Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER ONE: FIRST CASE

"I think hell is something you carry around with you, not somewhere you go."

     — Neil Gaiman

——————

Frustration is a universal thing. It's the way a person copes with it that makes it different. Some bottle it up, some seek solace in the great outdoors or spill their guts, safe on a therapist's couch. For all agents at Quantico, the shooting gallery is open for "practice". I say it like that because very few of us are there to polish up on our skills. We come to feel something — the flex of a finger, the sharp shudder of recoil, the way the impact rattles in the ears.

Holstering my gun, I review my handiwork. The dummy in front of me has accumulated at least six wounds by now. Holes bloom from its bloodless paper chest.

"Not bad."

The muffled voice makes me turn. The man stood behind me watches under dark brows, a strange look in his eyes, an attempt to mask the pride of a mentor. He's old enough to be my father, and the frown lines prove it, deeply set into his face after years of worry and deep thought. I immediately remove my headphones and safety glasses. He returns them to the shelf behind him. "Well damn, Gid. You should know better than to sneak up on a girl like that."

Jason Gideon smiles his tight-lipped, sidelong smile. "Thought it was time I checked on you," he says with a shrug.

Such paternal comments are not unusual for him and I reply in my own dismissive fashion. "Doing just fine. I'm not the one who went all radio silence for six months." Out of the gallery, I pause just before the stairs up and give him the slightest raising of an eyebrow. "Speaking of, are you good? I heard what happened in Boston."

That smile again. This time it's a little less honest. "I'm fine," he patiently assures me. "I'm not the one shooting at 7am on a Saturday. Something happen or is it just the usual?"

"Who's to say?" Neither of us is a therapist and we don't try to be. We keep our questions short and expect answers even shorter. We were always on the same page that way. At the top of the stairs is a corridor boxed all in pale grey, which opens up after a little while into the ground floor of the office building. Everything is plain and bustling with agents and analysts and maintenance staff heading into work, a sea of black suits. The silence between us is motivation enough for me to elaborate, "Hit a slump in the cases. We've had nothing for a week. You know me, I need stimulation or my brain implodes on itself."

He comes to another stop, hesitating with his hands in his trouser pockets. "I've got a case."

"Okay..."

"No. No, I mean I've got a case. And I could do with some expertise."

A quick once over assures me that he isn't lying, not even teasing me. "What, from me? I only just made it to Supervisory."

Another shrug. "So you qualify," he notes. "Just one case. What do you say?"

I don't need to think it over but I pretend. Any opportunity to work with the famed Behavioural Analysis Unit is a good one. With a smirk, I head past him to the elevators. "Fine. But you're the one telling my boss I'm getting poached."

—

The BAU's headquarters are nothing special, just the regular bull pen of cluttered desks, ringed with overlooking offices. Still, I view it with faked indifference as I follow Gideon in. We head straight into a small conference room with a round table at its heart.

It's there that I see the rest of the team — admittedly smaller than what I'm used to. Two women sit at the table, one blonde, one dark-haired like me. The first beams when she sees me, jumping up from her seat. "Sully? Oh my God, what are you doing here?" She almost looks like she's about to go in for a hug but thankfully refrains.