A/N: Howdy, ya'll! Ok, this is mostly case development, and it's pretty long, but I'd really like to hear from you-so, review, darlings!

xoxox

Seds

The team was again gathered in the conference room, but this time there was a tight sense of anticipation crackling through the air. Garcia walked through the door, file folder in hand, and took a seat. Hotch briefly glanced at her, then continued with his rundown on the current state of the case.

"So, we have a profile of an organized sexual sadist, most likely an unattached white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty-two, sociopathic and possibly schizophrenic. He's been steadily escalating, which indicates his next kill could take place any time within the next two weeks. JJ, go ahead and release the updated profile to the media. Garcia-what do we have on the piano teacher?"

Garcia pushed her glasses into place on her nose and looked at her notes. "All right, folks, here goes, but I'm warning you-I will not be held responsible for any injuries resulting from narcoleptic episodes." Reid gave her a puzzled look, and she added, "This lady has not led a life of excitement. Jean Delaney is a native of Melrose, VA. She's 72 years old and has never been married, nor is there any record of her ever having had children. She taught school for twenty years and retired at age 50. She lives in a house at the intersection of Live Oak and Piedmont on the northern end of town; it's fully paid for and the deed is in her name." At this, Reid stepped up to the map and added a mark denoting Miss Delaney's residence. Garcia watched, then looked back at her file.

"Uh... she lives alone, no known living relatives. She's never been in trouble with the law, and she doesn't appear to have a car, credit cards-or a life, if you ask me." With that Garcia put down her folder and looked expectantly around the table.

"Doesn't exactly sound like our unsub," Morgan said dryly.

"She's not our suspect. It's someone... associated with her." Reid was staring intently at the map, his chin resting on his fist.

"We can't be certain no one else lives with her," Prentiss pointed out.

Garcia glanced at her notes. "True. She has a big house, plenty of room. But, there are no bank cards or checking accounts under any other name associated with that address. Of course, not everyone uses them."

Rossi tapped the table before asking, "What about her neighbors? Are any of them single, middle-aged men?"

"On one side, there's a single woman and her mom. On the other, there's a young family, two kids. Across the street- a couple of widows. Oh, and an older couple, the Hendersons."

"Have you checked out the male residents?" Rossi asked.

"Of course. Mac Henderson is fifty-three, an insurance salesman. He and his wife have been married twenty-seven years, they have three kids, two in college, one in high school."

"Sons?"

"All girls."

"What about the young man next door?"

"Rod Kellerman-he's twenty-four, works construction."

"Could be a connection," Prentiss mused.

Garcia shrugged. "No priors. And, he was out of town on jobs when two of the murders occurred. But, I'll give him another look."

"We need to find out when the victims took their lessons with Miss Delaney," said Rossi. "I'll start making calls-"

"Waste of time. And, you'll just upset the parents again." Reid spoke absently.

"Reid-what are you thinking?" Hotch was looking over his shoulder, observing Reid's stance. He was clearly deep in thought.

"Jean Delaney's house is in the geographic center of the dump sites. Knowing what we do now, there's no question that her home is the unsub's hunting ground. We just need to interview her, get her appointment calendar to find out when the victims were there."

"If she'll tell us," Morgan pointed out.

"Why wouldn't she?"

"She might be uncooperative."

"We should cross-reference the parent's recollections, anyway," Rossi said.

Reid shook his head, and the flash of anger that crossed his face wasn't lost on anyone. "That's not necessary. Why put them through that if we don't have to?"

"Rossi's right." Hotch stood up and put a hand on Reid's shoulder. He spoke firmly but quietly so that only Reid could make out his words. "We can't risk another child's life in deference to the other parents' grief. You know that."

Reid stared at Hotch for a moment, his breath coming fast. For a moment, he felt his anger rise to the point of spilling over. Then, he caught a glimpse of Morgan's face-he was shaking his head slightly in warning. Reid inhaled deeply and nodded.

"Fine. Of course. You're right."

Prentiss broke the tension. "Reid-you were looking pretty intently at that map. Was there anything else about the location of the house that you wanted to say?"

Reid shrugged, then tapped at the newest mark. "Her neighborhood-it's very old. In fact, most of the homes are antebellum. It's part of the original town settlement of 1821. The old downtown area is historic-it served as a sort of supply outpost for the Southern army. It's been a popular spot on Civil War tours for a long time."

"So?" Rossi asked.

