Burlington, Vermont

After delivering the Profile, Spencer Reid set to working up a geographic profile. The female detective, Toussaint, sat and watched as he worked.

"Can I ask you something?" Toussaint asked. "What do you hope to accomplish by drawing on that map?"

Before answering, Reid contemplated the odd habit people had where they asked if they could ask a question before asking the asking the actual question they want to ask. It was weird.

"Serial Killers like our UnSub tend to operate within a comfort zone; by plotting out the crime scenes and the dump sites, we can work out that comfort zone and likely learn where he either lives or works. " Reid explained. "Given the way Burlington is laid out, the fact that the UnSub hunts and kills in the downtown area, odds are more likely we'll find where he works."

Toussaint leaned forward a little to study the map as Reid finished his profile and made a small chirping noise in the back of her throat. Reid took it to indicate she was impressed. "There are quite a few private businesses in that area." She said. "Your profile said the guy is likely in his late twenties or early thirties; and either well off independently or running a small business that allows him time to research his targets. What about a hair salon or something like that? I mean, the haircuts he gives post mortem look like they might be professional, right?"

"Actually, yeah," Reid agreed. "I assume you and Detective Strong have checked out local hairdressers and barbers."

"Of course," she confirmed. "Nothing really hit, but we could go back and look at them again. Also, maybe we ought to ask the ladies of the night where they get their hair done."

"That's a good idea." Reid said. "Also, I'd like a list of those so we can run a record check on the names." He glanced at his watch and realized how late it was getting. "Are we the last ones here?" He asked.

Toussaint looked around. "I guess we are. I don't know about you, but I'm thinking about heading home and getting some sleep."

Reid decided that was probably a good idea. He figured he could update Prentiss on his way back to the hotel.

San Diego, California

Hannah picked up the landline on the third ring, just before voice mail would have kicked in. The call display read 'Frank C.', which was of course Dexter's cell phone.

"Castle/Fisher residence; Jennifer speaking," Hannah greeted despite knowing who was calling and that Dexter would know who he was really calling. It was good to keep up habits when it came to upholding an identity.

"Hey, hon," Dexter greeted back, unaffected. "Listen I know it's late, but I really wanted to hear your voice and Harrison's."

Glancing at the clock, Hannah was momentarily confused; it wasn't all that late. Harrison was just in the bath. Then she realized that it would be much later in Wisconsin.

"Time zones, dear," Hannah replied. "It's not really late at all to us. How's Wisconsin treating you?"

"Well, it's cold, for one thing. I won't miss that once I'm done here." Dexter said. "I got the branch all set up, so I shouldn't be much longer."

"I take it that means you're making progress on your project, then?"

"Yeah, I'm just on my way to do some important research on that." Dexter confirmed. "By any chance is Harrison around?"

"He's in the bath." Hannah advised. "I can take the phone to him if you want."

"No, that's alright." He dismissed the notion. "Just let him know I called to say goodnight and tell him I'll be home soon."

"Okay. I'll do that." Hannah said. "Oh, by the way, I guess you should know that Coalworth is still all over the news; cops and FBI are saying they loads of leads as to where he might have gone, Tahiti authorities insist he's not there, and apparently cop and Fed offices are flooded with requests from parents of the missing children to confirm if their kids are alive or dead."

"Wow, that's terrible," Dexter said in just the right tone of voice. "Is there any suspicion of foul play?"

"No," Hannah answered. "Harrison's been watching the story very closely and so far nothing like that. Coalworth's definitely taken off somewhere. Harrison is sure he'll never be found." While Hannah was glad that her man and their son had covered their tracks well, it was starting to disturb her a little how quickly Harrison was picking up on how to avoid detection while living as they did. It was good for them, but it still seemed wrong that a boy Harrison's age would take to it so readily. Usually, she could convince herself it was all out of necessity, but somehow with Harrison it seemed...different. It was more like it all came naturally to him.

"Well, I guess I should let you go; I'm sure you have plenty to do still. Good night, Frank. Thanks for calling. I love you."

"I love you, too," Dexter said back, ending their conversation.

