[✓] 𝐶𝐼𝑁𝐷𝐸𝑅 | 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃

𝟐𝟏| 𝐈𝐍 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 | 𝟐/𝟐

— 𝒞 —

𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 now missing, the team followed Detective Wolynski into the Milwaukee police station.

"Hey," Wolynski said as they approached an officer, "what do we know?"

"Woman's name was Claire Thompson," he replied, folding his arms. "Her husband tried to reach her on the cellphone, and when she didn't pick up, he drove to the department store. Her car's in the parking lot, but she's not inside."

"Is that the husband?" JJ questioned, craning her neck to peer past the detective.

Charlie looked over to see a balding man sitting beside one of the desks while the officer answered, "Yeah."

"JJ, take Strauss with you," Morgan instructed.

As those two headed off, the officer continued, "I had the department store uplink the security footage to your analyst in Quantico."

Morgan nodded. "Perfect."

Wolynski raised a hand as he began to trudge towards the bullpen. "My desk is over here."

As they followed him to his desk, Morgan raised his phone to his ear and sighed. "Garcia, baby girl, please tell me something I want to hear."

Charlie had a feeling that Garcia's response would be some sort of cheesy line, so she made the decision to tune out.

She crouched slightly to see the footage when it loaded onto the computer screen. In black-and-white, a woman—Claire Thompson—was browsing through the racks of children's clothes. Nothing suspicious was going on though—no lurking man hiding behind the rack, no one staying close behind her.

"She doesn't seem to be on anyone's radar," Spencer commented.

As a child walked up to her and grabbed her attention, Morgan muttered, "Okay, who's the kid?"

"Does Claire Thompson have a son?" questioned the detective.

JJ, who had joined them, shook her head. "No, two-year-old daughter."

Watching as Claire crouched and spoke to the kid with a smile, Charlie remarked, "Looks like the kid's lost."

"Garcia," Morgan spoke into his phone, "is that all you got?"

"That's it," she answered, now on speakerphone, while Claire took the kid's hand and led him down the room. "And then they turn down a hall with no security camera, and we lose them."

"I'll, uh, get a list of missing kids," Wolynski said; "see if we can make out a resemblance to any of them."

Charlie stared at the screen for a moment before a realization hit her: this might not be a missing kid at all. "Oh, damn."

"What?" Spencer asked.

"Something Hotch said," she replied. "All of the abductions and disposals were timed around school. He thought the UnSub might work in the system. What if this guy's actually using his own son to lure his victims?"

— 𝒮 —

"Detective Wolynski told us you're trying to single out trucks and vans," began Morgan at their briefing. "Smart. The UnSub is dumping his victims in a business district, so I'd agree with you. He's probably not driving something that stands out—he may even have some type of company logo on the side of his vehicle, as well."

"We know that he abducts the women in Wauwatosa," Spencer added, using a map to help him explain, "and then he dumps their bodies somewhere in the Third Ward. Most UnSubs keep their area of control where they kill their victims triangulated between the two points."

"Which means that the UnSub probably lives in Wauwatosa or the Third Ward," continued Charlie. "Somewhere in that area. The people who live there know the UnSub."

"There's no sexual component to these crimes, which means it's more about the UnSub making a point." Spencer pressed his lips together for a moment before raising his brows. "He's cutting their hearts out."

"It might just be that this is the sickest way the UnSub knows to disfigure the women and throw them out like trash." Morgan sighed. "We can't really know."

"The two most important questions to ask ourselves are: What is this guy doing with these women for forty-eight hours, and why is he willing to use his own son to abduct them?" Spencer told them.

"And if he is truly using his own son," added Charlie, "then it's likely that he has what we call borderline personality disorder. Now, borderlines, they think that all relationships revolve entirely around them, and when they set their mind to something—absolute. There is no grey area."

"It would also manifest in a way that would be visible to people around the UnSub," Spencer said, fidgeting with the whiteboard marker: "intense bouts of anger or depression, problems drinking—he'd also be highly sensitive to rejection."

