Chapter Text

Aperitif

Act One

The house stood in quiet composure all its life, its porched maw opening to yawn night after night into air thick with blue blood and early bedtimes. On evenings like these, it settled down in its foundation, content with another day where black shutters stood in organized contrast to white boards and ferns brushed languidly against the veranda in defiance of autumn air. On evenings like these, it was proud to let the lanterns hanging over the front door cast a golden light through its own windows and embrace the occupants within, warding off the dim promise of twilight. On evenings like these, nothing could disturb its tradition of silken, steadfast peace.

But something could. Something had.

The house shrank back from the alternating blue and red lights strobing hideously against its facade. A siren cut through the chilled night and then suddenly ceased. Commotion was all around; men and women were jogging across the yard, talking to each other, writing down notes at a rapid pace with expressions not before seen on the quiet street. Yellow font splashed across the arms of their jackets read: FBI. The house wanted to hide the horrors it now held in its belly that had concluded with a gawking front door, arterial spray kissing the drywall, and the bodies of its family zipped into black bags by the strangers. But the house gave a final shudder as it realized with grave resignation that this fear had come to pass; for in the house stood a man who knew.

Will Graham regarded the dining room scene, his gaze slipping over agents taking photos and inspecting cushions. They glanced at him but directed none of their words his way. Will focused on the woman’s body laying on the floor before him and then breathed in, shoulders rising as they tensed, lamplight catching the flushed, stretched planes of his face. When he released the breath, he closed his eyes, willed the surrounding sounds into a soft, expectant hum, and let time begin anew.

Will opened his eyes. He was vaguely aware of a muted drumming similar in pace to a heartbeat. He was outside the neat white house and could see the woman moving inside, carrying a bowl. Will did not hesitate. He strode swiftly up the porch steps to the closed front door and kicked. Its red surface gave out against the force with a bang. A house alarm blared above the hum; this did not bother him, he had planned for it. Will looked ahead at a man coming down the stairs just beyond the entryway and lifted the gun in his right hand. It was easy. Two quick shots and the man - the husband - was lifted against the wall and then pushed by gravity against the stairs again, mouth gaping in pain. Will lowered the gun, then spoke in a measured, clinical tone.

“He will die watching me take what is his away from him. This is my design.”

A strangled whimpering to the left drew Will’s eyes away from the crumpled man. The woman Will had seen was pushing with frantic, thin fingers against the small white box on the dining room wall that held the home security system interface. Panic and adrenaline hindered her cognition; she pressed button after button in her limited time, confident she was inputting the incorrect code and yet powerless to stop and think of the proper order.

Whimpers turned to sobs as Will approached with steady footsteps. He raised his gun and shot her in the neck. Blood burst onto her pale pink blouse and onto the wall behind her as she fell. Will lowered his gun, then spoke.

“I shoot Mrs. Marlow expertly through the neck. This is not a fatal wound. The bullet misses every artery. She is paralyzed before it leaves her body.” Will’s eyes narrowed and his head tilted, considering.

“Which,” his words now slow, “doesn’t mean she can’t feel pain. It just means she can’t do anything about it.” Will walked forward several steps and a slight smile appeared on his lips as he took in the open eyes of Mrs. Marlow staring up at him. An expanding blanket of blood gathered beneath her. Her dark hair, coiffed at the nape of her neck, had several loose strands, as though she had just woken from a fitful dream. Will whispered,

“This is my design.”

He tore his gaze reluctantly from the suffering woman to press several buttons on the security system box. The alarm sound was replaced with a brief ringing, and then a voice released from the intercom,

“This is DDX Security. Who am I speaking with?” Will looked down, puzzled, eyes darting back and forth between thoughts. He glanced to the side and said,

“I need the incident report for the home security company.” A police officer held out a file in response, which Will took with gloved hands. He flicked through, scanning until he caught what he wanted.

“This was recorded as a false alarm,” he said aloud, though none of the agents in the room responded. Will looked down at the file again. “It was a false alarm… last week...” His voice trailed off at the end of the sentence as he processed the information. His brow wrinkled, then cleared in understanding. He looked up.

“He tapped their phone. He recorded Mrs. Marlow’s conversation with the security company.”

“This is DDX Security. Who am I speaking with?”

Will held the cell phone up to the system, pressing Play.

“Theresa Marlow,” emitted a clear, feminine voice.

“Can you please confirm your password for security purposes?”

“Tea kettle.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Marlow. We detected a front-door alarm…”

“That was me. That was my fault. Sorry about that.”

“Is there anyone in the house with you, Mrs. Marlow?”

