At 5:23 in the morning, he knows because he was staring at the clock as he opens his eyes, "Tweaker" Boback awakes with the distinct feeling he is not alone. At first he assumes it's just the paranoia associated with his drug use.

But then hands grab him and drag him from the bed.

"WHOA?! STOP! WHO IS IT?"

His back is slammed against the wall and he stares into the furious eyes of his benefactor.

"You had one job, Tweaker," the man says, his voice calm despite the fire in his eyes. "Do you even remember what the job was, you pathetic druggie?"

Tweaker swallows. "Uh, I just...had to pay a bill for you each month."

"Very good. And did you do that, Tweaker?" the man asks, again with a disconcerting calm.

Tweaker shrugs. "Uh, I, um...might have...forgotten a time or two."

The man pulls him forward then slams him back into the wall again. "YOU FORGOT FOR ALMOST A YEAR!" he screams.

"I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY! I'll...I'll pay it tomorrow! I swear!"

"It's too late, you stupid fuck. They sold off one of my lockers and now the police have part of my collection. Do you know how long I had to work to collect all those specimens, not to mention my magazines and my comic books? They have it all, Tweaker." He takes a deep breath, nearly sickened by the rotten smell of the meth head. "You have one chance to make things right. Where is the money, Tweaker?"

"The, um, money?" he asks in confusion.

He is slammed into the wall once more. "THE MONEY YOU DIDN'T PAY THE FACILITY!"

"Oh, uh, I might have...kinda used it." He starts to cry and plead. "I was in deep with some dealers and they were going to kill me if I didn't pay up! I'm sorry! I had to...had to pay them! They were gonna kill me! I swear!"

Tweaker relaxes a little as he is released. The man straightens the grimy shirt the addict is wearing, even straightens his hair a little. Tweaker lets his guard down due to the caring gestures.

And then takes an ice pick in his heart.

He can't even scream as the pick is twisted and turned and then yanked out. Tweaker drops to his knees and then crumples to the floor dead.

Clay Pritchett drops down and wipes the pick off on Tweaker's shirt.

"Stupid fuck. Both of us. But only you pay with your life, asshole."

Pritchett walks out of the rundown building full of other junkies. No one will see him and even if they do their addled minds won't remember him. Inside he is still seething. The cops have his things. Well, most of them.

"Time to start collecting the dregs anew," he mutters and leaves to go get ready to start his day job.


Emily eases in the door of the classroom and sits down in the back row. There are 20 minutes left in the class and she finds herself enthralled as the professor talks about the amazing technology the Ancient Egyptians used to create monuments that last to this day. Slides from her personal collection, her own trips, help illustrate her talk and keep anyone from getting bored.

When it ends, Emily has a moment of regret that she hadn't arrived earlier and wouldn't have time to attend more sessions. She maintains her seat as several students remain behind to ask their professor questions. When the last student appears to be finished, Emily stands and begins to walk down the aisle to the front. The professor grins.

"You're either a reporter or a new professor I haven't had a chance to meet since my return to Ancient Studies," Dr. Nicole Stewart says with a friendly smile.

Emily chuckles. "Two strikes, Dr. Stewart. Before you risk an out, let me introduce myself. I'm SSA Emily Prentiss with the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit."

"Whoa! Guess that's how you knew my love of baseball would be a way to break the ice."

Emily grins. "Our analyst sent me a full bio on you. You've had a very impressive career."

"Thank you. I have to say it's not often your reality exceeds your dreams but I'm one of the lucky ones that experienced that phenomena."

"I'm happy for you. Now, I know you haven't been back long but have you seen the news about the findings at a local storage facility?"

Stewart sighs and nods. "Yes. In fact, the medical examiner called me to confirm a few aspects of the pseudo-mummification. I am not sure the depravity of man could ever surprise me more."

Emily lifts a brow. "I wish I could say that depravity still surprised me. Shocked me, disgusted me, yes. But it didn't surprise me." She takes a deep breath. "The person that committed these crimes is well-versed in mummification techniques. We were wondering if you have former students, most likely one who didn't complete their matriculation, who might raise a red flag for you. This person would have been obsessive compulsive in several areas: categorizing reading material, particular about where he sat and had to have everything just so at his desk, he would have asked very good questions and paid special attention to your answers. If he was a grad student, he may have considered, or even started, a thesis on the intricacies of mummification." She pauses. "And on some level, your instinct would have told you something is off about him. He was too into the process; too into you, Dr. Stewart."

Stewart sharply breathes in. "Oh my God..."

"That registers with you?"

Stewart slowly nods. "Yes. The other aspects had been familiar but there was one student, and he was in the master's program, who seemed overly obsessed with me. Other professors noticed it, too."

