Morgan looked back at the girl, who sat crouched over her notebook. She scrawled quickly with a black fountain pen, not looking up when JJ clicked the large television on.
"This is from Gadot Falls, Montana. Howard Walker, 32," JJ pulled up a grotesque photo. "He was found last month in his car, single gunshot wound to the head. No shells were recovered, and nothing had been taken from Walker or his car."
"Looks like a nine millimeter," Reid mused, "if there are no shells…probably a revolver."
"Phil Hogan, 29," JJ pulled up another photograph, "also shot in the head, and also found in his car—two weeks ago."
Reid glanced over at Chloe. She stared wide-eyed at the screen, swallowing hard as her right hand froze, the black pen hovering over the paper.
Morgan leaned forward. "Same signature. Same M.O."
"And yesterday," JJ pulled up a third picture, "42-year-old George Koch was found dead in his car, also shot in the head."
"So our UnSub is attacking every two weeks," Rossi concluded. "We don't have a lot of time."
"Are there any connections between the victims?" Hotch asked.
"Walker was a crime-beat reporter for the local paper," JJ twirled the remote in her hand, eyeing Chloe. "Hogan was a syndicated columnist for a few magazines, and Koch was the county historian—he's released compilations of the history of Gadot for the past four years."
"They were all writers," Reid said slowly. He watched Chloe's eyes slowly rise to the screen. She sat transfixed for a moment, and then noticed his and Morgan's eyes lingering on her, and nervously dropped her gaze back to the notebook.
"Wheels up in thirty minutes," Hotch said, training his stare on Chloe. "I've got to call Strauss to see what to do with you."
The team stood to gather their things. "Nice to meet you, sweetheart," Morgan flashed a white-toothed smile at Chloe as he passed her on his way out the door. "See you when we get back."
"Sorry about him," Reid said warmly. "Hotch, I mean. He—he doesn't like being told what to do."
"Yeah," Chloe shifted her weight. "I gathered that."
"I first came to the F.B.I. when I was twenty-three," he continued, shoving his hands in his pockets, "it's not so bad once you get your feet wet."
"I didn't really get a choice, either, you know," Chloe said flatly. "My literary agent got a call from someone working for the President. It's not exactly something you can turn down."
Reid rocked back and forth on his heels. "That's a lot of pressure. Why you?"
"They thought I was a good writer, I guess," she began, "they wanted someone hot on the scene, and they said…they thought I'd be able to handle it considering what my book was about."
He looked at her, implying a question. "Suicide," she answered for him.
"Reid?" Morgan's head appeared in the doorway. "Did you kids want to visit the sandbox?" he asked, grinning.
Chloe pressed her lips together. "It's hard enough knowing nobody wants me here," she said tersely. "The least you could do is not be a total jerk."
"Hey," Morgan said seriously, bringing a hand to her shoulder. "I'm sorry—I was only joking." She glared at him for a moment. "Really," he continued, "I really was just kidding."
"Your boss isn't," she muttered, shrugging his hand off. "I've been here twenty minutes, and he hates my guts."
"He doesn't hate—" Morgan began, stopping when he heard Hotch's angry footsteps nearing them. He leaned back on the doorframe, seeing his unit chief storming down the hallway. "Hang on."
He met Hotch halfway down the hall. "What's up?"
"Where's the girl?" Hotch asked tensely. "The writer—where is she?"
"In there, with Reid," Morgan thumbed over to the conference room. "Why?"
"She needs to pack a go-bag." He said, trying to move around Morgan.
"Wait, what?" Morgan moved to keep between Hotch and the conference room.
"I just talked to Strauss. She wants her to—" he raised his fingers—"observe us in the field."
"But that's way too dangerous," Morgan said seriously. "What if something happens?"
"She seems to think we can handle her presence at the field office," Hotch said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it'll be fine, if she keeps her mouth shut and stays where she's told to stay."
Hotch stepped around Morgan, striding quickly toward the conference room.
"Hey, Hotch," Morgan called. Hotch turned, raising his eyebrows. "Go easy on the kid." When Hotch's forehead crinkled, he continued. "It's not her fault, you know?"
Hotch nodded, sliding his eyelids closed and turning around.
"Chloe," Hotch eclipsed the doorway. "You need to pack a few things." The girl stared at him, squinting. "You're coming with us to Montana."