Chapter Text
“… Look, all I’m saying is, it wouldn’t kill you to relax occasionally,” Dean said, reaching into the ice bucket between them for another beer; he popped the cap against the edge of the table and took a long drink before continuing, “… you know… turn your brain off for once. Maybe get drunk, pick up a girl, have a few laughs. Do something fun.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, distantly, while his attention remained fixed on his laptop, “sounds good. You should definitely go do that.”
Dean slowly lowered his beer and stared at his younger brother for several seconds.
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying…?”
“No.”
Sam’s mouth twitched, though whether it was amusement or irritation, Dean could not tell. Things had been quiet around the Bunker recently. Not peaceful, just… quiet. Dean had learned a long time ago that there was a difference.
Peaceful meant sitting around doing nothing because, for once, there was nothing that needed doing. Quiet meant waiting for the next thing to crawl out of the darkness and remind them that the universe had a twisted sense of humour – especially where the Winchesters were concerned.
The Bunker was particularly good at making quiet feel that ominous.
It had once belonged to the Men of Letters, a secret society of obsessive occult scholars who had apparently believed that every conceivable supernatural threat could be catalogued, classified, dissected and filed away. The result was a sprawling underground labyrinth packed with spell books, arcane artefacts, ancient weapons, dusty manuscripts, a hidden dungeon, and enough supernatural secrets to give a normal person nightmares for the rest of their natural life.
The Winchesters had made it their home.
Dean, especially, had made it his home. More specifically, he had made one particular corner of it his kingdom.
“The Dean Cave,” he called it.
“The rec room,” Sam called it.
Dean had yet to forgive him for that.
It was late enough that Sam had abandoned any pretence of going to sleep any time soon, while Dean had run out of time to head into town and find a bar worth drinking in. Instead, they had settled into the reclining leather armchairs, beers within reach, the television murmuring in the background. At least, Dean was relaxing. Sam was hunched over his laptop with the intensely concentrated expression of a man who has no intention of deviating from his work any time soon. Dean watched him with mild curiosity for another moment.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
“I’m creating a digital database based on the Men of Letters index-card system.”
Dean blinked.
“Uh-huh.”
“So instead of searching through alphabetical cards by hand, I can run keyword searches.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’ll make researching cases faster. More efficient.”
“Sure.”
Sam finally glanced up. Dean was looking at him with the same expression he used whenever he was confronted with something involving complicated spell work that he had no intention of learning how to manipulate.
“And, uh… how long have you been working on that?”
Sam sighed; “On and off? About six months.”
“Six months?”
“There are a lot of cards.”
He gestured towards the wooden drawer on the table beside his chair. Dean looked at it, then at Sam, then back at the drawer.
“That’s… just one box.”
“That’s everything from ‘EA’ to ‘ED’ and they’re in alphabetical order, so… it’s gonna take a while.”
Dean’s eyebrows climbed.
“You’ve been working on this for six months and you’ve got as far as the letter ‘E’?”
“Yeah… but in my defence, we don’t get a lot of free time, and, like I said; there are a lot of index cards to get through.”
“Sam.”
“What?”
“You’re digitising the entire Men of Letters library?”
“No, just the index.”
“Right. Because that makes it less insane.”
“It’ll be useful,” Sam said, defensively, despite the tired look on his face.
“And this is supposed to make our lives easier?”
“Eventually… but mostly mine, to be honest.”
Dean took another drink and smirked at his younger brother.
“Nerd,” he said, with affectionate amusement.
Sam huffed then ignored him, picking up the next card and resting it on the arm of his chair as he typed methodically, so Dean turned his attention towards the television. The news was playing at a low volume, mostly background noise. Traffic reports, weather, politics, advertisements. The usual crap.
He reached for the remote, about to change the channel, looking for a late-night movie perhaps, but then he froze. The anchor’s voice changed; not dramatically, just enough to catch his attention, and Dean leaned forward in interest.
“…And it’s the eighth death in six weeks in the Hawksridge area,” the attractive blonde news anchor was saying, her professionally smooth expression somehow at odds with the dire subject matter, “renewing ongoing concerns about what local authorities are referring to as ‘cyclical animal attacks.’”
Dean frowned.
“Huh… did you hear that?”
Sam continued typing, apparently blissfully unaware of his brother’s sudden fascination with current affairs. The anchor shifted slightly as footage appeared behind her, featuring dark trees, the forest stretching into the distance, dense enough that the gaps between the trunks looked almost black despite the broad daylight.
Dean reached over but Sam was just out of swatting range, leaving him wafting ineffectively at the air between them, clicking his fingers to try to get his younger brother’s attention.
“Hey.”
Sam kept typing.
“Hey!”
