Girl With One Eye
chapter one : strangers
series masterlist ao3 notification blog
spencer reid x reader
wc : 10k
tags/warning : deaddovedonoteat, no use of y/n, vauge description of reader (hair long enough to be put up and is younger and shorter than spencer), gore, death, torture, graphic descriptions of violence, religious horror, psychological horror, brief mentions of vomit (no description), angst, plot heavy, season 10 spencer, eventual smut
summary : after receiving reports of multiple grisly murders in a town so remote even the resident genius hasn't heard of it, the team finds themselves knee-deep in the Louisiana swamp. with every passing day Dr. Reid becomes more confused with stories that don't match up and townsfolk that lie to his face. an even bigger mystery than the murders is found in you. you aren't on the suspect list, your track record is spotless, but he can't shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong in Willow Creek, and you're to blame.
a/n : having the time of my life writing this omfg. can yall tell i've been listening to a lot of ethel cain?? anywaysss this is a setup chapter so i hope it isn't boring and if it is i promise the next one wont be
The Doctor.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
It always starts the same way.
The cold steel of his firearm against his palm as he walks through a stone corridor. He knows there’s someone there, hiding in the darkness as he pushes deeper into the maze of tunnels. He catches little glimpses of them with his flashlight, an ankle, the flutter of a skirt, fingernails scratching the walls.
He never sees a face.
By the time he hears the footsteps behind him it’s always too late, something strikes him against the back of his skull
When he opens his eyes again he finds himself restrained, his wrists are bound in his lap with rope and he’s propped up against a wooden column. The only light in the room is a singular candle at his feet, the wax has almost burned down completely, the dying flame flickers wildly in a hopeless attempt to stay alive.
He knows exactly what comes next, and it makes his spine straighten as a bead of sweat runs down his temple.
It isn’t the first time he’s had this dream, but it doesn’t make it any less harrowing.
The figure that emerges from the darkness is made of blinding light, a creature that could only be described as an angel.
With its pure white eyes and jagged, feathery wings, and blinding halo atop its head. He can’t understand a word it says but he knows that whatever it is, is cruel and vicious, because of the actions that follow.
The angel's hands are jagged and cracked, with claws that reach forward, and for a moment he’s met with kindness. The razor sharp nails drag a line across his jaw, so gently he hardly feels it.
Then that very same claw buries itself in his chest, and all he can hear is the sound of flesh and muscle tearing as the angel rips through arteries and blood vessels to get to its prize. It pulls, hard, until he feels hollow.
He had a cat as a child, it was his mothers. Whenever it killed something in the woods it would bring it into the house to proudly present to him. It terrified him but his mother had told him it was a good thing, it meant that the cat felt safe in their home, and that it loved him.
It certainly didn’t feel like love to him.
Before the angel leaves it shows him his own still beating heart, and he’s reminded of his childhood pet. The angel plants a kiss on his forehead and as it leaves the flapping of its winds extinguishes what remains of the candle's flame. Leaving him in complete darkness.
He always wakes with a blistering headache, and a ringing in his ears. Shooting up in bed he clutches his chest, as if he might find a hole there where his heart used to be.
The alarm clock on the motel nightstand tells him it’s only four in the morning. The rest of the team won’t be up for at least three hours.
They had flown into Louisiana last night, after landing around midnight they’d been instructed to rest up for what was sure to be a busy day.
There’s no way he’ll be able to fall asleep again.
Instead he finds himself at the small desk by the door, staring at the closed case file. The contents of which are worse than anything he’s ever dreamed up. A pile of pamphlets that look to be about twenty years old are propped up on the desk, covered in a thin layer of dust.
Welcome to sunny Willow Creek, Louisiana!
There’s a photo of a smiling family on a boat under the text.
He throws the pile of pamphlets into the empty desk drawer before he opens the case file. Sighing as he stares at the wall of text in the dim lamp light.
38 year old Noah Harper was found murdered in his family home. His wife and young daughter had spent Saturday night at her mother’s nursing home in another nearby town after Mrs. Harper's mother had an episode and required their assistance. Mrs. Harper and her daughter went straight to church the next morning upon their return to Willow Creek, they found him when they returned home from church on Sunday, September 4th, at approximately 11:30 a.m. Abigail Harper fled the home with her daughter in tow, Mrs. Harper sat out on the lawn sobbing, and a neighbor called the police, waiting with her until law enforcement arrived. Noah Harper had stayed home from church with a hangover, a common occurrence, as confirmed by multiple sources. A neighbor who was on their way to church saw Mr. Harper fetching the mail at 6:30 a.m. Meaning he died between 6:30 a.m. and 11:30 a.m.
Mr. Harper's official cause of death was blood loss.
The photos in the file indicate a lot more than blood loss.
The problem with relying on these small town police is that they don’t care enough to properly document the scene. Which means all they get to go off of is two grainy photographs and a vague description.
Mr. Harper's official time of death was 9:30 a.m. but who knows how accurate that is, it would have been while everyone in town was at church. Plenty of witnesses and a small town where everyone attends the Sunday service. It shouldn’t be too hard to narrow down their suspects.
The file says that Mr. Harper was bound to his bed, and conscious for the torture that eventually lead to his death. His body was covered in bruises and welts, like he had been beaten with a belt, which is nothing compared to everything else that was done to him.
Noah Harper's genitals had been removed, and he was forced to consume them.
He eventually died from the blood loss that followed.
The two photos attached to the file are exactly what he expected. Grainy and blurry, but it’s clear he’s looking at a corpse. Mr. Harper was a large man, it was likely very difficult to subdue him. His body is covered in deep purple splotches and the room is a mess. Whoever did this wasn’t careful or precise. They were angry.
Blood can be seen pooling on the mattress, spilling over the sides, and splattered onto the surrounding walls.
The local police department saw all of this and still didn’t contact anyone federal.
They don’t want them there. That much is obvious.
The locals would have been happy to leave the case unsolved for the rest of time but the county got involved because of the severity and now no one's happy they're there.
The county also got involved because this was the second body in three months.
He has a second file, even more sparse than Noah Harpers.