“I’m just here with my husband. We’re all good.”

“Do you require any further assistance?”

“No. Thanks for calling. Sorry about that.”

The security service man hung up and Will lowered the phone from the device. His mouth was tense at the edges, his shoulders vibrating at his success. When he spoke, his voice was low and hungry.

“And this is when it gets truly horrifying for Mrs. Marlow.”

______

“Everyone has thought about killing someone one way or another. Be it your own hands or the hand of God. Now think about killing Mrs. Marlow.”

Will stood at the front of the room, the crime scene photo of the woman’s end projected above him onto a screen. The daylight seeped in from the lecture hall’s windows and illuminated the shiny hair of the FBI trainees as they looked with scholarly duty at the image Will had chosen; it was taken above Marlow so that her profile was exhibited, nose straight and eyelids smudged with soft brown shadow. Her hair blossomed in a black bouquet that blended neatly into the surrounding blood. Will turned his back to the screen, not needing the visual to recall the carnage. He felt a brief tug in his gut as he remembered his internal recreation of the death, the way Marlow had been so utterly still in her paralysis until her candle was at last snuffed out by him. No, he reminded himself, not by him. By the murderer.

His eyes roamed the classroom as he waited for a student to ask a question or make a remark. His blurred gaze - he found not wearing glasses made it easier for him to focus on his words, rather than his students’ reactions to his words - roamed the noses, foreheads, and chins of his pupils, all a little bright with the excitement of being introduced to a new case.

No one spoke, so Will continued.

“Why did she deserve this? Tell me your design. Tell me who you are.” With this final instruction, Will closed the binder on the stand before him. The signal given, the students stood and began their procession out.

As they filtered past, Will shuffled through his various other files as though looking for something important. He found it an effective mechanism to get students to email any questions rather than ask in person. In his periphery, he sensed an approaching figure. He grimaced and pushed glasses back onto his face. He couldn’t always be lucky.

“Mr. Graham?” A deep, steady voice inquired. Definitely not a student. Will glanced up. Before him stood a middle-aged man with a broad face and graying hair. His smart suit, crisp button-up, and dark tie clashed with Will’s own muted ensemble. Oh. This guy. He looked down again.

“Special Agent Jack Crawford,” the man introduced. “I head the Behavior Science Unit.” Will saw a large hand extend towards him and he shook it reluctantly.

“We’ve met.”

“Yes,” the man responded genially, “We had a disagreement when we opened up the museum.”

“I disagreed with what you named it.”

“The Evil Minds Research Museum?”

“It’s a little hammy, Jack.” The man smiled at the directness, then paused for a second to take in the image of Marlow still projected on the screen.

“You’ve hitched your horse to a teaching post. I understand it’s not easy for you to be sociable.”

“I’m just talking at them. I’m not listening to them. It’s not social.”

“I see.” Despite Jack’s pleasant manner, there was a strength behind his gaze as it resettled on Will. Will resisted the urge to take a step back.

“May I?” Jack asked, gesturing with a finger to the glasses already falling down the bridge of Will’s nose. The corner of Will’s mouth pulled downward. In moments like these, he didn’t know what to say or do; it wasn’t in his pre-considered rolodex of social interactions. He stood still, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t be considered too petulant. In his second of deliberation, Jack grasped the outside corner of the frames and lifted them gently, pulling Will’s face upward so that the two men’s eyes met for a brief second. Will looked away.

“Where do you fall on the spectrum?” Jack asked.

Will understood what Jack was truly asking.

“My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths.”

“But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths.”

“I-” Will’s words came out fast, because how many times did he have to explain this to people? “- can empathize with anybody. Less to do with personality disorders than an active imagination.”

“Alright,” Jack said, leaning on the stand. “Then can I borrow your imagination?”

______

The afternoon sunlight filtered through golden leaves and filled the air with the mild, warm scent of decay as Jack and Will crossed the Academy grounds. Will’s fatigue disappeared as he listened.

“Eight girls from eight different Minnesota campuses abducted in the last eight months.”

“I thought there were seven.”

“There were,” frowned Jack.

“When did you tag the eighth?”

“About three minutes before I walked into your lecture hall.” Jack’s leisurely demeanor in the classroom was a testament to his willpower, then.

“You’re calling them abductions,” Will said, “because you have no bodies?”

“No parts, no bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Nothing.” Jack sounded as though he had given this response a couple dozen times. Will considered, never glancing in Jack’s direction, then said contemplatively,

“Those girls weren’t taken from where you think they were taken.”

“Then where were they taken from?”

“I don’t know. Someplace else.”

