It started with an artist.
There'd been tons of cases over the years. Tons of blood, bodies, messes, cruelty, blatant disregard for the human life, etc. There'd been casualties. There'd been surprises, shocks, scandals, and inexplicables. The occasional flirt here and there, a hug or comforting gesture now and then, but always a reassuring, firm hand on your back to keep you steady. They were adults. They knew when it was appropriate to break down, and when it was not. When it was time to hide your emotions and pretend like nothing bothered you anymore. They knew what to say and when to say it, how to deal with any and every situation thrown at them from any angle possible; who killed who, and why they did it. No room for mistakes in their line of work, because even the slightest miscalculation could lead to another body, or an escalation in the Unsub's MO and then everyone involved would be in a whole lot of trouble. And no one wanted that.
They had blurred the line of professionalism and inhumane. They had crossed that unspoken border where the cases don't seem to sink in anymore, where you just see the photos, bodies, blood and life splayed across the ground; they had hopped the fence of humanity. The little spot in the back of their minds that kept them crackling with hope had died like the ember of a cigarette being stomped out by the toe of a shoe. They'd been told not to ever let cases get that impersonal, they'd told others to remember that these are real people, just like everyone else, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that even though it's a good idea to keep a levelled, calm head about you; you have to remember to hold onto that little sliver of sanity that you have left. Because once you lose that hope, that force that keeps you sane, that drive to venge the fallen; once you lose the bit of humanity that keeps you empathetic and sympathetic; once you lose it, it's gone, and so are you. You become as lifeless as the blood-drained body sprawled out on the floor in front of you, peering up at you with dead eyes, pleading with you to find her killer and bring him to justice. Not for her, but for the others who will inevitably become like her.
He'd blurred it, and he knew it. He'd stepped into the forbidden zone of unfeeling and uncaring, of not remembering how to console another when they were in pain. He didn't know what to say to someone who was hurting, because to him, hurt was all in your mind. You brought it upon yourself, in the end. You didn't deserve sympathy because you were just like every other person on this planet. You did exactly what they did. And then you lost someone, and now you're weeping and expecting to be comforted? Why should you get the liberty?
And he didn't want to think it, didn't want to admit it, because admitting it was declaring that it was real, and making it real made it a problem and something he had to deal with. He wasn't ready to deal with it, didn't want to, didn't feel that he had to. Felt like if he pushed it away far enough, maybe he could just work through this. Maybe if he saw enough dead bodies, his own problems would become meaningless, and the desperation and neediness of others would occupy his time and his thoughts. But that was not the case, and he should have known that, because he's a profiler, and he knows what he's doing, and he knows it isn't going to work.
He steps onto the pale salmon carpet of the dingy hotel room, the green-tinted light flickering from the broken bulb swinging back and forth in the middle of the room. It's nearly ninety degrees outside, and yet as soon as he enters the room he feels as cold as ice. Feels like there's an air conditioner sitting somewhere in the room, invisible to the naked eye, blowing gusts of chilly air at him full force. He notices the tattered blinds to his left, barely covering the smudged window. The only window. Notices the way that the faded heliotrope sheets are crumpled on the left side of the bed, but not the right. Takes a mental note that everything is completely un-colour coordinated, indicating a particularly cheap motel. Most likely chosen on purpose.
He steps closer to the brunette lying on the floor, kneeling down to examine her close up. Her hair is chopped in what appears to be no exact style, chunks of the brown locks strewn haphazardly across the motel room. Mouth split open half-way, a straight vertical line running down each pillowy lip. A cross etched into each cheek, hollowed out so you can see the muscles inside. Her white blouse undone a few buttons, the hints of a carving along the valley of her breasts just barely peaking out through the fabric. Jacket torn and mussed, paint-spattered jeans rumpled with one leg pulled up to show the girl's calf, where another symbol is carved. A candle, illuminated by a small flame. He's almost positive that there will be one on her other calf as well. He sees her dull nails, paint residue thick under her fingernails, light blotches of paint dusting the tops of her fingers.
