A/N: The story arc with Doakes being the "Bay Harbor Butcher" never happened. He and Quinn don't exist. I don't really remember Doakes that well, and I don't like Quinn. (Just a personal preference.) Also, Deb doesn't know about Dexter's… hobby.

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to either Criminal Minds, or Dexter.

This was the fifth victim in an agonizingly slow-paced spree. Dexter had just finished up his work at the abduction site, and was well on his way to the newly discovered dumpsite. There really is no such thing as a slow-paced spree killing; even the words are in direct conflict with one another. To a man like Dexter Morgan, waiting two days for another clue felt like waiting for two years. He wasn't anxious to put this sick bastard away though. No, he had something else planned entirely. He stopped his car just on the outskirts of the yellow tape and got out. After gathering his equipment, he deftly made for the alleyway where his impatient sister was situated. "Same as the others?" he asked, not really caring who answered.

"Yes," it was Batista, "completely different methods of torture, and a '5' burned into the poor girl's chest."

"Poor Girl" was an apt description. There were a multitude of chemical burns marring her flesh, accompanied by several abrasions and the occasional laceration. Dexter assessed the damage, 'a lot of work for two days'. There were defensive marks; this girl had fought back at some point. Other than her injuries, there was nothing. He looked to Deb and spoke, "there's no blood here. This one seems to be more in Masuka's area of expertise."

Before she could say anything, the other man appeared. "Fret not, Dex, here I come to save your ass!" Vince Masuka struck the pose and all as he sang out the latter part of the sentence. He proceeded to break into a throaty chuckle, clearly pleased with his own joke.

"Dex," Debra decided to implicitly ignore the other technician, "LaGuerta is breathing down our necks here. I want all hands on deck for this one." He bobbed his head in acceptance, and grabbed the camera from his bag.

He was finding this killer to be exceptionally annoying. First and foremost, there hadn't been a shred of evidence left behind as of yet. Usually, it was rather easy for Dexter to manipulate police procedure, here and there, and come away with a lead that he didn't have to share. So far, he had been afforded no such opportunities in this case. Secondly, this guy had appeared seemingly from nowhere. There were no cases that matched, or even came close to, this specific modus operandi. He could only find solace in the thought that Deb, and the officers under her command, had nothing to go on either.

Three Days Later:

It was hours before their usual start time, in-fact it was still dark outside, but none of the assembled agents seemed to mind all that much. They were sat around their conference table, coffee in-hand, preparing for what was likely to be a very long day. A woman entered then, she had long blonde hair and an all-business attitude about her demeanor. "Sorry for the wait guys," she began as she passed the youngest member of the group a file, and instructed the others to turn to their tablets. "I just got off the phone with Lieutenant Debra Morgan of the Miami Metro Police Department. She's pretty pissed that her Captain called us in on this."

"What are we dealing with this time, J.J.?" Derek, arguably the most physically intimidating member of the team, wanted to delve into the case. He would worry about the politics of the local station later.

"Garcia," J.J. said simply, nodding in the direction of the other woman. The outlandishly, bubbly technical analyst started a rather macabre slide show. "Six women, ages ranging from 25 to 29, have been abducted, tortured and murdered. The methods of torture vary for each victim. The locals probably wouldn't even have connected the murders if it hadn't been for this," she emphasized as the monitor displayed the blown-up image of a detailed burn.

"The number '4'?" The eldest member of the group queried, while examining the image on his own screen.

"Each of these women have similar injuries, with different numerals." J.J. didn't want to voice the next thought, but someone had to. "Rossi, it appears that he's 'numbering' his victims."

The ever-stoic leader finally spoke up. "Time span between murders?" He trusted J.J.'s judgment, and if she thought this case deserved the attention of the B.A.U., he'd back her play. He didn't mind forgoing a few bureaucratic steps in how cases were to be moved up in priority.

"Anywhere from a couple of days to a week. The most recent one was discovered 30 minutes ago in Olympia Heights, Florida." J.J. responded quickly, having already anticipated the question from her boss.

"Only 30 minutes ago," Reid's voice was driven higher by his shock. "Why did they contact us so quickly?"

"Apparently the Captain, a Maria LaGuerta, is very concerned with her public image." J.J. was powerless to prevent the teenage-esque eye roll that momentarily wracked her features.