By now the two men had entered a building with dim, modern lighting and cement-covered corners jutting at harsh angles that Will narrowly avoided catching his shoulders on. After a minute of traveling in the perilous hallways, the two men arrived at what must be Jack's office. They stepped inside and Jack gestured to a massive bulletin board covering the furthest wall.

“All abducted on a Friday so they’re not reporting missing until Monday. However he’s covering his tracks, he needs the weekend to do it,” Jack explained. A detailed map of Minnesota was pinned in the middle of the board, with string tacked at the locations of the murders and leading the viewer to seven printed photos of who Will guessed were the victims. They looked the same: dark hair, pale skin, and a boyish, pleasant youthfulness to their expressions. Jack stepped forward and placed another tack on the map, then turned to hand Will a photo.

“Number eight?” Will asked as he accepted the offering. He took off his glasses and examined closer. Brunette. In need of some sun. A nice smile.

“Elise Nichols.” Jack confirmed. “St. Cloud State on the Mississippi. Disappeared Friday. She was supposed to house sit for her parents over the weekend, feed the cat, that sort of thing. Never made it home.”

“One through seven are dead, don’t you think? He’s not keeping them around. Got himself a new one.”

“Agreed. We should focus on Elise Nichols.”

Will nodded and knew Jack’s eyes were on him. He could sense the hopeful energy in Jack’s words despite the direction of the conversation; Jack was waiting for Will to show him his tricks and save the day. It made Will want to recoil. He didn’t want to play the hero, he just wanted to go home and feed the dogs. But Will also despised the idea of being given and then refusing the chance to prevent a death. It wouldn’t be right; it wouldn’t be just. A brief image flashed in his mind of thick blood covering hands... his hands. Will stepped towards the bulletin board.

“They’re all very, um… Mall of America,” Will settled on. “That’s a lot of wind-chafed skin.”

“Same hair color, same eye color,” Jack agreed. “Roughly the same age, same height, same weight. So what is it about all of these girls?”

Will felt a lurch in his stomach as he pictured each youth drained of life. How did it feel? They were wrong, just slightly so. Which girl’s death would feel right?

“It’s not about all of these girls. It’s just about one of them.” Will handed the photo of Elise Nichols back to Jack, who pinned it on the board. “He’s like Willy Wonka; every girl he takes is a candy bar, and hidden in all those candy bars is the one true intended victim, which, if we follow through on the metaphor, would be your Golden Ticket.” A backflip just for you, Jack.

Jack played along. “So is he warming up for his Golden Ticket or reliving whatever he did to her?”

Will shook his head. The tightening was turning into a headache. “The Golden Ticket wouldn’t be the first taken, and she wouldn’t be the last. He would hide how special she is. I mean, I would. Wouldn’t you?”

Jack paused, then smiled. “I’d like you to get closer to this.”

“No,” Will said automatically. “You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown. They do the same thing I do.” Will gathered his bag and collected his glasses from the table he’d set them down on. He'd earned his exit and was looking forward to some Advil and a nap.

“That’s not really true, though, is it?” Jack’s voice called him back in a sensible, magisterial tone. It sparked images in Will’s mind of Jack placing Will and the rest of his cast on a playing board, intoning that if the players would just go where Jack prodded them, the game would play much more smoothly.

“You have a very specific way of thinking about things,” Jack continued.

“Has there been a lot of discussion about the specific way I think?” Will scoffed.

“You make jumps you don’t explain.”

“No, no, no. The evidence explains.” Will met Jack’s steady gaze.

“Then help me find some evidence.” Jack said. Will looked to the left. He wasn’t sure he had a real choice in the matter. Actually, when he thought back, Jack had never even pretended to present it as a choice.

“That,” Will swallowed regretfully, “may require me to be sociable.”

______

If the neighbors had bothered to look, they would have noticed the interior lights of the bricked colonial were lit far later into the night than usual. Within the thickset walls that safeguarded against the Minnesotan wind, Jack stood behind Will as the latter examined a cluster of photos on a shelf, the assorted frames all displaying a dark-haired girl in various stages of childhood.

Will half-listened as Mr. Nichols, sitting with matching mugs next to his wife at the kitchen table, continued to rationalize.

“She could have gone off by herself… she was a very interior young woman.” The man took a shaky breath. “She didn’t like living in her dorm. I could see how the pressure of school could have gotten to her.” At this, Mr. Nichols looked at Jack as though for confirmation. When Jack said nothing, Mr. Nichols offered, “She likes trains. Maybe she just got on a train and…”

The man’s wife interrupted in a plaintive voice. “She looks like the other girls.”