He sees her, yet he doesn't really. He sees the outline of her body, the important details, like the markings and the condition her body is in; but he doesn't see her eyes. Doesn't see the hue of her skin. Doesn't notice the glistening ring on her finger, the ruby red colour of her lips. He sees her as the case she is, the work he has to decode, the puzzle he has to crack. He doesn't see her as a person, or what was once a person; doesn't see her life, her memories, her legacy. And maybe it's not that he doesn't, maybe it's more that he chooses not to. Maybe he's trying to reason that it's easier like this; easier to be uninvolved. Getting involved carries baggage, and he's not sure he can handle any more than the luggage he's already hauling around. If Gideon were here, he'd tell him to set his burdens down. As a friend and as a colleague, Gideon would tell him that it was best to file his personal life away from his professional one, to take care of his problems when they were presented, because it would only come to affect him later on, should he ignore them. And Gideon would be right, of course. He knew that. Knew that it was his responsibility to deal with his issues at home, wherever his home may be. Because lately, it didn't feel like a home. It felt like a coffin, damp, dark and suffocating. It may have been rid of all traces of Haley and Jack, but the abstract evidence remained as heavy as the thickest lead.
He could still see their keys on the hanger, their clothes in the closet, Jack in his own bedroom. The crib, the toys, the dressers, their armoire, two cars in the driveway instead of one. He could see everything just as clearly as if it had been there all along, and not in his mind. He knew that it was slowly seeping its way into his work, trying to destroy his focus. It was warping his opinion on things, was hindering him from giving one-hundred percent to those poor, poor dead souls, lying on the floor in front of him day after day.
He stands back up, hands slicking the creases out of his slacks. Looks around the room once more, surveying the damage. Vaguely hears Morgan and Reid interrogating the motel owner, Rossi and Prentiss going over commonplace and obvious facts about the victim, throwing ideas back and forth to each other about the body and how she got here. Why it was her, why it was at this place, and why we found her at this time. Already working on victimology. Thinks he hears JJ outside, talking to the press, trying to deter the paparazzi from snapping thousands of photos to leak all over the internet. They don't notice the details that he does. The miniscule paint on her fingers. The faint smell of art chemicals, commonly used in a workshop. The dull fingernails, efficient for one who uses their fingers all day, sketching, drawing, mapping, colouring, creating.
He knows it's going to get worse. Knows that eventually, he won't be able to do this anymore. Knows that there's only so much that can be worn down before you get to the raw muscle, and that's where it gets messy. He realizes that if he was in any better condition than he's in, he'd take some leave, relax at his house and try to gather his thoughts and emotions. He'd get himself in check. Corral himself together, and then troop back into work two days later. Start right in on a case, bury himself in it and try to forget about the black cemetery of his should-be home.
Had it been any other day, he might have heeded his own warnings. But it wasn't any other day. It was today.
Approached Rossi and Prentiss, who stopped their conversation to fill him in on their theories and discoveries. Reid and Morgan joining them within seconds, throwing ideas into the air, hoping one would bite and they'd be able to run with it. No one mentioned the paint residue under her fingernails, the dust of paint blotches on her fingers. The dullness of her nails. No one bothered to comment on how empty her eyes looked, how pale her skin was.
There was rustling outside, a voice laden with static over the police radio, before it was apparent that there was another body, already waiting. Another person, lying upon the floor, motionless. Expecting to be venged. Expecting more than she gave to the world. He didn't say a word. Walked back to the SUV, climbing into the driver's seat and waiting. Rossi popped open the passenger's side door and hopped in, shutting the door with gusto. A profound silence looming in the vehicle as Hotch pulled the car out of the parking lot and pointed it towards the road. Towards the body, silently telling him that he wasn't alone. Whispering to him that she was there too. Warning him that if he wasn't careful, he was going to end up like her, only maybe not physically.
"It's quiet at my house," he says, voice carrying out into the quiet like the flicker of a candle light.
It had started with an artist.