“What?” Sam finally glanced up in a mixture of surprise and irritation at being interrupted yet again.
“You hearing this?”
Sam looked up, following Dean’s gaze towards the television and its glowing screen filled with dark images.
The news anchor continued; “…Officials have not yet confirmed whether they believe the eight deaths are connected, but residents and visitors to the area are being advised to avoid hiking alone in the Hawksridge region of the Monongahela National Forest until further notice.”
A small inset appeared beside her, framing blurry nighttime footage. A heavily pixellated-out body was being wheeled towards an ambulance. Torches swept across the scene while a powerful floodlight illuminated what appeared to be a ranger station or a hunting cabin. The footage was grainy, but neither Dean nor Sam needed high definition. They both knew what a crime scene looked like.
“Did she say eight deaths?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.”
Sam’s laptop caught his focus once more, and this time for an entirely different reason. He opened a browser and began typing.
“…According to investigators, the victims all suffered extensive trauma to the chest. Authorities have not released further details regarding the injuries, but local sources suggest that the victims’ hearts may have been removed entirely, though to what end remains a rather grisly mystery…”
Dean’s expression hardened as he gave a derisive snort.
“Animal attacks, my ass. That’s a goddamn werewolf.”
Sam paused in typing for a moment, and stared at the screen for another few seconds.
“Maybe.”
“It sounds like a hunt,” Dean grinned with anticipation.
“Yeah… maybe.”
“Come on, Sam. Eight people, shredded chests, hearts missing? That’s practically a werewolf’s Christmas dinner.”
“Or something else with a taste for human hearts. Eight bodies in six weeks, Dean… that’s a lot.”
“Always the optimist.”
Sam ignored him and started digging through the available reports.
“Okay…” Sam’s fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard as he flicked through tabs and reports and different sources, “eight deaths in six weeks. First one was six weeks ago, then another nine days later, then six days…”
“Pattern?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“The dates aren’t consistent,” Sam frowned, “if this is a werewolf, its appetite is all over the place. But…”
“But?” Dean prompted him, when Sam trailed off.
“There’s something else…”
“Of course there is.”
“Over the last ten years, one or two bodies have turned up locally every year or so under almost identical circumstances.”
Dean’s grin disappeared.
“Ten years?”
“Yeah.”
“So why the hell is this suddenly front-page news?”
“Because the frequency changed.”
Sam turned the laptop slightly so Dean could see the screen, and the multiple tabs his brother had open.
“Eight victims in six weeks. There’s never been more than one or two in any given location each year… why the sudden escalation?”
Dean studied the screen; “Okay…”
Sam turned the laptop back towards himself, nodding to the text as he skimmed through it quickly.
“Every victim had severe trauma to the chest. In every case, the heart was either missing or too badly damaged to recover.”
“Werewolves, then. Plural, not singular. Maybe one wolf turned one or two others, or paired up – either way we could be looking at a pack. Any witnesses?”
“Nothing useful.”
“Cameras?”
“Not many. Small town, isolated, fairly low tech. Nothing clear.”
Dean frowned; “And nobody thought this was weird until now?”
“People thought it was weird. They just didn’t think it was our kind of weird, obviously.”
Dean snorted.
“That’s the great thing about most people. Give ‘em a monster and they’ll spend a decade blaming coyotes and bears.”
Sam’s expression changed as he turned the laptop again, pointing to it to draw Dean’s attention. A map filled the screen, covered in small red dots.
“I did a quick geographical map of the deaths over the last ten years,” Sam explained, as Dean tried not to look too impressed at how quickly his brother had set about analysing the case, “check that out…”
The deaths were scattered across several counties, not randomly; there was a shape to them, a rough circle surrounding Hawksridge.
“Territory,” Dean guessed, “definitely a roving wolf… or more.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Sam zoomed out, and the arc expanded.
“So, perhaps if we widen the search…”
“You already did, didn’t you?”
Sam gave him a small smile; “Yeah…”
More points appeared; the red dots stretched beyond Hawksridge, across neighbouring towns, a clear pattern emerging with Hawksridge at the centre. Dean slowly sat back and let out a low whistle.
“Well, crap.”
“That’s one big territory for a werewolf,” Sam noted.
“Or several.”
“You’re thinking it’s definitely a pack?”
“Well, it’s a definite maybe,” Dean grinned, “so… you game?”
Sam considered this for a moment, then shrugged and nodded.
“Sure.”
“Awesome,” Dean reached for his beer, “so… how far away is Hawksridge, anyway?”
Sam glanced at the map, then at the clock, hit a few keys to plan out the fastest route, and let out a resigned sigh.
“Hawksridge is… about seventeen hours from here.”
Dean’s grin faltered.