Jared Kettler, owner of the local morgue, was found in one of his coffins on the display floor. The file says that his genitals were also mutilated but there’s no further information on what exactly happened, but it does say that his face had been mutilated beyond recognition. They wouldn’t have even been able to identify the corpse if it hadn’t been for a very distinct arm tattoo.
The single photo attached to the file is somehow worse than the last two.
It’s cropped awkwardly so it’s hardly even half a photo. The lid of the coffin has seemingly been cropped out of the image and the image is so shaky he can’t discern anything beyond the splatter of red that he assumes was once Mr. Kettlers face.
He always knows when they’re going to be on a case for a long time, there’s usually a sense of dread in his belly, and right now there definitely is.
The morning is a whirlwind.
Once the team is awake and assembled they all walk down to the end of the road where the station is, only a three minute walk away.
They’re greeted by the chief, Joel Barker, an older man with a salt and pepper beard, he’s seemingly the only person in town that’s happy they’re there.
“We’re just so overwhelmed, I haven’t dealt with anything like this in my forty something years on the force.”
J.J. and Hotch thankfully do most of the talking, when they step into the building because his mouth immediately goes dry. It’s as though every one of them has a target on their back.
Every face but the chief has a scorned look or a scowl upon it.
Because they shouldn’t be here, the FBI’s involvement would imply that they are insufficient at their job.
Even if they clearly are, no one wants to feel that way.
The station is a mess, fifteen or so officers in total, a surprising amount considering the towns size and location but Joel reads his thoughts and announces that they’re the only police department for four towns. Desks are littered with unfinished paperwork and there’s a distinct burnt coffee smell floating through the air.
“I know it probably isn’t what you’re used to but it’s what we can spare.” Joel says as he holds open the door.
To call it a conference room would be an insult to conference rooms. There’s a square folding table with four chairs around it. Hotch thanks the chief as he sits down. Emily, Rossi and J.J. take the remaining seats as Spencer and Derek opt to stand against the wall.
No other officers join them as Joel closes the door behind himself. They likely don’t want to join them, they don’t care, in their eyes this case is far beyond their stations scope. They deal with traffic stops and domestic disputes, torture and murder is something they’ve never had to deal with before.
He isn’t being judgemental either, he looked over their stations records on jet, they haven’t had a murder in over twenty five years and it was a clean cut case of robbery gone wrong.
They’ve never even considered that something like this could happen in their town.
But it has.
And someone has to deal with it.
“What do you have so far?” Hotch speaks directly to Joel as J.J. sets up what little documentation they’ve put together on the table.
“You’ve seen everything we have.”
“That’s it?”
“We’ve got individual files on each case, what else are we supposed to have?”
“These case files might as well be empty.” Spencer can’t help himself as he flips open the Kettler file, throwing the photo down onto the center of the table. “What are we even supposed to do with this?”
“What’s wrong with the picture?"
“You can’t see anything, half of the photo is missing, and I have no idea what’s wrong with him. Whoever wrote the case notes says that his face and genitals were mutilated but there’s no other details. If you’re going to do a halfassed job of documenting the scene at least take a clear photo.” He leans forward, hands gripping the edge of the table now.
“Unfortunately we’re a small force, we don’t have the budget you’re probably used to.” There’s that defensiveness Spencer’s grown painfully used to. He hears it every time he knows he’s overstepped, it doesn’t stop him from continuing on.
“You don’t have a camera? If you’re telling me that your fifteen person police force doesn’t have a camera for documenting evidence then I will go out and buy you one.” Maybe it’s the exhaustion from the restless sleep or the irritation from the lack of proper documentation but he snaps, he can immediately tell by the faces of his teammates that he’s over stepped.
“Down boy.” Emily mutters under her breath as his shoulders tense.
“You’ll have to excuse Dr. Reid, he seems to be forgetting that we’re your guests. Why don’t you go get yourself some coffee, Reid.” There’s no room for argument in Hotch’s tone, unless he wants to be chewed out in front of Officer Barker.
He doesn’t speak as he squeezes past Morgan to leave the room, his head throbbing.
What is going on with him?
He decides to blame it on the lack of sleep, not that it’s an excuse for being rude but he’s gotta have a reason for lashing out like that.
He leans against a wall, on the edge of things, drinking a stale coffee that’s more sugar packet than coffee. Only a few minutes pass before the team is leaving the room, Joel Barker doesn’t look at him as he heads towards what you assume is his office.
“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Hotch speaks to him in a hushed voice, stern but quiet enough that he doesn’t have to be embarrassed someone might overhear as the rest of the team disperses.
“I think I’m just tired.” He mumbles, taking a long sip of his coffee.
“Pull it together, we’ve got a long day ahead of us. You’re going with Morgan to speak with Mr. Harper's widow, I expect you to have better manners than you just did.”
“Yes sir.”
“Most of the town has no service so communication might be an issue, we’ll meet back here around five, sound good?”
“Yes sir.” He repeats himself, moving past Hotch and out the doors, desperate to get some air, like it might make him feel less like he’s suffocating.
He tugs on his shirt collar as Derek drives down the gravel roads. The houses are so spread out here, ponds and dense patches of trees separating the homes. It’s a good twenty minute drive from the station to get to the Harpers house, they have two neighbors to their left, other than that it’s just more swamp and trees.
“Are you feeling okay?” Derek breaks the silence in the car as he puts it into park.
“Yeah, I’m just… tired.” Spencer doesn’t sound convincing and Derek doesn’t look convinced. “I just- I don’t know. I had a bad feeling about this case when we landed last night and I still don’t feel good about anything else. Something’s just… wrong.”
“It happens to all of us, cases with this level of violence always hit hard.”
“That’s probably all it is.”
“Do you want me to do the talking in there?”
“No, I’ve got it, you do a sweep of the house, I’ll talk to Mrs. Harper.”
“As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m good.”
Derek nods as they both get out of the car.
The next door neighbors watch from their porches, two women in high necked dresses, one of them wears a wide brimmed hat as they stare shamelessly.
Spencer knocks when they reach the house they’ve been told is Harpers. A woman who looks to be in her early thirties with wiry copper hair pulled into a bun answers the door, giving them both a skeptical look.
“Can I help you?”
He reaches into his pocket on instinct, Morgan does the same as they flash their badges.