Aaron Hotchner had all the information on the case that he needed. "Wheels up in twenty, we'll continue this discussion on the jet." He was out the door, and headed to the Section Chief's office, before anyone could accept his commands.

J.J. followed his order with, "we're meeting the Lieutenant at the police department when we land and sharing our insight," before leaving to retrieve her things.

The B.A.U. team exited the elevator on the floor designated to the homicide division of Miami Metro. They briskly headed for the office at the back of the main room. Finding it empty, they were only marginally surprised when they were addressed from behind. "You must be the feds." It was a statement. They knew that this woman had absolutely no say in the call for their assistance, and they were used to working with people that didn't really want to work with them.

"You must be Lieutenant Morgan." J.J. returned, just as brusque, letting the Lieutenant know that looks could be deceiving. She offered her hand to the woman. "Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau. This is our Unit Chief, Aaron Hotchner," she began introductions. Indicating first her boss, and then the others, "These are S.S.A.'s David Rossi, Dr. Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss."

Lieutenant Morgan regarded the one called "Dr. Reid" with reservations for a moment. "Please, feel free to call me Deb. I sincerely hope 'Agent' will suffice because that's a fuckload of names." She turned then, and gestured for them to follow. "You can set up in our briefing room, it has pretty much everything you requested. If you need anything else," she pointed to the portly man standing next to one of the whiteboards, "Batista's your man."

"Sergeant Angel Batista," he said, extending his hand to Hotch.

He took the proffered hand. "Let's get started."

After a few minutes of conversation, they were all on the same page and began to tweak the preliminary profile. "I hate to say it," J.J. started, "but could he be branding them like they're cattle?" Emily unconsciously reached for the scar that had been seared into her own flesh, and winced at the cold comparison.

"Not exactly," all eyes went to Reid, "cattle are traditionally branded with the owner's emblem so that they can't be stolen by other ranchers. Since they're being marked with sequential numbers, and not identical emblems, it's more likely that you were correct earlier in hypothesizing that they were being 'numbered'."

"Yay, me," she mumbled to herself.

"Maybe this sick fuck has some kind of O.C.D., or something, that gives him the urge to kill a certain amount of women." 'Lieutenant Morgan certainly has a way with words,' Dave thought as he listened to his colleagues debate the profile.

Spencer raised his head and spoke directly to Debra. "That's unlikely. While people diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can also present with psychotic tendencies, it's actually more likely that this offender is being brash just because he wants an audience."

"You're right, Kid." Derek stood, and moved to one of the evidence boards. "Look at the detail of this burn. With this level of care and attention, it's clear that this guy is an organized psychopath."

"That's a possibility," Hotch interjected, effectively bringing the scrutiny of the room to himself. "Reid and Rossi, I want the two of you to head to the morgue. See if we can get anymore insight from the medical examiner, or the bodies. Morgan and Prentiss, I want you two at the latest crime scene, see what you can find there."

"What, you think my people will miss something?!" Hotch saw the unadulterated anger in the Lieutenant's eyes as she cut him off, "because we've been going over that place with a fuckin' fine tooth comb!"

Rossi cut-in looking to defuse the situation, "we don't exactly look for evidence in the traditional sense. We need to get a feel for how this guy operates."

Hotch took the woman's menacing glare in stride, and resumed, "J.J. and I will speak to the victims' families and see if we can find any connections. We'll all meet back here as soon as possible."

"I'll ride with the two of you to the crime scene," Deb stated, if a little dejectedly. She was determined to maintain some level of control. "Batista, you check out the dumpsite, and then join us there."

"We don't always get to work with competent locals, you know?" Morgan decided it would be best to try to dissuade the Lieutenant's current, negative feelings toward Agent Hotchner. "We're just being thorough, using our own eyes…"As he trailed off, the car fell into a just bearable silence.

Prentiss gazed through her window on the back right; the luminous neon signs were decidedly more interesting. "El Fuego", a scuzzy looking bar, seemed to be particularly inviting. That is, until her phone vibrated. It was Garcia, no doubt calling to confirm her availability for the upcoming girls night.

A/N: I'm already writing another story, so I'll only continue this one if people are interested in it. If not, I'll get back to it after I finish the other one. Really, I'm just not sure if I like it or not, so let me know. I'm not trying to give an ultimatum, I just want to know if I'm wasting my time.