Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haruki Murakami wrote, “But we cannot simply sit and stare at our wounds forever.”

Westland City

A young man stands near the doors of the large, empty room illuminated by a weak battery-powered lamp and the pale moonlight shining through a hole in the high ceiling. A torrent of rainfall drums against the roof, deafening to the point of silencing the young man’s footsteps as he slowly walks forward with a large bouquet of flowers in his arms.

A flash of lightning briefly illuminates the gentle smile on his face hovering above a cluster of blue and white flowers. The beauty of the velvety petals contrasts sharply with the dilapidated surroundings—the pews filled with wood rot, stained glass windows broken and cracked—and with the even uglier body writhing on the floor like a worm.

The young man’s gaze passes over the trussed-up man as if he is no different from the rest of the filth on the floor of the abandoned church. His eyes settle on the person standing with the lamp in front of the altar. The young man’s expression brightens minutely, and under different circumstances, one might even call it delighted.

“Do you like your gift?” he says, his voice light and playful.

“It’s a rather disgusting gift,” the other person remarks, his voice thick with contempt that would make any onlooker uncertain whether that sentiment is directed towards the younger man or the one squirming on the floor uttering muted screams. Of course, if anyone really was present to watch this scene unfold, they would have to be the most unfortunate person in the world.

“Of course,” the younger man continues, “the real gift is seeing what piece of art you’ll produce from these ‘disgusting’ materials.”

The other man rolls his eyes, a cold sneer on his handsome face.

“So, is this gift for me, or for yourself?”

“Why not both? Hasn’t he wronged us both in the past?”

“As if you care,” the man retorts, though uncertain if it really is the truth. He has never been able to escape the shadow of his past and cannot imagine brushing off the pain this person has caused him like flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve. However, this psychopath in front of him cannot be considered a normal person. Perhaps he truly isn’t haunted by the same nightmares as himself, or perhaps they’re just hidden so deeply that he himself is unaware.

“You certainly do care more than myself. I’m only interested in seeing that passion of yours deepen, to see what you can create when you totally give in to your desires.”

The person on the floor has been valiantly trying to crawl away, but he cannot possibly escape his fate. This church is abandoned for a reason; the building should have been condemned long ago, but either the funds were never allocated or there was some issue with the land ownership. In any case, even if anyone could hear the screams over the torrential downpour, no one in this neighborhood would lift a finger to help. They might even be deeply immersed in their own crime at the moment.

The younger man places the flowers on one of the wooden pews, well out of the range of the rain falling through the ceiling and any potential blood splatters.

“Piano strings,” the other man comments as he kneels down to examine the restraints. He draws a long, thin blade from the hostler at his ankle. The blade shines in the pale light like a beacon in the fog; he holds it with deft hands, but seems to be lost in thought, his brow furrowed deeply. It makes one want to smooth the tension with their fingers, but of course, doing so would risk his wrath.

“It’s poetic justice, isn’t it? You appreciate such symbolism.” The words ‘poetic justice’ elicit a frown from the other, but the young man continues as if he failed to notice, “You can remove them if you’d like, or string him up like a marionette, or hang him from the cross, but I would appreciate it if you incorporate the flowers in some way. They’re also part of my gift to you.”

His voice sounds so clear and charming, so normal, as if having a pleasant conversation over coffee, not discussing the dressing of a corpse. 

The other man does not reply. He slides the tip of the blade down his victim’s collarbone, cutting away fabric and drawing a thin line of blood down the torso heaving beneath him. He traces the tip across the ribcage, tempted to sink the blade into the cavity right above the man’s heart and slowly rip the organ right out of him. However, digging too deeply near the vital organs will end the man’s misery far too quickly. No matter how much he wants to force the man to eat his own vile innards, he must hold back.

He wants to take his time. He has all night, or as long as he can endure his partner’s incessant chatter, at any rate.

“I wonder if he even knows what this is all about,” the younger man muses as he watches the tip of the blade wander over pale, trembling skin. “Or which little lamb has grown a taste for flesh and has come back for revenge.”

“Hey,” the other man hisses, pausing to throw a glare over his shoulder. “Can you shut your mouth for once?”

The younger man smiles. Although this smile seems to be gentle and filled with boyish charm, his green eyes shine with a cold light, like gemstones glittering under the moon.

“Then show me,” he says ever so softly, his voice faint with curiosity and anticipation. “Show me your anger, your passion, the joy you feel when you sink your hands into their flesh and blood.”

Quantico, Virginia

It’s a gray, overcast day in the middle of autumn, when the lingering warmth of the previous season has been snapped from the air and replaced with a bone-chilling cold. The ground is damp from frequent rain, and in the distance, violent storm clouds roll ominously towards Quantico.

A sense of urgency fills the steps of the agents filing into the conference room for this morning’s briefing.

“I hope we make it out of here on time,” Tara Lewis remarks as everyone takes a seat at the table. 

“That storm rolling in looks like it’s not gonna be a pretty one,” Derek Morgan replies, a hint of caution in his voice.

“The plane’s waiting for us, so we’ll make this quick,” Aaron Hotchner promises as Penelope Garcia shuffles to the front of the room to present the details of the next case. There’s a faint grimace on her face as the crime scene photos appear on the screen next to the photograph of a middle-aged man.

The agents are no strangers to seeing acts of violence and depravity. The worst of humanity is the bread and butter of their line of work, but each person has their own personal limit—cases which strike a little too close to home or reopen old wounds. However, some cases are just so terrible, so brutal, that the entire room winces as a collective whole.

The first crime scene photo displays the corpse of a man who has been reduced to a bloody, mostly skinless pulp and displayed beneath the cross in a small church that has seen better days. His hands, all that is left of them, are tied together as if clasped in prayer. The victim’s inner organs have been removed; a second photo reveals the organs were stacked on the altar like an offering. His chest cavity was also pried open, white rib bones wretched back to reveal the space where his heart should have been located.

“My god, is that a lot of rage,” Lewis can’t help but express with a shudder.

Garcia clears her throat and takes a deep, steadying breath. She very pointedly avoids looking directly at the rest of the photos taken by the crime scene investigators.

“And this is just the tip of the iceberg, my friends,” she declares. “A week ago, Westland police discovered the body of one Kaba Stryder, who had gone missing a few days prior, in this abandoned church on the outskirts of the city. He was…sliced up, gutted, and posed—most of it while he was still alive, mind you, but the medical examiner determined the cause of death was asphyxiation.”

David Rossi squints at one of the photos showing a closer view of the victim’s neck. A nagging feeling crawls beneath his skin.

“What was the murder weapon, Garcia?” he asks with some urgency.

“It was piano strings,” she replies, bringing up a copy of the autopsy report.

“That’s the MO of the Westland Pianist,” Spencer Reid says quickly, as if the words are fighting to escape all at once. “A serial killer who’s been active since 2010 and predominantly targets men with a criminal record. He tortures his victims, usually by stabbing, skinning, or removing their internal organs, but ultimately, he always asphyxiates them with piano wire. There are a total of twenty-four cases suspected to be the work of the Pianist, although there is some debate—”

“Wait a minute, if this unsub is this nasty, why is this case coming to us just now?” Morgan interjects as his eyes shoot back and forth between Hotch, Rossi, and Reid—everyone who seems to have heard of this killer at least in passing. The unsub may only operate in Westland, but the nature of his crimes is violent and frequent enough that the FBI’s assistance should have been requested ages ago, not twenty-four victims in and counting.

“We were never invited in by the local police,” Hotch says, his lips pressed into a thin line, dark eyes narrowing. There’s a story in his heavy gaze and carefully concealed frustration in his voice, but they don’t have the time to dissect it. “The WPLD has a consultant on staff who is a former FBI agent, but they’ve still never been able to catch the unsub.”

“Are we certain this is the work of the Westland Pianist?” Jennifer Jereau asks, gently rubbing the fatigue from her eyes as she stifles a yawn. The sleepless nights have really worn away at her reserves, but her voice is still sharp and attentive as she plays devil’s advocate. After all, piano strings are not the most common of murder weapons, but the use of them alone does not prove the unsub is the Westland Pianist.

“Yes.” Hotch nods sharply as Garcia brings up one last piece of evidence: the scanned image of a handwritten letter.

“The Pianist is known to send a letter to the police after each murder,” Reid explains.

“Since he normally moves his victims to a secluded location before killing them,” Rossi adds, “he always directs the police where to find the bodies.”

“Handwriting analysis has confirmed the latest letter matches the rest. In addition, the chief officer has reassured me that the letters and their contents have never been made public knowledge, ruling out a copycat killer,” Hotch concludes. It’s the one piece of good news in this grim briefing. He doesn’t bother to say much more for the moment, only adding, “Like Reid said, this is far from this unsub’s first crime. He’s experienced, extremely dangerous, and the officer in charge fears he may be escalating.”

Rossi’s eyes are drawn to the photos once more. He had read about this infamous case a while ago, but while his memory is nowhere near as precise as Reid’s, he still remembers the broad strokes of this unsub’s MO.

“It’s the flowers, isn’t it,” Rossi points out. “Those are new.”

Hotch nods in his direction without making eye contact. He is already gathering his suit jacket and stack of papers.

“That’s right, and that’s the reason we need to get to Westland as soon as possible,” he says, moving out of the room at a clipped pace as the rest of them break away from the table to prepare to head out. “Wheel’s up in twenty.”

Westland

When Herstal Armalight turns on the light, the scene of a violent struggle appears before him. He drops his keys as he steps into the room to survey the damage. The table and lamp have been overturned. A bottle of wine lays shattered on the floor along with shards of the ugly blue vase that was on display in the entryway.

His expensive leather shoes crunch over broken glass. The thick, coppery scent of blood saturates the air.

As a district attorney working in a city plagued by crime, one of the worst in the country, he should know better than to disturb the crime scene. The police detectives will surely scold him during the investigation, but he figures that even a stoic man like himself would forgo the rules out of worry.

After all, this is clearly not a simple break-in and it’s his lover who is tied hand and foot in the center of his own living room, bleeding from dozens of deep lacerations across his naked body. The blood has seeped into every fiber of the carpet, ensuring the room will reek until it can be ripped up and replaced.

A normal person would panic and worry the person laying in the center of so much blood might not be alive anymore, but Herstal even stops at the edge of the bloodstained area as if contemplating whether he should proceed and ruin another of his suits so soon. He had been forced to burn the last one, which was stained with enough of Albarino’s blood to be unsalvageable.

Albarino Bacchus, his lover who was so brutally assaulted and left bleeding profusely in the middle of the room, tilts his head towards him. He’s a bit weak and sleepy from the blood loss.

Herstal sneers as he finally concludes that he should be upset enough to dirty his suit. A good boyfriend wouldn’t even think twice before kneeling at his side to check if he’s still alive.

“I might prefer you like this. You’re finally quiet for once,” Herstal says as the blood quickly soaks into the fabric of his trousers.

Albarino smiles, his lips deathly pale but still quirked in such a way that his infuriating confidence shines through. His mint green eyes are warm with satisfaction, as if all they’d done tonight was have sex. He might be the one bound with piano strings so tightly that the wire has begun to cut into his skin, but Herstal is under no illusions: Herstal has been the one dancing to his tune all night long.

“Aren’t you at least going to check if I’m alive?” Albarino teases as he bares his neck, deep red marks in the shape of fingers already blooming over his skin.

Herstal had slowly wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed the soft flesh until Albarino couldn’t breathe and began to lose consciousness. Once he released him, he had looped the piano string around his throat but didn’t pull it very tight, just enough to be uncomfortable and impede his movement slightly. It lays right over the ring of bruising, a thin silvery line like the edge of a blade.

Herstal rolls his eyes as he presses two of his fingers against the pulse point on Albarino’s neck. His hands come away smeared with blood from who knows which part of Albarino’s body. He rocks back on his heels to pull out his cell phone to call 911 when he notices something between Albarino’s slightly splayed legs.

“You’re bleeding,” he says without thinking.

“Oh, thanks, I didn’t notice,” Albarino replies cheekily. He would have motioned to the innumerable cuts across his body if he had use of his hands.

“That’s not what I meant,” Herstal retorts a bit aggressively.

Of course, Albarino has already figured out where his eyes landed that led him to make that thoughtless comment.

“It’s not like the Westland Pianist would think to use lube before he rapes his victim.” Albarino laughs. It’s a bit weak and breathy, not as vibrant and deep as his usual laugh.

“And yet, you still enjoyed it.” Herstal snorts. Albarino wasn’t able to get off at all, obviously, no matter how enthusiastic he was about the whole situation. The pain from the deep cuts across his torso was too severe, even for a psychopath like him. However, he had been delighted watching Herstal carve him into ribbons, smiling through the tears and uncontrolled trembling.

And Herstal would like to say that he doesn’t understand the guy at all—who would enjoy being cut open like a piece of meat while being fucked?— but the unfortunate truth is that he does understand. For Albarino, the pleasure comes not from his own pain but from watching Herstal make him into one of his ‘artworks’, from anticipating, planning, and finally witnessing the scene unfold as per his expectations.

“Is this your deep-seated trauma talking?” Albarino’s flippant tone continues as he rants, “A lot of people who were abused as children grow up to inflict the same on their significant others or their own children, but I’m fairly certain it doesn’t apply in this case, after all—”

He’s as infuriating as always, perhaps more so than usual with the blood loss. Herstal longs to dig a finger into the particularly long cut on his abdomen, but he already scrubbed his hands raw earlier to erase any evidence of their encounter. He doesn’t have time to clean himself up again.

“Shut up,” he growls, low and threatening in a way that makes his boyfriend smile wildly. “You’re supposed to be playing the victim.”

“Well, then let me see your delightful act as the horrified boyfriend,” Albarino retorts. “And remember to yell and get a bit angry. No one will believe it if a guy like you starts crying and acting hysterical.”

BAU’s Private Jet, Somewhere Over the Midwest

The flight is short but turbulent. A thread of tension runs through the cabin as the airplane rattles across the skies.

“This guy is obviously a sadist with a lot of pent up rage,” Rossi observes as they review the WLPD’s files on the unsolved murders suspected to be the work of the Westland Pianist. “But seeing how long he has been active, he can’t be that impulsive or he would have made a mistake by now.”

“He must be highly organized and disciplined,” Hotch agrees.

The level of brutality displayed in these murders is shocking in and of itself, but the even more concerning matter is the fact that the Westland Pianist has never left a single shred of evidence, not even a partial print let alone a trace of DNA. He abducts his victims at an opportune moment and transports them to a remote location to carry out the murder, ensuring there are no witnesses to his crime.

“And arrogant,” Reid adds, examining the letters sent to the WLPD with a keen eye. “He sends these letters to provoke the police and ensure they can find the bodies. He’s egotistical.”

