A/N Yeah, I know, no "Watchers" last week due to Holiday Challenge stuff, and probably not this week because this plot weasel seized me by the throat. Soon, though. I promise. And as always, these toons are not mine, and it's a pity because they would have a rockin' good time if they were ...

Showdown at Sunsplash Estates

Chapter One

Looking for Bubba the Unsubba

The first unusual thing about the Florida home invasion thing was that the first big break came from Hotchner. Hotch was an ace negotiator and not half bad at interrogation, but broad intuitive leaps based on evidence weren't usually his strong suit.

But there he was, mopping his brow in Tampa, in the public-employee-sector version of air conditioning in a mid-July marked by merciless heat and humidity that left even the locals weak and wrung out, and he said, "Wait a minute. Post mortem. Like the bubble bath guy."

And at the time, nobody but Morgan took him seriously. And Morgan only took him seriously because he was desperate for any new kind of direction. Unlike, say, Rossi, Prentiss, and Reid, who were still beating their brains out at victimology. Morgan had discarded victimology hours earlier, when Baby Girl could find nothing in common among the victims other than living on the Gulf Coast of Florida, using exterminators, and having family members who were conservative Christians of assorted denominations.

Which covered pretty much everyone along the Gulf Coast.

Four homes invaded over seven months. Four families, a total of thirteen people, shot and/or stabbed, along with all the family pets, right down to tropical fish. After they were dead, the bodies, both people and pets, were stomped extensively by two separate sets of boots. Then someone scrawled 1040 on various walls in the victims' blood. Human, animal – they weren't picky.

The meaning of 1040 was still up in the air. Time, date, place? The IRS? Motor oil?

By contrast, the bubble bath guy, whom the public called the Cheerleader Killer and the BAU team officially coded GCBUBMAN and privately called Bubba the Unsubba, had seized fifteen girls in their late teens all along the Gulf Coast from Florida to Texas over a three-year period. He raped and tortured them, strangled them, then he soaked them in bubble bath, destroying all the physical evidence, before he dumped their remains along country roads. The BAU had looked at Bubba on and off for two of those three years and still had nothing but a way-too-general profile to go on.

Maybe it was just because Hotch took every BAU failure so damn personally.

"Wait a minute," he had said. "Post mortem. Like the bubble bath guy."

And everyone kind of went, yeah, uh-huh, and continued on their personal tracks except for Morgan, who asked Garcia what would happen if they merged Bubba with the 1040 guys.

"Interesting," she said after a moment. "The Diaz girl disappeared two days after the Naples invasion. The Chan girl was dumped three days before Pensacola. They weren't actually from those cities, but they were from a forty-five, fifty mile radius. Statistically, I'd say that it's seriously significant."

Which led to the second interesting thing about the Florida home invasion thing, which was that Morgan and Hotchner spent most of the day in Sarasota, talking to people who had been involved with the very first Bubba case, in April of 2007. This time, though, they were looking for potential perpetrator pairs that might have shown up on the suspect lists.

They got nothing that looked immediately exciting, but they at least had new ground to turn, new directions to take. Sometimes a fresh mindset was all it took.

In mid-afternoon, they reluctantly climbed back into the SUV they had been assigned, one whose A/C output was markedly puny considering how much noise it made, and started back toward Tampa. Even with the system cranked to the (deafening) max, Derek fanned himself with a folded road map. Hotchner loosened his tie. Neither of them spoke much; it took too much energy.

Then his cell sounded.

He pressed Talk. "Morgan."

"We may have something solid here," Rossi said. "We've been working our way through the Russells' recent phone records. The elder Mrs. Russell, Miriam, made several calls last week to an Edgar Dugan, he's a retired minister, Mrs. Russell's former pastor. We called him and he's anxious to speak to us, says he thinks that he may have useful information."

"Define useful information."

There was the briefest of hesitations. "He said that the home invasions and the Cheerleader killings are being done by the same two guys."

"What?" Morgan gasped. "Are you serious?"

He sensed Hotchner suddenly perking up, taking interest behind the wheel.

"Dead serious," Rossi replied. "And there's more. He says they have deep ties here–"

"Deep ties where? Hey, I'm putting you on speaker, not that it'll help much with this son-of-a-bitching lousy car–"

Rossi tried to talk again.

"Hold on," Morgan said. Then, murmuring an apology to Hotch, he shut off the A/C. "Go on, Rossi."

"–Deep ties in the Tampa-to-Venice area, including ties to law enforcement. He said that Mrs. Russell thought she knew who the Cheerleader Killers were. Killers. Plural. He said that's why she was killed – she was the significant victim Tuesday night – and he and his wife suspect that they may be next, because they have been asking the same kinds of question that Mrs. Russell was asking, to some of the same people."

Morgan whistled. "He volunteered all that?"

