Criminal Minds 1. Chapter 1

For readers of _Watcher_, don't ask why I'm starting a new story. Let's just attribute it to the "Story-Hopping Syndrome." I promise I'm working on it (but I won't promise when the update is coming *twitch*)!

For new readers... Hello to you all! =D

This story is AU, and I don't believe it will have any pairings. I haven't really planned anything out, but since Criminal Minds is taking over my mind (and my TV), I really really wanted to write something for it.

As always, I don't own Criminal Minds. I'm not too sure who does (Mark Gordon?) but whoever it is... You are a wonderful person, but man you have a love for the gruesome =P

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**Chapter 1**

"Spencer? Where are my notes?"

"They're on the table by your chair, Mom."

"When will the ride be coming? It's already five minutes late."

"I'm sure that they'll come before too long. Just be patient."

"Stupid fascists. They're always making us run by their unreasonable, exacting schedules…"

"Mom, they're not fascists. I'm sure it's just a … a traffic jam or maybe construction work. They'll be here any minute now."

"Mm…"

A perfectly normal conversation in a perfectly ordinary house.

Except for the fact that there was no lecture. There was no car coming to pick them up. And within another five minutes, his mother, who was currently meticulously writing her "lecture plans" in her notebook, would forget all about the conversation and begin asking him when lunch was going to be served.

And then this would be repeated day after day, week after week, and, as he knew from all his personal research about the illness, year after year for the rest of her life.

It wasn't actually these things that bothered him. He considered these her "good days." No, what unsettled him were those days when she didn't recognize her own son despite the fact that he spent almost ten hours at a time, everyday, standing in the same room as her, talking directly to her in an intelligent conversation (despite the fact that the topic of their talks were usually fantastical). Or perhaps the worst were the days when she would believe the world, including him, was out to get her. Exactly what "get" entailed, he didn't know and she was too busy screaming protests against capture to tell him, but sufficit to say it was extremely difficult convincing his neighbors that his mother had a sensitive temperatment and was easily scared.

Let it never be said that he was a good liar, but it was enough, thank God.

Seeing that she was once more immersed in writing, he removed his hand from her shoulder and set the cup of tea he had brewed where he had said the notes had been. He checked to make sure that the windows were indeed closed and that the stove with off before he left the house.

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Dr. Spencer Reid, age 24. He was considered a genius, having earned three Ph.D's, two B.A's and was working on a third. He had an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187, and he could read 20,000 words per minute

In short, he could have gotten any job he wanted in the world – the only areas of expertise he **didn't** have seemed to be with computers and languages, both of which were better learned emperically than theoretically – but lawyer? Professor? Scientist? Heck, he probably could have been a medical doctor if he wanted to apply himself into the area of the sciences. However, he didn't hold any of those occupations.

Spencer wasn't quite sure what to classify his current job status as. He worked on papers in his spare time, and while they certainly did help justify his various academic credentials, they did little in the way of providing income. He also gave a few talks at the colleges he had attended, both when he was a teenager and after. His former professors often remembered him as the enthusiastic boy who sat in the front row and had to practically be reined in so that others in the class would even have a chance to open their mouth. Luckily, he imparted his knowledge just as readily as a temporary TA or a guest lecturer.

Mostly, though, he worked a part-time job anywhere he could find to earn some meager cash to try and staunch the bleeding from the little nest egg his father had left them before he had left.

To say that Spencer wanted to use that money was a gross mistake, but he had decided long ago to swallow his pride and allow his father to provide for most of the necessary finances to support them. After all, it wasn't like the man was poor. He was the head of his own company. And with this arrangement, the son could stay with his mother without leaving her for long periods of time to try and sustain both of them.

But for all that he helped financially, he was never there physically for them. As a result, Spencer preferred to use his own hard-earned cash for personal expenses. (What? Grudge? What ever are you talking about?)

"H-hello. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"That item is … ah … I think down in aisle 5. I can lead you there, if you want."

"Are you sure you don't need any help with that? The basket… It's tilting to one side."

"That will be $5.26, please."

