A/N: Alright, I probably ought to have done this with the first chapter, but I should mention that this is going to be a weekly fic. I'm going to try to update every week on Thursday in the afternoon, or, failing that, whenever the chapter after the current one is completed. (Which means I've already completed the next chapter, and am just withholding it from you. Muahahahaha!)

Also, I'd like to thank the one person who reviewed last week; it definitely warmed the cockles of my heart. So, thank you cedricsowner. You are awesome.

Next week's chapter is longer, I promise.

"To defeat them, we must first understand them." - Elie Wiesel

One year to the day since the Nevada incident, Hotch was sitting in his office looking over the newest case file. Apparently, a man was shooting people through the head in San Francisco. He sighed heavily and looked out his window into the Bullpen. Prentiss and Morgan were laughing about something with Garcia and flicking pieces of paper at Reid's desk. Hotch had a feeling they had already left something of a more sinister nature, but didn't move to confirm his suspicion. He figured the less he knew, the better.

The young doctor himself was nowhere in sight, and it took Hotch a moment to remember that this was the time of year that the FBI took it's youngest and most interesting members, so usually Reid and someone else, to local universities to give presentations on joining the FBI academy. This year, as most years, Rossi was going to accompany Reid, so he was probably in Rossi's office going over last minute presentation ideas and jokes (after several years of humiliating himself, Rossi had finally decided to put Reid out of some of his misery, forcing the socially inept genius to revise and rehearse any "jokes" he was going to perform).

So much for this year's presentation, thought Hotch as he stood to call everyone into the conference room.

Once assembled, the team went straight to work. Hotch took over what would normally have been JJ's job, her loss smarting even a year after her move to the Pentagon, and introduced the newest UNSUB to the team. "We have a man shooting people in the forehead in San Francisco, California. There have been witnesses to the deaths, but no one can remember seeing the shooter. His victims are all over the map, ranging from a cheerleader at a local high school to an elderly parishioner with a thyroid problem." A picture of a young, pretty blonde in the midst of a high kick, and another of an elderly, smiling black man with a massive goiter on his neck, filled the screen of the smartboard. "There have been thirteen murders so far-"

"Thirteen?" interrupted Prentiss, frowning as photos of the other victims joined the two that were already onscreen, "And the local PD didn't think to call us 'till now?"

Hotch scowled at her. "The murders have all taken place over the course of a month. They called as soon as they detected the pattern. It's the bureaucracy that's slowed us down."

This time it was shock that made the team members interrupt. "A month?" repeated Morgan, staring at the victims' lively faces.

"That's one every two days," said Reid, glancing at Morgan, then back to the victims.

Rossi sighed and looked at Hotch. "So, we've got a guy shooting people in the head, no witnesses, no motive, no victimology pattern."

"Shooting people in the forehead is a pretty specific MO, though," interceded Prentiss, as crime scene photos replaced the happy, smiling faces.

Hotch nodded. "He's using a Desert Tactical Arms SRS sniper rifle to shoot his victims. Bullets were found behind the bodies, buried in the ground or walls."

"So he's not cleaning up," said Morgan, "and his victims have nothing in common. You think he's disorganized?"

"No," answered Rossi, "A disorganized killer wouldn't be able to do that kind of shooting. He doesn't collect the bullets because he doesn't need to. This guy's smart. He knows no one saw him."

"But now we know what gun he's using," argued Prentiss.

"So what?" Rossi grouched, "That rifle is used all over the U.S. The military uses it, and you can buy it right off the manufacturer's website."

Morgan shook his head. "You don't do that kind of shooting without some sort of training. He has to have a military background."

"Even so," said Rossi, "how do we catch him? He could be a retired veteran or an AWOL sniper. We still have no way of telling who this guy is or where he'll strike next. All we know is that sometime within the next day or so, someone else is going to wind up with a bullet hole in their forehead."

A brief, foreboding silence enveloped the table, each profiler lost in his or her own thoughts.

"We need to get over there and interview the witnesses ourselves," Rossi stated, with an air of finality. Everyone nodded except Reid, who was still staring at the photos on the screen.

"Wheels up in an hour," said Hotch, feeling defeated. He hated walking away from the conference room feeling like they hadn't gotten anywhere.

As the rest of the team started to rise, Reid reached out absentmindedly with his hand as if to hold them back. "Wait, wait, wait," he said, his words coming quickly in an effort to keep up with his brain, "Look at where each victim was shot."

"In the forehead," replied Morgan, frowning at his young colleague, "Reid, we've been over this, man."

"But it's not just the forehead. Look at them! Every single one has a bullet wound between the eyes. It's not right in the middle in every one, but it's in the vicinity."

Everyone looked back at the smartboard. Reid was right. They hadn't noticed before because the way each victim had fallen, and way the blood and brain matter had dispersed distorted the look of the wounds. A wave of dread swept over Hotch. "We're going to need some help with this one," he said.