" Don't forget that I cannot see myself -- that my role is limited to being the one who looks in the mirror. "

— Jacques Rigaut

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

4.1 ; SEE ME, FEEL ME.

            "HEY CARE, WAIT UP!" She heard Reid's voice call from behind her as she was walking into the BAU. She stopped and spun around on her heels to face the doctor, a huge smile plastered on her face.

"Happy birthday!" She cheered in a sing-song voice as he walked over to her, pumping one fist in the air enthusiastically.

He blushed and tucked a piece of long brown hair behind his ear nervously. "You remembered?"

"Of course I remembered! What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?" She pulled out out her purse and began digging inside before producing a small rectangular white box with a blue ribbon tied around it. She held the present out to him. "I got this for you."

He stopped and stared at the box, looking more confused than happy. "Care, you didn't have to—"

"I'm offended you would even think that I wouldn't get you a present on your 24th birthday," she teased him, elbowing his side gently. She placed the present in his hands and stared at him, waiting for him to look what was inside. "Well? Open it!"

He gave her a small smile as he carefully tugged at the loosely-tied blue ribbon. It fell off easily and he balled it up in one hand as he lifted the lid off the box. He peeked inside as his mouth dropped open, awestruck.

"No way," he murmured, his eyes wide, "How did you know?"

She grinned. "So you like it?"

"Like it?" He exclaimed, "I love it!"

He balanced the white box in one hand as he reached inside and pulled out the scarf she had gotten him. She had searched everywhere—and when she said everywhere, she meant everywhere. Somewhere in between the mall and the small thrift store where she had found the scarf, Caroline had stumbled into an S&M shop. That had been less than pleasant, but, in a strange, weird way, vastly interesting.

Spencer gawked at the scarf, at loss for words. It was, without a doubt, 100% Reid.

He held the dark purple scarf gently in his hands, like it was fragile. Etched around the borders were yellow and blue designs, all tightly knitted together. The person she bought it from told her that the designs were actually a representation of the Mayans "secret library" or something along those lines. It was supposedly a philosophical and maddeningly elusive challenge to figure out the truth of the Mayan library. But she knew if anybody could appreciate and figure out the mystery, it would be Reid.

He had been complaining for a while now that he needed a new scarf, since he lost his last one on a case in Cincinnati, but never had the time to go shopping for a new one. She figured she'd kill two birds with one stone—a birthday present and practicality.

Reid looked over at her and grinned, his face lighting up with delight. Her heart fluttered at his lopsided grin.

He leaned forward and embraced Caroline with his free hand. She froze, completely taken aback.

Spencer Reid didn't hug people. It had taken Caroline months just to get him to shake her hand. He was a major germaphobe, an adamant one at that. The fact that he was so close, so warm shocked her.

But then the shock wore off. She wrapped her hands around his thin body, her hands resting gently behind his back. Since he towered over her, her face was directly at his armpit. Her nose brushed against the fabric of his checkered shirt accidentally and she got a waft of coffee. She smiled—he always smelled like coffee.

But she liked it. Caroline realized she wouldn't mind staying like this, standing his in Reid's arms, for a long time, even in the middle of the BAU.

When they finally pulled away, both of the profilers were blushing profusely.

"T—Thank you," Spencer stammered, scratching the back of his head, "I love my present. I really do."

Caroline smiled. "Good. I'm glad."

He gently laid the scarf back in the box and placed the lid back on before gesturing towards the glass doors, "Shall we?"

She nodded as she followed him through the BAU. He held the door open for her and as she stepped through, she returned the favor with a polite smile.

The two profilers stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the group of people converged around Reid's desk.

Morgan spotted Reid first. He flashed a grin at him. "Hey, look, it's the birthday boy!"

Derek moved his muscled body out of the way to reveal JJ and Elle, holding a large birthday cake. It was chocolate frosting and chocolate cake—his favorite. 24 wax candles outlined the edge, all lit and dancing with a small yellow flame. On top of the cake, written in thin, yellow icing, was "Happy Birthday, Reid!"

Caroline smiled at them. They had done everything perfectly, beyond what she had asked.

"Oh, wow!" Reid said, staring at their friends in surprise. "You guys didn't have to do this!"

"No, but Caroline forced us," Derek told him, laughing as JJ reached over and whacked him in the arm.

"That's not true, don't listen to him, Spence," JJ said, after throwing Derek a sour look.

Reid looked back at Caroline. "You planned this?"

