Finally someone asking about Candy's drive! It's easy to just say 'justice,' but that's not quite it for her. A huge part of it is pure, unadulterated professional pride. She can't stand an unsolved puzzle, a messy case file. It's an itch in her brain she has to scratch. That scene where she's up at 3 AM re-arranging photos on her wall, muttering about timelines? That's the core of it right there.
But the other layer, the one that makes her more than just a clever machine, is this quiet fury on behalf of people who get overlooked. The victims nobody mourns, the disappearances the department writes off as 'probably just ran away.' She takes those personally in a way that's almost self-destructive. It's not a savior complex—it's more like a promise she made to herself after that one cold case from her rookie year, the one that still keeps her up. Her motivation isn't a flashing neon sign; it's the low hum of a machine left running all night, fueled by equal parts intellectual arrogance and a grudging, deep-seated care for the forgotten.