𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

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𝟴:𝟭𝟰 𝗮𝗺


𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐍 the jet was cozy, Cady noted as she boarded, with the cabin temperature-controlled and confined. As she entered, she noticed on either side of her, two pairs of single beige-leather seats, each facing in towards the small tables that separated them. At the far end, a set of four seats; two pairs facing each other with a larger table between. Ultimately, Cady settled for the couch on the far left, strapped for choice as the team seemed to populate the booth at the end of the plane. She had been second-last to board, with Hotch behind her, telling her to sit wherever she liked.

He was perched on the console-cabinet beside her, the polished red-brown wood matching that of the rest of the interior. Rossi and Dr Reid were at opposite window seats, with Morgan next to Reid and Emily next to Rossi. JJ had sat with Cady during the ascent, before standing and directing the team to the small tv screen behind her, their folders spread out over the table they populated.

"Mesa P.D. has reported five homicides since January that they believe are linked," JJ began, "with the fifth body found early this morning. They think she had been dumped last night, with a sixth victim abducted soon after."

"Six victims in six months?" Rossi questioned, flicking through the photos in the files before them. "Why are we only being called in now?"

"Mesa thought they could handle it, until the latest victim, Sophie Rogers," JJ pointed her remote to the screen on the wall behind her, now filled with the image of a smiling blonde, "went for a run at 8 o'clock last night and never came home."

"Twelve hours ago?" Morgan looked up. "Is there enough for a missing persons case yet?"

"Given the circumstances," Hotch reminded the team, looking up from his copy of the file that he was holding, "it's understandable that everybody is on edge."

"Still, why now?" Rossi reiterated, looking again to JJ. "Why us?"

"Sophie's uncle is the Chief of Police," she concluded, "Hank Rogers. They don't think her abduction is a coincidence."

Reid was rapidly skimming the file. "The UnSub sent letters?" he questioned, pulling photocopies of handwritten notes from the folder and arranging them on the table to compare.

JJ nodded. "After each victim is abducted, a letter is received, along with," the screen changed to an evidence photo, "polaroids. The victims are held for a month before being killed in staged car accidents, then another girl is taken and the cycle continues."

"Car accidents?" Morgan repeated.

"The victims have all been found in unregistered cars, absolutely totalled," JJ said, nodding. "One of the girls had to be identified by dental records, she was burned so badly when the car exploded."

"Who are the letters sent to?" Emily asked, looking over her shoulder to JJ.

"The victims' parents," JJ sighed. "Along with photos of their daughters' bodies, some of them entirely graphic."

Morgan turned over one of the photos before tossing it back to the table. "These are some sick trophies," he muttered.

The thought has escaped Cady's lips before she realised. "These aren't trophies," she countered, her eyes torn from the screen to the others. "Killers keep trophies for themselves. If he's sending these to the victims' families," she pointed to the scans of the letters, "then they're a part of his signature." She glanced to Hotch beside her. "These are mementos."

"What do they say?" Hotch asked regarding the letters, directed at JJ.

"They're mostly poems," she explained. "Aside from the photos, there's no typical taunting."

"Listen to this," Reid stammered, reciting one of the letters, "uh, 'To sunsets I pour, and you I search for. In bottles I reach, without you I weep'." He handed the letter to Morgan next to him, who surveyed it before passing it to Emily.

Cady was cringing while Emily almost scoffed. "He's a romantic."

"Or at least trying to be," Rossi noted, thumbing through the file notes on the table in front of him.

"It seems," Cady pondered, pressing her lip together in thought, "juvenile." She looked to Hotch again. "Like an adolescent love letter."

"You think he's young?"

She shrugged, taking one of the open folders as it was handed to her by Emily, the crime scene photos almost spilling out. "His kills don't exactly scream sophistication. The lack of personality in staging accidents, sloppy methodology with his torture, I wouldn't be surprised if this guy is fresh out of college."

"Can you determine that from the letters, Reid?" Hotch asked.

Dr Reid had a working knowledge of graphology and handwriting forensics, but the evidence wasn't enough. "Not definitive," he shook his head. "If he is young, he's also intelligent. There's use of descriptors and imagery that suggest a more than standard education. Although the terms he uses are odd."

"It's addressed to my deer," Emily frowned, returning the letter she had to the table, "spelled with two E's."

Reid in turn picked it up. "Signed, your shepherd," he noted, handing it to Morgan.

"That's new," Morgan said, leaning forward.

Emily chuckled. "You're telling me of all the girls you've been with, you were never their shepherd?" she joked.

"Ha, ha," Morgan mocked. "I'm not into Little Bo Beep fantasies, Prentiss."

