Chapter Text
Bodies line up on rolling autopsy tables, covered by thin lines of plastic that covers naked skin with something detached lingering within the air. One body, two bodies, three bodies. All in a line on rolling tables, wheels locked into place. One body, two bodies, three bodies.
Exhaling, Hotch uncrosses his arms as he steps toward the most recent victim, and he peels off the blue plastic that covers the deceased's body. Pale, and lifeless. A grimace escapes his throat, narrowing his eyebrows.
“This is our John Doe.” Doctor Lincoln says, her arms crossed over her chest. The expression lying on her face was a grimace, and she shook her head. “He was discovered last night.”
The body lies motionless, it's not a sight that he’s unfamiliar with, and yet it still makes his stomach coil. Gagging like a sick cat. A hole lies within the man’s chest, clean through his body and through his heart. The bullet was discovered at the scene, and promptly gathered for evidence.
“We think he’s in his thirties, or at the very most his early forties.” Doctor Lincoln continues.
His face is caved in on the left, his face beaten and bruised. Nose broken, twisted at an unrecognisable angle. Dried blood stains his face. Doctor Lincoln moves forward, gloved hand opening the body’s mouth a little. Teeth were missing.
“We found the missing teeth on scene and in his throat.” She explains, removing her fingers. The man’s lips still hang slightly open. “The beating was done post mortem.”
Doctor Lincoln coughs, clearing her throat a little. Her voice comes out more professional rather than the grimace that lies on her expression. “We’re trying dental records and fingerprints to identify him, but no such luck at the moment.”
“This…” Prentiss starts, her eyebrows tilted as she trails off for a couple seconds. “This is a huge change in MO. He’s never displayed this much violence against one of his victims before. What do you think changed?”
Swallowing, Hotch rests his arms by his side, eyes glued to the face of their John Doe. “Maybe it’s because he got caught?” He suggests idly, finger twitching. He raises his head toward Doctor Lincoln, “Has it been deduced what was used to beat him?”
Stilling between the two other tables that held the two other victims, Doctor Lincoln turns her head back towards them. “He received aggressive blunt force trauma to his head, it’s honestly nothing I’ve seen before.” She reports, but pauses before she gives her next statement. “We believe that he was stomped on.”
Prentiss looks up, her expression widening a smidge. “Stomped on?” She repeats, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing.
“Yes, with much aggressive force, mind you.” Doctor Lincoln confirms, her eyes lingering on John’s body for a second before she shakes her head. “We figure that after he was shot, the perpetrator came over and stomped on his head. It’s possible he was purposely trampling him.”
“Jesus.” Prentiss comments under her breath.
“And the other victims?” Hotch presses, reaching over to cover the John Doe’s body back up with that unfriendly blue blanket. “Can we see their bodies?”
Doctor Lincoln nods her head, and one by one she uncovers the bodies that lie side by side. “Brother’s, Daiichi and Ichiro Hayashi.”
There they are, both with fatal gunshot wounds to the heart. Daiichi’s face, similar to their John Doe, is beaten and bruised. If everything else wasn’t as ill inducing, his jaw is practically dislodged, hanging carelessly like a scene out of a horror movie.
More notably, Ichiro’s wounds. Or rather, the lack of compared to his familial counterpart. His face is clean, just a clean bullet to the heart. Prentiss speaks up before Hotch does, “What changed?” She questions, scrutinising the bodies side by side. “He kills Ichiro the same way as he did in Idaho, but he brutalises Daiichi, and later our John Doe?”
“Actually.” Doctor Lincoln interrupts, that grimace returning. “Daiichi was reported to have been killed first. Ichiro was killed almost an hour apart from his brother.”
A pause fills the silent room, only the clicking of the clock above the exit door remaining just as loud as it previously was. Hotch cranes his head, his face remaining just as stoic as it usually would. Despite this, his chest lurches.
Hotch turns to the Doctor, engaging her. “Were there any striking differences to Ichiro’s wounds that didn't match up with the other two victims?” He asks, and Doctor Lincoln lights up, like something had just returned to mind.
