"Dear Friend: I have nearly died three times since morning."-Marcel Proust

Seattle, WA

9:15 am, August 17, 2016

"Is that a joke? Because it sounds like it has to be a joke."

"Gideon, that's a ridiculous plan."

"I know. It's also the only plan that I've heard proposed."

"It's a total waste of time."

"Not to mention potentially dangerous."

"Hey, it's either a complete waste of time or dangerous. Those are the two mutually exclusive options."

"So either way it's a terrible idea?"

"Yes. But again, it's the only idea."

Gideon had woken up with a plan. A preposterous plan. Helena appeared to be the only person willing to attempt it.

"Look, we may as well try it," she said, breaking in on the heated argument between Hotch, Flynn, and Gideon. "If you're not too uncomfortable playing make-believe with me, Hotch."

"It's not the acting I'm worried about. I do object to placing a member of the team (i.e., you) directly in the crosshairs of the unsub."

"Jesus, Hotch, it's not like I'm going to swallow anything offered to me by kindly strangers. And I have a strong aversion to needles, so that's not an issue."

"And if the unsub has a backup plan? You're not bulletproof."

Helena shrugged.

"Previous data suggests otherwise. Look, this is what I'm good at. I become the person that will accidentally figure out the truth. You happen to have a wedding ring already, so you'd be the ideal prop, but I'm sure that we can figure out an alternative. Gideon, you could do it. You've got a ring."

"I'd prefer not to. Hotch is better in a fight. Anyway, an affair you two will be much more convincing."

"Awwwww. You're not that old, Gideon," said Helena, grinning.

"I appreciate that," he said wryly. "But we may as well take advantage of the unresolved sexual tension between the pair of you. I'll step in if Hotch refuses."

Both Hotch and Helena opened their mouths to protest, but Gideon held up a preemptive hand.

"All I want to hear from either of you is that you agree to participate in my madcap plan. Your furious denial of the obvious can wait."

Helena and Hotch exchanged a glance, but Hotch quickly broke contact.

"I'll do it," he conceded laconically.

"I'll go whore myself up a bit."

An hour later, Hotch held the door of the Prometheus office building, allowing Blythe to walk through. She smiled coquettishly up at him, brushing closely past his body and sending a shock through his system.

She had effected a remarkable transformation in a matter of less than an hour, donning a form-fitting pencil skirt, a slightly sheer, clinging white blouse, and a pair of heels that, while not as lethal as those of Vivian Grant, still worked wonders on her shapely legs. She had even, complaining bitterly, put on makeup that subtly played up her full lips and bedroom eyes. He frequently found his eyes flicking unbidden to her spectacular figure, wandering from her slender waist to her white calves or the long line of her neck.

So maybe Gideon wasn't totally off base. Smug know-it-all.

"Agent Hotchner!" The nervous, mousy man who had greeted Hotch and Morgan yesterday came scurrying forward, twisting his hands. "I was surprised to get your call."

"I'm sorry to impose again. We just have a few questions for your employees."

"Which employees?"

"All of them."

The little man made a high squeaking noise at the back of his throat.

"All…" he trailed off, staring at Hotch as though he had just confessed to setting the building on fire. "We have hundreds of people working here."

"Well, I only need the people in this building."

"That's still nearly 100 employees. Agent Hotchner, we'd like to cooperate with the FBI, but we have work to do. I can't spare-"

"We only need five minutes per person, sir," Helena broke in, smiling reassuringly at the unhappy manager. "We can line them up in batches so that no one is kept away from their desk for more than 20 minutes. Oh, I'm Helena, by the way. Helena Blythe."

"Meet our newest recruit. I'm training her in witness interviews." he said, resting his hand briefly on the small of Helena's back. She cast him a slow sidelong glance through her long lashes, the heart-stopping hint of a sly smile playing around the corners of her mouth.

Oh fuck you, Gideon.

Helena raised her hand to rub her eyes, remembered her eyeliner, and lowered it again with a muttered oath.

"After today, I'm never wearing makeup again," she told Hotch, who smiled at her petulance.

"Just a few more interviews and you can take it all off," he assured her, then flushed at his wording, hurrying on to add: "We just need to make sure that the unsub draws the right conclusion about us."

"We're doing a pretty thorough job of sullying our reputations," she remarked, closing her eyes and interlacing her fingers to stretch her arms above her head with a shudder of pleasure. When she looked back at Hotch, she noticed his straying eyes with slightly more satisfaction than she ought to feel. She was, after all, quite used to being noticed. "Shall we move on to lucky number 89?"

"Oh, yeah," Hotch said with the start of one waking from a dream. She leaned across the couch on which they were situated to close the distance between them to only an inch or so. "Next!" she called to the line on the other side of the door.