"His name?"

"Dexter Gold. He was the reason I took the trip to Egypt. Yes, it was a wonderful opportunity but I wasn't up for the year away. Another professor stepped aside to give me the chance. Gold was becoming a stalker and we all figured if I left it would give him a chance to get out of the program and away from me."

"Did it work?"

Stewart shrugs. "He was away from me. Turns out he dropped out as soon he found out I wasn't going to be around for a year." She takes a deep breath. "To tell you the truth, there are times I get a hinky feeling I'm being watched and, well, I wonder if he's still here somewhere just watching me."

Emily nods. "Always trust that voice."

"I do."

"Do you happen to have contact information for Gold?"

"I can get it. Not sure if it's still valid or not."

"It's a start," Emily states. "Our analyst can track him if he's moved. Anything you have on him is appreciated."

"Okay. Come on back to my office."

Emily follows her back and gets all the information Stewart has. She texts it to Garcia and tells the analyst to put a rush on it: not only is he a suspect in their case he's a potential stalker.

"If you have any questions or if Gold calls you, please do not hesitate to call me," Emily says offering her card. "Out of curiosity, do you live alone?"

"No. I am living with my boyfriend, Clay Pritchett."

Emily frowns. "Clay Pritchett? Does he own a comic book store?"

Stewart seems surprised. "Um, yes, actually he does. Why?"

Emily smiles. "Major coincidence. The unsub collected comic books and we're talking to stores in the area to see if they have had anyone looking for certain issues. I will be heading to his store later today."

"Oh. Wow. Well, Clay keeps a detailed list of people hunting for comics. I'm sure he can help."

Emily nods. "Good to know." She offers her hand. "Thank you for your time. Again, any questions or additional information, give me a call."

"Thank you, Agent Prentiss. If I think of anyone else who could be your suspect I'll let you know. Good luck finding this guy."

"Thanks."

Emily makes her way back to her SUV, crossing her fingers that Gold is their man.


Hotch and Reid stare at the stack of tips on the table. The chief looks at his agent.

"You want tips or Garcia searches?"

"I'll take tips. No offense to you but I read faster and can get rid of the wrong ones faster."

Hotch grins. "No offense taken. Go for it."

Reid sits down and starts to flip through the lead forms, separating them into piles only he understands. Hotch watches a second, then shakes his head and gets his laptop fired up to start weeding through the information Garcia's programs had pulled for them overnight. He sighs.

"More bodies identified. All are prostitutes."

"Strange. No low risk victims of opportunity yet," Reid notes.

Hotch glances up at the doctor. "What if...this is his high risk collection? He's an OCD collector with careful separation of his comics and magazines. Seems to me there would be a separation in victimology, too."

Reid frowns and runs the probabilities of that theory in his head. "I think you're right."

Hotch grabs his phone. "I'm calling Garcia. We need to know how close her search of the various storage facilities are going. There is a crossover somewhere we just have to find it."

Reid nods and goes back to work on the tips as Hotch follows up with the analyst.

"Oracle of Quantico, how may I astound you?"

"Garcia, I know you probably just got in but- -"

"Actually I have been here an hour, sir, as I got a whole bunch of hits last night and wanted to start weeding them out before sending them to you," she interrupts.

Hotch smiles. "You go above and beyond, Garcia. Out of curiosity, is one of those hits on your check of storage facilities?"

"Uh, no, sir. Mostly on crossover on the victims. Obviously a lot spent time in the same jail at the same time when vice had raids. I am trying to weed out those hits from legitimate places they lived or spent time."

"Well done. It won't be easy with so many names."

"You say that like it should shock me, sir," she says sardonically.

Hotch chuckles. "Right. Anyway, Reid and I have a theory about the unsub. We believe his victims may be cataloged as OCD as his comics."

"Uh, meaning what, Hotch?"

"Meaning around the time he got this storage facility he got at least 1 other, possibly 2 others. They would be for high risk victims that he just couldn't pass up and medium risk victims that inadvertently put themselves in his sights. I would say all 3 units would have been rented within 1 month of the first one."

"Okay. So is this unit his first?"

"Most likely. To be safe, narrow your search to two months either side of this origination date. Concentrate on units paid for by money order."

"Got it. Will get that narrowed down and get back to you ASAP."

"Good work, Garcia." Hotch hangs up and looks at Reid. "How are the tips?"

Reid sighs. "Seems like a lot of people know comic book collectors that give them the creeps. But other than that, not very fruitful."

"Damn. Well, keep at it and cross your fingers."

Reid nods and continues to sort tips while Hotch starts to filter the information Garcia had already sent.


The woman takes a drag on her cigarette as she studies Rossi and Morgan.

