Disclaimer: I do not own Criminal Minds

A/N: Thanks to mablereid for the encouragement and support.

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A strong wind blew off the bay, making the residents and visitors to the San Francisco area pull their coats tighter around them as protection from the harsh weather. The sun shone and reflected off the blue water that carried boats in and out of Fisherman's Wharf. Alcatraz loomed off in the distance as ferries seemed to continually transport tourists to and from the old prison.

Spencer Reid sat in the back of the SUV that was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge remembering visiting San Francisco as a child. Diana Reid had been guest lecturing on The Canterbury Tales at the University of San Francisco and it was one of the rare occasions when William and Spencer had come along. It remained one of his happiest childhood memories. His mother had booked a whole week off as had his father and missing a week of school was of no consequence to Spencer. The young profiler recalled, as a six year old, being thrilled to see the water and the ships in San Francisco bay. He had never seen anything like that, living in the desert.

They had driven to San Francisco from Las Vegas due to his mother's fear of flying. William grumbled at first about the long drive but Spencer remembered being ecstatic although he tried not to show it. Very seldom did he get so much time alone with his parents when they weren't concentrating on work. He considered himself the perfect child for a road trip. He never asked the dreaded, "Are we there yet?" He knew how far it was from Las Vegas to San Francisco and he merely calculated the speed to find out how long they'd be on the road. He didn't fidget and say he was bored. As long as there were books he would be entertained.

He and his father had attended his mother's lectures and afterward they had seen the sights of the city. His mother had been healthy then and she and his father had been happy together. The song might be right; he'd left his heart or at least part of it in San Francisco. This trip to San Francisco, however, was not to be a happy one. He was here with the BAU and that meant only one thing, San Francisco was in trouble.

Prostitutes in San Francisco were being murdered. Prostitutes were the most common murder victims and the number one targets among serial killers. These murders were different, however, in that the women were tortured for a long time before they were killed. Although they were from various parts of the city, which was wreaking havoc with Reid's geographic profile, they were always dumped in the Mission District. This led the profilers to believe that the killer was likely a Hispanic man since the Mission District appeared to be within his comfort zone. They figured he either lived or worked in the Mission District.

The team had been here for five days and was no closer than when they'd started. A tip line had been set up but there was less action on it than they had hoped for. People it seemed did not look out for prostitutes. Some thought they were getting what they deserved for living an unorthodox lifestyle. There were the usual weirdoes who always called tip lines accusing everyone from their next door neighbor to little men from Mars. They had laughed when one tipster called and said he had seen the murderer take one of the prostitutes away. He sounded like a little child and the team wondered if his mother was aware he was calling hot lines for something to do. He had called three times since and the team was beginning to wonder if anyone was supervising this child or was aware of what he was doing. Rossi ordered a trap and trace for the next time the child called. They would inform his parents and let them take care of disciplining the child. They agreed that this was in the child's best interests.

The trace had revealed the call came from the home of Bruce Bancroft in a moderately upscale part of the city. Hotch tried but was unable to get in touch with Mr. or Mrs. Bancroft. He decided to go by the house when they broke for lunch. He felt he could use the break from the intenseness of the conference room. Morgan and Reid were with him as he drove through the San Francisco neighborhoods looking for the Bancroft house. "It should be a left at that stop sign ahead, Hotch," Reid said from the back seat. He had been studying San Francisco maps for days and he felt like he knew the city backwards and forwards.

They found the home easily enough and Hotch said as they exited the vehicle, "Let's just put a little of the fear of God in him about doing something like this but let's be gentle." The other two nodded and they headed toward the house. The doorbell was answered by a young Hispanic woman. They identified themselves and showed their ID. They asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Bancroft.

The woman had looked frightened as soon as she saw that they were federal agents. "I am sorry senors," she said in a thick Spanish accent, "Meester Bancroft, he not home and Mees Fletcher not here either." She was wringing her hands nervously.

"Do the Bancrofts have a child," Hotch asked.

"Oh, si, master Fletcher."

"Is he home," Hotch inquired of the petrified woman.

"Si senor, but I do not know if Meester Bancroft would like it if I let the boy talk to strangers from the policia."

"We're not the police," Morgan interjected, "We're federal agents."

Hotch began again, "We're here because some…"

"Well, somebody finally showed up" said a small voice from the top of a winding staircase that began in the foyer. "I called four times; I thought you'd never get here." The men looked up to see a little boy with a round face punctuated with tiny freckles and topped with an unruly mop of blond hair. He was missing one of his front teeth which caused him to lisp a little. He ran down the plushly carpeted stairs silently.

"So you've been calling the tip line," Hotch said to the boy, "You know you really shouldn't be doing that. It's an important thing we're doing. We're trying to catch a bad man and when someone calls as a prank it only makes more work for us."

The boy crossed his arms and looked at Hotch like he had lost his mind. "I know that," he said. "You're looking for the killer of those prostitutes. You're from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I saw Agent Jareau on the news giving out the tip line number so when I saw what I saw I thought I better call. I'm not stupid you know."

Hotch looked somewhat taken aback by the child. Morgan looked amazed. "How old are you," he asked.

"Eight," the child replied, "And how old are you?"

Morgan was so shocked he responded, "Thirty-five."

"Son," Hotch said, "I don't think you could have seen anything. None of the murders took place in this area."

The boy sighed and looked at the ceiling as if he were talking to a bunch of morons. "First of all, I'm not your son and second of all, how do you know that anyway? I thought you only knew where the prostitutes disappeared from and that the bodies were found in the Mission District, so how could you know where the murders took place."

Morgan looked at Hotch; he couldn't believe they were talking to an eight year old, "Is he for real?" He turned back to the child, "Are you some kind of genius or something?"

"So they tell me, I have an IQ of 180 but then, I don't think intelligence can be satisfactorily quantified."

Hotch and Morgan looked at one another. Morgan spoke first, "A mini Reid."