a/n: Would love to hear from some of you! Also, yesterday I posted a one-shot that takes place just before this fic, called Aftermath. It takes place right after Reid finds Gideon's goodbye letter. He goes on a bender, and Jack and Hotch try to put him together again. Check it out if you wanna. :)

swamp ophelia i'm torn down
let your waters let me drown
Indigo Girls, "Touch Me Fall"

St. Martin Parish Morgue
St. Martinville, La
The St. Martin Parish coroner was a small, harried-looking man in his fifties. He quickly introduced himself as Dr. Jones, and when Prentiss remarked on his lack of accent, he explained that he was a transplant. "Arizona. All those jokes about dry heat are right; I'd take it over the humidity any time. Anyway, this way, please. The parish isn't set up to handle this many autopsies at once, but we've done our best."

He'd had the morgue assistants lay out all eight bodies for them to study. They paused in the doorway a moment, and Dr. Jones cleared his throat.

"This is a bad scene, but I don't have to tell you that. Okay, so." He grabbed a clipboard off the counter. "We've got eight victims, as you know. LaQuisha Smith, African-American female age thirty-two; Maria da Costa, Hispanic female age twenty; Anne Marie Broussard, mixed-race—around here that usually means Creole—female age thirty-seven. She's the oldest victim. Kia Brown, African-American female age nineteen—the youngest victim. Sierra Landry, white female age twenty-six; Cleo Cortez, Hispanic female age twenty-two; Yvonne House, African-American female age thirty; and finally Michelle Thibodeaux, white female age twenty-three." He drew in a long breath and let it out, like the list of names had exhausted him.

"You got those IDs fast," Morgan said.

"They were all reported missing within the last eighteen months. They all had records ranging from minor drug busts to prostitution to public intoxication. Old timers down in New Orleans would label these NHI, no—"

"No humans involved," Prentiss interrupted, gruffly. "Yeah, we know what that means. I hope you understand that's not how we view these women. At all."

"Neither do I," he said. "It's unfortunate that it took all eight of them turning up dead in the same place for the parish to start taking this seriously."

"You deal with a lot of murders here?" Morgan said.

Jones grunted. "Some. Domestic disputes gone bad, gang shit, stuff like that. Most common deaths I deal with are ODs; meth, heroine, Oxy. The usual suspects." He waved them deeper into the room and the assistants folded down the sheets to reveal each woman's face. "This is a doozy, I gotta say. If they hadn't all been found together, dumped in the same way, I wouldn't put it as the same doer."

Morgan frowned down at the summary report in his hand. "Cause of death is different for each victim?"

"That's right," Jones said. "We've got blunt force trauma, manual strangulation, drowning, GSW to the chest, multiple stab wounds, some form of suffocation, GSW to the head, and strangulation via garrote. The bodies are all preserved, and based on cell damage I'd say through freezing. They were buried somewhere other than that swamp and then moved there, but they hadn't been in the ground—or in the swamp—for very long. Decomp happens quickly here, and every victim is still recognizable. Also, little to no animal damage."

"So we're thinking, what? He kept them frozen somewhere, then within the last week or so decided to bury them…and then within the last few days decided to move them to the swamp?" Prentiss said.

"That's the tentative timeline," Jones said. "I've got some calls in to some decomp experts, so hopefully we can pin it down more closely. One thing: it looks like they were wrapped in the rugs after being frozen. There were no fibers embedded in their skin, or patterns from the nap, but there is evidence on the rugs of decomposition."

"Any signs that they fought back?" Prentiss said.

"It's hard to tell. Ms. Smith has torn fingernails." He raised her hand for them to study. "But that might not be from the attack. There's a chance I have some DNA from Ms. Thibodeaux, but the others are too degraded to really tell."

"Is there anything else that stands out?" Morgan said. "Injuries, marks, anything?"
"Nothing that we've found," Jones said with a shake of his head. "Like I said, the only thing connecting these women is how their bodies were handled postmortem. And lifestyle. I suppose he thought they wouldn't be missed."