When it came down to it, he liked the human interaction. It was a menial job, one that could be done by anyone, but he liked talking to the people and generally being friendly even though he was about as socially savvy as a hippopotamus wearing polka dot pants. Sometimes he accidentally insulted a little old man by offering to carry his purchases for him; hurting the pride and all that. And sometimes he met someone that just made him so nervous he kept stuttering over words (a bad habit of his he had once tried to stop); but overall, people responded favorably to him. His manager had said that there was this "charm" to him – actually, the exact words were "puppy dog eyes" – that made others appreciate his earnestness.

Today's shift was only three hours. It was actually originally his day off, but one of the girls had decided to go off on an impromptu vacation and the store was short on personnel, so he had volunteered for the slot. A bit of extra cash couldn't hurt, and he was starting to get restless staying cooped up for so long.

The day ended without much fanfare. The people were nice, and other than one man who looked like he could snap Spencer's neck with his bare hands, the day was generally unexciting in a peaceful sort of way. It was his favorite kind of day.

He was in a good mood on his way back home, which was why it was all the much worse when he opened the door and found the living room in a mess.

Papers were strewn all over the floor in a white carpet, and his mother's precious notebook was lying haphazardly on the floor. A few pieces of broken glass were on the floor, but thankfully there was no blood. She hadn't accidentally injured herself in her fit. The windows were still closed, but the curtains were shut and the lights were off, covering the room in darkness. Other than the sound of his own breathing, he couldn't hear anything, which was a good thing. There were no neighbors barging in when he wasn't here to explain just what had happened.

He refrained from sighing at the sight – half from exasperation, half from relief – instead immediately heading upstairs to where he knew his mother would be curled up at the headboard of the cushy queen bed in her room. This wasn't the first time this had happened, and this certainly wouldn't be the last, but each time he felt his heart pound at the possibilities of the "what if"s. What if someone had heard her? What if she suddenly burst out the doors and ran down the streets, despite the fact that he locked the door from the outside? What if the mailman came, needing a signature?

He went to the bathroom and grabbed the necessary medication and a glass of water. He would clean up the mess downstairs later. He had originally wanted to read a few more chapters in the hefty criminal behavioral analysis book he had recently purchased and then write a few more pages in that philosophy dissertation of his with the news in the background. Law was more an interest to him rather than an aspiration for him now anyways, but he still tried to keep up with current events.

Admittedly, despite the gruesome and harrowing nature of the cases, he liked reading about those handled by the FBI the most. It actually got to the point where he knew most of the FBI's behaviorial analysis team by name (On that specific day he had decided to look up their names, tired of having nothing to call the faces that constantly appeared on TV, he had to repeatedly tell himself that, no, he was not acting stalkerish). He admired the way they practically appeared all the knowledge they knew to catch these criminals, to help others. He had even thought about applying once.

But, when he was filling out the form, he realized just what would change in his life if he went through with it, and now it looked like the opportunity would never come again.

He shook himself from this contemplation of the past – there was no point in thinking about spilt milk – and opened the door with a ready smile on his face.

"Hello, Mother. It's OK. There's no one here that'll hurt you. You know I'll never let them get near you, right? Come on, here's your medicine…"

It was a normal day for Spencer Reid, the local prodigy bound to his hometown of Las Vegas.

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Please review! I love comments, good and bad, long and short =) (I think all authors do, but some just don't say it out. I do! =D )


	2. Chapter 2

Wow. I haven't ever had so many visits to a story before, and while I think it's in part because this fandom is larger than any other I've written for (yes, a measly three, I know), it's still kind of amazing for me...

So I popped out a chapter 2. The plot bunny was still with me anyways.

One thing I've noticed from my writing over time is that ... it's weird, but between different stories, I seem to change writing styles. Not consciously. It just kinda ... happens. Weeeird.

Hope you enjoy! Thanks for all the reviews! They do indeed make a difference, as you can see =D

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**Chapter 2**

It was Spencer's turn to close down the store. The cleaning and re-stocking was already taken care of by his fellow coworkers, and all he needed to do was walk through the aisles and make sure that there was no mess left in the walkways and no one was loitering around. Quite honestly, he liked this task much better than actual manual labor. In fact, he was the type of person who was easily exhausted after mopping only four aisles, so when his job consisted only of a cursory walk through the store, he secretly rejoiced.

(Quite honestly, he was certain his manager knew of this and purposely did this. Evidence? A post-it note with a single phone number and name scrawled over the center of it left in his locker.)

