CHAPTER TEN

ANOTHER GRAVE WAS VANDALIZED. It has been a little under a week since we had arrived in Portland Oregon, and sadly our partial profile was not enough for the unsub to be caught before the next body hit the floor.

The latest victim- eighteen year old Diamond Thomason. Our theory on her being among the select class that's unlikely to be reported missing turned out to be spot on. Diamond was homeless and she stayed fed by joining a small prostitution ring. She would gather her earnings, only spending a small amount on food and opting to sleep in clients homes or on the streets to avoid paying for accommodations. She had quite a bit of cash stashed away in what little belongings we could recover from the women she worked with. Diamond Thomason almost had enough money to finally leave.

She was out with a client when she disappeared, the women she worked with were either too afraid to report her as missing, or too drugged out to even notice.

I had just finished interviewing two of the women who were brave enough to finally come forward in order to identify Diamonds body. They had known her just over two months, but in that time they had all become close. Neither of them had seen the client she went off with that night, being far too preoccupied with clients of their own, but they did remember some type of truck pulling a camper behind. Each woman was employed in sex-work for different reasons, but they each could sympathize with young Diamonds the most. Their guilt ultimately made them come forward, not wanting their friend to rot in an unclaimed grave.

Diamond had told them she was originally from New Jersey, and she had moved to Portland to attend college. But shortly after the sudden death of her parents she lost her scholarship she ended up on the streets. Diamond was a small framed girl, five feet tall and less than ninety pounds. The women in her group said she made most of her money becuse of her childish appearance, she told her clients she was either thirteen or sixteen depending on what she felt the mans desires were.

The realization made me nauseous. But regardless we powered through. Eventually getting more detailed about what they remember from that night.

Heidi Crestfeild- the girl who's grave was vandalized, she was sixteen years old at the time of her untimely death. This unsub is extremely organized, and part of his M.O is having his victims be the same age as the person who's grave he had defiled. Meaning he didn't realize she was actually two years older until he held her captive, her small stature and 'child like' appearance having fooled the unsub just like she fooled the men that would pick her up in the dark alleyways of Portland.

Diamonds body was found at the edge of a local wooded area. Her cause of death raised eye brows— unlike Heidi who died of sepsis the unsub had strangled Diamond to death and stabbed her multiple times. The pathologist showing the wounds were inflicted  both before and after she had died.

"This dosent make any sense." Morgan shakes his head in frustration, his eyes trained on the photos of the new vandalized grave. "Five deaths in two years. He normally has a cooling off period."

"Our presence could be spurring him on. Or the profile we gave." Prentiss responded with a shrug.

"Or maybe it was Diamonds age?" I suggest, eyes scanning the others in the room. "She was eighteen years old— not sixteen. He may be trying to make up for his mistake by doing another kill so soon?"

"Well, that certainly explains why Ms. Thomason was brutally strangled to the point of internal-decapitation, and stabbed sixty-seven times." Rossi nods in agreement. "He was angry."

Well yeah. You don't stab someone sixty-seven times if you're not a little bit angry.

People often don't realize how physically taxing the act of stabbing someone is. The movement itself requires most of the bodies muscles, and the sheer force comes from your strength and body weight. Essentially to do it correctly you would use yours entire body to inflict the action. You have to force the blade deep into the tissue and muscle. Over and over and over. It's physically draining to stab someone just a few times— let alone over fifty times. That has to be fueled with adrenaline and hatred.

It took us less than twenty hours of being assigned to this case for us to get our profile out to the officers and eventually the media. We had stayed three days after the discovery of Diamonds mutilated body, chasing after a lukewarm lead and trying to get her body identified. Today is day four in Portland, and this morning we come to the conclusion and accepted that we would not get another chance to catch this killer until his cooling off period ended, not knowing how soon that would be. We were boarding the jet when we were told another grave was defiled.

"His ritual was disrupted, he needs to do it right this time." Spencer flips through the photos of the grave eyes narrowing at the etching as he tries to determine what took could have been used.

The name 'Dylan' scrawled through the stone.

"There is one hundred and thirty-eight men named Dylan reported missing in the area. Popular name for Portland I guess. Only six fit the victim profile but they have been missing for too long to be related. That leaves two that could possibly be our Dylan— one reported a week and a half ago, and the other just three hours ago." Penelopes voice comes through Morgan's phone as he puts it on speaker. "And knowing the unsub had his previous victim a week and a half ago, imma say it is the ladder which would be... Dylan Washington. A Senior at a nearby university, he matches the grave owners age."

