A/N: Well, here it is—my second chapter. This one came really easily; I love writing Reid-dialogue, especially his little rant in the beginning. Unfortunately, the handful of you that are following don't get to meet Corrine just yet, but I fully plan on introducing her in the next chapter! I'm setting my deadline for chapter three for Sunday the fourth.

"What did you need to talk to us about?" Morgan was obviously much more comfortable talking to Captain Ryan Richards of the NYPD than Reid.

"Two things are bothering us about this particular victim," Richards began unceremoniously, flipping on his left turn signal and cutting off a taxi; apparently the cabbie saw the unlit cherries on top of the police car, because he was sensible enough to not flip him off. "One—he didn't go in for the rape this time. No signs of any sexual assault at all, and the girl says nothing happened."

"So he's breaking the profile," Reid said, without really thinking about the two men listening. "He knows that this is drawing federal attention."

"Yeah," Richards said. "And two—to add onto what you said—he went for mutilation first. In every other victim, it was the same MO: rape, kill, mutilate. He's switching it around."

"That doesn't make sense," Reid said quietly, and even over the dull roar of traffic around them and the rain beating down on the top of the police car, he knew they were listening intently. "Theoretically, he's skipping the rape because that isnt' the thrill for him—the kill is. If the act of rape was the thrill, he could just wear a mask or use the darkness to his advantage—61.32 percent of rapists are never caught, so there's a good chance he would just get away." He paused. "And the mutilation is done in disrespect—if that was the goal of the attacks, he wouldn't kill them first. He's obviously targeting this particular race—Haitian and Jamaican—of women for a reason, and he's obviously familiar with their culture; they both pay great respect to their dead, almost to the point of Chinese-esque ancestor worship. To desecrate the body like this unsub has is a sign of deep disrespect, no only to the woman but to the entire race in general, so we're looking at someone that has a personal grudge against Haitians and Jamaicans. But to switch his MO around like that... it's almost like another unsub. Completely different motive—the thrill of torture, not the desecration of mutilating the body, looks like his goal now."

"It doesn't make sense," Morgan said after a moment of quiet; he glanced back—Reid was slightly flushed and staring out of the rain-streaked window, holding himself very still, as he always did when he was embarrassed by something. Morgan knew that it embarrassed him to go off on a spiel like that, but sometimes Reid just couldn't stop that brain of his, and usually when that happened, his mouth started going, too.

"You make a lot of sense, kid," Richards said. Morgan knew without looking that Reid's lips had tightened for a moment; he hated anyone but Hotch, and sometimes Morgan, calling him 'kid'.

Richards flipped on his right turn signal and pulled into the reserved parking on the side of the Mercy Medical Clinic, where he parked next to the building. "I don't think we've been introduced," he said, getting out and opening the door of the hospital hall for the two FBI agents. Once they were inside and out of the rain, he stuck out his hand to Reid. "Captain Ryan Richards."

"Spencer Reid," Reid said, and shook his hand briefly.

"Dr. Spencer Reid," Morgan said, grinning, and knew that Reid was trying to be professional in front of Richards because he just smiled tightly.

"Doctor, huh? You must be a lot older than you look." Richards started walking, motioning for the other two to follow him.

"Twenty-seven, actually," Reid said, his tone not belying the fact that he answered this question on nearly every case he went on.
"Mathematics, engineering and physics," Morgan added, and Reid shot him what Rossi called his 'shut-the-fuck-up' look, but corrected him and said, "Chemistry, not physics. Still working on that one."

"Ah," Richards said, "a prodigy, then."

"Yes."

"Well, Doctor, let's see what sense you can make out of Corrine Grey."

Something beeped in Reid's pocket and he withdrew his latest obsession: an iPhone

"I can't believe you bought one of those fucking things," Morgan said, shaking his head; he and Prentiss regularly referred to Reid as a technology slut, though Reid insisted the term wasn't really deserved.

"Reid," he said, his voice as clipped and curt as it always was when he was on the phone. He got the feeling he'd hurt Garcia's feelings a few times—she was too used to having her calls answered with 'hey, sweet-cheeks'.

"How's the case?" Hotch, though Reid had already known that; he had committed everyone's numbers to memory when he had joined the team—he was wary of using a contact list.

"Getting there." He began to follow Morgan, realizing that he'd stopped in the middle of the hallway. "How's Chicago?"

"Getting there." And, in an undertone, Hotch added, "About to kill Rossi. How're the locals treating you?"

Reid grinned. "Alright. Competent—just thanking God we're not with Andy fucking Griffith again."

Hotch didn't laugh, because Hotch never laughed, but there was something different in his voice when he said, "Be as courteous as you always are, but not unduly friendly. And watch your back. Don't make friends, especially with the department."

"I know." Reid could have told himself that; the NYPD had a long and colorful history of corruption, and it wasn't unheard of for a CIA or FBI agent to have been betrayed by a cop with his own interests in mind.

"Be careful, kid." Hotch let the words linger, then added, "And tell Morgan I said so, too."

"Alright." A click, and the dial tone sounded in his ear.

"Hotch?" Morgan asked, and Reid nodded, putting his phone on vibrate and putting it back in his pocket.

"Told us to be careful." He didn't add that they'd been informed not to make friends—Morgan should've known that.

"Yeah, yeah, standard Hotch-mom bullshit," Morgan said. "Come on, we need to talk to this girl, talk to her doctors, find whoever called the cops, and head back to the hotel and get some sleep."

Richards flashed his badge and credentials at the young woman behind a sheet of bulletproof glass, who asked who he was here for, and who the two gentlemen with him were. Reid slid his badge and credentials under the glass and, after a moment of hesitation, Morgan did the same. "FBI," the woman said, cocking an eyebrow, and added, "I'll guess Corrine Grey?"

"You guess correctly," Richards said. "Room number?"

"412C," the woman said after a moment of perusing a long list in front of her.

"Do you happen to know whether or not she's awake?" Richards asked.

"I don't, but I do know that the doctors upgraded her condition to stable earlier today, so she should be fine to talk."

"Thank you," Morgan said, and they followed Richards to the elevators. Thirty seconds later, they were in hall 4-1, making their way towards room two and section C. A man in white scrubs was standing outside the curtain that hid Corrine Grey.

"Dr. Butler," he said, nodding to them. "Captain Richards and the two FBI agents sent to help, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I was told to brief you on Ms. Grey's progress," Butler said. "Currently, her condition is stable; her injuries were not life-threatening, but they were numerous and will require further care."

"Where were the injuries sustained?" Reid asked, obviously thinking, making no effort to be personal with Dr. Butler; his mind had already started to work. "We need to make sure that they're absolutely consistent with the other victims'—several things about this particular attack make us question whether or not this unsub is changing his pattern, or if it's even the same man at all."

"Two stab wounds to the abdomen—specifically the lower stomach, a long and more shallow wound to her ribs, and the beginning of wounds on either side of her face and neck."

"Any signs of sexual trauma?" Morgan cut in.

"None."

"Thank you, Dr. Butler," Morgan said. "Dr. Reid and I were just a little concerned... but these wounds certainly seem to be consistent."

"I will add, gentlemen, that he used a serrated knife," Butler said quietly. "Even if this isn't the Ripper... well, it's certainly a frighteningly accurate copycat."