She shrugged innocently. "Maybe."

Before he could say anything else, Caroline began to lead Reid to his desk. He went willingly, beaming at all his friends, as she sat him down in his chair. Elle and JJ set the cake down in front of him, both of the girls laughing lightheartedly.

Caroline glanced back at Hotch and Gideon, who were hanging out in the behind the group, watching in amusement. She stuck out her hand to Hotch and wiggled her fingers.

"The hat, please?" She asked sweetly, "And Hotch, can you please smile? It's a party."

Hotch cracked a small, tight-lipped smile, more of a joke than anything else, as he reached forward and handed her the large blue-and-white birthday hat. Cass, her five year old sister, had picked it out the day before at the store. It was ridiculously large and decorated with fake multi-colored plush candles on top, making the hat look like a pastry.

She flashed him a stunning smile. "Thank you."

Gideon and Hotch both chuckled as Caroline settled the hat on Reid's head. He stared down at the lit candles, still smiling.

"Make a wish," JJ smiled at him, leaning back against the desk.

Reid leaned forward and began to blow gently on the candles. Each time a flame went out, it immediately flickered back on. He frowned at the cake, confused.

"Come on, man!" Derek chuckled, patting him on the back, "Blow, baby! Blow!"

"I thought you were full of hot air, Reid!" Elle teased as he blew harder against the candles. "Come on!"

After his third attempt at trying to blow out the candles, JJ finally spoke up.

"They're trick candles, Spence. Ok?" She gestured to the still-lit candles. "They're gonna come back on every time."

Caroline watched her friends laugh and joke in amusement. Reid gave one last good blow to the candles but they still popped back on. Morgan tugged at the rim of Reid's colorful birthday hat.

"Oh, look, mommy to the rescue," Derek mocked teasingly.

"Mommy?" He scoffed as Elle and Caroline began to take the candles off the cake, finally getting them to stop burning.

"Ignore him," JJ said to Reid, smiling lightly.

As Caroline trashed the last of the candles, Derek patted Spencer's back encouragingly. "Hey, does this finally mean your legal?"

Reid rolled his eyes as JJ began to cut the cake.

"Aw, you blew wax on the cake, man!" Derek complained as he dipped a finger in the chocolate icing. Caroline smacked his hand away.

"It's Spencer's birthday," she chided her co-worker, "He gets the first taste. Were you raised in a barn?"

He winked at her, popping his finger into his mouth and licked it clean. "Chicago. But nice try, Care."

She rolled her eyes as JJ cut the first slice and set it on the desk in front of Reid.

"Happy birthday, Spence!" She exclaimed as she handed it to him. He smiled.

"Care, why don't you feed it to him?" Derek said and Caroline laughed in response while Reid blushed furiously. JJ handed her a piece of chocolate cake as she distributed the dessert and Caroline thanked her before taking a small bite.

She almost moaned with delight. It wasn't the best cake in the world, but it had been so long since she has had any chocolate, it tasted heavenly.

Before she could take another bite, Hotch cleared his throat and the whole team froze, glancing back at him and Gideon. She could tell by the look on his face that they had another case. Caroline sighed as she tossed her cake in the trash. She wouldn't be needing that anymore.

"Sorry, guys. Party's over," Hotch told them, holding up a new file, "We have a case."

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

Once everyone had assembled in the conference room, Hotch and JJ began handing out the case files. Caroline picked her's up and began leafing through the papers and photos, scanning them briefly.

"We're going to San Diego," said Hotch as everyone began to examine their files.

"Not for the surfing, huh?" Derek muttered.

"They're calling him The Tommy Killer," JJ stated firmly, "6 women were raped and murdered in their homes in the last 3 weeks."

Caroline paused, the case file trembling in her hands. She could feel her stomach began to knot, pulling her insides like elastic.

"6 in 3 weeks?" Elle asked incredulously. "That's a short fuse."

"And getting shorter," Hotch frowned at the file as he read it, "The first 2 were 8 days apart, the next 4 in 2 weeks."

"Rapid escalation," Reid noted before turning Hotch, "Do you think he's regressing to a psychopathic frenzy?"

The unit leader shook his head. "No, he's too controlled for that."

She didn't say a word. Her hand rested on a crime scene photo on one of the victims—the latest one. The killer had left the woman's eyes wide open, her sea green eyes staring back at Caroline in fear. She swallowed.

