a/n: Yaayy, thanks so much for the review! I, too, am Southern, but the culture here in NC is very different from down on the bayou, so I'm glad it's ringing true.

Just FYI, dear readers, I have this fic almost completely written. I'm like...a chapter and a half, maybe 2 chapters, from completion. I didn't wanna start posting it until I was done or close to it, because I don't want another unfinished fic floating around in my brain. IN OTHER WORDS, you're safe to keep reading and get invested. It will be finished, and without too much delay. :)

I'd love to hear from more of you!

horror and doubt distract
his troubled thoughts and from the bottom stir
the hell within him, for within him hell
he brings and round about him, nor from hell
one step no more than from himself can fly
by change of place
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Jackson and Mendoza were in his patrol car headed for Butte La Rose. He'd barely said two words to her since back at Monica Dupré's apartment building, and he seemed tense. Snappish. Maybe it was because he'd been called in early after coming off a twelve hour shift, but she sensed it was something more.

"I wanted to thank you for the ride last night. And the talk," she said.

His hands tightened on the wheel and didn't look at her. "Yeah, sure. I wasn't gonna let you walk back alone that late. It was cold."

"How chivalrous," she said.

He made a rough exhale, almost like a snort, and she peered at him. "Deputy, is something wrong?"

"Nope," he said. "Nothin' at all." He paused. Tapped his fingers against the wheel and cut her a quick look. "Your boss really think this is the best use of our time? Revisiting the dumpsite that's been gone over with a fine-tooth comb? We got a missing woman out there, and I'm playin' chauffeur while you—no offense, Doc, but what makes you qualified to see what everyone else mighta missed?"

She turned her head to look out the window as she considered her answer. "I don't know," she finally said, which obviously wasn't the entire truth, but she could hardly tell him that. "But Agent Hotchner is Unit Chief for a reason. There's usually logic behind his orders, and—"

She sighed and glanced back at him. "A few months ago we had a case that—really hit home for me. I…disobeyed his orders, and…since then I've been working really hard to, you know. Not do that anymore. So he says go to the dumpsite, I go."

"Hm." He studied her a moment before his eyes flicked back to the road. "You don't strike me as someone who disobeys orders."

Something in his tone made her stomach go tight. She felt heat rise on her cheeks. "Um. Well. I can be…difficult. Sometimes."

He was quiet as he turned the car into the parking area at the little boat launch. He cut the ignition, got out, and walked around to open the door for her.

Normally she would've done it herself, but she felt frozen in place. Her door opened and he offered her his hand.

"Dr. Jackson," he said as he helped her out of the car.

"Deputy Mendoza." She swallowed and tried to block him as hard as she could. He had no idea what touching her meant, and she didn't want to take advantage of him. She wished she were wearing gloves. She was glad she wasn't. His skin was warm, his fingers rough, but he held her lightly, so that she knew she could pull away any time.

She didn't, and he didn't drop her hand. They stood watching each other for several long moments, until finally he grinned and let go. "You're not difficult, cher. You're just a woman who knows what she wants, and won't settle for less. A lotta men are intimidated by that. Especially bosses."

Her mouth quirked. "If you think Aaron Hotchner is intimidated by me, then I think I need to reintroduce you." She tilted her head and her eyes were bright as she said, "Is that why you've been so short today? You're intimidated by me?"

"A gorgeous woman with a Ph.D., a gun, and a badge? Hell yeah I'm intimidated."

She laughed. "Two Ph.D.s, actually."

"Shit." He smirked. "Good damn thing you need a swamp guide, or you probably wouldn't give me the time-a day."

The humor drained from her face and a crease appeared between her brows. "Don't do that, Gabriel," she said, surprising him with his first name. "Don't put yourself down like that, even as a joke. I don't know you very well, but I'm a profiler. So trust me when I say you don't deserve to take shit, even from yourself. Maybe especially from yourself."

He frowned and looked away. "You're right," he said, curt. "You don't know me very well. And you said it yourself: profiling isn't an exact science."

Before she could say anything else, he went around to the trunk and pulled out two sets of waders, and tossed her a pair. The same ones she'd worn yesterday.

Luckily they'd taken to time to stop by the b and b so she could change into something more practical for stomping around in a swamp, so she pulled the waders up over her jeans and buckled the straps with a resigned sigh.

"Got it?" he said.