Washington, DC

After their shift, Joe Quinn joined Will LaMontagne for drinks at a local watering hole that was popular with cops. He had just gotten off a call with Em; she seemed cold to him. He got that she was on the job, but it was still rubbing him all wrong. It was like she warm one second, cold the next. For the life of him he could not figure out what she was up to. What was going on with her?

"Something on your mind, Joe?" Will asked.

Joe slammed down his shot of Bourbon. "It's probably nothing," he said finally. "It's just Emily stuff."

Will perked up, interested. "What's going on?"

Joe winced, feigning to wave it off. "Like I said, it's probably nothing; she's knee deep in a tough case in Vermont. I know she didn't mean to blow me off..."

"She's running hot one day, cold the next; am I right?" Will guessed. "It feels like she's hiding behind her work to keep you at a distance?"

Joe didn't say anything. He didn't need to. It was clear to him that Will knew exactly what he was going through.

"Let me tell you something," Will carried on. "JJ and I met on case back in New Orleans when I was a detective there. We had a lady who slashing the men who raped her at Mardi Gras years before and leaving messages Jack the Ripper style. The BAU came in to help out, and we found her – the lady, I mean. Me and JJ started dating on weekends from a distance after that, and for a long time she tried to keep our relationship away from her team. In public, we only knew each professionally. You're a good detective; you see where this is going?"

"She was hot one day, cold the next," Joe said nodding slowly. "Kind of like how Em is now."

"Turns out she just scared, Joe." Will added. "She was scared that what we have was real and that she'd find some way to mess it all up, or that one of us would get hurt on the job or something like that. "

"Getting hurt is an occupational hazard!" Joe objected. "She's got to know that." Joe was definitely picking up on what Will was getting at.

"My point is she's most likely scared of losing what you have, so she's tryin' to keep keep things right where they are."

"But you and JJ worked it out." Joe replied. "You stuck it out and convinced her you weren't going to bail on her."

"Something like that." Will confirmed. "Through JJ, I've known Emily a long time now; stick with her, and I'm sure it'll all work out alright."

Racine, Wisconsin

Before doing this part of his reconnaissance, Dexter switched out of his car rental and borrowed an SUV type vehicle from the fleet at Caste Couriers; it was unmarked until the magnetic logos got put on, so there would be nothing to incriminate him, the company, or Lumen if things happened to go sideways. It was easy to find both the office and residence of one Dr. Angela Morton; a drive-by showed she was not at home, and he could see right now that her office was closed for the night. In fact, the animal clinic where her office was located was closed entirely.

It was shortly after he called to check in with Harrison and Hannah that a news bulletin came in on the radio; yet another suicide in Racine. This time it was seventy year old Dorothy 'Dot' Chatworth; who was found dead in her home in front a film projector loaded up with homemade movies featuring a cat. Her death was ruled a suicide, and she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer; which had gotten into her bones. She was scheduled to go into a hospice next week. Dexter snapped off the radio; he already recognized the pattern. She was found to have injected herself with a euthanizing substance.

The doctor's office had better security than Bishop's, but not by much. Defeating the alarm system was a simple matter, and the locks were pretty easily picked. The tricky part was getting in without disturbing the patients. Even that wasn't too difficult; they were way in the back rooms, nowhere near where Dexter needed to go.

Her office door was also locked; again, he picked it with ease. Grinning, he congratulated himself for still having his chops. Inside the office, he wondered if Doctor Morton might be a little bit OCD, it was so tidy. He'd have to take extra care not to disturb anything.

That's okay, though. I like to keep things in order, too.

He thought about trying the computer, but then noticed she had a day planner right there on her desk. He figured this might be an easier mission than he originally anticipated. He carefully perused through the planner, looking specifically at the dates on and immediately before the suicides were discovered.

"Well, what do you know," Dexter said to himself. "Doctor Morton had D.O.E. appointments every single time; and always shortly before either she or one of the other two did."

Look at the names, son. Harry chimed in. Those could just as easily be pet names. This could be nothing.