That could've been me, she thought to herself as her stomach churned in anxiety. The poor woman must've been terrified—no, beyond terrified. Petrified. She was most like so scared, so defenseless that she just couldn't move, no matter how hard she tried.

Fear began seizing Caroline's body as her mind started to remember what happened to her six years ago.

The man's bloodied hands began to roam on her body, smearing the dark red blood of her father on her porcelain skin. His stiflingly hot breath washed over her face as he pinned her arms and legs down, straddling her. His lips pressed against her neck, kissing her throat so gently it could've been a lover's kiss, but she knew it was anything but.

Fear consumed her, wracking her entire body. Her mind was screaming at her, telling her to run, but she was trapped. She squirmed underneath him, trying to fight her way free, but he was too strong, too close. He liked it when she struggled. He flashed her a wolffish grin with rows of decaying yellow teeth—or maybe they were pearly white, like he had work done. She couldn't remember, her mind too clouded in complete and utter fear to think. To remember.

Everything was happening too fast. He was too fast.

He leaned down and began unbuckling his belt. She opened her mouth to scream for help, like Chris or her recently deceased father could actually help her, but his hand clamped down over her mouth. She moved to smack him away, now that her hands were free, but she felt resistance. She craned her head and saw that thick rope knotted to her wrists, tying her to the bedposts. She tugged at the rope, desperate to be free.

When had that happened?

Suddenly, the man had a knife in his hands. Her eyes met his—pleadingly. His eyes stared back at her—empty, soulless, black, a void of oblivion and destruction. Her destruction.

"Try to scream one more time," he hissed in her ear, pressing the knife coated with her father's blood on it to her throat threateningly, "or I'll assure that one of your siblings receives the same fate as your father."

She swallowed back the bile rising up in her throat. No, not her family. She had just lost Dad, she couldn't lose them too.

Suddenly, he was on top of her, his bare body pressing against hers. She shuddered as he ran his wet tongue from her neck to her breasts and then her stomach. He paused.

No, no, no, no.

She whimpered as he spread her legs, forcing them apart. She went numb.

Then all she could hear, all she could feel, was the sound of him laughing at her while he hurt her, over and over and over and over and over...

Caroline felt someone rest a hand on her shoulder and she jumped, her mind snapping out of the memory. Her head whipped around and she saw Gideon staring at her with solemn eyes. His eyes were earnest, the clear concern on his face was evident. He knew.

Caroline looked away, ashamed, and shrugged off his hand. She was fine.

Or at least, she would be. Eventually.

Her gaze shifted towards Hotch, desperate to think of something else, anything else.

"Why call him The Tommy Killer?" She asked her boss, her voice shaking slightly. If Hotch noticed anything, he didn't say.

"You know the rock opera." She nodded. "Well, this unsub glued his victims' eyes wide open."

Caroline slowly glanced down at the photo in her hand. At the corner of her eyes was a small ball of glue. She felt her heart drop to her stomach.

"He wants them to see him," She murmured as her fingertips caressed the picture woman's lifeless face, as that simple motion could soothe the dead.

"And feel him," Gideon added.

Caroline sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, knowing she would never get the image of the woman's eyes out of her mind.

She felt the anger begin to boil in her stomach. Her teeth clenched.

She wanted this son of a bitch and she wanted him now.

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

"Brenda Samms was found yesterday by her children when they got home from school," Hotch told the team as they all sat on the plane, a straight flight course to Sam Diego. "She had been strangled with a thin ligature, possibly a wire."

"No weapon at the scene," Elle said as she flipped through crime scene photos.

"Residue on the wrist and mouth indicate that duct tape was used and then removed," Reid added, "Also not found at the scene."

"Brought it with him, took it with him," Caroline murmured, focusing on her sketch in front of her. The whole flight she had been doodling eyes on the yellow notebook paper, trying to get the image of Brenda Samms' glued-open eyes out her head. The roughly sketched eyes stared back at her tauntingly. She marked through the eyes she was currently working on and continued with a new one.

"He also started leaving messages at the fourth scene. It was on the mirrors," Hotch paused before he began to read, "'Fair lady, throw those costly robes aside. No longer may you glory in your pride. Take leave of all your carnal, vain delight—'"

"'I've come to summon you away this night'," Reid finished for him. Everyone looked over at the boy curiously. "It's a ballad from the late 1600s. A dialogue betwixt death and a lady."

A small, knowing smile appeared on Caroline's face. If anyone would know that, it would be Reid.

