c h a p t e r  7  :  * CONTENT WARNING *

Staples' Residence ; Waverly, Pennsylvania

Gaspard stood in front of Patrick Staples fridge. Lost dog flyers were taped on every square available inch. Some overlapped, from lack of room, he lifted one to see three more meshed underneath. He already knew what these were : trophies.

His eyes looked over the small ranch home. It was tight, overflowing boxes everywhere, Patrick was a pack-rat. A pack-rat with a dog fetish. But what bothered him more was how Kate knew him. How did she manage to get a death row prison guard help her escape? It baffled him—but he should have known how the men flock to her, why wouldn't they help a beauty in "distress?"

Patrick's nasal voice spoke from the computer that Jamie had woken. It was a video. The fat man held a small dog, perhaps a puppy—Gaspard couldn't tell the difference—his pudgy hands scratched at the dog's chin. "Hi. Hi. Hi. Say hi, to the camera."

"Guys?" Jamie called looking over her shoulder pointing to the screen. Wyatt immediately appeared, shoving past Gaspard.

"Say hi. Say hi." The small paw of the dog was lifted by Patrick, who made it wave like a toddler might. "Can you say hi to your friends? Your friends are out there. That's right, oh, sweet pup." The dog, not knowing any better, started licking his new masters swollen face.

Jennifer came from the kitchen, her face pale, "We found something down in the basement ... I think you're going to want to see this."

A foul decaying smell rose from basement door. It smelt exactly like the man Kate had let rot beside him those few days. That smell could never be forgotten—but was it possible that this smelt worse? They had made Gaspard go down first. Sure, why not send the already disturbed ahead of the clinically sane....

One light bulb was enough to cast a dim glow within the tight basement. Like Patrick's upstairs this room too, was piled with boxes. He reached his covered hand out pushing aside plastic curtains that were permanently stained red.

"OH," he covered his mouth and nose with his forearm. It was a blood drenched room. Those behind gagged. "Bags, man." Gaspard nudged one of the black trash bags with his boot. It fell over spilling out a pair of rotting paws. "They're animals," he choked.

Instruments lined the wall. Every single one unwashed and stained. They were all the accessories a killer would need. He pressed his coated forearm harder against his mouth and nose. God, that smell.

"What is that?" Jamie tapped his shoulder before pointing to a medium size table, that could possibly seat six.

Gaspard squinted, trying to get a better look without approaching, but couldn't. Carefully placing his feet he came to the tables plastic covered surface. It was a dog, he could tell from its matted fur.

"It's a german shepard, I think." He said, putting his face down near the body. "God damn!" The dog lunged at his face, teeth chomping on air mere inches away – Gaspard stumbled back arms flailing to keep himself from falling into the garbage bags.

The dog whimpered dropping its eyeless face down on to the table. All stared in silence, the massive "man's best friend" was barely breathing. Gaspard adjusted himself catching his breath as his heart raced barely able to speak,

"Kate was teaching him—she was teaching him how to become a serial killer."

A forensic team now handled the slaughter-class-basement as FBI members analyzed every centimeter of the upstairs. Gaspard was part of that crew, paired with a bristling Jamie.

"I can handle dead people, sure. But, you kill a dog, I go crazy." She had told him while finishing up with Patrick's computer. "I got this little hound mix," she started to tell him though he pretended not to listen and thanked God when she mumbled, "Forget it."

The young Agent could talk his ear off in a matter of minutes. She just didn't know when to shut-it. And that bothered Gaspard. A person who talked so easily may not be a person you want to be working with in the FBI. Especially on this case.

"What's that?" Jamie asked.

He pulled a book from Patrick's shelf that looked out of place. "A textbook." Opening the front cover Gaspard became thoroughly amused, "Oh look, it's inscribed. 'To Patrick you're capable of greatness, you just have to believe. Kate.'"

"So this Patrick guy is lonely, he's unstable, vulnerable to kindness...."

"She recognizes his potential and seduces him." He said simply.

Giving details to thought Jamie shook her head, "He's emulating her. The animals, he removed their eyes. Cut into their fur."

"Well, it's obvious — Patrick looks to Kate, the way, Kate looks to Poe." Gaspard closed the book laying it back upon its rightful shelf. "It's a Godlike kind of worship." One he personally knew too much about.

A long pause sunk into the air. It felt heavy and surprising before Jamie had the nerve to ask, "Is Cross really that powerful?"

He could feel her black-lined eyes looking him over from edge to edge. She is only settling her curiosity, he reminded himself before adjusting his FBI given jacket.

"–You know, when I first started to suspect her, all I had was instinct. I didn't have evidence at all." His shoulders raised nonchalantly. "People weren't very convinced about my Poe theory."

"In the book, that's when you started following her." She pointed out chewing on her cheeks inside.

"Yeah ... Everywhere. Work, school ... home. I was just waiting for her to get sloppy. But, the way she inspired people, it's truly a gift–"

"Booth, let's go." Rang the command of Jennifer.

He asked, "Go to?"

She pulled out set of keys, her free hand latching onto his forearm, trying to guide him out of Patrick's home. "It's time you talked to Rachel Cross."