"Most of them are initials that match the names of the victims." Dexter retorted. "And look at this; tomorrow morning we have the initials P.B. in Green Bay. How safe of a bet do you think it is that either tomorrow or the next day we see a suicide in Green Bay?" Dexter flipped back a couple of pages and found a record of a euthanizing for a dog named Snow; authorized by a Pierre Beauchamp of Green Bay, Wisconsin. "You have to admit, dad, it fits."

So what's your plan? Harry asked. Wait until tomorrow or the next day to see if there's a report about this Pierre Beauchamp committing suicide?

"Pretty much," Dexter confirmed. He set the planner back down on the desk, exactly as he found it. Next he made his way to a medicine chest; it was blissfully locked with a simple padlock. Once he had it opened, he looked through it, found the Pentobarbital and Pheytoin he was expecting to find, and then he saw she also had a decent supply of M-99; the animal tranquilizer that used to be his favorite means of subduing his playmates. It was like a late Christmas present.

Burlington, Vermont

Late night became early morning and he simply could not fall asleep. There was still no report regarding Heather; he had to suppose she wasn't found yet. He guessed that made some sense; he did leave her in her apartment and locked the door behind him. Also, she lived alone, so it might take awhile; maybe even days before someone comes along to check in on her.

In the meantime, he had a job to do. Not his work; he was thinking about his real job. He had several hours before he would open up his salon; of course, he had an early appointment with a regular client. In fact, that client –her name was Phoebe- may even unknowingly provide a lead to another girl; that was how he caught on to Heather. So far, that was just about the only reason Phoebe was still alive...

Why did he keep thinking like this? It was sick and wrong. Ever since his mother got killed he couldn't stop. He always knew it would be like this; Agent Gideon's assessment proved it. He tried to stop it, but Spencer Reid wouldn't let him. Soon, though, he would make Dr. Reid pay for that mistake.

As of now, he was in the 24 hour coffee shop in the plaza where his salon was located. There were a total of 4 units on the ground level: His salon, the coffee shop, a vitamin and fitness emporium, and a convenience store. The second floor was a gym, and the third floor was where the Alt-Press was published. Before opening up, he got himself a large coffee and the morning paper. The front page had a headline warning the city Burlington and the surrounding area of a blizzard starting later that morning.

"Good morning, Nathan!" the barista had greeted him warmly. "So it looks like we're finally going to get that snow!"

"That's what the paper says," Nathan Lewis agreed. "I hope it's not too much, that could cancel a lot of my appointments." He couldn't remember her name, but he did quite like her; she was always friendly.

"Oh, right, I didn't think of that." She replied. "At this location we're bound to get loads of walk-ins."

Nathan gave her a shy smile and took a table with his coffee and began to flip through the paper; there wasn't anything new about the Barber. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. There wasn't even mention of the FBI or their Profile, which he had to admit, was more hits than misses about him. They didn't really know any specifics, but they were certainly on the right track. Then again, chances were they only gave a very general summary to the press; they would keep their real insights a lot closer to the chest. That would be reserved for themselves and the police. That was a good thing; it meant that Spencer would close in on him sooner than later. Once he did, then he would pay for his mistake.

The snow had begun to fall about an hour before sunrise and Heather had still not called. She was supposed to call as soon as she was done with her client; that was what they agreed to do after the Barber story broke. It was possible that Heather just forgot, but Phoebe Morrisette was still worried. After all, the check in call thing was Heather's idea. There was nothing to say that either of necessarily had to answer right away; but they were supposed to call and at least leave a message.

Phoebe thought about trying to call her, but in the end she decided she would go to Heather's apartment to check in person. It was a different part of the city, so that meant driving in the falling snow. All along the way, Phoebe tried to tell herself that everything was fine; that she was just being a worry wart. Along the way, she passed by the building that held the Alt-Press and Nathan's Salon. Nathan was something of genius with hair; it was well worth going to him, even if he only worked by appointment. The salon was really more of a hobby for him; Nathan Lewis was some kind of trust-fund kid or got a big inheritance or something. At least this trip put her in the right area to keep her appointment today. She could stay and visit with Heather after her check in until it was time.

