akaccino's A/N: Can't wait for Wednesday. D : Reid is going to be so distraught...( :
dieselwriter's A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing the beginning of it. You gotta love Reid and Morgan conversations.
Chapter Three
"Scoot over to the left."
"I thought you liked playing the UnSub?"
"I look better in a Bentley," Morgan threw a big grin over his shoulder at his colleague.
"It's a visualization, not an actual demonstration," Reid said, looking befuddled at the explanation.
"Yeah, I'm visualizing myself in the Bentley, and I like what I'm thinking," his smile expanded, laughing at Reid's grimace. "Now scram; I can see you when I look in my rearview mirror."
Reid took several steps to the left, understanding this was a conversation he wouldn't quite comprehend.
"Perfect," Morgan continued, pretending to put his hands on the wheel of a car as he walked backwards down the driveway. The Turners' dog was barking sporadically, alerting everyone in the area that there were people nearby who didn't belong.
"The only reason I'm going to stop for a stranger is if they're right in front of the car," he continued as he backed up into the street, pretending to change gears before surging forward.
"Street's wide enough that you could avoid me," Reid commented, stepping into the middle of the street to put his arms out wide on either side, showing off how much room they had.
"No skid marks, you don't jump in front of me," Morgan agreed, staring down at the unmarked road.
"You think he would be going fast enough to leave skid marks if he braked suddenly?"
"Turner's leaving on a Monday at six in the morning for a two hour meeting on budget cuts," Hotch called out across the lawn as he left the confines of the late Mayor Turner's home to approach his agents, "driving a Bentley and hocked up on caffeine. He's speeding."
"Jordan's body turned up last night. I'm cautious…I won't stop for just anyone," Morgan said, stopping his progress at Reid's side.
"Dog's not barking to wake up the wife," Hotch approached the two agents and stopped at the curb. "This UnSub's definitely local and familiar."
"I'm in the road, then," Reid said. "You're not going to see me in the dark walking on the sidewalk, especially if you're speeding."
"What are you doing in the road?"
"Enjoying the fact that it's six in the morning and no one's awake yet," Reid answered. "Walking, jogging, biking…"
"But you draw attention to yourself if I stop and roll the window down to talk to you," Morgan's eyebrows furrowed, pretending to put the car in park.
"If we work with the theory that this UnSub's disorganized, I don't even know you'd approach me," Reid put his hand up to his mouth, thinking. "Walking this path is a part of my daily routine."
Hotch's cell phone rang suddenly, and he walked away from their reenactment to answer it.
"Makes sense," Morgan nodded, keeping an eye on Hotch's stiff body language as he spoke to whoever was on the other end of the phone. "This is what you normally do; park's right across the street. You'll run into the Chief tomorrow morning, and today you run into me while you're crossing the street."
"So this is the part where I get to kill you?"
Morgan narrowed his dark eyes at Reid, who gave him a small yet mischievous half-smile.
"This is why I normally play the UnSub, you know."
"I know," was Reid's mundane response. "If I'm crossing like you said, though, why would I start walking on the side of the street without the sidewalk?"
"You live on this side?" Morgan glanced down the line of houses next to the mayor's, seeing if any of them stood out to him in any ominous way.
"I hope so. That would certainly make our job easier."
"No such luck," Hotch jumped right back in, shutting his phone and clipping it back to his belt. "You're crossing the street, Reid, but you're not headed toward the park."
"Then where am I going?" the lanky agent asked, looking both ways down the street but unable to tell what would make the UnSub head in that direction.
"To 181 Juniper Street," the Unit Chief pointed out the dwelling, two houses down from the Turner's.
"Why?"
"You're returning the money Jordan Anderson stole from them."
Morgan and Reid exchanged significant looks.
"What?"
The corner of Hotch's mouth twitched at their simultaneously asked question before he motioned for them to follow him to the proper address.
"Garcia just called. There was a report of stolen money filed on the night of the 18th by Hap and Beverly Henderson. They called in the next morning, telling the police to drop the investigation because the cash box was returned, not a dime missing. They figured some kid took it and felt guilty about it afterwards."
"They were half right," Reid muttered as the trio of agents climbed the steps of the front porch and rang the bell.
Footsteps could be heard from the inside of the house and the release of a deadbolt sounded before the door opened, revealing a petite woman with short graying hair. She glanced nervously at her three tall visitors, as if she were wondering if she should slam the door on their faces and call out for help.
"Mrs. Henderson?" Hotch held up his credentials for her to see. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the FBI, and this is Agent Morgan and Reid. We were hoping you might be able to show us the cash box that was returned to you on the morning of the 19th."
Beverly Henderson visibly relaxed as she opened the door wider for the agents to enter the house.
"Certainly," she ushered them inside, glancing up and down the street before closing the door and locking it after them. "Can't be too careful, these days," she said in explanation, walking unsteadily down the hall.
"Do you make all these baskets yourself?" Reid asked politely, pausing to examine the craftsmanship of the wicker baskets lining the hallway.
