criminalminds | If I'm a Mermaid, by Hagar

Title: If I'm a Mermaid. Part 1/2. (The second part is complete and will go up next week.)
Rating: PG-13/T-ish - about as much as your average episode
Pairings: gen.
Summary: a sadistic UnSub hellbent on revenge puts the BAU on a coast-to-coast chase.
Warnings: it's a casefic. Mentions of dismembered bodies, references to possible sexual violence, references to various other forms of social violence.
Timeline: set circa Uncanny Valley.

Love and gratitude to Mara and

recessional, who beta'ed.

Archived also at AO3.

Therein lies the defect of revenge: it's all in the anticipation; the thing itself is a pain, not a pleasure; at least the pain is the biggest end of it. – Mark Twain

Day 2

The sunrise over the water was gorgeous. Newton sipped some coffee. Sentimentality: that’s all there was to it, really. There had been so many sunrises, over so many bodies of water. It was a silly thing to go back for but, twenty years later, there you were: right were it started.

So to speak. The original scene would have been the school, unless one was talking about the sunrise, in which case the original scene was Newton’s parents’ house, which wasn’t their house, anymore, being that they were gone. The school was still standing, even though earlier versions of the Plan included burning it down to a crisp. It was just too much of a bother.

The sunrise, though… all those nights Newton had borne through on the promise of that miracle of fire, mist and water. It wasn’t the exact view of Newton’s childhood’s bedroom window or back yard, but it was close enough: same vegetation, same dirt, same certain slant of light.

This will be an original scene too in its way, the first of five. The bushes provided the frame, the trails in the grass the perspective, leading the beholder’s eye to the subject. The knives were deliberately arranged in careful mimicry of careless tossing, highlighting the composition. And the sunrise: the sunrise provided the lighting and a canvas of sorts, but it was more than that. It crowned the scene, giving it meaning without being too obvious about it.

Newton had had years to prepare and knew by heart the exact parameters for a sunrise shot in any weather at any of the other scenes. This being the one unpracticed scene meant some guesswork, but practice minimized that. The first shot didn’t have to be perfect – it wasn’t like the subject was moving, anymore – but nothing beat the exhilaration of a perfect first shot. Well, not quite: it will make a bang of a close for a blast of a night. Newton stood by the camera, basking in the dawn and the perfect scene and waiting for the light to reach the right intensity, the right angle, savoring the quickened pulse and stomach butterflies of anticipation.

The first shot was perfect.

Newton finished the coffee, packed up the camera with the loving care she deserved, and got going. There was a schedule to stick to, now that the Plan was finally in motion.

Day 15

Robert and Louise Hursthouse had a nice home in a nice neighbourhood in Denver, Colorado. The paint had been redone in the last year; the windows were sparkling clean, the curtains hanging in them in good taste; the lawn was mowed, but not aggressively so; the SUV in the driveway the kind of car the belonged in the neighbourhood.

Prentiss pocketed the keys as she and Morgan exited the bureau-issued SUV. “So quiet,” she said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth as they walked up to the front door. “So normal.”

“I hate this part,” he admitted, speaking in kind.

“The poor woman,” murmured Prentiss.

Robert Hursthouse disappeared a few days before. He had dropped his twelve-year-old daughter Samantha at clarinet class but never made it back home. His car had not been found and there had been no ransom demands. That wasn’t all of it, though. Four days before his disappearance Robert Hursthouse had called 911 in panic after finding a package on his doorstep which contained a note reading “It’s your turn now” and some bloody, messy things in a clear plastic bag. The bloody, messy things turned out to be a pair of human lips and a human tongue. At the time Morgan and Prentiss knocked on Mrs. Hursthouse’s door the first victim was yet unidentified: the body parts had been handled carelessly – left outside, frozen in a home freezer, defrosted, left outside some more – and the DNA degradation complicated the forensic processing. The lips and tongue belonged to a male, and as Garcia has failed to match it to any recent murders even in a nation-wide search there was no telling when they’d know more.

They were very obviously dealing with an organized, revenge-motivated UnSub; probably male, judging by the degree of violence; possibly of a similar age to his victim, late thirties to early forties. What little they had of the UnSub’s pattern suggested that Hursthouse was at least the second victim and probably not the last, as an UnSub this elaborate, this dramatic was likely to reserve special flair for the pinnacle of their killing sequence.