"And one last thing," Morgan said. "It is not easy to crack clean through breastbone. You're dealing with a guy who works with his hands. He's used to hard labour. At the very least, he's not afraid to get dirty."

— 𝒞 —

"I've tripled patrol in the area, and I've got every available unit re-canvassing," Wolynski told the group, all of them standing around a map in the conference room.

"It's tough knowing they're out there," remarked Morgan, "and we're still a step behind."

"You know," the detective sighed, walking over to the table, where JJ and Strauss were sitting, "it used to be a running joke that if you told people you were from Milwaukee, all they wanted to talk about was Happy Days reruns." He shook his head slightly as they all took their seats. "And then, Dahmer happens, and they ask you about it as if it's the same thing; as if it's entertainment. But I was in that apartment."

"Gideon, one of our bosses, says that there are things that attach to you that you can never wash off," Spencer commented.

"All right," JJ piped up, bringing the conversation back on track, "is it possible we're looking at this the wrong way?"

"What do you mean?" asked Strauss, folding her glasses and putting them on the table.

"We're trying to zero in on the UnSub," she clarified. "Now, you guys tell me, but if he really is using his son, wouldn't the trauma manifest more clearly on the boy?"

Everyone's eyebrows furrowed at this, and Strauss asked: "Can your analyst get a list of all the children in the area that we're targeting?"

"Garcia can get you whatever you want," Morgan confirmed.

Strauss reached over to the phone that was sitting on the middle of the table, and she quickly dialled Garcia's number. It rang only once until she picked up:

"Talk dirty to me."

Charlie pressed her hand against her mouth to suppress giggles while Morgan stuttered and sighed.

Strauss, who looked appalled at the greeting, clasped her hands together. "This is Section Chief Erin Strauss."

There was a pause (Charlie wished she could see the look on Garcia's face) before they got:

"Ma'am, I think it goes without saying that I was expecting it to be someone else."

Charlie lightly nudged Morgan's foot with her own, and she grinned at the glare she received in return.

Strauss seemed to take the high road as she said, "I need a list of every grade school in the Third Ward and Wauwatosa."

"Yes, ma'am. Uh . . . The Third Ward has one public grade school, but there appears to be four private schools that draw from that area."

"And Wauwatosa?"

"That would be nine, ma'am."

"And how many students?" Strauss asked as she scribbled the answers down.

"Thirty-two hundred."

"Can you also get me a list of every guidance counsellor that deals directly with the student body in that area?"

"Certainly, ma'am, and again, I'd like to—"

Strauss hung up before Garcia could finish her apology. "You need to present these counsellors with a profile of a troubled kid."

— 𝒞 —

Though visiting the counsellors wasn't much help, the team got straight to work once they had returned to the station.

"All right, the boy doesn't look like he could be any older than seven," said Morgan as he entered the conference room, a stack of files in hand. "Let's work youngest to oldest. Start with the worst behaviour, get the names of the parents, send them over to Garcia. She can crosscheck for criminal records."

"This guy's dumping bodies between seven-thirty and eight," Charlie pointed out as Morgan put the files on the table. "That gives us" —she checked her watch— "a little over twelve hours to make something hit."

Morgan nodded. "Let's get it done."

Spencer's look of delight distracted Charlie from the work, however. "Look who's here."

"Hey," came a voice that caused Charlie's lips to widen into a grin, "where do we start?"

Following Emily was Hotch, his grim look contrasting with the former's smile. He shook Morgan's hand while Emily asked:

"How fast can you get us up to speed?"

"How fast can you sit down?" JJ chuckled while the files were handed out.

Strauss entered the room, and the tension suddenly thickened. She stared at Hotch with narrowed eyes, and Emily spoke, "We're only here to help."

Strauss' eyes flicked between the two before she sighed. "We'll deal with this later."