In twenty – ten minutes for the actual task, ten for changing into his many layers of clothes – he was done and out, still putting on his coat as he walked out the door. His keys jangled every step as he continued at such a brisk pace towards the bus stop right down the street that he practically seemed like he was skipping. Even he knew that if he had been anyone else, he would have slowed the pace down to at least stop looking (and sounding) so ridiculous, like the sleigh-cart in Jingle Bells, but he wasn't that self-conscious. Rather, after all these years, he simply didn't care what others thought of him.

The door was just closing as he managed to stick his hand in between the cracks. Having lived here all his life, it wasn't too much of a surprise the bus driver knew who he was. With an amused grin, the old man opened the door and tilted his hat in greeting. Spencer supposed he did stand out; after all, how many lanky men with cardigan sweaters did you get late at night who always, always ran to the bus stop and always almost missed his ride?

He made his way to the back and settled down in a seat. The stop was ten minutes away, but that was more than enough for him to enjoy at least half a book. When he had first taken his current choice of reading out (way back when he was working on _Grapes of Wrath_, a fairly simple reading for him) and proceeded to "scan" a page in two second before turning it, he had caused the old lady next to him to do a double-take before looking away politely. Today was no exception, and he found himself hunched in between two people, with both looking away very politely at the strange sight someone reading by drawing his finger vertically down a page instead of horizontally by the line.

He hadn't intended to be absorbed, but so intent was he in his reading that he almost didn't hear the "Hey kid, you getting off at this stop?" from the driver up front. With a hasty thanks, Spencer practically tripped over his own legs and bag getting out, stumbling on the sidewalk a few feet before managing to right himself. He shut the book with a snap and started his way down the remaining few blocks towards home.

The night was cool, and there was a slight breeze building. He suspected that he would have felt chilly had he not worn so many layers. It was oddly cool for the summer, even at night, but the occasional temperature flux wasn't unusual nowadays. He pondered bringing out another blanket. His mother hated the cold.

It wasn't until he was almost directly across the street from his house that he realized the door was open.

He broke out into a flat-out dash, cutting across the street. A car blasted its horn; had he been just a bit slower, it would have run him over. He didn't even stop, didn't even hear the racket. He charged into the living room and whipped his head around, searching for any sign of his – for all intent and purpose – only parent.

Nothing out of place. The papers were still on the table, the books still on the shelves. The lamp was on, and he could see that the blanket on the sofa still had an imprint in it. He lifted it up, felt that it was still warm. She was here just a little earlier.

He dropped his bags where he stood – they would only slow him down – and stalked towards the stairs. "Mom? Are you there?" There was no answer.

Leaping up the stairs two at a time, he swerved around the corner and circled into each of the rooms. No sign of her there either.

"Mom? If you're here, answer me!"

Spencer was starting to panic, to put it lightly. His mother's safety was at stake; in fact, all of his life was at stake.

After clamoring through all everywhere up on top and still nothing, he headed straight downstairs again. This time, he headed for the rooms that his mother frequented less – the guest room and the kitchen. Nothing was wrong about the former, and nothing with the latter…

…or so Spencer thought until his eye caught the slightly open drawer. The one beside the stove was where the cutlery was always kept, and opening it as carefully as he could so he didn't disturb the position of the contents, he looked inside. Everything was in a haphazard position, not at all how Spencer usually set them up, and if he was correct, there was a single knife missing.

"Mom! Where are you? Answer me, please!"

He had called out several times before he realized that he was indeed hearing an answer. It was slightly muffled, but he managed to grasp the general direction – from the rooms he'd already visited. He turned straight around and headed there, only to find the room empty as it was earlier. But the voice – was it someone crying? – continued, and it wasn't until he had wandered over the same place twice that he realized that what he was hearing came from the outside.

That was strange, particularly since he knew he had locked the door with a key so that his mother wouldn't accidentally wander outside where someone could see her despite the 6-foot tall fence surrounding the yard. The spare he kept in his room, hidden from his mother and he knew for sure that she didn't know where it was. He hadn't even considered looking outside, and it was dark so he saw nothing from the lit rooms inside his house.

Walking over to the porch door, he made one last glance around. Hope against hope, but to no avail.

