Little Bird

The secretary at the front desk passed out on the floor before she could call for help. A slim girl with long dark hair came walking up only a few moments earlier completely covered in blood. Security quickly grabbed the girl, assuming she was armed and/or dangerous before the BAU was called downstairs and intervened.

Despite the time that had passed, the girl was still unresponsive. It wasn’t until Derek Morgan approached her with tentative hands and a soft voice that she began to scream. Her cries echoed in the large room until Emily pushed Morgan aside and took the girl into her own arms. She quickly silenced, her eyes drying and chest slowing down.

They had pictures, clothes in evidence, and her face and hair clean within the hour. JJ put a rush on the swab from the girl’s cheek and the rape kit—though they didn’t really need it from the obvious bruises on her pelvis and thighs—after they put her into an interview room. She stared at the glass of Sprite, tapping it every minute or so to watch the bubbles float to the top. She laid her head down on the metal table, enjoying the cold that was spreading through her cheek.

Rossi and Hotch walked into the interview room empty handed. They had no files; she wasn’t a witness. The girl didn’t even have a name yet. Her head snapped up with the close of the door. Her big blue eyes widened and her breath hitched. She shook her head and backed into the corner.
Emily and JJ gave the next go, and returned with a name, age, address, and emergency telephone numbers. It didn’t matter though; she said that much very surely, her family was dead. He killed them.

“He’s killed lots of people. He talked about them all of the time. Do you have a crossword, word search, coloring page, chess set, knitting needles and yarn, anything? My hands need to be busy. Is it hot in here? I’m hot,” Jessie ran a hand through her hair as her mouth babbled as fast as possible, and they excused themselves with a promise to bring something back.

“I don’t even know where to start with this one,” Emily leaned against the two way mirror.

She folded her arms and looked to Hotch who had the same stern look on his face. Morgan rubbed a hand over his face and mumbled something about seeing Garcia.

“Do you guys mind if I try something?” Reid piped up from his desk.

He grabbed a pencil and a stack of newspapers.

“Reid, she can’t be around men; we’ve already established that,” Rossi sighed and closed his eyes momentarily.

“I’m not an alpha; I thought we’d already discovered that,” he pushed the door open before anyone could stop him.

“Hi, Jessie, I’m Dr. Reid with the BAU. I thought you might like something to do while you wait. It’s the New York Times though, so beware, they get pretty tough.”

She glanced up at him, down at what he’d set on the table and sighed. Her chipped, hot pink nail polish stood out against the black print.

“Do you have a pen? I prefer pen,” Kori said lightly.

He nodded and exited the room. Before anyone could speak he smiled.

Reid retrieved a pen from his desk and slipped back into the interrogation room.

The second he set the pen down, she began tapping the tip of the pen in different boxes, scribbling a few letters down every now and again. He watched for only a few moments before interrupting her.

“Who is it that killed all those people?” He asked in a voice just above a whisper.

“I called him Jack. I heard him called a variety of names from the others, though.”

His eyes shifted to the glass, although not seeing anyone, they all had the same sad thought pressing on their minds.

“Jessie,” he spoke softly but assuredly.

“Jessica, I think I’d like to be called Jessica actually. He called me Jessie. I don’t think I want to use that anymore, please. What’s your name?”

“I’m Dr. Re-“

“No,” she said, never looking up from the paper, “What’s your first name?”

“Spencer,” he replied, eyes shifting between the window and her face quickly.

“That was,” Jessica breathed in and out many times, pulling the long sleeved FBI over her fingers as far as they would go, “That was my brother’s name.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, get ready for some sad, sad news,” Garcia stepped out from in front of the projector in the conference room.

She clicked the remote and several images appeared. A man and woman—more than slightly decomposed—gunshot wounds to the head, a pre-teen boy shot in the same fashion, all in their beds.

The last was a bed with bright green sheets, empty and disheveled with a single stain of blood in the middle.

“Eight years ago today, Sarah and Jason Monroe along with their twelve year old son Spencer were murdered in their sleep. Spencer’s twin sister, Jessica,” a seventh grade school photo of Jessica appeared on the screen, covering some of the horror, “was never found. They were supposed to leave for a family vacation early that morning, so no one even reported the Monroes as missing for a week, so Jessica was long gone by that time. Sexual assault was presumed from the blood and semen samples found on her sheets.”

Garcia abandoned any witty puns. Whether or not this was a serial killer, a girl was sitting in their interrogation room, with Reid. A girl who, statistically speaking, should have been long since dead.

Spencer appeared in the doorway at that moment, a sort of sickened look on his face, “Guys, there are others. She’s writing a list down right now.”

The team huddled around the window, as if watching a sick circus sideshow. Jessica flipped onto page two of the yellow legal pad, Garcia let out a sound not unlike that of a kicked dog, while Emily just gave a dejected sigh. What were they going to do?