Cady smiled as the four around the table began to poke fun. She returned to the folder in her lap, flipping through the victim photos as Hotch watched over her shoulder like a hawk. "These girls all look really similar," she pondered.

"Safe to say blondes are his victim type," JJ said, the fact not lost on her as she brushed her own golden hair from her shoulder.

"What else?" Hotch asked, but it was directed at Cady. He was testing her.

She pursed her lips. "Similar body types; slim, athletic." She looked up towards the team. "What were their ages?"

Reid, aided by his eidetic memory, listed them in turn, following the order they were taken. "Olivia Washington, 19. Caitlyn McKnight, 18. Stephanie Mason, 20. Amara Ford, 19. Hannah Walden, 19. And now Sophie Rogers," he eyed one of the photographs, "18."

Cady raised her brows. "That's an incredibly niche age group." She looked to Hotch again, recalling her earlier statement. "College ages."

"Second highest risk age group for females," Morgan added. "What was it you said, Reid, from the Fletcher trial?"

"The UCRP reported thirteen thousand, six hundred, and thirty-six homicides for 2009," Reid recalled, "with three hundred and forty-four of those being women between the ages of 20 to 24."

"Well, these women are 18 to 20," Cady reasoned. "What's that statistic?"

"A hundred and seventy-eight," he answered effortlessly, "but that's actually aged 17 to 19. Did you know," he embarked on a tangent, "that the highest reported victim group according to the UCRP is actually males aged 20 to 24? A total of two thousand and eighty-one homicide victims last year, where sex could be determined."

Cady's interest had been piqued. "How many victims' sexes were indeterminate?"

"Eighteen."

"Huh," she resolved, "that's higher than I thought it would be."

Reid nodded in response as JJ continued.

"Medical Examiner, Bill Florence, will have finished his autopsy of Hannah Walden by the time we land," she explained, "and Detective Morrison is expecting us at the station."

"Morgan, you and Prentiss head to the morgue," Hotch instructed. "The rest of us will meet with the detective."
 

 
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𝟭𝟭:𝟰𝟵 𝗮𝗺
𝗠𝗲𝘀𝗮 𝗣𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗗𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁
𝗠𝗲𝘀𝗮, 𝗔𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗼𝗻𝗮


𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 the precinct, met with the smell of coffee and printer toner, and the constant trill of a phone left unanswered. Cady was reminded of Greentree Valley Police, which was more of a home to her than anywhere else. Instinctively, she was surveying the room, counting the officers, before her eyes were glued to a middle-aged man in a navy suit, his white shirt tucked in a little too tightly as it stretched over his middle, the faint remnants of a beer-gut wrinkling the fabric.

He too noticed them.

"Agent Jareau?" the man stepped forward, shaking JJ's hand. "Detective Ken Morrison, we spoke on the phone."

JJ smiled. "Ken, hi. Uh, these are SSA's Hotchner, Rossi," she began to introduce the team that remained, "Dr Reid," JJ finally extended a hand toward Cady, "and Agent Wilkinson."

The term still made her stomach tighten but Cady gave a polite smile. It took her a moment to realise she was picking at her cuticles and quickly interlocked her fingers to stop herself, listening as the conversation continued.

"Agents Prentiss and Morgan are meeting with Dr Florence," JJ explained.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Morrison led the five to one of the offices. "We've contacted the girls' parents, they've given us all the correspondence they've received from the killer."

"UnSub," Reid said, not recognising his interruption.

"Sorry?"

Cady was watching with apprehension as Hotch eyed Reid before turning to Detective Morrison to explain. "We avoid using the term 'killer'," he said. "UnSub instead refers to an unknown subject."

Morrison obliged, nodding his head. "My apologies. UnSub," he corrected. He cocked his chin towards the array of letters and photographs pinned to a clear board against the internal wall, which had trailed to now cover the table as well. "This is everything we have."

"Whoever this guy is," Rossi noted, studying the evidence, "he's obsessive."

The group circled the room, settling into their positions; Hotch and Rossi by the evidence board, JJ and Detective Morrison by the door, and Reid and Cady pouring over the table. The papers looked yellowed and faded, but upon closer inspection, that was a stylistic choice. They had been purposefully dyed that way.

"Dusted for prints?" Cady asked, trepidation stopping her fingers in descending upon the creased letter at the very top of the pile. But Morrison nodded, and she pinched the page by the corner, reading over the scrawled script. "My Deer," she read aloud. "Your eyes as sweet as summer rain, as full as the moon that wanes..."

