Xander Harris wasn't expecting company tonight; he didn't often invite people over. It wasn't that the apartment was shoddy, couldn't be when the rent clocked in at a thousand a month. He didn't invite anyone over because no one knew he lived in the Maxwell Arms on the penthouse floor. He kept two residences, one downtown and one uptown more in keeping with a certain someone's tastes.
His friends knew about the downtown apartment, but they didn't drop by often enough to notice Xander only stayed long enough to throw off suspicions. If they called he had a service forward the calls to the penthouse. For a year and a half this contrivance worked flawlessly.
If Xander felt guilt about the subterfuge, he didn't allow it to get to him. Two years ago he decided it was best to give in, just a little, to the new desires foisted upon him after that fateful Halloween three years ago. He'd used up so much energy fighting off Lector's indelible influence, which only made the effect stronger in the long run.
It started at school, where Xander's mind took a powder on a daily basis. Now this was something Xander had no control over. Schoolwork bored him and always would. Those were the most dangerous times. That slick, preying aspect of Lector greedily grabbed for control during the moments Xander lost focus. Xander wouldn't notice until after the teacher's handed back his homework and classroom assignments with big, bright red A-pluses circled at the top of the papers. Good work! The teachers wrote as well.
He soon learned even the residue of personality the chaos spell created was considerable. He hid it well for the most part, the more despicable aspects of Lector's personality anyway. Sometimes he'd slip and announce the reworking of his mind, but thankfully not too often. Like the man's overbearing arrogance. Though Xander knew Lector's superiority was well founded it didn't play well when he corrected Giles in the middle of Scooby meetings.
Then there was Lector's penchant for punishing rude behavior by eating the offenders?that one wasn't too hard to squash, though. But most importantly, Xander suppressed Lector's growing fascination with Willow. The man recognized something in her that was ripe, and begged to be molded into something darker and malevolent.
Xander learned to repress harder and harder after each incident. But like any repressed emotion, it became impossible to bury for any significant amount of time. Especially during times of incredible stress?the reemergence of Angelus certainly qualified.
Eventually, Xander and Lector worked out allowances for each other's personalities. So far it's worked to both their satisfaction.
So far…
Xander wasn't expecting company that night but there came a knock on his door anyway.
He had been sitting in a big comfy chair Lector picked out for the sole purpose of reading in. Which is what Xander was doing when the knock came. Beside the chair was a small Chippendale table, it was deeply lacquered and too extravagant. But perfect, apparently, on which to set your glass of Amarone. Kafka's The Trial, was the compromise they'd made tonight. It wasn't the worst choice of reading material the Lector part of him ever read, but it wasn't something Xander would have chosen himself. But if it came down to a choice of delving into a world of paranoia and persecution, and some of the more graphic criminology textbooks Lector wanted, Xander'd pick Kafka any day.
Why?
Because sometimes, most times, when he read about the sick and twisted stuff serial killers did to people, he'd find them amusing. Not the acts themselves, but the motives he perceived behind them. It was all just creepy.
When they were done with Kafka the deal was Xander's got to peruse exactly fifty comic books.
Xander put his book aside and got up from the chair. He strode out of the indulgently decorated study, into the wide-open space of the living room. Here a fire blazed in the fireplace, providing the only light to the room. If the study was overwrought with decadence, then the living room was plain snotty. From the furniture to the rugs to the burgundy curtains draped over the panoramic windows overlooking Sunnydale, everything cost too damned much, more than most people made in their lifetimes.
Xander reached for the switch next to the door and turned on the lights. Above the light switch there was a small monitor that was hooked up to direct live feeds from security cameras, each one as small as a dime, placed in the hallway leading to his penthouse. Xander took out the remote in his pants pocket and pressed one of the four buttons on it to turn the screen on. He wondered who could be behind the door. He suspected somebody in management.
No one else was allowed on his floor without permission… no exceptions.
After the monitor came on, Xander raised his left eyebrow. Then again, maybe there are some exceptions, he thought as he unlocked his door and revealed two FBI agents standing on his doorstep.