Louise Hursthouse was of average height, elegant in an understated sort of a way: hair dye mimicking the natural shade, tasteful makeup highlighting hazel eyes in a heart-shaped face, and wore a buttoned-down shirt and slacks even when welcoming them at her home.

“Please, come in,” she said.

The house was neat, but not oppressively so. The hallway was painted a warm amber, family photos hanging on the wall. Prentiss accepted Mrs. Hursthouse’s offer of a glass of water, and that gave her and Morgan a chance to glance into the kitchen: fancy Kitchenaid mixer, expensive oven, solid-wood island, but the placement of the utilities suggested that the Hursthouses didn’t cook very often. The dining table was polished to the point of gleaming. In comparison, the living room set – two couches, two armchairs – was cozy more than it was elegant.

They hosted, but not much. The center of the house bore the mark of children, but boundaries were enforced. All signs indicated a healthy family, even if both parents worked long hours.

“I already spoke to the police,” said Mrs. Hursthouse as they sat down. “What more do you need to know?”

“We’re Behavioral Analysis, Ma’am,” said Morgan. “We don’t ask all the same questions. We don’t look at all the same things.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We focus on the person,” said Prentiss. “On the way that people behave. It’s a different kind of evidence.”

The minute pursing of Mrs. Hursthouse’s lips, tiny tensing of the throat and the shoulders, suggested that she didn’t quite understand. What she said was, “What do you need to know?”

Mrs. Hursthouse recalled little out of the ordinary: workplace incidents, neighbourly disputes, the kind of things that happened when one worked in HR management and had been living in the same neighbourhood for twelve years. They sicced Garcia on it and, though she dug up ten times as much information as the Denver PD had, the bottom line was the same: not a single suspicious thing. They went to Mr. Hursthouse’s workplace, and then to Mrs. Hursthouse’s. They talked to the one disgruntled neighbour who still lived close by. They were in the SUV on the way to the hotel when Morgan’s phone went off.

He put it on speaker and placed it in the cup holder. “Morgan. What’s up, Hotch?”

“Where are you?”

“We’re heading to the hotel. Neighbour was a bust. And Garcia says none of the other leads panned out.”

“That’s because this is not about any of these things,” said Hotch. “DNA is back on the first victim, and he is not the first.”

“How do we know that?”

“The lips and tongue belong to a Jeffrey Garrard from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Garrard had been missing for over a week and, in the days before his disappearance, received an envelope containing an identical note and human nipples.”

“Exact same MO,” said Morgan. “How’d Garcia not find this?”

“Incomplete tagging,” said Hotch laconically. Morgan mentally translated that as the Denver detective being either very tired, Old School, or both.

“The nipples are male, too,” Hotch continued, “and the DNA is at least as heavily degraded as the Garrard body parts. There’s no match, yet, but we may not necessarily need one.”

“How so?”

“According to Garcia, both victims graduated at the same year from the same school, and they just had a reunion last month. The woman who organized it lives at that town. JJ and I are heading there. You two did victimology on Hursthouse, it’s best if you take Garrard as well.”

Morgan held back a frustrated huff. “Wheels off when?”

“First light tomorrow. Try to get some sleep tonight.”

“Sure thing, Hotch. You, too.”

“Morgan.” Hotch’s voice didn’t have the edge of a warning; ‘tired’ was too expressive an adjective, as well. “I’ll see you when you get here.”

Prentiss reached to disconnect the call, allowing Morgan to keep both hands on the wheel.

“Up before the sun,” she said. “And twice on the jet in 24 hours. Joy.”

“Garrard had better be the second victim,” he said, “or we may be town-skipping for a while.”

Days 2-10

It required a lot of hours on the road. A hell of a lot of hours, to someone who wasn’t used to that kind of life, which Newton was. The frying pan of Newton’s youth was left in the rearview mirror early in the morning, never to be seen again, with the stinky pile of flesh that was once a sorry excuse for a human being left cooling on the beach. It only took one day of driving to make it to the next destination, and then Newton had to stay put for days, which would have been unbearable except that Sorry Excuse for a Person the Second was freaking the hell out after receiving their little poetry basket. Newton didn’t get to do that with Dirtbag the First, and it was immensely satisfying, oh-so-very incredibly, belly-warming gratifying, and it did not diminish even one bit the adrenaline rush when foreplay was over and it was time to move in.