"To sell at the market, yes," she replied, disappearing from view momentarily as she turned into one of the rooms off the main hallway. "It's just a hobby."
"It's very tightly woven," Reid's eyes narrowed on one of her pieces, "signifies higher quality. Do you use willow switches?"
Morgan smacked him over the head lightly just before Mrs. Henderson returned, clutching the cash box to her chest.
"Concentrate," he mumbled, even as the older woman gave the youngest agent a peculiar but pleased look.
"Willow and reed, when I can get my hands on it," she offered him the cash box. "The money's not inside anymore, but it was all there, I promise."
"Prints will have been contaminated, assuming they weren't already washed off in the rain," Reid said, handing the box over to Hotch.
The older agent immediately turned it over in his hands, examining it for missing clues. He opened it up and gave a sigh, presenting its insides to Morgan and Reid.
"Blood," Morgan said, identifying the dark, dried smears on the inside of the lid.
"Is there any way we can see the money that was inside, Mrs. Henderson?" Hotch asked, and she nodded emphatically, looking fearful at their findings before trotting down the hallway once again.
"So our UnSub returned it all," Morgan whispered, not wanting to be overheard by their hostess. "A sign of remorse?"
"Or just doing what they think is the right thing to do," Reid muttered, likewise keeping his voice low.
"A visionary."
"Most likely."
"I think we need to regroup, pool all the information we have," Hotch said, but was interrupted when an exclamation rang from the bedroom.
"I'm sorry!" Beverly shouted, entering the hallway once again with bills stuffed in one of her fists. "It's just…I hadn't even noticed before…."
She held up her findings for them, the small droplets of blood decorating the multiple green faces of Abraham Lincoln and George Washington easy to see.
"This blood…" she began, almost afraid to continue. "This isn't…the boy who died, Jordan Anderson…this isn't his blood, is it?"
They didn't answer immediately. She glanced at their expressions and bit her lip, her eyes tightening.
"Jordan didn't take it, did he?" she asked the group, looking concerned and weary.
"I'm afraid so, ma'am," Morgan said, sighing.
The woman clenched the money in her hand tighter, her soft gaze falling onto Reid's.
"You figure out who's behind this, and you can have all the baskets you want, son."
Bluefield PD
April 21st
"Based on the information we've gathered," Hotchner informed the four members of his team as they sat in the small but reclusive conference room, "we can conclude we are dealing with a disorganized serial killer, most likely a visionary suffering from some form of mental break."
"Psychotics are usually much more violent than this," Reid said, staring at the three photos of their current crime scenes. "Overkill would almost be considered a signature. MO would be more varied as well."
"Then we're talking mentally unstable," Rossi clasped his hands on top of the desk. "Anyone living with the UnSub would have noticed; they're definitely living alone."
"Death of a stable provider could be the stressor," Morgan hypothesized.
"Might also mean the UnSub's off their meds," Clarke added, "if the provider was regulating them."
"Morgan, get Garcia on the line," Hotch said, taking a seat for himself. "We need to know everyone in this town who passed away recently and who's been on antipsychotics at any point in time."
"On it," the aforementioned agent said, rising from his seat and pulling out his cell phone to dial the first number on his speed dial.
"Tell me what you want and I'll give you what you really need," the technical analyst whispered seductively as a greeting.
"Be still my heart!" Morgan exclaimed, hand covering his chest despite the fact she had no way of seeing him. "Truer words were never spoken."
"Until now," she replied, and Morgan smiled at the mental image he received of her twirling one of her fuzzy neon pens in her hand. "What can I do for you, my sweet? Besides the obvious."
"Someone's added some extra snark in her martini this evening."
"Oh please, Morgan, you know I'm a cosmo girl. And I'm starting to think this is just a social call."
"I wish it was, baby girl. I need to know who in Bluefield has passed away recently."
"I'm going to need a timeframe on that one, hun," Garcia said, tapping away viciously at her keyboard.
"Start with a year back," Morgan answered, "and let me know—"
"Two steps ahead of you, slow poke. I've got 37 names for you."
"How about within the last six months?"
There was a pause before Garcia answered with the number 18.
"We need to know who's succeeding those 18 and if any of them were taking antipsychotics."
"Oh, medical records, my favorite," Garcia said, adjusting herself on her seat. "This may take a few—"
Flashing red words appeared across her screen and she frowned in disappointment.
"Or not. No luck on this end."
"Try the 37 names, then," Morgan's brows furrowed.
"Nothing, nada, zilch," Garcia said after a few moments. "I can look back later if you want?"
"Is anyone in this town on antipsych meds?"
Garcia clicked her mouse on a new program and felt increasingly frustrated by the lack of information her normally info-abundant computer was providing.
"Some promethazine for motion sickness...but nothing to treat schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. If anyone's on an antipsychotic they're not getting them from any pharmacy in Bluefield. I can check surrounding cities if you'd like, but it'll take time."
"Do your thing, baby girl, and hit me up in the morning. We'll be up early to stake out the park, so you won't be waking me up."
"Don't I wish I would be the one waking you up," she sighed wistfully before the line disconnected.
