TRIGGER WARNING for EDs and sexual assault. Includes some description of graphic violence, as well as details about food/calories/body image. All OCs described in this or following chapters are of my own creation, and any resemblance to real people or other fictional characters is purely coincidental. I own nothing.

-HH

When the plane lands in the suburbs of western Maryland, everyone separates into 2 separate cars for the trip to the police station. Since there were bodies were discovered in 3 different counties, we've decided to just set up in the biggest station of the 3. This killer is either incredibly lucky or incredibly smart, as communication between police forces is a rare occurrence. That contributed to his staying under the radar for so long. Yet, he made no moves to attract police or media attention to him and his crimes as some killers do. He's likely driven more by the compulsion to complete his ritual than by a desire for recognition.

I'm drawn out of my pondering of this fact by the sound of my name. J.J. is introducing us to the local police chief. "I'm agent Jennifer Jareau, we spoke on the phone. These are SSAs Hotchner, Rossi, Prentiss, Morgan, Templeton, and Dr. Reid," she tells the chief, pointing to each of us in turn. "Is there a specific room you'd like for us to set up in?" The chief nods and motions for us to follow her. She takes us to a moderately sized room with a few boxes on the table in the middle.

"You can set up in here," she tells us. "All the evidence for all of the murders is in those boxes. Is there anything else I can do for ya?" she asks in a thick southern accent.

"Well, usually we like to see the crime scene, but as I understand it, we don't know yet where the abductions or the murders took place. Is that correct?" Rossi asks, to which the chief nods briskly. "Then we'd just like to take a look at the dump site, if that's okay."

"Of course. I'll have one o' my patrols take y'all over right away. If there's anything else you need, you just let me know," the chief replies. Her voice sounds warm and welcoming, but the worry is evident in her eyes.

"Rossi, Morgan, you check out the dump sites. Prentiss and Reid, morgue. Templeton, you're with me on the files," Hotch barks. Everyone leaves the room, presumably to go to their assigned locations, while I'm left with countless folders of information to sift through and nothing but our austere unit chief for company. I know better than to complain, though. I know the team hasn't quite warmed up to me yet, and frankly, it's wise of Hotch to keep me out of the fray for now. Besides, if I'm being honest, I don't mind being in charge of things like this. Methodically going through all of this information is soothing somehow.

An hour ticks by, then an hour and a half, and finally, Hotch's voice breaks the silence. "Lunch time. You coming?"

"I brought my lunch in my Go-Bag," I mutter distractedly. "You go ahead." He shrugs and leaves the room. I glance at my watch; only 1300. I figure I can put off lunch for another hour, and return to the dwindling stack of files in front of me.

When Hotch returns, the rest of the team is on his heels. Hotch nods first to Reid and Prentiss for an update on what they found at the morgue. "The M.E. confirmed our suspicions about the ligature marks. She said the latest victim was held for approximately two weeks before her death. And, it looks like the unsub used his, uh, bare hands to strangle and kill her," Reid informs us.

Hotch then looks to Rossi and Morgan for their take on the dump site. Rossi is busy scribbling something into his notebook, so Morgan says, "The grave was only around 2 feet deep, and it wasn't exactly out of the way. Apparently, some local guy found her in a clump of trees by a nearby park. He was walking his dog at the time. We went ahead and interviewed him, but I don't like him for this. Advised him to stay in town and let us know if he remembered anything else."

Hotch nods. "Templeton and I are going to work on assembling the information from the files into something that'll help us with the profile. Everybody, go ahead and grab lunch if you haven't already. Reid, when you get back, I want you to start working on the geographical profile. It appears this unsub is a marauder rather than a commuter, so I trust it won't take you too long," he says.

"I think I'll just get something later," Reid murmurs, already staring intently at the map on the board. I finished reading the rest of the files while Hotch was out, so we jump right into comparing notes and jotting things down on the whiteboard as we go. Once Reid finishes with the map, he aids us with the filing. By the time we're finished, it's almost 1700. Reid turns to me. "Well, I'm gonna grab a really late lunch. Come with me?"