“Seventeen?”
“Give or take.”
“That’s not a drive. That’s a punishment.”
“We can take turns.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean stood and stretched, downing the last of his beer and conveniently forgetting how many he had consumed as he patted down his pockets, checking for his car keys, “come on, then. The sooner we hit the road, the better.”
Sam was already closing up his laptop, index cards forgotten as he pushed the device into its case, gathering up the power lead and already planning his packing list.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Eight hearts in six weeks… that’s one hell of a body count, even for a pack… and we’ve never seen this many bodies even with multiple wolves in one place. They’re usually smarter, more careful than this.”
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, “In any case, it sounds like our kind of weekend. Grab your gear, Sammy. We’ve got a werewolf to hunt.”
“Good morning, my beautiful, big-brained bastions of all things right and just,” Penelope Garcia announced, entering the briefing room with a dramatic flourish, “gather around and take your seats, because, unfortunately, the universe has once again decided to ruin our whole week.”
There were assorted chuckles of amusement as the members of the FBI’s elite Behavioural Analysis Unit found their seats and turned their attention to the big screen, while Garcia picked up the remote and flicked on the first slide.
“We’ve been asked to investigate a case in northeastern West Virginia, where, in the last six weeks, the locals have discovered no less than eight bodies. The local Sheriff’s in over his head and State Police have bumped the matter straight up to Federal, because… and this is where it gets really icky… all the victim’s hearts were… missing. And whoever took them was not what you might call clean or careful about their removal, and I am going to need all of you to send me your cutest kitten videos by close of business today after what I had to look at this morning and which is about to grace the screen… now.”
She shuddered and turned away, averting her eyes from the gory mess on the screen as the rest of the team leaned forward in interest.
“You said their hearts were removed?”
“Tragically, my chocolate valentine, yes,” Garcia nodded to Derek Morgan, “and it wasn’t exactly… surgical in nature.”
“I’m seeing eight victims but two very distinctly different wound patterns,” Emily Prentiss noted, picking up her tablet to view the graphic pictures up close.
“The County Coroner notes that as well,” Jennifer ‘JJ’ Jareau commented, flicking quickly through the documents, “two of the victims show blunt force trauma, as if something punched straight through their ribcages, but the other six victims have distinct tool marks on the ribs showing that something like a hammer and chisel were used…”
“I’ve seen wounds like those two victims before,” David Rossi spoke up, “years ago… a case I worked with Jason Gideon back in the early days… with the assistance of a, uh… specialist consultant.”
“Specialist consultant?” Unit Chief Aaron ‘Hotch’ Hotchner raised one eyebrow at his colleague, curiously.
“One by the name of John Winchester,” Rossi confirmed.
This earned mixed responses from the agents gathered around the table, all of whom had dealt with the name ‘Winchester’ once before. Morgan gave a soft groan of dismay. Prentiss made a neutral noise and raised her eyebrow, trading a look with JJ, whose expression registered both surprise and curiosity. Reid simply nodded, frowning thoughtfully, as Garcia gasped and did a double take at the crime scene photos, as if seeing them for the first time again. Only Hotch gave no outward reaction to the news.
“What can you tell us, Dave?”
“Believe it or not, back then… our unsub was, in fact, a werewolf.”
“A werewolf,” JJ said, her tone carefully measured, “are you… are you serious?”
“After what we saw last time we dealt with the Winchesters? I believe it,” Prentiss replied, with feeling, “is… is that what we’re dealing with now?”
“Not necessarily,” Hotch held up one hand, “let’s not jump to conclusions. We’ve worked stranger cases with far more… mundane culprits. Dave?”
“Werewolves have a taste for human hearts,” Rossi told them, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather reports, “as far as I know, they can eat any kind of raw meat, but hearts are what they crave the most. They’re strong enough to punch through a ribcage. The one John and Gideon and I hunted back in the day was targeting hikers on a mountain trail; they generally like isolated areas and easy prey. You’d be surprised how many deaths written off as animal attacks could actually be down to creatures like that…”
“Actually, A CDC WONDER-based study covering a five-year period found 1,604 animal-related deaths nationally in the US, which is only approximately 267 per year on average,” Reid spoke up, enthusiastically, “the study classified 943 or 58.8% of those deaths as non-venomous animals encounters and 644 or 41.2% as venomous, with a small number suppressed because the counts were too low to report reliably, and it is important to note that this is only direct animal contact deaths such as bites, stings, attacks, crushing deaths; it does not take into account deaths from diseases transmitted by animals such as rabies, or vehicle crashes involving animals…”
“Reid,” Hotch interrupted, “your point?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Reid nodded, hastily, “my point is that about 250 to 300 Americans die each year from direct encounters with animals and around 145 of those on average are attributed to dogs and other large mammals… which doesn’t seem like a lot, until you take into account the fact that there are around 5,300 deaths of undetermined manner each year, where investigators could not decide whether the death was an accident, suicide, or homicide…”
“What are you trying to say, kid?” Morgan pressed, curiously.