It gave Newton something to gloat over during the long, long drive to the next stop, singing along with the CD player and tapping fingers on the wheel. Safe driving dictated two days and one incredibly long night of fitful dreaming. The next night Newton slept like a baby until morning came and Piece of Shit the Third found his due warning and started raising hell.

This time it wasn’t as fun, though. This time it was getting really, seriously, not-fun-anymore frustrating. Dirtbag the First hadn’t seen it coming, but Fucktard the Second should have and the same to Waste of Breath the Third. Not only had they been there but they were treated to Newton’s packages, they were supposed to remember, they should have known. The sorry dregs of shit still didn’t know who it was right across the road, counting down minutes and thinking longingly of the set of knives – beautiful and shining and sharp enough to weep over – in their gift-wrapped box.

It made Newton all the more furious, more determined to get this pentaptych right.

Day 16

They were spread thin, but Hotch considered it a non-issue safety-wise. This UnSub wanted to be found, wanted his victims to know who was hurting them. The lack of DNA and fingerprints merely reaffirmed that they were dealing with an organized personality and they had other hints to work on, things that meant something to the UnSub and thus meant something about him, such as the deliberately phrased handwritten notes and the choice of body parts.

All Reid needed was a phone line to Garcia, a quiet room and someone to bounce ideas off of. Rossi had perfected the skill of pushing the BAU’s brightest while giving him enough room to the degree of art. With the suspect pool narrowed down to a single graduating class of a single school, Hotch entertained the idea that Reid and Rossi would pin down the UnSub before he and JJ ever made it to East Carteret High.

As for Prentiss and Morgan, they had a field dynamic that didn’t need to be rehearsed. They played off of each other easily, naturally, an effective mixture of similar and complementary traits.

And then there was JJ in the passenger seat, talking a mile a minute as she untangled the last of the administrative knots that the team – that Hotch’s snap decisions – left in its wake with typical Gordian efficiency, not even trying to mask the frequency at which her eyes left the PDA and flicked over to him.

This was difficult for her, he knew: that she was so much more readable to any of them then they were to her, though they were all on the road together. JJ was perceptive, sensitive and talented with people, and people outside the BAU took her for a profiler as often as not. For those on the inside, though, the difference was unmistakable, and the word for the way JJ related to it was clung. She would play it, sometimes, like her attempt to protect her and Will’s relationship, or when she thought it was the better way to reduce the load on any of her teammates. Other times, her knowing they’d catch the small tells anyway meant she didn’t even try to hide them. JJ’s candor was a show of professionalism – not burdening her teammates with the need to decipher her – as much as it was a calculated strategy, because the best way to bypass a BAU profiler’s defenses was through honesty and trust.

That was one reason – or two, really; and another one was exemplified by the wallpaper on her private cell phone. As effective and natural as the other two sub-teams were, JJ was what clenched this particular division of labor in his mind. If he was to split the team in three and spend some days on the road with only one of them, JJ was the first choice on every possible account.

They were almost there when JJ finally snapped the phone shut and put it down.

“How are we doing?” she asked.

“Half a mile to the access road,” he said, “then another half a mile to the school.”

“Good,” she said. Her smile was small but genuine. “What did we ever do before the days of GPS?”

“Used actual road maps,” he said. “The woods?” he asked, because they were surrounded and it was pointless to pretend that he didn’t know; or that even if he hadn’t known before, he didn’t notice how she was avoiding the view; or that it didn’t matter.

“Different kind of trees,” she said, completely serious. “Thanks for not sending me to Pittsburgh.”

The corner of his mouth didn’t quirk, exactly, but it did relax, because that was JJ-speak for I’m fine and Thanks for caring and something Hotch roughly interpreted as Glad I could give you something innocuous to worry about, though JJ would never phrase it quite like that.

“Are we meeting Nicole Matthews there so you could get a feel of the place?”

“Yes, and also because not all the files pertaining to the class of 1990 had been computerized,” he said. “We’re looking for people who were socially rejected or isolated during their school years. We also need to get as clear a picture as possible on the social circle of the known victims.”

“Garcia ran the names of everyone from that class,” said JJ. “Out of a little more than a hundred students, seven raised flags. She texted me the names and emailed some more information. I suppose I can print it from a school computer.”

“Let’s not prompt Ms. Matthews with these names,” he said as he turned into the school’s parking lot.