"Yep. Not my first time." She held out a hand for her bag, and he passed it over with a brief smile that didn't reach his eyes. She unzipped it to double check the contents: a small evidence collection kit, latex gloves, a flashlight, waterproof matches, a couple of signal flares, bug spray, some power bars, and a large bottle of water. Also a pair of thin leather gloves that she tugged on now, to avoid any more "accidental" hand touching with Deputy Mendoza.

"I hope you don't think I'm paranoid, packing like this," she said as she shrugged into the backpack.

"Not at all. It's smart. Just the two of us out in that swamp, no one around maybe for miles. You need supplies in case something goes wrong." He flashed her a cocky grin, some of his usual chutzpah restored. "Not that anything will, with me around."

"Why do you think I asked you?" she said. Her head turned and she nodded toward the pier. "Is that our boat?"

"Sure is." They walked out to it together, and he helped her in and stowed her bag. "There's a blanket under the bench there if you get cold. I'm gonna go fast as I can; don't think either of us is lookin' for a bayou tour today."

She nodded and flashed him a thumbs up as the surprisingly loud growl of the boat's engine split the morning's quiet. He steered it out into the slow-moving water and gunned it; he hadn't been lying about going fast. She hadn't thought she'd need the blanket, but between the spray and the wind, she soon found herself digging it out.

It stunned her how quickly he navigated the twisting waterways. How easily he dodged logs and trunks and roots. Every turn looked the same to her, even with the quick flash of the sheriff's colorful guideposts, but he didn't even have to think about it. They got to the dumpsite in less than half the time the sheriff had taken yesterday, and when he cut the engine and dropped the anchor he gave her a quick grin.

"You okay? Told you I'd go fast."

"I'm fine," she said. "Just, um—glad we didn't run over any gators or anything."

"Nah, not in November. They're slow and lazy in winter." He jumped into the shallow water and lifted her from the boat as she let out a squawk of protest.

"I can walk!"

"Sorry. Inappropriate?"

"Rude," she said with a scowl. "I'm short, not a child."

His lips twitched as he struggled not to smile. "Apologies, cher. I shoulda asked first."

"It's—fine. Just please don't ever do that in front of my team." She grabbed her bag and tossed it over one shoulder. "They'd never let me live it down." The combination of heavy backpack and precarious footing almost overbalanced her, but he caught her elbow and she steadied.

"Consider it our secret," he said.

They slogged through the water to the little spit of land and she dropped her pack, dug out her camera and flashlight, and cast him a look over her shoulder.

"I'm going to walk around. You can just stay here."

"Uh huh," he said. "Guess that's what I'll do."

He clearly thought this entire exercise was a waste of time, and he was probably right. It was rare for her to pick up anything from a dumpsite (like she'd told Hotch), and after all the activity through here in the past few days, it was even less likely. Hotch knew all of that, and he wanted her here anyway. There must be a reason.

She headed toward the formation of flags that marked where the body had rested. She stood facing east, out over the water. It actually was beautiful here. The sun was warm even this time of year, and it filtered through the cobweb-like Spanish moss to gleam off the patches of water not topped with duckweed or green patches of moss. The air was heavy but chill, and it was surprisingly quiet. The trees arced above her head and the ground beneath her boots had a spongy feel.

She let out a soft sigh and knelt at the center of the sad semicircle. She flipped through a series of pictures on the camera's memory card and took note of which woman had been placed where.

It didn't feel like a dumpsite. Mendoza was right. The filtered light, the hush, the mineral rich smell. It felt like a church, a cathedral created by nature rather than man. Was this the altar, then? This spot that was the axis upon which each woman had been pinned? Each head pointed here, like half a sunburst.

She shifted her weight and something moved beneath her foot. Something hard and solid, far different from the boggy ground surrounding it. She stuck a hand in her pocket and realized she'd forgotten gloves. With a curse she pushed to her feet and returned to her bag for the evidence collection kit.

"Find something?" Mendoza said.

"I don't know. Maybe." She tilted her head for him to follow her, and he fell in behind as she picked her way back to the spot. Her footprints had already filled in, so she wasn't sure exactly where it was. She used the butt of her flashlight to press against the dirt until it didn't sink.

"Here," she said. She handed Mendoza the light, swapped her leather gloves for latex ones, and knelt again. She pressed around the area with her fingertips.

"Something just under here. Oblong, about the size of my hand."

"Probably just a rock," he said.

She made a low noise, maybe of agreement, and wedged her fingers under whatever it was. It flipped up from the ground with a little plop, and she peered down at it. Took her flashlight back and clicked it on.

