June 30th, 2021

0030 hours

Quinn rubbed a weary hand over his eyes, glancing at the small digital clock on the stand near him, which read twelve-thirty A.M.

He had been given a small, cramped room in a corner of the rig. It was filled to the ceiling with piles of paper-filled boxes, old appliances and out of date computers. Needless to say, he had only a very small desk and uncomfortable folding chair in a tiny square of the room in which to squeeze his six-foot two frame. It was comeuppance, he was sure, for how effortlessly he had reduced Lynne's confidence to nothing more than feasible ineptitude.

Though most agents would waste no time pouncing on the files hanging around him, he didn't feel any inclination to snoop through them. Upon entry, he merely glanced over them, as if observing a rather dull conversation. Experience had taught him that for someone to be so on edge like Ellis, she definitely had something to hide, and would have the foresight to not leave her secrets lying about in plain sight for the FBI to find.

Instead, he had plunged headfirst into countless records procured from various resources. Quinn never shared his confidants with anyone, in order to conceal their identities. His methods, while unconventional, were exceptionally effective, and the information solid, whether it came from witnesses under government protection or pardoned fugitives who were adept at espionage. Thus, due to the sensitive nature of his sources' identities, he was tight lipped. Because of his discretion and loyalty, many of his contacts worked with him, and him alone.

But here there was no inside informant, no one close, that could clue him in. The hours he sat, staring at the seemingly useless paperwork pilled around him, found him focusing on Lynne's damn desk. He needed in those drawers: it was pertinent that he gain access to those files. How he would achieve that, he had no idea. That horrid woman was probably sleeping in her office, guarding her veiled secrets.

Quinn was exceptionally skilled at getting access to whatever he wanted. Most of his fellow agents attributed his excellence to his astonishingly good looks. Though awkward in his youth, he had found that, through years of hard training and patience with the Bureau, his newfound prowess as an inarguably competent member of the male species had many benefits. Most of the time, he used his overwhelming charm and refined features to coerce others into spilling the secrets that even their secrets kept. With women, he simply walked into a room, secluded himself with her, and within minutes he knew every dirty detail of her life. More often than not, the conclusion to these meetings ended with dalliances over a few martinis.

He found, early on in his training, that men were just as easy to break as women. Most guys felt intimidated immediately upon him entering a room, which worked out almost as well as questioning a female, bereft of sexual benefits. Usually, he had them squawking like fraternity pledges after a couple pitchers of beer. On the rare occasion he found himself equally matched, he would offer a game of poker or billiards, the prize being a fully paid tab by the other member. Sometimes he threw in a quality Cuban. His dexterity at pool almost surpassed his witty banter and sexual appeal. Men came close to trouncing him, but Quinn never lost, and that was something he prided himself on.

Now, he thought Ellis was getting the best of him, and he couldn't have that.

A soft knock at the door raised his head. "Enter."

Gordon stuck his head into the small office. "Damn, Quinn." He said, making a face at the mess that greeted him. "She cooped you up good, didn't she?"

Quinn stretched, easing the tension in his back, muscles flexing slightly with relief. "I'll manage."

"I have the full autopsy report for you," Gordon said, closing the door behind him "and Garcia wants to know what you'd like for him to do now."

"Having but briefly known the Lieutenant, I very much doubt that's how he phrased it."

"No." Gordon grinned churlishly. "I don't really want to repeat what he actually said, though."

"Inarguably a testament to his thorough use of the English language." Quinn managed to smirk back, even the muscles in his face stiff from the hours of immobility. "Tell him he can go home, for now."

"Sure. His notes are also here. They're a bit difficult to read." Gordon observed, squinting as he tried to make out the Lieutenant's shorthand.

"Thanks." Quinn mumbled, taking the thin file from Gordon's outstretched hand, positive Garcia had intentionally written illegibly to aggravate him. "This will be fun."

"You look horrible." Gordon laughed, seeing the determined look on his boss' disgruntled face.

"Judging from the simple fact that I've been unceremoniously dumped in this hovel," Quinn turned up his nose an exceptionally unsteady pile of documents as it leaned precariously close to him, "I am very much getting under Ellis' skin."

Gordon chuckled. "You won't let her get the best of you. You never do." He winked reassuringly.

"Ah, now that is where you are sorely mistaken, my friend. You assume I have a 'best' and that I'll be a biddable lad." Quinn grinned broadly. "On the contrary, I intend to misbehave, particularly in the form of reconnoitering." He stated mischievously.

"What, you're going to snoop?" Gordon looked taken aback.

"I prefer the term 'infiltrate'." Quinn's lips turned slightly at the corners; tone sardonic. "I need to have enough suspicion, beyond a reasonable doubt, to request a warrant."

"That clears thing up. What if you don't find anything?"

"Oh, I'm sure I can pry something up."

"Don't get caught." Gordon warned, raising his brows.

"I haven't yet done anything. I'm awaiting the opportune moment."

Gordon snorted. "Right, but you will. I never knew you to wait for anything."

"I don't." Quinn said observingly. "I think it's time we play a little hard ball."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You were an excellent pitcher before I convinced you to join the Bureau, if my memory serves." Quinn eyes glinted maniacally. "Let's make things move a bit hastier. Throw a fast pitch in Ms. Ellis' direction."

Gordon grinned. "I wouldn't want to disappoint my reputation. What did you have in mind?"