“See if she brings any of them up herself,” said JJ. “Of course.”

Jeffrey Garrard lived alone. He didn’t even have a cat, just a white Cockatoo that had somehow survived the three days before Garrard’s boss reported him missing.

Prentiss passed a finger across one of the bookshelves. “He had to have kept a maid,” she said. “This place is entirely too clean, taking into account that nobody but the PD had been here in ten days.”

“He could definitely afford it,” said Morgan. “Did you see that coffee machine?”

“You mean the small spaceship in the kitchen?” asked Prentiss rhetorically. “Yes, I have. You know, these books are in an incredibly good condition. He either never read them or was very careful with them. Based on the fact that these are off of the bestsellers lists, I’d say the former.”

“Goes with the living room,” agreed Morgan. “Expensive leather couch facing the view from the fifteenth floor? This guy lived for show.”

“Both he and Richard Hursthouse did well for themselves,” she said, raising her voice as Morgan walked down the hallway. “That and their hometown are the only things they had in common. Maybe it’s not about old injustices – maybe the UnSub didn’t do as well and snapped after having it rubbed into his face at the reunion.”

“Could be,” Morgan called out from the bedroom. “It could be a recent change for him if he’d been hit by the economy.”

“Either way, he’d have to have enough available funds for this operation.”

“Timeline suggests he’s driving. And revenge-motivated, maybe he’s not planning on having a future after this. He could be making by on the last of his funds.”

“He could,” she agreed. “We should call Hotch. He and JJ are talking to the reunion lady – this should be another line of questioning.”

“You call Hotch. I’ll call Garcia.”

Garcia glanced at the phone just to see which line it was, not bothering to read the number. She tapped the button with her pen. “You’ve reached the crossroad of all knowledge, this is the goddess of the crossroad speaking.”

“Garcia, it’s Hotch.”

“Yes, Sir,” she chirped. Sharp and cheerful was the way to go with Hotch. He never returned her serves but sometimes, if she piled the enthusiasm high enough, his voice would warm a little. The frequency of these occurrences had gone from “irregular” to “practically never” in recent months, but Penelope Garcia did not do giving up. “How can I help?”

“JJ and I got a few names from Nicole Matthews. Cross them with yesterday’s list and with whatever Morgan’s and Prentiss’s idea turned up.”

She already had all the files on that class open. “Throw some names at me.”

“Of a hundred and seventeen people in the relevant class, Matthews named four who were certainly or likely harassed by other students. We have a Christopher Harris – ”

Grey list. “He lives two towns over, married with two, works at an auto shop. He’s been using his credit card and hasn’t gone anywhere in the past weeks.”

“Eric Procter.”

Far right side of her primary monitor, as white list as they came. “Sorry, honey. While priesthood is not necessarily guarantee of good virtue, Proctor is no good for this. He’s been right where he should be with his parish in Wisconsin.”

Hotch didn’t reply to that, not directly, but his tone shifted from distracted and preoccupied to something a little less flat as he said: “Brian Corey.”

Corey’s name was on top of the black list to the left of her monitor. “Bingo. Brian Corey is an independent trucker. His parents split when he was fifteen. Mommy left the house, and daddy died seven years ago, having not been kind to his liver. Brian never married. I’d call this an UnSub-ish past and no reason to like successful ex-schoolmates.”

“Broken family and a blue collar job,” agreed Hotch. “Can you tell where he’s been since the reunion?”

Wherein was the next domino. Or the problem. “No can do,” she told Hotch. “He’s been completely off the grid since the reunion party. He hasn’t made so much as an ATM withdrawal.”

“Huh.” Beat. “Let me know if that changes.”

“Done before you asked,” she said. She chewed on the inside of her lip. “There’s something else that might interest you.”

“What is it?”

“There is a Steven Barber from this class who never returned home to Miami. His boss reported him missing. There’s an ex that PD there liked for all of two days, but it didn’t catch and basically? They don’t know anything.”

“Steven Barber.” Spoken away from the phone, probably sifting through papers. “Matthews didn’t mention him at all, but the disappearance is suspicious. Garcia,” speaking directly into the phone again. “Keep digging. Let me know if there’s anything.”

“But of course, my liege.”

In an empty counselor’s office at East Carteret High, Hotch disconnected the call and looked at JJ, who looked up from her notes. “A potential UnSub and a putative first victim?” she asked.