“And he sees himself as a vigilante,” Rossi muses with a deep frown creasing his face. “All of his victims are people who weren’t able to be prosecuted or were given much lesser sentences for one reason or another. He sees himself as judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Although the degree of overkill suggests that this may be personal for him.” Lewis shakes her head. The photos taken at the crime scenes are harrowing, but the descriptions from the medical examiners are almost worse. The Pianist clearly enjoys torturing his victims; there is a disturbing lack of hesitation, even in the earliest murders. “It’s likely he gets sexual gratification from inflicting this level of violence on his victims.”

“That may have been his original trigger.” JJ lifts her head and glances around the cabin. “If someone who committed a crime against him or someone close to him walked free, or received a sentence he felt was unfair, it could have compelled him to take justice into his own hands.”

“Garcia, I want you to concentrate on the cases that went to court within six months prior to February of 2010. That’s suspected to be the unsub’s first murder,” Hotch says, speaking to the computer Garcia’s head bobs up and down as the sounds of her typing reach their ears over the speakers. “Concentrate on the cases where the accused was unable to be prosecuted due to insufficient evidence or unreliable witness testimony. See if there is any overlap with the Pianist’s subsequent victims.”

“Roger that,” she says. “This may take a while, though. Westland is absolutely hopping with violent crime and gang activity. I swear, there must be a shooting or armed robbery or something every day— ”

“Actually,” Reid interjects. “Within the last four months, the rate has increased to ten shootings per day, not counting other violent crimes, such as…”

As Reid continues to correct her statistics, Morgan leans forward with a frown and says, “Does the unsub target these men before or after they’ve been tried in court?”

“That’s a good question,” Hotch replies. “The WLPD has speculated for years that the Pianist works in the courts or law enforcement. There have been several times when he kills the men before their cases are ever tried in court, and the exact nature of their crime wasn’t yet revealed to the public.”

“That’s risky behavior,” Morgan points out. “It narrows down the list of suspects quite a bit, but why haven’t they been able to catch him before now? Their tech analysts aren’t nearly as good as Garcia, but…”

“Why, thank you! Always appreciate a shout-out.”

“You’re welcome, baby girl.”

“There’s something you’re not telling us,” Rossi says, breaking his long spell of silence to finally confront Hotch with the question that has been nagging at the back of his mind. The rest of the team falls silent, waiting for the bomb to drop.

Hotch faces him with a grim, slightly shuttered expression.

“Yes,” he admits. “Officer Bart Hardy, the one who finally requested our presence, told me that ‘no secret is safe in Westland’. It’s possible they missed something in their initial searches, or the information could have been leaked.”

It always adds another layer to the challenges they face when the local law enforcement is non-compliant or downright hostile. The team mentally shifts focus when they hear of this potential barrier.

“All right, when we land, I want Reid to come down to Westland P.D. with me to meet Officer Hardy and go over victimology; Reid, you look through the past case files and evidence they have there. Lewis, Rossi, you go to the scene of the last crime and retrace the steps of the most recent victim, Kaba Stryder. JJ and Morgan, you two will interview the families and friends of the most recent victims.”

Hotch has just finished assigning everyone their tasks when Garcia’s voice pops back into existence.

“Uh, hate to break it to you, lovelies, but you may want to consider a change of plans. Boy, do I have some news for you.”

“Another body?” Morgan says.

“Sort of. It looks like the Westland Police Department received another letter last night. Results of the handwriting analysis aren’t back yet, but the officer in charge swears it’s the same guy.”

“He’s escalating,” Lewis remarks. The Pianist only kills three to four people a year. It sounds absurd to say ‘only three to four’, but any deviation from that trend indicates a shift in the unsub’s state of mind and may be their only chance to catch him.

“Not so fast!” Garcia scolds. “Let me finish! There’s been another victim indeed, but, and this is a huge ‘but’...he’s still alive.”

A ripple of shock passes through the cabin. After over twenty murders, each gruesome and violent beyond belief, no one would have expected to find a victim of the Westland Pianist alive to tell the tale.

Garcia displays the photo of a young man dressed in green hospital scrubs against a plain white background.

“This is Dr. Albarino Bacchus. He works in the ER at Westland General Hospital. His boyfriend came home last night to find him tied up, cut up, and sexually assaulted.”

The young man in the photo has a faint smile on his face, beneath which anyone can clearly see a charming and warm sentiment. His hair is a bit curly and chestnut brown, his eyes green.

“He’s a brunet,” Reid says suddenly. “The Pianist’s victims are usually tall, blond men from forty to fifty years of age.”

“The victims are likely surrogates for whoever wronged him in the past,” Rossi agrees.

“Well, he’s got ‘tall’ covered but definitely not blond.” Garcia provides them the photos taken at the crime scene: a residential home on the outskirts of the city. The photos tell a disturbing story, displaying numerous lacerations made by a sharp blade as well as wrists and ankles bound by the unsub’s signature piano strings. “The 911 call was placed at 11:42 p.m. and the police received the letter shortly before that time.”

“But this unsub has never left any of his victims alive.” Morgan’s brow creases in contemplation. “He wrapped the piano wire around his neck, but didn’t strangle him—not to mention, the Pianist has never sexually assaulted any of his victims before.”

“What makes this victim so special?” Rossi summarizes. “And why would he target a doctor?”

“Garcia, look up everything you can about Dr. Bacchus,” Hotch says. “We need to know why the Pianist chose him, and why he left him alive. Everyone, change of plans. When we land…”

Westland General Hospital

Herstal immediately closes the door behind him as he steps into Albarino’s hospital room.

“Your coworkers are annoying.” A frown presents itself in place of the stiff smile he had shown the hospital staff.

Herstal walks over to the bed and pulls the plastic chair over, his frown already turning into a scowl as he eyes the silly grin on Albarino’s face. He is wrapped in bandages and gauze from head to toe, his lips still deathly pale from the blood loss. He’s probably acting the same way in front of his colleagues, who pestered Herstal the entire way with advice and sympathetic words. They’re clearly quite worried beneath the clinical professionalism. He lost track of how many nurses told him to look after Albarino, that no matter how well he seems to be taking the whole ordeal, it’s most likely a lie.

Those nurses have no idea what they’re talking about. Albarino is probably getting a kick out of it.

The news that Herstal brings will only make his boyfriend even more insufferable. He sighs.

“Congratulations, your antics have finally compelled those lazy bastards at the WLPD to call the FBI for help,” he says dryly. “I heard they’re flying in today.”

“Oh, but they’re coming for you,” Albarino says, all proud like a mother bird pushing her chicks out of the nest and watching them plummet to the earth. “You’re moving up in the world, Mr. Pianist.”

He says the last words so softly that Herstal has to strain to hear him. His mind fills in the rest that his ears didn’t quite catch, replacing the hushed whisper with Albarino’s teasing tone from last night when they didn’t have to control the volume of their voices. He finally shakes his head and leans back in the chair with a genuinely exhausted sigh.

The hospital staff had insisted he return home for a few hours, so he went back to his apartment in the city to catch a little sleep. However, he still has deep shadows under his eyes and a terrible case of low blood pressure causing him to sway slightly as he fights the dizziness and nausea. A three hour nap is not nearly enough after staying up the entire night, but Herstal isn’t one to sleep in, even in this sleep deprived state.

Albarino shifts under the blankets, dragging out his arm. The stark white bandages look terrible on him. Herstal much prefers the rich, red blood coating his skin last night.

With another low sigh, Herstal wraps his hand over Albarino’s fingers in a gesture of tender care.

“They’ll eventually find out about Kentucky,” Albarino muses.

Herstal lifts his head. His stomach flips and he’s suddenly glad he didn’t eat breakfast.

“Isn’t that your plan?”

“Yes,” Albarino says evenly, “if not, how will they ever find out that man’s crimes? He’s hidden himself too well.”

“Won’t they end up thinking you’re the Pianist?” Herstal rolls his eyes. Albarino would hate to be mistaken for the Westland Pianist, but he brought this upon himself; yesterday’s assault was entirely his idea. “Do what you want.”

Albarino’s smile widens, though the act itself must be painful. The first thing Herstal did last night was punch him in the face with enough force to stun him and allow an assailant time to restrain him. The corner of his lip is split and swollen, the flesh bright red and incredibly tempting. Herstal itches to bite those lips and watch the blood bead up.

The infuriating man in front of him burrows deeper into the blankets with a pitiful and lovely expression.

“The painkillers are wearing off,” he says with a soft whine. “Can’t you go convince the nurses to give me another dose?”

“You’re a doctor,” Herstal points out unnecessarily. “You know they’ll say no.”

“But you’re just an attorney, what do you know?” Albarino says, making it sound very much like an insult despite the light tone of his voice. “It’ll show you care. We have to work hard to win those FBI agents over, you know. You don’t exactly have a warm and cuddly personality.”

The sky is a bright vivid blue, clear and crisp after the heavy rains that fell the night before. It’s a perfect autumn day, chilly but not yet too cold.

Westland General Hospital is bustling with activity. The patients and staff aside, a maintenance crew has also arrived to patch the ceiling which is leaking water. One of the head nurses greets the agents at the front desk with a tight but friendly smile.

“Welcome to Westland General,” she says. “I’m Joyce. It’s nice to meet you; wish it were under better circumstances, but then again, I bet you don’t often see people for good reasons.”

“That’s part of the job, unfortunately. I’m SSA Jennifer Jereau, and this is SSA Derek Morgan.” JJ smiles easily, shaking the woman’s hand. Introductions are brief; before they can say much more, the nurse begins to lead them to the elevators, evading the maintenance workers coming through with a ladder.

“The police already told me who you’re here to see. I’ll take you to him. And sorry about the mess—there was quite the storm last night.”

JJ waits until they have landed on the fifth floor and come to a stop at the nearest nurse’s station to ask a few questions that can’t be gleaned off employee records and social media posts.

“Can you tell us about Dr. Bacchus?” JJ asks. “I heard he works in the ER.”

“Oh, it’s terrible what happened to Dr. Bacchus,” the nurse laments, shaking her head vigorously. Around them, it’s a constant chorus of machines beeping and carts rolling down the hallways. She continues, completely unfazed, “The ER is perpetually short-staffed and Dr. Bacchus is one of our best. He’s been working in that department for five years now.”

“Would you say he’s well-liked among his colleagues? Is there anyone you can think of, a patient or a member of the staff, who might have held a grudge against him?” Morgan asks.

Joyce shakes her head and leans against the high counter with a frown.

“No, not at all. Everyone loves him. He’s always been a charming kid, and both the senior doctors who knew his father and the younger staff like him.”

“I did hear that both his parents were doctors,” JJ comments. Garcia had provided a quick rundown on Albarino Bacchus’s background on their way to the hospital. He was born in Westland, and both of his parents were doctors who met in medical school.

“You’ve got that right. His father was a cardiologist, one of the best in the Midwest. It’s such a shame what happened to them.” Joyce sighs heavily. “They were taken from us, and Dr. Bacchus, far too soon. Anyways, I know you’re not here to gossip. I’ll let you go talk to Dr. Bacchus now. He’s just down the hall, in room 580. His boyfriend should be with him now. The poor guy—he stayed for most of the night until Lindsey told him to go home and get some sleep, but he came right back after a few hours. He must be worried sick.”

JJ and Morgan thank her for her time and head down the hallway, which loops around the entire floor. As they pass room after room, they begin to hear voices filled with tension floating down the hall.

“You really can’t do anything?” says a low male voice, sounding a bit agitated and impatient. He’s not very loud, but demanding all the same. Morgan immediately pegs him as a man who is used to people listening to him.

“I’m sorry, his next dose isn’t for another half hour…” The young nurse speaking to him suddenly straightens her back, a bit of relief coloring her pinched expression. “Oh! Are you two here to visit Dr. Bacchus?”

The nurse quickly steps aside to greet the agents. The tall blond man standing outside the door to room 580 follows her movement and turns around.

The man has a handsome face, but the sharp scowl and intimidating frown detract from his good looks. His shuttered expression only opens up once he registers the logo on their uniform.

“The FBI?” he says. He sounds a bit flat, as if he’s not quite sure how to react and is carefully controlling his tone of voice. The rest of his body is equally tense, and a certain wariness shines out of his blue eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Armalight, these two are agents from the FBI. They’ve come to ask you and Dr. Bacchus a few questions about yesterday night.”

The man stands a bit straighter and he takes a deep, steadying breath. The tension eases from his body as he runs a hand through his hair, which he seems to have been doing often.

“So it’s true,” he says with a frown. “Albarino really was attacked by the Pianist.”

“What makes you say that?” Morgan asks, raising an eyebrow.

The man seems to remember his manners all of a sudden. He thrusts his right hand out to shake each of theirs in turn.

“My apologies, it’s been a long night,” he says in a professional, clipped tone. “I’m Herstal Armalight. I’m Albarino’s partner, and I work for the district attorney’s office. I heard that the police received another letter from the Westland Pianist last night and put one and one together.”

“News sure spreads fast,” JJ remarks as they follow him to the nurse’s station. The nurse prints out an information sheet of some sort, which she hands to Armalight. The man takes it swiftly and leads them back to the room. “That information wasn’t supposed to be released to the press yet.”

“This is Westland,” Armalight explains. “It would be strange if news didn’t spread immediately after something like this happens.”

JJ notices that the room has a different name than they were expecting to be posted outside, but that must presumably be due to safety concerns. Armalight pauses with his hand resting on the door handle.

“Is something wrong?” JJ asks softly.

He shakes his head.

“The police said you were working late last night,” Morgan remarks, keeping his voice hushed. The man stiffens at his words, but waits for him to finish speaking. “Do you often work overtime?”

 “Yes,” Armalight sighs. His hand flexes over the handle, but he doesn’t push it down. “Of course I do. The rate of violent crimes in Westland is out of control, growing like weeds with every passing year. And Albarino works in the ER, so it’s rare that we’re both home at a normal time. I work late so often that I keep my apartment in the city and just sleep there sometimes. There’s no point in driving all the way to Albarino’s place and waking him up if I have to be back at work in a few hours anyways.”

Armalight doesn’t look too happy to be telling them all of these details. He speaks with a tight, vaguely displeased expression. The agents can tell that he’s just trying to be upfront to reduce the number of questions they will surely ask later on.

“How did you feel when you found him?” Morgan probes, softening his tone just enough to demonstrate that he isn’t trying to be confrontational. Armalight throws him a withering glare, cold blue eyes like icy daggers. In that moment, Morgan could really imagine this man holding his own in a courtroom, facing down Westland’s lowlifes day by day.

“How would you feel?” he counters bitterly. “I shouldn’t have worked late again. He asked if I wanted to have a late dinner with him, but I told him not to wait for me.”