Agent Devlin Curtis smiled when the door opened. He wasn't happy to be seeing Alexander Harris, per se, but he knew how important manners were to the younger man. "Xander, sorry to bother you so late."
"I assume it's important the reason you're here, so I'll forgive it. What can I do for you?"
From beside Devlin Agent Adam Brooks made a sound. Devlin smiled and hoped Xander would ignore it. Thankfully, he did.
"Come in," he told them and they did.
Xander seated them on a couch in the center of the living room and offered them coffee, both agents declined. Devlin really wanted to show Harris the files get his views then get the hell out of there before Brooks said something to scrub Harris as a resource. If it's been up to Devlin the trainee wouldn't be here, but the high muckety mucks wanted him to help give the kid some experience with outside contacts and sources. But Alexander Harris was a nineteen-year-old the Bureau paid a lot of money to profile some of their toughest cases. Agent Brooks was twenty-eight and seemed to resent the hell out of running to a kid who hadn't even attended college, and didn't go through the years of training Brooks had gone through just to be considered a trainee in the FBI.
"I wanted you to have a look at these," Devlin placed his briefcase over his lap, opened it and pulled out a stack of manila folders, "before we return to Quantico in the morning."
Harris sat across from them in a wooden chair, his legs crossed, right ankle on top of his left knee. He reached over aver took the folders. "This is about the murders in Mendocino and Galt?" he asked placing the folder on his thighs, but he didn't open any of them. He stared at Devlin and waited for an answer.
"Right… " Devlin replied, rubbing his hand over the two days worth of stubble on his chin. "We connected all twenty-eight murders to one killer… possibly killers."
Harris's eyes widen slightly at that. "What makes you believe there's more than one perpetrator, Agent Curtis?"
"Hey, I thought we came to you for answers, not the other way around!" Brooks said.
For the love of god, man, shut up! Devlin screamed in his head.
Again, Harris ignored the other agent.
"The way each murder was carried out suggests different behavioral patterns and objectives," Devil went on to reply
"How so?"
Devlin licked his lips, suddenly dry just thinking about the differences in the crime scenes. "Half the families got killed clean, relatively speaking. Husband, wives, kids got hard-edged right in the throat. They bled out in less than a minute. The other half… the parents got the knife treatment, but the kids… all raped then stabbed to death. The last family--"
"Had infants," Harris finished tonelessly.
"Yeah."
Harris opened the first file and over the next ten minutes skimmed each page in all three folders. Including pictures from all the crime scenes. Harris's expression didn't fluctuated in the slightest. When he was finished he handed back the folder then stood up from his chair. Devlin followed the nineteen-year-olds progress to the overlaid windows. Harris reached inside his slack's right pocket and pulled out a small, square metal device. A moment later the heavy curtains over the windows soundlessly swept away from the windows.
"There are two killers," Harris said as he looked out over the small town of Sunnydale below. "Brothers. The older one is your mad dog. He perfected his illustrious career of rape and torture on his younger siblings, including his partner. They took turns killing each family that's why five of them are no muss, no fuss, and the other five are horror shows. The younger had all sexual desire driven from him before he ever reached adolescence."
Harris stopped talking then sighed.
Devlin and Brooks looked at each other. Devlin saw his fellow agent was breathing hard and his eyes were wide. Devlin knew how Brooks felt; Harris's profile succinctly explained the schizophrenic nature of the serial killings, and provided them with a way to narrow down their search for the perps. Devlin turned back to Harris and shakily asked, "What're their motives?"
"For the moment their motives are one and the same… money. But it won't stay their motive for much longer. The money will become incidental."
"Money?" Devlin asked. "Are you saying someone paid to have those families killed?"
"Not directly…" Harris turned back around and Devlin had to lean back into the sofa, because the sight of tears running down Harris's face was too much. Over the last few weeks he'd come across some of the most gruesome murders in his twenty-year career as an agent, and not a one made his heart jump in his chest like the sight of Alexander Harris crying. "They're video taping the killings," Harris stated, again, tonelessly.
"Fuck," Brooks said. "They're making goddamned snuff films."
"Xander," Devlin said feeling soul weary and like retirement was too far away, "forget the coffee. But if you got something stronger, we'll take it."