"And what do I get if I tell you these things you wish to know?" she asks with a slightly exotic accent.

Rossi pulls a $50 out of his pocket. "This without having to take off your clothes. Five minutes of your time is all we need."

She takes another drag, slowly blowing the smoke away from the agent. Finally she shrugs and puts out her palm. "Okay. Ask."

Rossi retains the money. "Business first this time." He holds up a line-up card showing 6 of the identified women. "These women were murdered, their bodies found mummified in a storage locker. By their names and certain physical markers we determined they are Russian. Do you happen to know them?"

The woman stamps out her cigarette and takes the card. She studies each face then shakes her head. "No."

Rossi hands her a second card. "What about these women?"

The woman takes the card. Both agents see her eyes flicker with recognition. "Stacia." She looks up at Rossi. "Number 4. Her name is Stacia. I thought...thought she had maybe mouthed off once too many times."

"Mouthed off? To who?" Morgan asks.

The woman lifts an eyebrow and looks at Morgan like he's an idiot. "As if you don't know who controls us. Stacia came to the States on a student visa. Something happened and she lost it but she did not want to return to Russia. Boris befriended her, offered her assistance. She was in debt to him before she knew it and she was angry. Boris...got her..." she thinks a moment before coming up with a word, "...unangry. He set a time frame for how long she would work to pay her debt. One night she did not return. I assumed, as did we all, that she ran or...well, the other option."

"How did Boris get her 'unangry'?" Morgan asks.

She gives him a hard look. "He can be very persuasive. You will not get me to say anything bad about him. He takes care of us. Soon...soon I will be free of him and have a chance to pursue my American Dream."

Morgan sighs. "There are better ways."

"Perhaps. Maybe if you come with money. Or as a student. Or as a worker with skills. But for me...Boris is my first step. Who are you to judge?" she challenges angrily.

Rossi stops Morgan before he speaks again. "We're not judging you. We just want to know what we can about Stacia and others like her. We need to know where he hunts so we can stop him. Did anyone ever give you a wary feeling? Something that made you think no money was worth it?"

She shrugs nonchalantly. "Happens a lot."

Rossi shakes his head. "Not like this guy. He would have seemed normal but still would have set off alarm bells. He would have looked nice, maybe a bit shy in mannerisms but in his eyes you would have seen the predator hiding inside."

She thinks hard but shakes her head. "That doesn't sound familiar to me. I can ask around if you like?"

Rossi nods, handing her his card along with the $50. "We'd appreciate that. Tell Boris he can call, too, if any of that sounds familiar to him."

"You will not arrest him?"

"This is about finding a killer before he strikes again. That's all. You have my word," he assures her.

"The word of the police in my hometown was worse than cow manure," she points out.

Rossi chuckles. "Well, we're the FBI not the police so give us a chance."

She grins. "I like you, Agent Rossi. I will tell Boris you are okay."

He grins at her, his eyes sincere. "I'm honored. Thank you for your time."

She pulls out another cigarette and suddenly Rossi has his Zippo out to light it for her. She grins and nods her thanks. When the agents get back to their SUV, Morgan looks at the older agent.

"Smooth with the lighter. You always carry it?"

"Of course. You never know when a lovely lady will need her cigarette lit. It was quite useful while I was still playing the field."

Morgan laughs. "Oh, Rossi, remind me to take notes on your many moves."

Rossi just grins as they go to track down the next woman on their list.


Emily extends her hand. "Clay Pritchett?"

The man nods. "That's me," he says with an easy smile.

"SSA Emily Prentiss, FBI," she introduces herself.

The man chuckles. "Nic told me you'd be by. I think I have what you need over here."

Emily nods. "Thanks. So how much did she tell you?"

"Enough to get me running over my regulars in my head as well as trying to remember any newcomers looking for back issues. I have to say, none of my regulars seem the type to do what the news is saying. Most are just guys who still love the stories and artistry. The artists who create these books are amazing! They can make the images jump off the page and- -uh, sorry. You are here about a killer, not to get a lesson in why I love comic books," he says, blushing.

Emily smiles. "It's okay. Part of the reason I was sent here is I am a geek in disguise. I agree with you about the artistry in the books, especially the fantasy series' that seem to be a favorite of our unsub."

"Uh...unsub?"

"It means 'unknown subject'. It's how we refer to the killer until we have a name."

"Ah, okay. So, I was thinking, I have had 2 people who recently stopped in looking for old issues. Normally I can put them on a list and start shopping around for them but these two refused that service. The first guy was looking for an old X-Men comic where we first meet Rogue."

Emily shakes her head. "Not him. He's into fantasy: Lady Pendragon, Spawn: the Dark Ages, etc.," she explains, not wanting to give away the names of the books that the unsub had needed.

