Step by Step, Second by Second

"It's the little details that are vital. Little things make big things happen."

~John Wooden.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Ever a woman of her word, Hooch was ready for a video conference within three minutes of Mac's phone call. The video was a bit shaky, since she'd opted to use her smart phone, but she'd deemed it necessary, so that she could show them every bit of evidence that needed visual explanation.

Mac and Dawson were still at the conference table, this time seated side-by-side as they stared at the laptop in front of them. Shostakovich, O'Donnell, and Cruz had all returned and were standing behind them, watching as well.

Dawson made sure the laptop's speakers were turned all the way up as Hooch launched into her explanation. The screen showed the list of addresses, which Hooch had projected on the wall from her digital microscope. "Now, look how close the numbers are on these zip codes—they're long, stilted, and very tightly knit. When we zoom in on this one, something interesting shows up."

The zip code she'd chosen was 20707—Laurel, Maryland. With her fingertip, she drew their attention to the first zero. "See here, right between this zero and this seven? There's a small, single mark. Like the writer put the pen there, very lightly, and then moved away."

She further magnified the two numbers in question, so that the only things visible on the laptop's screen was the outer curve of the zero and the bottom half of the seven. As stated, a small dot rested between the two marks—something that would have been imperceptible to the naked eye.

"Okay," Dawson wasn't sure why that mattered, but he was determined to follow along. Mac trusted this woman, and despite her bizarre appearance, Shelley Gosslee did seem to know what she was doing.

"Notice, there isn't the same mark near the second zero." The greatly-magnified paper moved upwards, and the screen shook again as Hooch tried to hold her phone in one hand and rearrange the paper with her other. "Now, let's look at another one."

This time, they were greeted with 21273—a zip code in Baltimore.

"Look in-between the two and the seven, see anything familiar?"

"Another mark," Shostakovich spoke up, speaking slowly. His brain was tracking, beginning to detect the significance.

"That's right," Hooch's voice was filled with delight. "But the address below it—the one with the 21275 zip code. See any marks?"

"No." Dawson answered this time.

Mac spoke up, "The first address isn't written in the same ink."

"No, it isn't," Hooch returned warmly. Obviously, that fed into the theory. "It's hard to notice, when it's not magnified—but the first address' ink is slightly thinner, and you can see it does a jammy build up at the end of each word. The ink is old and poor quality to begin with. It's used for the first two addresses on the list, but the rest are written in a different ink. Smoother, thicker, no globs at the ends of words or numbers."

The page on the screen scrolled again, giving them a view of the remaining addresses and their zip codes. "Interestingly enough, that dot only appears on those two addresses. Only on the two where the ink changes."

"OK, and what does that mean?" Dawson felt a slight wave of irritation for how long this seemed to be taking and how lost he was at this point.

Still, there was a smile in Gosslee's voice. "Give me two more minutes of your time, Agent Dawson. It'll make sense soon."

The camera whipped around, and they were greeted by Gosslee's cheery, bespectacled face. "Now. First, the ink changes. Let's assume the change in ink indicates a different instance—the addresses weren't all written at once. Second, these dots only appear on the first zipcode of each set—presumably when our UNSUB starts writing. Third, these dots only appear before sevens, and only before the first seven in each new writing batch."

Shostakovich made a small noise, as if he suddenly understood. However, he didn't elaborate—this was Gosslee's show, he'd let her run it.

The camera flipped back to an empty sheet of paper. Gosslee's hand appeared, this time with a pen. "Now, why would you put a dot before a seven like that?"

The pen scratched out the number 7, then drew a line through the middle, making it 7.

"The European seven," Shostakovich commented.

"That's its common name, yes," Gosslee returned. "It's often used if the writer's style makes it harder to differentiate between ones and sevens—from the same school of thought that puts a line through zero to differentiate it from O, and a lines through Z to differentiate from two. And it does seem to be more widely used in European and Latin American countries."

Mac and Dawson exchanged glances. Maura Morrow was originally from the U.K. and spent several years in continental Europe as well. Had she grown up learning to put a mid-line through her seven?

Although he was pretty certain of the meaning, Dawson still asked for clarity, "What exactly is your deduction here, Agent Gosslee?"

"I checked the other samples you sent me—the handwritten fields notes, which by the way, I gotta say, what unit chief is letting that happen?" Gosslee didn't wait for an answer, but continued on with her editorial, "The original writer never crosses through his sevens—and when compiling a series of numbers, there isn't a single instance where that dot-before-a-seven thing occurs. Ever."

"So, this list of addresses was forged," Mac gave a small nod.