“Do you know if anyone was targeting your partner? Has he ever told you about a disgruntled colleague, or perhaps a patient?”

“I don’t know,” Armalight says simply. “You’d have to ask him. I really don’t know why the Pianist would target him—doesn’t he only go after criminals? Albarino is a doctor. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” JJ assures him. She can’t offer him any other promises—just that they would try their best to get to the bottom of this.

Albarino is highly amused by the tension on Herstal’s face when he leads the FBI agents into the room. His discomfort can be explained by the traumatic events surrounding his boyfriend’s recent assault; only the two of them know the true source of his unease. It’s comedic in the most ironic sense that the very serial killer these agents came to hunt is standing right next to them, pretending to be deeply upset by his boyfriend’s assault which he caused himself.

Granted, Herstal looks more pissed than concerned, but righteous anger can also be considered an appropriate reaction to trauma.

Albarino discreetly presses the left hand, hidden beneath the blanket, against his abdomen where the deepest lacerations are located. The skin pulling uncomfortably as he breathes indicates someone had to stitch him up while he was unconscious. Once he applies enough pressure, white hot pain radiates from the area, eliciting physiological tears and a stifled groan.

His actions force Herstal to rush towards him and play the part of the concerned and anxious boyfriend. His bright blue eyes dart, like the wings of a bird, between Albarino’s abdomen and his face. Albarino gazes at him through the tears, a gentle and affectionate warmth in his eyes.

The fake vulnerability between them is a pale imitation of their real relationship, but Albarino is happy to put on an act for the agents.

Herstal isn’t prone to emotional outbursts, at least not in his day-to-day life, so even his concern is merely a crinkle of his brow and a slightly deeper frown than normal. He even exhales sharply in what could be interpreted as frustration.

“I told you they’d say ‘no’,” he says quickly, referring to the painkillers. “And the agents here want to ask you some questions.”

Herstal moves aside to allow Albarino to see the FBI agents. Albarino immediately tracks Herstal’s movements with his eyes, as if anxious to let his only ‘safe’ person out of his sight. He quickly reorients himself to greet the two agents properly, with a pale smile that is a shadow of his usual grin.

He slowly unearths a bandaged hand to wave at them, a movement which engages more muscles than most would think. Many of the cuts on his body aren’t deep enough to require stitches and must knit back together over time. It means that even a simple motion like waving his hand or even breathing is uncomfortable.

“Hello,” he says politely, “I’d shake your hand, but…”

“It’s fine, don't worry about it,” the blonde woman is quick to assure him with a friendly smile. Albarino imagines she can be very gentle to her loved ones in her private life. “I’m SSA Jennifer Jereau from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.”

The man is a little more mindful of his height and build, choosing to stay behind her on purpose.

“I’m SSA Derek Morgan. Is it all right if we ask you two a few questions?”

Albarino’s brow creases in concern, or perhaps fear, or perhaps dread. His hand twitches on the bed sheets and Herstal, to his credit, takes it as a signal to hold his hand like a properly worried significant other. The dry warmth of his palm is actually rather soothing. Albarino has been confined to this hospital bed since he was admitted late last night, which is bad for his circulation.

“He already spoke to the police,” Herstal says coldly, though he doesn't really press the issue. Not only is he a district attorney who would be naturally predisposed to complying with the authorities, but he should also know that since the FBI is involved, the case is out of the scope of the local police.

“Of course,” Albarino says in a smallish voice as he thoughtlessly nods. The movement is impeded by the bandages wrapped around his neck and elicits a genuine wince of pain. Herstal was careful not to actually suffocate him or break skin with the piano strings on his neck, but he did use the blade to cut him a few times to warn his ‘victim’ to cooperate or risk getting his throat slit.

Of course, the Pianist would never end someone’s life by slitting their throat if he could help it. He gains no satisfaction from such an act.

“Can you walk us through what happened?” the blonde woman asks, her voice firm but coaxing. “From the beginning: where were you last night?”

“I was at home.” Albarino’s fingers tighten around Herstal’s. The man returns the grip. “I knew Herstal was going to come home late. I don’t remember hearing the door open, let alone anyone breaking in…he must have found the spare key.”

Herstal doesn’t have a key to Albarino’s house. It’s not a place he would ever go without Albarino, and until last night, he didn’t know that Albarino really had a spare key he kept under the front door mat.

“Careless,” Herstal had hissed as he angrily lifted the mat to reveal the dull silver key.

“Hey, anyone who trespasses will get what’s coming to them,” Albarino retorted. “I don’t take kindly to intruders on my territory.”

“I was reading a book in the living room. I had some wine, too, just a bit to relax. I had just finished pulling a double shift. I usually find it difficult to fall asleep right away after working a double.” Albarino pulls his arms closer to his chest as if wanting to curl into a ball to protect himself. “I couldn’t see him enter the house since my back was to the door. I…I think I sensed someone behind me, because I started to turn…but then he hit me over the head with something hard.

“I saw spots and couldn’t stay upright. I fell, he grabbed me, and punched me several times, and then…” He frowns in concentration, as if trying to recall the exact sequence of events. In reality, he had spent most of that time teasing Herstal and waiting to see exactly how the infamous serial killer would choose to ‘punish’ his unfortunate victim. Albarino hadn’t given him any ideas beyond setting the scene up; he wanted to see what Herstal would come up with on his own.

Herstal takes a deep breath next to him, perhaps pretending that he wishes to stop his boyfriend from reliving the traumatic events still so fresh in his memories.

Albarino’s thoughts are drawn to the church from the past. The colors and details have all faded with time for him, but he knows the place lives on in Herstal’s nightmares. When Albarino talks of those days, even the innocuous ones, he always closes his heart even further, a dark and violent expression clawing to the surface.

“I know this is hard,” Agent Jereau says softly, her voice filled with compassion. “Did you see his face?”

Albarino shakes his head and frowns.

“He was wearing a ski mask. I couldn’t—I mean, I was staring at him the whole time, but if I…” He  pauses, letting the words that go unsaid sink into everyone’s imagination. He spares a quick, vulnerable look around the room as that dread settles in their guts, the implication that he saw so few details that he could be standing in the same room as his rapist and not even recognize his face.

“Albarino,” Herstal says sharply, squeezing his hand almost tight enough to hurt. He is dragged out of his ‘trance’ by the slight discomfort, his head jerking up suddenly.

The extent of the damage to his wrists is only a few bruises and shallow cuts from his futile struggle to free himself, but the squeezing would likely feel a bit discomforting. After all, the Pianist had squeezed his wrists tightly together and then bound them with piano strings. The sensation would be enough to throw some victims into a panic attack.

The two agents share a quick look between them that is a touch too controlled to be anything but judgmental. They must think Herstal is being too forceful and a bit insensitive.

“I’m sorry,” Albarino whispers, taking a moment to swallow the hypothetical knot in his throat and compose himself. He took a deep, shaky breath before continuing, “And then he held a knife to my neck, tied me up, and then…then he fucked me while he used that damned knife to cut my abdomen up.”

Chapter Text

Westland Police Department

The Westland Police Department is a hectic place, no different from the likes of Chicago or New York City in terms of organized chaos. The sirens have been howling nonstop around the building and across the city. Although the morning rush hour has passed, it still takes longer than expected for Hotch and Reid to reach the police station.

The entrance echoes loudly with footsteps and conversation from half a dozen separate conversations. As the federal agents walk through the front door, curious eyes follow them, but their presence is otherwise overlooked in favor of the latest crisis to visit the department: a shoot-out in the downtown area, perpetrated by gang members in the throes of a power struggle following the recent death of their boss.

A fatigued officer arrives at the front desk to greet them. His hair is scruffy and he clutches a disposable coffee cup like it’s his lifeline. Despite the clear signs of sleep deprivation, including the dark shadows under his eyes, his gaze sharpens with interest as the agents approach the desk. He sets the coffee down immediately and steps forward to shake their hands, his grip firm but not overly vigorous.

“Agent Hotchner,” Officer Bart Hardy greets him. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Thanks for reaching out. I’m glad you finally got approval,” Hotch says.

This is hardly the first time that Hotch has spoken to the man in charge of this case. When Hardy finally delivered the news that his supervisor had approved the request for the FBI’s assistance, the unspoken relief and frustration had rolled off the man like waves. Apparently, he has been trying to seek approval to invite the FBI in for months, only to be denied on the basis that the Westland Pianist’s crimes have not crossed state borders. It’s a flimsy excuse and they both know it, but the bureaucratic red take had kept them from intervening sooner.

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch introduces as the two men greet each other. “I’ve already sent the rest of the team ahead of us to interview the survivor of yesterday’s attack and have a look at the most recent crime scene. We’ll reconvene back here later.”

“Just say the word if you need anything. Come, let’s get you two set up,” Hardy says, turning with renewed vigor in his step as he leads them into the bleak corridors of the Westland Police Department. This is a busy precinct with many more cases than officers to assign to them—perhaps the reason so many remain unsolved to this day. “I’ll give you the key to the evidence room where we keep all the files on the Westland Pianist.”

The conference room chosen to host the team is on the small side in a secluded corner of the police station, which is apparently an important detail even if Hardy doesn’t make a big deal of it. Hardy doesn’t move around the place like he is suspicious of every person he comes across—in fact, he greets several officers with an open and friendly expression—but Hotch knows the type of city that Westland is, and he isn’t surprised by the arrangement.

“You’ve been in charge of the case for several months now, right? What can you tell us?”

Hardy releases a full body sigh and shakes his head.

“Too much. All of us working here are more than familiar with the Pianist and his methods. He’s extremely cautious and meticulous. He takes extensive forensic countermeasures, to the point that our CSI team feels it’s a waste of their time whenever they’re called out to catalog one of his crime scenes.” Hardy frowns, a heavy and particularly somber expression clouding his eyes. “I’ll let you form your own conclusions regarding the profile. Olga always criticized us, saying we’re too fixated on certain aspects of the profile and that it blinds us to the truth of the matter…”

“Olga?” The name sounds familiar, but Hotch can’t immediately place it.

“Olga Molozer, she—”

“She’s a professor of criminal psychology at Westland State University and a former FBI agent. In fact, she used to work for the BAU.” Reid’s speedy and accurate reply startles Hardy for a split second, but he recovers remarkably well. A smile tugs at Hotch’s lips.

“She did mention that she had plenty of talented colleagues in the Bureau,” Hardy finishes with a tight smile. The frustration isn’t directed at them. The longer they interact, the more Hotch realizes that this is not the stress of a man with too much work and too little time. No, a more personal tragedy has to have occurred not too long ago and it’s casting a shadow, however slight, over his work. “If only they approved my request a few months earlier, then she could have helped your team out.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“What happened?” Hotch asks carefully.

“Nothing relevant to this case,” Hardy tells them with a firm voice and a steady gaze; he’s telling the truth. “She got injured helping me in our last case. She’s in a coma in the hospital right now. The doctors aren’t sure if or when she’ll wake up, but it’s too early to tell.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hotch says with genuine sympathy.

Hardy flashes him a brief smile in gratitude, but he doesn’t say anything else on the matter. Whatever went terribly wrong in that case, Hardy clearly feels responsible. The guilt must be weighing on him heavily. And then there’s the Pianist’s case casting a huge shadow over both him and the entire police department, the result of which can either make or break a man’s career.

“I really do appreciate your team coming out here,” Hardy reiterates. “But, please be careful. I know you’re used to dealing with all sorts of crazy killers, but the Pianist is one of the most dangerous we have in Westland, and that’s saying something. Olga always had no doubt that he’s the kind of murderer who will kill anyone who gets in his way. She wouldn’t have been surprised he targeted an innocent doctor, only that he left him alive in the end.”

It’s abundantly clear that the disastrous results of the previous case have left a huge shadow over his heart. The failure to protect those they swore to defend has driven too many good people from this profession

Hotch clasps a hand over the man’s shoulder, interrupting him with a firm grip and a grim but determined look. He can’t promise that they’ll catch this unsub, but he can offer the man a reprieve and much needed hope; with fresh eyes and a team who he trusts with his life, they might have a chance at finally nailing this killer.

“We’ll take it from here,” he promises.

“Thank you.” Hardy pauses, nodding mostly to himself as he regains his composure. “No matter the outcome, as long as it’s your team handling this case, I won’t have any regrets.”

Hardy’s ominously reassuring words resonate—despite his efforts to request the BAU’s presence, he isn’t fully confident in their ability to catch this unsub. When Hotch looks at the number of years that have passed without any progress on this case, he can’t say that he blames the man.

“Officer,” Hotch calls out before he starts to walk away. “What led you to believe the unsub is escalating?”

Hardy leans against the door frame, his brow creasing deeply as he nods in the direction of the crime scene photos posted on the board inside the room.

“It’s the flowers,” he says, which Rossi had also mentioned earlier in the day. “In Westland, there is only one serial killer who leaves flowers on his victim’s bodies.”

“The Sunday Gardener,” Reid says with a spark of realization in his eyes. “He’s been active since 2008 and always displays the bodies of his victims on Sundays in public places. But Kaba Stryder was found on a Tuesday morning, and the cause of death…”

“…was definitely asphyxiation,” Hardy finishes with a cross between a huff and a frustrated sigh. “That’s not the Gardener’s style, and given from what we know about him, I doubt he would deviate from his own MO to copy another serial killer. I don’t know the significance of those flowers in this case, or if they’re connected to the Sunday Gardener at all, but that was how I was finally able to convince the chief of police to call your team in.

“In any case, things are changing in Westland, and I fear it’s for the worse. I hope your team can get to the bottom of this before more people are hurt.” Hardy then gives them a quick nod. “I’ll head down to the forensic department to see if they managed to get anything from last night. I doubt it, but it doesn’t hurt to check.”

Hardy leaves them to set up their base of operations. Hotch files away the information he just provided them. The flowers do seem to be an anomaly, but the reports do indicate that the Westland Pianist occasionally adheres to a theme and adds objects to his victims’ bodies accordingly.

Reid has the laptop set up in no time and begins to add to the board displaying the details of the murder in the church a week ago. The sexual assault from last night is too new; no one has posted any information on it yet.

Hotch leans over the table and presses a button on the laptop to connect to Garcia. Her face pops up a second later and she is ready to talk a mile a minute as soon as she appears. Hotch turns away, concealing a smile as he calls out to her.

“Garcia, what have you got for us?”

“Well, while you guys have been settling in, I’ve done some digging of my own,” she says, long nails clicking away. She seems to have painted them orange. “First up, Kaba Stryder, sixty-six years old, works for some rich bigwigs and arranges events for them, yada yada, the part that’ll interest you is that he seems to have changed his name about ten years ago. Mr. Stryder did not exist before he came to Westland.”