“That’s right–” Doctor Lincoln starts, gesturing to Ichiro’s body. “The bullet wound on Ichiro’s body was much more precise than the other two victims.”
She pokes her fingers just around the wound in his chest. “The bullet here went almost straight through his heart. Considering the distance he was shot at, it's impressive.”
Turning to Daiichi’s body, the displeased expression on her face only deepens. “On this body, and the other– the bullets were close to missing their heart.”
Doctor Lincoln continues, “A fluke, I imagine. But–”
“Prentiss, call the team.” Hotch interrupts, turning his head to motion at her. She's pulling out her device already, barely spending any time to think about his order.
“Why?” The doctor questions, her left brow raising just a smidge.
Hotch faces her, his face as stoic as he can will it to be. “I think we have two perpetrators.” He declares, his fingers tense against his palm, digging slightly into his skin.
Prentiss has her phone up to her ear when he looks back to her. “I believe we need to revisit the theory that Dazai has a partner.”
As the two of them begin their preparation to leave, Hotch casts one last lingering glance toward the bodies. Something hangs over his heart, like a weight over his shoulders. Why Quantico?
It almost feels like a taunt.
“Thanks Garcia.” Rossi sighs, clicking his phone shut while he shoves it back down into his pant pocket. Curiously, both Morgan and Reid look over to him, awaiting any context that Rossi may feed them.
“Daiichi and Ichiro Hayashi were the only living family members left.” He announces, shaking his head in a jerking motion. “Looks like their secrets died with them.”
“Garcia couldn’t pinpoint where they lived?” Reid guesses, and Rossi nods sagely. “There wasn’t any paper trail?”
Rossi shakes his head, displaying his denial in one simple motion. “Nothing, seems like they lived completely off the grid.” Crossing his arms, he narrows his eyebrows as he pulls the crime scene tape over his head, stepping into the enclosed area.
Morgan shrugs, “Why here?” He wonders aloud, shifting his hands to his hips as he steps through the crime scene. “He was last in Wyoming, that’s almost on the complete other side of the country.”
“You know–” Reid starts, his eyes drawn toward where the body of their John Doe was discovered. “It doesn’t seem like his partner was awfully concerned about getting in and out. Neither is he too careful.”
The blood from the scene remains, stuck to the concrete rather grossly. It’s long since dried up with the heat of the sun, the grotty brown spilled in a way that's sickly. A camera clicks, a photographer kneels a couple metres away from them; so he can take continuous photos of the scene.
Morgan squints, adjusting his sunglasses down his nose to get an unshaded look at the ground. “Footprints leading from the body and out of the alley.” He says, his head following the line of dried blood. “I imagine he was wearing sneakers by the look of the prints.”
“It feels like Dazai and his partner are on completely opposite sides of…” Reid begins, then pauses. His eyes squinting as his gaze rises towards a nearby building, scanning slowly. “... Look at this.”
The other two men perk up at his direction, drawn to where Reid was stepping over to. His face was strewn to a hard frown, pausing a metre or so away. Broken glass, plastics and wires strewn haphazardly over the concrete. It had been destroyed on purpose, that much was obvious.
Rossi turns his head, hand on his hip as his face falls. “Looks like he broke the security cameras ahead of time.” He frowns. Morgan is pulling out his phone, snapping a quick photo to send over. Presumably to Garcia, or maybe to Hotch.
Squatting down, Reid pokes at the broken plastics and metal. “Dazai seemed to always have perfectly planned out his crimes. He led his victims to meet up with him… He picked locations that were out of camera view…” He says, motioning toward the open space.
It was a much different space compared to Dazai’s crime scenes. It was open, anybody could walk by and spot the crime as it happens. Instead of picking a location without cameras, he wasn’t picky, and just simply destroyed the cameras instead. It seemed like a chore, considering the high location.
“Is he shooting the cameras down?” Reid questions, his brow creasing. “I can’t see any other way he’s reaching them.”