"Most likely. And most likely by someone who usually crossed his sevens. Obviously, he writes down the numbers in this new, forged hand, but each time, he has to stop himself from crossing the seven—it's an ingrained habit, even when he's mimicking someone else's hand. He remembers it for the rest of the time he's writing, but when he comes back later to pick up the writing again, he almost makes the same mistake."

Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, "What's your level of certainty that this is a forgery?"

"Given what I've got in front of me? Like 80%. Maybe 75%. Whoever did this is a virtuoso at forgery—you see, most people mimic a word they've seen written by their target. They copy it verbatim, every loop, every crook, and that's what trips them up. Think about it: you never actually sign your name exactly the same way twice. It's statistically improbable. The basis of your signature will most likely be the same—the way you shape your S or your R, or the way you let the last leg of your M slant further down than the rest of your text—but factors like emotional state, the type of pen or paper, or even the type of document you're signing and how big of a hurry you're in when you're signing it, will all influence nuances in your signature. This forger was aware of the fact that handwriting is mutable, and that it never follows an entirely set pattern. There are enough points of similarity to make it seem like the same author, but enough differences to keep it from looking too perfect, if that makes sense."

Scott O'Donnell rubbed his forehead. He was beginning to think that he should start drinking whisky instead of coffee at this point.

The camera turned back to Gosslee's face, and this time, she gave a small, apologetic smile, "Truth is, Agent Dawson, there's really no way to be 100% certain at this point. It is my professional opinion that this is a forgery, but it's just that—an opinion, and you've already got at least one other expert view that differs from mine."

Dawson cut a glance to his right, where Mac was already watching him with an expression of meticulous neutrality. She wasn't going to weigh in on this—she was letting him lead the investigation, in every way. Dawson wasn't exactly thrilled by the lack of absolute certainty on this new development, but he also decided that they'd wasted enough time on a matter that may never be solved, regardless of the case's outcome.

Instead, he shifted focus slightly, knowing the answer to his next question before he even asked it. "So you believe that this wasn't written by the same person who wrote the action reports. Can you prove who did write it?"

Gosslee's face split into a grin, as if she'd just heard a hilarious joke. "Oh, heavens no! That's like asking me to prove there's a God."

Dawson gave a grim smile of his own. He was pretty sure of the answer on that one, too.

National Women's History Museum. Washington, D.C.

Jordan Strauss was not her best today, so she'd exiled herself to the collections room, where items were organized and archived for potential future exhibits. After a stressful discussion with the FBI on the whereabouts of Linnea Charles, she dove back into her work with full-force (another trait of her mother's). It didn't take much brain power to open and sort through boxes, and it kept her hands busy, which was important, because it kept them from shaking.

She was currently organizing the newest collection of boxes that had been donated by the family of a recently deceased police woman, who'd been on the force for twenty-odd years before retiring. Some items were of interest and could be used in her upcoming exhibit, and some—well, their value was purely sentimental, but she still regretted not being able to fully display the woman's life. She'd seen firsthand how sometimes a person's career became the focal point of their biography after their death, and how it completely erased the family and loved ones dancing at the edge of the frame. When her mother's official biography had been released by the Bureau, it had been three paragraphs about her career and its many glittering accomplishments, followed by a single sentence: she is survived by her three children.

Jordan's father was completely gone from the picture—as if he hadn't spent thirty years of his life being Erin's boyfriend, husband, ex-husband and co-parent. No mention either of Erin's two surviving siblings, her brother Peter who was just as devastated at the loss of the only person who'd been by his side since birth, his beloved Rin-Tin-Tin, or her sister Carol, whose relationship had always been rocky. And Dave Rossi—well, he'd had no sense of recognition at all. He'd been one of her pallbearers, but he hadn't spoken at her funeral. In the eyes of the rest of the world, he'd merely been a colleague from work, someone who'd known Erin for years, but only in the setting of the Bureau.

Then of course, the situation had happened last year—the man who'd claimed that Erin hadn't been killed by the Replicator, and that the real killer was still out there, the man who'd stalked Jordan and her siblings for months until he was finally caught. After that, the final sentence had been removed from Erin Strauss' obituary on the FBI's website.