“What I’m trying to say is that, according to my research and my calculations, there could be anything up to 4,000 or more deaths annually in the US that could be attributed to attacks by creatures we previously thought of as being mere myths,” Reid said, quickly, “and that’s without taking into account deaths that would appear to have natural causes, by which I mean deaths disguised as an illness or other apparent infirmity of the victim and not necessarily attributed to the manner in which a creature may have preyed on them.”
There was a long moment of silence as Reid’s words sank in, the team members glancing at each other in turn thoughtfully.
“That’s… kind of terrifying,” Garcia admitted, at length.
“Do we… do we need to call the Winchesters in on this one?” Prentiss asked, eventually, “If this is a werewolf… do we even know how to profile something like that? Do we know how to stop it?”
“Don’t werewolves only come out at the full moon?” JJ asked, her features creasing slightly, as if she could not believe what they were discussing.
“Actually, according to my research, pure-blooded werewolves can change at any time,” Reid offered, helpfully, “it’s only regular werewolves that need the full moon to change.”
“The difference being?” Morgan prompted him.
“From what I understand… there is, or was, an Alpha werewolf. The first of its kind, from which all others were bred. Those closest related to the Alpha and those turned by them – to within four generations – are considered to be pure bloods. Regular werewolves are more devolved and rarely remember the things they did as a wolf, many are not even aware of their condition. Pure bloods are much more cognisant, powerful, and dangerous… and they are all vulnerable to silver. A silver bullet or blade to the heart is usually sufficient to kill one.”
“Damn, I left my clip of silver bullets in my other pants,” Morgan quipped, dryly, “are we seriously discussing this as a possibility?”
“Again, I do not want anyone leaping to conclusions,” Hotch said, firmly, “as we’ve already noted, the majority of the victims show tool marks on the bodies that would negate the suggestion of something with the physical strength to punch through a ribcage.”
“But the other two bodies,” JJ pointed out, “without the tool marks…”
“Inconclusive,” Hotch told her, bluntly, “we treat this like any other case. We profile the unsub, and we do not allow prejudices or preconceptions to cloud our judgment. If I think it necessary, I will contact the Winchesters for a consultation… but until then, we assume that our unsub is human with a distinct signature and a fascination for human hearts.”
“Ignoring what we think we know about werewolves,” Rossi said, leaning back in his chair, “look again at the victims and the methodology, especially the removal of the hearts. What would we be thinking if we didn’t know so-called mythical monsters actually exist?”
“The removal of the hearts is a fairly unique signature,” Prentiss noted, tapping her pen against the table softly as she scanned her eyes over the crime scene photos critically, “the heart is loaded with symbolism; love, identity, courage, and a sense of self… choosing the hearts suggests the unsub has assigned a very specific meaning or significance to them.”
“Collection implies repetition,” Morgan nodded, in agreement, “this isn’t impulsive; it’s premeditated. The unsub wants the hearts, perhaps to keep for some reason… though we can’t rule out the possibility that there is an element of ritualism involved, and maybe even… cannibalism.”
“Eww,” Garcia shuddered, softly, pulling a disgusted face.
“If he’s taking them, he’s not necessarily collecting trophies,” JJ theorised, “he may be gathering them as representations of something he believes he’s been denied or something he feels entitled to. We need to find out what he thinks the heart contains – because whatever that is, it’s what he’s craving.”
“Any consistencies in victimology?” Morgan asked, with a slight frown, as he flicked through the files on his tablet.
“That’s the odd thing,” Garcia shook her head, “the two without the tool marks were both solo hikers passing through the Monongahela National Forest… the six others were all local residents, different ages and ethnicities…”
“So not a preferential offender,” Rossi mused, “what can you tell us about the area?”
“Oh, this place is the very definition of a quiet little mountain town,” Garcia sighed, checking her notes, “Hawksridge is a small place with a population of around 1,800 people, the nearest interstate is nearly an hour away, and cell service is unreliable at best. The closest airstrip is a good three hours’ drive away…”
“You’ll be coming with us on this one, Garcia,” Hotch said, firmly, as she shot him an open-mouthed look of surprise, “we’ll need you to manage computers and communications, and you said it yourself, service is patchy at best, so you’ll need to bring enough gear with you to ensure we have access to all our resources and we can stay in touch at all times.”
“Oh… okay. Yes. Yes, sir…”
“We’ll brief further on the jet,” Hotch decided, “you’ve got time to go get anything you need. Wheels up in thirty.”
