"Officer Jenson," JJ began as they neared the police chief, "I'm Jennifer Jareau, this is Dr. Spencer Reid, and this is Chloe—she's a writer traveling to do a piece on the B.A.U."

The cop shook their hands. "We have to move quickly—there's another body."

Reid scrunched his eyebrows. "But the M.O. is every two weeks. Are you sure it's the same UnSub?"

Jenson nodded, drawing a photograph from atop a nearby table. "Positive," he said, showing the three of them. A man lay in a puddle of his own blood, a .22 caliber entry wound visible in his right temple. "This guy—Ed Worth—he's a local reporter. He covered the murders, and we found him this morning."

Reid stared hard at the picture. "But what makes you sure—"

"We also found this," Jenson cut him off, holding up a second photograph.

A brick wall cracked and weathered with age, read Get it Right above where Worth's body lay. The graffiti, amateur and hesitant, was written in Worth's blood.

JJ inhaled, standing up straighter. "How soon can we hold a press conference?"

"Nobody will show up," Jenson shook his head. "Once everyone found out the guy is after reporters, they scattered like roaches under a fridge."

"But this guy is only after specific people," Reid clarified. "We're certain the UnSub had a personal relationship with each of the victims—this last one is probably out of frustration."

"That he didn't get the story right," Chloe chimed in. Reid spun around, surprised at her input.

"Right," he said slowly, nodding. "I'm going to set up over here."

"I'll call Hotch," JJ said, pulling out her cell. "Let them know there's another crime scene to check out."

Chloe followed Reid over to the other side of the tiny Gadot Police Department headquarters. "There has to be something all of these guys reported on that someone is really pissed off about," she said, setting her composition notebook on the tabletop.

"Since Koch was the historian," she continued, "and now he's dead, there was probably something that happened a long time ago that Walker reported on, and Hogan was about to do a story about."

Reid stared at her, dragging the evidence board along the far wall. "And Walker was a crime-beat reporter, so it might be something else the UnSub did that they were writing about."

"Or someone he was related to or knew."

Reid scribbled on the whiteboard with one hand, yanking out his phone with the other. "Garcia?"

"Speak to me, Boy Wonder."

"What kinds of articles did Hogan write?"

"Biographies mostly—local celebrities, political analysis, things like that."

"Did he ever do a profile on criminals?"

Garcia typed something. "I have nothing except for a preview for the next issue of Criminology Monthly—it was due to come out next month."

"Does it say who Hogan was profiling?"

"The title reads 'The Vindictive Mind of David LaRoe'—which, upon a simple search, finds Mr. LaRoe as a Gadot native and a terror to the great Northwest during the 1960s who killed 14 middle-aged men before he was arrested in Helena and later killed himself in state prison."

Reid scrawled unintelligibly on the whiteboard. "What was LaRoe's M.O.?"

"His method of choice was the same as this guy—single shot to the head with a .22 caliber that left no shells. Only," she continued to type, "he went after child molesters, not reporters."

"Did he have any following while he was in prison? Any relatives, friends?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that one, genius," she quipped, typing furiously. "Turns out 1960s Montana state prison records are rather ad hoc."

"Thanks, Garcia—let me know what you find out."

"Anytime, Junior G-Man," Garcia said warmly before ending the call.

JJ appeared around the corner. "I've got to make a few calls to get the local news here—everyone is spooked out of their minds."

"If you ask me," a local cop said, "he's doing us a favor getting those leeches off our backs."

Reid and JJ looked each other, eyes wide. "This UnSub is killing people," Reid said seriously. "He's doing no favors."

"That's not what I meant," the cop said, "just—it's a lot less pressure, with no reporters around." He stepped forward, sticking out his hand. "I'm Chuck Warren."

"Spencer Reid," he said tersely, exchanging the handshake. "This is Jennifer Jareau and Chloe—she's a writer."

"Really?" Warren's eyebrows rose. "But you don't follow people around like a stalker for a living, do you?"

"What do you think I'm doing here?" she asked.

He rolled back on his feet. "I'm sorry to, uh, have gotten off on the wrong foot here…" his voice trailed off, and he looked back and forth between the three of them. "You have to understand—this is a small town. When LaRoe was here, it just turned the whole place upside down."

"Weren't you only four or five years old when that happened?" Reid asked.

"My dad was a cop," Warren explained. "It never left him, what the media did to him."

"It can get a little stressful," JJ obliged, "but these people are the easiest way to inform the public of what they should be aware of." She eyed Chloe. "Their presence is extremely necessary."

Warren nodded, turning away. "I'll see what I can do to help."