"Oh, Hotch and I already took a lunch break. But thank you," I reply with a smile. He's an odd one, but he's very sensitive and seems to try to help me feel included.

"Consider it an early dinner, then," he counters. "Come on, don't make me go alone. We can compare notes on the preliminary profile."

If it were Morgan offering this, I'd definitely be wary. Morgan's somewhat of a player; it doesn't take a profiler to see that. He's a standup guy at heart, of course, but still. But because it's Reid, I decide to go along with it. He really seems like a sweetheart, and I know putting himself out there socially isn't his thing. I sigh. "Alright, then. Let me just grab my wallet and a sweater." He grins in response.

Now armed with a twenty and my favorite cardigan, I head towards the car with Reid close behind. I unconsciously head for the driver's side and, deciding it's too late to go back, I go with it. Reid slips into the passenger seat and cocks an eyebrow at me. "Automatically assuming the position of driver speaks to a certain desire to control one's surroundings," he says with feigned thoughtfulness. "So, Riley, are you a control freak? Or just don't trust me?" he asks teasingly.

"None of the above. I just wasn't sure if you'd reached the legal driving age yet, doctor," I counter, trying to hide my smirk. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Wow, tough talk for an FBI agent that can barely reach the pedals," he replies with a snicker.

"Oh, we're going right to the short jokes, huh? I knew you were smart, Reid, but I didn't know you were such a smart ass," I say as he laughs. "Now, if you're through making fun of me, maybe you can get out a map and tell me where I'm going." I try to sound stern, but I can feel laughter bubbling up. I allow a few giggles to escape before I clear my throat and start the engine. He pulls a map from the glove compartment, childlike mirth still written across his face.

With Reid giving directions and me at the wheel, we reach a little diner not far from the station. "The crab cakes here are awesome, I've been told," he says. When I give him a questioning glance, he explains, "Rossi had a case near here a while back and discovered this place. Everyone thinks we set up at that station because it's the biggest, but I think it's just because Rossi wanted to have easy access to this diner." I laugh in response.

Reid leads the way into the diner, which is mostly empty aside from a young couple making out in a corner booth and an old man sitting alone. The waitress is nice enough, although she seems tired. She puts us at a table on the other end of the restaurant from the couple, which I silently thank her for. Reid's eyes squint almost imperceptibly as I sit down in the seat facing the door, and it occurs to me that perhaps he invited me along just so he could profile me. The thought makes me nervous.

The waitress comes back with menus and asks us what we want to drink. Reid gets a milkshake while I just order a water. He doesn't even open the menu, which I guess means he's taking Rossi's advice on the crab cakes. I peruse the menu, faking interest. In truth, eating food made by others makes me uncomfortable. I guess Reid wasn't too far off when he accused me of being a control freak in jest. Finally, I settle on a salad with strawberries, mango pieces, and candied almonds in a raspberry vinaigrette.

"So, no crab cakes for you?" he asks.

"I'm a vegetarian," I reply, waiting for the usual remarks of condescension and derision.

"Did you know that it's likely that vegetarianism was part of the women's suffrage movement during the Edwardian era?" he says in response. Okay, so, definitely not what I was expecting, but it's a welcome change. "There were three major organizations, all distinct in their methodology, leadership, and objectives. The Women's Freedom League was actually led by a vegetarian. There are pictures of chefs belonging to that branch preparing vegetarian meals, and some WFL branches even endorsed lectures on 'The Ethics of Food Reform.' The WFL even opened vegetarian restaurants across Britain during the movement. There's evidence that vegetarianism was present in the other two organizations as well, including firsthand accounts discovered in the, um, the journals of members," he finishes, trailing off awkwardly at the end.

I can't keep the corners of my mouth from quirking up after listening to his speech, although he doesn't notice because his eyes are downcast, as they often are after he realizes he's gone on a tangent. A giggle manages to slip out, though, and his eyes dart back up to give me a questioning stare. "I-I'm sorry," I say through my laughter. "It's just that I'm used to being met with criticism when I say that, but you didn't even blink. You just gave me a history lesson."