Pritchett frowns. "Then the next guy isn't yours either. He was looking for a Batman issue."

"Damn. I hate to ask this, but are any of your regulars in search of any fantasy back issues?"

Pritchett nods. "Sure. I mean, sometimes you see an artist's name so you buy the book. If you like it, maybe you start trying to track down the series. Some people collect just based on an artist so they will be looking for any issue they might have missed that their hero inked. If you can let me know specific books that are being looked for I can maybe narrow things down for you."

"I appreciate that but right now we are still cataloging that evidence. Once that is done my boss can make the decision whether or not to release that information."

"Understood. Well, anything I can do to help I will do."

Emily nods. "Thank you. Well, if anyone comes in suddenly needing a lot of comics, let me know. We have most, if not all, of his collection. A mind like his won't be able to handle that loss."

Pritchett stiffens up, his nice guy demeanor doing a 180. "What the hell does that mean?"

Emily lifts an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"What do you mean his mind won't be able to handle it? You don't even know this guy and you assume he is unstable or something because he reads comic books?"

"No, Mr. Pritchett, I think he is unstable because he has been collecting books, magazines and bodies for a long time and now my team has them. He is not going to be happy and he is going to start looking to replace them. He will be desperate to replace them because he doesn't like to have his things disturbed or out of order. His mind is probably torn up with images of us dismantling his collection, touching the books with our bare hands, using print dust and other chemicals on them looking for evidence."

"Are...are you all really going to do all that?" he asks, his hands twitching nervously.

Emily nods. "Yes. It's already being done."

Pritchett drops into a chair, his face registering shock. "My God...yeah, okay, I can see someone freaking about that. And it will drive the price up on the books he collects because if all that happens his collection will be worthless. He wants revenge for that."

Emily's eyes narrow at the last statement. It wasn't speculative, it was definitive. "Mr. Pritchett, I ask again, do you think you know this man?"

Pritchett slowly shakes his head. "No. No, he is not one of my customers. But, uh, I will call you if anyone comes in acting desperate or something."

"Thank you," Emily says, handing him her card. "I appreciate your time."

Pritchett just nods as Emily walks out. He waits a second then walks to the door to watch as she walks across the parking lot to her SUV.

"Stupid fucking bitch," he mutters. "You're damn lucky I am too fucking smart to add you to my collection. I am not desperate but I so want to destroy you for ruining all 3 of my collections in that locker."

As she had walked, Emily pulls out her phone. "Garcia, I need you to run Clay Pritchett. He owns a comic book store, he's the boyfriend of the Egyptologist, and he gave me one answer that didn't seem right."

"Just one answer?"

"Yep. One answer after a strange reaction to my summation of the unsub. I could be wrong but better safe than sorry."

"Damn right, Mama Prentiss. Hit you back when I have something."

"You rock, Garcia."

"Yes...yes, I do."

Emily grins as Garcia signs off. On to the next comic book store.


"Ah, Agents Morgan and Rossi, I presume. Please, have a seat," Boris Petrovich says amiably, gesturing to the two empty seats at his lunch table.

Morgan starts to decline but Rossi sits down. "Thank you." Morgan rolls his eyes and takes the other seat.

"Now, I understand you have found my Stacia?"

Rossi nods. "Yes. And perhaps more of your girls." He slides over the various pictures they have so far. "There are some with no names and others still haven't been identified so we may come to you with more."

As Boris picks up the photos a waiter appears at the table with sweet teas for both agents. Their host smiles.

"I am assuming you cannot partake in wine with your lunch?" he asks.

Rossi nods. "Yes. Unfortunately."

Morgan leans forward. "Look, Mr. Petrovich, we're not here for lunch and we're not here to chat. We simply want justice for these women that were murdered."

Boris gives Morgan a condescending smile. "You must eat, Agent. You have spent the morning tracking down my ladies and others who...work at night, shall we say. This restaurant has some of the best barbeque in North Carolina. Please, allow me to treat you?"

Rossi nods. "We'd appreciate that. But first, who was stalking your women? Surely you saw someone at some point that caught your eye?"

Boris slowly looks at the photos. Both agents are surprised to see a genuine sadness in his eyes as he looks at the ones who had once worked for him. He sighs and lays the array on the table.

"I assumed...they had simply run away." He looks frustrated as he taps his skull with his finger. "I even had it in my head that they were helping each other esca- -uh, relocate from my domicile. A sort of...underground railroad for girls looking to move on from my employment prior to meeting the terms of their contracts."

Morgan shakes his head in amusement. "Who are you trying to convince that they weren't hookers you pimped out? Look, we're not vice, we're not looking to pin these murders on you. Stop dodging the questions! Show these women some respect in death that you never gave them in life. Did anyone strike you as paying the wrong kind of attention to them or not?"