The whole team nodded, gathering their files and things, heading out of the briefing room to fetch their gear and go-bags; Rossi hung back, and Hotch was unsurprised to find himself alone in the room with the older Agent.
“You sure you don’t wanna make that call right now?”
“Positive,” Hotch nodded, “the Winchesters have proven to be of assistance once in the past, but we cannot go running to them every time we get a case that looks vaguely abnormal… we have to try conventional profiling methods first.”
“I wonder how many of the unsubs we’ve caught might also be monsters of a different kind?” Rossi mused, giving a humourless chuckle, “Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
“I’m not sure which would be worse,” Hotch admitted, “finding out that they’re monsters… or finding out that they’re human.”
“Amen to that,” Rossi agreed, “let’s just… keep an open mind on this one. I’ve got a feeling it’s not going to be that simple…”
Hawksridge was a small, isolated town tucked into a narrow valley between heavily forested ridges. The nearest interstate was nearly an hour away. The surrounding forest was vast enough that a person could disappear into it without being found for days or more. The town had grown around a nineteenth-century timber operation and later survived on logging, hunting, a small paper mill, and tourism. The mill closed decades ago, leaving Hawksridge economically depressed but stubbornly independent.
There was one main street, Cooper’s Avenue, lined with a diner, hardware store, pharmacy, bar, sheriff’s office, funeral home, church, and a handful of locally owned businesses. A weathered water tower bore the town’s name on a whitewashed wooden board with cracked and peeling black painted letters. There was a small hospital, Hawksridge Urgent Care Medical Centre, with an emergency department and clinic, right next door to the funeral home.
The Sheriff’s office was towards the end of Cooper’s Avenue, neighboured by a coffee shop and an attorney’s office.
Sheriff Andrew ‘Andy’ Harrington was a tall, thin man in his late forties to early fifties with collar-length grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He had sharp green irises and an easy grin, with broad shoulders and a muscular build, though his eyes were shadowed with exhaustion and his smile lacked any warmth as he stood outside his office.
His eyes narrowed fractionally as he watched two black SUVs roll up, parking at the kerb and disgorging a team of seven people. He stepped forwards as a man only an inch or two shorter than himself came to greet him, extending his hand with professional courtesy. Harrington accepted it; the handshake was firm, no-nonsense, and he found himself being closely appraised.
“I’m Sheriff Andy Harrington,” he introduced himself, “you must be Agent Hotchner.”
“I am,” Hotch confirmed, with a nod, “this is the rest of my team; Special Agents David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, Jennifer Jareau, Dr. Spencer Reid, and our Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia.”
He indicated each of the agents in turn, and Harrington nodded politely in greeting to each.
“We’ve cleared out the conference room for you guys to set up in,” he gave a beckoning gesture to them to follow him into the tiny station, “this way, please.”
He led the team through to a small conference room where a Deputy was waiting for them; she was a couple of inches shorter than Harrington, with long dark hair woven into a tight braid, brown eyes, and tanned, weathered skin. She looked to be in her mid twenties, with an athletic, muscular physique, and she straightened up as soon as the team of agents walked in.
“Agent Hotchner, this is Deputy Anna-Beth Hollis… AB, these are agents, uh…”
“Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan, Jareau, Reid, and Garcia,” Hotch supplied, obligingly, “Ms Garcia is our Technical Analyst who’ll be running our IT and communications requirements from here, if that’s alright with you, Sheriff?”
“Oh, sure, sure, whatever you guys need…”
“There’s outlets in the corner there, there, and there,” Hollis pointed, “you need a hand bringing in your gear?”
“Oh, yes, please,” Garcia grinned, “come on, muscles, you can lend a bicep or two as well…”
She whacked Morgan playfully on the arm as she slipped past him; Hollis gave him a wry smile as he chuckled, and they headed out after her. There was a flurry of activity as the agents, Sheriff, and Deputy set to work, bringing in boxes of equipment, files, case notes, and photos, setting up the room to act as their base of operations. While Garcia and JJ began to set up the computers and IT systems, Harrington and Hollis turned their attention to Hotch.
“Andy says you’ll only be looking at the current cases first?”
“What do you mean… current cases?” Hotch’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“AB,” there was an edge of warning in the Sheriff’s tone.
“Sheriff?” Hotch’s voice was carefully neutral, “Is there something else that we ought to be aware of?”
“No,” Harrington replied, firmly, “Hawksridge has… a high number of animals attacks in the vicinity, higher than the national average. Nothing to do with the current cases.”
Hotch glanced across at Reid, knowingly, but said nothing. Hollis simply shrugged.