"Here we go again," muttered Hotch quietly in her ear, and she rested a hand on his forearm and tilted her head back to laugh just as the 89th person walked through the door. To anyone entering upon the scene, they would appear to interrupt a scene of uncomfortable intimacy.

The tiny old woman who settled in the chair across from them looked familiar to Hotch, and she stood out from the young, speckled software engineers and polished managerial types.

"Hi, thanks for coming in, Ms…?" Helena began, still with the hint of a giggle in her voice.

"Mrs. Isabelle Cream."

"Pardon us, Mrs. Cream," said Hotch solicitously. "We haven't done our homework very well. What is your role at the company?"

"I assist management."

"Like a secretary?" Helena's tone held only the most delicate trace of contempt, concealed by a saccharine smile. Hotch could not help a feeling of admiration for the finesse with which she provoked the employees. He had no doubt that she had made more enemies that day than in the rest of her life combined.

The woman's face crumpled slightly before recovering.

"Yes. And you are?"

"This is Agent Lena Blythe, Mrs. Cream," Hotch replied, resting his left hand briefly on Helena's knee. He noticed Cream's eyes flick to the ring on his finger, then to Blythe's face. The choreography of their act was perfect; he had seen the eyes of countless people make the same journey, some with contempt, some with confusion, and some with envy. "You offered me coffee yesterday, didn't you?"

"That's right, dear," said Mrs. Cream with a warm smile at Hotch. "I like to make sure everyone is well-supplied with the hot drink of their choice."

"My mother was the same way. Ma'am, we could really use your help. As you might have heard by now, Sophie Jackson has been found dead. We need to know who had it out for her. We believe that her murder was personally motivated."

The old woman's eyes widened and filled with tears.

"Oh my, how horrible. Who would want to hurt Sophie?"

"Did you know her well?"

"Only from around the office. But she would come and spend time with the assistants when she needed a little female company. She was one of the only girls in software development."

"That must have been tough for her."

"Oh, it was. She felt so lonely with all those men making eyes at her."

"It's always difficult to be the only woman in the room," mused Helena, glancing slyly at Hotch. "Like a lamb among wolves."

"Is there anything you can tell us about Sophie's interpersonal relationships at work, Mrs. Cream?"

"Only what I've said already. I'm sorry."

Hotch noted an edge in the amiable secretary's manner. Her eyes continually darted to Blythe, an expression of distaste twisting the corners of her thin lips downwards.

"That's just fine, ma'am. If you remember anything else, please call this number." Hotch leaned forward to give her his card. "You'll reach me personally."

"Oh, here, let me write my number on the back," said Helena, leaning over to pluck the card from Hotch's hand and smile at Mrs. Cream as she had with the previous 88 people. "Sometimes it's easier to talk to a woman, don't you think? Do you have a pen, Aaron?"

Hotch and Helena barely spoke on the way back to the station. He kept his eyes on the road, trying not to think how easy it was to play the adulterous husband with his pretty colleague.

"So what now?" Blythe's voice jerked him out of his mantra: Picture her as Reid. Picture her as Reid. Pict-

"Uh-" he replied eloquently. "Now we wait for someone to call in. We'll need to put you in front of the press to appeal to the public. Then we open a tip line and wait. The unsub has already contacted the police once."

Standing on the steps outside the police station, Blythe looked out over the flashing cameras and clamoring journalists with a sense of remote wonder. The idea of broadcasting her face across the nation ran so completely counter to her typical strategy of discretion. Hotch stood next to her at the podium, slightly too close. She turned to look up at his forbidding profile, taking comfort in the steady, quiet strength of his protective presence. He seemed to have sensed her eyes on him, because he looked down at her with a small, reassuring smile.

"You ready?" he murmured in that gentle voice.

"Always," she said with a smile, something in her stomach fluttering.

Nerves. Just stage fright. Oh who are you kidding? Fuck you, Gideon.

She turned to the gathered press and smoothed her expression to an ever-so-slightly nervous smile. Her performance was, she believed, quite serviceable, though far from her most nuanced.

She began with the announcement of the bodies, then transitioned seamlessly to the mislead.

"We believe that these are crimes of opportunity committed by a highly psychotic individual. The profile suggests a man in his late twenties to mid forties, married with children, who preys on innocent women due to an overwhelming sexual drive. We appeal to the public to alert us to any unusual activity through our tip line. Thank you. Agent Hotchner and I will take questions now."

Flynn met Hotch and Blythe as they re-entered the station, grinning.