"Who is the owner of the grave?" Rossi asks.

"Brian Juleneti, he died at twenty-three from a suspected gang related stab wound." She cringes as she continues. "A group of men drove Brian's nearly lifeless body to the hospital, and quite literally dumped him at the door of the emergency room. They drove off straight after, and Brian was pronounced dead by the time paramedics could get to him."

"We should have detective Shaw dispatch a group of officers at each hospital, and have them on stand by." Prentiss says, her eyes on Hotch. "It's likely this unsub will replicate everything, including the location he died." Hotch nods, giving her the permission she needed to have the department make that call.

"Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss." Hotch turns to the three, as Derek hangs up with Penelope. "Go examine the grave sight, see if you can find the tool used, and talk to any grounds workers on scene. Reid, you and I will go to the forensic examiners office."

And as always the team immediately springs to action, gathering their things and heading out to their respective assignments.

"What should I do, sir?" I ask, looking up at Hotch. "You uh, didn't assign me to anything."

"JJ is making a statement to the media right now. When she arrives back tell her what you found out during the interviews, and have her meet Reid and I at the forensic office." He says quickly, his eyes distant.

"And in the meantime?" I ask. He doesn't reply, detective Shaw caught his attention, waving his presence to her office.

A sigh leaves my lips as I watch him leave. The metal chair scraps against the cold aluminum floor as I pull it out from the table.

I sit down, and open a random file as to appear busy, the contents just so happened to be Diamond Thomasons autopsy report. Puzzlingly there were no drugs reported in her system at the time of her death, but marks on her arms prove she was an avid drug user. The unsub must have had her for over three days for the drugs to dissipate.

My fingers tap against the pages as I read them for the sixth time, trying to keep busy while I wait for further instructions.

The profile we sent to the media stated our unsub is most likely an African American man, in his late to early thirties. He will be driving a truck possibly pulling a camper or an rv. That fact being confirmed by the women who identified Diamonds body. The unsub most likely has worked in or around cemeteries seeing as he is so adept at navigating them. He possibly could have worked as a handyman, or possibly a hospital environment like a Morgue. He is familiar with the entirety of the Portland area. He may be a familiar face to the downtown sex-work community, being able to be seen in those areas soliciting women. His weapon of choice for vandalism is most likely a screwdriver. The unsub, contrast to most organized criminals is unlikely to inject himself into the investigation, but he most likely will arrive at the funerals to watch the families grieve. He will be obsessive with the media coverage. And he most likely comes from a broken home.

I'm taken from my thoughts with a soft knock against the door frame. "Hey, where is everyone?" JJ asks.

I look over to her, setting the autopsy report on the table. "Derek, Rossi, and Prentiss went to the cemetery. Spencer and Hotch left for the examiners office." My eyes scan the clock on the wall. "They left twenty minutes ago. Hotch wanted me to tell you to meet him and Spencer when you're done. If you leave now you could probably catch them."

"Thanks, Cypher." She pauses in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting." I shrug causing her to laugh.

"Okay, well you'll be the first I call if I need anything." She says kindly, seeing how bored I've become.

"Appreciate it, JJ." I return her smile as she leaves.

After a few more hours of complete radio silence from the team I decide I cannot keep still anymore. I had spent my time looking through all we have on the case, spinning in my rolling chair and organizing the precincts employee files in alphabetical order. Finally standing from my seat at the table, I take a moment to stretch before heading towards one of the windows.

Heavy grey clouds lull in the sky, warning of the storm to come. Of crashing thunder, sparking lightning, and a cleansing rain. I hope the team gathered all of the forensic evidence, because the rain will wash it all away in just a few hours.

"Cypher." I jump at the severity of the voice, not moving from the window as I glance at Hotch. He gestures for me to follow him, not waiting for me to catch up as he crosses the precinct.

I rush to action, struggling to keep up and maneuver around the officers that let him pass by. "What's happened?" I ask as I catch up with him.

He stops at one of the observation rooms, holding the door for me to enter. "Day worker at the cemetery." Emily is inside already, hands on her hips as she stares through the glass. "He witnessed someone— presumably our unsub leaving Brian Juleneti's grave."

"And he waited this long to tell the police?" I question, peering through the glass at the middle aged man.