“That certainly is unusual,” Hotch frowns. The Pianist has seemed incredibly consistent in his choice of victims, at least before sexually assaulting that doctor, so he expected Stryder to have an unsavory past.

“I’m still trying to figure out who he was before he came to Westland—whoever hid his identity was pretty good. I will crack this egg, but you’ll have to give me a little more time.”

“Garcia, check if Stryder was in witness protection,” Reid adds from the other end of the room.

“Once we figure out who he was, we also need to establish why he changed his name. What was he running from?” It could have been the unsub. It could have also been something or someone else entirely.

“I will certainly add that to the list.”

“And what about the latest victim?”

“His name is Dr. Albarino Bacchus, thirty-five years old, works for Westland General Hospital in the ER. He went to medical school in Pennsylvania, but he was born in Westland and his parents were both doctors as well. His father, Charles Bacchus, was—”

“A cardiologist,” Reid supplies, rounding the table to stand in front of the screen. He leans forward with that pinched look of concentration present whenever he’s recalling something he read, probably just once, a long time ago. “I’ve read some of his papers on cardiomyopathy. He was studying risk factors and early interventions before he committed suicide twenty years ago.”

“Way to steal my thunder,” Garcia grumbles. “Fine, I’ll give you that one, but I’ll bet you don’t know about his mother: Xana Bacchus [1]. She immigrated here from Spain, which is where the two met in medical school. She worked in oncology and died when Albarino was ten, also from suicide. It says here that the cause of death was drowning in a lake, and the one to call the police at the time was her son. Wow, poor thing.”

“They both committed suicide?” Hotch’s eyebrows arch in mild surprise. It seems unlikely, or at least an extremely unfortunate coincidence.

“Actually, medical professionals are at a higher risk of suicide and suicidal ideation and physicians, especially female physicians, have an increased risk as well,” Reid explains.

“After his mother died, he and his father moved a few times. Charles also committed suicide when Albarino was fifteen, and he was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Westland until he turned eighteen and went to college. They’ve since passed away and it looks like he also sold their house which he inherited. I don’t have much else on him at the moment. He’s not on social media, no prior arrests, nothing.

“As for the first victim: Tom Green was accused of killing his ex-wife and their three children, but I’m not seeing much of a link between his case and the rest of the victims. There’s a bit of overlap: a judge here, a lawyer there, but nothing consistent across all of the victims’ cases. Unless we can narrow the parameters down, this is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Send us the list of those who were involved in more than one of the cases, especially anyone involved in Green’s case.” Hotch’s brow furrows in concentration as he takes a step back and observes the evidence they have collected so far.

“The first victim is usually the most significant,” Reid agrees. “But this unsub is too cautious; he isn’t likely to have inserted himself in all of his victims’ court cases. It would be too obvious.”

“Got it, anything else I can do for my crime-fighting friends?”

“Actually, there is,” Hotch says, picking up a photo of the Stryder’s body displayed in the church. “I need you to look into the source of these flowers. Reid?”

Reid examines a few of the photos carefully before confirming, “The unsub decorated the body with lilies, delphiniums, and hydrangeas. These are all summer flowers, which means they’re not in season right now. He has to be getting them from somewhere—a nursery or florist.”

“Alrighty, I’ll look into it. Logging off!”

Suburbs of Westland

A young police officer is waiting for Lewis and Rossi when they arrive at Albarino Bacchus’s house in the suburbs of Westland. The officer introduces himself as Alexander and quickly leads them from the driveway to the front door.

“It’s awfully quiet out here,” Rossi remarks as he glances around them. The house is surrounded by greenery  on all sides, the forest quiet save for the birds and wind in the trees. The city’s endless hustle and bustle seems to be a world away from them at present, which is perhaps the reason Bacchus purchased the property in the first place. “The unsub didn’t even have to move to a secondary location. How far is the closest neighbor?”

“Over half a mile away,” Alexander replies, lifting the yellow tape crossed over the doorway for them to enter.

Rossi whistles. The house is a good forty-five minute drive from the city center, but feels much farther away from civilization.

“No signs of forced entry,” Lewis observes as she examines the doorway. She pulls on a pair of gloves as she talks.

“The spare key was found tossed in the grass just to the right of the door,” Alexander tells them. “The crime scene investigators bagged it as evidence, but they left a marker where they found it. The victim told us that he kept the spare key under the doormat.”

“The unsub most likely stalks his victims before making his move. He learns their habits, their routines,” Rossi speculates as they walk down the dim hallway, which opens up to the living room and adjoining dining room. The area is spacious with wide windows overlooking the backyard and forest. “He had to have known Bacchus would be alone last night, that he had a spare key, and his boyfriend wasn’t likely to come home while he was here. I doubt an unsub as cautious as him would risk making a move if there was a chance he would be interrupted.”

“Torturing his victims is definitely an essential part of the process for him,” Lewis says with a troubled frown. “But why would he leave Bacchus alive? Is it because he hasn’t committed a crime? If so, then why target him at all?”

The living room has an electric fireplace, which is currently cold and dark but was apparently the only source of light in the room at the time of the attack. In the center of the room is a disturbingly large bloodstain, which has long since seeped into the carpet. In front of the fireplace is the armchair where Bacchus had been seated, and next to the armchair is a side table which has toppled to the floor. Shattered glass and what is presumably spilled wine surround the area.

Rossi steps around the glass and his eyes roam over the picture frames displayed on the fireplace mantle. A young couple standing in a vineyard is featured in one of the frames. The man’s arms are wrapped around the woman’s slight frame from behind and their smiles are bright and carefree. The other frame shows a family portrait of the same man and woman, slightly older, with the woman holding a three-year-old child with blond hair.

Albarino Bacchus is clearly a brunet now, but it’s not unusual for some children’s blond hair to darken with age.

“They also found a dishcloth with the victim’s blood on it,” Alexander adds, shuffling over to show them the photograph taken by the crime scene investigators. He points out the evidence marker where it had been tossed by their unsub.

“If he tried to stop the bleeding, it confirms he wanted Bacchus to survive…” Rossi murmurs. The possible answers to the reason ‘why’ are endless and maddening if one dwells on them for too long. That is why it’s important to keep moving and tossing ideas between them.

“The Pianist has never sexually assaulted any of his victims before,” Lewis says, recalling the information they learned during the flight. “If we look at all of his precious victims, the most violent and extreme cases of overkill are always those accused or found guilty of sexual assault.”

“It’s likely due to some personal trauma that he’s lashing out at these people, believing only he is capable of punishing them for their crimes. He lacks trust in the police and the justice system, and most likely feels strongly that the system has failed him. This is why he sends those letters to Westland P.D. To provoke and humiliate the police.”

Rossi walks back to the entrance and makes one final round, tracing the unsub’s steps.

“If he hates rapists so much, why would he rape someone?” Alexander asks, entirely on impulse. The young man catches himself after the fact and gives a shaky laugh, hand flying up to rub at the back of his neck. The movement draws Lewis’s eyes to the prominent scar on the front of his neck. It’s not very old, and doesn’t look like the clean, surgical cut that would come from a tracheotomy. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s a good question,” Lewis tells him with a smile. “In many of these criminals’ eyes, sex is about control and humiliation, sometimes even more so than the sexual gratification itself. Violence is how these men feel safe again, but the effect is only temporary. Eventually, they will be driven to seek out more victims to recreate that feeling. It’s a vicious cycle.”

She has interviewed too many convicted murderers with a history of trauma and abuse, but her interviews can only define the risk factors and the profile of these criminals after the fact. No one knows the set of conditions that turns a person into a serial killer. After all, too many people around the world have endured abuse and trauma of all forms, but most don’t inflict that violence on others and become murderers.

It’s important to catch the killers hurting people now, like the Westland Pianist. However, the project that has been proposed is weighing on the back of her mind. It will be difficult to juggle both responsibilities. Most people would choose one or the other, but perhaps this is the change that Lewis needs in her life right now—a sense of purpose, a reason for digging into the most deprived minds the country has to offer day in and day out.

“He most likely left Bacchus alive because he’s innocent.” Rossi turns to address the young police officer. “It would go against his own principles to kill a doctor who hasn’t committed a crime, but he wants to send a message, so he decided on a non-lethal method of doing so.”

“To provoke the police,” Lewis muses, “To rebuke them for their failure to catch him?”

Rossi’s lips twist into a frown as he rolls the possibility over in his head.

“That doesn’t feel quite right,” he says as they wrap up and begin to leave the house. “Or at least, it’s not the whole story. Strangling someone is personal. He also tailors all of his murders to the crimes the victims have been accused of, so after twenty-four murders, what makes the message he wants to send with Bacchus so important that he would actually go against his MO and leave him alive?”

“Could it be that Bacchus isn’t so innocent after all?” Lewis asks.

Alexander casts them a bewildered glance, but doesn’t comment on the possibility.

“I’m not sure.”

Normally, Rossi wouldn’t put any stock into the opinion of a serial killer. Their rationality and decision making are usually so twisted that even the slightest, most innocent detail can trigger their desire to kill. However, the Westland Pianist has been extremely consistent up until now. And…

“The murder of Kaba Stryder and the assault of Albarino Bacchus are too close together to be a coincidence,” he says. “Not to mention, I didn’t see a single flower in the house. If the Westland Pianist really is responsible for this case, then that means something drastic must have recently happened in his life that’s causing him to change his MO.”

Westland General Hospital

Albarino squirms under Herstal’s rough touch.

The other man seems intent on making him flinch in pain. The new dose of analgesics has taken the edge off the burning, stabbing pain in his torso, enough to make breathing a bit easier. However, the pressure that Herstal applies makes him gasp, his brow pinched as he rides out the waves of agony, like the blade is dragging through his abdomen all over again.

Of course, anyone looking into the room would assume the two of them are just embracing, with one of Herstal’s arms wrapped over his shoulder and the other between them, presumably holding his hand. They have no idea his partner is currently pressing against his recently stitched wounds with a frightening expression on his face, cold eyes glimmering with a hint of madness and violent desire. 

Albarino is too numb and uncomfortable to be turned on right now, but that heated look stirs something in his belly that isn’t physical.

“You’re crazy,” Herstal sighs, digging his fingers into a place near his hip that draws a yelp out of him. There are definitely a few stitches beneath the bandages. He can feel them tugging as he squirms under his boyfriend’s rough touch.

The sensation is on the strange side. Albarino has operated on countless people and sutured many gruesome wounds in his career, but it‘s a new experience for him to be on the other side of the needle.

As he examines his abdomen for signs of bleeding, his eyes are drawn to Herstal’s long, elegant fingers resting near his hip. He imagines his stomach quivering in pain while one of Herstal’s hands braces against the fluttering skin while the other stitches him up. Herstal’s needlework is actually very nice. It’s a shame that the police don’t appreciate the artistry in such delicate sutures. They would have had the forensic pathologists take apart any stitches laid by the Westland Pianist, even from a living victim. After all, the Pianist is known for occasionally stuffing his victims’ bodies with objects like apples and wheat.

“What strange thing are you thinking about now?” Herstal asks. Albarino can practically hear him rolling his eyes. He smiles to himself and leans his head against Herstal’s bony shoulder. The other man stiffens slightly.

“I would have really liked for you to stitch me up, is all,” Albarino admits. “Your suturing should be much prettier than a surgeon’s.”

“You’re insane,” Herstal reiterates in a low hiss. “Is that also your idea of a ‘romantic’ gift?”

“You went along with it,” Albarino points out. “Besides, you got to enjoy yourself, too.”

Herstal is silent for a moment. He finally stops tormenting Albarino, smoothing the wrinkled sheets over his lower half, and merely stares at him for a while, his face an emotionless mask. His bright blue eyes remind Albarino of larkspur—like velvety blue petals suspended in a glass marble, lovely and untouchable.

“You used me to commit this ‘crime’ against yourself. Was it just to thwart the police or is there some other reason you wanted to play the victim?” Herstal finally asks.

“I told you, it’s a gift,” Albarino says. A gift to both his lover and the police, in fact. A night of pleasure where his lover could unwind and release his desires without judgement and a little challenge to keep the police on their toes. He continues in a whisper, “They don’t understand you, but I do.”

“…I’m willing to be the puppet on your strings for now, but…” Herstal warns, his breath hot against Albarino’s cheek.

“Next time, I’ll dance for you,” Albarino says ever so sweetly. He smiles like a cat that has delivered a mouse at the feet of its owner. It’s a self-satisfied smile, filled with charm and steady fervor.

Unfortunately for Herstal, this psychopath knows all of his likes and dislikes as if they’re his own. Albarino may have been the one strung up, seemingly at Herstal’s mercy, but they both know who was the one in control last night.

“Usually, I like to pick my targets myself, but why don’t I give you the honor next time?” Albarino offers with no hint of deception in his tone.

“You want me to pick your next victim?” Herstal asks in genuine surprise. The openness of his expression makes him look a little less severe than usual, but Albarino knows very well that he’s nothing close to gentle or soft.

He does find it endearing that Herstal insists on using this strange word: ‘victim’, with a straight face. Albarino finds it quite funny, maybe even charming. It makes sense, he supposes, to default to the legal term at all times to avoid a slip of the tongue.

“Mhm,” Albarino hums in affirmation. “It’ll be quite interesting to see what you come up with. I’m sure it’ll keep the police and the FBI on their toes, too.”

Westland Police Department

It’s late afternoon by the time the team is reunited at the Westland Police Department. The station is as sleepless as the city it serves. It’s still bustling with activity by the time Rossi and Lewis step into the lobby. Most of the officers on duty seem to regard the BAU team as an obstacle to their daily routine. It’s clear from the slightly pinched expressions on their faces as they quickly pass the agents in the hallways that they aren’t too impressed with their presence.

The young officer named Alexander leads the team through the station. He smiles apologetically when they finally part ways.

“They’re glad you’re here to help, really,” he insists.

“Oh, yeah?” Rossi says, raising an eyebrow in doubt. He exhales a huff of laughter upon seeing the serious, concerned expression on the other’s face. “It looks more like everyone out there thinks we’re in the way, wouldn't you say?”

He’s only teasing the officer, but his words fluster the younger man.

“It’s just…”

“They don’t believe we’ll be able to catch the Pianist,” Lewis concludes. She looks around at all of the staff keeping their mouths shut out of professionalism and politeness. “They’d rather focus on cases they can solve.”

Alexander’s silence speaks volumes. He nods sharply.

“…a team like yours as here just a few weeks ago,” he admits, lowering his voice a little. “They were chasing the Family Butcher. In the process, due to some misunderstandings…”

“Officer,” a man’s gravelly voice rebukes him. “Now’s not the time. Agents, the rest of your team is back here. I’ll take you to them. I’m Bart Hardy, just let me know if you need anything while you’re here.”