"A rock, but not one put here by Mother Nature," she said. There was an inscription. She brushed the dirt and grass away and squinted.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,
Glistering with dew…

She read it aloud. Sat back on her heels and considered it. "That's…I know that. Can't place it. Dante? I don't think that's right."

"Paradise Lost," Mendoza said. She cut him a sharp look of surprise, and he shrugged. "Read it in high school. Never forgot that word glistering." He pulled on a pair of gloves and held out a hand. "May I?"

She passed it to him, and he studied it as intently as she had. Tilted it this way and that to catch the sun. "It looks pretty worn. I bet it's been here a while."

"Probably, hence being buried." She pushed to her feet and brushed dirt off her knees. "But what you said yesterday, about this spot at dawn…" She nodded toward the rock. "Seems to track."

He gave a distracted nod, his forehead scrunched thoughtfully. "Guess so," he said after a moment. "Some sorta sun-worshipping cult bullshit?"

She snorted and took the rock when he offered it back. "Killer cults are a myth, Mendoza. You know that." She tucked it into an evidence bag and labeled it. Sealed it off and offered it to him for a witness signature.

"I know." He signed his name with a distracted glower. "But it makes as much sense as anything else in this godforsaken case."

Her mouth quirked in rueful agreement. She wandered back toward her pack to put the evidence bag away, and after a moment he followed.

"I guess your boss was right about the CSU boys missin' somethin'."

"Told you," she said. "Though this probably wasn't what he had in mind. Let me get a few pics of where we found it and we can go. I don't think we're going to find anything else out here."

"Sure," he said. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. His mismatched eyes scanned the area as though he were waiting for something. Or searching.

"Were you familiar with this particular spot before all this?" she said.

He looked momentarily startled, as though she'd interrupted something. "Here? Nah. just another hump-a land, ain't it?"

She frowned and cast him a long look. He was a good thirty or so feet away from her, but even so she thought she'd felt…something from him when she'd asked. Her head tilted and her eyes narrowed. She took a few steps closer. "So you've never stopped here before or anything? While you were out and about in the bayou?"

Her met her gaze unblinking. Hitched a shoulder. "Nope. Can't say I have."

A lie, part of her mind whispered. He'd just lied to her, and it had bothered him to do so. Immensely. Because he was an inherently honest person, and telling any lie upset him…or because there was something specific about this lie that caused so much conflict?

"I got somethin' on my face?"

"What?" she said.

"You're starin' at me, Doc. Just wondered if I smeared some mud on there or somethin'." His full mouth eased into a grin. "Maybe you just like lookin' at me."

"Ha." She smirked and the tension was broken. "Maybe I do," she said. And maybe she did. But that didn't change the fact that he'd looked her in the face and lied…and she needed to find out why.

They stopped for a bite of lunch on the way back to the station, and by the time they got there Reid had made decent headway through the files Garcia had sent. Of course he'd read them all in a few minutes, but it was the patterns that mattered—and he'd found one.

"It looks like every victim had some connection to the Red Rooster Inn," he said. He had a photo of place—a tacky roadside motel that had seen better days—tacked to the center of the cork board, and around it like a corona was a picture of each victim and how she connected.

"Now I know what you're thinking," he said. "There's a lot of overlap between victims, which was a frustrating problem before, but I think this connection is different."

"We're listening, kid," Rossi said. "Make your case."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Every victim was seen at the motel shortly before her disappearance, except Yvonne House and Monica Dupré. But, as Jack noticed this morning, their apartments are located here and here." He indicated two pins on the map taped to the wall. "The Red Rooster is here."

"Just a few blocks," Hotch said. "What are your other pins?"

"Possible abduction sites," Reid said. "We don't have anything exact, but you can see that the motel seems to be the center of a sort of spiral pattern."

"Like the eye of a hurricane," Morgan said with a frown.

"Something like that, yeah."

"Reid, it says here the Red Rooster closed last year," Prentiss said. "Why is anyone still there?"

"It's not doing business anymore, but it's still known as a local hangout for drug dealers and prostitutes. It's almost sort of, ahh…an unofficial brothel, according to Deputy Verret."

"Unofficial? Are there official brothels in Martinville?" Prentiss said, lifting a brow.

Reid blushed. "No, of course not. Just a turn of phrase. Anyway, Deputy Verret told me that this guy"—he pointed toward a mugshot of a man with a straggly beard and long, stringy gray hair—"is who runs most of the action there. Several of our victims worked for him at one point or another, except for LaQuisha Smith, the first victim. She was an employee at the motel before it closed."