"But they have been," Morgan said. "We saw the missing posters all over the sheriff's station, and the banner coming into town."

"Oh yes," Jones said. "I imagine Sheriff Willett could tell you more than I can, but these disappearances have been a big deal all over the parish. At first it was written off as runaways, or just leaving town, but despite their run-ins with the law, every one of these women has close, supportive family ties here, and their families insisted they wouldn't just leave. Turns out they were right."

"Those were his exact words?" Hotch said once they were in the SUV headed back to St. Martinville. "Like a prayer?"

"Just like the Madonna song," Jackson said.

"Huh," Rossi said. "Awfully poetic for a small-town sheriff's deputy."

"He was local, but he wasn't a bumpkin," Jackson said. She felt oddly defensive about it. "He—I just mean…that was insightful. More insightful that I would've expected."

Hotch and Rossi shared a glance in the rearview mirror, and Jackson chose to ignore it. If they wanted to make assumptions about the locals, that was their business. If they wanted to do that we're Hotch and Rossi and we know so much more than the rest of you thing they could do that, too. She'd been surprised by Mendoza, but for completely different reasons than Hotch or Rossi.

"He grew up in these swamps, so it's natural he'd see beauty we don't. Appreciate it in ways we can't. It would annoy me too if an outsider was talking trash about something I loved just because they didn't understand it," she said.

Hotch cleared his throat. "Let's focus. If his theory is correct, it completely changes things. A person who places bodies in a beautiful place versus someone who dumps unwanted trash. We're talking completely different profiles."

Rossi made a low noise of agreement. "There's no guarantee Deputy Mendoza is right."

"No, but it's something we hadn't thought of, and we know a local had to've placed them there. So it's possible," Hotch said. He pulled into a parking spot in front of the sheriff's station and cut the engine. "Let's see what Morgan and Prentiss found at the morgue. That might give us a better idea."

They walked inside to find JJ filling out the crime board while Reid studied a stack of files and Morgan and Prentiss called out the info JJ needed. Hotch and Rossi paused, identical frowns on their faces, while Jackson took a file from the top of Reid's stack and flipped it open.

"Eight different causes of death?" Rossi said.

"That's right," said Morgan. He filled the three of them in on what they'd learned from Dr. Jones, and a silence fell.

"I guess—we could have a team," Jackson said. "They dispose of the bodies in the same way, but each has his own MO?"

Rossi wagged a hand back and forth. "That doesn't feel right to me. The freezing, the rugs, the burying, and then moving them all together—that's too specific for more than one person. We'd be looking at a partnership at most, but even that—" He broke off with a brief shrug.

"That's the signature, rather than how he kills them," Reid said. "The how isn't important, just that they're dead and he can keep them for a while."

"Unless the variation in MO is the signature," Prentiss said. "Maybe he's experimenting, trying to figure out what works best for him. And maybe that's what he likes about it."

"We talked to several of the families today, but we couldn't get through all eight," JJ said. "They all said basically the same thing: good girls who took a bad path. Every one of these women had families who loved them and missed them when they were gone. The longest delay between last sighting and being reported missing was Anne Marie Broussard, and that's because she just got her own place and her parents thought she needed time to settle in before they checked on her. It was still only forty-eight hours."

Reid had the ankle of one leg propped on the knee of the other, and his foot shook in agitation. He picked at the hem of his pants, his face screwed up in a frown. "Five of them still lived at home," he said. "Sierra Landry left her five-year-old with the babysitter and then didn't come home. Yvonne House lived with her boyfriend. None of these women were alone. They were all people who would be missed and mourned, just like JJ said."

"Like we talked about before: in any other circumstance, these women would be disposable. Here, they aren't," Jackson said.

"But he threw them away anyway," Morgan said.