— 𝒞 —

The car was going way over the speed limit, but Charlie felt as if it were moving at a mile per hour. She leaned forward in her seat, peering over Hotch's shoulder as she tried to get a good look at the road ahead.

Despite their non-stop pursuit of information, they hadn't made it in time. Another woman dead, at the hands of who knows.

Once they had stopped at the crime scene, Strauss led the way toward the body. They walked along the side of a building, where the grass dipped down.

The victim, laid face-down at the entrance of a broken fence, greeted them. Her shoes were missing, with one dirtied, bare sole facing them. Her blonde hair covered most of her face, and her purple shirt was lifted just enough to show them the tattoos on her lower back.

Charlie flinched when Strauss tripped and grabbed onto the chain link. Strauss gasped as Hotch grabbed onto her and muttered, "Are you all right? You okay?"

Strauss let out a small breath as she regained her balance. "I stepped on her hair," she whispered in horror.

"If you need a second, take a second," murmured Hotch to the distressed woman. "This is what it is. Just don't let the public see you break down."

Hotch guided her out of the immediate area, where Wolynski then took her.

"This is a different area from the other dumpsites, isn't it?" questioned Emily, bringing them back on topic.

"He's getting smart," Spencer commented while Morgan crouched by the body. "He knows where all of our manpower will be, so he's just changing locations."

"Well, how long before he changes when and where he abducts them?" Morgan pointed out.

"If he does that," sighed Charlie, "we're back at zero."

— 𝒮 —

Spencer frowned as he stared ahead of him, once again sitting in the conference room of the police station.

Back at the crime scene, Hotch told him to keep his mind off of Gideon. But it was hard not to worry about his mentor. He wasn't picking up any calls and sent nothing to reassure them of his well-being.

But Hotch was right. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand—lives were at stake.

He glanced at Charlie, who was sitting beside him. Well, sitting wasn't exactly the word. She was all but laying down in her chair, her eyes half-closed, and the rise of her chest slowing. He couldn't blame her—they hadn't slept in the last twenty-four hours, and the exhaustion was beginning to settle on him as well.

If not for the rest of the team around them, he would've held her hand and let her sleep on his shoulder. Unfortunately, not only were Hotch's eyes present but so were Strauss'.

So instead, he just kicked her foot and grinned when she opened her eyes and gave him a disgruntled look.

"Wake up," he whispered, nudging her foot again.

He chuckled lightly as she groaned and tilted her head back. "I don't wanna."

"Do I need to get a bucket of ice water?" quipped Emily as she sat on the edge of the table, between Spencer's and Charlie's seats.

"I'm up, I'm up," Charlie mumbled, rubbing her eyes and straightening up in her chair.

"I know we're all tired," remarked Hotch as he walked towards the map, raising his eyebrows at a pouting Charlie. "But we need our heads in this. So what's around the dumpsite?"

"Here's the old printing press of Quad/Graphics," said Wolynski, marking the spot with a red marker, "and the paving yard, and then the concrete factory where we found the body. None of them visible from the highway."

"You don't end up there by accident," Emily remarked.

"So, we go back to the schools," instructed Hotch. "We eliminate the Third Ward, and we target problem kids whose fathers have held blue-collar jobs over the last ten years."

Spencer pursed his lips. "What if he's not a problem kid?"

"What?" questioned Morgan.

"Forget it," he quickly dismissed, not particularly enjoying the bewildered expressions around him. "It's off the textbook profile."

Charlie, however, insisted, "What is it, Spencer?"

"Sometimes, when a parent is unstable—especially if the other one's out of the picture—you'll do anything to be the perfect child."

"Like help your father abduct women?" Emily questioned incredulously.

"They're never late for school," he protested. "Even with the abductions, the disposals of the bodies—it's always timed perfectly so the kid will be on time to school. I don't think the killer would care, I think the kid would."

— 𝒞 —

"I'm driving!"

Charlie scoffed as she watched Spencer grab the keys and head toward the door, though she made no move to stop him.

