Chapter 438: George Foyet

The two men waited in the car until dusk, when they finally saw a middle-aged white man with graying hair and wearing glasses, shuffling around the corner and stopping in front of the apartment building across from them.

"He's not even 40 yet, right?" Jack said, surprised. But after recalling the picture of Foyet's scarred face, he understood. 

One serious injury, combined with more than a decade of living in hiding, constantly fearful for his life, would explain his premature aging.

The two got out of the car and approached him. Hotchner called out, "George Foyet?"

The man, holding a pile of groceries and books, looked up in surprise, instinctively glancing around.

"Don't be afraid. We're with the FBI. This is Agent Tavoller, and I'm Agent Hotchner. We've met before, remember?"

Hotchner and Jack both showed their badges.

"Yes, I remember," Foyet said, forcing a smile before nervously scanning his surroundings again. He tilted his head and asked, "If you don't mind, could we talk inside?"

Without waiting for their reply, he led the way into the apartment.

Following him into a cramped room, Jack took a quick look around. It was a small space with one large room and one small room, no living room. Aside from a bed and a table, there were few other furnishings, making it look more like a temporary hideout than a home.

"Do you actually live here?" Jack asked curiously.

Foyet nodded. "I use different names to rent several places. I switch between them regularly."

He coughed a few times, then asked, "How did you find me?"

"Through Roy Coulson."

Hotchner's response surprised Foyet, and he paused before nodding. "I knew it wasn't a copycat."

Clearly, he had seen the news about the "Boston Reaper" resurfacing and understood why the FBI had come to see him.

"That night, I planned to propose to her over dinner, but I chickened out," Foyet said, his memories evidently stirred by the FBI's arrival. Though he coughed intermittently, he continued recounting his experience in broken sentences.

Seeing him struggling, Jack poured him a glass of water and handed it over. As their hands made contact, Jack cast a slow-acting healing spell. However, Jack raised an eyebrow in surprise—despite his high level of mental power, the energy he used for the spell was far less than what he had expended on Finley.

It seemed that Foyet's physical condition wasn't as poor as he made it appear. Was this another layer of disguise? Jack wondered what purpose this pretense could serve. Was Foyet preparing to fight back if the killer ever came for him again?

While Jack pondered, Foyet continued, "When the 'Reaper' approached us, the ring was still in my pocket. He claimed to be lost, holding a tourist guide. Just as I was about to help, he stabbed me."

Hotchner interrupted Foyet's painful recollection. "Mr. Foyet, we didn't come to..."

The case files and Roy Coulson's book had already detailed these events, and there was no need to make him relive the trauma again.

But Foyet seemed oblivious to the interruption and continued, "I was paralyzed, sitting there bleeding, helplessly watching him kill Mandy (Amanda's nickname). He stabbed her 67 times. Do you know how long it takes to stab someone 67 times?"

Once Foyet had calmed down, Hotchner spoke again.

"He was supposed to leave your glasses with the next victim, but he didn't. He kept them until yesterday's case. Do you know why?"

"Because I survived?" Foyet replied with a bitter smile.

Jack, putting aside his own confusion, asked, "Have you received any strange letters or calls recently?"

Foyet's bitter smile deepened. "For 11 years, I've been convinced he wouldn't let me go, so I never use a cell phone and constantly move from place to place. He targets people near their cars, so I only take public transportation. Believe me, I've done everything I can to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Then why haven't you left this place?" Jack asked, voicing the question he had been pondering earlier with JJ.

Foyet shook his head. "No, Boston is my home. I swore to myself that this is the one thing I wouldn't let the 'Reaper' take from me."

Seeing how resolute he was, Hotchner suggested, "Until this case is resolved, we can provide you with a safe house or arrange police protection."

"No need," Foyet declined. "No one can protect me."

"He's just a man, not some kind of superhuman," Hotchner pressed.

"Then why haven't you caught him?" A hint of sarcasm flashed across Foyet's face.