“Could be,” he said. “Something’s strange, though. Brian Corey has gone completely off the radar since the reunion. Garcia said not even a cash withdrawal.”

JJ frowned. “It’s been over two weeks,” she said. “He would’ve had to pay for something. Gas and food, at the very least.”

“I did say it’s strange.”

“What next?”

“Talk to Matthews again, ask her about Barber specifically. We need to locate anyone who lives in this area and knows anyone from this school year. We also need to organize searches. These crime scenes are out there, and we need to find them. I’ll tell Rossi that when I catch him and Reid up on things.”

“You want Morgan and Prentiss in Miami.”

“Yes. If Barber is either a victim or our UnSub then we need to know more about him, and if his disappearance is unrelated then we need to know that, too.”

She nodded, and stood up. “I’ll call Matthews back in,” she said. “You complete the interview, I’ll take care of everything else.”

“JJ.”

She took her hand off the doorknob and turned around. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t smile, so she did. “Sure thing, Hotch.”

Day 14

Asinine Twit the Fourth had acquired a dog since Newton’s previous visit. That complicated matters. Roxy was adorable, and it wasn’t her fault that her owner had one order of revenge coming right up. Zipper bags were good for keeping the human prey from realizing what’s inside the envelopes until it was too late, but canine noses, that was a different matter.

Dog treats got Newton into the yard with minimal fuss from Roxy, and the combination of a double bag sealed with duct tape inside a padded envelope with a few drops of camphor oil assured that the package would be left alone – at least until Newton’s target opened the door to fetch the newspaper the next morning.

Day 17

Detective Clara Mancini secured a conference room, closed the door behind them and then turned around and eyed Prentiss and Morgan suspiciously. She had a fairly menacing presence for a five-foot-one, 120 pound woman. “Lt. Johnson explained what the FBI wants with this case,” she said, “but I could use a recap.”

“Steven Barber was at his school reunion the weekend before he disappeared,” said Prentiss. “Two other men from that school year have been murdered and another one is missing.”

“See, that’s the thing,” she said. “I never even heard about this reunion before your press officer called my department chief. Barber did tell his boss he’d be out of town, but no mention of the reunion.”

“What reason did he give his boss?” asked Morgan.

“Personal time,” said Mancini. “He had a major relationship break up on him eight weeks before, and the boss said Barber was recovering badly. Club owners aren’t your regular-issue businessmen, and Barber has been with Roy Pierce and his group for nearly a decades. Pierce liked the guy, didn’t think twice about him taking some time off. Then Barber just vanished into thin air. The last contact he made with anyone was an attempt to call his ex during that weekend, which you’re now telling me he spent out of state. Which means that we don’t even know if he’s made it back to Miami.”

Prentiss and Morgan exchanged a look. “We’ll need the contact information for anyone you’ve spoken to,” said Morgan. “We’ll probably need to talk with most of them again. Starting with the ex.”

“Sure.” Mancini reached to the folder on the desk and flipped it open. “Hayden DuBois. There you are.”

“Pretty,” commented Detective Wallace as he entered the conference room with two cups of coffee, one of which he promptly set down on the table.

Agent Reid turned his head from the laptop and blinked owlishly at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Your abstract art there,” said Wallace, gesturing at the laptop’s monitor. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s a network diagram of the victims’ class,” said Reid. “The colour and thickness of the arcs represent the type and strength of relationship. The shape and colour of the nodes represent what we know of each person. Standard modeling methods – ” Reid waved at the three evidence boards to the side of the room “ – didn’t uncover any helpful patterns, so I’m trying something else.”

“It’s also more economic in terms of boards,” said Wallace dryly. “I’m sure the rest of the department appreciates that.”

“Um, yeah, if –”

“It’s all right,” Wallace told him.

Reid nodded. “You wanted something? Is there any news from the search parties?”

“No, nothing,” said Wallace. “But I’m told you were the first person in this morning and no one’s seen you leave this room since, so I figured I could at least get you coffee.” Wallace had watched the infamous Agent Rossi all but fuss over this kid through the previous days. Things like sitting in place for six hours over the ‘network diagram’ explained that solicitousness.

Reid looked down at the cup of coffee to the left of the laptop as if he’d only just realized it was there, then back up at Wallace. “Thanks.”