To protect her children. That had been the excuse. But the result had been an erasure of Erin's personal life entirely. She was no longer a multi-dimensional woman who'd headed the Bureau's most elite unit and who also made the world's best spaghetti sauce, or who'd often spent Sunday nights working on paperwork at her dining room table, with a teenager seated on either side, so that she could occasionally stop to help them with whatever homework they had. There was no mention of her alcoholism, nor how hard she'd worked to reclaim her life from its shaking grip. No mention of the garden in her backyard, where she spent most of spring toiling and replanting and ripping up weeds. No mention of how she often cheated at cards, with such open gleefulness that someone would suspect she was psychotic, or how she was probably the world's strictest parent on things like curfew or the world's best guilt-tripper (I've seen what happens to people who go out and never come home, Jordan Elaine, I've been on so many cases that began with someone not answering their phone at half-past their curfew…those are the only things I can think about, until you deign to waltz in, forty-five minutes late).

No. In her obituary, she became a name, a badge to cover an occupation. Section Chief Erin Strauss. Nothing more, nothing less. Generic place-holder, footnote on a wall of Bureau losses. Not the center of anyone's world, not anyone's mother or lover or sister or friend. Loyal Bureau worker, beginning and end.

And Jordan, as usual, was helpless to do anything about it. This seemed to be a reccurring theme and emotion in her life lately, and it was neither helpful nor welcome.

Her thoughts were shattered by the harsh ringing of her cellphone, which nearly made her jump out of her skin.

It was Karl Miramontz. Unsurprisingly, he wasn't happy.

"I just got a call from the FBI," Karl informed her. "The F-freaking-B-I. What the hell is going on?"

The question was, of course, rhetorical—obviously, if the FBI had called, then Karl could guess the lay of the land based on what questioned they asked—but Jordan couldn't answer anyways. Emotion swelled in her throat like a tidal wave, forceful and unexpected.

She simply burst into tears, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—this has all just gotten so—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." She could feel Karl physically shrinking back from the sudden onslaught of emotion. "I'm not—I'm not mad at you, Jordan. I'm just…I wanna know what the hell's going on here."

"Me, too," Jordan admitted with a shuddering sob, trying to pull her body back into control. Her shoulders were still shaking and her eyes kept pricking with tears, but she'd stopped the crying, so that was a small victory, she supposed.

"Ok, so let's put our heads together," Karl kept his voice even and calm. "They think that whoever's behind the bomb kidnapped Linnea, right? They aren't saying as much, but c'mon, it's too coincidental, right? Linnea receives advance notice about the bombing, she begins to look into it, and she just happens to be kidnapped? The odds of that not being connected are like…nonexistent."

Jordan made a small noise of agreement, still not trusting herself to use her voice.

"So, what do we know? What did Linnea tell you about the case?"

"Nothing—I—she didn't," Jordan blinked back more tears. She didn't know this man, and suddenly, she got the feeling that she shouldn't have trusted him in the first place. She shouldn't have dragged another person into this web, just like she'd dragged Spencer and Dave and yes, even Linnea. Sure, Linnea had already been onto something on her own, but Jordan had convinced her to go into hiding—and it was that simple act of defiance that had ended with Linnea being kidnapped by some mass-murdering psychopath.

"I can't do this right now," she admitted quickly. "I have to—I need to…I can't."

She hung up.

Carrington had been right. All along, as usual. If there was anyone that she could talk to about this—that she wanted to talk to about this—it was Carrington.

But the woman had made it clear that she didn't want to talk to Jordan.

For the first time, Jordan Strauss truly understood the impulse that had driven her mother to drink.

FBI Academy. Quantico, Virginia.

Aaron Hotchner glanced around the parking lot of the Academy, more out of ingrained habit than actual concern. He'd received a call from Jack Dawson less than an hour ago, in which Dawson had informed him that there were new developments in the case—developments which could only be discussed in-person, a concept both intriguing and concerning.

He found Dawson in the conference room, which had been converted into the command center for Linnea Charles' abduction. However, they quietly moved into a smaller classroom across the hall, where they were out of the way and out of earshot from anyone else. Obviously the leaks on the case so far had made Dawson rightfully paranoid.

"So, what are these mysterious new developments?" Hotch wasted no time. Aside from his general curiosity, he felt a sense of growing impatience. If Dawson was letting him back in the loop, it meant the BAU was no longer under suspicion. If the BAU was no longer under suspicion, then it meant that it was safe to release Spencer Reid. And the sooner that happened, the better.

"Two things," Dawson didn't take a seat. Instead he paced to the end of the classroom and turned again. "First, we've discovered that the bomb had a timer."

"So there was a specific detonation time," Hotch surmised. "And possibly a specific target."

"Could change everything; could change nothing," Dawson held out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "Mac and her team are still working on that. The second thing is that we sent the handwriting off to another analyst, last night. About ninety minutes ago, she informed us that the list of addresses in what appears to be Dr. Reid's hand is most likely a forgery."