He opened the slide door and walked out onto the porch.

Before he even opened his mouth, he found who he was looking for. With a single cry, he ran over to her. She was kneeling in the middle of the lawn, softly sobbing. He made his way to her, kneeling in front of her and holding her hands to him, close to his chest. Her hands were wet from sweat, perhaps from anxiety or just from clenching them too tightly. He whispered softly, "It's going to be all right," over and over again, and when she had finally relaxed enough, her arms not locked in place, he put his hands around her and drew her head to his shoulder like she had always done for him as a child.

A long moment passed – he didn't know how long – before he felt the trembling subside, and he felt safe loosening his grip on her.

"Come on, let's get you back inside."

His mother was still crying, and she didn't make much of a protest as she was led to her feet, but before she stepped onto the porch, she stopped in her tracks. She turned back towards where she had been before and started stammering, almost incoherently.

"I heard a noise outside, Spencer. I was cooking, or trying to cook – you've been so busy and I had been given time off, so I decided to try to make something special. I know I can't cook really well – and then there was a noise. I went out to check what it was, and … and… I'm not sure what happened! One moment I knew what happened, the next I didn't and I know this happens all the time and it's nothing to worry about, but there was just something wrong…"

"Shh… Shh…" Spencer hurriedly tried to calm his mother down as he lifted his hands, still holding hers, up, trying to get her to step up into the house. After jerking her hand out from his grip to wipe at her tears, she followed his lead and went in.

"I'm not sure what was wrong, exactly; just that something was. I went to see, and then you came home. I'm sorry, Spencer, I'm really sorry."

He wasn't too sure what she was apologizing for, but he didn't worry his mind about it quite yet. The steps came one at a time, and she shuffled through, obviously still in shock. Spencer resisted the urge to just seat her in the living room – she needed some distance from the door and whatever had happened outside – and instead took her painstakingly up the stairs and into her room.

"Come on, we're almost there. Just a little more…" he encouraged her, and she always responded to his every word with a shaken smile as she struggled forward.

After arriving, he had quickly left and returned with a glass of water and her daily pills. As he handed them to her and she took them with shaking hands, she continued on.

"I don't know what was wrong, Spencer. I heard the noise, and I thought it was my imagination so I ignored it at first. But then it kept on going, and it was very distracting, so I was going to go and tell the neighbors to keep it down. And then … next thing I knew, he was there, lying still. Very still, like a … a big rag doll, or something." Judging by the conviction with which she stated her words, she was sure she was telling the truth. Whether it actually was what happened was another story, he knew, but he always gave her the benefit of the doubt unless otherwise.

"I'm sure it's nothing. I'll go check and make sure, but you have to go and sleep first." He said this with a smile. It took all of his willpower to not zip back down the stairs and head straight for the yard. He only did that after he put on his best "Everything's OK" demeanor and waited until his mother's breath evened out as she drifted off into slumber.

The thought of locking her door actually crossed his mind as he left, but it disappeared in a flash. His disgust at himself almost outweighed his anxiety, which was compounded not only by her words, but by what his brain had almost worked out was outside – or perhaps it already had worked it out and he was trying to deny it.

He hadn't said anything to her, but when she had come into the yard, he knew clearly that the slick on her hands wasn't from sweat. No one ever sweats red.

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Reviewing makes authors happy and may be like carrots for the bunny. (I only claim to know how bunnies think. They're like one of the seven mysteries of the world, I swear.)


	3. Chapter 3

Google maps, you are my favorite favorite website ever.

Next to no dialogue in this. Actually, there's no real dialogue in this at ALL. Wow. I feel like it's kind of hard to tell if a character is IC without them talking; review with feedback please? =D

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**Chapter 3**

There was no sound outside sans the chirping of the crickets. It was too late for cars in their relatively quiet suburbia apparently, and everyone was inside already. Spencer supposed if he tried hard enough, he could probably hear the cheerful voices of neighbors laughing or the angry yelling of couples arguing, but for now, he was thankful for the silence.

The air was still; no breeze to carry the stench of what made him wrinkle his nose too far. It wasn't the first time Spencer had seen blood, of course, but in such copious amounts… It was hard to ignore the smell, and thanks to his wonderful memory, the scene was probably going to be carved into his mind for the rest of his life.