“Good morning, Mrs. Harper, we’re with the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI. We were hoping you could answer a few questions for us so we can get a clearer picture of what happened to your husband.” Spencer shoves his badge back into his pocket as he tilts his head at the woman, with a sigh she opens the door fully. She’s dressed like the neighbors, in a lacy turtlenecked dress.
“Come in.” Her voice is hoarse as she motions for them to enter.
Morgan does laps around the room as Spencer sits down on the sofa across from Mrs. Harper and her daughter, who climbs into her lap at the sight of the agents.
Abigail Harper tells him the same story he read in the files.
Saturday evening she received a call from the nursing home that her mother was having a particularly bad episode. Mrs. Harper took her daughter two towns over and stayed the night with her mother. She left a little after five in the morning and went straight to church, after the hour and half drive she arrived at the pastor's house, next door to the church, along with a few other members of the congregation, to tend to the preacher who was allegedly ill. Her husband sent her a text around that time that said he was too hungover to attend the service. After the service she stayed to have coffee and chat with the other churchgoers, she took her daughter out to enjoy an early lunch at the town's only diner, and they returned home around 11:30 a.m.
She sent her daughter to go change out of her church clothes and she went to the bedroom she shared with her husband to check on Noah. After she found him she grabbed her daughter and ran out of the house,
She doesn’t shed a single tear as she tells her story.
She doesn’t show any of the tell tale signs of lying, she just seems so detached. Like she’s telling someone else's story.
“Father Matthews had come down with something fierce, so Jude had stepped in to do the service.” She runs her fingers through her daughter's hair, clearly a coping mechanism.
“And Jude is…?” He feels like he’s going in circles, all this is accomplishing is building a longer list of people they need to talk to just to hear the same story again.
“The youth pastor, I remember it clearly. He brought the children up to speak, it was cute.”
“Just to clarify, the entire town was in attendance at the service, except for Levi Matthews?” That seems like a pretty important detail considering Mr. Harper was killed during the service.
He knows immediately that it’s the wrong thing to say.
Her face drops, eyes squinting as she looks him up and down, holding her daughter a little closer. A reminder that he’s a stranger in her home, making implications about the leader of their congregation.
“Well I can’t be sure of who was there and who wasn’t exactly but I can assure you, Father Matthews had nothing to do with the tragedy that befell my husband."
“I didn’t mean to make any accusations ma’am, I’m just trying to check all the boxes I have to, it’s standard procedure.” That pain in his head is starting to blossom once more, his knuckles go white as he grips the pen against his palm, trying to keep his composure.
“Well don’t involve the father in this mess, he was home with a fever, we stopped in to check on him before we went home and he was sick as a dog.” It’s always the one person no one suspects.
“Mhmm.” He’s already drawing circles around the name.
Levi Matthews
“Are there any other witnesses who can attest to Mr. Matthew's whereabouts that morning?”
“Yes, halfway through the service Angel went out and checked on Father Matthews.” She exaggerates the title.
Great, another name to remember.
“And who is Angel?” The pain in his head makes his voice come out a little strained, Derek clearly takes notice as he straightens up a bit.
“The organist at our church.”
“Where would we find her on a Saturday?”
“She’ll be at church tonight, Father Matthews will be there as well as a few others, they usually spend Saturday evenings preparing for Sunday's service.”
“Thank you Mrs. Harper, do you mind if we take a look in the bedroom?” He’d like to be done here, the house feels too hot and too small.
“If you’d like, it’s already been scrubbed clean, I’m not sure you’ll find much.” She stands, setting her daughter down and ushering her towards her own room.
“We’d just like to get a feel for the environment, even if it’s been cleaned. Every little thing helps in cases like these.” Morgan speaks up and she smiles at him, nodding before leading them both to the end of the hall.
The Harper’s bedroom stinks of death.
The cleaning crew didn’t exactly do a thorough job. The white sheets remain stained a dark red down the center, splatters of blood on the surrounding carpet look as though someone simply vacuumed over them. It’s obvious where the blood stains were on the wall because they’ve hardly been cleaned off.
They do a sweep of the room as Mrs. Harper watches from the doorway.
“They said they were taking samples of everything, I’m sure you can ask the officers down at the station.” She pipes in as Derek runs a gloved hand across the stained wallpaper.
He knows for a fact that they did nothing with those samples, if they even took them.
There’s a large spot on the wall that catches his eye. It looks like it’s been cleaned like the other spots but there’s no dark stain. Just yellowing wallpaper.
It’s actually the only portion of the wall that doesn’t have blood splattered on it, like it was intentionally preserved.
“What was here?” He turns to look at Mrs. Harper as Derek types something into his phone.
“I assumed it was blood, it was dark when I found him, the curtains were drawn. You’d have to ask the police, they cleaned everything.” She chews on her nails as she continues to watch from the entryway.
It wasn’t blood. In every other spot that’s been cleaned there’s a nasty dark spot left behind on the aging wallpaper. This spot is different, it was clearly scrubbed clean but there’s nothing lingering. He drags a gloved finger against the wall, lower and lower until he’s crouched over a little pile of white dust that’s worked its way into the floor boards.
Chalk dust.
“I’ve got a couple of stops I think we should make before we head back to the station. I'd like to speak with whoever cleaned the scene.” He doesn’t mention the chalk to Derek, it could be nothing, her child might have accidentally tracked it into the house weeks ago for all he knows.
Morgan nods, lost in his own thoughts as he eyes the still stained sheets on the bed.
“If you think of anything that might be of help to us please don’t hesitate to call the station. Thank you for your time Mrs. Harper.” Morgan shakes her hand when he speaks, Spencer doesn’t bother, he can tell she doesn’t like him.
The rest of their day is mostly driving.
It’s an hour and a half to the nursing home to confirm Mrs. Harper's story. There’s camera footage of her entering the building Saturday evening with her daughter, and footage of them both leaving early Sunday morning. After another hour and a half drive back to Willow Creek they stop in at the diner and speak with a few of the customers as well as the owner.
The owner confirms that they came in with the post-church crowd and he has the credit card statement to prove it. One of the women sitting in a booth near the door overhears them speaking and chimes in that she saw Abigail at the pastor's house that morning, she’s happy to give them a list of other people who would have seen her as well.
By the time they're done the sun is setting and all they’ve done is establish Abigail Harper's innocence, a conclusion Spencer came to five seconds after he read over the case file.