Boris sits back and glare at Morgan. "You are rude." He looks at Rossi. "I will speak only with you."

"That's fine," Rossi replies, then gestures to Morgan. "Pretend I just said all that and asked the last question. We're not here to be your buddies. We're here to do more for these ladies than you ever did."

Boris' face reddens and he tosses the photos back at Rossi. "Leave. I saw nothing. I know nothing." He levels a finger at the agents. "But mark my words: if I find the man that cost me so much money before you catch him...you'll never officially close these cases."

Just as the food arrives, Morgan and Rossi stands. Rossi lays his business card on the table.

"If you think of anything else, call me. We want justice for these women. Help us do that for them."

Boris just grunts his dismissal. Morgan and Rossi walk out the front door and pause. After a second Morgan looks at Ross.

"That BBQ smelled so damn good! Where are you taking me to lunch, old man?"

Rossi chuckles. "The police station. Time to start bring everything we know together. We need to get ahead of this man before he comes after us or just starts collecting again."

Morgan reluctantly nods as they get in the SUV.


At Emily's third comic book shop of the day a white-haired man in his mid-60's smiles at her. "Well, well, well...the Feds in my shop. Who'd've thought it?"

Emily grins when she sees the twinkle in his eyes. "What gave away that I am a Fed?"

"Just a look about you." He pauses a second. "And Wally just called me to let me know you were on your way. His description of you didn't do you justice."

Emily blushes. "Thank you." She sees the dust circles on a couple of shelves. "You know, if he called to warn you to hide...certain items...you might hope I'll turn to look at this X-Men Gold Foil edition while you grab the certain items behind you."

Brian "Snowman" Bernstein laughs as he turns and uses a couple of tee shirts to hide the bongs behind the counter. He had forgotten about those. Emily turns back around and walks up to the counter, extending her hand.

"SSA Emily Prentiss."

He shakes her hand. "My friends call me Snowman. Have since I went grey at 30."

Emily nods. "You wear the grey well."

"Thank you. Now, let me save you some time." He hands her a list. "This is my list of people looking for certain comics."

"You're mighty open with this considering you seem to be more than a little liberal," Emily notes.

"True. But I watch the news. If one of these people did to those poor girls what was done to them, liberal or not, I want them stopped. That man is a monster."

"Well said," Emily agrees. "Did any of these men strike you as odd?"

Snowman shakes his head. "Not really. Wait...except one man..." He takes the list and draws his finger down it. "This one! If I didn't know better, I'd say this guy was homeless." Emily's ears perk up. "He had the comics written down on a piece of paper. True collectors know what they need by heart."

"I believe that." She notes the comics the man is looking for and sees 4 of the missing editions she and Reid had noticed when they catalogued the collection. "How did he say to reach him?"

"He didn't. Said he would just keep checking with me. I didn't even add him to the list until his third visit. I started to think he might be a ringer for another store."

"A ringer?"

"Oh, yeah. I admit, I have a few that check out my competitors. I want to know what special items they have and they want to know what I have. Say I get a regular that wants something Wally or one of the others has, I send in a ringer to buy it and then up the price when I get it back here."

Emily grins. "Capitalism at its best."

Snowman chuckles. "Exactly!"

"Any chance you have surveillance video of him?"

Snowman shakes his head. "Afraid not. Discs copy over themselves every 7 days."

"Damn."

"But maybe I can help a little," he offers.

He reaches under his counter and pulls out a sketchpad. He flips to an open page, grabs a well-sharpened pencil and begins to draw. Emily watches in awe as he quickly draws a detailed headshot of the man from the list. He finishes and slides the sketchbook to her.

"There he is. David Carmen."

Emily smiles and carefully tears out the sketch. Curiosity gets the best of her and she flips back a few pages, staring at the amazing scenes that practically jump off the page: a space ship in an unknown galaxy; a centaur in full battle gear reared up and screaming at an unseen enemy; a cyborg in hand-to-hand combat with a robot. She suddenly stops, her eyes locked on the three-letter signature in the bottom corner of scene showing a soldier racing towards an exploding building. She slowly looks up at the store owner.

"I'll be damned...you're B.S. Berns."

The man's eyes widen in surprise. "Either you did some deep background work on me or you are the most beautiful comic book junkie to ever enter my store."

Emily starts to smile. "You did the art for one of my favorite mini-series: The Range Wars. I loved the storyline: a cross between Star Wars and a John Wayne western. And then I found another series you did: a post-apocalyptic 'Alice in Wonderland'. The story was a bit hokey but your drawings were...I think some gave me nightmares they were so real!"