Rossi and Lewis introduce themselves as Alexander scurries away with his head down like a scolded dog. The harsh lines creasing Hardy’s face soften slightly as he watches his subordinate leave.

“Sorry about that.” His apology is punctuated by a heavy sigh. “With the Pianist throwing us all for a loop, we still haven’t had the time to process what happened in that case, but it’s not relevant right now.”

“We all have those cases,” Rossi says sympathetically, an implication in his deep, rumbling voice that is affirming if not reassuring. He, too, has had far too many of those days—when the past creeps upon the present and the regrets begin mounting. The only thing people like them can do is to keep moving forward. Perhaps the only thing they can do is help more people to balance out all of the ones they couldn’t save.

The small meeting room is crammed wall-to-wall with boxes of evidence and paper files, all presumably information on the unsolved murders attributed to the Westland Pianist. It’s both astonishing and worrying that the WLPD has been able to gather this much information on the serial killer and yet are not a single step closer to catching him.

As soon as they step into the room, they hear Morgan complaining.

“Jeez, couldn’t they spare us a bigger room?” He’s basically bumping elbows with Reid on one side and JJ on the other.

“Apparently not,” Hotch responds dryly, a barely noticeable twitch of his lip accompanying the deadpan response. He seems to have given up his seat to an evidence box from last year’s cases. “Officer Hardy’s boss was, as I understand it, rather reluctant to call us in at all.”

“You can say it like it is: he’s been fighting me for years on it,” Hardy says from the doorway. He crosses his arms and leans against the door frame with a frown. “Until now, we’ve had Olga to help us, but with her out of commission and the Pianist escalating, I was finally able to convince him to reach out to your team for help.”

“Escalating?” Rossi echoes. “It’s not that I don’t agree, but could you explain why you think that? If you’ve pursued this unsub for so many years, you must have some ideas.”

“Unfortunately,” Hardy says after a heartbeat, “I know this serial killer too well. The Pianist has never decorated his crime scenes with flowers and he has never targeted anyone without a criminal record. Although he didn’t kill Dr. Bacchus, that in itself isn’t reassuring…”

“Because it could mean he’s becoming less predictable,” Reid finishes for him. “He has been remarkably consistent over the years. He never exceeds four kills a year, and they are always at least three months apart.”

“Highly disciplined,” Rossi concludes. “And not likely to deviate without good reason.”

“By the way…” JJ starts, “the way you said ‘Dr. Bacchus’—do you know each other?”

There had indeed been a hint of familiarity in the officer’s tone.

Hardy nods, in no way hiding the information from them.

“We’ve spoken in passing. He’s been called to the stand in court as an expert witness in several cases,” he replies casually. “And his boyfriend is a district attorney who we’re acquainted with as well.”

“Could the sexual assault be his way of lashing out against someone he perceives as an obstruction of justice?” Morgan throws the idea out, but isn’t fully convinced that he has the right answer. “If the victims weren’t able to be prosecuted, he could be blaming Bacchus for playing a role as an expert witness.”

“But then he should have targeted Mr. Armalight instead,” Hardy argues. He pauses, then adds in explanation, “Ah, Mr. Armalight is Dr. Bacchus’s boyfriend.”

Their speculations come to a bit of an impasse. Although it can be argued that Bacchus is the easier target, as his frame is a bit slimmer and less muscular than his boyfriend’s, Bacchus happens to be the slightly taller of the two. In addition, physique has never stopped the Pianist from subduing his victims, some of whom were stronger and bulkier than either man. The WLPD reports going back many years speculate that the Pianist has some fighting skills, and he must be physically strong enough to take his victims alive and move them to a secondary location to carry out his torture.

At that moment, a call comes in from the laptop perched on top of a few mostly irrelevant files that Reid has likely already perused at the speed of light. Morgan reaches over, accidentally bumping JJ, to hit the enter key to connect the call.

“Hey, baby girl, what do you have for me today?”

“Oh, you better brace yourself,” Garcia warns, “boy, do I have a doozy for you. First off, I took a deeper look into Kaba Stryder. It turns out that the man was involved in a court case allegedly for human trafficking, but it was apparently settled out of court due to a flaky witness retracting their statement. All charges were dismissed.”

“It makes sense,” JJ says. “The unsub must have known that Stryder had been released and targeted him for that reason—it fits the profile.

“And the WLPD’s suspicion that the unsub could work in law enforcement or the courts, or know someone who does, makes a lot of sense,” Rossi comments.

“Garcia, we also need you to check if Albarino Bacchus served as an expert witness on any of the victims’ trials.” Hotch’s gruff voice floats over from the corner of the room. After a beat, he adds, “Look up his boyfriend, too. He works for the district attorney's office. His name is…”

“Herstal Armalight,” Hardy supplies. “Like the gun manufacturer.”

“Got it, I’ll run the search again.” She pauses, presumably to have the computer run the query. “Aaand that’s a ‘no’ for Mr. Bacchus on all accounts except for one: a murder from two years ago. A man by the name of Mark Calloway was accused of…killing his five-year-old daughter. It looks like they couldn’t conclusively link the evidence to him, so he walked free.

“As for this Mr. Armalight…” She uses the delay to compose herself, clearing her throat of the upset building in her voice. “Him, yes, in three of the twenty-four suspected Pianist cases. It looks like he was present for the fourth, seventeenth, and twentieth victims.”

“Not really enough to justify targeting either of them, especially after so much time has passed between the trials and now,” Rossi concludes. “But we can’t completely write off the possibility that it’s an act of retaliation.”

“Okay, now are you lovely peeps ready to hear the real crazy part? Remember when I told you that Stryder changed his name when he moved to Westland? Well, it turns out that before he moved up to organizing high society flings for the rich and famous, he was working as a priest five hours away from here in a small town in Kentucky. No criminal record while he was living there, by the way.”

“A former priest changes his name, and years later is accused of human trafficking.” Rossi nods in the direction of the photographs pinned to the board. “That explains the crime scene being a church.”

“But it means the unsub had to have known Stryder was a priest,” JJ adds.

“And that means he’s either better at uncovering people’s unsavory pasts than Garcia, which is highly unlikely,” Morgan concludes, “or, he knew Stryder before the man came to Westland.”

“Exacto-mundo. Going back to the good doctor, Mr. Bacchus moved around for a bit with his father after his mother’s death when he was ten. Well, one of the towns they lived in for a few years was White Oak, the same town where Stryder lived when he was working as a priest.”

The revelation is punctuated by dead silence. After a moment, a whistle splits the air and Rossi shakes his head, genuinely surprised by the new piece of information at their disposal.

“Crazy, right?”

“But that’s the connection: choosing Bacchus wasn’t random after all,” Morgan says, his expression darkening at the uncomfortable implications that this revelation brings. 

The Westland Pianist is an extremely violent serial killer who mutilates his victims premortem, always ending their life with the symbolic act of strangulation. However, anyone who has read the case files will notice a disturbing trend in all of his killings to date: he is even more violent and brutal to those who were accused of sexual assault. In the case of Telep Kaloan, the Pianist even removed all of the victim’s genitals and appendages before stuffing them into the victim’s emptied abdominal cavity.

This extraordinary level of violence suggests that the Pianist was likely a victim of sexual assault himself, and now, they have discovered that the origin of his rage and murderous intent may very well go all the way back to this small town in rural Kentucky.

“The unsub probably believes Stryder was a predator,” Morgan continues. “He was clearly never caught or punished for it, which would make him the Pianist’s perfect target.”

The implication makes Morgan’s stomach churn, as it always does when the cases strike too close to his own past for comfort. He firmly reminds himself that there is always a choice: a choice to turn one’s suffering into the impetus to do good or to commit evil. At no point did anyone force this man to become a serial killer.

Of course, no one can answer the question of whether the Westland Pianist would have become a murderer if he had never been sexually assaulted when he was younger. Perhaps he was always meant to be a killer, and if he hadn’t been abused, then some other event would have served as his trigger.

If anyone could answer that question in full confidence, they would probably qualify to win the Nobel Peace Prize.

“But it still doesn’t make sense that the unsub would target Dr. Bacchus…” JJ frowns. “This unsub thinks of himself as a vigilante, right? Going after someone innocent should violate his principles.”

“I don’t think that attack is about justice at all,” Hotch speaks up, his expression grim. Of course, this is something the media always conveniently forgets: a murderer is still a murderer. Even if he only kills criminals, it doesn’t mean he’s on the side of justice, and the attack on Albarino Bacchus is proof. “He’s doing it to humiliate—not just Bacchus, but the police and the law.”

“It can also serve as a reminder.” Reid’s head pops up from where it had been bent over the files examining the letters that the Pianist sent to the police department after every murder. “The language in these letters is clearly derogatory, and in the most recent one, he calls the crime scene a ‘gift’ to the officers in charge.”

“In the end, the crime scene is cleaned up and the victims buried,” Rossi concludes. “But if the victim is left alive, the proof of his crime doesn’t disappear.”

Although leaving someone alive still does not fit the Westland Pianist’s MO, this logic is reasonable. The public, and even the police, will eventually forget the victims who have been murdered and buried in the ground. Life always moves on. But Albarino Bacchus is a living reminder of their repeated failures to save the people they are supposed to protect.

“We need to figure out how Albarino Bacchus is connected to Stryder and the unsub,” Hotch says, reviving this line of questioning. “JJ’s right. It doesn’t fit his MO: why? What is it about Bacchus that made the Pianist deviate?”

“Bacchus would have been twelve to fourteen when he was living in White Oak,” Reid calculates easily. “He and the unsub could have both been victims of Stryder’s.”

“Garcia—” Hotch starts.

“Already looking into other potential victims from the time Stryder lived in White Oak,” Garcia announces. “Though I’m going to need some way to narrow this down. Stryder was quite involved with the church—bake sales, charity auctions, Easter egg hunts, you name it.”

“He most likely targeted children who were viewed as loners, isolated from their peers,” Lewis offers based on the countless interviews she has conducted with inmates. “Try to look for any male children from single-parent households, or whose parents were undergoing a divorce.”

“You know, something has been bothering me about the crime scene in the church…” Reid suddenly says, leaning forward with his brow furrowed slightly. He uses a pen to point out each of the flowers in the crime scene photos. The most obvious are the bunches of white flowers with long curved petals scattered across the floor, some splattered with blood and others pure white. “The lilies represent purity or innocence. The hydrangeas can represent shared gratitude, grief, or even apology and understanding.”

The blue and purple hydrangeas were placed on the altar around the tray of organs, which were arranged like an offering. A disturbing, bloody offering.

“And last, the larkspur, or delphinium, is used to symbolize an open heart and renewal, starting a new chapter in life. In the Victorian era, they were often used to represent attachment, and in some cultures, they were believed to ward off evil.”

Everyone’s eyes automatically drift to the deep blue sprigs of flowers that were stuck into the victim’s chest between splayed ribs, as if they were growing out of the corpse.

“Office Hardy reminded us that there’s another serial killer in Westland known for placing flowers around his victims’ bodies: the Sunday Gardener.”

“Boy, does this city have a serial killer problem,” Garcia whistles.

“They really do ‘crop up like weeds’,” Morgan says, referring to the jaded words he’d heard Armalight utter in the hospital. “Let me guess, another homicidal maniac with over a dozen unsolved murders no one thought to call us in for?”

Reid takes out a stack of photos taken from the WLPD’s files and passes them around. The murders displayed in the photos are all grotesque and macabre, with exposed bones and carved up flesh decorated with flowers. The bodies were posed in positions reminiscent of classical works of art—the ones with beauty, tragedy, and madness written in every stroke.

“The Pianist only ever used extra items in his killings a few times: namely the apple in one of his most recent murders, but the Sunday Gardener prominently displays his victims in public places on Sundays, always choosing flowers that match a certain theme,” he says.

“So, either the Westland Pianist is taking a page out of the Sunday Gardener’s book, or the Sunday Gardener is disguising his kills as another serial killer’s?” JJ speculates.

“It’s unlikely to be the work of the Sunday Gardener,” Reid explains. “Given the weight and direction of the writing in the letters he sends to the police, he is probably left-handed. However, the autopsy reports indicate that the Sunday Gardener is almost certainly right-handed. He always kills his victims before mutilating their bodies. Usually, with a single cut to the throat. The autopsy reports are consistent with the attacker wielding the weapon right-handed.”

“Perhaps the Gardener isn’t as physically strong, or lacks confidence…” JJ muses, though she begins to correct herself, “Then again…”

“It’s more likely that he sees himself as an artist,” Rossi says. “He’s more concerned with displaying the bodies than killing the victims, while it’s the opposite for the Pianist.”

“He clearly gets off on the torture,” Lewis agrees.

“Two different MOs and two different serial killers,” Hotch concludes with a very grim expression. “Either they’re working together or in a competition with one another. Whichever it is, we need to act fast.”

Midtown, Westland City

Albarino had to fight ridiculously hard to be discharged from the hospital the day after his assault. It seems like everyone he knows made their rounds to try and convince him to stay for observation or speak to a counselor before leaving the hospital. Clearly, ‘respecting the patient’s wishes’ flies out the window when it’s a colleague. They didn’t even offer him an AMA, and even his supervisor had tried to bribe him with extra PTO days, an effort which of course failed.

“I’m fine,” he’d argued every time, against the backdrop of sympathetic winces and a whole lot of eye rolling.

Admittedly, he does look terrible: his torso is swathed in bandages, his bruises have darkened and look rather ghastly, and Herstal’s fussing finally managed to tear open some of his stitches. The sluggish bleeding had alarmed some of the nurses.

However, it’s not the wounds that really have everyone worried. It’s his remarkably optimistic attitude—everyone is afraid it’s a sign of an impending mental breakdown.

“I’m just taking up a bed,” he’d told his attending physician, Dr. Makri, hoping to appeal to the woman’s logic rather than her emotions.

However, his colleague scolded him, “That’s not for a patient like yourself to worry about.”

“I only needed stitches on a few of the cuts,” Albarino argued. “I’ll take my full course of antibiotics and I’m more than capable of keeping the wounds clean myself.”

He had presented a very logical argument.

Really, he isn’t dying and there’s no risk of a sexually transmitted disease. Aside from the fact that Albarino knows Herstal is clean, the Pianist had also used a condom to avoid leaving any trace of DNA. His colleagues are basing their recommendations off their emotions. He certainly needs to heal before he can return to running around the ED, but he can recuperate at home just as well as in a hospital bed.

Even if he really had been assaulted, it wouldn’t change his desire to leave. In fact, he would probably be more eager to leave the pitying looks behind him.

“Besides, I have Herstal to take care of me,” he’d added, though this apparently wasn’t very reassuring.