“Alright,” she said, “but you should know before you start… people here are scared.”
“That’s understandable,” Hotch inclined his head slightly.
“No,” the Deputy shook her head in response, “I mean they’re scared of what’s out there. In the woods. There’s something out there… and it’s never come this close to the town before. Not like this.”
“AB, that’s enough!”
“Sheriff,” Hotch cut off the rebuke, “in order for us to build a profile we need to know a lot more than just who and how our unsub kills, so if there is relevant background information, we need to hear it.”
“And if it was relevant, I’d disclose it,” Harrington snorted, “but I don’t think you need to hear old local fairy tales about the monster in the woods.”
“Let’s pretend we do,” Rossi spoke up, folding his arms, “local folklore could be an influence on our unsub, so why not just fill us in?”
Hollis apparently took this as carte blanche, and went for it.
“Okay,” her eyes lit up as she spoke, “so, like Andy said, Hawksridge has a legendarily high number of animal attacks each year, roughly two or three every month or so, and in the surrounding towns up to ten miles away, and it’s been going on for over a decade. People say there’s something in the woods, some animal or something, and it feeds on people…”
“It’s nonsense,” Harrington interjected, through gritted teeth, “it’s damned hikers and hunters falling foul of black bears, mountain lions, and coyotes.”
“The folks around here are calling it a monster,” Hollis was either completely oblivious to or unswayed by the scowl her superior was giving her.
“And what do you call it, Deputy?”
Hollis gave Hotch a long, appraising look.
“A problem,” she replied, eventually, “especially if it has started attacking people in the town itself instead of sticking to the woods.”
“Animals don’t generally use a hammer and chisel on their prey,” Harrington pointed out, dryly, in the tone of someone who had already had the exact same conversation multiple times, “AB, you know damn well the difference between animal attacks and a goddamn murderer.”
“I’m just telling them what they’re gonna hear anyway.”
“So there were similar incidents before these eight deaths?”
Harrington and Hollis exchanged a glance that was enough to make both Hotch and Rossi raise their eyebrows expectantly.
“That’s… complicated,” Harrington conceded, at length, “like I said… there have been a lot of animal attacks; bears, mountain lions, coyotes, the occasional feral dog… people got hurt out in the woods. A lotta deaths out there over the years.”
“How many?” Reid asked.
“I… don’t know,” Harrington admitted, “there are a lot of old reports, but like I said, they were animal attacks. These recent cases are totally different.”
“We’ll still need to take them into account when building our profile,” Hotch said, with a tight nod, “JJ, you’ll work with Garcia to get us up and running. Reid, I want you to dig into the old case records from the last decade.”
“I’ve got a file,” Hollis said, brightly, “lemme go grab it!”
She was off like a shot without further prompting, and Rossi turned an amused look towards the towering Sheriff.
“She’s… enthusiastic,” he remarked, with a small smile.
“Yeah,” Harrington sighed, but returned a smile of his own, “she grew up in this town on all the local myths and legends… it’s a small town. Not a lot really happens here… so I guess it’s a hobby, of sorts… until the murders started.”
Hollis reappeared moments later with a box full of old papers, files, photos, and even newspaper clippings, which she placed on the conference room table with a flourish.
“This is all my research into the Monster of Monongahela,” she announced, proudly, “I’ve got reports here from the last decade covering multiple animal attacks, and, here’s the thing… in almost every case, internal organs were missing from the victims… including their hearts. Just like the current murders.”
“The Monster of Monongahela?” Morgan repeated, “Really?”
“The newspapers are calling the current killer The Heartbreaker… I’m not saying he is the Monster, but I reckon he’s been inspired by whatever the hell it is.”
“That’s… not the worst theory I’ve ever heard,” Rossi conceded, “were any of these historic deaths investigated as homicides?”
“No,” Harrington shook his head, “they were all classed as animal attacks, like I said.”
“And do you think it was one particular animal,” Rossi asked, carefully, “or just a whole lotta bad luck in one small town?”
“You’re asking me if I believe in the Monster, aren’t you?” Hollis grinned, playfully; “Of course I don’t.”
“Then why all the research?” Reid asked, curiously, as he picked up the first file from the box.
“I dunno. Because it’s interesting? And… kinda fun? Oh… no, shit, no, that came out wrong; there’s nothing fun about folks getting torn apart and eaten. I just… I thought someone ought to keep track of it, that’s all.”
“So you’re researching a monster that you don’t believe in?”
“Truth is I don’t know what to believe,” she admitted, with a shrug, “but there’s plenty of folks around here do believe in it… and yeah, I think maybe it does have something to do with the current murders.”
“I don’t,” Harrington rejoined, gruffly, “whoever this psycho is… he’s just one messed up son of a bitch.”
