1.

To say Aaron Hotchner was pissed would be an understatement. The understatement of the century. In fact, he was in such a foul mood it was all he could do to keep from storming out of that bullpen—that strange, dusty, unbelievablyhotbullpen— taking his entire team with him.

The BAU were never called to an investigation unless invited by the local authorities. That was the rule—they were consultants. But something had evidently gone wrong this time. Because although the paperwork had gone through all the usual channels—someone having sent the file to BAU headquarters and spoken to their liaison over the phone—it soon became painfully clear the local authorities had not invited them and wanted them anywhere but here.

It had been barely three hours since their plane landed and already it felt like three years. Hotch could tell he wasn't the only one under strain. The local PD didn't have a subtle bone in their bodies, their reluctance palpable—their attitude hostile and defensive every step of the way. Who the hell had called them in? Certainly not the ruddy, burly, tobacco-spitting Sheriff Sheridan. Hotch was so sick of the man, he would gladly have given up and left them to their own devices… if it weren't for one small problem.

They needed the BAU.

South Creedon was a tiny rural town lost in the mountains—hardly more than a bunch of ramshackle huts scattered across the countryside—where poverty ran high and serious crime rates were low. They were badly unequipped to handle a murder investigation. Police headquarters was a dilapidated building made of rotting pine boards, with all of five policemen in it—badly organized and clearly lacking in discipline, probably used to nothing more than breaking up drunken brawls and domestic disputes.

Hotch knew the rest of his team felt the same way he did—mostly by the way they avoided meeting each others' eyes. Each tried to cope their own way—JJ by keeping a polite, friendly front and making an attempt at empathy; Morgan with a stiff jaw, doing his best to round up facts despite Sheriff Sheridan's open antagonism; Reid prattling off statistics as he tacked up a huge map of the area for the geographical analysis; Emily, poker-faced and silent, gathering addresses in order to get started on victimology; Rossi keeping a quiet watch over everything, wheels turning in his head as his experience endeavored to build a profile.

Three young women had been abducted and murdered along the peaceful, sun-blasted country roads. All between the ages of 20 and 23, dishwater blonde, freckled, slightly overweight, and on their way to work. All found in corn fields miles away from where they were supposed to be—with very obvious signs of violence and no indication whatsoever of sexual assault. Everything screamed sexually-motivated murder. The unsub had a definite type and a pretty constant MO. But the violence… the violence was physical, random and brutal—all fists, no stabbing, no mutilation, no strangling, no torn clothes, no posing of the body. It lacked the sexual component—the profile didn't add up.

Prentiss came into the room carrying the victims' information and Officer Yarmouth leered at her. Hotch glanced away in distaste. That was the worst of this redneck town. Resistance and suspicion they could take—they dealt with them on a day-to-day basis—but this blatant disregard for his female agents made him almost want to resort to physical violence. He realized they weren't high on gender equality around here, where teen pregnancy, alcoholism and spousal abuse ruled—but it still rankled to see them treating Prentiss and JJ as if they were juicy pieces of meat they couldn't wait to sink their teeth into. It wasn't that they couldn't take it—of course they could. But why the hell should they? Why should anyone? It made Hotch's fists tingle just thinking about it.

He knew, however, protectiveness from them was the last thing Prentiss and JJ needed. It would only reinforce the image that they were worthless, inferior—unable to stand up for themselves and needing help from the alpha males. And they couldn't have that. Prentiss and JJ were every bit as competent as any of the others—they were critical to the investigation. Whatever happened, they could not let personal feelings interfere with the case. They had to keep up the objective act. For the victims, if nothing else.

Irritation made Hotch curt. "Yes, Prentiss—what is it?"

Her slight start wasn't lost on him—but it passed quickly as she blitzed into professional mode. The daughter of an ambassador, she was long trained in covering up unwanted emotions. "I've got addresses for all three victims. Unfortunately none of the families have a phone—they all live way out into the country. Megan Sarkoff was 20, still in high school, single, living with her parents. She was on her way to a summer job in the fields when it happened. Callie Tanner was 22, single mother of a four-year-old boy. She worked full-time as cashier at the general store in town. Elizabeth Culver was 23, married, mother of three. She was the last victim, at least as far as we know. Worked washing dishes at the diner. Her husband reported her missing when she didn't come home from work two nights ago. She was found the next morning, three miles away."

Reid was suddenly at her side, all ears. "Did they take the same road to work?"

"No. They didn't live nearby, and though both Callie and Elizabeth worked in town, they had to take different routes to get there." She paused to give Reid the addresses so he could mark them on the map. The three points looked lost—meaningless. Hotch knew there was significance to them and they would find it somehow. But right now it all seemed doomed to randomness.

He looked up to find Sheriff Sheridan staring down Emily's shirt. The man was practically drooling. Hotch's head ached from the effort it took to remain impassive. "Did you have any suspects for the first two murders?"

"If we did, you wouldn't be here, now would ya." The sheriff smirked. "We thought Matt Culver mighta had somethin' to do with Lizzie May disappearin'. He's a mean drunk sometimes. Hadta go over to his house three times last month to break 'em up."

"Then that's where we should get started. Prentiss, you and Morgan head over to the Culver house and see what you can find out. Dave, you and Reid go to the Tanner place. I'll go with the Sheriff to see the Sarkoffs. JJ, see if there's any sort of media around here we can alert and wait for Garcia to get back to us with the backgrounds."