He could see the downward shift of Aaron Hotchner's shoulders, as if the man had finally released the breath that he'd been holding for days now.

"And you agree with her assessment?" Despite this news, Hotchner's face still gave no indication of his feelings about this pronouncement.

Dawson gave a curt nod. "She showed us some very compelling evidence."

"How soon will you release Dr. Reid?"

Ah, the million dollar question. Now Dawson glanced at the floor, slipping his hands into his pockets. "We're still working on that."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

Dawson's ice blue eyes rose to meet Hotchner's dark ones. "It means that I'm still having my analyst run cross-references on every single member of the BAU, against any possible contact with Maura Morrow or Benjamin Fuller. Because despite what y'all think I'm doing to Dr. Reid, I am trying to protect him. I won't send him back to the people he trusts, only to find out that I missed something and his life is in danger again—and that maybe this time, we won't be able to get to him in time."

Hotchner didn't respond. He understood Dawson's reluctance—it was a an angle he would have had to consider, had their situations been reversed. "You're afraid that if by some slim chance Morrow does have another co-conspirator, they might tie up the last remaining loose end."

Dawson nodded with a heavy sigh. "I know the odds are slim, but hell, this whole situation is nothing but slim odds making it through. We can't guarantee that we'll find Linnea, alive or otherwise, and once Reid is out of the way, Morrow can claim it was all his idea, claim that he coerced her or brainwashed her or whatever the hell else she can come up with, and he won't be able to refute it—because he'll be dead. I won't let that happen, and I won't let this woman get away with what she's done."

Then entire time, Dawson held Hotchner's gaze. He wasn't bluffing, and he wasn't budging. As frustrating as this was for Aaron, he still respected Dawson for it.

"Understood," Hotch gave a curt nod, fighting back the urge to reassert the BAU's innocence. They were alike in many respects and Hotch knew that Dawson would need to see it for himself (because that's exactly how Hotch would feel, if the tables were turned and an agent's life potentially hung on his decision). There wouldn't be anything to implicate his team, so he would simply wait and let the truth speak for itself, despite how uncomfortable waiting felt.

"None of this is really why I asked to meet with you," Dawson waved away the thought. He finally sat, settling into a class desk. Hotchner followed suit, coming back down to Dawson's eye level.

"Then why am I here?" Hotch's curiosity came back full-force.

"Because I trust you, and I trust your ability to do what you do," Dawson made another vague motion with his hand, as if perhaps referring to the act of analyzing behavior. "Of course, we want to find Morrow. But right now, Linnea Charles is still a top priority. We've basically split it into two separate investigations, but neither have been able to give any clue as to where Linnea might be. You know as well as I do that the clock is ticking—and the fact that Morrow isn't here anymore means that there isn't anyone to care for Linnea, if she is still alive."

"And what if she isn't?" Hotch's dark eyes watched Dawson's reaction like a hawk.

There was a waver in the other agent's expression, as if the idea had taken the wind out of his sails. However, Dawson quickly recovered his usual stoic mask. "Then we need to find her body, so that we can charge Maura Morrow with her death. Either way, we need to find Linnea Charles."

Hotch nodded in agreement.

Dawson frowned slightly. "Now I know just enough about behavioral analysis to be dangerous. But I do know that we have to start with victimology—especially in this case. We need to figure out why Morrow kidnapped Linnea—and why she targeted her in the first place."

"The initial reason seems to be Linnea's connection to the BAU," Hotch started with the obvious. "She's Maeve's sister, and Maeve's death was easily deemed a crucial factor in selecting Spencer Reid as the target. Having Reid reach out to Linnea makes it seem as if he's doing all of this to avenge Maeve."

"That explains sending her the email that's allegedly from Dr. Reid—but that doesn't explain the kidnapping."

"Linnea's a reporter. She started asking questions."

Dawson gave a small nod, as if this were a line of inquiry that he'd already considered. "We've been speaking to the people who saw her last. John Adams, another reporter, mentioned that Linnea had already worked out that she'd received the email before the bomb had actually gone off."

"So she was already unraveling the case," Hotch surmised. "Perhaps she was getting too close for comfort."

"And, what? Morrow thinks that Linnea can somehow implicate her, in a way that the FBI can't?" Dawson's expression quirked into a mixture of concern and curiosity. "What did Linnea stumble upon that we haven't figured out yet?"

"I think we need to speak to John Adams again."

Dawson made a noise of agreement, which was interrupted by the buzzing of his phone. He quickly answered, "What've you got for me, Roza?"

His blue eyes widened. Then he glanced back at Hotchner. "They know where Morrow's going to be in two days."