"Not necessarily." She filled the others in on what Deputy Mendoza had said, and when she was done Prentiss' mouth quirked.

"Like the Madonna song?"

"Yep. Don't really think that's what he was referencing, but…" She trailed off and waved a hand. "So if we're looking at eight women who were loved by their families, who had strong ties to the area, but who lived the type of lifestyle that would normally put them in a high-risk group…did the UNSUB prey on them because of the latter, or the former? Was he trying to find 'disposable' women and just underestimated their family ties? Or did he know, and that was part of the point he's making?"

"What, that no matter who you are, there are people who'll miss you?" Rossi said. "I think if that were his point he would've been dropping the bodies all along, not in a group like this."

"Unless he's made his point and now he's done," Morgan said.

"That would depend on the point he's trying to make," Hotch said, "and right now all we have is speculation. Does anyone feel comfortable even presenting a preliminary profile at this point?"

His laser-like gaze moved from face to face, but there was silence all around. "I didn't think so." He checked his watch. "Let's call it for today. Dinner, an early night, and we can get back at it in the morning. Call time at the hotel is seven."

"Did you see they have fresh beignets at breakfast?" Prentiss said as she gathered her things. "I can't wait. Remind me to bring a drop cloth so I don't end up covered in powdered sugar."

"Better make room under it for me," Morgan said. "I can put a hurtin' on some beignets."

"One of the deputy's parents own a restaurant down the street," Reid said without looking up. "We should check it out."

"Boudreaux?" Jackson said.

JJ nodded. "Him."

"He's Cajun. Let's go."

"I didn't realize they made vegetarian Cajun food," Morgan said with a grin.

"I make an exception for shellfish. Pack it up, boy genius. You'll find those files are amazingly portable."

"Huh?" He blinked at her. "Oh, yeah, coming. Go on ahead; I'll meet you there."

She gave him a long look. "Okay, fine, but I'm holding you to it."

He grinned at her. "I promise. I don't want to miss Cajun food."

"Let's hit it. Blondie, Rossi, you comin'? I know Prentiss is in."

"What kinda alcohol is good around here?" Rossi said.

"Rum, Dave," Hotch remarked. "It's all about the rum. I'm going to brief Sheriff Willett, then I'll meet you down there. I'll make sure Reid makes it, too."

They gathered files and briefcases and jackets and headed for the door. It was a bit earlier than they usually called it on the first day, but between traveling and the bizarre nature of the case, they all needed the break. And, maybe, po' boys.

It was nearly eleven. Not late, really, but between the time of year (November wasn't exactly tourist season) and a killer being on the loose, St. Martinville had rolled the streets up early. Jackson knew she should be upstairs trying to sleep, or at least reading or meditating or something, but she was too restless.

They were staying in an old Beaux-Arts style mansion converted into a bed and breakfast. Reid explained (again) about the age of St. Martinville, and how important its historic districts were, architecturally speaking. Jackson always enjoyed his little asides and lessons, but the others weren't as interested. She hoped, after they caught the UNSUB, they'd have time before they headed back to DC, to do a tour of homes.

Now, realizing that neither sleep nor a book was going to work, she tugged on a pair of jeans, a chunky fisherman's sweater, and her shoes and headed downstairs. She'd already changed into her glasses and she didn't bother switching back to contacts. She crept down the stairs like a teenager sneaking out after curfew and slipped out the huge, heavy door and onto the deep front porch.

The ceiling above her was painted haint blue, which surprised her. She hadn't seen that custom around here much, and even she knew (without Reid's input) that it had originated among the Gullah in South Carolina. Whatever: this part of Louisiana could use all the protection against haints that it could get. The swamps felt like they were teaming with restless spirits, and Jackson wasn't even sure she believed in such things.

The house was surrounded by gorgeous, sprawling gardens, but she turned the other way and headed for the street instead. Landscape lights illuminated the moss-draped live oaks and the towering magnolias, and a cool mist swirled around her as she walked. It was entirely eerie, and she found herself wishing they'd spent Halloween here, for Reid's sake if nothing else.