There was a knock on the door as Cady's face soured and she stopped, the attention being turned to the male officer in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir," he said, turned to Detective Morrison, "Miss Walden's parents are here, as are Mr and Mrs Mason."

Morrison nodded solemnly. "Thanks, Trev." He wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers. "Hannah Walden was the girl found this morning," he explained to the room, "and Stephanie Mason was the third."

Reid was about to interject but Rossi stepped forward. "I'll speak with them," he looked to Hotch, then Morrison, "you're better served here, Detective."

Morrison held no concern, simply nodding in response.

"I'll join you," JJ unfolded her arms and followed Rossi out of the room.

Their superior was watching their newest member, still reading over the letters in front of them. Her brows were tightly pinched, her head tilted, and she reached down to take one of the letters from the table.

"Reid," she beckoned, and he stood to join her, his eyes on the page as she lifted it to the fluorescent ceiling light. "What do you think that is?"

"A smudge..." he pondered, gingerly taking the letter from her, "like something's been erased."

"Forensics couldn't find anything when they scanned it," Morrison argued.

"Well, no, they wouldn't," Reid shook his head, the letter still backlit as he recognised the variance on the paper. "It's invisible ink."

Morrison almost seemed annoyed. "Invisible ink?"

Reid nodded. "Did you know that invisible ink can be traced back all the way to the first century AD?" he began. "Pliny the Elder wrote about using the milk of the tithymalus plant to create a substance that would dry undetectable until sprinkled with ash, which would reveal the message. During the Revolutionary War, invisible ink primarily consisted of ferrous sulphate and water. James Jay, a practising physician in England at the time, created a chemical solution out of tannic acid that was supplied to the Americans to then rub over the invisible ink, revealing the message without the use of heat or a chemical reagent, which in some cases were damaging to the documents they trying to decode. Some would argue that due to the use of spies and steganography, George Washington was able to lead the colonists to victory. Invisible ink won the war."

"This isn't ferrous sulphate, though, is it?" Cady questioned.

Reid shook his head. "No, it's just a novelty ink pen." He looked to Morrison. "A blacklight will work fine."

Morrison extended his head out of the door and barked an order to the nearest officer. Cady had caught his name earlier; Trev. He nodded with a mess of dark hair and hurried off to find anything that would work.

After a few minutes, he returned, heaving slightly. "Rose found it in the supply closet," Trev explained, his hand extended to Reid, revealing a small torch that fit in his palm. "I put fresh batteries in it for you."

"I didn't even know we had that," Morrison remarked, watching as Reid fiddled with the device.

"Could you turn off the lights?" Reid directed to Morrison before looking to Cady. He didn't even need to ask as she turned to draw the blinds closed. They all then surrounded the letter in the darkened room, and Reid pressed his thumb to the rubber button. Under the emitted UV light, the Unsub's true message appeared.

𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕
𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔.

Cady's nose scrunched as she frowned. "That's not even a good rhyme."

"It confirms that these women represent someone that the UnSub is infatuated with," Hotch concurred, his arms still crossed.

Cady had her bottom lip fixed between her teeth as the group met another interruption. "Detective Morrison!" another officer called from outside of the office, a letter perched between his fingers as his hand raised. "It's addressed to Hank."

The eggshell envelope was identical to those that lay torn open in an evidence bag, the green lettering by the same hand. This time, however, it wasn't addressed to the parents; it was addressed to Sophie's uncle.

𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒇 𝑯𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒚 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑹𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔

"Do you think that's intentional?" Cady muttered to Reid, who was having the same thought.

He shrugged. "There's been no indication that Sophie would favour her uncle over her parents," he replied. "As the chief's niece, she could be the primary target."

Morrison was yelling to whoever was closest to the door to call back the messenger, but it would be no use. The young teen had been paid cash to deliver it, and the UnSub never showed their face.

Cady looked to Hotch as she was handed a pair of latex gloves by the officer who had gave Morrison the letter. Hotch gave a microscopic nod in response, allowing her to open the letter under the watch of the Detective. She slipped her now-protected thumb under the seal, flicking open the envelope, and retrieving the letter from its prison.

𝑴𝒚 𝑫𝒆𝒆𝒓,

Cady frowned, tilting her head as she showed Hotch. The letter wasn't addressed to 'Henry', 'Hank', 'Mr Rogers', or even 'Chief', as it should have been based on the envelope and their theory that Sophie was vital to the UnSub. Following the same pattern, it contained a poem, with little specifics given. The envelope was a taunt, but the letter was not. The letter was like all the others. Sophie wasn't the UnSub's original target, she was just another girl, simply another victim, and their lead had been dissolved.