"Garcia couldn't pull up anything," Morgan said upon re-entering the room. He frowned at the Sheriff that had stolen his seat in his absence before continuing. "She'll keep searching, though."
Hotch nodded and turned towards the evidence board.
"Mayor Turner's crime scene suggests the UnSub is someone who doesn't pose a threat. Jordan Anderson had just shown up dead the day before, so he would have been cautious had it been anyone he thought imposing."
"But the UnSub has to have the physical capability to wield a knife with deadly force against a teenager and two full grown men," Clarke said. "Jordan and Kelly could have been blitz attacked, but the mayor would have seen it coming."
"I think we need to consider the fact that our UnSub's female," Rossi concluded, receiving a few looks that made him elaborate. "Just look at some of the female officers out there."
He directed his gaze towards two female deputies clustered around a computer. One looked as though she could have gone out for strong safety in the NFL and been quite successful, and the other made Reid subconsciously shrink in his seat in primal fear.
"She'd have to be quite a bit smaller to appear less intimidating," Hotch said, folding his arms. "But she'd certainly have the ability to execute these murders if the psychothapy were severe enough and if she's working a physically demanding job."
"It's very likely she was working at the farmer's market the evening Jordan Anderson was murdered," Reid said. "It's also possible that the psychothapy would have caused the UnSub to feel threatened by the target. Something in her mind views the victims as dangerous…she might even see killing them as an act of self-defense."
"God tells her these men are dangerous and she acts out," Morgan added. "We need to interview everyone that was at that farmer's market last Saturday. One of them has to be our UnSub."
"It'll have to wait until tomorrow," Hotch said, checking the time and wincing at the surprisingly late hour. "We'll release our preliminary profile tonight. With any luck, though, we won't need it; if the UnSub sticks to her routine, we'll have her in custody tomorrow morning."
"We don't have all the details we'd like to have before releasing the profile, but we need to alert the public," Hotch said to the small group of men and women that made up the Bluefield police force. "Here's what we do know: We believe the UnSub is a female, anywhere from age 20 to 40. Due to the nature of her murders, we know she's physically fit but mentally unstable. Our thinking is that whoever was taking care of her, provided her medication."
"Was taking care of her?" one of the cops asked.
"We think the death of that provider was the stressor for our UnSub."
"We believe the UnSub is a disorganized killer suffering from delusions," Morgan continued to deliver the profile. "Despite this disorganization, we believe she is adamant to sticking to a routine that is ingrained in her. More than likely her care provider stuck her on a strict regimen that she will keep to. This is probably why you're having a hard time thinking of women who fit the profile, because she seems like she's doing what she always does."
"Most disorganized killers have a below average intelligence," Reid spoke, one hand in his pocket, the other gesticulating. "And they are also reclusive. They keep to themselves, live alone, and generally remain quiet.
"Although she's withdrawn, you would have noticed something off about her whenever she was around," Clarke added. "More than likely she's stopped caring about her personal hygiene. Her hair will be matted and her clothes won't be washed. She might even be homeless."
"She's probably suffering from delusions of persecution, thinking someone is out to get her," Reid elaborated. "Seeing Jordan Anderson steal money from the farmer's market right in front of her would have provided evidence for her paranoia, solidifying it, and triggered her homicidal actions. She returned the cash box to the Hendersons household the next day, which fits the visionary serial killer profile: a voice in her head, more than likely God's voice, is telling her to do the right thing, which included killing these people as well as returning the money."
"What about the numbers?" another cop interrupted.
The team exchanged glances with one another except Hotchner.
"We believe the numbers are the manifestation of the wishes of the voices the UnSub hears. Right now we're focusing on the UnSub, not what she's hearing," he said, stony-faced. "When we have the UnSub detained, everything else will make better sense."
Unhappy with the lack of 'interesting' information, the cop gave a small huff and turned away.
Hotch set his jaw and Rossi stepped in.
"We'd like to stress that, while the UnSub is hostile, she is not in her right mind. She can certainly be put right with medication, and I know you have lost a lot of good friends in this community, but this UnSub is also a part of Bluefield and she needs help."
Anxious glances could be picked out of the crowd now, all having instantly sobered up at the mention of their fallen Chief of Police.
"Thank you, and we'll see you in the morning," Rossi concluded with a nod, dismissing the room of officers.
"That's still not much to go on," one of the officers muttered as the room began to clear out.
"It's all we have to go on right now," Hotchner said in an authoritative voice, an underlying annoyance coloring his tone. He hated when people suggested they weren't doing everything in their power to help aid in the capture of the criminal.
"We'll get her tomorrow," Sheriff Harrison spoke up. "Then we can put all this behind us."
akaccino's A/N: Not the most exciting chapter, but we got the profile! : D Thanks for y'all who favorited/alerted/reviewed this story. Good to know our things are being read. ; D
dieselwriter's A/N: A bit of a cliffhanger...kinda...sorta...not really. :\ Things will be picking up rather shortly, though. Hope you are enjoying the ride so far. ;)