The front gate was closed, but she typed in the code the front desk had provided and it sprang open. She tugged it shut behind her, tucked her hands in her pockets, and started toward downtown.

She'd only gone a hundred yards or so when she paused. There was a car parked a few blocks down, and she thought she could see a figure in the driver's seat. Her heart kicked up a notch or two, but then a nearby streetlight flickered on and she saw the St. Martin Parish Sheriff's Office logo on the hood.

She let out an unsteady breath and headed that way. The figure inside didn't move, even as she approached the window. She leaned down, looked inside, and saw that it was Deputy Mendoza—fast asleep.

She almost left him there, but if he got caught—

With a quick glance up and down the street, she gave the glass a sharp rap.

He jumped like she'd shocked him, and his wide eyes flew to the window. It took a moment for recognition to click, but when it did she saw his face go tense. He rolled down the window and offered a sheepish wave.

"Dr. Jackson. Hi."

"Deputy Mendoza. Busy night?"

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Please don't tell the sheriff about this. I'm supposed to be patrolling the neighborhood, and we're allowed to stop along the way. I guess I just drifted off." He grimaced. "He never hunts in neighborhoods like this anyway."

Every house on the street was a mansion or close to it, though none were as big as the bed and breakfast. It spoke of old money, mint juleps and cotillion. Mendoza was right: this was not their UNSUB's preferred hunting ground.

"It's late," he said, peering at her more closely. "What are you doing out here all alone?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Decided I needed to clear my head."

"Cold out, too. Would you like to get in? I have coffee."

"Hmmm. Not sure coffee could help me sleep."

His mouth quirked. "No, probably not, but you don't have to have much. It'll warm you up, anyway."

Of course it generally wasn't a good idea to get in a car with a strange man at night on an empty street—even if that man was a cop, because god knew cops loved to abuse their power—but considering he knew who she was, and she knew who he was, she figured it was safe enough. She opened the door and climbed in, and he rolled the window back up. Started the engine and cranked the heat. Her fingers were half frozen, toes too, and she hadn't noticed until they started to warm.

"It's the mist," he said.

"I'm sorry?"

He gestured toward her reddened fingers that she held in front of the heat vent. "Your hotel's only just up there, right? You're stayin' at the B and B?"

"That's right," she said.

"So you haven't been out there that long. But the mist makes it feel colder than it is. That damp cold. Really creeps in without you noticin' it." He cast around a moment, then pointed at the passenger side footwell. "Pretty sure my thermos is down there."

She shook out her hands and searched for it in the dark, before pulling it out with a triumphant grin. "Found it."

He took it from her and unscrewed the lid. Poured some coffee into it and passed it back to her. "Lotsa cream and sugar. Makes the chicory bearable."

"Oh, I love chicory coffee." She sipped and closed her eyes to savor the flavor: sweet and creamy, with the nutty notes of chicory among the dark roast coffee. When she opened them again, Mendoza was watching her. She blushed and handed the cup back to him. "It's been a long time since I've had it."

He took a sip himself, looking for the same pleasure she'd gotten from it, but it just tasted like plain coffee mixed with chicory root to him. Same thing he'd been drinking since he was fifteen. "Your accent's different," he said, apropos of nothing.

She blinked at him. "Different how?"

"Different than it was this afternoon, that's for sure. You don't sound like a local, but you don't sound like a Yankee, either."

"Did I sound like a Yankee before?"

"Not exactly." He took another sip before passing it to her again. "You sounded like—what do they call it over in England when someone sounds fancy? Posh. You sounded posh, but American. Like people do when they've learned to stop speakin' with an accent."

She lifted a brow and studied him for a moment. He had high cheekbones, sharp jaw, and a strong nose, but his mouth was soft and full. Almost feminine in its shape and sensuality. "You do say surprising things, Deputy Mendoza."