His pale skin is red from long hours in the sun, and his dark hairline has reseeded quite deeply. He's still wearing his work uniform- a charcoal gray jumper, thick boots and a red cap that he continues fidgeting with in his hands.

"Morgan, Rossi and Reid brought him in to be questioned. He was reluctant— no- he is reluctant. Apparently it took quite a bit of convincing to even get him down here, hence the interrogation room." He looked to me. "We need to find out what he knows."

"And why he is hiding it." I add.

Typically ones who have observed a non violent crime taking place are more than willing to assist the police in the investigation. They may not be willing to go to the police first, but if the authorities come knocking and ask if they saw anything— an innocent bystander would have nothing to hide. All we know is he saw someone by the grave. Why would he be hiding something like that?

"Lets leave him in there for five more minutes." Prentiss says after a moment. "Let him get into his own head."

"That's a good idea." Overthinking often leads to spilling unwanted information. If we keep our cards close to the vest he may reveal something helpful. "Sir do yo—" I begin, only to be met with empty space and the door swinging closed. "Okay then."

A thick silence settles into the room. My arms wrap around my waist as I anxiously try to take up less space. I keep my eyes trained on the nervous man through the glass.

Prentiss does the same, glancing my way a few times before sighing through her nose. "Forensics found the type of screw driver the unsub was using. Down to the brand, make and type."

"Did they?" I cringe. Of course they had— she just said they did.

"We also have partial prints."

"That's great. Where were you able to pull the prints from?" I notice the crease of her brow and her eyes squint. "No one kept me updated on any of this... I haven't heard anything for the past few hours so..." I trail off.

Prentiss turns back towards the observation glass, crossing her arms as she analyzes the man behind it. "Julenetti's grave, along the edge. It's as if he had to stabilize himself or something."
••••

After a good ten minutes, the man was practically bouncing off the walls. Prentiss took the lead in the interviewing, her tone sharp and questions as pointed as ever. The grounds keeper turned out to be innocent in all of this. After an hour or so Prentiss's direct questioning and my soft reassurance got him to admit why he was so hesitant. The media has been reporting these events and murders as an act of a local gang, a gang our witness has indirect contact with. He was afraid. Afraid that if he had said anything, his family would be targeted.

"I have three kids... I can't risk it.. I can't."

Two hours of negotiating we finally managed to convince him that his precious news outlets didn't have all the facts. And even if what he saw was gang related there are mesures in place to help protect him and his children.

We finally were able to sit him down with a sketch artist, getting us closer to our unsub with each drag of his pencil. By the time we had handed the witness off to give the details for the sketch we called Hotch to update him. Letting him know we will be able to put a face out to the media.

And only then did he feel comfortable dismissing us for the night. All we can do as of now is put the sketch out to the public and wait for a lead, or another body. Thankfully we can try to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before any of that happens.

I gather my things as the precinct begins to die down, a yawn leaving me as I do so. My phone buzzes loudly in my pocket, the sound cutting through the silent conference room. It draws a yelp from my throat, the surprised action happening before I could stop it.

"Hello, mija?" A smile spreads my lips at the warm and familiar voice, a relieved breath falling from my chest.

My favorite literary professor, Carlotta Quinns lives here in Portland. I have been staying with her for the past few days instead of being in the hotel with the rest of the team— The woman insisted upon it, calling my initial polite refusal as a war crime.

When I was accepted into my first university, Carlota was the professor of my first class in the morning. I was young, scared and depressed due to being alone in a new place and the still open wounds of my childhood. And Carlotta was just overcoming the recent death of her husband. I suppose you could say we helped each-other through dark places. We both found ourselves getting to the classroom at least two hours before the lectures began, Carlota in order prepare her lessons and me because I was still a child with nothing else to do, and some part of me craved the presence of being around someone. Soon she began bringing in breakfast for the both of us, and that eventually became our routine. Even over the years when I bounced from university to university she still kept in touch.

"Hey, I was just about to call you."

"Well great minds, as I always say." She chuckles. "Just wanted to check in, are you back in Washington yet?" Her aged yet soothing voice is hushed.

"That's sort of why I was about to call you." I breathe a soft laugh. "I'm not sure if you have seen the news platforms yet, but my team and I are going to be here for longer than anticipated. I-I can stay at the hotel if—"

"Ah-ah! Don't even think of finishing that sentence, mija. Well don't worry about it, the guest room is all yours. You could move in tomorrow permanently and I'd be happy."

