadulterated fear.
"If the eyes were so they could watch the attack, why are they all facing away from it?" She asked Gideon. "In this position, they couldn't see him during."
Caroline felt Gideon lean over the bed, trying to get on her eye-level to see what she was seeing. Her blue eyes stared out the window she was facing. The only thing she could see was the telephone cables, where the unsub would go and work on after he was through with his victims.
He was a phone technician. The police are looking for someone walking around in broad daylight—who notices a phone guy up on a pole? He can watch for husbands leaving for work, watch for police patrols, know when the neighborhood's quiet.
He knows when he'll have plenty of time, he can even tap into a phone line to make sure someone's home. Routing a call through 25 substations was a cakewalk for him.
Backyard? He's just looking for a pole. Got tape? Of course he does. Wire? He's a repairman.
The unsub was right under their noses the whole time.
Caroline stared out the window, the realization hitting her like a anvil falling from a ledge.
"He wanted them to see him afterward."
•••••••••••
A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS, YA FILTHY ANIMALS!!! I decided, in the spirit of the holidays, that I would post extra as a Christmas present to you all. I hope you like the chapter and continue to fall in love with Caroline's story as I have!
Let me know what you think of the chapter: thoughts, opinions, or random questions that pop through your head. Don't forget to vote and comment!
And have a very merry Christmas!!!