every step of this trip has been doused in familiarity.  when holden first walked through the steel doors of  𝐒𝐀𝐍 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍,  it was striking how little had changed.  decades ago,  he had walked the same halls to listen and learn from his subjects.  it still smells the same.  today,  he’s been tasked to provide his opinion on an inmate as the date of his parole hearing swiftly approaches. 

after serving a decade on a felony murder charge, patrick leary could be released.  admittedly,  holden had not heard of the case before he was contacted by the parole board. and even after learning the details,  he did not know what a firestorm he would be walking into.  the case was a hotbed for controversy since the start.   

before inciting a fire which claimed the life of one firefighter, leary had been a petty arsonist known the police for nuisance fires  ---  dumpsters, old cars, and garbage.  he claimed it was one of these fires which simply got out of control,  engulfing a vacant warehouse.  during the interview,  leary seemed still to be plagued with guilt that someone died in a fire he set  ---  he was apologetic and remorseful  ---  everything a parole board wants to hear. 

but that was not the part which interested holden.  throughout their interview, leary offered little understanding about his compulsion to set fires in the first place leaving holden struggling to say if he’ll offend again once he’s out of the structured world of prison.  he has a night to think on it before he has to give his opinion to the board. 

the decision to visit jim at the station made itself on the ride from the prison. if holden were being honest,  he’d admit it was made the connection between inspector james and the police reports.  there is no convenient excuse  --  no files for him to return nor questions he needs to ask about the investigation.  before he can consider if jim is even going to want to see him,  holden asks if he’s available.  as he waits for jim to be called,  holden weighs the option of bolting. 

it has been years since he’s seen jim.  longer since he’s been able to refer to him with any variance of belonging.  breaking up had been bad but tapering off had been even worse.  holden twists his gold watch on his wrist as he considers leaving as the seconds drag.  

     she knows this scene : even with the benefit of a white sheet covering the body , she could guess a precise silhouette , and the trauma it entails . she knows this scene , and yet she loses herself in the picture —— remembering each pinecone , every smell in the air , but the blood most of all : the swirls , the drips , the hidden meaning . there is no blood in the picture , and yet she can guess it — seems obvious , at this point . every little detail is a symptom of history chasing itself : a familiar sense grips her by the throat and tells her — this has happened before . a mindless alert buzzing on her phone tells her she’s been staring for the best part of half an hour , now — and the rest of the hall’s been left into darkness , only her monitor radiating pale blue light against her fatigued , dry eyes . sleep would fail her tonight , however : doesn’t take a detective to figure this one out . the printer huffs and whirs tiredly , spitting out a picture too blurred to offer further insight . yet it’s good enough to fixate around as she walks the distance from her desk to the confining hallway — it’s not habit but a guess that leads her to the door of a friend , that of agent james’ office : knocking twice just for show , and not bothering to wait for an answer before her head’s peeking into his office .“ you got a second ?” . photograph in hand , before hijacking his office hours she seems to remember basic manners :“ i need to ask you a favor ” .

as he stalks around his hotel room,  holden tries to piece together the scene while carving out an oval path in the carpet.  the pacing is enough to make him dizzy when he slows to a halt.  everything he owned had to be left at home so he’s using a notepad with the hotel’s insignia in the upper right corner to take his notes.  

two victims.  he scribbles before writing below it,  mom in bedroom,  dad in hallway. 

as soon as he crossed the threshold of his childhood home,  he knew something was off.  droplets of blood led from the front hall,  growing in size as he climbed the stairs until he found his father’s butchered body in the hall.  because of how he was laying,  holden had to step over him to get to his parents’ room.  there,  his mother lay on the floor,  face - down.  all holden can remember is how bloody his hands were when he turned her over and how cold her skin was to the touch.

holden idly outlines the insignia with his pen,  etching it in bold.  was the door locked when he went into the house  ?  the first arriving officer had asked him but holden couldn’t recall.  as he taps his pen against the page,  he still can’t remember.  he had always thought he would be a better witness  ---  the he would have the details to crack the case.  but holden can only think of how long it took him to wash the blood from his hands.

a knock at the door draws him out of his thoughts.  through the peephole,  he sees a young man in a suit waiting in the hall.  the only people privy to his location are his estate lawyer and the police  ---  and he doesn’t recall seeing this man at the office.  he opens the door but does not unlatch the chain.

