𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐱

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

𝟭𝟮:𝟱𝟱 𝗽𝗺
𝗕𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗔𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀


𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍 the door and it swung inwards, revealing Liz's apartment. From what Abbie had known of her boss, she kept it immaculate. But now, furniture was turned over, paintings were askew, and shattered plates and broken glass covered the floor. She apprehensively walked into the small foyer, clearing a path with the toe of her black heels before each step. "Liz?" she called again. Wandering further into the scene, Abbie's fear grew. With the taunt from their UnSub and her boss now missing, Abbie knew she was staring directly into the face of danger.

Spencer inspected the doorframe, assessing for damage where there was none. His fingertips traced over the lock, his thoughts running over each other in his mind.

"Liz?" Abbie was still calling, her voice echoing through the halls and landing empty on each abandoned room.

Straightening, Spencer continued his surveillance. "Don't touch anything," he warned.

"Yeah, thanks, Doc," Abbie rolled her eyes as she stepped back into the living room. "I'm well aware." She pointed back down the hallway that bridged the living area to the bedrooms. "Her keys, phone, and purse are all still here. I don't think anything's been taken."

He nodded towards the front door. "No signs of forced entry either. She probably knew them, or they were non-threatening."

"Oh my god," she swallowed, lifting her chin to try to avoid her throat closing in on itself.

Spencer was already dialling Hotch's number. Abbie was pacing, her hands shaking as he spoke into his phone. "Hotch, we're at the apartment, but the place is trashed. There's no-one here."

"I want both of you back here immediately," Hotch ordered. "If they're targeting those connected to the trial, it's not safe for Abbie. We'll get CSU on it."

Abbie's eyes locked onto Spencer, her heart pounding as she overheard her brother's words. Aaron was right; she should've stayed in Virginia.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

𝟮:𝟬𝟰 𝗽𝗺
𝗛𝗼𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗻 𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗗𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁


"𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 UnSub relationship we've determined to be at play here is a two-person partnership," Morgan led the profile, directed towards the group of officers that had gathered before him and his team, "commonly referred to as dominant and submissive."

Emily had returned with Rossi from the morgue half an hour earlier, and she now stood between Morgan and Hotch, taking over with what she had been filled in by the team. "We believe the submissive in this case is the abductor, and the dominant the killer."

"The submissive partner is likely to be complacent," Spencer added, his hands fidgeting as he spoke. "He'd be willing to obey any and all orders given by his dominant, and he likely won't be very noticeable."

"How do you mean?" Noah asked from where he stood with Abbie seated beside him, his arms folded over his chest and the sleeves of his white dress-shirt rolled to his elbows.

Aaron finally stepped in. "He'll be average height, average build. He doesn't stand out in a crowd. Unlike his partner who craves the spotlight, the submissive still wants to be noticed but isn't confident enough to do so without the protection of his dominant."

"Agent Hotchner, are we still operating on the belief that Marcus Fletcher isn't the killer?" a female detective asked, her hand raised slightly.

"While he fits the profile of the dominant partner, we can't rule out the possibility that the evidence against him is in fact circumstantial," Hotch explained, met by his sister's sigh as he continued. "What we do know for certain is that he didn't abduct these women."

"Could he have abducted Liz Taylor?" the detective pressed.

"We can't determine that yet either."

"I'm sure you could," a male officer spoke up from the back of the group. "He and his lawyer just arrived."

The group of officers disbanded, while the FBI, Abbie, and Noah remained, their eyes all locked on the two men that entered the precinct. Marcus Fletcher wore his confidence in his grin, surveying the room as he passed. He knew he was being watched, he revelled in the attention. Nobody could touch him; he'd entered the precinct voluntarily, he was here to simply clear his name.

His lawyer, Curtis Tran, was the epitome of how Abbie knew defence attorneys to be. He was tall, conventionally handsome, with dark hair and eyes like a hawk. Within his polished and expensive loafers, she wouldn't be surprised if he hid talons. She'd met him a few years before they were pinned against each other at court; he'd interviewed for the position she ultimately was hired for with Hawthorne Gates.

He'd had it out for her ever since.

"I want in," Abbie announced, tearing her eyes away from them as they were led to an interrogation room at the back of the station.

Hotch shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Oh, come on," she whined, sliding slightly in her chair. "I want to wipe the floor with him and his dumb lawyer."

"That attitude is exactly why I won't let you in there, Abigail," her brother warned, a stern finger pointed towards her.

"Hotch," Morgan started, wary to step between his boss and his sister. "She knows this case back to front. If he slips up, she'll know."

Abbie gave a smug grin, tilting her head upwards.