Snowman blushes. "Thank you."

"Why did you stop drawing? I watched for new releases by you for years!"

Snowman's smile fades. "My wife...died in childbirth. So did my son."

"Oh, I am so sorry," Emily says sympathetically.

Snowman shrugs. "After that...fantasy, comics...none of it interested me anymore. I had been slapped so hard in the face by reality I couldn't believe in the release of the comic book world anymore. Took me 10 years to even pick up a sketchpad. By then," he shrugs, "the comic world had forgotten about me. I can't say I was too eager to be found, either. I got into advertising and a few years ago bought this shop. I still doodle, as you see, but...well...who would want a washed-up old artist to ink a book now."

Emily pats his hand. "You are still amazing, Snowman. I think the publishers would be fools not to hire you if you wanted to work for them."

He smiles. "You are kind, Agent Prentiss. But it is a moot point because I am happy right where I am."

"That's good. And now I can tell a friend I have the answer to a question we have debated."

Snowman chuckles. "Glad I could help...both with the case and the debate."

Emily hands him a card. "If Carmen comes back or anyone else catches your eye as odd, please give me a call."

"I will. Good luck, Agent Prentiss."

"Thank you. For everything."

Emily leaves the store eager to get the sketch scanned in and emailed to Garcia for her to search...and ecstatic about getting to tell Reid she had been right all along: B.S. Berns had simply stopped drawing. He did NOT return to his mother planet in another dimension as Reid had postulated.


Garcia grabs her phone and quickly calls Hotch. She had been worried that the search of the storage facilities wouldn't be fruitful but she had uncovered a set of 10 renters who pay with money order each month instead of by direct withdrawal.

"What do you have, Garcia?"

"Ten people who prefer to pay 2 months in advance so they can pay via money order instead of by direct debit each month," she answers.

Hotch grins. "Excellent! Can I assumed that is the email I just received?"

"Of course, sir. Names, addresses, and place of business if they had one."

Hotch frowns. "What do you mean if they had one?"

"Well, from what I can tell, at least 4 of these men are probably homeless. Now, you can understand if they are doing their best to cling on to their possessions even if they have lost their homes but it still seems like more people than you would expect."

"Definitely. Well done, Garcia."

"Thanks! Back to my other searches."

He hangs up and looks at Reid. "Garcia found 10 names for us. Let's go interview these renters. Anyone throws up a red flag we'll get a police tail on them and try to get a warrant for their locker."

Reid nods and grabs his things. Soon the two agents are heading out to hopefully prove or disprove their theory that there are other lockers for this unsub.


When Emily gets to the police station she finds the background on Clay Pritchett is waiting in her email. She starts to read it, liking it less and less as she goes.

"You're not quite who you say you are, Clay," she murmurs.

Born Clayton Zucker, he first drew the attention of local police when his neighbor accused him of torturing their pet cat. Clayton had said he just wanted to play with it but it squealed and made him mad. He was let off with a warning. Within a year, that same neighbor had lost both the cat and 2 dogs. Clayton was accused every time one went missing but there was never any proof he had anything to do with the missing pets.

"Step 1 on the path to serial killer, Clay," Emily notes.

Throughout his teenage years Clayton was in and out of trouble: harassing, peeping, stalking, and lots of accusations of abusing animals. None of the accusations led to anything more than slaps on the wrist or a little community service.

"Why the hell weren't you given jail time?"

Emily checks the other files Garcia had sent and finds her answers. "Damn...Daddy was the D.A. That had to have been helpful for you. A lot of people probably wrote off your crimes as just rebellion. Instead you were a serial killer being given unfettered chances to learn."

She goes back to Pritchett's history. When he was 21 he changed his last name to his mother's maiden name. Reason given was that he was from a small town where his father's last name was too well known. To make his own way he needed the anonymity of a new name.

"And a chance to start doing more than just being a stalking nuisance. Zucker had a history; Pritchett is clean. So what have you been doing the last 20 years or so, Clay?"

"Who's Clay?"

"SONOFABITCH!" Emily squeaks and nearly jumps out of her seat.

Morgan and Rossi both start to laugh. Emily blushes.

"You guys suck," she growls.

"Sorry, Princess, wasn't trying to scare you," Morgan tells her. "What had you so distracted you didn't hear us come in?"

"A possible suspect," Emily answers.

Morgan's smile is wiped from his face. "Seriously?"

Emily nods. "Seriously. First store owner I spoke with today sort of sent up a red flag. Garcia ran his history for me and that red flag is billowing in the breeze."

"Run it down for us, kid," Rossi encourages.

Emily tells them what she has found so far. When she finishes she shrugs. "Just starting into his college years so not sure what he has done between childhood and now but in another wild coincidence, his girlfriend is Dr. Stewart, the Egyptologist I spoke with this morning."