They have just enough time to stop into the church before they head back to the station.
A group of crows disperses as they pull into the lot, one stays on a nearby fence post, watching them. It’s little head tilted to the side as it stares.
It’s peaceful outside the church, the lights are clearly on inside, they can see it shining out through the windows. But it’s quiet, save for the faint sound of music and the buzzing of bugs.
He knows who they’re looking for the second they push open the large wooden doors. There’s only one woman in the room, and you’re preoccupied with the melancholy tune you play softly on the organ. Eerie and slow, not the type of thing you’d expect to hear in a church.
A group of men chats near the altar, laughing together like you aren’t even there. No one seems to notice their arrival over the sounds of the music bounding off the walls. Neither one of them approaches, instead they watch the group, studying them as they laugh at a joke Spencer doesn’t catch.
“They seem to be in good spirits.” Derek mumbles but Spencer can’t seem to tear his eyes off of the organ.
Your muscles tense, like you can sense them. And then the music stops. Right in the middle of a song, it’s an uncomfortable abrupt silence that follows. The men continue their laughter as if this is a common occurrence but your attention is on the two agents as you turn to face them.
You aren’t dressed like every other woman he’s seen. You don’t wear a long dress or skirt, and you actually look like you belong in this century.
“Have you ever seen a church organist who looks like that?” Morgan whispers, low enough that only Spencer can hear him.
He’s never seen anyone who looks like you.
Someone so pretty yet so… odd.
Out of place in the world.
Mesmerizing and unsettling, you don’t spare a glance towards Derek, you’re completely focused on him. Your hair is down, framing your face, and what a face it is. The makeup you’ve chosen to wear is dark, smudged black and maroon eyeshadow surrounding your eyes, your eyelashes are clumped together with a thick layer of mascara, and your lips are accentuated with a bright red lipstick.
There is something wrong with your eyes.
They don’t fit with the rest of your face, it almost makes his head hurt just to look at you because something is so terribly off.
“You go talk to her, I’ll speak with the father.” He doesn’t get a chance to protest as Morgan steps forward loudly, making their presence known to the group now. Derek knows how to talk to pastors and the like, he grew up with people like that, Spencer has no idea how he’s supposed to talk to you, especially when looking in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat.
It’s just like any other job.
He reminds himself that as he approaches, you tilt your head to the side as he does, it reminds him of the crows he saw outside.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Reid with the FBI, we’re here investigating the murder of Noah Harper and Jared Kettler, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He manages to pull himself together as he approaches.
Typically when he questions someone they find any excuse to look away, to stare out a window or at the floor. Not you, you never take your eyes off of his.
“Thank goodness you’re here, everyone's been terribly frightened.” You keep your voice low as you slide over on the piano's bench, once you’ve made space for him you pat the empty spot beside you.
He shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to sit that close to you, he’s been in your presence for a matter of minutes and you make him feel terribly uneasy. But his body moves before his brain as he sits down beside you, he takes a moment to stare at the piano keys as you continue to stare at him. When he turns towards you he’s forced to meet your unyielding gaze.
He wants to reach forward and rub your makeup off with his thumb, just to see if your face starts to make sense without it.
“Are you Angel?” When he asks it, you laugh, a pretty peal of laughter that rings throughout the room.
And you give him your name.
Another part of you that doesn’t make sense, a name that sounds wrong in your mouth as you say it but you claim it as your own.
It doesn’t suit you.
“Angels a nickname. But you can call me whatever you’d like.”
Your name only makes his headache worse, a sharp pain behind his eyes. He’ll have to check his bag when they get back to the motel for the migraine medication he hasn’t used in months.
“How long have you lived in Willow Creek?” You finally free him of your gaze as your eyes flit down to the keys, your fingers begin to play another slow song, quieter this time, he doesn’t recognize the tune. And even if he did, he isn’t sure he’d be able to make the connection with his focus on your hands, practiced fingers dancing across the keys. Your nails are a red that matches your lips, long and filed to a sharp point. Sitting this close to you he can hear the soft clicks of your nails against the ivory keys.
“I’ve lived here my whole life.” You whisper, it almost seems intentional, whispered speech with the piano playing, no one will hear a word she says but him.
“How long have you been with the church?” He isn’t sure what to do with his hands so he sets them in his lap. His entire body tenses up when you reach across him to reach the higher keys.
“A few years now.”
“You don’t dress like someone who works in a church.” The words slip out past his lips before he can stop them, thank god you smile.
There’s something seriously wrong with him, he can’t be acting like this on the job.
“I don’t, but it isn’t Sunday, so I’m not technically working, I’m just practicing.” That would certainly explain the low cut black shirt and jeans.
“Mhmm.” He makes a conscious effort to not look you over, his focus is pulled elsewhere when you brush a lock of hair behind your ear and he’s hit with a wave of your perfume. A warm, woodsy, spiced smell that only serves to make his head spin further. “We’re just trying to piece together everything that happened last week, we were told that Levi Matthews had fallen ill, and you can vouch for his location at the time of Noah Harper's death.”
Your brows immediately push together, a frown forming.
“I certainly hope Father Matthews isn’t a suspect in your case.” There it is, that small town hostility, everyone protecting everyone else. Making his job ten times harder.
“We have no suspects right now, we just want to know what was going on that morning.”
“I was playing the Sunday service as I usually do, Father Matthews came down with a little stomach bug the night prior. He was in an awful state, Pastor Jude led the sermon that day. About halfway through the service he brought the children up to read passages from the bible, I took a moment to go check on Lev- Father Matthews.” You stumble over your words as you spin your story for him. Your words might be rushed and strangely paced but your music never suffers. The song you play carries on without so much as a single missed note. “He was on the bathroom floor, vomiting. I helped him back to bed and brought him a glass of water before returning to the service.”
“And how long were you with him?”
Your eyes narrow further.
“Maybe five minutes.” There’s an edge to your voice and he knows exactly what it implies. Five minutes is not enough time to run across town and murder someone. “People were in and out of Father Matthews home all day, Abby Harper was over there early before the service to bring him food.”