The darkness was a mixed blessing, he decided, as he walked towards where his mother had been kneeling. On one hand, it was less likely there would be witnesses and he himself saw the body less, but on the other, it made telling just what had gone on that much more difficult. The light from his house was dim, at best, because his mother liked to read in weak lighting – she said it was good for the eyes – and it didn't reach the dark silhouette in the middle of the yard. It was hard to distinguish the crimson on the grass that was rapidly turning brown from the verdancy of the lawn; there was only a slight difference in hue to go by. In fact, the only way he could tell he had arrived was when he heard the rustling of his step turn into a squelch. When he moved his foot forward for another step, he hit something solid. The impact was soft, and the object always moved back into place when he applied some pressure several times.

Even if he hadn't tested the feel of what was there, he knew without a doubt that this was a body. Denying the presence of the blood wouldn't get him anywhere, even though he honestly had hoped it had belonged to a dog and not a man. Sprawl-eagled on the ground, and judging from the angle of his limbs, the cadaver was face-down, head facing away from the house.

Despite all his intelligence, he was at a loss about what to do. He could bury the corpse here, but that would eventually be a bad idea – he knew it would haunt him later in some shape or form. He would then have to find a way to dispose of the body.

This idea in and of itself was contrary to his nature, to put it lightly. He had nothing against authority figures despite his persistent avoidance of them, and he knew that if he admitted exactly what had happened, they would probably let him go with minimal questioning.

But there was a reason he steered clear of them.

No one knew of his mother's illness. Least of all were the neighbors, and they were the ones most likely to find out. He didn't know how he managed to pull the wool over their eyes, but somehow or another, it worked. Medication was obtained through a good friend who sympathized with him; prescriptions under the other's name and fee paid in cash. He was also confident that the man wouldn't betray his trust (sometimes, he felt his mother was indirectly a bad influence on him. He would never have resorted to bribery otherwise for any other reason, even if it was just doing some of the guy's homework and writing a few of his essays for him).

He covered all the bases he could think of, and no one had called him on it for all of the six years he had lived this way.

Bringing the police straight to her (and his) doorstep was just asking for trouble of the worst kind.

Which led him back to the current predicament. He would have to rid the body and clean up all the tracks. He was confident that he had read the necessary material and had the required knowledge for covering his tracks – BAU application, and it's said that the best criminals are the detectives – but he wasn't so sure that he would be so successful in the application. There was always a gap between knowing and doing … not that there was any choice in the matter.

First, the question was where. Spencer brought a map of the locality in his mind. To him, it was just as good as a real, physical, paper map hung up on the wall before him. He scanned the city for his residence, mentally marked it, and zoomed out. Anywhere nearby was only asking for attention, and "nearby" constituted of anywhere within Las Vegas. It was too bad he couldn't just find a train, jump into a car and hitchhike with the body. Missing a day of work would only end up with him attracting far more attention, too.

And then there was the problem of what exactly to do. Rather, the question was "how." "What" was simple. The corpse was a human being once, and even if Spencer did not know the person (he had the strange feeling he'd seen him somewhere before, but he knew for a fact that he wasn't acquainted with him), he deserved respect. Cremating was difficult, not to mention impossible and very conspicuous with the materials he had on hand, and drowning was just horrible. Burial was the only method that he would even allow himself to contemplate. So much as he didn't think about the maggots… The worms… The decaying flesh clinging to dirt-covered bones…

Spencer shook his head. He was thinking too much. At this rate he wouldn't be moving from this spot until sunrise, and then there would be a whole different monster to worry about. He turned and headed back inside, and when he exited he had his car keys in hand. His mother was already sleeping (he took a quick detour upstairs just to check), so he was going to make a short trip.

A quick journey to the local hardware store secured him a cheap package of tarp and some twine. To the clerk's questioning glance, he responded that he was heading to a long-distance car trip somewhere tomorrow and needed to tie some things to the roof of his car. The tarp was just in case it rained. Despite the circumstances, he was quite proud of this lie; the boy didn't seem to give a second thought to his reply at all. He made sure he paid with cash so that this purchase here too. Cards in general just left a blazing neon trail yelling, "Here is Dr. Spencer Reid! Catch me! Catch me!"

