Chapter 4: Building the Profile
The Columbus Police Department smelled like burnt coffee and desperation.
Detective Warren had commandeered a conference room on the third floor—whiteboard covering one wall, crime scene photos already pinned in neat rows. Four families now. Sixteen bodies. The weight of them pressed against the glass windows like fog.
I took a seat near the back, notepad open, pen ready. The system hummed quietly at the edge of my awareness, still recovering from the morning's involuntary activations.
[FOCUS: 28/50]
[RECOVERY RATE: 2/HOUR]
Slow. Too slow. I need to conserve what I have.
Hotch stood at the front of the room, marker in hand, building the profile on the whiteboard in his precise handwriting.
"What do we know?"
Reid spoke first, flipping through his notes without actually reading them.
"Four families, all within a fifteen-mile radius. The Harrisons, Mendozas, Petersons, and now the Brennans. Each staged as murder-suicide, father blamed. Average cooling-off period between kills was twelve days, but the gap between Peterson and Brennan was only six."
"He's accelerating," Morgan said.
"Or something triggered him." Gideon's voice was quiet, but everyone listened. "The staging is meticulous, which suggests a controlled personality. Acceleration implies a loss of that control. What changed?"
The room went silent.
Us. We changed it. The BAU showing up put pressure on him.
I didn't say it. Waited.
Elle beat me to it.
"We did. Our presence. He knows we're hunting him now, and that's either going to make him sloppy or make him desperate."
Gideon nodded.
"Both are useful. Desperate men make mistakes."
Hotch added "ACCELERATING" to the board, underlined twice.
"Garcia, what do we have on victim connections?"
Her voice crackled through the speakerphone at the center of the table.
"Okay, so I've been running every possible connection between the families—schools, churches, gyms, grocery stores, you name it. And I found something beautiful. All four families used the same financial advisory service. Henderson Financial Solutions, based right there in Columbus."
Reid's pen stopped moving.
"Financial stress was present in all four households. The Harrisons had just missed two mortgage payments. The Mendozas were facing bankruptcy. The Petersons had a second mortgage they couldn't cover. And the Brennans—"
"Let me guess," Morgan interrupted. "Money problems."
"Credit card debt up to their eyeballs. They were three months behind on their car payments."
The room absorbed this.
I looked at the photos on the board. Four fathers, all blamed for killing their families. All struggling with money. All connected to the same financial advisor.
He's not punishing them. He's—
"He thinks he's helping them."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Every head turned.
Careful. Don't lead. Contribute.
"The staging," I continued, keeping my voice measured. "It's not about framing the fathers. It's about giving the families a way out. In his mind, financial ruin is a fate worse than death. He's not killing them—he's saving them. Mercy killing."
Silence stretched across the room.
Gideon's eyes found mine.
"Go on."
"The suicide note in each case mentioned 'unbearable pressure' and 'no other choice.' Those aren't the words of a man who snapped. They're the words of someone justifying what he's about to do. The unsub is providing a narrative—not for the police, but for the families themselves. He wants them to understand why he's doing this. He believes they'd thank him if they could."
The silence held for another moment.
Then Hotch wrote "MISSION-ORIENTED / RIGHTEOUS" on the board.
"That fits," he said. "Organized, believes in his cause, sees himself as a savior. This isn't rage or sexual gratification. This is ideology."
Morgan leaned forward.
"So we're looking for someone with financial knowledge, access to these families' private information, and a God complex."
"The financial advisor," JJ said.
"Or someone in that office." Reid was already making connections. "They'd have access to client records, know exactly who was struggling, understand the intimate details of their financial situations."
Garcia's voice came through the speaker again.
"Way ahead of you, boy genius. Henderson Financial Solutions has three employees—Marcus Henderson, the owner, age sixty-two, no criminal record. His assistant, Patricia Wells, forty-four, also clean. And a junior advisor named Raymond Marks. Thirty-eight. Former accountant. And here's where it gets interesting—Marks also volunteers with the Columbus Police Auxiliary."
The temperature in the room dropped.