“These are all standard questions, we aren’t trying to make accusations we’re simply trying to-”
“Father Matthews is everything to this town, he’s as precious as God to most of them, people around here won’t take kindly to those kinds of accusations.” You speak with less hostility now, it almost sounds like a genuine warning. You smell like citrus, cinnamon, and the earth all at the same time as you scoot closer to him, the sides of your legs are touching now. It’s an overwhelming scent that he can’t focus on long enough to name.
“Are you one of those people?” It’s like he has no control of himself, he leans in, fighting the urge to inhale more of your perfume. He wants you to say no, that this man he doesn’t even know means nothing to you.
“In my opinion there is no man as precious as God.” You smile to yourself, like you’ve remembered something funny. “Do you play any instruments?”
“I do, I play the piano.” He shouldn’t be entertaining any sort of conversation that isn’t about the case but he doesn’t want to say no to you, not when he’s still trying to figure out what kind of perfume you’re wearing.
“What drew you to the piano?”
“We had a case, I met a young boy who played.”
You stop playing, the room is plunged into an uncomfortable silence for a moment before the preacher and Morgan continue their conversation.
Spencer opens his mouth to speak but you grab his hands out of his lap, with your palms up and his down you inspect his hands. He stares down at you as he does, unable to look away from your face, your eyelashes are so long he can’t help but wonder if they’re fake.
His spine straightens when you rub your thumb against his fingers.
“You have good hands for it.” Is all you have to say before you go back to playing your somber tune as if nothing had happened. “When was the last time you were in a church, Dr. Reid.”
“Excuse me?”
“You seem uncomfortable.”
Of course he’s uncomfortable. How many people have hurt him over the years under the guise that they were told to do so by God. God isn’t exactly his biggest fan. And none of that even scratches the surface of how you’re making him feel.
“We find ourselves in churches often when we’re working cases, you’d be surprised to see how many people use God as an excuse to hurt others.” He tries to keep his tone steady but he can hear his voice starting to tremble as his fingernails dig into his palm.
“I don’t think I’d be surprised at all. I think far too many people pervert the lord's words to excuse their cruel behavior.” You continue to play your mystery song, twisting the notes to something darker as you speak. “It must be exhausting to see people take something as pure as God and use it to justify the terrible things they’ve done. Isn’t that just awful, I simply can’t stand it.” He doesn’t speak as you finish your song, turning to face him when you’ve finished. “Don’t let those people convince you that God isn’t kind, that he doesn't love you, Dr. Reid. Because he does.” You put a hand on his arm, it makes his breath hitch.
The way you speak is intoxicating, he can’t stop himself from leaning closer, unprofessionally close. He’s staring down at you in the now silent room until Morgan clears his throat behind you both.
He stands too quickly, bumping his knees against the piano as he stands, a sharp juxtaposition to how you float up and off the bench.
“Let us know if you think of anything that might help with the case, we appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.” He speaks too fast, he feels like he hardly got any information out of you.
“Anytime, Dr. Reid.”
He jumps a bit when the back door swings open, only to see a toddler with a mess of dark curly hair running in, flying past everyone until she’s to you. You kneel on the stone floor as you pull her into your arms, she can’t be more than three years old.
“Where is your grandmother, sweet girl?” You speak in a lovey, hushed tone, holding her almost possessively as the little one whispers into your ear. You laugh, whispering something back. He can’t hear what you say but it makes the little girl smile.
Your cheeks are pressed against one another as you face him and he’s left with more questions than he started with when they entered the church. Questions that he shouldn’t have because they have nothing to do with the case, regardless, he’s almost certain she isn’t yours, your features are too different.
“Can you say hello, Hazel? This is Dr. Spencer, he’s here to save us.” You continue to speak in that gooey tone, it isn’t the same soft one you used with him.
Hazel doesn’t speak but she waves to him before you set her down.
“Run along to your father now.” You ruffle her hair as she toddles her way across the room into Levi Matthews arms and a wave of nausea crashes over him. He should have asked different questions, he should have established your relationships with other members of the town.
He should have asked if you were married.
It doesn’t matter if you're married.
You’re a random witness to an insignificant detail, you live in the middle of nowhere, you are simply one in the thousands of people he has spoken to over the course of his career.
What is going on with him?
He needs to get the fuck out of this town.
“Goodbye, angel.” He should be calling you by your actual name but something about it makes him feel queasy, he settles on the nickname, even if it earns him a strange look from Morgan.
“Goodbye, Dr. Reid.” Your smile is too much teeth, he has to look away, turning and moving so fast that Morgan practically runs to keep up with him.
“Crazy to see someone like that out here.” Derek speaks first when they’re outside, as they make their way down the church steps.
“Someone like what?” Someone so offputting?
“Hot. She’s ridiculously hot, man.”
Sure, you’re hot, but Spencer would use other words to describe you. Beautiful, angelic, nauseating, bewildering, maddening.
“Everyone out here dresses like they're from a different time, it’s a little jarring to see someone in modern clothes.”
“I got a bad feeling from her.” Spencer whispers as he gets into the passenger seat.
“Bad like, she might have killed two people, bad?”
“I don’t know, she couldn’t have killed Noah Harper, she was at church that morning, the whole town would have seen her there. We need to find someone who wasn’t at the service. Mr. Harper died between 7:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. I just can’t figure out how they did that level of damage in such a short period of time.”
“Let's head back to the station and see what everyone else has found.” With the key turned in the ignition, the engine roars to life and they’re heading down the road.
He stares out the window, going through your conversation with him in his brain, you didn’t express any of the usual signs of lying, not that he’d asked you anything you’d have a reason to lie about. You couldn’t have been more relaxed.
He thinks of Hazel.
She didn’t look like you, and she didn’t look like Levi Matthews. Children of that age will almost always run to their mothers first…
Why does it matter?
He needs to stop.
It shouldn’t matter if you have a child, and it definitely shouldn’t matter if you’re married. You’re just a piano player, nothing more.
Yet he can’t shake you from his mind.
The way you said his name like he was an old friend.
The way you seemed so sure that God loved him.
“This is Dr. Spencer, he’s here to save us.”
He rolls his window down to try and ease the pressure building in his head. He doesn’t remember telling you his first name.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
“What have we got so far?” Hotch speaks first, everyone looks exhausted as they crowd around the little table.