“We’ll take everything into account,” Hotch decided, “it’s too early to rule anything out.”
It did not take long to get everything set up; Hollis and Prentiss set about building a timeline on the whiteboard, using photographs of the victims and the crime scenes. Garcia and JJ got laptops and tablets set up and running including a powerful WiFi hotspot. Reid was already going through the historic case files faster than anyone else could ever hope to, ignoring the shocked looks he was getting from Harrington and Hollis as he speed-read through the documents. Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch focussed on the current case files.
“Okay, my favourite fabulous fuzzy federal family,” Garcia announced, “everything is wired up and ready to go… the WiFi will work here at the station but signal strength around the town is terrible and I would remind you not to connect any of your devices to any public WiFi hotspots not pre-approved by yours truly, and that includes at the hotel. I have a second router I will be setting up for our use only once we get there.”
“Good work, Garcia,” Hotch nodded, “alright. Current victims first, historical cases second. Establish any commonalities before we decide on any historical relevance. Garcia, pull everything you can on the current victims, we’ll start with victimology…”
“We’re going to need to see the bodies,” Rossi said, to Harrington, “are they available?”
“Of the eight, four have been returned to their relatives for burial,” the Sheriff admitted, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously, “one was cremated at the family’s insistence, the other three are at the local clinic, it has a small morgue… but it’s already getting late. Would tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Sure,” Rossi acquiesced, “I’ll settle for taking another look at the coroner’s reports for now.”
“Reid, focus on geographic profiling, covering both the historic animal attacks and the recent deaths,” Hotch told him, “I want to see if any patterns emerge. The rest of you… files. Let’s get to work.”
Dean and Sam alternated at driving to get to Hawksridge as quickly as possible, making the long journey in just under eighteen hours, arriving road-weary and sore, but keen to get started on the hunt. They spent a couple of hours just driving around the town and the surrounding area, noting landmarks including a small school, a few churches, a large cemetery on a wooded hillside, a couple of disused lumber mills on the outskirts of the town, a hunting and fishing supply store, a couple of motels, several diners and cafes, a lively-looking bar called ‘The Logger’s Hollow’, and the offices of the local newspaper, the Hawksridge Gazette.
Beyond the more developed areas, the houses became increasingly scattered and isolated, including several large properties with sprawling grounds accessible only by winding gravel roads that Dean steered the Impala well clear of.
The real defining feature of the area was the forest. Hawksridge sat near an extensive wilderness of steep ridges, hollows, streams, abandoned logging roads, and old hunting cabins. The terrain was thick with hardwoods like oak, maple, hickory, and beech, with dense undergrowth that made off-trail travel difficult.
“Look at this place,” Dean marvelled, eyeing the tree line alongside one of the outlying roads around the town, “there are countless places where you could hide a body…”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “and plenty of places where something could live for years without being noticed. Some of these roads aren’t even on the map…”
The forest was obviously popular with hunters, hikers, campers, and foragers, judging by the number of walking trails and signs for lodges available to rent. However, with a couple of motels to choose from, they naturally selected the cheaper, more run-down looking one, where Dean booked them a twin room and they set about checking the room thoroughly, before unpacking their gear and getting themselves set up.
“No WiFi,” Sam pulled a face as he opened up his laptop, “I’ll have to hotspot… if I can even get a signal.”
“We might have to do this old-old-school,” Dean countered, and turned on the ancient television set.
After some channel hopping and fiddling with the settings, Dean managed to tune into a news channel that was currently running a feature on a local fisherman who was proudly showing off the record-breaking fish he had caught in one of the local lakes. Sam snorted in amusement, and called up the files he had downloaded before they left the Bunker.
“So, I managed to hack into the local PD before we left,” he said, conversationally, “and I’ve been reviewing the Coroner’s reports on the recent deaths on the way over here…”
“Yeah. Chests busted open, hearts missing, it’s a werewolf,” Dean shrugged, “we just gotta find and gank the fleabag.”
“No, that’s the thing,” Sam frowned, thoughtfully, “only two of the victims look like classic werewolf attacks. Chests punched clean through, one from the front, one from behind… the other six, though… according to this, there were tool marks on the victims' bodies.”
“Tool marks…? Like what?”
“Coroner thinks a hammer and chisel,” Sam winced, “okay, so, get this; every victim was found with their chest opened, missing the heart, with some degree of trauma around the rib cage, and all appear to have been attacked with a tremendous amount of force… but only the first and fifth victims look like classic werewolf attacks. The others… they all had blunt force trauma injuries to their heads, as if they were knocked unconscious first… the a couple of the victims had their throats cut before their hearts were chiselled out of their chests. According to this, several also had stab and slash wounds to their bodies both pre- and post-mortem…”
“Why the hell would a werewolf knock out a victim – or use a knife, or tools?” Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“That’s what I’m saying,” Sam agreed, “the crime scenes don’t quite match… the historic cases in the area all read like a werewolf… but this recent spate…”
“Something else?” Dean guessed, “Like what?”