"Herman Delhomme," Rossi read. "Look at this sheet. Jesus, how does he have time to sleep?!"

"Pandering, possession, possession with intent, assault, drunk and disorderly, gambling, bookmaking, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer…this goes back to 1973," Jackson said.

"This is quite possibly the most impressive rap sheet I've ever seen," said Prentiss. "Oh, look, rape, sexual assault, improper sexual contact with a minor, statutory rape. You sure have found us a winner, Reid."

"Yeah. Deputy Verret had a lot to say about him, then the Sheriff and Deputy Boudreaux chimed in. They know him well."

"Moonshining!" Jackson said. Six sets of eyes turned her way and she glanced up from the file with a blush. "Sorry, just…surprised he doesn't have cooking meth on here."

Reid made a low noise of amusement. "Actually, according to Sheriff Willett, Delhomme has a weird sort of code of ethics. He won't deal meth or crack. Mostly pot and prescription opiates."

"Yes, opiates are so much less destructive than meth," Jackson said and rolled her eyes. As soon as she said it she wished she had it back, but when she looked at Reid he just smiled a little and turned back to his board.

"They're bringing Delhomme in for questioning, but it's extremely unlikely he's our UNSUB."

"Why's that?" Rossi said. "He certainly had opportunity, and it seems he knew all of these women, except maybe House and Dupré."

"Looks like he was in jail when the first three women were abducted," Morgan said. "That's a pretty good alibi."

Reid nodded. "In jail, and while he was there he was attacked by another inmate and broke his back in two places. He's not paralyzed, but he has a lot of trouble getting around these days. It would be extremely difficult for him to have abducted these women, and virtually impossible for him to wrap the bodies and place them at the dumpsite."

"Okay then," Rossi said and snapped the file shut. "Not our guy, but he might give us an idea of who might be."

Hotch had been listening with his arms crossed, an intent expression on his serious face. Now he stepped forward and gestured toward Jackson. "Speaking of the dumpsite…EJ?"

"I found something, but I doubt it's what you were expecting." She gathered the photos she'd taken of the stone and tacked them to yet another cork board. "This was buried in the center of the semicircle of bodies. Each woman was placed so that her head pointed to the spot where I found it. I've already handed it off to the lab for processing, but it's a rock I found in the dirt, so they aren't going to be able to get much. We should have it back by the end of the day."

"What's carved on it?" JJ said as she squinted at the photos.

"It's a quote from Paradise Lost by John Milton," Reid said before Jackson could.

"It made me think of what Mendoza said when we were out there yesterday, how the sun rises over the water and hits that island." She shook her head. "I have no idea if that's why our UNSUB chose this spot or not, but it seems like an odd coincidence."

"It does," Hotch said. "Obviously the UNSUB places some significance on this spot, and it seems like what we thought was random body disposal isn't that at all. There's a ritualistic quality to how the women were arranged, and this stone at the center…it almost gives an altar-like feel."

"That's exactly what I was thinking before I found it," Jackson said. "Mendoza called it a prayer, and I think he was right."

"So what does that say about our UNSUB? Were these women a type of offering for him? Or a sacrifice?" Prentiss said.

Rossi gave a doubtful shake of his head. "That seems to be giving the religious angle too much weight. I agree that this dumpsite wasn't random, and maybe wasn't meant to be a dump at all, but I don't think the murders themselves had any ritual significance to him."

"I agree," Reid said, and the others nodded assent.

"Do you think this connection to such a den of iniquity means we have a mission-based killer on our hands, or does he just look for victims of opportunity?" Jackson said to him.

"I don't think a mission-based killer would've gone after Yvonne House and Monica Dupré," JJ said. "They had both had records, but they were turning their lives around. Anne Marie Broussard, too. Once Monica's son was born she was done with drugs and prostitution, according to her parents. Her record implies the same."

"Why clean up women who were already clean?" Prentiss said, rhetorically.

Morgan flipped through one file. Put it down and selected another. "Doesn't exactly point to opportunity, either. While all nine women do have a connection to the Red Rooster, at least three of them don't have a very recent one. So they're not walkin' by one day and he decides to grab them."

"Possibly he picked them out well ahead of time. He always knew he was going to take Monica; he was just waiting for the time to be right," Jackson said.

Rossi made a face. "The time's right when his victims were just found and the FBI's crawling all over town?"