“Based on the level of violence and physicality of the crimes we should assume our killer is male.” Emily speaks first.
“Male and strong enough to overpower both of our victims. Noah Harper was concious for the entirety of his torture, whoever did this had to be strong enough to restrain a nearly three hundred pound, 6’2 farmer. It would have been no small task. It’s safe to assume that Jared Kettler was also still alive when he was tortured.” Rossi throws down a stack of notes, as Spencer scans them it’s clear they went and spoke with the coroner a few towns over. Normally Jarad Kettler himself would have been in charge of autopsies, the next closest person qualified to do an autopsy was over an hour away.
“Most likely a sexual sadist, with this level of torture they must be getting something out of it, otherwise why bother?” Emily’s pinching the bridge of her nose as she speaks.
“Unless it’s to send a message.” When Spencer finally speaks the room falls silent.
“What message would this possibly send? They were completely different victims, unless there’s a connection there that we’re missing, they were seemingly chosen out of convenience.” Rossi sits back in his chair, they all seem lost in thought.
“This isn’t our typical case. You all know what kind of town we’re in, they don’t take kindly to strangers, if we’re going to figure this out we need to play by their rules. That means we might be here for an extended period of time, if we can’t build trust within the community no one will talk.” Hotch speaks in that serious way he does. The idea of being here for an extended period of time makes Spencer want to pull his hair out, this town is having a deeply disturbing effect on his psyche. “Morgan, I want you with local law enforcement, J.J. and Prentiss, you'll be with the victims' families and anyone with direct ties to them. Reid I want you at the church, get a sense of the community. Rossi and I will focus on potential suspects, it is imperative that our suspect list doesn’t go public. Treat everyone the same, and don’t bring anyone in for questioning without running it by me first. If these people get an inkling of who might be behind things everything changes. If it’s someone they don’t think is capable of the murders they will protect him with their lives, and if they think that someone is capable and a suspect they may take matters into their own hands.” Hotch continues to talk but Spencer’s zoning out, staring out the small open window into the darkness outside.
The church means more of you.
His stomach churns, for a brief moment he swears he catches a whiff of your perfume on the breeze that blows into the room.
He’s about to ask to switch with someone but the conversation’s seemingly over as everyone starts to stand. He follows them out of the room, frowning as Hotch puts a hand on his shoulder.
“I’d like you to attend tomorrow's service, sit in the back, get a feel for the crowd, you know the drill.”
“Hotch I-”
“And try and get some sleep tonight.” It’s clear he’s staring at the bags under his eyes when he says it.
“I’ll do my best.” Hotch nods in response, following the rest of the team out the doors, Spencer stays behind when he sees Joel Barker laughing with another officer.
“Who was in charge of cleaning the scene at the Harper house?” Spencer comes up behind him, interrupting their conversation, no sense in making small talk.
“That would be…” He scans the room, settling on the youngest man, he couldn’t be older than his early twenties. “Officer Langdon.” He answers quickly, clearly eager to be rid of him.
Spencer weaves through the desks until he’s towering over the young man.
“Can I help you?” He’s certainly got an attitude for the youngest member of the force.
“You cleaned up after the Harper murder.” He phrases it more like a fact than a question.
“I did.”
“You did a terrible job.” The back of his neck feels sweaty, since when does he talk to people like this?
“Good thing you aren’t my boss, then.” The younger officer is quick to snap back at him
“What was written in chalk on the western wall of the bedroom.”
Officer Langdon goes pale, fingers twitching against his keyboard as his eyes look anywhere but at Spencer.
“There wasn’t anything written at the scene, I cleaned up the blood and had the body transported to the morgue.” He takes too long to answer, his eyes never meet Spencers.
“Which morgue?”
“Two towns over in Briggsbain.” That much is true, it’s the same morgue they took Jared Kettler to.
“Okay, and I’ll ask you one more time, what was written next to the mirror?” Spencer does his best to look intimidating but it clearly isn’t working as the young officer stands up, puffing his chest out.
“And I’ll tell you one more time. There wasn’t anything written at the scene.”
“Would you be willing to testify that fact in a court of law?”
“Why would I be testifying anywhere? I’m not the lead on this case I’m-”
“Someone was murdered. Brutally, and if someone were to jeopardize our investigation by lying to me I would personally see to it that they were brought to justice, to the fullest extent, in a court of law.” He shouldn’t be having this conversation without Hotch.
“I’m not lying to you.”
So much for that lead.
He returns to the motel, head spinning, and with a worse migraine than he’s had in years.
He needs to get out of this suffocating town.
He doesn’t sleep well.
He’s haunted.
You come to him in dreams, reminding him in hushed whispers that he’s completely lost.
“A sheep without a shepard.” You murmur to him.
Your lips are too red, your nails are too red, and the blood coating the front of your little white nightgown, is too red.
You climb in through the motel room window, crawling across the floor until you reach the bed, you scurry up into his lap and he’s frozen in place.
When you sit down on top of him he can see that the blood on your clothes is your own. Your chest is cut open, in the shape of a cross, as you reach forward, you lovingly wrap your fingers around his neck. Squeezing until there isn’t any air left in his lungs.
He shoots up into a sitting position, clawing at his throat, entire body covered in a sheen of sweat, the cold air conditioning of the room makes him feel clammy as he snaps free of his nightmare. His heart threatens to burst from his chest as it beats like a hummingbird's wings.
Running both his hands through his hair he throws his legs over the side of the bed, he needs a shower.
“Shit.” He grumbles to himself as he stares down at the mess smeared across the front of his pants. Jesus, what is he, a highschooler? The last time he came in his pants was when he was nineteen, he’s thirty fucking years old.
He needs a cold shower.
Something, anything, to get rid of his extremely confusing erection.
It’s only 5:35, he’s got plenty of time before the rest of the team wakes, he cleans his pants and boxers in the sink, hanging them up on the towel rack to dry before he steps into the shower.
The last thing he needs right now is to see you, but there’s no way he could explain that to Hotch.
“Sorry Hotch, I can’t go to the church, there’s this girl who works there and I feel like she’s going to kill me, and everything about her seems terribly wrong, and I’ll also get an erection if I think about her for too long.”
That wouldn’t go over smoothly.