"That, and more. He says that these guys have committed at least six home invasions, not four, but the other two were earlier and didn't look the same as this last bunch. He named the two families and Garcia's already punched them into the system. One of them occurred in Athens, Georgia, on the very same weekend that the LaBelle girl was taken."

"Where is this guy? And why hasn't he spoken up before?"

"He said that he and his wife thought it was just an interesting topic for speculation until the calls from Mrs. Russell – and since she was killed, they've been afraid to approach the locals, not knowing who these guys' contacts are. He said that us calling him was an answer to his prayers. As for where he is, he's out your way. That's why I called you. They're about midway between Venice and Sarasota – Garcia's sending you all the data."

"OK, thanks," Derek said. "You heard that?" he said to Hotch.

"Yes." Hotchner's face might be red and sweat-soaked in the absence of air conditioning, but relief was evident in his voice. He was already actively looking for a place to turn the SUV around and head back southward. "About time we caught a break on this."

"Sure is. OK, the location info is coming in now. It's 126 Kimball Court, Sunsplash Estates. Gated community, Garcia says. They've already notified security that we're coming. I've got the coordinates here … "

Hotchner reached gratefully for the A/C controls.

~ o ~

Half an hour later, they pulled up at the guard kiosk. Brutally hot air hit them even through the ineffectual blasting of the A/C as Hotchner ran the window down. He presented his creds and said, "Agents Aaron Hotchner and Derek Morgan, to see the Reverend Edgar Dugan."

The guard looked them and their car over. "Are they expecting you?"

"Yes, we're expected around four."

The guard consulted both his wristwatch and a clipboard. "Right," he said. "Have you been here before?" When they replied in the negative, he said, "Did, ah, did the Rev and his wife give you any tips on basic behavior in the community?"

Hotch frowned. "Nothing specific," he said.

The guard made a noise that could have been amusement.

Morgan started to wonder whether the Sunsplash Estates were an upscale mental institution. He wanted to see something of the layout, but the only thing visible before them was a high white stone wall with the name of the community in raised metal letters, and twin openings for vehicles on either side, about twenty feet each direction from the gate house.

"Well," the guard said, "you don't have to be like everybody else, but it's considered a mark of courtesy and respect to follow your hosts' lead. But being a friend of The Rev's, I suspect you already know that."

"Thank you," Hotchner said. He accepted the parking authorization card and tucked it into the pocket on his sun visor. Then, with a friendly wave at the guard, he slid the SUV back into Drive and began negotiating his way around the maze of walls like the whatever-you-called-those-things, those entry ports of medieval castles.

Three turns between high fieldstone walls festooned with ivy and shaded by broad and dark-leaved trees led them into blindingly bright sunlight. It reflected off dozens of small, pristine white houses in lazy loops that encircled the green and white umbrellas of an impeccably landscaped central park with fountains, tennis courts, playgrounds – and an Olympic-sized pool right in the middle of everything.

"Aw, Christ," Aaron breathed, and he did not sound a bit happy.

Morgan squinted through his shades, held the road map up as a sunshield, and gasped aloud.

Before them, children romped. Residents of all ages frolicked in the pools – there were three of them, one for toddlers and one for younger children in addition to the main one, Morgan could see now. Mothers – or nannies – with sun-shaded strollers sat on benches and gossiped as they rocked their infants rhythmically. Adults and a few teenagers played baseball, tennis, volleyball and Frisbee. Almost everyone wore a hat, a billed ball cap or a Panama or a broad-brimmed sun hat. Some, especially the bike riders and the joggers, wore socks and sneakers.

Nobody wore much of anything else.

"It's, it's–" Morgan began lamely. "It's a nudist colony? Let me call Baby Girl, see what she can tell us about–"

"Sunsplash Estates, a Clothing Optional Residential and Resort Community, it says on those umbrellas over there," Hotchner informed him, sounding even more unhappy by the second. "Established in 2003. It would have been helpful if the Reverend Edgar Dugan had mentioned that."

Ya think?

"No wonder the guard was grinning when we said Dugan hadn't given us any tips," Derek said darkly. "Probably laughing his ass off thinking of a couple FBI agents stripping off to–"

"No," Hotchner said, his tone crisp, authoritative. "No way, Morgan. Abso-fucking-lutely no way. It says 'clothing optional,' not 'clothing forbidden.'"

Morgan raised one eyebrow. He'd been about to say that he'd just been playing, but he was somewhat taken aback by Hotchner's choice of words. He had rarely known Mr. I-Represent-the-Bureau to use foul language on the job. He had to be pretty damned upset to drop that F-bomb during work hours.

"Turn left here, Hotch," he said instead. "Then take the next left, that's Kimball Court, and it's the third house down on the right."

Ohhh, man. I am so gonna get Garcia for not picking up on that little clue ...