After a calculated moment, Hotch finally conceded, sighing. "Fine. But I want you in there with her."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

"𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐄𝐑," 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 Fletcher was rubbing his hands together as Abbie and Morgan entered the cold and draining interrogation room, noticeably licking his lips. He'd paid attention during his own trial; after months of being in and out of courtrooms, he'd learned the names of each member of the prosecution. "I asked for a glass of water but seems they brought me a bottle of fine white wine."

Hotch murmured to himself as he watched behind the mirrored glass. "Don't antagonise him." But it was unheard, and his sister made her expected retort.

"I always thought of myself a rosé, really."

Marcus chuckled, turning his sights to Morgan. "And you, brother? Are you," he swayed an index finger between Morgan and Abbie, "sippin' on the rosé?"

Luckily for Hotch, Morgan knew how to play a suspect in his own game. "We're looking for Liz Taylor." He slid Liz's photograph against the polished silver tabletop.

"Hm," Marcus scoffed, glancing at the image. "Somebody off her too?"

"Where is she?" Morgan asked.

"Now why would I know that?" Marcus was smirking, his eyes still on Abbie, who was becoming visibly irritated by his evasion. "I've told you, snowflake, I didn't take anybody."

Morgan pulled two more photographs from the file, deterring Marcus's attention from Abbie. "Lisa Holden. She was twenty-five years old, she had a three-year-old daughter. Until she was killed, dumped in the trash. Is that what you think these women are? Trash?"

Marcus stayed silent, his eyes glued to the photograph of Lisa's mangled body within the black plastic surrounding the dumpster. He showed no expression of disgust, no distaste. Abbie's eyes narrowed, trying to pick it. Pride?

Another photo appeared next to Lisa. "Marissa Kerne." It was the portrait taken of her after she stumbled into the police station only a few hours ago, her face marred and bloodied bandages covering her eyes. "She's twenty-seven, her son Miles is only eight years old. She had her eyes burned out of their sockets." Marcus was almost smiling now as Morgan continued. "But you didn't kill her."

"Nobody killed her," he laughed. "She's still kicking, brother."

"I am not your brother," Morgan warned, then tapped a finger to Liz's photo again. "Where's Liz Taylor?"

Curtis Tran leaned over to whisper into his client's ear, and Abbie almost lunged at him. Whatever he was advising, it wasn't a good sign. Marcus Fletcher leaned back in the metal chair, his hands still clasped together on the table.

"No comment," he smirked, winking to Abbie.

She exchanged a look with Morgan, knowing he was about to pull one final trick to try and trigger their suspect, to at least chip away at the mortar of the walls he had bricked up.

Morgan reached into the file again. "What about her?" He dropped a final photo onto the table, and it took less than a second for Marcus to recognise the woman. She was slim, dressed in a white baby-tee with blue cutoff shorts, her long, dark braids twisted into a knot atop her head. She was smiling wide, her joy creating a glow that almost radiated from her ebony skin. The photo was from over a decade ago, but it made their point.

Marcus's sly grin finally dropped to the pit of his stomach.

"Sharna Bryant," Morgan explained. "You two dated, right?"

"Marcus," Tran warned, but Marcus knew the routine; he didn't speak.

"See, we pulled your records," Morgan continued. "You two were together for eight years. During that time, she was in and out of hospital for a number of injuries. Twenty-two admissions, Marcus, in eight years. Police had their suspicions, but charges were never pressed, at least not by her. Then, two years ago, she finally left you. Do you want to know what we found when we looked into her records?" Morgan didn't wait for an answer. "She had a baby. Your baby."

Marcus's hands had tightened into fists; he was cracking.

"She put your kid up for adoption, and that pissed you off, didn't it?" Morgan pried. "Your own mom gave birth at 15, and gives her son, you, to her parents. She was the first woman that abandoned you, huh? Then, your girlfriend abandons you and takes away your son in a closed adoption, so you never even had a chance to meet him. A week later, Margaret MacKillop is found dead. You really have it out for single moms, don't you?"

Their suspect was steadfast. Abbie saw he was angry, and she took a step back towards the adjacent wall. She didn't want to be near their ticking timebomb, especially as the Houston Police had no reason to restrain him; he was free to attack, and given his history, it was likely he would.

"We know you didn't abduct these women, Marcus," Morgan concluded. "But we also know that you know who did."

"Marcus..." Tran repeated, leaning forward, his hand extended before his client.

"I want a deal," came Marcus's response.

The corner of Abbie's mouth twitched as she eyed the reflective glass that she was aware her brother was stationed behind. After her years in law, she knew that innocent people never asked for a deal.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 with Curtis before they parted, the eyes of Abigail and Morgan both on the pair the entire time from their vantagepoint, back within the glass-walled office. While her brother had dejectedly allowed her in on the interrogation, he was adamant she was to be nowhere near the negotiation of Marcus's deal.