He rose to his feet, obviously going to join Roza and Garcia in their headquarters. He motioned for Hotch to follow him, although Hotchner was already on his feet, right behind him.

Despite their difference in height, their long strides were evenly matched, and they quickly ate up the distance between the classroom and the office.

Both Roza's and Garcia's heads snapped up at the sound of the door opening. Garcia's face lit up like the sun at the sight of Hotch. "Hiya, sir."

Hotch gave her one of his rare smiles. "Good to see you're finally back at work."

It was a joke, a secret meant to be shared between them, although Jack and Sura were both well-aware of the fact that Penelope Garcia had been working on this case long before Sura had called her in.

"How do you know where Morrow's going to be in two days?" Dawson returned his focus to his own technical analyst.

Roza, however, pointed back towards Garcia. "All this lady, right here."

However much Roza didn't care for working with others, she still was one who gave credit where credit was due.

Now Dawson and Hotchner gave the blonde analyst their full attention.

"Alright, so, I looked through all of Morrow's personal information—bank statements, parking tickets, you name it. I found that she has a safety-deposit box at Metropolitan Security and Trust, which is in London." At this point, Garcia gave a slight glance towards Hotch, "Our connections at Interpol were able to get more information. Apparently they get warrants at lightspeed, compared to us, which must be nice—"

"Garcia—"

"Right, boss, to the point—Interpol just called us back a few minutes ago. Yes, Maura Morrow still has a box with them. And more importantly, she called them yesterday afternoon, to schedule an appointment to see her box. The thing is, today's Saturday, and their branch isn't open on the weekends—"

"So she can't access her box until Monday," Dawson concluded.

"Good work," Hotch nodded.

"Do we really think she'll wait around two more days?" Dawson looked at Hotch, his face etched with concern.

"She wouldn't have agreed to schedule the visit if she wasn't going to," Hotch returned easily. "Unless she knows how close we are and is deliberately throwing us off-track. Either way, it's our best bet, at the moment."

"True. But what's in the box that's worth giving investigators two more days to catch you?"

"We can hazard a guess on that, too." Roza informed her boss. With another motion towards Garcia, as if crediting her for the find, she added, "The last time Morrow visited her box was a little over a year ago—about six months after John Curtis' death. It's also the last time that she flew back to the US from England. Which means, most likely, that's when she took her sister's passport."

"And Morrow's sister hasn't gotten a new one, or noticed the old one was missing?" Dawson was incredulous.

"People just put them away and forget about them, until they need them," Roza shrugged. "Maybe the sister hasn't traveled internationally in over a year. It's highly possible."

"Find out for sure," Dawson instructed, and she gave a nod in return.

"Perhaps Morrow forged a copy of her sister's passport," Hotch spoke up. "It wouldn't be too hard to do, if you know the right people. And it would be less conspicuous—she returns the original and no one's the wiser because the passport isn't actually missing."

"She's definitely clever enough to have thought of that," Roza piped up. "And now, back to what I was saying. If this is when she gets her sister's passport—or at least a copy of it—then it means that she was already preparing an escape route. It stands to reason that if she's already planning on using one false identity, why not take another?"

"So…you think her safety-deposit box has more fake passports?" Dawson glanced at both of the technical analysts, who were smiling at their own detective work.

"Well, we won't know for sure until we open it up," Roza held out her hands in a gesture of uncertainty.

"That would be a valid reason for waiting," Hotch added. "She needs to leave the country under a different name. To throw us off the trail."

"But she never expected to get caught. That's what Benjamin Fuller was for," Dawson pointed out.

"She's learned from Curtis' mistakes. She has multiple contingency plans, and she seems to be enacting all of them," Hotch returned. "She's meticulous, and thorough. She's not leaving anything to chance."

"We need a full profile on this woman," Dawson intoned quietly. He gave a nod to Garcia and Roza, "Good work. Let's see what else we can find."

"Aye, sir," Garcia gave a curt salute and returned her attention to her computer. Roza held his gaze for a beat, then gave a nod. He understood the meaning behind her expression—she was continuing with her foray into the backgrounds and personal lives of the BAU, making sure there wasn't even the slightest hint of a connection, however small, between any of them and Maura Morrow.

Dawson turned to go, sparing one last glance at Hotchner, "We need to move quickly."

The BAU chief nodded in agreement. He understood the unspoken part of that statement, too—they needed to find Linnea Charles, and they needed to find her now.

"The hands on a clock never falter, not for a second. One day ends; and a new begins. If there was one thing on this earth that could be counted on, it was that. Time never paused."
~Patti Roberts.