I own none of the characters in Criminal Minds.

A special welcome to new readers: If you're like me, sometimes you come here, play with the search features and look for a recently completed story to enjoy in one sitting as opposed to checking the site daily for new chapters. I am not going to lie. The first few chapters are little rough around the edges. I didn't know where I was going with this thing for a while, but be patient. In some ways this is my world that I am inviting the BAU into. This story analyzes some of the running themes of the show. I'd also kill for some new reviews. PLEASE REVIEW!

I have very little working knowledge of the field of psychology, so health professionals might have a harder time maintaining a suspension of disbelief. Please be patient as you read the first chapter.

Chapter 1

Wheels Up

The first thing to keep in mind, is the fact that I am a fairly normal person. My name is Maya Selzer. I am thirty-eight years old. I am five-seven with brown hair that I keep at a length of three inches below my chin. I grew up in a suburb outside San Diego, California. My parents are happily retired former teachers. I have two older brothers, both architects, who dote on me as their baby sister. I have a slightly above average I.Q. which lead me to skip two grades. I was your typical science club nerd and endured mild bullying. I majored in psychology and attended Med. School at Stanford University.

I am a staff supervisor and the Worthing Mental Health Institute (the place has gone through a variety of name changes, but this is one that is currently considered the least menacing). The Worthing Institute is an extremely private mental health facility just outside Sacramento. Our "specialty" is treating trauma-induced psychological disorders. Our clientele typically consists of wealthy battered spouses and children. We have a large in-patient facility that consists of apartment style suites and a handful of hospital rooms. So why I am I telling you all this? To set the stage for what comes next.

I was sitting in my office reading case summaries late in the afternoon when a young secretary's blond head appeared.

"The Queen request's your presence in the main conference room," she said.

I sighed as I grabbed a note pad and got up. When Shannon Davis calls for me, it is always for bad news.

The sight that greeted me confirmed that it was indeed bad news. Five people sat around a single large table. Melvin Morris, a beefy man in his his early fifties with thick brown hair and a graying beard. He was the lead child therapy psychologist who's jovial personality got under my skin. Next to him were two of his therapists under his supervision. Their names are of no importance. Tina Burns, a mousy white-haired woman in her late fifties who specialized in battered woman cases. And finally Brooke Slade, a red-head in her early forties who was as alternative therapy specialist. As for me, you'll figure that out soon enough.

"Hiya Maya! It appears that the Stockholm Squad has been assembled," Melvin said. I glared at him as I took my seat. I truly hate that name for what we deal with.

Shannon appeared as if on cue with a stack of folders. "Your cutesy names for this situation belittle seriousness of cases we are about to examine."

Shannon was a no-nonsense woman in her mid-fifties. Her gray hair was set in a bun that was very that made her look older. The reason I mildly "dislike" her: She was an easily irritated egomaniac who liked to throw her staff into the deep end of the pool and watch them struggle.

She turned on the computer screen to the left. "We have been called in by the federal government to help assess the situation in Cortland Wyoming."

I almost felt sick to my stomach. It was all over the news right now. It was referred to as the "Cortland situation" because it was the only town within a hundred miles of where the actual crimes took place. A boarding school of over sixty girls who had been reported missing was found there. Most of the details were still under wraps, but it appears that the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit was called in after three dead missing girls were discovered by the local Park Rangers.

"The age of the girls ranges from eight to eighteen," Shannon said as she pulled up a picture of the schools. It looked it was a gray box of a building that looked menacing. There were bars on all the windows.

"What type of abuse has been found?" Tina asked.

Shannon actually looked unnerved by the question. "We don't know yet. The problem is, the criminals had figured out the feds were coming and destroyed all the evidence of the chemicals and physical torture devices. The lead perpetrators opted for suicide by cop. This is an extremely small town, the hospital is still in the process of examining the girls."

"Are they verbally responsive?" I asked.

Shannon shook her head somberly. (I should mention that she is very good with dealing victims and their families and keeps her claws retracted during these situations.) "The girls are practically mute. They only give one word answers. The parents that have arrived so far are having a hard time re-connecting with their once-lively daughters," she said.

Those who had been taking notes stopped. Now everyone was looking at Shannon, waiting for the next emotional bomb shell.

"The last thing worth mentioning at this point is how the girls were dressed." She pressed a button and three sets of dresses appeared. They were all gray plaid jumpers with white collars.

"The whole situation reminds me of a combination of what Jane Eyre might have looked like if it were set on the prairie," Brooke said.

Shannon nodded. "The similarities don't end there." She gave each of us a set of thick file folders. "This is what the FBI has sent us so far. Since the discovery was only made late yesterday evening, they have requested that we arrive tomorrow morning to give them and hospitals more time to interview the children and examine the school with a fine tooth a comb for more clues about what happened. Be at the landing strip five-thirty. That is all." Shannon promptly left the room.

We all stared at each other. We were wondering what else Shannon wasn't telling us.

…

I'd like to take the time to explain a few things about how this kind of team works. We are not directly associated with the government. We are one of the three largest mental health institutes that specialize in child abuse-related cases. They do not pay for our private jet (they could care less how get there just as long as we get there in a timely manner). Our job is essentially triage work: We assist local therapists diagnose the extent of the mental trauma. In situations like this we do not stay long as most parents are desperate to take their kids home. We compile assessments and have the file attached to patient's medical records. When dealing with parents we are careful about what we say and advise (the subtext being "demand") them to seek psychiatric treatment in their home towns. Again you must be wondering, "What is the point of all of this?" Patience is a virtue my friends.

The jet is about ten years old and has a musty smell to it. The seats are a brown leather-like material. The coffee-maker barely works. I have only been in it one other time and I still have nightmares about what I saw two years later.

Melvin's underlings can't stop looking around. "Well this ain't Air Force One kiddoes. But she is a well-oiled machine."

I resisted the urge to tell Melvin that this not a car that the gravity of the earth ensures that is stays firmly on the ground as rest of the world-weary team arrives.

It is a two hour plane ride to Wyoming. Once in the air, Shannon briefs the team on what else has been discovered, which was basically nothing. Everyone bent down and silently began to take more notes either on paper or laptops. Shannon then motioned for me to come and sit with her in the more private section of the jet. This was the moment I was dreading.

She motioned for me to sit on the other side of the small table. "You will be working on a set of cases like the rest of the team, but I am sure you have noticed that it is not as large."

"So what is so important that we needed to be two thousand feet above the ground to discuss?" I tried to hide the irritation in my voice, but I hate her cloak-and-dagger tactics.

Shannon ignored the menace in my voice. "I assure you that this is a case that requires thorough discretion. We did find an adult who had been reported missing fourteen months ago. They believe he knows nothing about the criminal activity going on in the school. He simply worked as a middle school teacher and was actually trying to protect the girls when the FBI arrived."

I had no idea where this was going and was starting to feel sick. Shannon pulled out a folder with an FBI logo on it. I slowly opened the folder and choked when I saw the picture.

"Spencer Reid?"

At this point I'd like to mention that my field of specialty is Dissociative Identity Disorders. More commonly known as, multiple personality disorders.