She drank some more coffee and dabbed at the center of her upper lip with the tip of her tongue. "Yours is different, too. And I'm glad you dropped the ma'am."

His mismatched eyes flicked to her mouth and then back up again. "Surprisin' things, huh? Cuz I'm a redneck Creole from the swamp?"

She choked a little on her next sip. "No, not because of that." She handed him the cup. "My accent's changed because I'm from just across the river in Mississippi. I do talk like someone who's worked to lose an accent, because when I was thirteen I was sent to boarding school in Maryland and I've lived away from home ever since. Not surprising the old accent would resurface down here. I was kind of expecting it, but I thought it might take a little longer."

"Hm. Ain't that a thing. Well welcome home, Dr. Jackson. Sorta."

"Thank you, Deputy Mendoza."

He hesitated. Then, "You can call me Gabriel. Since we're not workin' right now."

"Aren't you on duty?" she said, her lips curving.

"I am, but you're not. So Gabriel's fine."

She considered. She should really keep things more formal between them; they were colleagues, after all; but…

"Call me Elliot," she said. "At least when I'm not working." As soon as it was out of her mouth she frowned at herself. Elliot? Not Jack? Her coworkers called her Jack. It would be perfectly appropriate for him to call her the same. "Um. When I am working—feel free to call me Jack. Like my team. Unless you would feel more comfortable with Dr. Jackson. Either is fine."

Now she was making it worse. He ducked his head to hide a grin, but she caught it anyway.

"Fine, laugh at me. Law enforcement likes nicknames, at least on the Federal level. Surely that's the case for locals, too."

His mouth twitched as he tried to smother his smile. "I'm the middle of three brothers. Yeah, I've got some nicknames. No, I'm not telling you any of them."

"I'm an only child." She took the cup from him and finished off the coffee. "What are your brothers' names?"

He shifted in his seat and looked out the windshield. The side window. Maybe he was scanning the block for would-be troublemakers, but she sensed something about the question made him uncomfortable. "My older brother was Felipe and my younger is Mateo."

Was. Oops. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean—"

He waved it away. "It was a while ago. He did join the Marines, like our daddy wanted, and, well—it didn't end so great for him." He poured water into the coffee cup, swished it around, and dumped it out the window. The cold air drifted in and she shivered. He put the window back up again and clicked the heat up a notch. "Sorry," he said.

"It's fine. It's a lot colder in DC this time of year anyway, so I don't know what I'm complaining about."

"It's the fog, like I said. And boardin' school in Maryland or not, you still got that Southern blood."

Her mouth quirked in agreement, but she didn't reply. She thought maybe she should head back, but…she didn't want to. It was nice in the warm car with the smell of chicory coffee and…yeah, okay, with him. He was intriguing.

"Were you named after the poem?" she said. "I saw the oak downtown. This is the spot, right? Bayou Teche?"

A smile flickered over his his full lips. "Mais oui, cher, I'm named for Evangeline's lost love. We're big on lost love in the bayou, we."

"Hm." She looked out the window at swirling patterns of mist illuminated by a streetlight. The dripping moss like gnarled candy floss. "Is it a romantic place, do you think? Or a sad one?"

His shoulder lifted and fell in a gallic shrug. "¿Por qué no los dos?"

"Ohh so you speak Spanish too?" she said with a teasing laugh.

"Pequeño." His smile faded and his expression turned thoughtful. "Can you have one without the other, though? I mean romance in the—old-fashioned sense. With a big R."

"Lord Byron Romance, you mean?"

He pointed at her. "That's the one. It's all about longin', right? Wantin' what you can never have, whatever that is. Lost love or…" He waved a hand to encompass some nebulous idea he couldn't name.

"More than what you have," she said. Her brows drew together, briefly. "Or, sometimes, less."

He gave her a long look from the corner of his blue eye. "Can't say as I got much experience with wantin' less."