She pulled her car up in front of Heather's building; it was a nicer building in a slightly less affluent neighborhood. There was no buzzer or even a lock on the front door; that missing feature always made Phoebe nervous about Heather's security, especially given their profession. Her apartment was much more secure; guests had to buzz in, and there were cameras in the foyer. Phoebe once suggested Heather move into a unit in her building, which offered both rental units and units for sale, but Heather insisted on staying where she was. She was saving up to make a house purchase.

Phoebe took the elevator up to Heather's floor and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she put her ear to it and could hear the television playing at a low volume. She was home and watching something, or she was out with a client; she always shut it off if she was asleep. She knocked again; a little louder this time. There was still no answer. From under the crack at the bottom of the door, Phoebe could see that at least one light was on. She looked up at light fixture right beside the door. She knew that was where Heather kept a hidden key. After a moment of contemplation, Phoebe reached up and found the key to unlock the door.

"Heather, are you home?" She called softly as she rapped on the door while opening it.

There was still no answer. Phoebe let herself in. There was still a chance she was out and forgot to call between clients. Or at least that's what she thought until she noticed that one of the chairs in the dining room just beyond kitchen was missing from the table. Phoebe Morrisette could swear she felt her heart stop. She trotted down the short hallway into the main room. That was when she saw Heather, sitting in the missing chair in the centre of the room, facing the television. Hair was scattered all across the floor, and Heather's head was tilted back so that Phoebe could see the thin marking around Heather's throat. Her blouse was opened up and there was some kind of markings on her stomach.

Phoebe didn't get a very good look at the markings; she turned and ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet to get sick before dialing 911.

Green Bay, Wisconsin

The case of Pierre Beauchamp held a special place in the heart of Dr. Angela Morton. At first, she thought it was because of the dog; she had a dog when she was a little girl, too. After actually meeting Pierre, though, she found that he reminded her of her father. Like her father, Pierre Beauchamp was diagnosed with ALS, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig's disease. He also had a demeanor similar to her dad; or at least the way she liked to remember him when he was still at his best. Very much like Pierre, her dad insisted on living life on his own terms, not anyone else's. Even better than that, they both seemed to b able to do just that, and do so in a firm yet gentle way. Much like her dad, Pierre Beauchamp wanted to die as he lived; on his own terms.

Dr. Angela Morton was happy to oblige. She met with him yesterday afternoon, and their appointment was made for today. All the arrangements were made; this would be as clean as all the others. Outside her hotel room window, she could see that it had snowed overnight; a fair bit, too. From what she could see the City of Green Bay was on top of it, though; the roads appeared to be cleared. The fact that Mr. Beauchamp named his dog, a gorgeous French bulldog, snow, suggested to her that he would appreciate blanket that covered the ground. He had picked a lovely lookout spot on the outskirts of the city with a fantastic view of skyline for their final appointment; she imagined it would be a winter wonderland that he would be looking over as he drew his final breath. It was a honor and a privilege for her to be a part of his choice. She wiped a tear of gratitude from her eye and got up to go to the hotel lounge for breakfast.

Burlington, Vermont

SSA Jennifer 'JJ' Jareau couldn't speak for anyone else on the team, but she knew she didn't get much sleep before the call came in about Heather Camp. Detectives Strong and Toussaint were sure that the Barber had struck again. When the team got to the scene, they were quick to determine that certainly seemed to be the case.

"It's a nice building, but there's no security." Spence commented. He looked to JJ like he'd gotten even less sleep than she had. "It would have been easy for the UnSub to get into the building without drawing much attention to himself."

"At the right time of night, it's even possible that nobody saw him enter or leave at all." JJ agreed.

They made their way to the apartment where Heather was found; Prentiss, Rossi and Alvez were already there, along with Strong, Toussaint, and the Metro Crime Scene Techs. Prentiss had managed to prevent the techs from doing anything that would tamper with the scene so they could look at it as the UnSub had left it.

"Her name's Heather Camp," Strong said. "We found her ID. Turns out she's a call girl."

"She was found by an associate and co-worker named Phoebe Morrisette." Toussaint added, pointing at a woman sitting in the corner. "She called it in, but she's still pretty shook up."