Rossi shakes his head, “Doesn’t look that way.” He mutters, taking a step backwards. “We’d know if it was shot down, there aren't any holes here. It looks more like it was smashed…”
He remains silent, eyebrows scrunched. Rossi raises his head. Up where the security camera should have been, is wires and snapped plastic. It appeared to have been broken from the base, snapped off somehow. It didn’t appear to be by a saw or any other sharp object— the wires that stuck out weren’t as clean cut as you would expect. Instead, it looked like it was simply ripped off by hand… which would seem unlikely.
Simply put, Rossi was out of his depth. He’s seen some strange things in his years, and many things stuck out throughout his time in the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Ask him to name the top three most compelling cases he’s dealt with, and he’d be stuck just trying to pick three.
It’s just that there were far too many inconsistencies to put together into one clean report. And while he was very aware sometimes the inconsistencies wouldn’t make sense until much later on— this was a little too much.
No matter how good a climber the unsub was, grabbing onto ledges like the ones of these buildings was close to impossible. Unless they were a professional climber, which could be the case, but was fairly unlikely.
“This is pissing me off.” Morgan mutters, raising his chin so he can stare blankly at the sky. “I can’t believe this happened so close to where we were having dinner last night.”
Reid’s face scrunches up, and he steps back toward the scene. “Come to think of it— this must’ve happened around the time we were having dinner. At least within a similar timeframe.”
The body had been reported in around a quarter to nine the previous night. From the crime scene photos, it was particularly grizzly. More so than the previous attacks. “How old do we think the accomplice is?” Rossi questions.
“The attack on our John Doe and Daiichi appear more… juvenile.” Reid says, pulling up a crime scene photo on his phone. It shows their John Doe, brutalised and bloodied. Jaw messed up, and his face bashed in. “It’s no doubt brutal, but it appears to be a spur of the moment attack… more led by anger, rather than something calculated.”
“They really do seem like opposites, don’t they.” Morgan comments, leaning his head forward as he takes a look at the image again for himself. He straightens his posture, hooking his thumb into a pocket in his jeans. “You know what really confuses me?”
Morgan steps backwards, his attention glared toward the spot where the body had laid just barely twelve hours previous. “The gun.”
According to forensics, the gun found on scene had no foreign fingerprints. Only the prints of their John Doe, who had been yet to be identified at this point. No name, and with a face as disfigured as it was, it was difficult to make a positive identification.
Running her hand down her face, Prentiss hunches impressively forward. Her fingers drag through her hair, pulling at unbrushed knots and other stress induced mess. He was shot at an angle that was impossible to be self-inflicted.
When pulling forensics from Daiichi’s scene, similar results. No foreign prints, only those of Daiichi and Ichiro. Which made conclusive sense, on the count of the two of them being brothers.
Daiichi had been shot in a way where it would be impossible for him to shoot himself.
Both of the guns at the crime scenes had been shot recently, by the gunshot residue that remained on the scene. Daiichi had gunpowder over his hands and clothes… as did their John Doe.
So where did that leave them?
Lost.
Lost was a pretty concise way to put it, if you didn't account for everybody's frustration. The inconsistencies were running, spinning loosely as if a broken music player.
“Maybe… This partner also had a gun?” Prentiss suggests, letting it rise up into the air. Just as quickly, it's shot down like cupid's arrow.
“Sorry my love, it doesn't seem to be that way!” Garcia apologises, stepping into the room with a laptop over her arm. It rests right between her elbow, as she clicks on the mouse pad.
“Only one gunshot was reported by witnesses…” She further explains, shrugging her shoulders as she places the laptop onto the table.
“Garcia,” Hotch raises, “how did you go with recovering security footage?”
The blonde woman nods enthusiastically, “Great!” she says brightly, before pausing. Raising her left hand and shaking it back and forth in a so-so motion. “Well, it would've been better if I got clear footage of the unsub.”
She pauses once more, her nose scrunching up as she considers herself. “... And if it made sense to begin with.”