She smiled, tight and quick. "Lucky you."

A silence fell, a little tense, and she searched for a change of subject.

"How do you—" she started.

"So do you like—" he began at the same time.

She broke off with a twist of her mouth. "Go ahead."

"I was just gonna ask if you like workin' with the BAU. This profilin' stuff." He rubbed his thumb along the crease in his slacks. "I've read about it. Seems interestin', but maybe…inexact."

She let out a quiet chuckle. "It's both—interesting and somewhat inexact. We work with…averages, I guess. And with any average there are outliers. The top and the bottom, fucking up the curve."

He gave her a long, frank look, and something in his eyes made her feel far warmer than the hot air pumping from the car's vents. "I bet you fucked up the curve all the time."

"Ha! Umm…yeah, sometimes. I'm kind of a perfectionist."

"Kinda figured." His lips curved at the corner in an impish half-smile. "That make me a profiler now too?"

"That's basically how it works, yeah. Maybe you're FBI material after all."

"That'd be the day." His smile faded and he drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. Something about the idea made him nervous, in a different way than asking about his brothers had. Maybe it was the idea of leaving home. With his older brother gone, he was the eldest now. That was a lot of pressure.

She adjusted her glasses and tucked her hair behind her ear. "Of course it takes a lot of intense training to be a profiler. Classes, field work, more classes—the job's like half school, feels like."

"You could tutor me. You got the cute-girl-in-the-library glasses and everything." His face changed as soon as he said it, a grimace, and a deep line that formed between his straight dark brows. "Apologies. That was—unprofessional. I didn't mean to offend. Or imply—anything."

"You didn't," she said, mildly.

His forehead scrunched. "I understand that it's inappropriate to comment on a colleague's appearance, and that calling a grown woman cute is—" He broke off and shot her an incredulous glare. "Are you laughing at me, Dr. Jackson?"

She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh, and her eyes went big and wide and innocent. "No, Deputy Mendoza, I was listening to your apology with my full attention. I appreciate your sensitivity and sincerity, and under normal circumstances—that is, when we're both working—I would take deep offense at being called the cute girl in the library, but since I'm not actually on duty at the moment, I guess I can let it slide." She paused and her mouth quirked.

"Though I am wondering what exactly you thought I might have inferred."

Another grimace, but his eyes were bright. "Nothin'. I probably watch too much porn."

"Probably," she said.

"Jesus. I just sexually harassed you like three times in two minutes." He scrubbed a hand through his short hair. "I'm so fuckin' fired."

"Well," she said, tilting her head in a little shrug, "I won't tell if you won't. Which is not to diminish the seriousness of workplace harassment, especially in a law enforcement setting—but I'm not feeling particularly harassed at the moment."

He let out a long, relieved exhale, puffing his cheeks out as he did. "I live to fight crime another day."

"I'm sure the citizens of St. Martin Parish will all sleep better at night knowing that." She slumped back in her seat. "Unlike me, who will apparently not sleep at all."

"I should—get you back," he said. "It's almost midnight."

"I won't turn into a pumpkin if the clock strikes twelve."

"Maybe not, but I will. My shift's over at midnight, and I've been on twelve straight."

She grimaced. "Ugh. We'll probably be right there with you as the case heats up." She paused. Tapped her thumb against the thermos on the seat between them. "I guess you should, then. Get me back. If you don't mind giving me a lift."

"Seems like the gentlemanly thing to do, since you were kind enough to sit with me and share my coffee, and you're not gonna rat me out for callin' you cute."

"Or for talking about how much porn you watch."

He winced. "Not gonna rat, but I also get the feelin' you aren't gonna let me live it down, neither."

"Nope, probably not."

He cast her a slow, lingering glance before his eyes flicked back to the road and he put the car in gear. "Guess that's okay, since at least it means you'll still be talkin' to me."

Mendoza's FC is DJ Cotrona if anyone's interested