"Spence, you know the rule," she chided, following him. "I'm older, and therefore have more experience, so I get to drive."

He scoffed as they left the station, the brisk September air hitting them as soon as they stepped outside. "That's not a rule. Actually, since you're old, you—"

"Whoa! You callin' me old, Reid?"

"You said it first!"

"I said I'm older," she corrected as they scanned the parking lot for the black sedan they had arrived in. "There's a difference."

"That's what I meant," Spencer said hastily as they found it and began to walk toward it. "I mean, you're my girlfriend, I wouldn't call you old."

The label took Charlie by surprise, though that was quickly replaced by happiness, so she teased, "Oh, I'm your girlfriend?"

Spencer suddenly stopped in his tracks in the middle of the parking lot, his eyebrows furrowing as he turned to face her.

"Aren't you?" he questioned with furrowed brows, now seeming a little nervous. "We've gone on three dates—chess, that horror movie, and last night's dinner. And we spend, uh, practically every hour of the day together."

"Well," Charlie said with a shrug, glancing around to make sure they weren't blocking any car's path, "we never really made it official like that."

"Do you, um . . . Do you want to?"

She smiled. "Of course I do."

"So . . . you're my girlfriend?"

"As long as you're my boyfriend."

"Well, that's how . . . it works." He shrugged as they resumed their path towards the car, and Charlie couldn't help but grin at the tiny smile and blush Spencer was now wearing.

"Yeah, Spence, I know," she chuckled as they reached the car. "And since you're my boyfriend, you'll give me the keys."

He shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."

Charlie bit her lip for a moment. She was going to have to try a new tactic—one that wasn't so upfront. And one that was a little risky to do, considering her boss might see. But hey, if it works, it works. 

She walked towards him, near the side of the car, and she kept a gentle smile on her face. "You know, you're amazing, Spence."

His expression immediately twisted into one of confusion. "What?"

"So cute," she murmured as she placed a hand on his arm, making sure to make her eyes obvious as they lingered between his own eyes and his lips. "So handsome. Incredible. So smart."

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because it's true," she whispered as she neared her face to his, knowing she was succeeding as his blush grew deeper in colour.

Before he could respond with another question, she pressed her lips against his, praying that both her plan would work and that no one would see them. She pressed him against the side of the car, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.

As she continued to kiss him, she peeked an eye open to see that his were shut, and she used a hand to cup his cheek while maneuvering the other towards his hand, where the car key was grasped between his fingers, though she could tell his grip was loosening.

Needing to further her distraction, and also wanting to continue enjoying the kiss, Charlie traced her tongue along his bottom lip and felt a small sense of victory as he opened his mouth.

As she slipped her tongue into his mouth, her hand on his cheek becoming a little more firm, she took her chance and managed to grab the key out of his hand.

"Hey!"

"Get in the passenger seat, loser."

Spencer huffed, though his grin was still prominent as he walked around towards the other side of the car.

Charlie quickly got into the passenger seat and ignited the engine, sending a wink to Spencer as he buckled his seatbelt.

The flirty mood quickly turned serious as they arrived at the school. After getting seated with the principal, Charlie began the description of the child they hopefully had:

"He's a kid that's a model student."

"Not just straight A's, though," added Spencer. "It's someone who tries to please in a way that the other teachers have probably, uh, talked about—inventing extra-credit projects, volunteering to skip recess to help clean the classroom, stuff like that."

The principal looked down at the student list in her hand and nodded. "David Smith."

"Do you know his father?" asked Spencer.

The principal's expression instantly changed into one of remorse. "Oh, it's such a sad story. The teachers all talk about it. He was diagnosed with an inoperable tumour six months ago, and his wife left the two of them."

"She just left?" Charlie questioned.

She sighed. "Yeah, I don't know what's going to happen to David."

"Is it possible to speak to David?" asked Spencer, leaning forward in his chair. "We think his father could be the one we need."