Reid frowned and folded his arms. "I don't know. Perhaps there's some association through the Historical Society."

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "All right. Prentiss, you and Rossi head to old downtown Melrose and see if you can find any connections to the Delaney residence. When JJ gets back, I'll have her start calling the parents. Reid, set up an interview with Jean Delaney. Morgan, go with him."

All four agents quickly dispersed, grateful to finally have something concrete on which to focus their energies. Morgan watched Reid head to his desk to make the call. He wished he could steal a moment to take him into his arms and just hold him. But, as usual, there wasn't time.

Which appeared to him to be the one thing Spencer Reid really needed.

Badly.

Morgan tried to talk to Reid on the way to the Delaney house.

"Reid-"

"Don't."

"Come on, man." He glanced at Reid. "You're over-identifying with the parents. That's totally understandable-I went through it myself. It's a normal human reaction. It's something you have to work through. You just have to think about the big picture."

"I understand that, Morgan."

"I mean, it's natural to want to save them more pain, but-"

"I was wrong. I admitted it. Let's drop it, okay?"

Morgan looked at him again. "I just wanted you to know, everyone goes through this-"

"I know. They train you on this at the academy."

For a moment, Morgan didn't answer. Then, he couldn't help but ask, "So-why'd it take you so long to go through this-"

"This rookie mistake? I have no idea. I guess I just woke up one morning, suddenly capable of feeling empathy. Hopefully, I'll get over it." Reid shifted irritably and looked out the window. Morgan lightly hit the steering wheel in frustration.

"So, now, I can't even talk to you?"

"I asked you to drop it." Reid turned and looked at him. "Please."

Morgan gave a dismissive shrug, then they remained silent for several miles. When they came to Piedmont Street, Reid said, "Turn left at the stop sign. Her house is the third from the end, on the right."

Morgan didn't respond, just focused on counting houses until he pulled up in front of Jean Delaney's.

3336 N. Live Oak St.

Morgan parked the SUV, then he and Reid got out and approached the rambling two-story house, pausing at the front gate to survey the area. "Lady's got a lot of room just for herself. She could have a whole battalion of unsubs stashed away in this place," Morgan noted.

"No vehicles. Everything's neat as a pin. Out here, anyway." Reid glanced up to the second floor; no movement, other than lace curtains fluttering out through open windows. He looked up and down the quiet, tree-lined avenue. "It's like Peachtree Street before the war."

"Huh?" Morgan gave him a puzzled frown.

"Where Aunt Pittypat lived. In Gone with the Wind."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "Not a favorite flick of mine, Reid."

Reid nodded understandingly. "My mom liked it." He strode up the steps to the wrap-around porch and peered through the screen door, then rang the doorbell. The agents stood patiently until a tall, slender woman with white hair opened the door. She was holding a yapping little dog.

"No, Coco! No, no-let Mommy talk to the nice gentlemen. Hello, I'm Jean. Are you the ones that called?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Special Supervisory Agent Derek Morgan." He offered his I.D., and Reid did the same, adding, "And, I'm Dr. Spencer Reid-we spoke earlier."

"Oh, yes, I remember. You have quite a nice voice, young man. Do you sing?"

"Uh-no, not at all. But, thanks. May we come in?"

"Yes, of course, come right in."

She held the door open and allowed the men to enter her living room. It was a large, airy room with a shiny wood floor and flowery upholstered furniture grouped in the middle. An upright piano sat at the far end of the room.

"Please, have a seat. Let me just put Coco in the other room. She's so excitable. Come on, baby..." Jean Delaney carried the small bundle of fury off to a room down the hall, then returned and sat on the other end of the couch from Morgan. Reid took a seat in a creaky rocking chair. Delaney smiled briskly.

"There, now we can hear ourselves talk. So, you're with the FBI! My, this must be important. You said something about a murder around here? That's just terrible, something like that happening in a nice quiet town like this. I can't imagine how I can be of help to you, but... Would you like something to drink? I have some Cokes in the fridge."

"No, ma'am, we won't keep you very long. We just have a few questions." Reid glanced at the piano before beginning. "So-you offer piano lessons here in your home. Do you ever go anywhere else-a church, or school? Your students' homes?"

"No, just here. I prefer not to leave the house if it's not absolutely necessary. I don't drive, you see."

"When did you start giving lessons?"