“You once said that he’d starve to death if you didn’t cook for him,” Dr. Makri pointed out, unimpressed and already halfway out the door to avoid listening to the rest of his excuses.

“I was exaggerating! Sort of!” Albarino retorted. “He doesn’t bother to cook when it’s just for himself. He either eats nasty stuff from the convenience store or vending machines, or just skips meals. But, come on, I’ll make him make me something or get him to order takeout. I’ll be fine!”

Reassuring his colleagues that he wouldn’t starve, would take his medicine obediently, and had someone to help him through the sleepless nights to come should have been enough, but they’re all bleeding hearts and far too nosy for their own good. Dr. Makri left to fetch Joyce—their last line of defense—to strong-arm him into staying. The head nurse came by shortly after with a serious yet calming demeanor.

“Al,” she started.

“What? You know there’s no real reason for me to stay.” Albarino sighed, though the movement tugged at his wounds, eliciting a small wince. He pressed a hand against his side, which allowed him to breathe through the pain.

“Everyone’s just concerned about you. It’s hardly been a day since you were brought in.”

“I know. I…I just want everyone to stop treating me like I’m made of glass,” he confessed. He’d lowered his gaze and exhaled a soft, heavy sigh, as if finally tired of the act. In lieu of the emotional trauma a real rape victim would feel, he averted his eyes, letting them unfocus and stare at the wall opposite him. “Treating me carefully, like I’ll break down crying any second, just reminds me of what that man did to me.”

“I understand, Al. I really do,” Joyce said emphatically. “But you also know the longer you ignore your trauma, the harder it’ll be to come to terms with it. It’s fine if you don’t want to speak to anyone right now, but please schedule an appointment to see someone before you leave. You owe it to yourself.”

He finally made the appointment to satisfy her, but he fully intends on cancelling it later. The last thing he wants is to be scrutinized by a psychologist who may actually be able to see past the mask he has painstakingly constructed over the years. Albarino is a good liar, but he’s not a professional actor.

His agreement to see a psychologist later down the line has finally earned him his freedom. Legally, they can’t actually force him to stay as long as he isn’t a danger to himself or others, but he endured the inquisition to keep up appearances.

Since his house in the suburbs is still considered an active crime scene, he obviously can’t return for a while. The victim of a violent crime wouldn’t want to return to the house where he was so recently assaulted, anyways. The FBI will no doubt find it very interesting if he really does go back there.

The most logical place for him to stay, then, is Herstal’s apartment in the city. It’s close to the courthouse, which is an irony not lost on Albarino. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think the man is obsessed with justice and retribution, like those vigilantes willing to go down in a blaze of glory to make a point.

In any case, Herstal begrudgingly picks him up in the morning and drives out to his house in the suburbs before going to the apartment.

“You’re not wearing my clothes for the foreseeable future,” he says simply, which makes Albarino laugh.

“A lot of people like seeing their significant other wearing their clothes,” Albarino teases as Herstal’s fancy Rolls Royce eats up the highway with ease. “But I know your OCD tendencies won’t allow that.”

Herstal doesn’t bother to respond.

When they roll up to his house, Albarino pauses in front of the yellow tape over the door.

“Wait, should we call the police?” he asks. “Does it count as trespassing if it’s my own house?”

“We should,” Herstal says in a tone of voice that suggests he was aware of it all along and simply didn’t say anything. He hands Albarino his cell phone. “This is still considered a crime scene, after all.”

“Okay, okay.”

The ensuing conversation with a confused intern leads him nowhere until Herstal snatches the phone back from him and asks to speak to an Officer Hardy.

“I know he’s in charge of the case, or was, until the FBI were brought on,” Herstal says in a clipped, almost frightening tone. “Tell him that Herstal Armalight wants to speak to him.”

The phone on the other end finally transfers ownership.

“Officer Hardy,” Herstal says without preamble. “I need to get into Albarino’s house. Why? He needs clothes, that’s why. Yes, he was discharged this morning. He’s going to stay with me in the meantime, but we still need to retrieve a few of his belongings.”

When Herstal ends the call, he huffs and shoves the phone back into his pocket with a bit of force. He pulls out Albarino’s key, still on its plain green keychain, and hands it to him.

“Go get your stuff,” he says, clearly unwilling to help. “By the way, the FBI wants to talk to you again when we’re done here.”

“Oh? Well, they sure move fast.” Albarino tosses a smile over his shoulder. “I wonder what it’s about this time.”

Chapter Text

“Agents.” Herstal Armalight greets them at the door with a small frown. The cold, steady look in his eyes flickers briefly when Albarino Bacchus’s voice calls to him from within the apartment. Morgan scrutinizes the man as he rolls his eyes and takes a step backwards to invite them inside. His movements are slightly stiff.

The sight of his disgruntled expression reminds Morgan of the conversation they had with several of the nurses at the hospital yesterday.

“We thought Dr. Bacchus would never settle down,” one of the younger nurses confessed. “We were all surprised when he started going out with Mr. Armalight. We were even more surprised when they lasted a whole six months together—and now it’s been a year. You see, at first, no one thought they would last for very long.”

“I mean, Mr. Armalight seems so cold and distant,” another nurse justified. She was much more judicious with her words. “And Al’s anything but.”

“Has he been in a lot of relationships?” JJ asked. “Do you know if any of his former lovers might have held a grudge after breaking up?”

“He’s had quite a lot of girlfriends, and the occasional boyfriend, but they parted on good terms, from what I heard,” said the first nurse. “I think Dr. Bacchus just wasn’t ready to settle down.”

“Still, it’s kind of a shame,” a third nurse sighed. “Mr. Armalight is so serious. I’m not sure what Al sees in him.”

Although the way that Armalight holds himself suggests that he’s a little annoyed, the tension in his shoulders eases slightly as he leads them into the living room. The first thing that Morgan notices aside from their host’s obvious discomfort is the surprisingly lack of personal affects: no photographs on window sills, decorations on the bookshelves, or even any extraneous items like a pen and paper, loose keys, or even an umbrella in the entryway. If he didn’t know any better, he would think they accidentally wandered into a model apartment instead of one where actual people live.

The only sign of life in the entire place is Armalight himself, as well as Albarino Bacchus who is seated on the couch, wrapped in a fuzzy gray blanket that matches the equally gray leather couch. Morgan assumes the books and magazines scattered over the coffee table belong to him—and the small potted succulent next to the lamp on the end table, as well.

As for Bacchus, a healthy flush of color has returned to his skin, a far cry from his pale and sickly appearance in the hospital. He flashes them a charming, if slightly subdued, smile when they enter the room. The movement draws Morgan’s attention to his busted lip, which is bright red and shiny as if it recently split open and bled. The wound looks painfully fresh.

“Hi again,” Bacchus says, his voice a bit livelier than the last time they met. “Herstal said you wanted to ask me a few more questions?”

He sounds a little hesitant despite the smile and friendly greeting, but Morgan doesn’t blame him for dreading more intrusive questions about his assault. It’s something that took him decades to come to terms with himself.

“Yes, if you’re up to it,” JJ says gently.

Bacchus nods and pushes himself fully upright with some difficulty. A trembling breath slips out as he settles against the back of the couch, fingers clenched in the blanket as he fights the discomfort the change in position brings him. As he shifts with a pained grimace on his face, Morgan’s attention is suddenly drawn to a couple of marks that Bacchus definitely didn’t have yesterday in the hospital. The reddened patches of skin on his neck and collarbone can only be hickies, and like his split lip, they are bright and fresh—too fresh to be from the night of his assault.

The police had catalogued Bacchus’s injuries carefully. Although the unsub left him with many grievous wounds, to no one’s surprise, there hadn’t been any bite marks. This unsub is too cautious; he wouldn’t risk detection through dental records.

Morgan’s focus turns to Armalight, who is hovering by the side of the couch like a possessive guard dog but makes no move to help his partner adjust his position.

“What do you want to ask?” Bacchus says. His expression carries a distinct trace of exhaustion, but is otherwise open and polite. Morgan can’t help but notice his lack of reaction to his boyfriend’s cold demeanor as he watches him struggle. However, Bacchus shows no sign of reluctance or fear in Armalight’s presence, even as he leans over him to finally, albeit stiffly, offer a reassuring touch on his shoulder.

“Do you mind if we speak to you alone?” Morgan asks in a firm tone that leaves no room for argument—a demand worded as a request out of politeness.

“Uh, sure.” Bacchus glances up at his partner, who nods and easily retreats without protest.

“I’ll take a trip to the supermarket,” Armalight offers with a resigned sigh, his eyes narrowing down at Bacchus with a slight frown. “What do you want?”

Bacchus grins at the sour expression on his face and pulls out his cell phone. He takes a minute to text him a grocery list. Armalight doesn’t even look at it. His phone chimes in his pocket as he turns to Morgan and JJ, his blue eyes solemn and cold. He nods sharply, then leaves the apartment without another word.

Once he is gone, Bacchus exhales a soft laugh filled with genuine fondness and a touch of humor.

“If you take a peek in his fridge, you’d think he was intending on starving himself,” he comments. “There’s nothing but leftover takeout and microwavable, prepacked food in there.”

“Ah, still living the life of a bachelor, I see,” JJ teases, perhaps intending on gaining some insight to their relationship. Bacchus’s coworkers don’t seem to think the two suit each other all that well, but that is only one side to the story.

“I think he’s just a workaholic who can’t be bothered to cook,” Bacchus says. “Herstal is the kind of guy who eats because he has to, not because he enjoys it. He’s definitely not a gourmet.”

“He does seem very…particular.” Morgan looks around the room, eyebrows raised.

“You mean his slight OCD tendencies?” Bacchus smiles. “You should see his office.”

“And how is he feeling about the whole situation?” JJ asks, pivoting the conversation away from the idle chatter, though her voice still carries a conversational tone.

Bacchus thinks for a moment. His fingers tighten around the blanket in his lap. Bandages hide the cuts and bruises on his wrists—the ones from the night before and any potential new ones.

“Angry, I guess,” he finally says with a shrug. “But you’d have to ask him.”

“Angry?”

“…He thinks if he hadn’t been working so much lately, he could have been home when…but I told him that there’s no helping it.” Bacchus’s voice dips low, almost hesitant. A helpless, tired smile tugs at his wounded lips. “These serial killers in Westland are so ruthless; if they really target you, then there’s no way to escape.”

A beat of silence pulses through the room. Just yesterday, Armalight had commented that the city’s rate of violent crime is out of control and  Reid had read them the staggering statistics to corroborate his exaggerated claim. The fact that ordinary people treat these murders more like natural disasters—unstoppable and inconceivable—doesn’t sit well with Morgan.

“Has he ever taken that anger out on you?” Morgan asks softly, breaking the silence.

“What?” Bacchus blinks in surprise. His hands tangle a little deeper into the blanket in his lap. It is awfully cold in this apartment, come to think of it. It’s not much warmer here than it is outside. Bacchus continues to cast them a bewildered, wide-eyed gaze. His next words come out a little forced, “No, why would you say that?”

“Can you tell me how that cut on your lip opened up again?” JJ asks gently, her softer voice less confrontational than Morgan’s. She definitely has more practice with making herself sound more soothing and calm than him. Still, she proceeds carefully.

“I was just being careless,” Bacchus says vaguely, which is a red flag if Morgan has ever heard one.

“How about those marks on your neck?” Morgan is a little more straightforward. He motions to the hickeys on his collarbone to avoid any ambiguity.

Bacchus lifts a hand to touch the marks subconsciously.

“Okay,” he starts, now guarded and defensive, “so what if I made out with my boyfriend? That’s not a crime. Do the FBI have nothing better to do than question people about their sex life?”

“You were just raped, Dr. Bacchus,” Morgan says, not mincing his words in order to observe how the man flinches at the word. “By a criminal who, until now, until you, has always tortured and murdered each and every one of his victims without fail.”

“Then ask me about that night,” Bacchus murmurs, his eyes darting away to glance out the windows. It’s a clear, cold autumn day, the sky a bright blue with a few wisps of clouds floating past. “Herstal has nothing to do with it.”

“We just want to make sure you’re safe,” JJ insists as she moves to take a seat across from him. He doesn’t protest, so she stays. “Not just from criminals like the Pianist. We want to make sure you’re safe at home, too.”

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly. Morgan has a feeling that he has been saying that phrase a lot in the past day. “We’re fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“You’ve been taking this remarkably well,” Morgan points out.

“Have I?” Bacchus huffs, a dry laugh escaping his lips. “You know, everyone reacts to trauma differently.”

They clearly won’t get much further questioning him about his boyfriend. Although she worded it nicely, JJ wasn’t pushing the matter of his safety for completely altruistic reasons. The possibility that Armalight is involved in the assault is remote, but they haven’t definitively ruled him out as a suspect yet. It’s mostly a formality, since Bacchus probably wouldn’t act so complacent and cheerful if the man truly was their unsub, but they have to start somewhere. In order to rule Armalight out, they need to get a better sense of the relationship between these two men.

“I’ve seen much worse come through the ER on a daily basis,” Bacchus finally adds in a softer, more serious tone. “My injuries weren’t life-threatening. Maybe it’ll all catch up to me later, but that’s not any of your business. I’m an adult, not a child. I’ll live.”

“You may be an adult now,” Morgan says carefully, his tone light and slow, gauging Bacchus’s reaction as he speaks. If the man was a bit defensive before, he might completely shut down with this new line of questioning. “But what about when you were younger?”

Bacchus smiles stiffly at them.

“What do you mean?”

“I know this might be uncomfortable, but we really need you to be honest with us,” JJ emphasizes. She takes out a photo of the last murder victim, Kaba Stryder. There are surprisingly few pictures of the man out in the world; this one comes from his driver’s license. “Dr. Bacchus, do you know this man?”

“…I don’t think so,” he says, his tone too controlled and emotionless to be genuine. He stares straight at the photo, his gaze steady.

“Dr. Bacchus—” Morgan starts.

“You can just call me Al,” he interrupts. “Almost everyone does.”

A thought occurs to Morgan: he doesn’t think Bacchus’s boyfriend does, but that is simply an observation, not a judgement.

“Okay, Al,” JJ says smoothly. “I want you to take a closer look. Are you sure you haven’t seen this man?”

Bacchus begins to shake his head.

“When you were twelve,” Morgan says with a little more force, “you and your father moved to a small town in Kentucky. Do you remember the name of that town?”

Bacchus is quiet for a moment, a long and painful moment in which he lowers his gaze and he begins to dig his nail under the bandages on his wrists. Morgan can see him scrape at his skin with enough force to do some damage. JJ reaches across and gently grabs his hands. He allows her to move them apart.