Rossi and Morgan are both nodding by the time she is done. Rossi leans on the table.

"If he is our unsub, we'll need a way to get him to trip himself up."

"I think I know what to do," Emily states. "He got upset when I insulted the unsub. If we can get Hotch to read the right statement to the media, he'll feel the need to insert himself into the investigation."

Morgan shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe he goes after you or some other woman with a plan on leaving her a way to prove he isn't mentally off."

Emily slumps in her seat. Stepping back a moment and opening her mind up tells Emily he is right. He's a narcissistic collector. They have to be careful or they could lose him.

"Shit...," she mumbles.

"But the info you got is great, Emily. Hang on to it and let's see what other leads we drum up," Rossi encourages her.

Emily takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Right. Okay, I'm ready to get back at it."

"Good. If you need a hand, we're here for you, kid," Rossi reminds her.

Emily gives him a smile. "Thanks, Rossi. How did your day go?"

"The Russian pimp is not guilty of these killings. And I'd say if he finds the unsub first, we may never get a crack on him. "

"And not all these women are pimped by him," Morgan tells her. "We're back to waiting for their i.d.'s to hit."

As if he had willed it to happen, the phone rings and it is Garcia. Morgan leans forward and hits the speaker button.

"You're on speaker, Garcia."

"Okay, I have 5 more i.d.'s for you all and proof this guy has been working longer than the 3 years he had this storage facility. Bad news is: the women went missing in Charleston, SC."

"Shit," Morgan mutters. "That's why he's not on the radar here."

Emily starts to flip through her information on Pritchett. "Damn...nothing to show he had a connection to Charleston. Nowhere in South Carolina, in fact."

"Check the background for one Dexter Gold. He was born and raised in Charleston," Garcia points out.

Emily lifts an eyebrow. "Any word on what he's been up to the last year?"

"Has had three jobs, all at minimum wage, right there around the university," Garcia replies.

"So he stayed in the area after Dr. Stewart left. She says at times she feels like she's being watched." Emily looks at the other 2 agents. "We need to speak with Dexter Gold."

Morgan nods and stands. "You and I can handle that. You'll know the mummy questions to ask."

Emily nods. "Right."

"I'll keep going through leads. If Hotch beats you all back I'll tell him you're on to something. If anything goes south, call," Rossi warns them.

"His current address is in your phones now," Garcia says.

Morgan and Emily leave, hoping to find Gold. Rossi has Garcia send the bios of the South Carolina victims so he can start trying to figure out how they ended up in a storage facility in North Carolina.


At the second location they visit, Hotch and Reid find out one of the questionable lockers was paid for by money order each month but that the man that pays is not the man that rented the space.

"Could they be related?" Hotch asks.

The woman at the counter shakes her head. "Nope. Man who rented it is white. Man who pays every month is black. He looks to be homeless but he is here the first of the month every month unless the first is a Sunday. Those months he is here on Saturday to make sure the locker doesn't fall into arrears."

"Very conscientious. Tell me, do you have master keys to the locks?" Reid asks.

"Nope. For all we care, the renters don't have to lock it. They are responsible for the locks and for whatever they have in storage," she answers.

"Any chance we can get a look in that locker?" Hotch asks hopefully.

She slowly shakes her head. "I'm sorry but not without a warrant. If you are wrong we set up ourselves up for a lawsuit. I'm sorry."

Hotch nods. "We understand." He hands her a card. "If either man returns, please give us a call immediately."

"I will. And I'll set an alert on the computer to let us know if their entry code is used on the gate after hours."

"Thank you."

Hotch and Reid make their way out to the SUV. Hotch sighs.

"She's right. We've no cause to look at anything in any of these facilities without a warrant and we don't have a damn thing that will get us one."

"Maybe we're doing this wrong," Reid suggests.

"How so?"

"Instead of looking at the facilities where the bodies are stored we need to look at the supplies he needed for the mummification. The amount of olive oil needed to bathe the body, the wine, the salt, not to mention all the bins."

Hotch nods. "I see what you're saying. Find the buyer, find the unsub."

"Yes. And I doubt he'd use a place like Sam's Club or anywhere else that would require membership because he could be tracked. Most likely he's just buying it off the shelf at a grocery store or box store like Walmart or Target," Reid surmises.

"And sadly even with those purchases he'll probably be just another anonymous shopper."

"Maybe in the past. But if we alert these stores to be watching for these items in the same combination in a single purchase it may ring a bell from a previous trip or at least make someone call us if they are being bought in that combination again."