"Well, now, let me think. Mama passed away in '82; I guess it was about a year after that. I just got tired of sitting around with nothing to do, you know?"

Reid glanced at his case file, then met her eyes. "Ma'am, you said on the phone that you hadn't heard about the young women who have been killed in this area. How is that possible? It's all over the news, in the papers-"

"Oh, well, I don't read the papers, haven't in years. It's nothing but bad news. And as for the television, I have an old set in the back room, but it hasn't worked since 1987. Once it broke, I found I didn't miss it, and just never got around to having it fixed."

The men glanced at each other. Morgan spoke up. "Miss Delaney, have you not noticed that some of your students quit coming lately?"

The woman looked surprised. "Well, of course. But-that's not unusual. I mean, a lot of my students come just for a short time, then they stop, often without saying anything to me."

"Why is that?"

"Sometimes, kids just want to try out the piano, but they don't really take to it. Or, their parents make them, then see that they're simply not interested. People don't like wasting money on something their kids are not going to take seriously. For others, money gets tight, and they just drop out."

"And, you don't follow up?"

"Years ago I did, but it was always so awkward. Nowadays, I figure if they don't show up, they don't show up. I just quit worrying about it."

"What about the financial aspect? Isn't it a problem for you, losing students?"

"Oh, I don't do it for the money. I'm quite comfortable. Teaching is just a way to stay active, you know."

"So, your students pay by the lesson?"

"Yes, exactly."

"Cash?"

"Often. But, I take checks, too,"

Reid shot a look at Morgan. That's why it took so long to find the connection.

Reid took up the interview. "Miss Delaney, we understand that you've recently given piano lessons to two young women, Julie Bedford and Amy Chappelle. Is that right?"

"Yes, that's correct." A look of concern crossed her face. "Why?"

Reid spoke gently. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this-but both girls were killed recently."

A stunned look crossed the woman's face. "Wait a minute-are you saying... Amy and Julie are...?"

Reid nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I'm very sorry. Were you close to either of them?"

"No. No, not really, but... they were good students. I can't believe it. This is horrible-you say they were... murdered?"

"I'm afraid so. What about Taylor Watson, Kathy Johnson, and Camille Roche? Do you remember any of them?"

The woman stared first at Reid, then at Morgan. "Uh-oh, no. Oh, my God. Are they-"

"Yes, ma'am. And, the one thing we've found they all had in common is that they came to you for piano lessons."

Delaney brought a hand to her mouth. "This is unbelievable."

Morgan leaned forward slightly. "Miss Delaney, all of these girls were kidnapped, sexually assaulted, and murdered. We have reason to believe the man responsible had the opportunity to observe them while they were here. Perhaps he watched them take their lessons with you, or maybe he could see them as they arrived or departed from your house. Who else lives here?"

Delaney looked from one to the other, seemingly bewildered, then her eyes narrowed and her tone became indignant. "Wait a minute-are you asking... if a murderer lives in my house? Good Lord, no! No, I live alone, have for many years. Good heavens, the idea..."

Morgan spoke in a soothing voice. "Ma'am, that's fine, we just have to ask these things. What about workers-do you employee anyone on a regular basis? A handyman? A gardener?"

"I do all my gardening myself. I don't employ anyone on a regular basis."

"How about your neighbors? Have any of them expressed an interest in your lessons, maybe for their own kids?"

"No, I rarely see them, we've never discussed anything like that."

"Do you have any male friends or relatives that visit frequently?"

"I do not." She glanced down at her hands. "I'm here alone. That's the way I like it."

Morgan and Reid exchanged glances again. Morgan responded, "Well, would you mind if we had a look around?"

Delaney drew herself up straighter. "I most certainly would. I do not want strange men wandering around in my house. You'll have to get a, what do you call it, a warrant or something."

"Ma'am, we're not trying to cause you any trouble. We'd just like to-"

"No." The woman sat with her arms crossed over her chest and an adamant look on her face. Morgan gave a reluctant nod.

"All right. However, we do need to get a list of your current female students along with their phone numbers so we can notify their parents to be on alert. Also, we'll need a calendar showing the times you met with them, as far back as your records go."

"I can get that for you. Just a moment." She went to her desk, then returned with an appointment book and handed it to Morgan.

"Thank you. Now, please-contact us if you think of anything else, or if you notice something unusual, like a strange car parked nearby, or a man hanging around while you're giving lessons." Morgan handed her his card and she grudgingly took it. After a moment, her expression softened.

