Chapter Two

On the jet, the team is going over the police reports and crime scene photos. They're trying to find some link between these two families that might explain why the unsub had chosen to kill them. So far the only things they seem to have in common are that they both lived in Miami, and their children both had birthdays in July. The Ramons were Latino, the Johnsons were caucasian. The Ramons were devout Catholic, the Johnsons didn't belong to any particular church. They lived in different neighborhoods. Shopped at different stores. Worked in different vocations.

"Nothing," says Reid after reading their files for perhaps the hundredth time. With his eidetic memory he only needed to read it once, but he understands that his extraordinarily high IQ is intimidating to his team mates, so he reread his files as he tries to come up with a hypothesis.

"Reid?" says Derek.

"There's nothing," Reid says again, "I can't see how this unsub is picking his targets."

"We only just started with our investigation," Morgan reminds him, "We haven't even set down in Miami yet."

"I'm just not used to being this clueless."

"Just imagine that the unsub is a woman," Morgan tells him with a mischievous grin, "Your being clueless will feel totally natural then."

"Morgan," says Hotch, "This isn't the time for levity."

"Sorry Hotch," replies Morgan.

Hotchner always seems to be more focused on the case when the victims were children. Not that he's ever lax in his work, but when the victims are kids he's even more focused. Likely being a widower and single father has a lot to do with it. The dark skinned profiler goes back to studying the crime scene photos. Aaron Hotchner sits down across from David Rossi as he's going over his own copy of the police reports.

"Reid's right," says Rossi to the team leader, "There's no pattern."

"Not that we can see just now," says Hotchner, "Doesn't mean it's not there."

"What about Garcia?" asks Rossi, "Maybe if she digs a little deeper on her computer she'll find a connecting thread."

"She's already looking into it," agrees Hotchner, "Either she hasn't found anything yet or she's being extra thorough."

"God," says JJ as she looks through her file again, "What would cause a person to do something like this?"

"These types of family annihilators, who target happy, well adjusted families, are typically from broken homes," says Reid, "Growing up in an abusive household, the concept of people having a happy, stable family life is so foreign to them they feel like it's unnatural. An affront to all they know. So when they see a family that's genuinely happy together, they feel compelled to destroy that happiness."

"The question was rhetorical, Spence," she replies.

"Just trying to help."

"I understand why family annihilators target families," says Emily, "But why does the unsub seem to focus on those who are celebrating birthdays?"

"Maybe he's a Jehovah's Witness," suggests Morgan.

"Derek," says Hotch.

"No, seriously," he replies, "If he was raised in an abusive home, where the celebrating of birthdays is forbidden, it could seriously twist a person's perception of families that do celebrate things like birthdays."

"An interesting theory," admits Rossi, "But why birthdays specifically? Why not Christmas? Or Valentines Day?"

"Maybe whatever his stresser was, it was triggered while observing a birthday celebration." suggests Reid.

"It's as good a theory as any," admits Hotchner, "But let's keep it under our hats until we've got some corroborating evidence that supports it."

"Right," agrees Rossi, "We wouldn't want to spread any more panic. Who knows what could happen if that piece of news were to be leaked."

"It could start a witch hunt," says Emily, "Jehovah's Witnesses could wind up getting lynched all over Miami."

Minutes later the jet sets down on the runway at Miami National Airport. The doors open and the team steps out into an almost suffocating blanket of heat and humidity. A female police detective is there to greet them. She's Latina, with long dark hair and bronzed skin, and appears to be in her early forties. She's wearing a white blouse and a pair of tan coloured slacks. Her shoes are designed for comfort more than style, and she has a pair of dark sunglasses covering her eyes. Her side arm and her badge are both clipped to her belt. She's standing next to a small fleet of black SUV's which the local FBI office has provided for the team. As Aaron Hotchner approaches, she extends her hand in greeting.

"Welcome to Miami," she says, "I'm Lieutenant Valerie Vasquez, homicide. I'm glad you could make it on such short notice."

Hotchner takes her hand in a firm handshake, "I'm SSA Aaron Hotchner," he says, "This is SSA David Rossi, SSA Derek Morgan, SSA Emily Prentiss, our Communications Liaison SSA Jennifer Jareau, and Doctor Spencer Reid."

Lieutenant Vasquez shakes each agent's hand as they're introduced. "Call me JJ," JJ tells her as they shake hands in greeting.

"Man," says Morgan, "How hot is it here?"

"The radio says that it's 105 degrees in the shade," Vasquez replies, "I can't even remember the last time it was this hot."

"It never has been this hot," says Reid, "The hottest it's ever been in Miami is 100 degrees, on July 21st, 1942. Since then the temperature has never gone higher than 99 degrees more than a few times. It's reached 98 degrees ten times since 1942, the most recent being June 22nd, 2009."

"How does he know all that?" asks the Lieutenant.

"Don't ask," Morgan replies.

"Would you like to go check into your hotel?"

"I think we should get right to work," replies Hotchner, "JJ and I will accompany you to the station and you can show us where to set up. Morgan, you and Reid check out the first crime scene. David, take Emily to the latest crime scene. Hopefully we'll find something that will help us catch this guy before he can strike again."