Jack stepped in to smooth things over, sensing the discussion was going in circles. "How about this? Could you give us the names and addresses of your other residences so we can stay in contact?" He handed over a notepad and pen.

This time, Foyet didn't refuse. He quickly wrote down a string of addresses and names, then handed the notepad back to Jack.

"Please take care of it," Foyet added, emphasizing with a pitiful expression, "I'm counting on you."

Jack, a bit unnerved by the pleading look from the middle-aged man, quickly nodded. "I'll take good care of it."

As they left the shabby apartment, Jack couldn't help but remark, "This guy's behavior is full of contradictions. He's clearly terrified, yet he adamantly refuses our protection."

Hotchner's expression grew grim, as if he was recalling unpleasant memories. "You didn't experience what happened ten years ago. Back then, the people of Boston were living in constant fear, and they almost completely lost faith in the local police."

When they arrived back at the office, Jack had just parked the car when they saw Roy Coulson, the reporter and writer they had met earlier, waiting at the door.

As soon as he saw them, he walked up. "Hey, someone sent this to my office."

Hotchner took the envelope Roy handed over, and after a brief glance, his face darkened.

Jack quickly put on gloves and took the documents from Hotchner. Without even flipping through them, he already knew what they were.

The first page was a copy of the agreement that the "Boston Reaper" had once sent to the late detective Tom Shonas.

The killer had sent this straight to the reporter, making his intentions clear.

"Are you planning to report on this?" Hotchner asked Roy Coulson.

The writer shrugged. "If I don't, someone else will."

"Maybe, or maybe not. But to him, you're different from everyone else," Hotchner said, implying something deeper.

"Your book Night Reaper is practically his autobiography. Believe me, over the past ten years, he's probably read your book hundreds, if not thousands of times. You made him famous. In his mind, no one knows or cares about him as much as you do. Now, he wants to use you to tell the world why he really stopped killing."

Roy Coulson didn't seem fazed, but his eyes sparkled with interest. "So, what are you saying?"

"If you report on this now, you know what the consequences will be. But this is big news, and you should write about it if you want."

The moment Hotchner finished speaking, Jack had to suppress a smile, quickly managing his expression. When did Hotch start using moral leverage like that?

Sure enough, Roy Coulson took the bait, "What exactly do you want me to do?"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. Reporting or not is entirely your decision," Hotchner replied, playing hard to get.

"Oh, come on. This is an exclusive story—it could be the biggest news I ever get in my life," Roy Coulson said, all but admitting he was willing to negotiate.

"Once we've caught the 'Reaper,' I can give you exclusive access to all the case files and let you document the entire process of the BAU's investigation," Hotchner offered.

"As long as I hold off on this news, right?" Roy Coulson put on a pained expression, as if facing a major moral dilemma.

Hotchner turned away, his lips tight, as he quickly muttered, "I never said that."

You totally meant that. Jack mentally filled in the unspoken words for Coulson. Of course, Hotchner couldn't admit to making a deal—it would be illegal.

"No reporter has ever had that kind of access," Hotchner added calmly, but the allure in his words was unmistakable.

"And what if you don't catch him?" Roy Coulson asked, nervously scuffing his shoe against the ground.

"That's the risk you'll have to take," Hotchner replied before turning to Jack, effectively ending the conversation with Coulson.

"Take these documents to Russell and have his team check for any trace evidence."

Jack knew that with the "Boston Reaper's" caution, it was unlikely they would find anything. But just in case, he rushed to the local medical examiner's office, where he found Russell and his team collecting evidence from a car in a nearby parking lot.

It was the same car Jack had seen at the crime scene the previous day, with the "Eye of Providence" drawn on the side in the victim's blood.

Jack explained why he was there and handed over the envelope. Russell nodded and promised to handle it quickly.

Just as Jack was about

 to leave, a sudden thought struck him. Remembering his earlier suspicions, he turned back to Russell with a request.

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