"UNSUB logic," Jackson replied, dryly.

"I'll ask again, does anyone feel confident presenting even a preliminary profile?" Hotch said.

Silence fell. He looked around at each one of them, and no one spoke. Even Rossi looked troubled and would barely meet Hotch's penetrating gaze.

"I didn't think so," Hotch said. "So what's next?"

"We talk to Delhomme," Prentiss said.

"Good. What else?"

"We need to look at each woman's timeline, see if we can figure out where they might have been abducted," Reid said. "I started that but got sidetracked by the motel."

"You and EJ can work on that, and call Garcia to get anything she can find on this motel," Hotch said. "Prentiss, you and Morgan talk to Delhomme. Rossi, let's head over there. We might find someone willing to talk. JJ, how're things with the press?"

She sighed and shook her head. "I hate I don't have anything to give them. People are scared, and Monica Dupré's family is upset, to say the least. What can I tell them?"

Hotch's brows drew together and his mouth thinned. "Tell them we're working it, and that while we have no direct evidence that Monica's disappearance is related, we're treating it with all due urgency." He looked around again, his expression grave. "I don't need to remind anyone what kind of effect this sort of case can have on a small town. We need to find this UNSUB, the sooner the better. I have faith in all of you. Let's get to work."

The team scattered, but Hotch pulled JJ aside a moment. "See if you can find anyone in the local press who's been tracking these disappearances. See if they're willing to share info. Also get what you can about the Red Rooster. I think Reid's right, and it might be the key to finding the UNSUB."

JJ nodded. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do. I'll have to offer them something in return."

"An exclusive when we're ready to name a suspect."

She let out a long breath. "Hopefully it'll be enough. I might be able to appeal to civic duty or something—but no way will any reporter worth talking to reveal their sources."

"That's fine; we don't need names. We just need an idea of what we're dealing with. Between us and Garcia, names aren't a problem."

Herman Delhomme adamantly refused to talk to any local cops, but he seemed more than willing to spill anything and everything Morgan and Prentiss wanted to know. He told them the locals framed him for half the things on his sheet, that he'd never raised a hand to a woman "unless she truly deserved it," and that he "didn't do no rapes."

His Cajun accent was thick enough to cut with a knife, and at one point he got so agitated they had to call Jackson in to translate. She spoke to him in Cajun French (though a slightly different version than what he spoke) and got him calm enough to continue.

He was there nearly two hours, and when he finally limped his way out of the station, he departed with a lifted middle finger for the deputy who walked him out.

"Charming," Prentiss said.

"He really does not like you or your men, Sheriff," Morgan said.

Willett's shoulders lifted in a laconic shrug. "My daddy brought him in more times than I can count. Tends to breed resentment."

"Was what he said about being framed true?" Jackson said.

Willett frowned. Jerked his head toward their corner, and they followed him that way. Reid looked up from his timeline and JJ wandered over from the crime board.

"Y'all might notice that my entire team here's under thirty-five," Willett said in a low voice.

"Rossi mentioned something about it last night," Morgan said. "Said he felt like the old man." He smirked. "I told him he should be used to that by now."

Jackson elbowed him but his grin remained unrepentant. "I assume it's not because you're violating age discrimination laws, Sheriff," she said.

"Not on purpose anyway. When I won the election I had to clean house. My daddy"—he let out a troubled sigh—"he was old school. Unfortunately, in Louisiana that means dirty. Not—frame a man for rape dirty, not in my daddy's case, but…overlook certain crimes and pay more attention to others dirty. Some of his deputies didn't make that distinction."

"So some of these charges on Delhomme's sheet might be trumped up?" Prentiss said.

"Wouldn't surprise me. This department painted a target on that man a long time ago. Sure, he's a goddamn troublemaker, no doubt, but also he made an easy scapegoat. He's lucky he was in jail for the first few abductions and got himself hurt, or I'd probably be gettin' a lot of pressure to bring him in on it."

Reid's brow scrunched. "Pressure from who? Aren't you the Sheriff?"

"Sure I am, but I gotta answer to the mayor. The city council. And that's just in St. Martinville. I got a whole parish out there, and every goddamn person in it wants to see this sumbitch strung up. 'Cept maybe the man himself." He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his rusty curls. "Runnin' a clean department in Louisiana is damn near impossible, but it's one of the promises I ran on, and I ain't gonna break it now. I owe it to the people of this parish—especially the ones who've been victimized by this department for way too long."

"People like these women," Jackson said.