Setting the laptop up, she gestures for the team to crowd around. The somewhat damaged footage toward the end comes to a still, before repeating. Instead of the static and black of the screen, it opens up to the overview of the alley.
The alley is quiet and unmoving. The most notable movement comes from the plastic that sticks out of an industrial bin. It shakes with the minor gusts of wind which passes through, stopping, then continuing once more.
It continues that way for a minute, maybe two. The footage moves along at an unsteady pace, being fast forwarded. It's hard to tell exactly, when it only lasts a couple of seconds in the altered video.
There's a shadow that passes by, barely concealed by the large bin that it uses as cover. The person, small as they duck, wears a hoodie that covers most of their face.
Just beneath the blind spot of the camera, they sneak past. It only catches the very top of their head. Though the footage is otherwise grainy– there's a split second where you catch even a quarter of their face. More so from this angle, their hair.
It's slight, but ginger shines in the glare of almost busted lights.
The figure is out of camera view before the footage can linger too long on them. Then, in the next second, the camera is being tampered with. A palm covering up the lens hurriedly. The lens is covered, but then slightly released as fingers are adjusted and moved.
The footage gets glitchy, the surveillance camera is pulled and tugged at. Gripped, destroyed with nothing but pure force.
The footage repeats, replaying the scene of the alley. Garcia pauses the footage.
It doesn't make sense.
That doesn't make sense.
“How did he reach the camera that fast?” Morgan exclaims, turning his head back to look at each of his coworkers. His face scrunching up, as if to ask if they witnessed what he had…and they did.
“That camera had to have been at least twenty feet from the ground.” JJ points out, leaning forward on her elbow as she rests her chin in her hand. “Nobody can just do that.”
Reid frowns. “But it's in the footage… maybe it was some kind of glitch? Maybe it's just missing the inbetweens?”
He turns to Garcia, prodding her with a nod for her opinion as the tech guru. Her expression isn't too assuring.
“... It might? But the footage is too clean for it to be missing something—” She plucks the laptop up, moving it into the crook of her arm. Tugging slightly at her own hair, she breathes out through her nose. “I'll have a comb through…”
But, it doesn't make sense.
“My pants are still stained…” Chuuya complains, kicking his feet as he steps over the pavement.
When he raises his head, he takes a glance over at Dazai. He's wearing a mask now, although it clearly didn't hide much of his identity.
Still, Dazai was a wanted fugitive here in the states. His face, maybe not plastered on every screen they pass, was growing familiar on the streets.
“That's because you're so messy!” Dazai whines, raising his hand to shove at Chuuya’s shoulder, “it's like you expect me to clean up after every mistake you make! Not cool!”
“Shuddup.” He spits, rolling his eyes. Retaliating with a similar shove, stepping into the other teenager's space and knocking him in the shoulder.
Dazai huffs, raising his head as he stares up at the sky. It's a gloomy sky today, the clouds seemed to make a blanket beneath the blue.
“Gonna have to move on from here soon.” Dazai muses, coming to a stop. His hands are stuck in his pockets, like he's purposely trying to act cool and mysterious.
“Hah?”
“The Bureau is onto us, stupid dog.” Dazai huffs, raising his hand to dig his index finger into the other teen’s chest. Who snaps it up and swats his hand away.
Extending his arms, Chuuya stretches them out. His body creaking, muscles pulling. “Boring. Old news.”
Bringing his arms back, he holds them behind his back. Trying for a no towel stretch, pushing his arms until his fingertips touch. “Need I remind you, you're the one who got caught?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Dazai grumbles, rolling his eyes. “You remind me every time we speak.”
“Cus it's funny?” He replies, shaking the pressure out of his hand.
“It's whatever though,” he continues, “since we're both here, there's no way we'll get caught.”
Dazai snorts into his mask, and even with it on, Chuuya can tell the bastard is grinning.
“Guess so.” He hums, raising his head to look over at the other boy. “We are Soukoku, after all.”
“Damn right.” Chuuya agrees, nudging him. “Now come on, we still have some traitors to hunt down.”