“White Oak,” Bacchus finally whispers, his fingers itching to inflict enough pain to distract himself from the turmoil in his heart.

It always feels bad making victims relive their painful experiences, especially one that has been buried for so many years. Based on his reaction to their questions, it’s doubtful that he ever received help to work through his trauma. Morgan knows exactly how it feels to avoid acknowledging the truth, and why it’s so important they revisit that time in his life.

“Was your family religious when you were growing up?” JJ asks.

“Not particularly.” His voice is clipped, his brows furrowed slightly. His cheerful facade has melted away, revealing a tired man who has probably spent the last two decades pretending nothing transpired back then. “We went to church on special occasions, like on Christmas or Easter.”

“And when you lived in White Oak, did you take part in any activities or clubs organized through the church?”

Bacchus sighs, as if the memory of those days are a burden, a weight he has carried for over twenty years.

“You already know the answer to that question,” he says wearily. 

“It’s important that we hear it from you,” JJ tells him with enough urgency in her voice that he does go on to elaborate, albeit reluctantly.

“Yes, my father did sign me up for different events and activities to take my mind off my mother’s death. We were very close and he was worried how her passing would affect me. Why do you need to know all this, anyways? I only lived in White Oak for two years, and that was two decades ago.”

“We need to understand why the Westland Pianist is targeting you,” Morgan says. Bacchus stiffens when he hears the title.

“The Pianist? What does he have to do with White Oak?”

“This man was the Pianist’s last victim before he assaulted you.” JJ holds up the photo of Stryder. Bacchus’s stare has been far too steady for that image to be of a complete stranger. He’s clearly trying hard not to react to it.

“Records show that both of you lived in White Oak twenty years ago, and both of you were targeted by the same serial killer just one week apart,” Morgan explains patiently. Bacchus doesn’t say anything for a while. He picks at the edge of his bandages, tearing the fibers in lieu of his own skin. “I know it’s difficult, but I need you to think back to that time. You had just moved to the area with your father. He signed you up for a few activities with the church to keep you busy on the weekends and after school, especially since he was often working overtime at the hospital. Do you remember ever seeing this man?”

Bacchus blinks, his bright green eyes closing briefly as he takes a short, shuddering breath.

“Yes. He…was the priest.”

“Did you ever talk to him? Interact with him?” JJ takes over, just in case hearing a male voice while he’s so deeply immersed in the past causes him to panic or lose himself too deeply.

Bacchus shakes his head a little.

“No…not much.” He’s much sparser with his words now. He seems to be a talkative person under normal circumstances, but perhaps his chatter is only a mask, a way to distract himself and the people around him.

“Al, I know it’s painful, but we need to know why the Pianist might have targeted you. Don’t you also want to know? And to stop this from happening to anyone else?”

“I…” His voice is small, barely a whisper. He opens his eyes, but his gaze is unfocused, thinking back to a moment in his childhood that no one, especially a kid, should have ever had to experience. “I had to stay after hours that day because my father forgot to pick me up after his shift at the hospital. He was still extremely depressed because of my mother’s death, so a lot of things slipped his mind back then.

“He…the man in that photo, the priest of St. Anthony’s Church…he said he would stay with me until my father came to get me, and he did…” His voice trembles and he takes a deep breath, his blunt nails once again digging under the bandages to scrape at his wounds. His teeth worry at his bottom lip, splitting open the barely closed wound again. A small pinprick of blood begins to well up. “And then, in the church, on the altar…he raped me.”

They give him a moment to compose himself. He isn’t crying, but has pressed himself into the corner of the couch as if he wants to disappear entirely.

“How old were you?” Morgan asks softly.

“Twelve.”

“Did you ever tell anyone?”

Bacchus doesn’t speak for a time, as if all the words have been wrung out of him already.

“No,” he admits. “I knew what he did was wrong, but…”

“But he told you not to tell,” Morgan says, his own chest tightening, his mind teetering on the edge of his own personal nightmares.

Bacchus stares straight ahead; no, at the door, as if wishing for his boyfriend to return from grocery shopping to save him from this conversation.

“My father and I weren’t especially well-liked,” Bacchus murmurs, squeezing his forearms tightly. “You must know how my mother died, since you know all this already.  Well, a lot of people from that town saw what she did as a sin. I…maybe I thought no one would care even if I told them, or I was just too afraid that anything I said would make things worse for my father. I was too young at the time to know he was depressed, but could tell he was having a hard time. My mother was the love of his life.”

Although they do know plenty about Bacchus’s background, including who his parents were and how they died, the records can’t tell them everything about a person. Was Bacchus afraid his father would be angry at him, or was he afraid the news would upset his father enough to push him over the edge and take his own life, as he would eventually do a few years later? Without knowing more about who Charles Bacchus really was, it’s impossible to be certain.

“Were there any other victims you knew about?” Morgan asks. Bacchus shakes his head.

“No,” he chokes, flinching. “They—”

“They?” Morgan says in alarm. “Stryder wasn’t the only one?”

“…No, he wasn’t.” 

“How many were there?” Morgan asks.

Bacchus suddenly curls one of his knees to his chest and buries his head in the crook of his arm. 

“I-It was always just one at a time, but…there were two others. One of them worked at the church, too. The other…he was just a parishioner.” Bacchus’s voice trembles.

Morgan’s stomach flips, a knot of anxiety and nausea sweeping through him followed on the heels by fury. Here is another example of lowlifes who take advantage of vulnerable children to victimize.

“I know I should have said something,” Bacchus whispers. He grips his arm tight, ignoring the pain it likely causes.

“It’s understandable. You were only a child,” JJ reassures him, her demeanor filled with more than just sympathy. She’s a mother; she probably can’t help but imagine her own children in times like these, and the knowledge that other kids aren’t as fortunate as her own must tear her apart at times. “Thank you for telling us.”

“Does your boyfriend know?” Morgan asks.

“No, and please don’t tell him,” Bacchus says quickly, practically tripping over his words. “I don’t know how he’d react.”

“I’m sure he’d understand.” Morgan sure hopes that’s the case, at least. “He’s a lawyer, isn’t he? He would have to know it wasn’t your fault. You were just a kid, you couldn’t have consented.”

“Right,” Bacchus smiles weakly. “I’m sure he’d feel that way. I just…I didn’t want him to treat me any differently.”

“Not like a victim, you mean.”

Bacchus nods, his eyes bright and eager, desperate for them to keep this secret he probably once thought he’d take with him to the grave.

“Okay. We understand. We won’t say anything unless we have to for the investigation.”

Westland Police Department

It’s much later in the day when they finally return to the police station. The sun is starting to set and the temperature has dropped drastically from the daytime. Inside that cramped conference room, though, it’s quite warm.

“We were able to confirm that Albarino Bacchus was sexually assaulted by Kaba Stryder as well as two other men from the church when he was twelve years old. He claims he never told anyone, not even his father,” Morgan reports when they have all crammed themselves into the small meeting room. It’s not surprising news, but they need that confirmation all the same. “So, unless he’s lying, only another victim of Stryder’s would have known about the connection between the two.”

“What about the boyfriend?” Rossi asks. 

“Insensitive,” JJ mumbles, “but not overly controlling, and Bacchus was pretty insistent we didn’t tell him about White Oak, so it’s likely he doesn’t know. He stepped out of the apartment entirely when we were interviewing Bacchus.”

The only red flags were the blatant hickeys on Bacchus’s neck and the cut on his lip, but Bacchus insists it was consensual, so there’s not much they can say about it.

“I wonder…” Reid taps his finger on the table, deep in thought. “Could it be that the unsub assaulted Bacchus to punish him for never speaking out? It’s more likely for predators like Stryder to target children who lack familial support and would be afraid to speak out. Charles Bacchus was a single father and depressed over his wife’s death, making Albarino a target, but if he told his father, he would have recognized the signs of abuse and been in a position to stop it.”

“That’s possible,” Lewis agrees, nodding her head. “The unsub could resent him for never reporting it.”

The video feed on the laptop suddenly pops onto the screen. Garcia takes a sip from an absurdly large ceramic mug in the shape of a cat’s head before throwing the next curveball at them.

“While you were gone, I did some investigative work of my own. It turns out that around the time Albarino Bacchus was living with his father in White Oak, shortly before Charles took his own life in fact, there were two murders in the town that are still unsolved to this day.”

The scanned image of a news article appears on the screen. An old photograph of St. Anthony’s Church is displayed prominently next to the text.

“Two men were found hanging from the beams of the church. A deacon and a member of the congregation,” Garcia says. “They’d both died of asphyxiation.”

“Let me guess,” Morgan says dryly. “The murder weapon was piano wires?”

“Yup, that is correct.”

“That’s it.” Rossi’s voice rises. He would have leapt to his feet if he’d had more room to stand. “The Pianist’s first kill. I keep thinking that his first murder in Westland was too sophisticated, but this makes sense. His method was already mature by then because this was his first kill.”

“The first, and most important,” Hotch adds.

“Do you think…” Lewis frowns as she looks at Bacchus’s photo on the board. “The Pianist is highly intelligent, with a working knowledge of the human body. But…”

“He would have been only thirteen years, three months, and four days old at the time of those murders,” Reid calculates in an instant. “It’s highly unlikely for a boy of his height and weight to have been able to hang an adult male that high, let alone two of them on the same night.”

“…What about Charles Bacchus?” JJ interjects. “Could he have started it, as revenge for what they did to his son, and could Al be continuing what he started back then?”

“But he couldn’t have staged his own rape as well as all those injuries. An egotistical sadist like the Pianist wouldn’t be able to stand anyone viewing him as a victim,” Lewis says.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s him. JJ and I interviewed him. When he talked about his abusers, he didn’t seem angry at all. The Pianist would never be able to fake that. He should hate these types of criminals the most.”

“Garcia, did the police ever identify any suspects in that case?” Hotch asks.

“Zilch, none that bore any fruits, anyways,” she replies. “All of their initial suspects had alibis, and it seems none of the physical evidence was conclusive. In the police report, they seem to have suspected a priest who disappeared at the time—Stryder, that is—was responsible, but they were never able to catch him or find any concrete evidence pointing to him.”

“It couldn’t have been Stryder. He wouldn’t have had a motive,” Morgan says. “He might have been a rapist, but he is definitely not the Westland Pianist.”

“Try to cross reference any of the children from the church who may have been targeted by Stryder,” Rossi requests. “The Pianist is almost definitely one of the children who was abused at the church back then. The only question is who.”

“I think it’s time to deliver the profile,” Hotch says after Garcia logs off to continue her search.

Midtown, Westland City

“I think it’s time,” Albarino says over a modest breakfast of eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast with jam. A smile tugs at his lips as Herstal slides into the chair across from him, a hand pressed to his temple as if the man is nursing a hangover. However, Herstal rarely drinks, and even when he does, it’s always a cocktail with an impossibly low alcohol content.

“Time for what?” Herstal says moodily. He takes a sip of his coffee, which is the only thing he is capable of making himself with any proficiency.

Although he’d promised his doctor that he would make Herstal cook for him, Albarino would rather deal with the physical discomfort than burnt eggs and bacon. Herstal is the type of man who would be perfectly content to eat charcoal-encrusted food rather than put any real effort into his meals.

Albarino watches him contentedly, pressing his smile against the palm of his hand as Herstal picks at his eggs, disgustingly impressed by their fluffiness.

“Time for my next piece of art.” Albarino leans back slightly to lift the hem of his shirt, revealing a torso wrapped in gauze and bandages. Most people wouldn’t dream of doing any amount of physical exertion at this stage of the healing process, but Albarino isn’t most people. In his eyes, this is the perfect time for him to make his move. “Tonight is Thursday, which is perfect. I’ll have plenty of time to work this weekend.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“My house has been turned into a crime scene,” Albarino sighs dramatically, ignoring Herstal’s question. “Even if I don’t want to sleep in the same place where my attacker cruelly raped me, I would at least want to assess the damage. I’ll need to replace the carpets at the very least.”

The implication in his words is very clear: it’s an excuse to return to the outskirts of the city. Albarino, of course, would never dispose of a body on the property listed under his legal name. He has a secondary location, deep in the woods, which no one can trace back to him.

“Do you need me to go with you?” Herstal breaks the silence with his flat and cold voice. To any other person, he might seem to be asking a rhetorical question, asking only out of obligation.

Albarino grins.

“If you’re not busy,” he says lightly. “But if you’d rather find yourself a better alibi, you’re welcome to do something else tonight.”

Herstal rolls his eyes.

“Aren’t you afraid the FBI will come to suspect you’re the Westland Pianist?”

Albarino wrinkles his nose, the very idea of being mistaken for the Westland Pianist distasteful. In Albarino’s eyes, the man’s obsession with only killing criminals is still a bit laughable. He is already a deranged serial killer who dismantles his victims alive, even doing such horrifying things as castrating a man and shoving his genitals into his abdomen. At that point, what does it matter if the person is innocent or guilty?

Although Albarino does love to watch Herstal work, to see him fiercely, efficiently, dismember and skin people alive, they really don’t see eye to eye in terms of aesthetics.

“Only if you think a thirteen-year-old boy can incapacitate and hang two fully grown men. Not to mention, I would have had to arrange my own assault and let someone cut me into ribbons. Would any jury be convinced with such illogical evidence?”

“Probably not,” Herstal says with a scoff. This is especially true in Westland, where juries can be bought and even the work ethic in the district attorneys’ office is questionable at best. According to Herstal, most of his colleagues take bribes. Although they never go as far as breaking the law, they can certainly put more or less effort into a case depending on the compensation. “Besides, you were way too scrawny as a kid.”

“You remember what I looked like?” Albarino teases. There aren’t many photos of himself when he was a child—at least, none that he leaves laying around his house. He has one photo of his parents when they were young and newly in love, the backdrop set in a picturesque Spanish vineyard. There’s also one family portrait taken when he was only about a year old, but the rest are stored away in the attic.

Herstal scowls, setting his fork down, his expression oddly pensive.

“Were you really not bothered at all by what he did to you?” Herstal asks. This is the first time he has brought the topic up himself. Usually, it’s Albarino who pokes at the hornet’s nest and drags a few answers out of him at a time. “I know the guilty and the innocent are the same to you, but if we had never met again, would you have really let a man like Stryder go?”

Albarim hums in consideration. He glances at his wrists, propped up in front of him. The bandages hide the thin cuts scabbing over, and the heavy bruising that Herstal had imprinted on his skin like a tattoo or brand. He runs his fingers over the ring of injuries idly.

“I did think of it over the years,” he replies after a while. “I didn’t want it, of course. I didn’t like it; it was disgusting and it hurt. It’s also true that I didn’t tell my father, even though he would have done something about it, but probably not for the reason you—or those agents—are thinking of.”

“And just what am I thinking of?”

