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The kid's shaking in her boots, of course Elle couldn't get her to say anything helpful to the case, Spencer thinks to himself as the group convenes.
“She had to see something,” Elle says, walking back into the room. She'd gotten nowhere with the victim.
Morgan shrugs. “At this point we can't assume anything, we don't even have her name. She doesn't look like a minor but I honestly have no idea. Refused medical attention, refused fingerprinting, we've got nothing.”
“You all are idiots sometimes,” Spencer finally tells them. “I'll be back.”
From the vending machine down the hall he grabs a water bottle, and from the break room an assortment of packaged snacks; potato chips, a granola bar, and the least bruised apple he could find. Instead of checking back on with the team he goes straight to the interrogation room.
The girl, anywhere from sixteen to twenty, tips her head towards him when the door opens, but doesn't do any more to acknowledge his entrance.
“Hey, I'm Spencer Reid, I work with the FBI and I’m here to ask you about what happened at the warehouse where we found you. I’m on your side, and I’m trying to put together the whole story,” he says, setting the food on the table. “If there's anything else you'd rather eat, I can grab it, but this is what we have on hand. I can't think on an empty stomach so I thought it would help.”
Her hands twitch in her lap, finally bringing one up to her chin to sign, thank you.
Spencer shrugs. “No problem.” She looks up, but not in his eye, confusion crossing her face before being reigned back to indifference. “I don't know a lot of sign language, but I learned a bit as a teenager. Do you use sign language with people you know?”
She nods. “My mom,” she signs. “Some friends.”
“That's good. Do you live with your parents?” She shakes her head. Okay, probably not a minor. That checks off a very helpful box. “Can you tell me about what happened immediately before we showed up to the warehouse? How'd you get there, and who was with you?” He slides a notepad and pen towards her; he's alright at ASL, but he hadn't practiced in years. They're both better off with her writing it. “This is probably easier for both of us,” he tries to joke.
Slowly, the victim takes a hold of the notepad and pen. She doesn't write anything. “Again?” she signs.
“How did you get to the warehouse, and was there anyone in there with you before we showed up?”
She scribbles down an answer in neat handwriting, but shaky hands. I don't remember getting there. I woke up with a man standing over me, but he ran out a minute later when you all arrived.
“That's really good… What should I call you?”
“Jill,” she says, a soft whisper on her lips.
“That's great, Jill. What did the man look like?”
She takes the water bottle from the middle of the table instead of answering, unscrewing the cap and taking a few sips. She looks at the notepad. Tall, he had a beard, ginger hair. He was on the phone and had a low voice, but I don't know what he said.
“You didn't know the man?” Jill shakes her head. “Is there anything else you think could help us identify him, like what he was wearing?”
“No, sorry,” she says just as softly as she said her name. It sounds reflexive to say.
“That's alright, you've already helped us so much. If you think of anything else, you can write it down, or call us. Do you have a cell phone?” She nods. “Alright. Could you write down your full name and phone number, just in case we need to contact you? And is there anyone we can call to pick you up?”
She signs again, “Mom.” A phone number follows.
“Got it. Thanks, Jill, you’ve really helped us.”
“Why do you know sign language?” she asks this time, hands slow but practiced.
It doesn’t phase him; it’s a little unusual for the average person to learn. “I had a friend who told me it would help if I ever was nonverbal for any reason. He was right, but so few people know ASL it hasn’t been a huge help to me. I’m glad it helps you, though.”
“You’re autistic?”
He knows the sign well; he’d practiced signing, I’m autistic and I can’t speak, so many times it’s embedded into his memory. “Yes, I am.” He’s aware of the team on the other side of the wall, and though he hadn’t explicitly stated it before, if they haven’t figured it out yet they really need to reevaluate their occupations.
There’s true confusion, even a hint of awe, on her face. “And you work here ?”
“Yup.” He lets a short grin come through. “It’s possible, y’know. I’ve found really great people in this job, and a place that puts my strengths to use instead of degrading me for my weaknesses.”
“I don’t know where to work.”
Spencer shrugs. “It might be hard to find somewhere that works for you as much as you for it, but it can happen. Focus on what excites you more than what hinders you. That’s what helped me.”
“Okay.” Jill slides her arms up and down the cold table, thinking. “Thank you, Spencer.” She spells his name out.
He shows her his sign name quickly. Dictionary. The same friend who recommended ASL gave him the name. “I’m a walking encyclopedia sometimes. He didn’t know the sign for that, so he just called me a dictionary instead.”
This gets a smile on Jill’s face. It’s the best he can ask for as he waves goodbye, tells her he’ll call her mom and make sure she’s set up for success before leaving. If he gets her full name in the hopes he can push her in the right direction for a job in government in the future, no one has to know.
Hotch catches him outside, minutes later. There’s something on his face that looks like concern, but there’s no reason to be. “What?”
“You did good with her. Got her to talk, Elle couldn’t get a word out of her.”
“You just weren’t speaking her language,” Spencer tells him. “Neurotypicals forget that conversing is half impossible anyway, let alone in distress. You were asking her really general questions, she didn’t know where to start, so she shut down. Once more specific questions came into play she was already catatonic.”
Hotch nods slowly. “What should we do if something like this happens again? What’s the best way to get to a—a neurodivergent person?” he asks like it’ll bite back.
“Gee, we aren’t giving you the plague,” he jokes. He starts with the things he’s explained to so many people in his life: “Break down questions. Instead of asking her what happened, I asked her what happened immediately before we showed up. I asked her how she got there, and who was with her. Autistic people don’t process questions the same, and often need specifics.” He thinks back to Elle talking to her. What’s your name, sweetie? Is there anything I can get you? “Elle asked perfectly normal questions for a neurotypical, but to Jill, she was faced with figuring out what she wanted, what was happening, what she meant by is there anything I can get you. ”
Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets. “Normally, never assume what an autistic person needs, but common courtesy, like getting her water and food, those are usually fine.” He goes through the encounter again, trying to pick apart what’s natural for him to do, but what wouldn’t be for Hotch, the others. “Make sure they know why you’re here, who you are, what your intentions are. Pretty standard victim interactions after that. Just take a little more thought to it all, y’know?”
Hotch nods. There’s something like a smile on his face, but it’s quickly schooled. “Thanks, Spencer. I’ll try to remember all that.”
“Or just send me in.”
He snorts. “Or just send you in, yes.”