Think Again

Hotch came back with a cup of fresh coffee for me. I took it, not planning on drinking it as fast as the first. Coffee and I have an awesome relationship normally, but it can get very weird. Dr. Earl Switzer looked at the cup longingly, obviously not satisfied with his cup of left over. Oh yeah... I'm going to nurse the hell out of this cup.

Hotch took a seat in the chair next to me and opened the file. He took a moment to write something on the paper before sliding it over to me.

Not the killer.

I nodded, then asked, "You move around a lot, Doctor... why is that?"

He shrugged, "Get bored... a new job opens up... you name it, it sounds good."

"You seem to stay in places for about two years... except Los Angeles. You lived there for four years. Did a better job open up? Or did something else happen?"

Shrugging Switzer asked, "Define 'something else.'"

I pointed at the first two pictures, "Donald Tait and Regina Marks? Both were found murdered the last two years of your stay in LA."

"I already told you... I have no desire to kill my clients. I don't care about my clients. All I care about is their money. So what if these people are murdered. It's their fault for living in major cities."

Hotch frowned, "You don't find it odd that two of your patients from each city are murdered, and you are the only thing connecting them?"

"Bad luck."

"Dr. Switzer, do you know what a stresser is?" I asked.

"No."

"A stresser is something that a person experiences in their life that causes them to act out a fantasy or an act of murder. A stresser can be anything from a loss of job or a break up to an abusive sibling or parent."

"Okay."

"As profilers, we can usually guess when a stresser happens in a person's life. We can track it as far back as the person's early childhood."

"Okay. So what's this got to do with me?"

"After you graduated in 1997, there was and eight year frame where your life as a practicing surgeon was all find and dandy... you spent half of those years in LA. Then, six years ago, something happened, and Donald here, was the first victim to disappear."

"Nothing happened to me."

"What about your brother, Carl?"

Earl's face blanked.

"What happened to Carl six years ago?"

"He... he was in an accident. A car accident. Ruined his face."

"He dropped out of school that year."

"Yeah. The people there - even the teachers - treated him differently."

"Has he lived with you since the accident?"

"Yes."

"Do you get along with your brother?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"Just answer it, Dr. Switzer," said Hotch, "Do you and Carl get along?"

"Of course we do! I'm the only one who took care of him while he was recovering. I'm the only one who doesn't shove the idea of facial reconstruction down his throat."

"How far along in medical school was your brother before he dropped out?" I asked.

"He almost graduated. He only had a few months left, but he couldn't do it."

"What's your brother like?"

"He's quiet.... He spends most of his time in his room or in the shed. He works with his hands. He makes things."

"Define 'things.'"

"Lampshades, I don't know."

I could feel myself freeze. Flashes of Jeepers Creeper played through my mind, of his home with the skin stretched and sewn in horrific designs. Hotch nudged me and I recovered, letting out the breath of air I was holding.

"Where is your brother now," Hotch asked.

"He's doing his janitorial shift at the hospital, why?"

"We're going to have to ask him a few questions."

Hotch stood and so did I. As I did, my shirt opened a little more, and the doctor smiled. "You know... you're not as beautiful as they think you are."

"I'm sorry?"

Leaning back in his chair, he said, "Nice scar."

I flushed and followed Hotch out of the room.

~Spencer's P.O.V~

Morgan and I were on our way back to Little Rock, Kelsie with us this time. She was very quiet as she sat in the back, her shirt buttoned up securely. Her finger rubbed the cloth over her shoulder, tracing the scar beneath it.

"Are you okay, Kels?" Morgan looked at her in the rear view mirror.

"I'm fine." She made eye contact with him and smiled.

"Don't let him get to you, okay? He's paid to say things like that."

She nodded, "Yeah."

We were all quiet the rest of the way there. At the hospital, we were forced to wait at the front desk while the staff located Carl Switzer. Kelsie stood in between the wall and Morgan, away from me again, and I mentally frowned. This was odd. I thought we were becoming friends.

Maybe she's trying to get to know Morgan more.... Yeah. That's it.

"How can I help you," asked a janitor. He had sever scaring done to his face so it had to be Carl.

"Carl Switzer," Morgan asked, "We're with the FBI-"

"You took my brother... what do you want?"

"We need to ask you a few questions.... It won't take long."

"What kind of questions?"

"It's about your brother, sir."

"Do we have to leave?"

"We need a quiet room, yes."

"It's protocol," said Kelsie, "Sir, the faster we do this, the faster we can get everyone home."

"No... no, I can't leave."

"Your shift ended twenty minutes ago," I said, "You have no work left."

Carl looked at me and frowned, "I have... a pet to care for at home."

"You don't own a pet," I bluffed, "Earl told us it was just you two."

Carl's breathing rate increased as sweat formed on his brow. He avoided eye contact with any of us and he started to fumble over his words.

"I... um, you... I-I don't have to go anywhere with you," he said, "U-unless you have a warrant."

We didn't.

"Well, if you will excuse me, I need to go home." He pushed past us, and left.

"I've got this," said Morgan as he pulled out his cell phone. Walking out of the building, he dialed a number and started talking.

"So... are we thinking he fits the profile? Or what?" Kelsie stood next to me while we watched Morgan argue over the phone.

"The profile said that he would be someone who had medical training, and would be insecure around people who were better looking than he was."

"Basics."

"He's a white make, in this early thirties, works a low paying job and may or may not live with someone close to him. He'll spend most of his time alone, locked in his bedroom or any other room or building."

"So we've got a fucking red flag."

I paused to ponder over her choice of words, then nodded, "Pretty much."

"Awesome."

Morgan came back in and told the woman behind the desk that she was going to get a fax sent to her for us. She haded him the arrest warrant, and we left the building quickly.