“Sure. I’ll keep you posted if there’s any news.” Rossi was with the search parties and would probably call faster than Wallace’s people, but it was the nice thing to say.

“Yeah. Same here.”

Ten minutes after Wallace left the room, Reid’s phone went off.

“Reid.”

“Hi, kid, it’s Morgan. Interesting thing about Barber.”

Reid expanded the relevant node in his diagram. “What?”

“He had his six-year-long partner break up with him a month and a half before the reunion, and his coworkers all say he was pretty broken up about it. Prentiss and I talked to the partner and he says that, as far as he knows, Barber has been aware that he’s gay since his youth though he only came out years later.”

Morgan’s information parsed into two relevant details, which Reid articulated as he typed them in and waited for the model to adjust. “A potential motive and a stressor. Additionally, it provides an explanation of why the UnSub removed these particular organs from his victims as both the nipples and mouths carry a sexual significance.”

“Which the Corey-as-UnSub theory fails to explain,” agreed Morgan. “Our thoughts here exactly.”

The diagram finally finished computing. “Both hypotheses have an equal fit with their social constellation as adolescents. And Garcia still can’t find any trace of either of these men for the past two weeks.”

“Well, we’re still digging. Any news from Hotch and JJ?”

“They’ve been calling in periodically since morning, but – ” Reid pursed his lips, “ – we have a lot of data points, but they don’t congeal into any meaningful pattern yet.”

“We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks. Same here.”

Reid disconnected the call. The base suspect pool consisted of the 117 members of East Carteret High’s class of 1990. This was trimmed down to the 90 who had arrived to the reunion. The profile was presently pointing to Barber, but the facts didn’t line up very well. He could adjust the parameters of the modeling program and hope for a clearer pattern. Alternatively, he could also throw in more data, as the clearer patterns tended to emerge out of the greater data density.

Or he could do both, he figured as he called up the command prompt for the program with his right hand and thumbed his cell phone’s keypad with his left. “Garcia, could you look up information on our suspect pool’s spouses? Yes, I know it’s a long shot, but I think we’re missing something, here.”

Newton had one neat ploy, which the first three jerks had fallen for and which number five undoubtedly would. Number four didn’t share that handy weakness, though, and that called for a different approach.

Which was why Newton was standing on that porch, smiling to the soon-do-be dead bitch.

They began the search fanning out from Corey’s home town of Williston, a few miles east of Beaufort. It was early afternoon when Reid called with a status update and the new theory of Barber-as-UnSub. Barber, like most of that class, was from Beaufort itself. Hotch debated it with himself, but opted to not interrupt the search.

One hour to the end of daylight, the decision paid off.

The murder scene was an abandoned stretch of shore, hidden behind a patch of trees. It had accumulated quite a lot of animal disturbance in the two and a half weeks that passed but the effort the UnSub had put into arranging it was still showing. The body was mangled far beyond recognition, but animals and the elements did not destroy Brian Corey’s driver’s license, nor did they disturb the careful arrangement of the knives.

Knives. In the plural. A whole set of them. All of them with dried blood. Hotch had no doubt that they would find tool marks on the bones and that the UnSub had extensively tortured this victim as well as the others. It was an unusually elaborate scene and, normally, this would indicate an UnSub with a previous record. Standing on the edge of the scene, by the trees, and trying to imagine what it might have looked like when the scene was fresh, Hotch thought there could be another explanation. He looked up over the tree line, estimating the direction of the setting sun.

The sheriff, passing by, followed Hotch’s gaze. “Yeah, it’s a pretty little corner, all right,” he said. “This guy must have a nasty sense of humor.”

“The sun would come up from that direction, wouldn’t it?” asked Hotch, indicating directly across the waterway.

“Probably,” agreed the sheriff. “Don’t tell me that means anything to you.”

“It might mean something to the UnSub. Both our potential victims were last seen the night of the reunion party. The UnSub tortured his victim, spent time with him. He probably spent here all night, waiting for the sunrise. A sunrise symbolizes a new beginning, or freedom from bonds. The UnSub may have chosen this place for the view of the sunrise. The aesthetics of the scene are arranged to match the emotional value the UnSub attaches to it.”

“Lovely,” muttered the sheriff, and trudged off.

Yes, thought Hotch. If you’re the UnSub.

The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next. - Ursula K. LeGuin