He resigns himself to staring at the wall until 6:30. At that point he takes one of the team's cars to the church, which already seems to be bustling with people. He does his best to blend in but he sticks out like a sore thumb.
Every single person is dressed like they’re from the early nineteen hundreds. He feels like he’s in a horror movie, he somehow feels under and over dressed as he slips into the church, settling in the back pew as he sits, silently observing everyone.
Father Levi Matthews stands at the front of the room in his robes. He doesn’t stand by the door to greet people, he lets them come to him.
Prick.
Every family he observes has the same dynamic. Father’s who speak too loudly, and mother’s who stay quiet and meek as they tend to the children. Everyone stares at him as they take their seats.
The seat at the organ remains empty, no matter how many times his eyes flit over to the bench.
The church is nearly full by seven and he’s only heard a few whispers about Noah Harper, most of which are murmurs of sympathy as Abigail Harper walks by in her lacy black dress.
He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of a loud organ note. When he turns, sure enough, there you are, warming up on the organ. You hold a bright red apple between your teeth as you do so, after playing a quick scale you remove it. Turning to stare directly at him as you eat it.
He makes several attempts to look away, telling himself that it’s rude to stare, but you continue to do so anyway. Everytime he glances up at you, you're facing him, taking bite after bite of the apple in your hand until only the core remains.
You toss the core into a nearby bin before sucking a finger into your mouth. He closes his eyes as he puts his head down.
What is wrong with this place, what is wrong with you?
He’s about to get up and leave, maybe he can tell Hotch he’s sick and hide in his motel room until it’s time to leave. He starts to stand but you’re suddenly playing music and Levi Matthews is starting to speak so he sits, praying to himself that the service is short.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The service is anything but short.
Nearly three hours of Levi Matthews shouting about nothing, the only interesting part of the service is the music. You’re one hell of a musician. You don’t look at him once during the service, and when it’s over he busies himself with talking to as many people as possible, anyone but you.
After speaking with a few different people he finds himself stuck with Edith Miller.
A chatty woman in her late thirties, who’s married to a member of the police force who’s notably not in attendance.
“Do officers typically not attend the service?” He’s abandoned his notebook, no one wants to talk to him when he’s writing down everything they say, it makes them feel like they’re on the record or something.
“They do half on and half off on Sundays so they can attend every other one.” The woman has a thick southern accent.
Half the town's police force wasn’t accounted for last Sunday morning.
He can’t find you, he scans the crowd but you aren’t there, occasionally he catches a glint of what he swears is your
Fingernails against someone's arm but by the time his eyes focus it’s gone.
He recalls those fingernails clicking softly against the piano keys yesterday, you didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“The organist, is she married to your pastor?” It’s an inappropriate question and he knows it. Edith laughs in his face when the words leave his mouth.
“You’ve clearly already met our angel.” Her voice is unkind as she speaks.
“Yes, I spoke with her yesterday.”
“She really is something, but no, she is not married to Father Matthews, although I’m sure she would just love that.” There’s a sarcastic edge to her voice. Small town drama.
“So Hazel isn’t her daughter?”
“No,” She continues to laugh but he doesn’t understand what’s so funny. “Hazel is Mary Ellens.”
Thank god for his eidetic memory, there’s an infinite number of new names to remember in this damn town.
“So Mary Ellen is married to Father Matthews.” He repeats the names over and over again, he’ll need to write them down if he intends to properly remember them.
“She was, before she passed, a terrible thing to happen to someone so young.”
“How did she pass?”
“Sweet girl went peacefully in her sleep, brain aneurysm, she was only twenty five. Hazel was hardly a year old.” Edith’s face conveys sorrow but her voice is almost sarcastic.
“It sounds like a terrible loss. I'm so sorry.” He should drop it, the personal lives of these people had no impact on the case. “How did she earn that nickname? Angel?” He curses himself for even asking but Edith clearly likes to gossip and doesn’t mind answering.
“It’s the funniest thing, I couldn’t tell you her actual name. We've called her angel since she came here, I think Father Matthews started it. She was our angel, heaven sent when we needed her most.”
“When you needed her most?” He’s more focused on the fact that you came here at all, you told him you’ve lived here all your life, but he can’t afford to give away any unnecessary information.
Not when it’s obvious people are more than comfortable lying to him.
“Well… if I remember correctly she moved here two summers ago, just before poor Mary Ellen passed. I don’t think Levi would have survived those first few months without her here to help around the church. She practically preached his sermons for him. In my personal opinion it’s a little inappropriate for a woman and a man to be so close right after something like that happens but I suppose it’s not my place to speak up about something like that.”
Two summers ago.
“You know, Mary Ellen was a prodigy on the piano, if you asked her to play any tune she either knew it already or could figure it out after hearing it just one time. She was…” Edith’s voice fades out and is replaced with a high pitched ringing. He winces, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opens his eyes Edith is still droning on, but he isn’t looking at Edith anymore, he’s staring over her shoulder.
At you.
You’ve appeared directly in his line of sight, seemingly out of thin air.
Your hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of tea as you nod, manicured mails clicking against the ceramic of your cup while you give a sympathetic smile to the woman speaking to you.
Abigail Harper.
Her daughter stands at her side, silent and blank faced, staring at the floor as you comfort the girl's weeping mother.
You speak so softly yet he can hear the words clearly from across the room, and through the ringing in his ears.
“He’s in a better place now, Abby.” Your ruby red lips whisper as you pull her into an embrace. Your chin rests on Abby’s shoulder. He watches your sharp nails rub gentle circles against the widow’s back but your eyes are on him. Cold, dark eyes and a whisper of a smile on those lips.
He blinks and your gaze is elsewhere, pulling away from the hug after one last reassuring squeeze. With bated breath he watches you crouch down, sitting on your knees in front of the emotionless little girl.
“And how are you holding up, Arizona?” Taking her small hand, in yours, you exchange whispers, something he doesn’t catch as you lean in, but he can read your lips for just a second before your hair covers his view of your mouth.
He only makes out one word. Your lips curl, tongue poking out between teeth so he can clearly catch just a moment of the exchange.
“…monster…”
Then a lock of hair slips out from behind your ear and he’s left in the dark as to what is said to Arizona.