Hotch thinks about this a second. "You're right. We need to put some sort of warning out." He glances at his watch. "Let's get back to the precinct. I need to prepare for another press conference. If the others are back, you can go with someone else to track down the other storage lockers. Even if it's a dead end, let's take a look at it."

Reid nods and gets into the SUV. As they drive, both agents struggle to come up with a better way to track down this unsub before another woman finds herself in the hands of a madman.


Morgan and Emily pause as they approach the door of the apartment were Dexter Gold lives. Emily shakes her head.

"Splintered door frame."

"Not good," Morgan mutters.

As they get closer the smell of decomposition reaches their nose.

"Really not good," Emily adds.

Both agents pull their gun. Morgan knocks on the door, which pops open.

"MR. GOLD? THIS IS THE FBI! WE'VE JUST BEEN ASKED TO CHECK ON YOU! WE'RE COMING IN!"

He looks to Emily who nods. They enter the apartment. The stench is overwhelming. Morgan moves left down a small hallway where there are 2 doors. Emily moves to only door in the living room. She clears the closet then goes into the kitchen. Though it is full of dirty dishes and moldy science experiments, it has nothing of interest to the case nor is it the source of the smell. As she starts back into the living room, Morgan appears.

"Gold is dead. Stab wound to the heart. Best guess is 3 days ago. Heat is still on making it hard to tell."

"Ugh."

"Yeah. Already called Ambrose and Mares. They are on their way with the M.E."

The agents step out into the hall to get away from the smell as best they can. Emily leans against the wall, thinking.

"A team?" she suggests out of the blue.

Morgan stops pacing and turns to her. "A team...interesting. And maybe Gold is the reason they lost the storage locker."

"Could be."

"Out of curiosity, the mummification process: could one person do it or would it take at least 2?"

Emily thinks about it a second. "Well, based on what I saw as a kid in Egypt, all the pharaohs had a team of priests prepare them for the afterlife. It is pretty intense but...I still think one person could do it. Especially if he didn't really have a time frame to get it completed. So, no, I don't think two people are necessary."

"But it sure would be helpful, especially when carrying the bins into the storage facility."

Emily nods in agreement. The two silently mull over the case until the detectives arrive to secure the scene. After making plans to come back the next day when all forensic evidence has been gathered (and the remains removed), Emily and Morgan make their way back to the station. Not much is said as both feel an integral part of the case is now lost.


At 8:30 the team comes back together in the conference room. Hotch looks around, noting the frustration on each agents face. There had been no sense of moving forward today, not even with Emily's suspicion regarding Clay Pritchett. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Okay, turn it off. We've investigated all we can tonight. Until we get word back from the M.E. on how Gold died and until Garcia's search into his background finishes we're at a standstill."

"And meanwhile the mummy-maker might be out hunting," Morgan mutters.

"Perhaps. But maybe not since we've taken this collection. We're assuming he has other collections but he may not. For now we concentrate on the case we have. Tomorrow. For the rest of tonight turn it off. We'll do no one any good if we continue to get frustrated."

Rossi tosses the stack of papers in his hand on the table. "You won't hear me argue. We need more information from the bodies, from the magazines, or from Garcia. Until we have it...well...we're just banging our heads on the wall."

Emily is biting her lip, staring at the reams of paper on the table. Hotch studies her a moment.

"What is it, Prentiss?"

"If Pritchett really is our unsub, could Dr. Stewart be in danger?"

Hotch stiffens as he considers that question.

"I don't think so," Reid answers. All look at him. "She is an expert in an era that obviously intrigues our unsub. It we postulate that Pritchett is that unsub, he would revere her as a type of priestess. She is safe as long as she doesn't turn on him."

"In which case he'll mummify her alive. Great. Feel so much better now," Emily mumbles. "You couldn't have just left it at she is safe?"

Reid shrugs. "Sorry. I guess this is one of those times JJ tells me less is more."

Emily can't help but chuckle. "Definitely, Handsome. Definitely."

"I say for now we don't alert her to our suspicions. If she still thinks Dexter Gold is the suspect she shouldn't say anything to upset her boyfriend," Hotch states. "If we find credible evidence Pritchett is involved, Prentiss, you and Morgan will go find her and encourage her to accept protective custody until the case is closed."

Emily slowly nods. "I guess that's as good as I can do tonight. Thanks, Hotch."

He nods. "Okay, anything else?" No one says anything. "Then let's head to the hotel."

They stand to gather their things. Morgan glances at Emily.

"Work out?"

"Oh hell yeah," she agrees, knowing if she doesn't get some of her aggressions out she'll never get to sleep. "Let me call Jen while I get changed and meet you down in the work out room."

"Sounds good to me."

The group heads out for the evening, hoping they will hit the pavement refreshed and with new ideas in the morning.