"Of course I will. I'm sorry, I do want you to find whoever did these... these terrible things. It's all just a little much to think about..." She pressed a hand to her lips and took a deep breath. "They were all such nice girls, how could anyone want to hurt them?"

Reid stood and straightened his jacket. "I don't know, ma'am. But, we're doing our best to find him. Thank you for your time."

The two agents nodded politely and headed back to the SUV.

Back at the BAU, the team compared notes. Prentiss and Rossi had come up empty; Morgan and Reid related their interview with Delaney, and now Morgan's face was twisted into a frown of concentration. "She's hiding something."

Rossi considered. "You think she's protecting someone?"

Reid shrugged. "I don't know. She certainly didn't want us looking around her house. And, we have absolutely nothing on which to base obtaining a warrant. But, we need to get in there-we don't have much time before the unsub takes his next victim."

Hotch buzzed Garcia. "Garcia-anything?"

"I got a fat lot of nothin', boss. Jean Delaney never goes anywhere and never does anything except teach piano, knit, and plant a garden. There's virtually no trail whatsoever from the financial end-she inherited a large amount of money from her parents, and lives off the interest. She contents herself with a once-a-month withdrawal of a thousand dollars, most of which I'm betting she uses to pay for groceries, utilities, yarn, and plant food."

"A thousand?" Morgan asked. "She's generous with herself, considering she doesn't have a house payment, doesn't own a car..."

Reid frowned. "Garcia, go further back, to the months before the first murder. Was there anything unusual? Any variations in her habits?"

Garcia was quiet for a long moment, the only sound coming from her fingers tapping at her keyboard. Then she made a drawn-out "hmm" sound. "Ok. Up until the time period we're looking at, Miss D was withdrawing no more than seven hundred dollars a month for her expenses. Then, she did a couple of oddball withdrawals of a few hundred dollars each. Then, she upped her regular withdrawals to a thousand, and that's been consistent ever since."

"Huh. Why the raise? That's more than a cost of living adjustment," Rossi pointed out.

"Was she being blackmailed?" Prentiss asked.

Rossi shook his head. "Three hundred dollars a month-that's pretty low-rent blackmail, considering her resources."

"It's more like she added another mouth to feed." Reid squinted at his map board. "Garcia-we know Jean Delaney was the only child of Sam and Martha Delaney. But, are we sure there were no other close family members? Someone she might be giving money to?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I'm going to do something so far past illegal it isn't even funny."

The team sat frozen for a moment, listening to the sound of Garcia's madly tapping fingers. Suddenly, she made a noise that was somewhere between a squawk and a squeal. "Got it!" she announced triumphantly.

"What?"

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that Jean Delaney had a younger sister. I missed her because the Melrose public records aren't computerized past 1979. But-the one funeral home in town just recently did a complete overhaul of their system and now every known grave site is listed in an easily hack-able database. And, there's only one Delaney family, at least prior to 1997. And, a Mary Delaney Sanford was born in 1933 and died in 1972. And... whoa."

"What?"

"She had a son. She died when he was three."

"What's his name?"

"Dudley Marcus Sanford, thirty-eight years old. His last known address was an apartment in Maryland, but that was over a year ago. He was kicked out for non-payment of rent."

"What does he do for a living?"

"Not much. He's worked some menial jobs. No criminal record, but here's something interesting-he's deaf."

"Deaf?" Morgan raised an eyebrow.

Prentiss got an excited look on her face. "He probably came to beg his aunt for a place to stay when he ran out of money; maybe he became fascinated by the piano lessons, since they centered around something so alien to him."

Reid nodded. "He may have been able to position himself so that he could feel the vibrations from the piano. A lot of deaf people enjoy music in that way. And, maybe he became sexually attracted to the girls while he watched."

Hotch narrowed his eyes. "We need something in order to get a warrant."

"Dude didn't carry those dead girls over his shoulder to the dump sites; he must have access to a vehicle," Morgan said thoughtfully.

More sounds of fingers tapping. Then, Garcia chortled. "He owns a twenty-year old Chevy pick-up truck."

"Wait a minute." Prentiss pointed at a file. "There was a report of an out-of-place green pickup in the area at one of the first sites. We could post surveillance to see if any such vehicle were to come or go from Miss Delaney's place. If it did, that would be enough for probable cause."

"I'm on it," Morgan said. He picked up the phone to set up the stake-out.