"That was perfect, Blythe," he chortled, kissing his fingers exaggeratedly. "That should get the unsub riled up. Assuming your adultery theory is accurate, of course."

Blythe smiled at him, but it was without conviction.

"Aww. What's wrong, Duchess?"

"Oh, it's nothing. It's just… well, was it really ethical to give the entire city a fabricated profile? Everyone is looking for the wrong person now."

"It's not the job of civilians to apprehend the unsub," said Hotch. "The real profile goes to the police after we've verified our theory. That's how we'll do the most good."

Blythe opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but she was preempted.

"Blythe!" called Morgan from one of the tipline stations. "Someone wants to speak with you."

She exchanged a look with Flynn, who nodded encouragingly, and Hotch, who merely frowned in concern. Hurrying over to the phone, she mustered a smoky purr.

"This is SSA Helena Blythe."

The voice that came through the speaker was aggressively mechanically warped, gravelly, crackling, barely human.

"They were not innocent," it snarled.

"Who weren't innocent? The victims?" she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the chill in her blood. "I think they were."

"Not victims. Whores. Just like you."

"What have I done, exactly?" Helena tried to imbue her voice with smug contempt and amusement.

"You should be ashamed of yourself. He is married. Women like you… homewreckers… sluts… you'll all die as you lived: thrashing and moaning. Killed by your own indulgences."

"Good luck with that, darling," scoffed Helena, sneering. "So far you've gone for people who couldn't fight back. Teenagers? Prostitutes? Please. I'm not impressed and I'm not scared."

Dr. Reid dropped his pen in shock and Flynn gestured frantically for Blythe to desist. She had not been meant to taunt the unsub into targeting her specifically. She ignored them, however.

"We'll get you too, filthy tart. We'll get you all."

Helena actually laughed.

"Let me guess… you're the wallflower. The plain Jane who couldn't attract a man to save her life.

"One of the perks of fucking an FBI agent," she pressed on, her voice dripping with scorn, "is that I'm untouchable. You're a poisoner, darling. A coward. You'll never hunt big game."

There was a long, taut silence during which only heavy, distorted breathing could be heard.

"Watch your back, darling," crackled the voice.

Click.

Another silence, during which every male member turned to gape at Blythe, totally aghast.

"Did you get that, Garcia?" she asked, leaning over to speak into Morgan's cell phone.

"Uh-" the tech analyst sounded just as flabbergasted as the rest. "You mean the part where you just sicced a serial killer on yourself?"

"No, actually I meant the location of said serial killer. But good on you for paying attention."

"Oh. Right. Yeah, I did. Another payphone. Just sent the location to you guys. Red-"

"Thanks, Doll. Shall we, boys?"

"No, we are not going anywhere," snarled Hotch, regaining his voice. "After what you just pulled, we can't put you out on the street looking for the unsub."

"What I just pulled? I just got you the gender, motivation, and location of our unsub."

"That'll do, Blythe. You're staying here."

"But Gideon-"

Helena fell silent as the rest of the team turned as one and left the station, her blood boiling. Nerves still high from the thrill of the act, she paced to and fro, cell phone clutched tightly in her white-knuckled fist.

Hotch strangled the steering wheel in a vice-like grip. Never had he met anyone quite as adept at infuriating him as Helena Blythe.

"Quite the firecracker, isn't she?" Flynn chuckled beside him. Hotch glanced over at him sharply, his irritation mounting at the indulgent amusement of the older agent.

"Am I the only person who sees a problem with her conduct?" he snapped, trying in vain to curb his annoyance.

"Of course we all see the problem with it, Hotch. You're not the only one who cares about safety, you know. But," he added with a fond smile, "even you have to admit that the girl has balls.

"And let's face it," he continued, looking slyly at Hotch, "you wouldn't be nearly as angry at Morgan if he pulled something like that. She took Gideon's strategy and ran with it, and it yielded results. She's got the talent and the moxie, all she needs is a little circumspection. And that'll come with time."

Hotch brought the car to a screeching halt at a curb in front of the accessory phone booth.

"We're here," he said tersely, his hand hovering over the gun at his hip.

Gideon's SUV pulled up behind theirs and he, Morgan, and Reid emerged.

"Alright, spread out and canvas, gentlemen. We want any witness who might have seen the person using that payphone."

It had rained heavily that evening, and the lights of the city were doubled in the reflections on the wet concrete. Reid ducked into the bar directly across from the telephone.

"Hold on, son," rumbled the large (in every dimension) bouncer at the door, the depth of his voice shaking Reid to his very bones. "I'm going to need to see ID." The man smirked and looked Dr. Reid up and down. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

"Uh-oh, sorry-" he rummaged desperately for his wallet, finding that his pockets had suddenly become fathomless pits in which nothing could be found. "I'm just-"

"FBI," said another deep voice from behind him, causing Reid to jump out of his skin and whirl around so that he came face to face with Flynn's chin. The enormous gray man held up his badge. "The whelp's with me."