“That’s what’s bothering me,” sighed Sam, “I don’t know… and I’m starting to worry that it might not be our kind of case…”
“Sam, we just drove nearly eighteen hours to get here – the last thing I wanna hear is that this might not be our kind of case,” Dean growled, “we came here to hunt a werewolf…”
“And there’s definitely one in the area,” Sam agreed, hastily, “but whatever else is killing people around this town… it’s not a werewolf. But it sure is trying hard to look like one.”
“Well, whatever it is, we’ll hunt it down like a goddamned wolf,” Dean decided, “a silver bullet to the heart stops most things dead, so… we work the case. I’m gonna go take a shower, then let’s suit up and head over to the Sheriff’s office, get up to speed.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam nodded, a little distantly, his eyes still fixed on his screen, “I’m gonna keep digging through the historic cases and see if anything else turns up…”
Dean was already vanishing into the tiny bathroom as Sam leaned back in the rickety chair he had settled into, his laptop on the small table in front of him as he read through the files. Several minutes passed, then something tickled the edge of his awareness, and he tore his eyes away from the grainy photographs of older crime scenes, his attention drawn to the flickering television screen.
“…And now back to our top story; Hawksridge Police Department have confirmed that the FBI has been called in to assist with the investigation into eight seemingly related deaths in the area; previously dismissed as wild animal attacks, local police have confirmed that they are now treating the cases as homicides and are warning local residents to stay inside after dark and to not go out alone in the Monongahela National Forest if at all possible…”
“Oh, crap,” Sam groaned, his laptop forgotten, as he focussed on the larger screen.
“… We spoke with Sheriff Andrew Harrington earlier this afternoon, who told us that specialist investigators from the FBI have arrived in Hawksridge this morning and are quickly getting up to speed on the case; we have been assured that they will be working closely with local law enforcement to bring a speedy resolution to the case, although when we can expect to have a statement from the FBI remains anybody’s guess…”
“Oh, crap…”
“… Sheriff Harrington was keen to stress that there is no cause for alarm, and when asked about the possibility of a serial killer operating in and around the Hawksridge area simply replied ‘no comment’ several times and refused to be drawn into further discussion. However, even the Sheriff cannot deny that if the FBI has been called in there is no doubt that Hawksridge residents are right to be concerned about what some news sources are now referring to as ‘The Heartbreaker’ given the killer’s apparent predilection for collecting the hearts of his victims…”
“Oh, crap! Dean! Dean…!”
“What?”
The bathroom door cracked open as Dean leaned out irritably, dripping wet from the shower with a towel hastily pulled around his waist as he glared at his younger brother for the unwelcome interruption to his ablutions. Sam gestured to the television wearily.
“We’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like the real FBI are in town,” Sam replied, grimly.
“Aw, crap,” Dean groaned, “just what we don’t need.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.”
“Do we gotta skip town already…?”
“Not sure,” Sam admitted, still half-watching the news broadcast, “they seem to think they’re dealing with a serial killer. They’ve nicknamed him ‘The Heartbreaker’.”
“Catchy… wait. Wait... serial killer?”
“Yeah,” Sam glanced over, caught the look on Dean’s face, and realisation dawned, “wait… you don’t think… it couldn’t be the BAU… could it?”
“I dunno. Might be worth us giving that Agent… what’s his name… Hotch? Yeah? Might be worth us giving that Agent Hotch guy a call… even if it ain’t them, I figure they owe us a favour or two after last time, so…”
“I think we agreed to call it even after they, you know, not only let us go free, but also covered our asses,” Sam replied, with a low chuckle, “but… yeah. Maybe… if I could get a goddamn signal on this thing…”
He waved his cellphone uselessly, sighed, and tossed it back onto the table. Dean shook his head.
“We’ll just have to play it by ear and keep a low profile until we know exactly who we’re dealing with,” he decided, “alright, I’m gonna finish my shower, and then we’ll see if we can find out more… and if it ain’t the friendly Feds, we might need to get the hell outta Dodge.”
“Save me some hot water!” Sam yelled after him, as the bathroom door closed – but not before he heard the expletive Dean tossed back at him.
With a grumble of frustration, Sam sighed heavily, and turned his attention back to his files. Between what looked like a werewolf, what looked like something trying to look like a werewolf, and the involvement of the FBI, this was certainly shaping up to be one of their more interesting cases… and not in a fun way.