"I need Winters to hack into the video feeds on the rig. Set him up in an obscure office somewhere; you and Stubbs stay out monitoring the movements of every living soul. Have Shepp scour the database for anything and everything on this woman: tax statements, bank accounts, business investments, foreign assets, family ties, property ownings, and stock holdings. Get medical records for Christ sake! I want to know where she took a shit Tuesday of last week and what she ate the meal before that. Get with Lieutenant Garcia, see if he can spare some officers. I want this damn mess under control."

Gordon noticed the indomitable gleam in Quinn's eyes.

"Why, sir, I've never heard you swear." He teased gently.

Quinn growled. "No, you haven't. She brings out the worst in me, I'm superbly ashamed to admit. Ms. Ellis has unwittingly armed a very powerful nemesis." He scathed.

"So, I'll have those files on your desk by morning?" Gordon offered, understanding the severity of Quinn's request.

"By five, please." Quinn asked, his voice softer this time. "That should allow me ample time to brush up on my knowledge of one Lynne Ellis before everyone wakes."

One or two hours didn't allow much time for an average detective to study someone's history, but then, Gordon knew Quinn wasn't an ordinary man. "It's done, boss."

"Oh, and once Winters is in the security feed, see if there are any recordings around the time of death. There should be back up tapes, assuming Ms. Ellis hasn't had the foresight to delete them."

"Right 'O." Gordon nodded, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

Quinn sighed again, looking at the clock. One A.M.

He settled in the small, metal chair, limbs cramped awkwardly under the short table, mentally bracing himself for the stiff neck he would have in the morning.

Here we go, the thought resolutely, ignoring the impending headache that threatened behind his eyes as he flipped open the manila folder.

Most of the autopsy report was basic, though he was slightly perturbed by the presumed weapon. Judging from the description of the injuries, it hadn't been a knife that dismembered the victim. Perhaps a rudimentary weapon, crudely constructed solely for the purpose of killing? Quinn pondered this anomaly briefly, but upon coming to no logical conclusion, he continued on.

He assumed there must have been an unusual amount of contamination on the corpse, as the report mentioned a substance present on several of the internal organs. Having transpired on an oil rig, Quinn doubted it was unusual to find trace evidence that wasn't consequential to the actual crime, but the color of it perturbed him greatly.

Dark, oily substance, that produces a toxic green gas when catalyzed, he thought as he read the words, scratching his chin absentmindedly. He noted a light stubble beginning to emerge, and mentally berated himself for not shaving the previous morning.

He read on, barely keeping his lids open.

The report noted that while the organ reconstruction was fairly successful, not all of them had been accounted for; several were missing entirely. He frowned as he read, trying to rationalize what that could mean. For one, there were serial killers who kept organs as part of their fetish, or used them for the practice of satanic worship, but nothing else at the scene lead him to conclude either one of those possibilities was plausible.

The chaos of the scene could have contributed to the desecration of the remains. When Quinn had arrived, Garcia was struggling to remove the workers from the area, and the increased foot traffic might have scattered the organs to God knows where.

He swiped a hand over his weary eyes, trying to continue along the page. Suddenly, another anomaly caught his eye and he paused, leaning forward in his chair expectantly, as if the sloppy scrawl would give him the answer he'd been looking for.

Instead, it only deepened the mystery. Located inside the body cavity, the M.E. discovered several oblong, opulent objects that resembled eggs. Quinn sighed in exasperation: these clues just didn't add up. They didn't make sense in any way, and had no place in a murder investigation.

Unless...

He sat up straight, flipping open his own notepad and scrawling quickly in elegant script. There was an oily trace of unknown origin, egg like structures located inside the abdomen of the corpse, and the victim had been sliced open by something that wasn't a knife, but was clearly sharp enough to eviscerate skin and tissue when used with enough force.

If this man was killed by another human being, it was certainly the oddest murder Quinn had ever seen. Almost.

On the other hand, perhaps there was something more sinister, less plausible at work than he'd previously thought. He recalled seeing results like this before, long ago. Despite his photographic memory, the level of exhaustion that swept over him impeded him from pinpointing exactly where.

His extensive research the last few years had led him this far, and by now he was coming to the conclusion that the serial killer he had chased for years was not who, or what, it appeared to be.

He glanced at the old, dusty file he kept near him. The folder was ancient, dating back nearly thirty years. Water stains and dirt from countless hands thumbing through the pages stained the surface. It all began there, and he fully intended to end it, here and now.

His resolution was dwindling with each minute that ticked by, and eventually his eyelids drooped so low, he no longer knew if he was awake or dreaming.

~

Quinn didn't know if he ever slept, but soon the faint glow of the lightening horizon drew him out of his stupor, and he rose stiffly from his chair.

He stretched, glancing briefly at the small television on his desk. The monitor was re-playing feedback from the security feed at the museum, which he'd tapped into earlier. If his logic was sound, which it always was, then he expected to see-

"Touché." He whispered, eyes alight with a fresh ferocity. As expected, along the stark emptiness of the tourist halls, came the slight bob of a blonde ponytail as its' thin owner snaked through the exhibits. Quinn watched with base amusement as she disarmed the system and slipped past the security doors. Behind them lay a labyrinth of laboratories and testing facilities.

"Well, well, well, Miss Bourke." Quinn mused, his expression fiery with anticipation in the gloom of the office. He noticed the time stamp on the footage indicated the occurrence happened at ten P.M. The thief had several hours on him, plenty of time in which to hide the evidence.

Garcia would have to be woken. Break time was over.

They had work to do.