"A 17th-century ballad?" Elle asked him, sarcasm almost dripping off her voice.

"Yeah, essentially, a woman begging death to live."

"What kind of person knows this ballad?" JJ questioned from the back of the plane, frowning in thought. "A literature professor maybe?"

"Anyone with an internet connection, actually," Spencer replied, chuckling awkwardly as JJ looked at him. "You should see what comes up when you type the word 'Death' into a search engine."

Derek Morgan laughed. "Reid, no wonder you can't get a date."

The younger profiler didn't say anything, but the look on his face showed he was mortified. Caroline resisted the urge to jump across her seat and tackle Derek.

"Reid, you stay on the messages. See if there's a deeper meaning," Gideon told him, ignoring Morgan's comment.

Derek sighed as he looked at the photos of Brenda's house. "Well, it definitely looks like he ransacked the crime scene pretty well." He presented a photo showing a pile of broken jewelry, silverware, and china in the middle of the floor. "A lot of damage, but nothing taken."

Caroline paused as she finished the rough outline of her eye sketches. The several eyes dotted around the paper stared up at her, unblinking. She tapped the end of her pencil against the paper as she thought.

"The eyes are the signature," she said slowly as she stared at the drawings. "The behavior that isn't necessary for the murder, but necessary for the emotional release. That's what he's there for."

"There used to be a widely held belief that the eyes record a snapshot of the last thing a person sees before they die," Reid said.

"Yeah, that's right," Derek agreed. "People used to write poems talking to death."

"Ballads," Spencer corrected him. He rolled his eyes.

"Whatever."

Caroline took a deep breath. "Do you think they'll ever run out of new things to do their victims?"

The plane went silent. She could feel everyone's eyes on her—Hotch and Gideon more concerned than confused. She didn't look up. She couldn't see their eyes without seeing the victims' eyes.

"Well, finding new ways to hurt each other is what we're good at," Gideon replied after a long moment.

She didn't say anything back. The conversation in the plane ceased to silence.

She stared down at her drawing of eyes. Finally tired of seeing them, she ripped out the notebook page and balled in up in her fist before shoving it deep down in her bag.

Gideon was right. The only thing people are ever good for was hurting each other.

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

The moment the BAU landed, they were immediately taken to the task force headquarters in the San Diego Police Department. Once they had arrived, the team separated to the evidence boards dotted along the wide room, oblivious to the short, stocky man standing in front of them with an incredulous look on his face.

"Captain Griffith, task force commander," the man said as he shook Hotch's hand, then Caroline's.

"Sorry, we all get tunnel vision," Hotch told him before introducing them, "I'm Special Agent Hotchner. This is Special Agent Lucas."

"I appreciate you coming out," the captain told them sincerely, rubbing his hand through his short, curly black hair.

"Thanks, hope we can help."

After introducing themselves, Caroline and Hotch sat their things at a nearby desk. She looked around at her teammates, all of them preoccupied. Elle was speaking with a couple of detectives working on the case while Derek and Gideon were heading out of the station to investigate the last crime scene—it was still taped off because the husband refused to go back inside. He probably never will.

Reid and JJ were standing near the board with all the poem pieces given to them by the killer. Caroline watched as he said something and JJ laughed. A sharp pang erupted in her chest.

She could tell Reid liked JJ—who couldn't? She was wonderful: smart, pretty, nice. She was one of Caroline's closest friends on the team, and yet, as hard as she tried, she couldn't bring herself to not feel angry at her friend. She knew it was irrational—JJ has done absolutely nothing wrong—but it was there, stirring inside her when she saw the two agents talking. It wasn't jealousy, she knew that. She didn't have a right to be jealous. He wasn't hers and she wasn't his.

But she felt something. She didn't know how to explain it or what to call it but it was deep inside her, almost like an open wound.

She glanced away from the pair and decided to distract herself with work. She could do that.

Captain Griffith walked up to her and Hotch with a grim look on his face. Caroline reached for her badge resting on the desk in front of her. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

"There's been an attempted rape 6 blocks from here," the captain told them.

"Attempt?" Hotch asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, the husband interrupted and the attacker got away. The couple called it in immediately."

Hotch turned to Caroline. "You up for checking it out?"

She paused. She heard JJ and Reid's laughter from behind her and her heart sunk to her stomach.

"Definitely."