They all split up into their assigned teams and climb into their SUV's. Just as Reid is opening the car door, a flash of movement catches his eye from his peripheral vision. Turning to get a better look, he has to stop and do a double take. He sees a shimmering figure in the distance, like how heat can sometimes distort ones vision and make everything kind of wavy. But that usually happens with everything in sight. This shimmer appears to be the shape of a tall man. Spencer pulls a pocket handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wipes the sweat from his eyes. When he looks again, the shimmering figure is gone.

"Yo, Reid!" calls Derek, "You coming?"

"Yeah," replies the young doctor, and he puts his satchel and his go bag into the SUV. Then he climbs into the vehicle, taking another look at where the figure had been. There's nothing there. He closes the door and Derek speeds away. Spencer cranks up the AC and adjusts the vent so that it blows the cool air directly into his face. Derek Morgan chuckles.

"I thought you'd be used to this kinda heat," he says.

"Las Vegas is in a desert," replies Reid, "The heat there is very dry. The humidity here in Florida is what makes the heat so unbearable."

"You okay?" asks Morgan, "You looked like you saw a ghost back there."

"For a moment I thought I did," he says, "Just the heat playing tricks with my eyes. I'll be fine."

Derek eyes the younger man warily. He knows full well how frightened his friend is of losing his mind. His mother, once a brilliant literature professor, now resides in a mental institution in Las Vegas where she is treated for paranoid schizophrenia. And Morgan doesn't need a PhD in psychology to know that schizophrenia is a genetic condition, passed down from parent to child. It's been known to skip a generation, making Spencer's odds of becoming schizophrenic himself roughly 50/50. The athletic profiler keeps his fears to himself. He knows Reid is already thinking those same thoughts, no need to say them out loud. Besides, Spencer prefers to keep such things private. He only hopes that if Reid ever does find he has a problem, that he'll trust Derek enough to tell him.

They drive to the Ramon residence in silence. When they get there, they quickly walk from the car to the house in order to minimize their time in the sweltering heat. They begin searching the house, profiling the victims in hopes of gaining insight into the head of the killer, a process called victimology. They start with the parents' room. They found a lot of what you might expect to find in the bedroom of an upper middle-class couple. The wife had a lot of fairly revealing dresses hanging in their closet. Apparently she did a lot of undercover work as a decoy for Johns looking to pick up prostitutes. The husband had several sports trophies from high school and university, mostly for football. He also had some karate and judo trophies. They try looking in the daughter's bedroom next. Aside from the blood staining the carpet and splattered all over the walls, this appeared to be a fairly typical bedroom for a sixteen year old girl. Derek finds her laptop. He turns it on and discovers a Miley Cyrus screen saver. He also finds it to be password protected. Spencer, meanwhile, has found her diary. He sits down and starts reading it. He drags his finger down one page, reading each line in about the time it takes an average person to read a single word. Then he does the same to the next page, and turns it when he's done. In only a couple of minutes Spencer Reid has read the dead girl's entire diary. Morgan, on the other hand, is having trouble with her laptop.

"Anything useful?" asks Reid.

"Only if you need a good paperweight," replies Morgan, "How about you?"

"Her diary reads like any typical high-school girl's," he replies back, "She doesn't like science because she finds it dull. She thinks her math teacher hates her. She likes a boy at school named Anthony, who's one grade ahead of her. And she's hoping that her parents will let her go to the Miley Cyrus concert in town next month. Nothing about anyone following her home, or any strange people lurking about. Nothing that might point to our unsub."

"Let's get over to the station," Derek says with a sigh, "Maybe Garcia will be able to hack into this laptop over the internet."

"What do you mean maybe?" Reid asks, "She can hack into an Etch-A-Sketch over the internet."

"Y'know kid? She just might at that."

The two FBI profilers go down to the living room. Reid stops for a moment and looks at the family photos that are still sitting in their frames on the mantle of the electric fireplace. Morgan stops at the front door and waits for him.

"I've got a strange feeling about this one Derek," he says.

Now Morgan knows that something is really wrong. Reid almost never calls him Derek, it's always been Morgan. He usually only calls him by his first name when he's really troubled by something.

"You alright, Kid?" he asks. He almost always calls Spencer kid.

"This one just feels different somehow."

"The bastard killed a couple of our own," Morgan tells him, "A cop and a prosecutor. Of course this one's gonna feel different. But we'll catch the son of a bitch. You'll see. And we'll show him just how we treat cop killers here in Florida, with a free ride on a lightning bolt."

"Yeah," says Reid, not very convincingly, "Yeah we'll get him."

As Spencer turns and heads towards the door, he once again notices the strange shimmering in the air. Once again, he does a double take, and once again the shimmering is gone. Must be my imagination, he thinks to himself, and he and Morgan head back to the SUV, then to meet the others at the police station. As they drive away, a shimmering, nearly invisible humanoid form, squats on the roof of the house and watches them leave. It makes a throaty, clicking noise, then stands up and walks away.