As everyone nodded and dispersed, a fleeting expression of dismay crossed JJ's face. It was only there for a second, barely enough to register. But Hotch caught it and knew what it meant. He was leaving her here, alone—throwing her to the wolves, while everyone else paired off. He didn't for one minute believe the local PD would actually hurt her—their crudeness was mostly just bravado to scare them off their turf. Still, if he couldn't wait to get the hell out of there…

"On second thought… Reid, stay here and work the geographical profile. There's gotta be someway to narrow this down. Morgan, you go with Sheriff Sheridan to take a look at the last crime scene. Try to figure out if the UnSub took any souvenirs."

He didn't wait around to see the grateful relief on her face. There would be time enough to unwind later, after they´d caught the guy—hopefully over a drink or two. Or six, he thought wryly, intercepting Morgan's withering glance at the two deputies checking out JJ's pantyhosed legs.

It was going to be a long day.

The Culver house was something else.

Emily had expected light construction—probably in the form of dilapidated log cabin, half torn down. Which it was. What she hadn't expected was the terrible mess it was in—trash and junk lying all over the place, complete with half-passed-out husband, disheveled runny-nosed kids and a twanging radio in the background. It felt like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies.

It was the girl who came to the door at their impatient knocking—a tiny creature no more than six years old, with stringy blonde hair, grimy cheeks and a pained expression. "Who are you?"

"I'm Emily and this is Dave," Emily began, her heart going out to the little runt. "What's your name?"

"Cissy Culver." Somehow it didn't come as a surprise that she hadn't been told not to talk to strangers. In this one horse town Emily guessed everyone knew everyone else… and this didn't seem like the most protective, sheltering of households anyway. "You here to see my Pa?"

Emily glanced beyond her at the arm hanging out of a beat-up green armchair and the beer cans strewn on the floor. Fat chance we're getting anything out of him.

"Yeah. Can we come in?"

Patiently the child threw the door open, revealing a room that was even worse than Emily had imagined. She had to watch her step to avoid running into toys, clothes and all sorts of unrecognizable articles lying around. Dave followed silently—taking in everything and undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion.

A little boy and an even smaller girl were sitting on the floor of the den, sniffling and looking dirty and miserable. Matt Culver was spread out on the chair, clearly drunk—eyes half-closed and snoring.

Dave stepped up. "Mr. Culver. Mr. Culver—wake up. We need to talk to you."

It took a while but finally Matt Culver came to with a snort, accidentally kicking the cans at his feet and Emily's shins in the process. Sonova…

"The hell d'you want?" he grumbled, stumbling to his feet so violently, he swayed sideways and would have fallen if Rossi hadn't caught him. "Get th' fuck outta my house!"

"FBI," Dave interposed calmly. "We need to talk to you about your wife, Elizabeth Culver."

"The bitch is dead, 'nuff said," Matt Culver huffed. Then, unexpectedly, he sank back into the chair and his shoulders shook with sobs. "She's dead! She's dead! My Lizzie May's dead."

Oh great, Emily thought, rolling her eyes. Now we're gonna have to pat him on the back and tell him it'll be okay.

Luckily Dave had chosen to ignore this outburst. She guessed even his sympathetic tolerance had a limit. "Mr. Culver, when was the last time you saw your wife?"

The creep wiped his nose on his sleeve. "She was walkin' over to that damn job of hers. In town. Waitin' tables like some cheap slut. I didn't want her there—but them kids hafta eat—and I been hitting a rough patch—"

Yeah, right. Emily shook the urge to smack him over the head. "What time was it, Mr. Culver?"

For the first time it seemed to dawn on him she was in the room. "I ain't talkin' to you!" he spat. "Lizzie May was fine, just a fine, fine girl—before them kids came along and messed up everything…"

Patiently, Dave insisted, "When did you last see your wife, Mr. Culver?"

"Thursdee," he finally answered. "Thursdee mornin'—ten maybe. Takes her an hour to walk into town. An hour to walk back at night after closin'. She never came back. Never came back."

In the background, the youngest girl began to cry.

"Shut up!" Matt Culver howled, looking like he was about to lose it. His eyes roved around in his head—wild and angry. "Shut that kid up 'fore I make her!"

"She's hungry," Emily broke in, knowing it was unwise but unable to stand by and watch this anymore. "She needs to eat. How long has it been since these kids got a meal?"

Dave glanced at her warningly, but it was too late. In a second Matt Culver was up and flailing his fists at her—if he hadn't been so smashed, Emily doubted she would have avoided a pummeling. As it was, she got away with a shove. "None of your damn business you b—!"

"Come on, kids," she said, turning around and shutting her mind against the scene unfolding behind her. That onslaught had been just a little too close for comfort. "I'll get you something to eat."

It wasn't like she was going to get anything out of this raging maniac anyway. Dave would probably be able to handle him better. She shepherded the children into their rental, wishing she kept candy lying around for emergencies. It had been four days since Elizabeth's disappearance and she was pretty sure the kids hadn't had a decent meal or a bath since. The discovery of a squashed bag of potato chips in the glove compartment gave her hope, and she was just in the process of tearing it open when she heard the gun go off.

Oh, shit.