"That's sweet." I smile. "I would if I could." But I can't leave this job no matter how much I would like to.

"Well it's always open to you." There's a pause. "Any progress in finding whoever's doing all this?"

"Well I can't give specifics as you know.."

"Oh boo!" She pouts making me giggle. Before I could say anything further there is some shuffling noises in the background. "Let yourselves in mija, I'll be back a bit late, tests to grade. Ooo got to go dear, it seems the students are adamant on class starting on time."

I smile, thinking back to watching this Harvard and Yale graduate professor goofing off at the beginning of her literary lessons. Her class being so crammed with knowledge and detail that she had to evaluate and interview each student after each semester to see who deserved to stay. Ninety percent of the original class would either drop out or be dismissed through out the year, three percent having extenuating circumstances that didn't allow them to continue. The remaining seven percent would stick with her classes for the remainder of their education, going on to become literarily scholars set for life on the knowledge she provided and her glowing recommendation.

Her effort couldn't be wasted— but a good five minutes before class could be. It seems that since she is teaching in a much smaller university and the stakes and material are much lower grade, her goofy attitude hasn't changed.

"Alright, I will see you tonight. Thanks again."

"Hey— oh sorry!" I glance to see Spencer apologize when he saw me on the phone.

I end the call, tucking the phone away with a smile. "You're fine, we were done talking anyways." Reflexively a hand covered my mouth to suppress a yawn.

"Was that..." He starts but trails off.

"Carlota Quinns, the one I've been staying with." I answer his unspoken question as I gather my belongings. "We were very close for a long time."

Life was better then. Simpler.

"I'm sorry." I look up at his solemn voice.

"People drift apart sometimes. It's not your fault, Spence." I assure. "Please don't apologize."

It's not his fault. It's mine. I wasn't allowed friends, or family for years. With the calls getting less and less frequent it's no wonder we drifted apart. Carlota was like a grandmother to me, being only thirteen when I was in her class she had a great effect on my life. She was there for me when I didn't even want to be there for myself. Sometimes she writes, or calls to let me know how her life is, and to give me an opportunity to vent to her like I did all those years ago. But I can't talk to her like I used to. My situation is to sensitive. And I can't bring her into this.

"Are you... are uh... you staying with us at the hotel?" He asks. "I came to see if we had to set up another room, or see if they can move Emily and JJ into a room large enough to accommodate three."

"Oh. Right. No, I'm staying with Carlota still. She's fine with me imposing on her a little longer." I shrug. "And besides her cooking is to die for, I can't pass that up for whatever type of mediocre buffet the hotel has."

A smile spreads across his features as he laughs.

I've rarely seen him laugh. Its warm. I want him to do it again.

"Well that's great reasoning. I guess the hotels cold eggs, burnt pancakes and watery coffee isn't exactly as tempting." His lighthearted words make me laugh.

I glance to my right as Aaron calls my name, he's waiting for me to take me over to Carlotas house. Spencer looks in his direction as well, before taking a step away and giving me a small smile.

"Well, goodnight." He says, starting to walk in the opposite direction.

"Good night." I whisper before hurrying to meet Aaron.

After we arrived in Portland, I remembered one of my conversations with Carlota Quinn's three years ago when she told me she was moving here for a job opportunity. When Hotch was first giving the room keys to the hotel I let him know that my old friend has practically demanded I stay with her once I called to inform her I was in town.

Aaron was skeptical at first. He had never met her, but while he was driving me to the address she gave he was on the phone with Penelope having her do a quick background check. The older professor not raising any red flags. He even insisted he walk me in, carrying my go bag to the room I was to stay in.

After he had met Carlota he gave me clear instructions that if I change my mind or if something happens I need to call him immediately. But when the days went by and nothing happened he seemed to get better.

He still insists on seeing me inside, and driving me to and from her house.

"I'll pick you up at six in the morning, or if we have any leads over night. Keep your phone on. Stay safe." He says as he walks me to the door.

"Okay, I will." I nod, putting in the spare key Carlota had given me. "Thanks for the ride." He nods. Before I step inside, I pause, and glance back at him. "Do you think the sketch will be enough?" I ask.

"Maybe." He says. "Maybe not. But I do know we are one step closer to finding him. Hopefully we won't be too late to help 'Dylan'."

Comment