Prentiss paused a moment in thought. "Do we know how she got into the suite?" She asked finally. "Did she have a key?"

"She didn't need one. She said that Heather kept a hide-a-key wedged into the light fixture beside her front door." Strong replied.

"We're thinking that maybe Heather and Phoebe had some kind of buddy system going on." Toussaint said. "She did say she came by here to check in on Heather after she didn't call when she said she would."

That made sense to JJ. It seemed likely that with the Barber on the loose, working girls would try to watch each other's backs. The team had seen that kind of thing before; the girls in DC did the same kind of thing during the Weems case.

"Okay," Prentiss said. "Alvez and I will join Toussaint and Strong taking Phoebe back to the precinct. We'll talk to her there; maybe she'll calm down and be more responsive once we get her out of her friend's apartment. Rossi, you, JJ and Reid stay here and see what we can get out of this scene. Maybe we'll learn more about our UnSub here."

"Actually, I'd like to stay here on the scene." Strong insisted. Nobody had a problem with that, so Prentiss, Alvez and Toussaint left and the others started processing the scene.

"It certainly looks like our UnSub," JJ began. "He's getting more confident; graduating up to killing his targets in their homes now."

"It's his second strangulation." Spence observed, indicating the ligature marks on Heather's neck. "Apparently he's found his method and weapon of choice. Those marks look like they were made by the same makeshift garrote he used on Kacey. It also looks like he's getting more comfortable and controlled in his role; he's not shedding nearly as much blood, most likely because he doesn't want to mess up their hair before his ritual of cutting it."

"That would be a safe bet." Rossi agreed. "But it seems he's added a new feature to his signature. Come take a look at his."

JJ and Spence came around to where Rossi was in front of the victim. Her blouse was opened up and a message was cut into her abdomen:

I
BLAME
U

"Even more like Weems," JJ said, mostly to Spence. "He took to leaving messages of blame and failure on his victims too."

"That's new." Strong commented. "Do you think this guy was mad at this one specifically? That maybe he's saying it's her own fault because of her occupation?"

"That's possible, but not terribly likely." Spence replied. "He's still showing remorse by cutting her hair, and the fact he's showing more control other than the message suggests the message isn't for her."

"Then who's he blaming?" Strong asked. "Who's this message for?"

"That's the question." Rossi answered. "We answer that, and we get ahead of this guy."

JJ watched as Spence's eyes darted left and right; his usual tell that he was quickly collating all the facts and statistics his big brain held, making connections that nobody else ever would.

Racine, Wisconsin

Julian Bishop's office was also his home. When he returned from doing his legwork, he knew something was wrong; he knew somebody had been there while he was gone. He went through the place from top to bottom, front to back, and was able to determine that nothing was missing. His hard copy case files were untouched. Really the only way he knew someone had been there was that he could see some of the micro-thin threads on his desk had been broken; specifically the ones he always left on his mouse. That could only mean that somebody had been inside and had accessed his computer; why they didn't try to hack in remotely he didn't know.

Julian turned on his computer, entered his password to his files, and then thought to check the browsing history; which had been removed.

"Too bad for you, asshole," Bishop muttered, "I know how to recover browsing history."

At first, when he restored the history, it looked as if someone just came in to do nothing but erase his history; particularly that which pertained to his current investigation. That would be what Julian would think, except for the time stamps on the most recent views. Combine that with the fact some of the sites were definitely sites he hadn't looked at yet.

"So what the fuck?" Bishop asked himself. "Is someone tracking me now? If so, why?" He wondered if maybe some other private dick was trying to horn in on him. It wouldn't be the first time. Whoever it was, they made a mistake. They added to his data. He took a look at what they looked at.

As it turned out, they might have been onto something. Their search focused in on the Department of Euthanasia for the Wisconsin Animal Care and Protection Society. Whoever was using his computer, they probably figured it was one of the Vets in the DOE of WACAPS that at the very least gave the suicides the drugs to do themselves in. It was a good lead. Bishop made a note to check with Mrs. Tenant which Vet took care of their pet. Before he did that, though, he wanted to research everything he could find on WACAPS. Experience taught him that it was wise to know what he was getting into whenever he was about to start meddling with groups or collectives; it could get hairy and weird really fast.