As the principal led the way to the classroom, she said, "I can't imagine David's father could be someone you're looking for. He's very involved; he drops David off and picks him up every day."

"Do you happen to know what kind of car he drives?" inquired Spencer.

"A van, maybe? I can't say. Something big," she answered as they approached the classroom. "He makes hand-crafted furniture. I know he does deliveries."

Charlie raised her eyebrows at Spencer while the principal called the teacher over. David's father was sounding more and more like the profile they had created.

When Ms. Bennett came up to them with an expectant expression, Spencer told her, "We're looking for David Smith."

She gave them an apologetic smile. "You just missed him."

"Do you know where he went?" Charlie hurriedly questioned.

"He wasn't feeling well, so the nurse volunteered to drive him home to help out David's father."

"Thank you," Charlie said before gesturing for Spencer to hurry. If things were going the way she thought it was, David's father was about to have his next victim.

They met the rest of the team at David's house. Hotch and Morgan peeked through the window while Charlie and Spencer headed around to the side. Once they were given the signal, the two of them went to the back to make sure no one would sneak out.

It was only a few minutes later that Morgan joined them and tossed their FBI vests. "Prentiss is in. We're waiting on her go."

Charlie slipped her vest on and made sure that it was adjusted well. She placed a hand on her gun and kept her breathing even.

As soon as the walkie-talkies beeped, everyone sprung into action.

Charlie opened the back door and hurried inside, hearing Spencer trail close behind. Hotch, Wolynski, and Morgan were already in the living room, though it seemed that there wasn't anyone else there.

Hotch kicked open the garage door. A woman—the school nurse—was gagged and tied to a wooden pole, and a young boy—David—was warily pointing a gun at Emily, who was on the ground with David's father behind her.

"Drop the weapon, son," coaxed Hotch to David, who was staring at him with wide eyes. "Give me the gun."

Charlie helped Emily up while Morgan approached David's father.

"David," said his father with a small smile, "it's okay. Do what they say."

David handed Hotch the gun.

— 𝒞 —

Charlie narrowed her eyes at the chessboard in front of her.

They were on the way home, and with two hours left, Charlie had conceded to Spencer's pleading to play chess.

And she was losing. Badly. So, she resorted to what she had to do to win.

"Huh, would you look at that!"

Spencer raised his eyebrows. "Hm?"

She feigned a look of surprise. "My pawns have all converted to Christianity and are all bishops now!"

"What?"

She grinned and moved one of the pawns diagonally, knocking out one of his knights on the way.

"That's cheating!" Spencer immediately whined, jabbing an accusing finger toward her. "You're cheating!"

"What are you, five?" scoffed Morgan from the side.

"She's cheating!"

"This is America, Reid," Charlie said seriously, doing her best to hold her laugh back. "They have the right to freely exercise their religion."

"They're chess pieces."

"Who are you to belittle them?"

Spencer glared at her, though he quickly relented against her big smile, "Fine."

She let him off easy for the next few rounds, though when she lost her last rook, she shrugged.

"Actually, my queen has been dabbling in necromancy and has decided to conjure this rook, so . . ."

"You can't do that!" Spencer complained as she took the rook back and put it on its previous spot.

"She's the queen," she replied, "she can do whatever she wants."

Spencer, though rather grumpily, gave in once again. Maybe it was out of pity because even with her cheating, she was still losing by a mile.

She knew she was getting on his nerves, because every time her turn came around, he narrowed his eyes. She kept an immature smile on her face as she came up with her next cheat.

Emily, Morgan, and JJ had become invested in the game once Charlie declared a plague amongst Spencer's pawns, and Hotch was glancing over every now and then (Strauss didn't seem to care, but Charlie preferred it that way).

"Wow," she sighed, tutting while Spencer groaned, "turns out, your beloved queen was actually just my spy all along, and now, she'll betray you."

"Charlie!"

JJ laughed. "Why don't you just cheat back?"

Spencer frowned as he looked over at her. "Because I play by the rules."