Upon returning, Spencer swallowed his unease and started inspecting the body. The man seemed to have been dead for merely two hours, judging from what he knew about rigor mortis. Despite the relatively short amount of time, he was vaguely surprised that the blood had stopped flowing freely already. Spencer struggled with the weight of the body – and under the light, he saw that it was a young male, probably in his thirties, with dark hair and pale, clouded eyes that he avoided as much as possible – as he wiped him down with a towel. The tarp went around the body, and the string tied around that. He made sure to fold the edges and tied them tightly to prevent any trace of blood or its smell from escaping, and in a half hour he had managed to tote the deadweight to his car. That towel would have to be bleached later, or perhaps even thrown out.

The man had no possessions in his clothes, and it was too dark for Spencer to see anything lying on the lawn. He supposed he'll just have to do it tomorrow when he returned.

He managed to merge onto the freeway running through the city without hyperventilating too much, but he knew how much of a losing battle that was. Though he had been calm as he was in close contact with the body, the nausea hit full force the moment he drove out of his driveway. He resisted the urge to just stop and put his head on the steering wheel and wish the rest of the night away. It was of small comfort the other cars drove straight past him. They were probably annoyed at him for being a little old lady on the road, but as far as he could tell not one glanced in his direction, ignoring him and minding their own business. They had no idea who he was, that he had a body in the back of his car. It was OK. They won't find out. He was just another one of them, out on a nightly trip.

A few deep breaths, and by the time he was somewhat calm, he had escaped the sprawling reaches of civilization and had dived headlong into the seemingly endless deserts surrounding the city. Bushes zipped past him, and as he put on the speed and drove further and further from his home city, he found himself more and more isolated. No one was there but him, the sands, the shrubs, the moon, and the dead man. Despite himself, he snorted. What a situation this was…

Honestly, at the moment, he didn't understand what people who read for escapism could possibly be thinking. He'd happily give this whole affair that seemed to have come from some low-grade mystery novel to someone else.

He had personally never taken any road trips before in his life – his traveling had mostly been done on trains and planes, and the longest he's been in a car at a time was thirty minutes – so he was starting to become exhausted from the sheer length of the ride. 'How the hell did people drive for six straight hours without falling asleep?' he thought as he stifled an enormous yawn. It wasn't even like there was a Starbucks to take advantage of out here. The only reason he hadn't drifted off was because he was reciting average populations aloud, for males and females separately, and for all the countries in Europe one at a time from east to west. He was on his third repetition and was contemplating working on Asia instead when lights shone over the horizon. He had to resist the urge to stop the car, run out, and start kissing the nearest building just from the sheer joy of seeing concrete and a sign of humanity that wasn't in the form of asphalt.

Two hours he spent on the road. Any further and he was looking at an all-nighter, so he decided to limit himself to the neighboring city of St. George. (The term "adjacent" in these parts had a different connotation; it essentially meant the next city down the highway, even if said city was an hour away.)

However, it wasn't like he'd ever come here before, nor had he seen a map. He'd never even heard of it, other than the vague impression that the place had an airport. At any rate, he took the first exit off the highway and ended up in the empty streets of the city.

It was well past midnight, and though Las Vegas, with its neon lights blazing 24/7, would have had enough lights on to simulate daylight, St. George was dark except for the solitary street lamps separated about two per block. It didn't help ease Spencer's nerves one bit. He found his eyes tracking left to right for the slightest sign of movement; twice he'd been startled by a squirrel running out from the bushes.

He almost felt bad for his car since he was alternatively slamming on the brake and then the gas so often. He also felt bad for the poor man in his trunk. If he had been alive, he'd probably have a concussion.

Then a sign suddenly flew by his vision, and he screeched the car to a stop. The tires squealed and there was a dull thump as his cargo jostled from one end of the trunk to the other yet again, but he paid these sounds no mind. Despite the fact that he had driven by the sign too fast for any normal person to read it, he saw the words in his mind clear as day.

"St. George City Cemetery."

An idea emerged in Spencer's mind. He shifted the car into reverse and turned as sharply as he could. He carefully but quickly surveyed the vicinity for any watching eyes, but, fortunately, there were no souls in sight. One deep breath to reassure himself, and then he drove himself into the cemetery.

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Hope you enjoyed =)


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