Burlington, Vermont

Samantha Kruger wasn't stupid. When that Fed said she would keep her in the loop, it was an obvious lie; the Feds almost never wanted to let anything out to the press. They were afraid of the press revealing their mistakes and ineptitude; and they covered that up by claiming their muzzling of the press, of free speech, was to ensure their suspect wouldn't be able to follow their investigation. This was why, when she heard about another Barber body turning up on the scanner, she went to the scene, and then followed the vehicles that left the scene to the precinct. She had no intention of trying to talk to the cops or the agents; not yet. Instead, she waited outside the cop shop in her car for their little friend to come out from her interview.

Samantha doubted the friend was a suspect. For one thing, it was a woman which made it much less likely. Second, Samantha recognized her as a call girl from a piece she did a few years ago when prostitution was the issue in the city; just before the Civic Election. Her name was Phoebe something- she couldn't remember the last name, if it was even given- and their talk was actually pretty good, so Samantha figured they already had a good rapport. Sam was willing to bet that Phoebe was the one who called the body was in, and so that was the person to talk to for a good scoop.

Even in the current near blizzard conditions, the food truck that parked across the street from the cop shop was there; serving up food and coffee for the cops and businesses in the immediate area. To be fair, the truck did make a brilliant coffee, and their breakfast sammies were some of the best in town. On that note, Samantha decided to brave the storm for the truck. At the truck, she looked over to the building and caught sight of Wellington from that rag of a mag the Alt-Press clomp his way in, most likely after the same story she was. She wasn't worried; if she remembered right, Phoebe had a good head on her shoulders and saw the Alt-Press as the group of fake-news hacks that they were.

She bought a breakfast sammie and a coffee for herself, and a coffee that she intended to give to Phoebe once she came out of the building. Then she headed over to the Precinct entrance to wait. By the time she finished her sandwich, Phoebe stormed out, shouting some obscenity over her shoulder; a quick glance inside the door told Samantha that the remark was directed at both the Feds and Wellington. That was good; she could play off that. If she did this right, she might even be able to make the evening edition.

"Hey, Phoebe!" Samantha called out, chasing after her. Phoebe stopped and looked over, and then rolled her eyes once she saw who called her. She did stop walking, though.

"I just told that hack Wellington off, Kruger," Phoebe said sharply. "What makes you think I want to talk to you?"

"Because you know me, Phoebe," Samantha replied. "We did good work together last time, remember? You know that I'm not going to misquote you to match up to some narrative agenda; I only want to get the truth out." She offered Phoebe one of the coffees, which the call girl took. "My car is right over there," Samantha continued, indicating her car. "I can give you a lift to wherever you want."

Phoebe agreed, but only because she was running late for a hair appointment with Nathan. Ironically, Nathan's was in the same little strip mall that the Alt-Press headquarters were at.

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Doctor Angela Morton sat down beside Pierre Beauchamp on the now abandoned dock where Pierre had worked at until the dock was shut down. It did offer a splendid view over the lake, she had to admit that; and apparently his days working here were some of his happiest memories. Once again, she found that Pierre reminded her a bit of her own father in many ways. Her dad was a foreman in a paper mill, and he had a set of principles that he would not deviate from; he lived on his own terms without compromise, which is why he took his own life once he was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's. The one big difference between her dad and Pierre is that Pierre's Catholic upbringing instilled in him that suicide is a mortal sin. Apparently he was okay with the world thinking he killed himself, so long as his God knew the reality. Angela respected that; even admired that kind of devotion to his faith.

Once she confirmed that Pierre was indeed ready and had all his affairs in order, she made sure he fully understood what was going to happen and gave him one last chance to call it all off. Pierre Beauchamp was certain he wanted this, and that he fully understood all the ramifications. Satisfied, Angela administered the drug, and watched as Pierre Beauchamp slipped into his final slumber on his favorite dock.