checkmate

022 » THE BED

"Neighbours said they didn't see or hear anything strange on the day of the murders," Prentiss says as her and Rossi walk into the room.

"We also talked to the landlords and reviewed the buildings' CCTV footage. Her face wasn't visible in any shots, but we sent it to Garcia to get all the information we can on the unsub," Rossi continues. "Though it's definitely a woman."

Reid stands up from where he has been sitting and runs a hand through his hair. "We have the geographical profile narrowed down to a ten mile radius," he tells them. "And with roughly 7,960 people living in each square mile of Minneapolis, that makes the population of this radius to be 79,620 or thereabouts. The Minnesota gender ratio is ninety-nine men for every one hundred women, so it's almost fifty-fifty, meaning that we'd have roughly 40,000 women in this area."

"That's a lot of women, Reid," Prentiss responds.

"I know, but if we are correct in thinking that the victims are surrogates for the unsub's father, then the unsub would more than likely be white. The Minneapolis race demographics show that 62.75% of the population is white, lowering that 40,000 to around 25,000."

"Okay, so we have a huge number of women the unsub could be," Rossi sighs. "What about the victims? Have you found any links between them?"

"Not yet," Hotch answers, walking into the room as he slides his phone into his pocket. "But we've got another body. Y/l/n, Reid, check out the scene. 3129 Aldrich Avenue."

"On it," says Reid, pulling on his jacket and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

I nod to Hotch and follow Reid out of the room, wrapping my arms around myself. He glances back at me for a brief second before looking back ahead. As we head across the parking lot to the SUV, the cold air is already seeping into my skin and making me shiver. Reid unlocks the car and we get inside; he waits for both of our seatbelts to be buckled before he pulls out of the parking spot.

The fifteen minute drive is filled with an uncomfortable silence. I keep my gaze focused on my lap, where my hands sit, but I can feel Reid glancing at me every so often. My fingertips gently trace across my forearm, absentmindedly running over the outline of where Jackson grabbed me. No matter what I do, I can't seem to get it out of my mind.

We arrive at the victim's home, a house rather than apartment this time, and get out of the car. I wrap my jacket tighter around myself as we duck under the crime scene tape and head up to the house.

"Dr Reid and Dr Y/l/n, we're with the FBI," Reid says as we show our credentials to a police officer in the doorway.

The officer steps aside and lets us in, following us through to the living room, where a man lays dead on the ground, a pool of bloody vomit by his head. "Patrick St Clair," the officer tells us. "Thirty-nine. His wife found him when she got home, called the cops immediately. She's over there." He gestures towards a redheaded woman, talking to another officer and dabbing at her eyes with tissues.

"I'll talk to her," I respond. I glance at Reid for a second, he catches my eye and gives a slight nod. before heading towards the woman. "Mrs St Clair? I'm very sorry for your loss."

She looks towards me, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. The officer she was talking to nods to me and walks away.

"My name's Y/n," I say softly, gently taking her arm and guiding her to the dining room. "I'm from the FBI. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Okay," she replies quietly, taking a seat at the table.

"Thank you," I say, sitting down beside her. "When did you get home?"