Chapter Text
“And then he said, and I quote, ‘out in the field, sorry doesn’t bring people back’,” Emily finished, walking through the lobby with Piper to the elevator, holding her coffee, Piper sipping on her iced latte.
“You think he was being harsh?” Piper asked, looking at Emily, getting on the elevator, watching her let out a difficult breath.
“Valdez is a new agent trainee,” she explained. “He needs his confidence built, not torn down.”
Piper snorted. “Clearly, it’s been a while since you went to the Academy,” she replied, sipping her latte and Emily frowned at her. “Look, that course is designed to force failure. And every course is meant to simulate a life or death situation.”
“What, you talk to the trainees like that too?” Emily asked, and Piper huffed.
“You’re too soft on them, Em.”
“But I’ve never seen Derek talk like that to a trainee,” she insisted, and Piper chewed on her lip.
“He has been a little more intense than usual lately,” Piper reasoned. “JJ’s injury last week on top of that probably put some more pressure on him. You know how protective he is.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, sighing, the elevator doors opening, and she walked out with Piper into the bullpen. “I’m gonna talk to him anyway,” she said as she spotted Derek walking towards the office and Piper nodded, walking ahead and past the desks, noticing JJ peering over Spencer’s shoulder, pointing at something in his magazine, which was already dubious in and of itself. Piper set Spencer’s cup of coffee in front of him as he quickly slapped the magazine shut, as if he were looking at porn instead of his monthly Nature subscription.
“Morning, you two,” Piper chirped, JJ itching the back of her ear as she wandered off, like she’d seen a butterfly and was following it.
“Morning,” Spencer replied, clearing his throat and sliding his magazine into his desk drawer and shutting it.
“You disappeared this morning,” Piper said, sipping her latte as he took his cup of coffee — black Americano, no cream, lots of sugar.
“Yeah, I uh, I wanted to get a headstart on the case,” he lied poorly, Piper folding her lips.
“Really?” she asked. “What’s the case?”
“Home invasions in San Bernadino,” Spencer said smoothly, and Piper pursed her lips, nodding as she reached for his desk drawer. Spencer was faster, keeping his knee pressed against it.
“Come on, you can’t hide things from me,” Piper whined, pouting slightly.
“What, you’re the only one allowed to keep secrets?” he asked, crossing his arms and Piper screwed up her nose.
“Low blow, Reid.” He shrugged.
“Sorry, Bishop,” he replied, standing up, much too close for HR to be comfortable, his full height slightly towering over her, smirking slightly at the idea of changing her last name.
“Okay, that’s really unfair,” she murmured, poking his chest, trying not to smile or blush. “Especially considering you left me high and dry this morning.”
He smiled impishly, hooking a finger in the pockets of her slacks. “I can make up for it,” he replied, the clack of Penelope’s heels interrupting them.
“Break it up, lovebirds,” she announced loudly, Piper groaning as she stepped back. “You’re headed back to Cali.”
“You have great timing, Pen,” Piper said, her lips forming a thin line, watching the woman dressed like an orange Starburst shrug.
“Maybe stop eyefucking each other in the bullpen then,” she retorted, making Spencer flush and Piper grabbed one of his pens to throw at her.
“We were not—” he spluttered, but Penelope was quickly making her way to the conference room.
“Your fault,” Piper said, jabbing his chest as he sighed, following her up to the briefing.
They were working on two home invasions, less than a block away from each other, with the exact same modus operandi. Burgled, with the power and the phone lines cut, breaking in through a back window, with both families left shot dead in their own homes. Piper was looking at the families, both picturesque white couples with two and a half kids on average between them, all blonde haired and blue-eyed. The quintessential American family.
“They cut the phone and power lines to isolate them,” Rossi was saying. “Took out the alarm systems, can’t call for help.”
“But most modern alarm systems have a backup generator,” Spencer countered, “and a cell phone connection to the security company.”
“Yeah, but the Mitchells had an older system, and the Lewises were behind on their account, so it was inactive,” Penelope explained.
“Lucky guy,” Piper drawled, leaning back in her chair.
“There’s more,” Penelope added. “An assailant was killed in each case, but the sheriff hasn’t ID’d them yet.”
“Both families were armed, and fought back and shot one of their attackers,” Emily reasoned, Piper picking up the pictures of two black men who had been shot dead. Something wasn’t right.
“What concerns me is the frequency of the kills,” Aaron remarked. “Only 4 days apart. It’s a long flight, so we’d better get going. Wheels up in 30,” he told them, standing up and ending the briefing there.