The bouncer, yielding to Flynn's superior authority and size, stepped respectfully aside.

The two agents waded into the dense, smoky air. On the walls, dimly lit with yellow bulbs, mediocre life drawings of nude women gave the place a sort of seedy eroticism.

"Good evening, folks," began Flynn in his customary ironical blend of formal and vernacular language. "We're just here to ask a few questions. My colleague and I will try not to spoil the fun too much, but your cooperation would be swell."

They circulated quickly, finding that no one had looked across the street. Finally, however, Reid struck gold.

"9:00?" said the tall, ungainly female bartender, polishing a glass absently as she stared at Reid. "Yeah, that's when I started my shift. Let's see… phone booth…"

"You see it on your way in?"

"Sorry, yeah, that's right. Hum… I think that there was someone in there. Little old lady. She was holding something near her mouth…" she mimed the gesture thoughtfully. "I remember because she looked so furious."

"Would you mind coming down to the precinct and talking to a sketch artist?" asked Reid, attempting to suppress his excitement.

"Oh, okay. Sorry, I just need to pass off my shift and meet you around the back."

"I've seen her before. "

Hotch stared at the sketch in perplexity, then raised his eyes to Blythe, who looked just as puzzled.

"That tiny secretary from Prometheus. How the hell would she even manage that?"

"Morgan send out patrols to track down Isabella Cream. We need to know where she is and keep an eye on her. Then call Garcia. Tell her we need everything on this woman."

"Sure thing, boss. Someone should probably talk to our witness."

"Blythe, go. Where's Gideon?"

"Giving the profile with Flynn. Even if Cream isn't our woman, the theory's looking pretty solid."

Blythe departed in silence, still slightly sullen from her earlier exclusion from the search party. Hotch watched her go, then returned his eyes to Reid.

"That woman couldn't have been more than 5'2". Not to mention elderly and physically weak. How would she transport three victims out into a remote corner of the woods?"

"There are ways around physical limitations. The bodies were dumped in a relatively accessible area. Still, that's a lot of work for a little old woman."

"If she is involved, it seems likely that she had help. Someone younger, stronger, and easy to control. We need to start looking for a secondary signature. Some sign of another hand in the murders."

"Hey," said Morgan, re-entering the room abruptly, "you'll want to hear his. Tell them, Garcia."

"So, I've been doing some digging on sweet Granny Strychnine. She used to be a minor artist married to a trauma surgeon, Joseph Cream, but they've been separated for twenty years now. He lives in New York with one of the nurses at his hospital."

"Background fits, then. Can you find signs of a stressor? Some traumatic incident that happened four months ago?"

"Well, there's the kicker. Her life has been pretty uneventful since she got divorced. She moved around, took various temp jobs, kept to herself… or so it appeared at first glance.

"She's changed cities four times in the last twenty years. In each city, while she was there, four women were murdered. However, someone always went down for it. The cops tracked them down and got a confession immediately."

"Any patterns in the victimology, method, or the killers?"

"In fact, we're three for three. I can't pin down the earlier victims, obviously, but several of the later victims are linked in one way or another with a married man in his forties."

"So it's possible that they were all affair partners. Method?"

"The first set of murders (in Philadelphia) were blitz attacks. The girls had their throats slit from behind. After that, though, the method changed. Poison every time, though the type changed. The last set of murders in New York were done with strychnine, just like these."

"The unsub evolved. Finally found the method that gave her the most satisfaction."

"Strychnine causes physical convulsions that kill the victims by wearing out their bodies. It could be that she views the physical effects as simulation of the sex act."

"Not to mention, she snuck it into the substances that she considered immoral: heroine, alcohol, even coffee. Symbols of their bad habits."

"Tell us about the convicted killers, Garcia."

"I'm faxing you their information now. I think you'll enjoy yourselves. Oh, and one more thing: I compared the voices from the two phone calls we've had with the unsub. They're heavily distorted and not easy to filter, but I can tell you for sure that the cadence and inflection indicate two separate callers."

"Baby girl, have I told you lately how spectacular you are?"

"Incessantly. But I'll allow it."

Helena found the witness, Molly Moreau, sitting in an interview room staring at her huge folded hands. She was about 30, tattooed, at least 6 feet tall, broad-shouldered and lean, with thin lank hair, mottled skin, and a flat-featured face. She was dressed in a manner clearly meant to be provocatively sexy, but on her it merely looked comical.