"What did he want?" she asked, turning her back to the windows as Aaron entered the room.

"Immunity." He dropped a folder onto the table, unintentionally scattering a few of the papers.

Her dark brows hitched. "Immunity?" The gall Marcus had even to ask for it had Abbie shocked alone. "No fucking way." She folded her arms over her chest, mirroring the stance her brother held often. "Immunity is a shit concept in itself, but for him? No judge in their right mind would fucking grant it."

Morgan frowned. "Immunity is a shit concept?" he repeated. "You work in law, Abigail."

"I know I work in law," she retorted. "I still think it's stupid." She turned to her brother again. "This asswipe wants a deal, Aaron. He wants to get off scot-free, again, for the murders of twenty-three different women, not to mention the three others that we think his partner has killed. He's already gotten away with this once, I'm not letting it happen again."

"He's not getting a deal," Aaron spoke.

"Fucking damn right, he isn't."

"He's told us he isn't innocent," he looked to his sister. "He didn't abduct these women, but he's connected to the person who did. Now we dig."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

𝟯:𝟮𝟬 𝗽𝗺


𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐔 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐌 surrounded the expansive table, pouring over the mountains of notes and evidence, scouring for any minor detail missed that would crack their case. Abbie's heel was tapping rhythmically against the polished metal base of the chair next to her, Spencer seated within it. Her head rested against the sleek wood of the table, bored after going around and around the file in circles, her sights now absentmindedly fixed on Spencer as she listened to the others converse.

"With the partner stepping out to take his own victims," Morgan said, his hands pressed against the table as he leaned into it, "they're almost playing like master and student."

Emily pondered a moment, unknowingly picking at the skin around her nails. "What would happen if the student found out that his master made a deal to sell him out?" she asked.

"This guy has to be religiously watching the news if he heard what Liz said this morning," JJ spoke up. "We could use that."

Hotch eyed his watch. "See if you can set it up for the 4 o'clock."

JJ nodded, slipping from her chair and hurrying out of the room.

Abbie swallowed her apprehension, realising that every minute they spent on this was another minute her boss was being subjected to unimaginable torture. Liz might even have been killed already.

"The three women dumped in Louisiana," Morgan recalled what the detectives he had spoken to had told him, "their wounds were all post-mortem. They were suffocated before being stabbed."

"Clean kill," Rossi remarked. "He'd have felt the life leave his hands. He'd have felt control."

"The submissive is evolving," Hotch determined. "Marcus might not have told him to abduct Liz."

"He's protecting his master," Rossi continued, "like his master would have protected him."

Morgan spoke again. "What's then the point in the stabbing if they were already dead? Artistic flourish?"

"It's what he was taught," Rossi countered.

"What I don't understand," Noah interrupted from the other side of Abigail, but her back was turned to him, "is how would Marcus have been able to stalk Lisa and Marissa, to know their routines, without ever leaving police custody?"

"What about the partner?" Emily asked. "What if he's the one stalking them?"

"If they are master and student, he'd be obsessed with Marcus," Spencer finally concluded. "It's safe to assume he'd be obsessed with their victims too. He'd know everything, just like he'd know everything about Marcus."

Abbie's head shot up, her dark hair thrown back. "He'd have been at the trial."

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

"𝐖𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐇𝐈𝐓, pretties!" Garcia announced through the speakerphone hub placed on the table before reading off her file. "Roger Willis was at every date of trial, visited Marcus in prison twice a week, and appears on the attendees for the sign-in sheets I was able to locate with Modern Mothers, without being listed as a member; he was the caterer."

"What else can you tell us about him?"

"Oh honey, I am about to drop an absolute bomb on you. So, turns out, Roger was adopted. He originally was born, out of wedlock, to eighteen-year-old Helen George in 1978. Sadly, she died in childbirth, with no father listed on Roger's birth certificate."

"Please tell me you worked your magic," Morgan commented.

"Oh, I hella worked my magic, baby," Garcia grinned. "See, Helen was involved in a major scandal in the seventies. She was a legal secretary, involved with one of the married associates of their firm. She was fired, and nine months later, gave birth to her son. I'm guessing baby Roger also did his research to find his father, as he's been having regular payments of twenty grand each month since 2001, from one Brian Gates."

Hotch frowned. "Brian Gates?"

"Of Hawthorne Gates, yes."

The team turned to Abbie, who was staring at the speakerphone with the colour draining from her face. Brian Gates was the name-partner Liz had spoken to, the man who would approve Abbie's junior partnership.

If they could pin it all on Marcus.