“I saw the look in your eyes.” Albarino’s voice lowers to something soft and curious. He gazes into Herstal’s cold blue eyes and says, “That’s when I knew. I wanted to see what sort of beauty would come from those hands of yours. It was pure curiosity, just like how my mother wondered if I would grow up to imitate her or form my own preferences.”

“Your mother killed herself without seeing things through to the end.” Herstal speaks without malice. He already knows that Albarino was close to his mother, but her death didn’t devastate him. Speaking frankly won’t upset him.

In Albarino’s memory, the surface of the lake is like crystal, reflecting infinite possibilities and forever capturing his mother at her most beautiful moment. How can he possibly be upset by her passing when she herself was perfectly content?

“She knew that was the end of her journey and wanted to end it at the perfect moment. She knew she had done what she could for me. Everything she did that day was for herself.”

Albarino exhales quietly, his lips curved slightly into an expression that’s not quite a smile.

“I wanted to see what you would create with that anger I saw. I was drawn in, like a moth to a flame.”

Westland Police Department

Office Hardy has done as promised and called upon all personnel on duty today to deliver the profile. They have decided not to go public with the information; the Pianist’s case is already highly publicized and glamorized by the press, and the last thing they need is undue panic and the resulting media frenzy.

As usual, Hotch stands in front of his team as the main spokesperson to deliver the profile. Officer Hardy has a front row seat, his face wrinkled in concentration. He is the one who starts the meeting.

“As you all know, my team has been working on the Pianist’s profile for years, but even Olga was always stumped by this serial killer. Olga is brilliant,” Officer Hardy says, “and I daresay she is always right. But the Pianist is one of the few who has always been five steps ahead of us. Fresh eyes and ears will do us good.”

Hotch then steps forward and speaks in a strident voice, loud enough for everyone to hear him.

“The unsub we’re looking for is one you are all familiar with: the media has dubbed him the Westland Pianist. He is an extremely dangerous sadist who sees himself as a vigilante and primarily targets tall, blond men, all of whom have a criminal record or were suspected of a violent crime but were released due to insufficient evidence or unreliable witness testimony.”

“He is a vigilante,” Reid continues smoothly from where he left off, “and he likely sees himself as a purveyor of justice, delivering punishment to those who he believes have not been persecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“He has a notable lack of faith in the justice system. The unsub,” Lewis emphasizes, “may have been a victim of a violent crime himself in the past. It is likely, given the brutality against those accused of sexual assault, that he was also a victim of sexual assault, possibly as a child or teenager. The extreme level of violence is his way of regaining control.”

“But didn’t the Pianist rape that doctor?” asks one of the officers. They haven’t released that information officially, but Bacchus’s lawyer boyfriend was correct: the news would spread internally anyways, regardless of whether they publicize things. “Why would he do that?”

“Right now,” Hotch takes over again, wording his response carefully. “We are investigating the possible connection between Dr. Bacchus and the Pianist’s previous victim, Kaba Stryder. We have reason to believe they are connected. This deviation from his usual MO may represent an escalation—so, proceed with extreme caution. Given the nature of his crimes, we know this unsub is highly driven, intelligent, and cautious.”

“The unsub is likely a white male in his thirties to forties, and he should be fairly strong in order to overpower and subdue his victims.” Rossi takes a breath to allow people to take in the information. He continues, “Most of the bodily mutilation occurs pre-mortem—that is, the victim is still alive. However, he will always choose to strangle his victims with piano strings. This act bears significance to him— it’s symbolic, and an absolutely necessary part of the process for him.”

“Geographically, we know this unsub is well-acquainted with the area, and in particular, knows the most secluded spots away from security cameras and highly-trafficked areas,” Reid explains with the help of a map to plot out the places where the bodies were found. “He must own a car, which he uses to transport his victims to these locations.”

“It’s also important to note,” Morgan continues. “That he may be someone in law enforcement or working in the legal system, or he may know someone who does. Not all of the victims were convicted of crimes and some never ended up going to trial. This means he has insider knowledge.”

“We need to move quickly,” Hotch tells everyone. “His assault against Albarino Bacchus is highly unusual, not just the fact that he left a victim alive, but also due to the extremely short time interval between this crime and the murder of Kaba Stryder. This may indicate he’s about to spiral, or he could descalate and go underground again. In any case, this may be our best chance of catching him. Thank you.”

The deluge of questions begins as soon as Hotch stops talking, though not all of them are productive.

“Speaking of that last case, are we really sure that the Pianist is responsible? He only targets those who have committed crimes. Is the victim really innocent?”

“I’m sure it’s him,” Officer Hardy says. “You know I would recognize his handwriting anywhere, and the analysis already came back as a match anyways. That letter specifically listed the address of the victim he assaulted, so there can’t be a mistake.”

“But why would he suddenly change?” Alexander, who had helped Rossi and Lewis before, asks. “What triggered it?”

“That’s a good question,” JJ replies. “And one we are still looking into. We believe assaulting Dr. Bacchus was his way of provoking and  humiliating the police—by proving that even when he leaves a victim alive, we can’t catch him, and also to leave a living reminder of our failure. It may also have to do with the fact that the victim in this case never committed a crime—the Pianist may have his own code of conduct which prevented him from killing someone innocent.”

“However,” Hotch says firmly, with a dark expression on his face and a weight to his words that makes people listen to him. “Do not think for a second that this unsub isn’t dangerous just because he has only killed those with criminal records so far. Although this is his preference in terms of victims, make no mistake: he is the type who is fully willing to get rid of any obstacles in his way.”

Suburbs of Westland

Herstal had always known there was something wrong with the green-eyed boy he met beneath the stained glass windows of St. Anthony’s Church all those years ago.

He noticed the signs of abuse when no one else did, and hated how familiar those signs were to him. The finger-shaped bruises and vicious teeth marks hidden beneath long sleeves and high collars, the stiff posture around the priests who casually laid a hand on a bony shoulder—Herstal knew them all too well.

The boy was that perverted bastard’s type: a scrawny child with dirty blond hair, who was isolated from his peers and ignored by the adults in his life. However, unlike Herstal, he had bright green eyes which reminded him of shards of glass from the broken beer bottles that his father had laying around the house.

Herstal used to wonder how no one else noticed the signs that to him were glaringly obvious even if the boy tried to hide them. Herstal, too, had tried his best to conceal the bruises and bite marks before school. Perhaps, at one point, he had desperately wished for someone to notice despite his efforts. He knew intrinsically, even back then, that a shameful thing had been done to him on that altar. No matter what pious words came out of that priest’s mouth, no god would have ever condoned his actions.

A part of him had tried to convince himself otherwise for far too long.

“I love you more than all the other children.”

By the time he met that boy with the green eyes, he no longer held out any hope.

A small, ugly voice in his head told him it wasn’t that the adults around them were blind; they were willfully ignorant. If it didn’t affect themselves or their loved ones, they couldn’t bring themselves to care. Their lives were simpler, brighter, and happier if they turned a blind eye to such ugly truths.

To be fair, Herstal had never lifted a finger to help the boy, either. He knew no one would believe him even if he told someone. They would probably play dumb even if he showed them all the finger-shaped bruises in intimate places that have no business being on a twelve or thirteen year old’s skin.

At the time, he also felt quite bitterly that the boy could have at least tried to put up a fight himself. He was too new to the town to have any friends and most of the adults danced around the topic of  his absent mother awkwardly, but the boy still had a father, and his father was nothing like Herstal’s. Charles Bacchus was respected by the nature of his profession. There was no way a doctor like him could have brushed off his son’s injuries as rough-housing with nonexistent friends.

Herstal really was quite annoyed with the kid, so he didn’t say anything. Why should he?

As far as he knew, the boy was alone in his own little world, just as Herstal also kept to himself. There was no reason to reach out and make friends with a fellow victim. The mere thought made his skin crawl. It disgusted him.

Although they were nothing more than passing strangers back then, they did interact just once.

It was Christmas and Herstal had just carefully packed away his sheet music when the boy ended up standing in front of him, shuffled around by the crowd of churchgoers exchanging gossip. He blinked, looked up, and they were face to face.

He expected to see a trace of fear in the boy’s eyes, maybe shame, perhaps a tiny bit of anger. Earlier, he had seen that scumbag parishioner who was always hanging around the choir boys touch the child on his back in a seemingly friendly gesture.

Herstal was all too aware that the same men who held them down on the altar only a few paces away were talking about blessings and the grace of God to the people around them, smiles filled with such vile benevolence that Herstal wanted nothing more than to rip those expressions off their faces then and there.

He was painfully aware that his own powerless, cowardly self could do nothing in that moment. His fingers dug into his thin, bony wrists until the cuts there blistered and stung. He tore his eyes away from the rest of the church and focused on the boy’s pensive, mint green eyes. Within them, he found a trace of coldness, a piercing calm that seemed to stare straight through him. The boy’s gentle and polite smile faded slightly, and what looked back at Herstal was far from a helpless lamb up for the slaughter.

Although he wouldn’t be able to put a name to it for many years yet, in that moment he had been staring into the abyss and the abyss had stared back at him. 

They parted ways without speaking to each other, but neither of them ever forgot that night.

Now, twenty years later, Herstal watches the man that scrawny boy became as he crosses the distance between himself and the victim Herstal chose for him. His steps are swift and sure. He skillfully braces a hand on the man’s shoulder and brings his gleaming blade around, slitting his throat as easily as drawing a knife through butter. He angles the body so that the blood splatter mostly sprays away from him. The body falls away with a guttural choke, blood gurgling unpleasantly for a few seconds as it takes its last, futile attempts to escape.

Herstal glances up at the night sky filled with the shadow of clouds obscuring the stars and moon. It might rain again, as it usually does at this time of year. If it does, even the blood will be washed away. Not that it matters. This isn’t a good area of town. Most of the people wandering the streets are drunkards getting home late after losing track of time at the nearby bars. No one will care about one more splatter of bodily fluids on the ground unless it concerns themselves.

Herstal leaves the warmth of the car to help Albarino drag the body into the trunk. His boyfriend doesn’t normally need his help, and in fact prefers to do everything himself from beginning to end. He even wrapped his own wounds tightly with thick layers of gauze and bandages to ensure he doesn’t leave a single drop of his own blood at the crime scene.

Perhaps Herstal is just feeling sentimental. It’s surely not pity—after all, those wounds are practically self-inflicted. Albarino quite literally asked for the Westland Pianist to slice him up.

However, he’s curious to see what Albarino makes of the victim he chose for him. Albarino never spares any effort in creating his ‘artworks’. Herstal has seen the man pose corpses and weave delicate flowers into bloodied hair, all for the sake of his final image.

All the activity probably will tear some of the cuts open—and, Herstal realizes with a bit of dread, he’ll probably tell the cops, if they ask, that they opened up while they were having sex or something. That sounds like something he would say. He grinds his teeth. The agents aren’t too fond of him already.

If only they knew the truth.

They reach Albarino’s house after driving about forty minutes. They’d already been there earlier in the day to clean the place up and assess the damage to the carpet. Herstal purchased a new lock from the home improvement store and clumsily installed it under Albarino’s watchful and critical eye. He’s surprisingly handy considering his upbringing; Herstal never would have thought a doctor’s son would be the type to know a little electrical engineering, do house repairs, and also how to knit on the side.

“Why am I the one installing this if you’re going to keep criticising me every second?” Herstal had complained.

“Because if the police happen to brush for prints, wouldn’t it be weird if I installed my own lock in this condition?”

“It’s a door handle. It’s meant to be touched. Are you saying I’m the type of doting boyfriend who won’t even let you open a door?”

Evidently, this flimsy excuse was just a way for Albarino to have a bit of fun at his expense.

The house is always deathly quiet, especially at night. His closest neighbor is quite far and at this time of day, even their steps crunch loudly amongst the fallen leaves outside. They leave Herstal’s car here and transfer the tarp containing the body to Albarino’s, which they then drive to another location deeper in the woods.

This property isn’t in Albarino’s name, not even one of his aliases. Even if someone finds it in the future, it won’t be traced back to him.

The shed where he does most of his work always smells faintly of blood. In a way, it doesn’t smell much different from a trapper’s lodge. After helping Albarino drag the body inside, Herstal takes a seat at the rickety stool in the corner and flips through the notebook on the table. He’s wearing gloves, which are tacky and stick to his hands. He dislikes it, preferring to use his bare hands for his own murders. He’d rather meticulously wipe the prints off later.

Of course, being a doctor who works in the ER, Albarino practically lives in gloves. He snaps on a fresh pair and begins to work.

“What’s the subject of this one?” Herstal asks as he examines the drawings. Albarino must have taken an art class at some point; his sense of composition is quite good.

“A man bound to a mast, driven to the brink of insanity by the temptations of the sirens,” Albarino describes with a bit of dramatic flair. “A lesson on temptation and vice. I think it’s a fitting response, given the Pianist’s most recent obsession.”

“And the flowers?” Herstal looks at the bouquet left on the table. “Are they meant to represent the sea?”

“Yup. Cornflowers, larkspurs, and blue spirea.” Albarino talks cheerfully as he begins to work on the body. “It’s actually very challenging to find pure blue flowers.”

“Unfortunately, you have an obsession with water imagery.”

“They also happen to match your eyes,” Albarino says in what could be considered a sweet voice, if he didn’t happen to be dismantling a corpse in his lap. The head is cradled between his hands as he expertly slices off skin to expose bone, more like a butcher than a surgeon.

Though, in Albarino’s eyes, perhaps this is all a very romantic gesture. To compare his lover’s eyes to the works of ‘art’ he so painstakingly prepares, to offer this bouquet of flesh and blood he constructs with tender care.

Only for the police to tear it all down in a few hours.

He’s like a cat who would kill a mouse and lay it at its owners’ feet, then rub against him affectionately.

“Is this one based on William Etty’s painting?” Herstal asks.

“That’s right. It’s too bad I don’t have a few bleached bones I can use for the scene. Personally, I think Etty’s version represents the madness and desperation felt by Odysseus and his crew the best. The other renditions are just too tame.”

Herstal sets the sketchbook down. This isn’t the first time he has watched Albarino work. It’s always quite fascinating watching him diligently chip away at a body like it’s a block of marble, rough and unhewn. Only after being chiseled by the artist’s tools will it become a work of art.

Albarino’s ideal aesthetics are quite different from his own. Herstal enjoys the process of robbing those criminals of their life. When the blade first plunges into their bodies, all of the anger and rage confined within him finally bubble to the surface. These men, who thought themselves so untouchable, are at last reduced to shreds of blood and bone, their bodies as ugly as their corrupt hearts.

But for Albarino, this is exactly what people are to him: living bodies and dead bodies, one hardly any different from the other.