Jack nodded reluctantly. “Yes, she fits the profile.” Mrs. Nichols nodded in response, her expression grim.

Mr. Nichols spoke again, eyes a little watery, “Could Elise still be alive?”

"We simply have no way of knowing.” Jack paused and was about to speak again when Will spoke from his corner, back still turned to the others.

“How’s the cat?”

“What?” Mrs. Nichols asked.

Will turned his torso towards her, eyes on the adjacent wall - it was covered with a quaint wallpaper, lots of entangled little blue and purple flowers - and repeated the question. But she wasn’t getting it - neither of them were. Will expanded, “Elise was supposed to feed it, was the cat weird when you came home? It must have been hungry if it didn’t eat all weekend.” Will knew his dogs would be ravenous in the same situation. Mrs. Nichols still wore a slightly dumbfounded expression when Mr. Nichols responded.

“I didn’t notice,” he said. Will nodded, lips pursed, and looked pointedly at the shoes of Jack while lapsing back into silence. The couple stared at Will and then Jack. Jack gave them a tight smile.

“Excuse us for a second.” Jack placed a firm hand on Will’s shoulder and directed him to the attached living room of the Nichols house.

“He took her from here,” Will whispered once they were out of earshot. “She got on a train. She came home. She fed the cat. And he took her.” Jack looked at Will with an expression not quite the controlled, agreeable gaze of earlier that day, and then dialed his cell phone.

“The Nichols' house is a crime scene,” he stated into the device at a normal volume. “I need ERT immediately.” Mr. and Mrs. Nichols stared at his words from their seats, eyebrows almost comically lifted by the sudden action. Jack continued, “I wanted Zeller, Katz, and Jimmy Price… yes, and a photographer.”

“Now hold on,” protested Mr. Nichols. “Why is this all of the sudden a crime scene?”

Jack hung up the phone and looked to Will in an offer to let him explain, but Will had an idea.

“Can I see your daughter’s room?”

This time the Nichols’ adjusted to his abrupt questioning.

“The police were up here this morning,” Mr. Nichols said while leading the group upstairs. Behind him, his wife’s face was tracked with fresh tears. Will said nothing but pulled on sanitation gloves as they arrived at the second level.

In a thin hallway painted an inoffensive gray, Will could see the family cat scratching in ropey motions at the furthest door on the right. Mr. Nichols approached the door and stretched his hand out towards the knob, but Will moved jerkily to intervene before the bare skin could wrap around the surface.

“I’ll get that,” Will said, blocking the hand of a now-silent Mr. Nichols.

“Mr. Nichols,” Will said, “Please put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything.”

“We’ve been in and out of here all day,” Mr. Nichols responded in a distant voice. Will looked at the suburban face before him, one previously unmarred by tragedy. It was the worst day the man would ever experience, and it would not get better.

“You could hold the cat if it’s easier,” Will suggested in an awkward but not unkindly tone. Mr. Nichols drew in a breath and then obediently crouched down. Will watched as his arms wrapped around the pet, the man ignoring the mews of protestation. He stood up, pulling the cat’s body to his chest and burying his head so that his chin was half covered by the cat’s fur, the gesture lending a rather childlike air to his bearing. They stood for a second longer, but that was as good as it was going to get. Will had to proceed.

He opened the bedroom door, the hallway light glancing blows on the items within: clean carpet, a small trunk covered in stickers at the base of the bed, a white metal bed frame with whimsical leaves jutting out at pre-ordained junctions. Within the bed, atop a cream comforter thick and appropriate for the impending northern winter, lay Elise Nichols.

Will flicked on the overhead lights. She could have been sleeping. She lay on her back, eyes closed, arms resting at her sides and a white cotton nightgown covering her. Her hair flowed over her shoulders. But her skin was gray. Her chest did not move with the slow respirations of slumber. And - yes, as Will expected - he could see signs of some wound on her torso.

“Elise?” Came the hopeful voice behind him. Shit. Will turned back towards the father. Mr. Nichols took two strides forward, face lit with the possibility of his daughter having been returned to him.

“Mr. Nichols,” Will intercepted him by the shoulders, “I need you to leave the room.” Will watched as the man’s eyes darted from Will to his daughter, open first in naive confusion - because why should he leave the room when his daughter was here, alive and well? - and then wrinkled in awful comprehension as he realized. Just like that, the quiet, sensible trajectory of his life was upended, destroyed in an explosion of unconscionable violence. All that remained was the body before him. Will held on to Mr. Nichols’ shoulders as they began to shake. The cat jumped from the man’s arms, slinking out the bedroom to escape the horrible things Mr. Nichols now knew.