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

When Hotch and Caroline arrived on the scene, the house was swarming with police officers. They were upstairs, in the kitchen, in the dining room, and in the living room. The small neighborhood home was beginning to feel like a hive to her—the officers like little bees buzzing around. At least, that was how she felt six years ago.

Now, it was a normal crime scene, if a crime scene could be considered normal.

"All things considering," Hotch said as they passed through the kitchen, "she's a lucky woman."

Caroline's eyes roamed around the kitchen. On the marble countertops were a bowl of lettuce, a chopping board with onions setting atop it, and some freshly picked oranges from the garden she had seen when she first arrived. She could pinpoint the initial attack, right where the victim was probably setting down the basket of oranges. The basket had been overturned and the fruit was laying all around the floor, scattered.

"You know what, she probably doesn't feel so lucky right now," she murmured as she walked into the living room where the victim and her husband were being interviewed.

Mr. and Mrs. Gordon sat on the small couch as six police officers, plus Captain Griffith, surrounded them. The husband was a tall man with white hair. He wore a suit and tie and his hand was gripping onto his wife's hand tightly as he spoke to the police. His wife never said a word, only her big, glistening blue eyes bounced from person to person. They looked so empty.

Caroline's felt a surge of empathy. She understood what Mrs. Gordon was feeling—more than anyone in the room could ever understand.

"You're absolutely sure about that, Mr. Gordon?" Captain Griffith questioned the older man.

The man nodded. "He was black and six feet tall." Caroline and Hotch shared a confused look. The unsub was black now? "I watched him run out that back door." Mr. Gordon gestured towards the two sliding glass doors that were in the corner of the room.

Captain Griffith stood up and offered his condolences to the family before heading over to the two FBI agents standing in the doorway. He looked at them and Caroline could tell he was pacified with Mr. Gordon's answer.

"Inter-racial serial sex crimes are rare," Hotch told the captain quietly, keeping his voice low, as he approached them.

The captain frowned. "Are they impossible?"

"No."

"Then what's your point?"

Caroline glanced over the police captain's shoulder as they spoke, tuning out the conversation. Mrs. Gordon's eyes were locked on her, the fear in them overwhelming.

"I'm going to go talk to her," Caroline spoke up, her eyes never leaving Mrs. Gordon's.

Captain Griffith looked at her, clearly taken aback. "May I ask why?"

"Because she's surrounded by men."

Caroline felt their eyes on her as she walked towards Mrs. Gordon. She shook it off and kept walking.

"Mrs. Gordon?" Her voice was soft, calming. The older woman and her husband glanced up at the young profiler. "I'm Caroline. Would you like to go outside?"

Mrs. Gordon bit her lip, unsure.

"It's all right," she promised her. "We're just going to go somewhere quiet."

After a moment of deliberation and an assuring pat on the back from her husband, Mrs. Gordon rose from her spot on the couch and followed Caroline outside to the orange farm in her backyard. The women sat down in the two wicker chairs facing the small garden of orange trees Mrs. Gordon kept well-taken care of.

The first thing the older woman said to Caroline when they got outside was, "I really don't know that much about him."

Mrs. Gordon's voice sounded mousy and shaky. The poor thing was still terrified.

Crickets chirped around them as Caroline leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. A slight breeze blew through the yard, sweeping her blonde hair across her shoulders.

"You don't have to," she assured to the woman. "Just take a little time to collect your thoughts, to just sit here, breathe. If you need me, I'll be right behind the doorway."

Mrs. Gordon sucked in a small breath and sighed, her shoulders drooping. "You don't want to ask me questions?"

Caroline leaned forward and patted her hand soothingly. It was warm and surprisingly soft—like a grandmother's hand. She was someone's grandmother, and she had been treated so inhumanly ever since some man laid a hand on her. The police pry and pry and pry, and she understood it. She was an FBI agent, for Christ's sake.

But it wasn't fair to demand answers out of Mrs. Gordon. Caroline wished someone would've done the same for her six years ago.

"Not until you're ready."

Before Caroline could stand up, Mrs. Gordon reached out and wrapped her hand to her wrist, causing her to freeze half way.

"I didn't even know he was in the house," the older woman whispered to her, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Is that common?"

She gave her a small, sympathetic smile as she slowly sat back down in her cushioned wicker chair. "Very."

It had happened to Caroline. Her rapist had burst through her front door, restrained her father and brother and locked the door before she had known something was wrong.

It happened to women everyday. It was power move—taking away the feeling of safety. And it wasn't right.