He gives a nervous chuckle in response. "Yeah, uh, sorry about that," he says uncertainly.

"No, don't be! It's definitely better than the disparaging comments I usually get. And besides, if I'm being honest, I actually enjoy your intellectual rants. There's always something new to learn. I'm not as smart as you, but I still love collecting information, no matter how seemingly useless it may appear. Of course, if you told anyone else that, I'd have to kill you," I reply with a smirk.

He laughs and, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was blushing a bit. In any case, he seems genuinely pleased that I don't mind his divagations.

The waitress arrives with our drinks and asks if we're ready to order. We tell her what we want and she smiles, gives a curt nod, and heads back to the kitchen. I turn back to Reid. "Thanks for inviting me, by the way," I tell him.

"No problem," he replies. "I figured you could use a friend. The rest of the team loves you, I promise. It'll just take them a while to warm up."

"Hey, I don't blame them. I'm a bit wary of new people, too," I say with a wry grin.

"No, really?" He raises his eyebrows in mock surprise.

I stare back with manufactured surprise of my own. "Wow, did they install the update already? It knows sarcasm now!"

He responds with a fake glare, which makes me laugh. He takes a sip of his milkshake before asking me my thoughts on the case, which makes me irrationally anxious. I can't help but fear it's a test, and I don't want to fail it.

"Well, strangulation is, uh, a very personal way to kill someone," I begin. "He makes it even more personal by using his hands rather than something else. He would have to be fairly strong to do that, as it appears he did it while in an upright position instead of pinning his victims down and using his weight and the forces of gravity as his weapon. Aside from the cause of death and victimology, there's not much that separates these kills from your average homicide. The lack of an obvious signature coupled with the fact that he hasn't attempted media contact, hasn't changed his pattern since police realized they had a serial killer, hasn't seemed to acknowledge police at all, means he's likely a need-driven and disorganized offender. There was DNA present with the last vic, which would normally indicate an unsub that felt he was above reproach. However, there's no other evidence of an inflated sense of self-worth, which means he probably just didn't think of it. He's likely of average intelligence with a low-level job. However, there's no excessive violence present despite a thankless occupation, which means he probably suffers from low self-esteem. If I had to guess, I'd say he's a power reassurance offender," I finish.

Reid nods thoughtfully. "What about the fact that his victims were all new to the area? That points to at least some level of organization," he says. I nod in response, understanding that he's not arguing with me; he's thinking aloud. "And the dump sites were scattered across the jurisdictional lines for different departments."

"Personally, I think that was likely by chance. I don't think this guy has the intelligence or skill to do it as a forensic countermeasure. I think he probably works in manual labor, maybe even still lives with a parent or sibling. This isn't a mastermind that's out to trick the cops; he's a self-conscious creep that gets his rocks off by having complete control over women, nothing more," I spit with more venom than I intended to. He raises an eyebrow at me but seems to understand. Before he can respond, though, the waitress returns with our meals.

I look skeptically at my salad. I tend to avoid eating at restaurants as much as possible. In fact, thinking back, this is probably the first time I'll be eating a meal prepared by someone else in about a year, which is a strange thought.

"Rossi wasn't kidding about the crab cakes here, they're great," Reid says after a moment.

"Marylanders take their crab very seriously," I reply distractedly, hardly looking up from my salad. I'm busy adding up the calories in my head. A serving of raspberry vinaigrette is 60, but after eyeballing the salad, it looks like there are around 3 tablespoons of it instead of the 2 that make up a serving size. Mixed greens, probably 40 at most. I automatically push the almonds and mango chunks to the side. Around ½ cup of strawberries, that's 25. That brings the total to, hopefully, no more than 160. Good. I give Reid a sidelong glance to see if he noticed my strange habits, but he's busy with his own meal. Excellent. The food is manageable and the company is good; maybe eating here wasn't such a bad idea after all.