“What do we have on victimology?” Aaron asked the team, 20 minutes into the flight, headed back towards California, holding a cup of coffee and leaning against the little table across the aisle, looking at his team.
“Brian Mitchell was a hunter, Matt Lewis was an Iraq war vet,” Emily told them. “Explains why they both owned guns.”
“Things you’d know if you were part of the community,” Piper reasoned, tossing the pictures of the dead assailants in the middle of the table. “Which our alleged bad guys were not.”
“Why alleged?” David asked and Piper huffed.
“Because the only thing connecting these two guys together is that they lived in the same ghetto,” she replied, twirling her pen as she looked at her laptop, carefully balanced on her leg which crossed over her knee. “Dead man number 1, Alex Collison, 20 years old, got a rap sheet for possession, drug charges, armed robbery, assault, all in the past 3 years. Member of the Verdugo Heights boys.”
“They’re gang members,” JJ reasoned, frowning, Piper clicking her tongue.
“Oh, were it that simple,” Piper said, scrolling through the information Penelope had sent her way. “Dead man number 2, Ronald Underwood, 19 years old. No rap sheet, straight A student, putting himself through school. Both from the same area, but their social worlds are miles apart. Both had high levels of Oxy in their systems.”
Spencer frowned, looking at her. “But that’s a depressant,” he pointed out. “Violent crimes like these are associated with stimulant drugs like methamphetamines.”
“This reeks of a set-up,” Piper said, shaking her head. “Someone drugged on Oxy doesn’t have the clarity of thought to cut power and phone lines.”
“Underwood’s straight as an arrow,” Derek reasoned, “Collison’s a garden variety gangbanger. I grew up with knuckleheads like that. High risk break-ins and Oxy, that’s not their M.O.”
“Regardless, we need to get ahead of it,” Aaron said firmly. “The press has got the community on the verge of panic.”
“Maybe that’s what the unsub wants,” Piper said, glancing at Aaron. “I mean, think about who he’s attacking too. Picture perfect, picket fence, white American families.”
Aaron nodded. “JJ and I’ll head to the sheriff’s station. I want the rest of you at the crime scenes.”
Emily was in the bathroom, staring at the blood spatter on the walls, imagining the deaths of the mother, their year old baby girl, and an older daughter. Spencer was in the bedroom of the oldest daughter, hands in his pockets, replaying the 9-1-1 call she had made in his head.
Piper made her way through the house exactly the way the unsub would have, past the phone and power lines, through the back window. She frowned as she walked over to where Matt Lewis’s body had been found, shot in the head at point blank range, trying to play out the gunfight so Ronald Underwood was dead. Shot 11 times in the head and abdomen. A partner shooting Lewis in the head, then making his way upstairs to the rest of the family.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Piper voiced, the group rejoining in the living room, Derek and Rossi already there, looking at the broken picture frames, Spencer and Emily coming down the stairs. “We know the same .357 gun was used, so there’s only one shooter,” Piper said, backtracking towards the back window. “Spence, stand where Matt Lewis was found?”
He obliged, standing in front of a giant bloodstain, Rossi standing where Ronald Underwood had been shot. “Underwood gets shot 11 times. If you’re a war vet, you don’t waste 11 bullets on one man,” Piper explained. “And even if you do, the way Matt Lewis was shot, there would have to be a second shooter that got in front of him,” she continued, moving in front of Spencer, and raising her gun to her head, “and get close enough to shoot him at point-blank range.”
“He could have been subdued first,” Emily offered.
“M.E. found no evidence of a blitz attack or struggle,” Spencer countered.
“Well, it had to be an ambush of some kind,” Derek said, looking up the stairs, imagining Matt Lewis come down. “Probably when he confronted Underwood.”
Piper shook her head. “That’s impossible based on where the body was found,” she countered.
“Then he wasn’t shot here,” David concluded. “Somebody moved the body to make it look like it was.”
“Forensic countermeasure designed to make us think these guys died in a gunfight that never occurred,” Derek said, looking at their little group.
“So…” Emily said, letting out a difficult breath. “The unsub gets the drop on Matt Lewis, kills the rest of the family, and then leaves a drugged up patsy behind to cover his tracks?”
“This wasn’t a burglary at all,” Spencer said, shaking his head, his voice determined. “They’re staging the crime scene as some kind of message.”
“This guy’s trying to make it look like black kids from the hood are killing white families in white neighbourhoods,” Derek scoffed.
“Someone’s trying to start a race war,” Piper said.
“We’ve got another Charles Manson on our hands,” David huffed.