❝ — make yourself at home, ❞    holden says while pushing through the door to the hallway.  though most aspects of the conference are complimentary,  accommodation is not.  rooms in the dormitories were set up for out - of - towners short on cash.  holden wasn’t about to let jim spend a week sleeping down the hall from cadets.    ❝ — the guest room is over here, ❞     he talks while crossing the small living space to the closed door opposite the kitchen. 

it isn’t so much as a guest bedroom as it is an office with a daybed. holden had spent the better part of the prior day sorting his documents and tucking them away into cabinets and boxes.  holden stands in front of the door,  fiddling with his hands at sides as though he’s about to give a presentation. 

the decision to invite jim to the conference had been an impulsive one  ---  at the very last minute.  and even when the invite was sent,  he hadn’t expected jim to have the time to spend in quantico for a week nor did he expect his supervisor to approve   ---  but he did and they did.  and now jim is standing in holden’s pre - furnished apartment as he realizes he’s never actually had a house guest before. 

❝ do you want a beer  ? ❞   holden asks,  already making his way to the kitchen to cut through the tension he’s single - handedly cultivated. 

Bev never sets the location for these transactions. For his, uh, specialized merchandise. Okay, let’s call it what it is: creepy serial killer memorabilia. Fake, creepy serial killer memorabilia (of his father’s). He leaves the meeting spot strictly to the buyer. What’s the alternative? Tell them to meet at his local diner? His apartment? Yeah right. That is horrifying. He doesn’t want these people knowing where he lives, let alone where he drinks his morning coffee.

He’s considered switching to dead drops. Sure. Any sane person would say that is the logical, safe choice (well, no, any sane person would simply not be doing this at all, in any capacity, safe or not). But he likes knowing who he’s giving these items to. He likes cataloguing their faces in his memory in case any of them do turn into some violent copycat so he can point them out in a line-up and be like that’s the man, officer.

He’s supposed to meet at some abandoned house. Sinister. But he agrees to it. Out of all the transactions he’s made (and he’s made a lot), none of the buyers have ever tried to harm him. They’re actually remarkably kind to him. Which is way worse. Who wants a serial killer fanatic to, you know, like you? What does that say about him? Nothing great. He’s not great. He knows that.

The front door to the abandoned house is on the floor, leaving the entrance empty and open. It looks like the door was kicked in recently, within the last couple weeks. Bev knows no one lives here, but it still feels so intrusive to just walk in. He knocks on what’s left of the moldy doorframe, shouts an experimental Hello? and waits for a response. Nothing.

Bev steps inside.

What greets him is total horror. Some animal’s organs have been yanked out of an incision in its stomach. The body is so mutilated he can’t tell what species it is. Whatever it is, its neck looks broken. No animal’s neck bends like that.

He begins to hyperventilate and tries taking controlled breaths to calm himself down. The smell of the blood and decay pulls through his nostrils with each deep inhale, and he nearly passes out from the overwhelming stench: his head feels fuzzy, his hearing feels distant like he has cotton in his ears, and his vision begins to go a blotchy white. He sits where he stood, arms and chest slumped forward feeling at once as light and unmovable as a rag doll. With his diminishing vision he sees pictures strewn about the floor. He swears those are pictures of his father. One of the pictures he recognizes. It’s a family photograph: his father, him, and his mother. It’s the picture the media latched onto during his father’s trials.

What the hell.

He calls the police. He probably sounds like an idiot on the phone. But what person ever sounds put together when you’re calling the police, right? And, really, there are more important things to be worrying about right now. Obviously. And he is.

     "     𝐮𝐡 𝐨𝐡 .     "     a lawman , sitting pretty in his lobby !! bernie stands there at his shoulder , the transition from her delightful , conversational glow to the singing glower flicked out from the black of her eyes when she looks towards the arriving jacob heugh , is artful as it was evaporative  the suit was never meant to catch it . her scrutiny was only ever for heugh     ---     and it was well deserved . be it as it was , all he can afford her as he overtakes the black tile in strides , is to look apologetic . she was not , a receptionist .     “     ain’t seen one of you in here for a minute .     “ her farewells are bid ; the modern and concrete cavern belong to the detective , and the bear alone .     “    i take it y’all found something new to try and finger us with .     “ 

is  this  what  it  felt  lie to  be  psycho-analyzed  picked   down  to  the  very  core  being,        how   you   feel   about   yourself   before   bed,     how   do you  sleep   ,   if  any  decisions  you   made   haunts   you  till  this   very   moment   ;   and   they  bloody   answer  was  yes.   ❛❛   do   you   mind   getting  to  the  fucking  point    of   all   this   ?   I  don’t   have   time  for   stupid  games  and  shitty  questions.   ❞@ribslit​