All he knows is that whatever it is makes the child break down. A mix of tiny hiccups and wails as she crumples forward, right into your arms. A hush falls over the room and people turn towards the commotion just in time to see you scoop Arizona up into your arms. Your blood red fingernails are a sharp comparison to the pale blonde hair of the inconsolable child.
He hears mumbled praise from the congregation.
It’s as if the sun knows to shine perfectly, streaming in through the stained glass like a halo behind the scene you’ve made. A picture perfect moment with you at its center, curled up on the ground, comforting poor little Arizona Harper.
Eventually you stand, handing her back to her mother before heading in his direction. You’re in no rush, people take your hand and pat your back as you move through the crowd, offering a smile as bright as the sun to all of them.
When you smile at him it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“I’m almost finished with your nightgown, I should have it over to you by tomorrow.” You hold Edith's hand in both of hers as she nods.
“You are a miracle worker.” They all speak to you so reverently, even if Edith had just been speaking ill of you, she easily puts a faux smile on her face.
“You flatter me, Edith.” Dropping her hand, the attention is turned towards him as he stands up a little straighter. “Good morning, Dr. Reid. I hope you enjoyed the service.”
“It was certainly informative.” His frown only deepens as your grin spreads further across your face.
“Something tells me you need some time with God.”
“What makes you say that?” He doesn’t need god, he needs to get out of this suffocating little town.
“You look a little lost.”
His mouth goes dry as you put a hand on his arm, and the ringing in his ears is back. You don’t smile at him anymore as you leave.
Your perfume remains long after you walk out of the church.
And he finally puts his finger on the scent.
Frankincense.
He’s vaguely aware of the fact that Edith is still speaking to him.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Isn’t she just perfect? She does seamstress work for the women around town. She’s always happy to show off.” She sneers when she says it, turning from him to greet Abigail as she approaches.
“Yeah…” His voice trails off as his feet move before his brain can stop them. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to Edith, instead he pushes through the crowd, moving hurriedly towards those large wooden doors. When he throws them open and moves down the steps of the chapel you’re already long gone.
The smell of frankincense lingers in the air and all he’s left with is a case with no leads, a headache, and a distinctly empty feeling in his chest.
A black SUV peels into the gravel parking lot in front of him, making his heart skip a beat, he relaxes when the window rolls down and it’s just Morgan.
“We need to get back to the station.”
“Already? The service just ended, I haven’t had much of a chance to-”
“We’ve got another body.”
He hurries down the rest of the steps, climbing into the passenger seat.
“What did you learn?”
“Not much, just what I could discern from the service. These people are serious about church, you can hear a pin drop when that man speaks. What about the local force? Did you find anything?”
“Typical small town police force, loyal to their people, proud of their town. They aren’t too happy about us being here.”
“I’m aware.” He snaps, leg bouncing up and down.
“What aren’t you telling us?”
“What?”
“You’re on edge, you’re thinking about something and you haven’t told us, we aren’t going to make any progress with this case if we don’t have all the information.”
But he doesn’t have any concrete information, he just has a hunch.
“Something was written at the Harpers house in chalk, the police are insisting there wasn’t.”
“And you’re just telling me this now?”
“Well, I don’t have any actual proof, but I know for a fact that we’re being lied to by local officers. They aren’t cooperating with us and I- I just know that they’re hiding something.”
“We’ll need proof if we’re going to do anything about it.”
“What about this body? What do we know so far? I can’t call anyone else to let them know.” Holding his phone out in front of him he’s reminded of just how remote this town is as he stares at the blinking no service alert.
“I sent an officer to tell Emily and J.J, they’re gonna pick up Hotch and Rossi on the way, I figured it would be fastest to just pick you up myself.” He speeds down the road, when he pulls back into the station Spencer gives him a confused look.
“Aren’t we going to the scene?”
The look on Derek’s face is grim as he leans over to the glove compartment, tossing Spencer a pair of latex gloves and donning a pair himself.
“This is the scene.”
Officers are moving frantically around the outside of the building, he watches as the young man he recognizes as officer Langdon, braces himself against the brick siding of the building. As they both approach he vomits, tears streaming down his face, Derek tries to speak with him but he rushes into the station.
“I’m gonna go talk to the kid, he’s the one who found the body, you go around back, I want one of us to get a clear look of the scene before anyone has a chance to ruin it.” Morgan moves before he can protest. And Spencer is left in the rush of officers, all of Willow Creek's small police force must be here.
Turning around the corner he’s met with a mess of yellow tape, he doesn’t get any time to focus on how disorganized everything is because propped up against the dumpsters is a sight no one would be able to tear their eyes off of.
He’s staring at a familiar face.
Joel Barker, the chief of police.
With his stomach torn open, and his insides spilling out onto the pavement. He wasn’t just killed and left here, he was displayed. When the human body is cut down the middle like that everything doesn’t just fall out, someone reached inside of him and removed his intestines and stomach and laid them out so they looked like this. From what he can see the officer's eyes and tongue are in the mix, which means they were either removed and placed amongst his insides or he was forced to eat them and then they were ripped from his…
His stomach churns.
It’s unprofessional, he’s an FBI agent, he shouldn’t be having a physical reaction to a scene like this, he’s seen things like this before.
Well, he’s seen bad things, maybe not as bad as this.
He swallows the bile threatening to burst from his throat, moving closer to examine the disfigured face of the officer.
The tip of his nose is pulled up and stapled awkwardly to the bridge of his nose. And the cherry on top isn’t a cherry at all, it’s an apple. Shiny and red, his jaw looks like it’s been dislocated, and shoved in between his teeth is the apple. It gets the point across, even if it’s a little blunt, and it confirms his theory. This isn’t the work of some sadist who can’t control themselves, this is someone who wants to send a message.
Joel Barker is a pig.
At least he was.
For a second he’s blinded by the flash of a camera, he regains his vision just in time to see an ungloved hand with a rag reaching for the wall beside the corpse.
“Stop!” He shoulder checks the officer out of the way, holding his arms out to keep him back. “This is an active crime scene. You'll kindly refrain from destroying it…”
He takes a step back, brows furrowed as he reads the text over and over again, branding it into his brain forever. Pieces start to slide together but the bigger picture just gets blurrier as he stares at the chalk message left behind.
YOUR GOD IS NOT HERE, BUT MARY ELLEN IS
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
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