Mrs. Gordon took a shaky breath, balling her hands up into fists in front of her. They shook, like she couldn't control herself.

"He slapped me from behind," the woman recounted to her as she recalled the attack. "He pulled me down on the floor. I tried to scratch him and bite him, but he was so strong. And then my husband came home from work. He screamed, and the man ran out the door."

"Earlier your husband said it was a black man," Caroline said, resting her hands in her lap. "Is this true?"

"Oh, Bill was sure of it, but I...I only remember his eyes," Mrs. Gordon admitted. She leaned forward, towards Caroline, her eyes wide and panicked. "When we were fighting, I kept staring him right in the eyes. I remember thinking, 'If he's gonna kill me, then he's going to have to look at me while he does'."

Mrs. Gordon sniffled, a tear rolling out of the corner of her eyes and down her face. "And he just kept staring back at me through the ski mask."

Caroline paused. "A ski mask?"

Mrs. Gordon nodded as she began to cry, covering her mouth with her hand. "Yeah."

"It's all right," Caroline told the woman, taking both of her hands in hers, "You did good."

The woman nodded, straightening her back. Mrs. Gordon looked proud of herself, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Caroline smiled back at the woman as the gears in her mind began to turn. A ski mask? Why would a rapist who planned to rape and murder someone wear a mask? As she comforted the woman, she came to a relieving, and yet, disheartening conclusion.

Whoever Mrs. Gordon's attacker was, he wasn't The Tommy Killer.

➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴ ➴

Once they had left the Gordon residence, Caroline and Hotch had made about five steps into the bustling police station before Reid, Gideon and Morgan converged on them, their profiler minds working overtime. Reid clutched a piece of paper in his hand as he walked over to her, his eyes alight with curiosity and excitement. He always did love a good challenge.

"The verses," Spencer announced, holding up the piece of paper.

"Found something?" Gideon asked him.

"Uh, not an answer, but a question. I found the full text," the genius glanced down at the paper, his eyes traveling along the paper with lightening fast speed as he examined the words. "He's pretty much following the ballad to a T, at least the death side of the conversation."

Caroline sensed something that Spencer wasn't saying. She raised her eyebrows. "But?"

"Why didn't he leave them at the first three murders?" He wondered, looking around the small group of profilers for answers. "I mean, this ballad is 10 verses long just on the death side—he's got plenty to work with. But if it's not part of his signature, if it isn't something that he has to do for an emotional reason, then, I mean, why start?"

A small smile spread across Gideon's face. Caroline knew something had clicked inside his mind because her mentor very rarely ever smiled.

He turned to JJ, who was sitting at a nearby desk with one of the office phones in hand, trying to quell media coverage. "JJ, find out when the press ran the first story on this unsub."

The press liaison looked up, confused. "When?"

"After which victim."

She nodded and began pressing buttons on the phone. "Yeah, you got it."

"What're you thinking?" Morgan asked Gideon, confusion all over his face.

"He wasn't getting enough attention," Gideon replied.

"The police departments sometimes don't even realize they're looking at a pattern," Reid admitted.

Caroline nodded. "Yeah, until somebody tells them."

JJ was nodding as she turned around to face the profilers. The phone was pinched between her ear and her shoulder, writing down what was being said to her through the phone.

"The first story ran the morning after the fourth victim was found," said JJ.

Derek reached over and grabbed one of the case files from JJ's desk. He flipped through a couple of pages before he stopped, finding what he was searching for. "The increased patrols didn't begin until after the fourth victim, either."

"The police didn't realize what was happening," Gideon explained to them, "The Tommy Killer writes his verse. And then everyone knows that he was there."

Hotch had been nodding the whole time during the conversation, listening intently. Gideon turned to him once he finished explaining.

"Did you and Caroline find out anything at the Gordon house?" He asked Hotch.

"The offender in this new attempt is a black male," replied Hotch, his face a cool mask.

"A black male?" Derek asked incredulously. "Cross racial—that doesn't happen."

"What about Herbert Mullin?" Reid countered. "He killed 14 different people of completely varying ages, races and creeds."

"But there was no sexual component to his crimes," Caroline reminded her friend. "And this attacker wore a ski mask. Why wear a ski mask when you plan to murder?"

Gideon's eyes locked onto the evidence board. Ideas were mixing up in his brain, she could tell.

"Tell them we're ready," he said.

"For our profile?" Derek asked him.

"No," Gideon responded after a moment's pause. "We're gonna make Tommy contact us."