Willett cast a grim look at the nine pictures tacked to the board. "Yes, ma'am. These abductions started under my daddy's watch, and he was content to sweep 'em under the rug, label 'em as runaways and all, but I knew that weren't it. Findin' these bodies—it finally gave me what I needed to kick the mayor's office and the council into gear to actually find out what's goin' on in St. Martin Parish."

"I imagine those banners out on the main road aren't exactly good for the tourist industry," Morgan said.

"No they sure ain't. Kia Brown's mama's responsible for that. None of the families really believed their daughters ran away, but Miz Brown was adamant from day one. She used to come down here every single day to ask if we'd found her little girl." He paused. "She was only nineteen. A year outta high school. She was workin' at the Shop 'n' Go to try to save up for college."

He gestured toward Reid's timeline and abduction map. "That purple pin there. That's where she was last seen, on the Shop 'n' Go's parkin' lot camera. She vanished somewhere on her walk home. Her mama said she had to've known who took her, because she wouldn't get in a car with a stranger, especially not after the other disappearances."

"That's what she told us too," JJ said. "She said LaQuisha Smith used to babysit her when she was little, and there was no way she would've just vanished. She and Maria da Costa were in the same class in high school. Her mother said Kia was very aware of potential dangers."

"Kia's was the first of the disappearances I worked personally. It hit me hard. Still does." He gave a brief shake of his head. "Anyway, her mama got the other families together and raised the money for that banner, and the billboards and the posters and every other thing about these women you see around town. She doesn't want anyone forgettin' their girls. I promised her I wouldn't."

"You haven't, Sheriff," Morgan said. "You called us in, and we're going to do everything we can to get justice for these women."

"Do you think it's possible a cop is involved?" Prentiss said, lowering her voice further. "Not one of yours, but one of the cops you fired?"

"I don't like to think it, but…the possibility's occurred to me. How could it not? And now that we know the cause of death was different each time? Sounds like a forensic countermeasure if I've ever heard one."

Morgan looked around the table, carefully studying each face. "Let's see what Hotch and Rossi have to say when they get back, but I'm thinkin' we might be ready for a preliminary profile."

As though summoned by Morgan's words, across the wide room the door opened and the agents in question walked in. If body language could be believed, neither of them looked very happy: Hotch's shoulders were tense and stiff, while Rossi had his head down and his brow furrowed.

"I'll leave y'all to it," Willett said. He nodded at Hotch and Rossi as he passed them, then went into his office and closed the door behind him.

"Any luck?" Reid said when they were close enough.

Hotch gave a tight-lipped jerk of his head and went on past him to the coffee maker. Rossi sighed and settled in one of the chairs around the table.

"That bad?" Jackson said.

"No, actually. Well—at first it was. No one would say a word. They ran when they saw us. Typical cockroaches running from cops." He leaned forward with his elbows on the table and loosely clasped his hands. "Then apparently some word came down, and they were all eager as hell to chat us up."

Morgan frowned. "Word? From who?"

"Must've been Delhomme," Prentiss said. "That phone call he made about an hour ago."

"You let him make a phone call?" Rossi said, frowning.

She lifted her hands. "He wasn't under arrest, or a suspect. We were afraid he'd walk if we didn't, and he was actually giving us good information."

"Or at least a lot of information," Morgan said with a snort. "How good it is remains to be seen."

Hotch returned with two cups of coffee and handed one to Rossi. "Same with what we got at the motel. Everyone had a story about at least one of these women. At this point I don't know what's true and what's total bullshit."

Reid leaned back in his chair, wiggling his pencil back and forth between his fingers. "From what Sheriff Willett told us, it sounds like this community has good reason to distrust law enforcement."

Morgan snorted. "They're poor people of color, Reid. What other reason do they need?"

"None, but this department's history has given them plenty anyway," JJ said. She had her phone in her hand and was frowning down at the screen. "I just emailed one of my press sources about what Sheriff Willett said, and…well. Forwarding to all of you now."

Rossi let out a low whistle as he scrolled through. "A lot of these articles weren't published. Any reason why?"

"I'm guessing because the newspaper editor is on the City Council," JJ said.

"Welcome to Louisiana, y'all," Jackson said. "It's a law unto itself, and that law has very little to do with justice."

If any of y'all are Carolina Panthers fans (like me!), St. Martinville, La is Jake Delhomme's hometown. So, yes. Herman Delhomme is a shout out to him. Sorry he's a criminal, Jake!