"What did you expect?" Emily teased. "He's a goody-two-shoes."

"Oh, look at that, my intercontinental silo-based ICBM ballistic missile accidentally obliterated all of your pieces from twenty-five hundred kilometres away!" Spencer made small explosion sounds as he knocked off all of her pieces. "Checkmate!"

— 𝒮 —

It was far past dusk by the time Spencer reached Gideon's cabin. He kept his headlights on as he got out of his car and approached the home, though judging by the darkness within, either Gideon was asleep or not there at all.

Still, he knocked on the door. "Gideon?"

He turned his head to see if there were any other signs of life, but to no avail.

He pushed the—surprisingly unlocked—door open, and called again, "Gideon?"

Pulling a small flashlight out of his pocket and turning it on, Spencer stepped it. He shone it over the bookshelves on the side, though, weirdly, they were empty. He moved the light to the kitchen, which looked as if it were brand new with its cleaned-out shelves and unoccupied oven.

He took a few steps more and turned on a lamp. The outline of objects on the dining table immediately drew his attention. He squinted his eyes at it, though, surely, it couldn't be what he thought it was.

But as he neared, his heart sank. Laid on the table were three things: a gun, a badge, and an envelope with Spencer's name on it.

He sat down at the head of the table and rested his arms on either side of the possessions. He stared at them for a moment, gulping his anxiety down. He feared whatever was written in that letter because he knew it wasn't anything he would particularly like.

He picked up the envelope and opened it. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, which he quickly unfolded.

Spencer,

I knew it would be you who came to the cabin to check on me.

You must be frightened. I apologize for that. I never meant to cause you any pain. And I also never envisioned writing this letter. I've searched for a satisfactory explanation for what I'm doing.

All I've come up with is: A profiler needs to have solid footing. I don't think I do anymore. The world confuses me. The cruelty, the indifference. The tragedy. When my dear friend Sarah was murdered, it tore a hole in me. And I truly believe the way I handled the pain was to get back to our work as quickly as possible. Get on to helping somebody else until I could handle Sarah's murder. Work through it.

Remember the first case we had after? It was on a college campus. You see, I met Sarah at college, on a campus just like that one, 31 years ago. Campuses are supposed to be places of life and excitement. They're supposed to be about the future, figuring out who you are and who you're gonna be. They're supposed to be about dreams, not nightmares. They're supposed to be about hope. I just apparently don't understand the world anymore.

In this line of work, I was afraid I would lose the ability to trust. But I realized I can't really look at anyone without seeing their death. And as bad as losing faith in humanity seems, losing your faith in happy endings is much worse.

How many victims have we seen? How many crime scenes? Hundreds? A thousand? Pictures, families, victims, both alive and dead. I was always able to stay objective, to stay at arm's length. Now all I see is Sarah in them.

Nathan Tubbs was easy. There was a time in my career when I would have asked the question I should have asked: Was he too easy? The biggest trap for a profiler to fall into is pride, forgetting that for all your skills, profiling is just a tool.

They believed in us—believed in me. The way Sarah believed in me.

What was I even doing there? How many times have I told you that a profiler cannot do the job if the mind is unfocused; if anything is going on in your personal life that would cloud your judgment? My mind has never been more unfocused than it was on that campus.

Did I let a lion loose amongst babies? Was my judgment clouded by a need to make someone pay for Sarah's death?

Profiling requires belief—belief in the profile, belief in yourself. After Sarah, I no longer trust myself at home. After Tubbs, I no longer trust myself in the field. And without that, I have nothing.

And that was the last domino. The death of that girl, Hotch being suspended over something that was my fault. I said, at the beginning of this letter, that I knew it would be you to come up here.

I'm sorry the explanation couldn't be better, Spencer. And I'm sorry it doesn't make more sense. But I've already told you, I just don't understand any of it anymore.

I guess I'm just looking for it again, for the belief I had back in college; the belief I had when I first met Sarah, and it all seemed so right; the belief in happy endings.