"Ms. Moreau?" Blythe murmured, keeping her voice soft so as not to startle her. The woman jumped nevertheless, turning to stare at Blythe. "Agent Helena Blythe," she continued with a smile, holding out her hand. Moreau's hand enveloped hers entirely as she shook it. "I just have a few more questions."

"Oh, sorry, yeah, of course… sorry, is this about the murders that you announced on TV?"

The woman's body language was meek and submissive, incongruous with her imposing stature.

Blythe considered her with a frown. Finally, she decided to answer the question.

"Yes, we're trying to track down a tip."

"Hey, sorry, could we do the questions outside please? I really need a smoke." Moreau smiled apologetically. Indeed, everything about her was apologetic; she used the word "sorry" like punctuation.

Helena examined Moreau under the guise of a sympathetic smile. She noted the fresh tattoo of a cross on her right bicep, the silver crucifix that she toyed with continuous, and her inability to make eye contact, the way she turned her body defensively and shrank away from Blythe. Guilt.

I can work with that.

"Damn."

Hotch, Morgan, and Reid passed the files amongst themselves.

Three women: tall, athletic, homely women with rap sheets including assault and stalking. They had all pleaded guilty at their trials, all gone to prison for life.

None had any clear connection with Isabella Cream.

"Is it just me, or-"

"Garcia, we need everything you have on a Molly Moreau. Around 30, living in Seattle."

"Rrright. Got her. Ooh. Spooky."

"What?"

"She so similar to the convicts. Rap sheet: redacted charge for assault when she was 15 against a girl at her school, a few drug possession charges, and a restraining order filed against her by some guy at her last steady job."

"Oh my…" Reid breathed, his eyes wide and terrified. "Oh no no no. How did I not think of that?"

"What's the matter, Pretty Boy?"

"It didn't occur to me at the time because I was so glad to finally have a lead on the unsub, but she saw the person in the phone booth across a dark, poorly lit, rainy street? She said that she saw Cream when she arrived for her shift, but when she left it was through the back door. Assuming she came in the same way, she wouldn't have seen the booth."

"So… we just sent the rookie to interview a murderer twice her size. Whom she personally taunted and provoked. Alone."

The door slammed. Hotch had taken off, drawing out his gun as he went.

"Next time Gideon proposes a plan, remind me to punch him in the nose."

Isabella Cream smiled graciously at the young waitress who had brought her hot chocolate and eclair.

"Oh, thank you, my dear."

The pretty blonde girl beamed at her, as all young women did. Saccharine twits.

"Anything else, you let me know, okay?"

But the kindly old woman's attention had already returned to the window, and specifically to the ugly brick of the police station wall. They were late.

She watched almost without blinking, occasionally raising her cup to her lips for an automatic sip of the warm coco. The minutes stretched excruciatingly, and the eclair tasted like ash in her mouth.

Finally, finally her patience was gratified.

Two figures exited the building and stood together on the empty sidewalk under a street light, one large and hulking, the other petite and dainty. The lamplight caressed the hair of the latter, limning the sumptuous red hair with a halo of bright gold.

The larger woman drew something out of her pocket, and brought it to her lips. Cream saw the tiny pinprick of yellow light as Moreau lit her cigarette. The redhead beside her fidgeted with something on her right arm for a moment before inclining her luminous head and accepting the small white cylinder proffered by her companion. Isabella Cream held her breath as Blythe took it between her lips, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

For ten minutes, the woman leaned against the wall and chatted, Blythe with the relaxation and confidence of a woman who knew her own beauty, Moreau with the flinching diffidence of an oft-beaten dog. Although she knew the process intimately, Cream found her fingers rapping impatiently against her table. To ease her nerves, she ordered another hot chocolate from the blonde bimbo. She sipped at watched, trying to enjoy the last moments of Helena Blythe's life of sin and self-indulgence.

Finally she saw the first sign. The easy, infectious smile on the girl's face froze, then contorted into a rictus grin. She began to twitch, the progression exaggerated by the concentration of the formula in the cigarette. Her body convulsed and she fell to the floor, her back arching and her feet kicking up the puddles in the street. Gingerly, before anyone else in the coffee shop saw, Molly picked up the twisting little body and carried her away to the alleyway upon which they had agreed.

Hastily, Cream laid down a twenty dollar bill and exited the cafe, ignoring the waitress's goodbye. A powerful thrill ran through the tiny woman's veins as she let her hand rest in her large purse, caressing the sleek black object inside.

Now to finish the job.

Author's Note: Argh, sorry. Apparently there will be three parts to this case. I'll have to figure out how to make them more concise in future.