"Police auxiliary," Morgan said. "That gives him access to schedules. Patrol routes. Response times."
"And crime scene protocols," Elle added. "He'd know exactly how local PD processes a murder-suicide. What they look for, what they miss."
Hotch's marker hit the board again. "RAYMOND MARKS — PRIME SUSPECT."
[PROFILE CORRELATION: 78% MATCH]
[DATA INSUFFICIENT FOR FULL ASSESSMENT]
I dismissed the notification, focused on the room.
JJ was already standing.
"I'll coordinate with local media. We withhold the staging details, release the financial connection as a warning. Anyone who's had dealings with Henderson Financial and is experiencing money problems needs to be extra cautious."
"Do it," Hotch said. "Morgan, Reid—pull everything on Marks. Work history, personal life, any previous complaints. Elle, Mercer—" He paused. "Go through the victim files again. Look for any direct contact between Marks and the families."
I nodded, grabbed a stack of files.
The briefing broke apart into controlled motion. Everyone had a task. Everyone had a purpose.
I was halfway through the Harrison financial records when it happened.
[DANGER SENSE TRIGGERED]
[THREAT PROXIMITY: LOW]
[DIRECTION: INDETERMINATE]
[FOCUS: -3]
My body reacted before my mind could process—muscles tensing, eyes scanning the room, hand drifting toward my hip where my weapon sat.
What? There's nothing here. We're in a police station.
The sensation was vague, like pressure against the back of my skull. Something wrong. Something watching. But the room was full of cops, agents, support staff. No obvious threat.
Morgan noticed.
"You good, man?"
I forced my shoulders to relax.
"Low blood sugar. Skipped breakfast, then lunch."
He didn't look convinced, but he also didn't push.
"There's a vending machine down the hall. Go get something. You're no good to anyone if you pass out."
The danger sense faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only the ghost of unease.
What triggered that? The station? The case files? Something I saw and didn't consciously register?
I stood, walked to the vending machine in the hallway. Fed it quarters. The candy bar that dropped was already soft—heat damage from being too close to the glass. I ate it anyway, letting the sugar hit my system while my mind worked the problem.
[DANGER SENSE: INCONCLUSIVE]
[POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: PROXIMITY TO UNSUB, SURVEILLANCE DETECTION, ENVIRONMENTAL ANOMALY]
[FOCUS: 25/50]
Surveillance detection. Someone watching the station?
I looked out the window at the end of the hall. Parking lot. Street. Normal traffic. Nothing obvious.
But Marks has police auxiliary access. He could know exactly when and where we're meeting. Could be watching right now.
The thought settled into my stomach like cold water.
I finished the candy bar, threw away the wrapper, and headed back to the conference room.
Morgan intercepted me at the door, pressed something into my hand—a protein bar, still sealed.
"For later," he said. "Stale candy won't cut it."
"Thanks."
"You sure you're okay? You looked like you saw a ghost back there."
"Just tired. First case nerves."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded.
"It gets easier. Not the cases—those never get easier. But knowing your team has your back. That part gets easier."
I pocketed the protein bar.
"I appreciate it."
He clapped my shoulder and walked back to his desk.
Brotherhood begins with small gestures. Protein bars and patrol routes. Trust built brick by brick.
I returned to the victim files, but part of my attention stayed on the windows. On the parking lot. On the vague certainty that somewhere out there, Raymond Marks was watching us watching him.
Two hours later, Detective Warren's phone rang.
He answered, listened, and his face went gray.
"There's been another one. Family of four. Bodies are still warm."
Hotch was on his feet before Warren finished speaking.
"Address."
"2847 Oakwood Drive. The Brennans."
The room exploded into motion. Chairs scraped. Phones appeared. Hotch was already issuing orders.
"Morgan, Mercer—with me. Elle, coordinate with local units. Reid, stay on the Marks connection. JJ—"
I was moving before he finished, grabbing my jacket, checking my weapon.
The danger sense hadn't been wrong.
It had been a warning.
And Raymond Marks had killed again while we sat in a conference room building profiles.
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